Final Projects

As a student, during the first weeks of school, your future seems bright. You eagerly begin your end of term projects, optimistic that you'll complete it weeks before the completion date. You proudly save your document, and smile at yourself. You are a shining example--a person to be admired. You tuck away your class syllabus, and reward yourself with a treat for your model behavior.

6 weeks Later:
CRAP. What did you save that project under? Did you finish it? Please say that you finished it. Hmm? Would it be entitled "Final Project"? Possibly. Alright. It's pulling up. PLEASE. Please be completed. Okay, here's the moment of truth: ....and it's only two paragraphs long.
I could have sworn that I'd worked on it. I mean, I was so confident about it at the beginning of the semester--what happened?

Night Before the end of the semester:
I DON'T EVEN CARE ANYMORE!!!

Later that night:
Why. Why do these things happen to me? I'm a good person. I deserve better than this. This is not my life.

Day that it's due:
Teacher says, "Alright. Thank you for turning in your assignments. I hope that the end result was something that you can be proud of. To reward your hard work, I'll be giving each of you a completion grade. As long as you made some effort, you'll be going home with an A."

The class erupts with cheers. However, I just want to cry. I worked my little tail off, and that's how she thanks me? That kid over there can't even spell his name, and he and I are getting the same grade?

There's no justice in this cruel, sad world. No justice whatsoever.

Last Day of Class

Last New Testament Class: Meh. See you all later. Peace out, suckahs.
Last Humanities Class: Well guys, this has been great. I'm glad to have known you. Good luck with the rest of your lives---wait. What? You want to hold a review session? Together? Like, all of us? But...why? No. Umm. I thought we were...no, I mean it would be great to spend more time with you, but I just...Ok, fine. I'll go to your review session.
Last Biology Class: Good bye, dear friends! Yes, I realize that I never learned your name, but you were always so nice to me. I feel like we could have been really good friends if we'd only tried. Can--can I hug you?
Last English Class: Party! PAR-TY!
Last Art History Class: Oh my gosh. Get me out of this disgusting place. I never want to think about this class again. Ever. You guys were really fun to get to know, but I don't think I want to see any of you again, because seeing you would remind me of this horrid class, which is something I'm hoping to never have to do again.

Do Something Crazy

I've spoken to Javid three times. Just kidding. I've been in his presence three times, and have spoken to him once. Yet, he (more accurately, his face) is a part of my daily life. This is due to his risque Facebook profile picture--a close up of him, shirtless, leaning on a boat.
This photo never ceases to make me laugh--hard. Javid is such a reserved, uptight, cynical person. Whatever would possess him to take that picture, and then post it on Facebook? It was the most crazy, out of character decision he could have made--and it just makes my day. It brings me such joy, that my roommate has printed out his picture and mounted it on a piece of cardboard. This photo of him has surprised me in numerous locations: my closet, my bed, THE SHOWER. It's been terrifying.
However, Javid has finally found a resting spot: right next to the mirror where I do my hair and make up. Each day, as Javid stares deep into my soul, I silently ask Javid, "Is today the day? Is today the day that I do something crazy?"
He never responds. You know, because he's just a picture mounted on a piece of cardboard. But I dare say, he'd be eager to say "Yes, Mandy. Be extraordinary." if he could.

Finals Week Rant

Finals week is basically the worst. Not due to the constant cramming of information you have no intention of retaining, or the early mornings and the late nights. I can handle studying and sleep deprivation (as well as can be expected, I mean). I just can't handle everyone else.
I become jealous fairly easy. Sometimes I hate infants because they look cute in PJ's, and sometimes I despise old people because they are allowed to say crazy things and not be questioned. I don't know. Anyways, I just get remarkably jealous of the people who spend their day actually doing things, instead of studying. I don't understand how it works. Why aren't they hysterical yet? Why haven't they started crying because they don't understand the Calvin cycle? Why haven't they eaten an entire jar of peanut butter in one sitting? Gosh, why did they actually shower this morning?
I don't think I'll ever understand how some people can earn good grades on their finals, while also maintaining their hygiene. That's okay, I guess. Because someday, I'll look back on this experience and...still be really annoyed that they survived finals week.

Testing Center

I erase the tick marks to the side of each problem carefully. I brush the fuzzy little eraser bits off the page. I begin to stand up, but plop back down into my seat; that one question bubble I filled in looks more like a a square than a circle. EEE-EEE-EEE. My eraser squeaks  Anxious, I turn my head to make sure I haven't seriously annoyed someone, then again brush away the eraser leftovers.
The Testing Center is so remarkably quiet, one would never assume that within the large, endless room seats hundreds of nervous college students--appearing quiet and collected on the outside, but screaming and sobbing like a little girl on the inside. Really, the whole experience is nerve-racking. No one in this building is happy, and the second you make their life worse, by tripping over their backpack or erasing a test problem with a very squeaky eraser,  these unhappy souls begin silently plotting your death.
That's why I am terrified. I mean, I already want to begin sobbing since I'm taking a test for on information I don't ever recall learning and in a class whose name I can't even remember, and so these menacing souls, in this gloomy, silent building really aren't helping my emotional health.

Soup

"Okay. Looks like we've got..umm. Yeah, we've got our veggies. Umm...chicken. Chicken broth. Butter....That's basically everything we need, right?" Jami begins mentally visualizing the ingredients list for her Gnocchi soup. 

"Jami? What is...HOLY COW!" Before me sits a gallon of heavy cream. 

"Jami. Do we really need all this?" Holy smokes, that is a lot...A LOT... of cream.

"Well, yeah. We're feeding 12 people, most of them very hungry men, so I decided that I would just triple the recipe." I begin to nod my head in support, but in reality I wish I could say, "Good heavens, what are you thinking? Do you realize how many calories you will be pouring into that little soup pan? Do you realize you're potentially shortening the lifespan of ever young man you're feeding tonight?" But I instead just say, "Right, umm. Yeah, good call." 

Thirty minutes later, the soup is bubbling, making the sounds of an angry sea monster with an unsettled stomach (probably because the insane amount of calories that was in his dinner!). 

"Uhh. UHHHH, Jami?" I squeal in a nervous voice. The soup, still void of the noodles, chicken, and broth, looks like it's going to spill onto our stove top, like a slow, sluggish avalanche of cream-colored snow.

We're all a bunch of inexperienced college students, so we begin to scream.

Yep, we're still screaming.

Boys are Gross. (haha, I think I have several posts with that same title. Hmm)

This isn't a blog post, or an opportunity to develop my literary craft--it's my chance to vent. I don't want to write about the few leaves that are left clinging on the broken, winter trees, and how that's a metaphor for something truly inspirational. I don't want to infuse my writing with alliteration or sensory clues. I want to infuse my writing with my anger towards men. Boys are gross. Can I just say that? Because, well, they are. Sorry. I have never been appealing to boys. My one and only claim to fame was at the 6th grade dance, where my dance card was the first to be filled, out of the whole entire grade. It was kind of a big deal. It still kind of is, actually.
But besides that one, brief moment where I was worth something to pre-pubescent little boys, I've been overlooked. Throughout High School, my many guy friends came to talk to me because they viewed me as a "mother figure." Yep, that one sure helped my self-esteem sky-rocket. And if I wasn't a mother of teen boys, I was viewed as a valuable spy in covert affairs. My best friends PAID (or bribed and blackmailed) their friends to ask me to dances, so that I could be in their dance group and get juicy gossip from their dates during their trips to the restroom. Yes, my sole reason for being asked to dances was because I had the ability to retrieve gossip from hormonal little girls. That, too, really was an aid in my confidence level.
Fast-forward to college, and suddenly boys are interested in me? Whatever. I don't believe it. However, I'm not going to stop them from taking me on dates. You see, I didn't get a cut of that money during my stint as a spy. So, I think that I deserve some reward, and if that means I get reimbursed in over-priced hot chocolate...so be it.

Apparently I'm crazy.

Response to April's Writing Prompt from yesterday's class:

Choosing to attend school at an LDS university is not a crazy decision. But to my mother, my decision to move out of state to go to BYU-Idaho was apparently one of the most bizarre things that I could ever choose to do. My poor mother literally promised to buy me a new wardrobe if I told her that I’d even consider reevaluating my choice. 

Personally, I didn't see what the big deal was. Idaho was a mere 3.5 hour drive away, and I would be surrounded by good, wholesome kids. Yet Mom persevered in changing my mind. That woman would not give up without a fight.

“Mandy, do you like this shirt? It’s cute, right? Well, you couldn't buy it in Rexburg because they don’t have stores. You know what they have in Rexburg? NOTHING. They have nature, Mandy. NATURE. You hate nature.”

Leftovers

As a kid, leftovers were viewed as the food of impoverished individuals without a trace of self-respect or dignity. I always made assumptions when Mom announced it was leftover night--was Mom sick? Did Dad lose his job? Oh my goodness, are we all going to DIE? I figured that if we had enough money, we should be able to eat gourmet meals every day. Leftovers was a sign of trials and tribulation, and my poor little 8 year-old mind would race through the late night hours, moaning over my family's financial state. I truly lost sleep over leftovers!
Now I'm a college student, greedily hiding my leftover meals in the deep corners of our refrigerator, so that none of my roommates will discover my prized meal. Today, leftovers is a source of pride. It means that I...wow! I, wait, I actually had the initiative to cook something?I love bragging over leftovers. They are a symbol of superiority and wealth. I mean, if we want to talk about poverty, I will bring out my year's supply of Ramen Noodles. And to think, I always thought, when I was little, that Ramen Noodles must be REALLY expensive, because Mom never made them for us. Hmmm.

Phone Calls from Mom

It's superficial to say that "phone calls from Mom are the best"--sometimes, talking to Mom about certain subjects (i.e. crazy things I did over the weekend, my grades, my driving ability, ANYTHING involving the opposite gender, etc) inevitably ends in tears, awkwardness, or very intimate details from her teen years that are both disturbing and frightening to my sensitive. Other times, the advice given isn't easy to hear. It's painful.  The intent of the message is often lost in the harsh words spoken, and the issues I hoped to be advised on suddenly seem more immense than they were before. Talking to Mom can be tricky, too. Especially when talking about things that she simply COULD NEVER understand, like texting etiquette or fashion--subjects that perhaps are impossible to grasp for anyone 40+. Yet, I truly treasure every call from my Mom. I know, that's cliche, trite, and overly sentimental...but it's true. Somehow, getting the wrong fashion advice results in me discovering the best outfit--something better than what I might pick out through the advisement of a less sincere third party member. Really, I think that there's just an uncanny amount of power in a person's motivations. My Mom cares, and somehow that makes her incoherent counsel on how to flirt with return missionaries more valid and meaningful than the seasoned experience from a more knowledgeable 20 something.

Snowflakes

I always loved making paper snowflakes. It's easy. It requires no artistic ability. In fact, the more careless and haphazard the cutting, the better your snowflake will look. It's wonderful!

Bryan Nance is tossing little bits of papers at Jessie, the girl he has a crush on. Ryley is blowing all of his snowflake's remains on his neighbor's desk. I'm afraid Reed is going to pummel Ryley, because everyone knows that Reed simply cannot function without a clean "workstation". Karli is on her hands and knees picking up her scraps of paper to show to the teacher--she's always been a suck up. And at the front of the class, Mrs. Christensen is nervously rubbing her forehead, realizing that this fun holiday activity has evolved into a chaotic mess of hyper 3rd graders. The bell rings, and Bryan drops his papers to the ground, Ryley stops his blowing, Reed relaxes, and Karli stomps away from the garbage can (angry because the teacher isn't impressed by the collected garbage). As the bell subsides, everyone runs out of the classroom and to the playground for recess. But I stay at my desk, and continue cutting away at my snowflake, unaware of the chaos that surrounded me, or the brief calm that has now entered the class. I just continue snipping.

Making snowflakes is stinkin' easy. All you need is a pair of scissors and something to cut...like napkins or coffee filters, that 3-page paper you ended up nearly failing because you didn't cite your references correctly, the Pizza Hut coupons you get in the mail every other gosh-darn week, basically anything. Your options are open.


"Miss Mandy, can we make snowflakes?"
"Ehhh. I...don't know if--"
"Miss Chris isn't here, so we won't get caught. AND we'll clean up."
"Gee. I dunno, guys."
"MISS MANDY. IT. IS. CHRISTMAS!"
Well, they did have a point there.

There simply is no way to mess up a snowflake. Honestly. You fold your square in half, diagonally, and begin slicing, hoping for the best.

"You've got time, hurry and make one!" I prod my roommate, who is sitting at the edge of the couch, waiting anxiously for her date to arrive. "Seriously, Annie. It only takes 30 seconds. And it's a pretty sweet stress reliever."
Annie stares at the K-mart add placed before her, and warily grabs a pair of scissors.
"I'm going to mess it up, you know. I've never made one of these. Or if I have, it's been ages."
"Dude, you've got to be kidding me. I'm pretty sure everyone's made them, and it's impossible to mess up." Annie is still unsure about the whole thing.
"The uglier the better, dude."Annie is still hesitant, so I nudge her shoulder, prodding her to begin snipping at the square of advertised K-mart sweaters. Then, all of a sudden, Annie seems confident. Pieces of paper fly across the room as her scissors speed across the square.
"Okay, are you ready for this? It's my first one....ahhh! There it is...almost there....I just need to unfold this...aannnnnd....there it is!" Annie holds up her snowflake proudly. I make a quick face, and then put my smile back on.
"Oh wow. Look at you. It's--it's...unique. Yep. It definitely has...umm...something, that's for sure."
That's the ugliest thing I've ever seen. I guess it is possible to mess them up, after all.

My Little Brother is Weird. He's also watching me type this. Which is a little awkward.

My little brother is really unusual. He basically has no filter. Everything he says is original and unedited. His teachers are always disturbed by his comments and unpredictable antics. Those teachers are saints, every last one of them. He attracts a following at school--every classmate is intrigued by this boy and his really really weird sense of humor. I'm not sure if they think he's crazy, or if they're just jealous that they don't have the guts to be as crazy as him. Either way, I think he's a pretty special kid.
I love the conversations we have. They're often interrupted by movie quotes that have absolutely no relation to the discussed topic. But when I'm having a terrible day, and he shares an obscure movie reference with me, I know, right then, that I'd rather have this crazy kid as my brother, than any other run-of-the-mill kid on the block. I love you, Jake!

Thanksgiving is Pretty Sweet

10:00  I'm thankful for this food. For the stuffing, the green bean casserole, the yams, the rolls.
1:00    I'm thankful for my family, my friends, the gospel.
2:30    I am NOT thankful for food. I'm not thankful for the stuffing, the green bean casserole, the yams, the rolls. I never want to see them again.
3:50   I'm thankful for full-belly-induced naps.
5:00   I'm thankful for Youtube, for Netflix, for Facebook, for Pinterest. I'm thankful my family and I can laugh at the silly movies and memes that we see on these websites. I'm thankful for inside jokes.
7:40  I'm thankful for dishwashers. Even they don't seem sufficient when cleaning up Thanksgiving!
8:30  I'm thankful for my family, my friends, the gospel. But for different reasons. Not because that's what I'm supposed to say, what I'm expected to be grateful for, but because all predictable reasons aside (ie, "they're there for me"), I simply wouldn't know where I belong without them. Not because they make my life better, but because they are my life.

Name Tag Swap

Oh my goodness. My blog has been neglected. Bless its little heart. Sorry! It's just because I don't like lyric essays and so I don't like blogging anymore!
 Thanksgiving has always been so traditional; so similar to the one before. This holiday is so heavily dependent on rituals with my grandma. Every year, Grandma's basement--which is really just one long, empty room--is transformed into an endless abyss of tables and chairs. The tables, and the many chairs slid underneath,will sit 80+ relatives. On each of these tables is a simple white tablecloth and a pilgrim centerpiece. And at each spot on the tables is a name tag decorated by my grandma. Our silver and sparkly names are written in a cursive script by my grandma, and we in turn are expected to sit where our name tags are placed. This is a source of drama--if Grandma knew we had preferences, you know she'd be disappointed, but there are just some crazy cousins that you simply can't sit by. Before the meal, a secret "black market" exchange takes place--with each cousin grabbing the name tags surrounding their spot, and then bartering off different relatives' names to ensure that they have the best spot. This is always tricky: the timing is essential. If you get the ideal seating arrangement too soon, it's still subject to change. I mean, some cousins will simply switch name tags without consulting you (heartless!). But if you do it too late, Grandma may notice, and then you're just in a heap of trouble, where you get lectured about what a joy it is to have so many wonderful cousins and how it doesn't matter where you're seated. And then you're just plagued by guilt AND you have to listen to the stories of computer processors from the very cousin you'd tried to avoid.

Bedspread

My bedspread is reversible. On one side, it's a bright, springtime shade of yellow. On the other, it's a muted tone of gray. When Mom helped me move into my apartment at the beginning of the semester, she made sure that the yellow side was showing, saying that when I see the cheerful shade, I'll "have no excuse to feel sorry" for myself, that the yellow will remind me to maintain a positive outlook. I personally didn't like the yellow side as much--it was lovely, but it didn't seem to match the gloomy lighting of my apartment. It was easier to reverse the bedspread and display the gray. 

 My bedspread has the potential to be double-sided, and so do I. I have the option to view my troubles as unbearable, or I can see them as tough but doable. There are days where I simply need to turn over my bedspread, and sit on my gray comforter. I think that's definitely understandable. It's not wrong to have those days--we're given both sides for a reason. But once your pity party is over, you have to make sure to reverse your bedspread and continue about life with your yellow side showing, even if it's tough stuff. 

Indecisive.

I'm super-duper indecisive. So this is the other lyric essay that I wrote, but was too busy to finish. I'm unsure whether I like it more than the lyric I posted for class. So. Yup. 

Facebook Post: November, 2012

Miss Amanda,

I am the oldest in my apartment this semester, this is the other girls' (there are 5 of us) first semester. Two of these girls are getting to be incredibly close and always talking about how weird their similarities are. They always talk about how odd it is that two people can be so much alike but be raised so differently. Whenever they talk about it I just say, "Yeah, I understand," because that's how you and I are. I explained that almost the exact same thing happened my first semester to you and me. It was definitely not a coincidence that people like them and like us are (were) put together. I miss you and love you so much!    

~Carly Houze

            September, 2011: For two days, I had gotten to know Missy and Suzanna. I’d already learned that Missy was gutsy and outgoing and that Suzanna was homesick and shy, and that they would probably be decent roommates. But our last roommate, who was expected to walk in our apartment any minute now, was a mystery. We only knew she was expected to arrive Saturday morning. We examined her Facebook profile picture, which was just a close up shot of her making a funny face, and tried to make predictions of what this girl from Cincinnati might be like. Our guesses weren’t even close.

             Carly thrusts the door open, and immediately begins giggling and asking questions and placing boxes on our family room floor. “Oh! Mom, I think it’s cute. Do you think it’s cute? Because I do. I think it’s really cute.” I’m surprised by her short, spiky, slept-on hair and the sweater she wears, with its collar cut with scissors, so that it shows off one of her shoulders and her bra straps. I step forward and pretend to sound confident as I announce, “I’m Mandy, and I’m just so excited to get to live with you.” She smiles at me, shoots her hand forward, and begins vigorously shaking my hand. I pry her hand off of mine and attempt to make a gleeful noise to match hers, but mine sounds more like a sick cat.

            “Hey, cute outfit by the way.” She says as she surveys me up and down, before running out of the apartment to grab more boxes to unpack. I stare down at my plain, modest t-shirt, and my worn-out keds, marveling what she could’ve found cute in this. My head shoots back up to see Carly, carrying a load of boxes, purses, and scarves, too large and cumbersome for anyone of her short, tiny stature to hold, across our apartment. “Oh. I’m just fine! I may not have slept in three days, but I can definitely carry this.” Carly shouts from underneath the blankets that have now fallen out of the box and onto her head. I shake my head, and quietly escape into my bedroom, where I close my door shut.

Facebook Post: Mid-September, 2011

"I miss Mandy." Every other week this is the mindset of all of us. Mandy, I think the only reasonable solution would be for you to just stop leaving :)

~Carly Houze

Two weeks later, I unclick my seat belt and burst out of the car before it’s even put into park. “Thanks for the ride!” I shout to my driver, as I run to the back of her car and begin rummaging through her trunk to retrieve my things. I hear the girls who are also carpooling home from BYU-Idaho giggling from inside the car, whispering snippets about “freshman girls” and “first visit home” and “homesick”, followed by another round of laughter. I don’t care what these girls are saying. Honestly, they’re completely right, but I don’t even care. My first two weeks of college were nearly hellish and I would’ve gladly chopped my leg off, or sold my little brother, among other drastic actions, to ensure a ride home. I wave the gossipy carful of ladies goodbye as they pull out of my driveway, and grab my backpack and duffel bag before eagerly running up the driveway to my house.

            Mom and Dad open the front door before I get to the top of the driveway, and meet me on the front porch. Dad gives me a quick hug, and takes my things, as Mom squeezes me tight, exclaiming, “It’s so good to have my girl home!” I laugh, and try to push myself out of her suffocating hug. “It’s good to be home.” I say, exhausted. Mom immediately senses that the pleasantries are done with, and that it’s now time to “get down to business.” Mom puts her hands on top of my shoulders, crouches down a little so that her eyes are level with mine and asks the relatively simple question, “So. How are they?” Suddenly I’m sobbing…hysterically. I keep gulping, and fumbling over my words. Mom nods her head, trying to appear supportive, though I’m sure she probably wanted to laugh at my emotional breakdown. Finally, I choke out, “They’re just so…so…Oh, Mom. They’re just so…WEIRD.” And I begin to cry again.

Facebook Post: July 2012

"Dearest Carly,

I just think that you are fantastic in every way. I'm so glad that I have a friend like you who shares my love of obscure '40s singers, smiley face fruit snacks, and Disney films. Hope you have a fabulous birthday! Miss you and love you:) "

~Mandy

CLASSIFIEDS: Free Pets Section

Free: I am looking for a nice home for my pet-peeve, Cowardice. Cowardice is a great friend, someone you can snuggle up with on a Friday night and watch movies with rather than going to that party you're too afraid to go to by yourself. Cowardice is a wonderful companion. I fed her once, and the next day she came back, politely asking for more! She hasn't left my side since:definitely a great pet-peeve for any one. Cowardice and I have had so many great experiences--fun trips at the super market, where I've been too shy to ask for help finding marshmallows, or when she and I were talking to our friend, and I was afraid of hurting her feelings, so I didn't tell her I needed to use the bathroom and I nearly wet myself. GOOD TIMES. Unfortunately, my apartment doesn't allow such pets, and so I have to give Cowardice up. My roommates aren't very good at creating an environment suitable for needs. I'm hesitant to let her go, but I know that there are plenty of homes that might be more compatible for her. Please call if you're interested!

I'm Scared

I don't know why I'm scared of the dark, cold basement. I didn't use to be. It's maybe a little bit quieter and a little less organized than the rest of the house, but I don't really understand what's so frightening about it. But Karli and Tawni are both adamant that there are spooky things that go on down there. They tell me that the "boogie man" and "hobos" and "evil spirits" like to lurk in basements. I want to giggle at their ghost stories, but they're so intent on saving me from the horrors of the basement, that I try really hard to believe them. And so, I begin to cautiously descend the stairs into the deep, dark depths of the basement, more concerned about the 7 year-old girls on the top floor than the boogie men I'm approaching in the basement. 

I don't know why I'm scared of driving on the freeway. I've heard the statistics: you're much more likely to get in a car crash in a residential area, completely void of traffic, than on a freeway jammed with cars. Really, I have nothing to fear. Mom tells me that I only need to drive when I'm ready. Jaelynn says I shouldn't go until I absolutely, positively, feel comfortable. Melissa laughs that she's still unhappy on the freeway. Dad tells me that it's okay that I make mistakes. Jake, my little brother who has never ever driven a car before, says that it makes sense that I'm afraid that I'm going to die in a car accident. Look at that support. Really, I shouldn't feel nervous. I should feel lucky--lucky to have such an understanding family. Yet, every word of encouragement somehow makes me even more nervous than I was before. 

I don't know why I'm scared for this date. From what I know, he seems like a completely decent guy. I mean, I wouldn't dream of agreeing to a date with someone unless he's kind and fun to be around. I'm excited to get to know him, and to have a great night. I have nothing to fear: especially since Jaelynn says dates, not "hanging out" is the best way to find a husband, and Annie says that going to football games is the perfect venue, because there's no pressure when you run out of things to say, and Jami says he's probably already crazy about me since he asked me out, so I don't need to worry about impressing him. I shouldn't be worried, right? But suddenly, I'm absolutely terrified

I'm Scared of Lyric Essays. But I'm not scared of Potatoes.

I've been ignoring my blog for several days because I've known that I should probably be posting something related to lyric essays. But that terrifies me. I don't want to write in that format. Gross. I think I'd rather just write about mashed potatoes. The ones that my grandma makes. You know, where you can see the butter melting on the top, and you know that your lifespan is being shortened merely by looking at the saturated fat?  And how you can watch Grandma, step by step, make the dish, and yet never ever be able to replicate her potatoes on your own? Yeah, those are the ones I want to write about. The potatoes that you bite into and suddenly become accosted by memories of Thanksgivings, and Birthdays, and spur-of-the-moment potluck dinners. Where you suddenly feel like the years of separation or the mistakes or unexpected decisions are irrelevant, because these potatoes have stayed the same all of these years, even when you haven't. And somehow, knowing that these potatoes will continue to remain constant, is the most comforting thought you've had in weeks.Yeah. Those are the potatoes I would write about.

I'm going Crazy.

Melanie encouraged us to use an informal, colloquial tone in our writing today, so this is what I came up with. However, I promise I sometimes do carry on semi-intelligent conversations. This is just a glimpse of my ramblings, I guess: 
So. I’m basically like kinda crazy about…everything right now. I call myself “emotionally unstable” but I fear that I have more issues than that. Because that sorta implies that at one point I was stable. And I don’t know if I can rationalize that I at one point was sane. It’s frightening! And I just keep eating more and more junk food and chocolate, saying that it’s just a temporary method of dealing with my issues. But these “issues” aren’t going away. And my waist line just keeps getting bigger and bigger. And I just don’t know what to do. Because I’m bursting into tears all the time, and I’m sentimental over the craziest little things. And I just think that I need to see a doctor or something because I’m a mess. But then I think, maybe this is what being crazy about a guy is like. Like, maybe the craziness is just infused into every other part of you? And that comforts me a bit. And...frightens me, too. Because this means that everyone except me is handling their emotions--every single gosh darn person--except me!

Halloween

The house smells like oil and fried scones. Honestly, it's probably not the best smell--but the scent is a prelude to the greasy homemade donuts that my mom would be making--from a family recipe three-generations old, so our mouths begin to water anyways. Jake and I wait impatiently, and begin rapping our fingers on the orange, plastic tablecloth. That's about as Halloween-ish our house gets. Mom indulges us kids by covering our porch with jack-o-lantern and autumn leaves, but the house is her domain, and she won't stand for it turning into a tacky all-a-dollar showcase. "Don't get any grease on your costumes!" Mom cautions as she hands us the homemade, glazed donuts. Jake and I each take a large bite, as the warm melting glaze oozes down our faces and to our neck, making them sticky. Pieces of yarn from my costume stick to the gooey mess and Jake and begin to laugh. Mom rushes over with a wet dishrag and begins to violently rub my messy face, resulting in raw patches of skin, and Jake giggles even harder.

Personal Rules: Emotional Truth vs. Factual Truth

Just a portion of our discussion from yesterday's class:
It's difficult, because I feel like I've written a lot of half-truths:my essays would be fraudulent if I called them "facts". Yet, I truly don't feel like a liar. I feel like the combination of events or the minute manipulations of facts are nearly negligible. Or...are they? I rationalize that changing the activity someone was doing, which is still really close to reality, and certainly in coordination with the tone of the experience, is okay to change in order to create a meaningful metaphor or to evoke emotions. But.. does it mean that I'm manipulating a reader's feelings?

El Ed Majors

I looked down at the crumpled, mac and cheese colored flyer in my hand, verifying that I was in the right place before walking into the doorway. But as I stepped in, I was immediately aware that I was INDEED in the right spot: the sound of high-pitched giggles and the smell of "warm vanilla sugar" perfume let me know that I was. I speed-walked to the back corner of the conference room, trying to discreetly sit in the sliding office chair without being noticed. Immediately, five blonde heads perked up and greeted me. "Um. Hi." I said in a tone lots lower and louder than the one they were using. They continued smiling expectantly at me. I raised my eyebrows. I had no idea how these people could be this alert...and peppy. Why weren't they grouchy, and more focused on dinner, like me? As the presenters began to prepare themselves to start the seminar, the soft thump of two dozen notebooks sounded as the girls readied themselves to take notes. "Welcome, Elementary Education Majors! What a great turnout." Suddenly the ladies were all giggling. Confused, I began looking around, trying to understand what joke I'd missed. They continued to smile at me.
I switched my major that night.

Karli's House is Beautiful.

My arm brushed the five-foot-tall, fake Christmas tree, and it whispered a quiet shh. I turned around to face it, making sure that I hadn't damaged it while Karli was upstairs. The Valentine's Day themed ornaments all seemed to be in place, and the tree was still upright. I felt relieved. I'd be heartbroken if I ruined the atmosphere that Karli and her mom had created. Karli's house was always decorated in sync with the upcoming holiday. Heart-shaped twinkle lights covered the fireplace mantle, and each coffee table was drowning in arrow-shaped confetti and bright pink centerpieces. The February-themed version of Karli's house was magical--as if the dreams of every 8-year-old girl had vomited all over the house. Cardboard cutouts of pink teddy bears and cupids stuck to each wall, as well as red, crepe, heart-shaped chains which drooped from the ceiling. I asked Mom why our house wasn't as festive, or why we didn't keep our Christmas tree up year round. She just smiled, as she dusted the boring heirlooms in our china cabinet, and told me that she would try to remember to buy some "beautiful" cardboard decorations for St. Patrick's day.

Oncology Write-Up for Thursday's Class

Annie sat at the dining room table and began eating her cereal. She didn’t even pay attention to the task, but seemed to sense where the spoon should go without drawing her attention away from the book she was studying. Simultaneously, she was singing to a song she was listening to for the first time, mumbling assumed lyrics in between her bites of Honey Bunches of Oats. I stood behind her, finding humor in the preoccupied existence that she lives, and really that we all live—where each of us mmultitask, not fully experiencing each aspect of our life as an individual part, but as a combination of so many senses as a whole. I asked her how she was doing, and she made a grunting noise that perhaps was an okay—her attention still focused on her morning ritual. 

Just a Few Thoughts about Chapter 12.

We are placed in a precarious position as creative nonfiction writers. We have an obligation to teach and to entertain a person, while still staying loyal to truth. Sometimes this is a simple task--like those memorable moments where a situation in your life ends like a blockbusting film's final scene. But the majority of our life isn't that ideal. Sometimes, the truth isn't as profound as you wish, and it even may contradict the message you're trying to portray. How does one work with materials that don't quite seem to be the perfect fit? That's when the ethical question invades the writer's conscience: what details are crucial, and which can I tweak? Where is the line between truth and artistic-intuition?
The view point as a reader is a bit callous and unforgiving--when we hear nonfiction, we assume that we are being fed truth, history, and facts. We don't realize that such intricate expectations prevent the writing from being sensible or enjoyable. Writers have to tweak some information, blur some timelines, and magnify emotions--this isn't due to a devious nature, it's a creative demand. Just as a writer's audience would complain for being fed half-truths, they would riot over dull or confusing writing. HOWEVER. A writer must not use their responsibility to create satisfying, creative works as an excuse to deceive, or a means of making stories based on fantasy and calling them history. If one is a talented writer, they will discover a method of making their truth more fascinating than fiction.

A Sensible Shade of Yellow

I placed my daisy pillow case on top of my bedspread and began to survey my newly decorated room. I'd been begging Mom to let me paint it ever since Karli Newey painted her room periwinkle, with stenciled purple flowers, and Karlie Richman got her very own mural in her bedroom. Mom told me that I couldn't get anything that extravagant in my room, but that if I could choose a sensible style and do the painting by myself, she would certainly allow me to paint my bedroom. I'd chosen a pastel yellow color, because I thought that it matched the sunshine--not the blazing hot, summer sun, but the warm light that accompanies a cool, early spring afternoon. Now, after a weekend of moving out my hoards of collected knick knacks and furniture, painting, and then reloading the room, I was thrilled with the result. In the corner sat my white desk. It was covered with more pencils than a little girl could ever need, as well as purple picture frames full of images of Karlie and Karli. To the left of that sat my 4-tier bookshelf, teeming with The Box Car Children, Nancy Drew, and The American Doll series. In the center of the carpet lay a large, purple daisy rag-rug. It accompanied myriads of daisy designs found around my room. Somehow, I assumed that Mom would believe that my fascination with the flower meant that I was "sensible", and that she wouldn't make me repaint my room a dull white.

8 Min. Write Up

I brace myself for the cacophony of noise that will emerge the moment I hit the doorbell. Ding. A moment of silence, and then...footsteps. Lots of footsteps. Chaos.The thud of bodies being pushed against the wall. Giggling and howls of pain. A yell from their mother: pause. Another brief moment of silence...annnnd the noise is back. The door swings open. Heads begin to bounce up and down, as each smiling face says hello. The extremely energetic kids pull me into the house and tell me to take off my shoes. I kick off my pink, glittered sneakers into the large sea of shoes, which covers nearly half of the floor of their family room. "WELL HALLOH, MANDY-MOO!" shouts their equally rambunctious mother. I try to exchange a greeting, but my arms are pulled into the kitchen. As I catch my breath, I get a whiff of fast food. The kitchen permanently smells like french fries.

Our Ugly Little House (BYU Approved Housing?)

"Which one of these couches is going to kill my back?" Carly asks. "That one." I point to the fraying, striped floral couch. Whenever a person sat on it, they would rise with an extremely sore bottom because of poorly-cushioned springs. "Oh. I'll sit on this one." Carly replied. I began to clear off the worksheets and laptops from the "comfy" couch so that Carly could sit. I didn't know where to place the collected papers, seeing as our bulky, 70's era coffee table was already covered with plates, candy wrappers, and stacks of DVDs--I dropped the stuff onto the stained carpet. As I leaned to clean the mess of papers, I felt the rough patch of carpet where we'd forgotten to properly clean up the spilled milk from weeks past. Oops. "I just love your guys' house, Mandy." Carly raved. I smiled. This place was heinous--outdated and inadequate--yet it was our home. So, I sat down on the bum-breaking couch and answered, "Yep. I think I like it too."

Sammy's

The "Sammy's" of Rexburg, Idaho was filled with school desks, golden floral couches, and the incessant chopping noise of blenders. Sounds like chaos, but Missy and I loved this "dive" of a restaurant--to us, it was a strange escape from the ordinary. She and I shuffled our feet on the cracked black and white tile floor to where the long line began. To our right, a band--still struggling to gain success in the music world--stood on a small stage and played a mellow song. Missy and I smiled at each other, feeling out of place in this midst of hipster glasses and tight, colored pants. A crowd of mustached college students shoved past us, pushing me into the picture frame-covered walls. "Oops!" I whispered, as I readjusted the abstract art. "Hmm. Well, that's....interesting." Missy said, pointing the piece I'd just fixed. A young lady with a chopped, pixie hairstyle turned around and glared at us. Missy and I both mouthed "WOW" before stifling our giggles. Finally, we approached the cashier where we'd order our "pie shakes". The cashier, peppy and eager to help, smiled expectantly. "Ohh. Umm. (haha) I hadn't even thought about what I wanted." I mumbled to Missy. "Yeah." she whispered. "I just come to look at the Rexburg crazies."

Carpet

Mrs. Crook's 4th grade class lined up against the wall. We anxiously waited until we could file through into the Library. The librarian wasn't ready for us yet, so many students began to hang on the coat rack handles. Others sat down on the 30-year-old, brown and orange specked carpet. I chose to remain standing--I didn't want my bottom on that kind of surface. Mom, who went to JA Taylor Elementary School when it was brand new, said that even then the carpet seemed dirty. I cocked my head to the side and stared down. Hmm. It didn't look that dirty, it was just a really ugly color, like the dead mashed brown leaves of fall--or maybe leftover vegetable stew. "That's what they want you to think." Mom advised me one day. I now knew that the carpet really was disgusting, but once something looks dirtied and brown, any filth added to it just accumulates rather than making it look worse. My eyes narrowed in on the carpet, and I could almost see the 30-year-old dirt tracked in by my mother's 4th grade shoes. I eagerly joined the group of kids hanging on the coat racks, their feet leaning against the wall, and wondered if I should maybe wash my shoes when I got home.

Formica

Class Write-up:

countertops in our kitchen are covered with white, stained plastic. Mom calls it formica? But I have no idea what that means. All I know is that Mom thinks it’s really, really ugly. The white counters seem like a blank canvas that has been dirtied by 6 unskillful artists, when in reality it's only due to a houseful of 6 untidy children. There’s a bright red stain from the koolaid I’d made last week—where I had hoped to make my millions selling the powdered drink. Oh hey. There’s the smudge of ink from Zach’s homework. Mom grabs a cloth and begins to scrub at the counter, before realizing that it’s useless—those pieces of history are stuck with us until Mom’s “ship comes in”. I don’t know which ship she’s talking about, but she and Dad sure are big fans of it. I pull out a chair from under the counter. It makes a scraping noise on our worn-out wood floor. I stare down, and wonder if there's any hardwood flooring on Mom's ship, too. 

BYU Approved Housing?

No way. Surely the GPS has led us to the wrong location. Annie said this place was cute. Those were her words, weren't they? That it was a “really cute place” and that it had “character”? Oh my gosh. I’ve been conned. Annie conned me into moving into this terrible place. I parked in the gravelly, dusty parking lot and moaned. I hopped out of the car, and watched as Mom parked beside me. She too stepped out of the car. I leaned into her shoulder as she wrapped her arm around me. I surveyed the knee-length weeds and the unevenly cut grass with plenty of dry spots. The sidewalk was cracked and uneven. The house was red-brick, and pieces of the brick had broken off. “Welcome home, Mandy.” Mom whispered. “Yay.” I cheered feebly. 

Place: Karen's House

I jog up the steps up to the small, red brick house. When I get to the top, I wipe my feet on the holiday-themed doormat--this month it portrays several pilgrims holding pies and baskets of corn. I begin to jiggle the doorknob which always seems a little stuck. As I work on the knob, I get a whiff of crisp, fallen leaves and wet pine. It smells like an autumn-themed candle. Finally, after a bit of tugging, the door launches forward, and I nearly fall into the house. "Come on in!" Karen calls in a cheerful, melodic manner from the piano bench she's sitting on. I wipe my feet on yet another rug in the house, before taking my shoes off and sitting on a child-sized chair in the entryway. Karen instructs her piano student on a few exercises, excuses him, and then summons me in. I rise from my chair and tip-toe onto the plastic-covered carpet.

Nagging Screen Door

The screen door makes a loud grating noise, which I assume is a foreshadowing of the nagging Dad will receive for not bringing the family over more often. Dad holds the door open, and prods all six of us kids into the small, stuffy living room of Grandma's house. We each shuffle in, dragging our shoes on the aqua-blue shag carpet. We huddle into one corner, while Dad sits on a large, padded rocking chair. "C'mon, kids." Dad motions. I hesitantly sit on the stiff couch beside him, as Dad takes a deep breath--relieved that he convinced at least one child to sit down. I wonder how he can breathe so easily, because to me the house smells like dusty mold and tuna fish. "Boys, don't touch that!" Dad whispers to my brothers who are precariously close to the china cabinet full of literally hundreds of heirlooms and dishes. Everywhere Grandma has collections of antiques, like the display of spoons mounted on her rose-wallpapered walls, and the many matching teacups on a shelf in her crammed kitchen. I'm shook from my analysis by Grandma's cracking voice, "Who could this be?" Yikes.

Ice Cream Truck

Jake and I perked our heads up. Almost reverently, we cocked our heads as the ragtime tune faded away. "Jake." I whispered, "Do you have 85 cents?" Suddenly, the two of us were up on our feet, zooming to our bedrooms. I reached my bedroom frantic, searching underneath my bed and behind various teddy bears and baby dolls in search of the plastic, yellow treasure chest where I kept my money. I let out a frenzied war cry, and plunged into the unknown depths below my bed. It was dark and stuffy, and everything I touched was layered in thick gritty dust. (Clearly, cleanliness wasn't my strong suit!) Then, I heard the soft tinkling of quarters when I kicked my feet. I awkwardly scurried to where I assumed the sound came from. AHH!!! Success. I grabbed the treasure chest and then bolted downstairs, tufts of hair falling out of asymetrical pony tails, and still covered in dust, but triumphant nonetheless. "Jake! Did you find any money?" Jake held out his cupped hand, and displayed an assortment of pennies and nickles. He, too, looked pretty ragged. I assumed he'd been diving under couches and the like. Why hadn't I thought of that? "Good job, let's see if he's still here." We hurried outside, and saw the ice cream truck parked three houses up from us. We were lucky we'd caught him. Jake and I ran towards the truck, both yelling that we were coming. We got in line, and anxiously waited for our turn to buy something. Older neighbors shared their expertise, saying that the popsicles that had gumballs in them were gross. The gumballs were hard, and were too tough on your jaw. Jake and I took silent notes. As our turn approached, I eagerly scavenged through my yellow treasure chest and selected a few quarters. I told the ice cream man, who was actually only a teen boy with tattoos and nose rings, that I would like a "Flintstones popsicle, and that my little brother would like one of the football-shaped ice creams. " He lowered his gaze towards me, and I squealed, "We're just so excited." He gave us what I think was supposed to be a smile, and then said, "Um. 'kay. Well, here you go." I grapped mine quickly, and thanked the grouchy, underpaid teen. I turned to walk away when I heard a thump. I pivoted on my toes to see Jake's treat melting on the curb, and the Ice Cream Truck speeding away.

Without a Name

Mom knows exactly what to feed me to get me in a good mood. Cheese--it's crucial. Honestly, anything she cooks, if topped with cheese will taste heavenly. But regardless of the time of day, or the mood I may be in, she knows that the meal that will get me out of virtually every slump needs more than cheese, but sausage, too. Oh goodness. She will brown that sausage, mix it with some frighteningly fattening fried hash browns, and smother the artery-clogging dish with shredded cheese. Oh gosh. It's lovely. When I take a bite, I suddenly become this sentimental, "touchy-feely", lets-go-save-the-dolphins, "Have I told you how much I love you?" type of person simply because the food is so good. It's bizarre, but pretty wonderful. However, I feel cheated. This dish, this powerful kindness-inducing casserole, doesn't have a name. I've never known what to call it, and Mom has never known the name. In second grade I tried to name it, simply for clarification purposes, but the name didn't stick. It's terrible. I feel cheated. Surely my comfort food should have a title? But I guess a meal that procures such inexpressible emotions probably would struggle to maintain an ordinary name. Hmm. I'm not satisfied with that last statement. Oh well. Someday, maybe my daughter will be more clever than me, and will discover a better fitting name. Til then, I'll just have to slum through life, calling it "that cheesy,sausage, hash brown dish". Sheesh. Sometimes life is so hard.

Roommate Planks

"Alright. Two minute plank. GO!" Annie shouts. Kelli and I exchange smirks, until a hand pulls at my pant leg, begging me to begin the ab exercise. "Okay, good work ladies. We've been going 30 seconds." Annie cheers. Kelli immediately groans, followed by an incredulous laugh. "There's no way we've only been going 30 seconds." she begins to laugh again, her whole body shaking. "Kelli! Stop it. It won't work if you keep laughing like that." barks Jami, who is clearly taking this more seriously than the rest of us. "Oh Kelli, you're doing just great." Annie soothes. "AHH! I want to die!" I shout, as my abs begin to burn. "Mandy, don't you give up on me!" Commands Jami. "No, Kelli, you can't give up yet. We only have 40 seconds left." Kelli doesn't respond to Annie's optimism, and instead yells out "Peace out, suckers!" and walks into the kitchen. "Annie. Please tell me we're almost done." I plead. "No. Feel the burn." Jami teases. But I don't think it's funny. I want to start crying. Sheesh. Abs aren't supposed to hurt like this. "Oh Mandy, we're almost there. Just 20 more seconds." Annie croons as Kelli saunters back in to watch the amusing spectacle. "Oh no. You're finishing what you started, girl." Jami snaps at Kelli. "Ok. Last 15 seconds!" The four of us count down to zero, and cheer when the longest two minutes of our life are over. "Wasn't that fun?" Annie asks. "What should we do now?" Questions Jami. "Well, that was weird." Kelli proclaims. But I don't say anything. I'm still laying on the floor moaning.

Portrait Practice: Grandma Dorothy

Our front door slams shut and we immediately hear the slow shuffling footsteps of my grandparents, along with a loud "Anybody home?" by Grandma. Mom and Dad stood up from the couch and began swatting at all of us kids to stand up and greet our grandparents. We slowly lean forward and begin moaning as we stand up. Grandma enters the family room, and begins roughly embracing us each--pushing us against her chest as we gasp for air. After she releases me, Grandma immediately plunges into a new scheme. She smiles and says, "Now Amanda, do you keep yourself busy with a job?" I begin to answer, but she doesn't allow me the chance, "Because I can hire you. You can  organize our cabinets. Don't we need our cabinets organized, Dan?" Grandpa tries to say yes, but she beats him to it. "Of course we do. What do you think, Amanda?" I have no idea what I think about the job. I only know that being called Amanda instead of Mandy always puts me in a bad mood. "Now, before you fight me, just know that I would pay you well."  Yikes. What does that mean? "Oh Grandma, I could never accept your--" Grandma chimes in, "Of course you can. Now Dan, how much could we pay Amanda?" She doesn't pause for him to reply. "Amanda, you would be paid. Well. Well paid." I stare at my mother and begin mouthing desperate pleas. "I won't take no for an answer, Amanda." I realize that I'm defeated. I tell Grandma to let me know when she needs my help. She never tells me, and I've wisely kept my mouth shut and thanked the heavens she's forgotten.

Portrait Practice: Missy

I hear the freezer door open and slam shut, followed by the shuffling of bowls, and the sliding open of kitchen drawers. Moans. Groans. Growls of frustration. Umm. Is there a bear in my apartment? I tip toe out of my room and see Missy, my roommate, squatting on a dining room chair in the kitchen, and hacking at a frozen block of ice cream with a large butcher knife. She lifts up the knife and begins to lick the ice cream that's stuck on it. I want to remind her that liking sharp objects isn't the safest choice, but decide otherwise when she shifts her gaze toward me. "I haven't done my dishes in a while." she offers (as if somehow that is going to clear up all the questions floating around in my head). "I didn't want to make more of a mess by getting out a bowl and a spoon." I nod my head, acting as if I understand. But really, all I'm thinking about is how much bigger of a mess it'll be when she has to get stitches.

Attire

Jake returns from his Jr. High's "Hello Dolly" dress rehearsal still wearing his suspenders, purple dress shirt and matching bow tie, and his rented cap. I smirk at the 15 year old and bask in his unusual attire with pleasure. Jake never cared about fashion. Or any type of clothing, really. My mother could hand him a dress, maybe even my great-grandmother's gingham that crossed the plains, and he would put on the heirloom without any reaction, only pausing because he couldn't tie it in the back. Jake really does look ridiculous in his 19th century ensemble, yet he sits on the sofa and begins watching the ball game on t.v.oblivious to the humor all spectators find in him. Mom in a panic proclaims that the poster board he absolutely needed for school tomorrow still hadn't been purchased and if he wouldn't mind going to the store with her? Jake gives a sure, you bet, to Mom. As Mom scavenges the house for her purse, shoes, and cell phone, Jake saunters over to the heaping pile of shoes in the corner of the room. He tugs at a shoelace at the bottom of the stack, and watches as the tower of shoes crumble to the ground, just as his pair of basketball shoes narrowly escape the avalanche of footwear. He begins to put on his high-tops, as Mom tilts her head to the right and gives his outfit a quick up and down inspection. Mom says "Uhh, Jake?" to which Jake quickly runs to the shoes and puts them in a more manageable pile. Mom sighs. Jake runs to the car, with his untucked purple shirt trailing behind him.

Rings

Dad's wedding ring is far too tight for his now plump fingers. 28 years ago, when his fingers were thin and his ring fit loose, he felt hesitant to even wear the wedding band. He wasn't sure if he could handle the responsibility of keeping something for so long. Who knows, maybe he would discover that the size wasn't ideal or the design a little too plain. But now the ring is a part of him. And Dad smiles whenever I try to pull the ring from its 28 year-old residence, because he knows that though at one time the object felt foreign, his commitment to that ring has been the greatest of his life.

Babies

"And hold your arms like this," Mom curved her arms in front of her, "so that the baby's head is supported. Yep, that's about right." I stared down at my arms, rigid and uncertain. I loved babysitting dollies, or playing the mother role in games of "house". Yet somehow, when the infant was actually living and breathing, I was very intimidated. If I dropped the toy doll, no harm was done. If I shifted my weight wrong with this brand new baby in my arms, I was sure to be banished forever. I winced at Mom, not sure that holding this baby was a good idea. But Mom carefully snuggled the baby, and whispered in a light tone "Would you like to hold the baby?" I hesitantly nodded my head yes, and Mom again whispered, this time to the baby, "Are you ready? Your nice cousin Mandy is going to hold you now. She's very nice. You'll learn to like her a lot." I stared at the blue-eyed bundle, smothered in embroidered blankets, and smiled. I was absolutely terrified. Yet I couldn't help but beam at this little child placed in my arms.

Taco Pie

"Wow. This is really good, Mand. I like what you did to the crust." My roommate stabbed her fork into the steaming, cheesy casserole for another bite. I shrugged my shoulders and said nothing. She continued to rave about how it smelled delicious, as the aroma of melting cheese and spicy meat interrupted the musty smell of our apartment and the sound of sizzling, bubbling grease overpowered the sounds of passing cars. I made some caveman sounding noises in response. I felt guilty. I was being pretentious! Here I was, acting all homemaker like, when in reality I was hopeless even at making mac and cheese. I stared at the taco pie, and pleaded with it to keep my secret. I was a terrible cook. I had ruined every meal my mom had ever patiently tried to teach me. Years of her lecturing always ended in a spontaneous trip to Arby's rather than a home-cooked meal. And one day, something miraculous happened. I tentatively pulled out a casserole from the toasty oven and gasp. Sniff sniff. Mom and I stared at each other with large eyes. We silently lowered our gaze to the casserole before slowly lifting our heads back up. Still quiet, Mom shuffled to the silverware drawer and grabbed a spoon. The spoon plunged into the meal, and then made its entrance into Mom's mouth. Reverence fell among the kitchen. "Mandy. It's--it's good!"
Victory.

Dressed to the Hilt

I "gracefully" walked down the stairs to where my dad sat waiting for Mom and me. "WOW! Look at you! You look so pretty, Angel." Dad, in his suit and tie, stood up from his chair and met me at the stair's landing. I ducked my head and mumbled a "thanks, daddy". But I actually wasn't that embarrassed, I knew that I looked nice in my Christmas dress--black velvet on top, with a forest green satin skirt that made a loud swishing sound with my every movement. I looked like I was dressed for a grand gala, in anticipation for the Nutrcracker Ballet we would be attending. Dad looked down at his watch and shook his head. He mumbled something about mom's definition of "ready in five minutes" being seriously skewed, and then yelled "Teresa Jane, are you ready to go?" Dad and I immediately heard the thuds of several objects falling to the ground, which we assumed were probably brushes and a hairdryer knocked over in Mom's haste to get out of the bathroom. Dad and I snickered a little as we waited for Mom to appear. She was slightly out of breath as she paused at the top of the stairs. "I told you I'd only be a minute!" Mom smiled down at us both as she adjusted one of her earrings before walking down the stairs. Dad didn't tease her back. He just grinned, and nudged my side with his elbow. He looked like he was the luckiest man in the world.

Biology

I stared at the blank page before me. It was still blank. For twenty minutes it had been white, and crisp, and new. In any other context, it would represent hope and opportunity. Purity, perhaps. But I was in my 10th Grade Biology class, and it only symbolized my impending failure.
Mr. Bailey was a great guy. I'm sure if I had gone to high school with him we would have been friends. But he was my teacher, and so the whole witty, outspoken, often inappropriate sense of humor turned me off. It boggled my mind, actually. I mean, all of the teachers at my school were professional. They dressed nice, and spoke with dignity. They demanded respect. Mr Bailey--he demanded pity. I think it's because he was aging prematurely. He was maybe 30 years old, but his eyesight was terrible and his hair grayed and  receded. And bless his heart, he just couldn't deal with it. He was so insecure about it, that he ended up overcompensating in all other aspects of his life. His clothes were fashionable, if not a little flashy, and his vocabulary was infused with phrases that were "too hip" for any of his students to understand. I'm sure he had a sweet spirit, but I just found it repulsive. It was distracting and overbearing, to the point where I couldn't concentrate on any class lectures. All I could think about was what the phrase "cool like a cucumber" could mean, and what it had to do with osmosis.
Which is why I ended up getting a B- in my class--a grade which is definitely not "cool like a cucumber".

Clearance Crazy

"Well, isn't it funny seeing you here?" Mom raised her arms up and embraced the woman my brothers and I only knew as a stranger. The two ladies began to giggle and exchange bits of information about their lives. Their conversation was brief, and as the woman began pushing her shopping cart away, Mom's eyes got very big. "Umm, Mickey!" Mom began to length her stride as she began to pursue this woman. "Where did you get those fans?" she inquired. "Oh, in the home decor section. They're on sale." Mom held her breathe for a moment before nodding her head. The lady stared back at her, but Mom still didn't respond, so the woman went on her way.
When Mom returned to us, we began to ask her who the lady was. "Oh, uh, just a girl. She uhh...I knew her" Mom suddenly was sprinting toward the home decor section. "Oh no!" said the expression on both my brothers' and my face. Mom was going to hit the clearance section. Mother, usually so logical and lovely in every way, became this competitive, aggressive crazy person once she knew something was half-price. We all scrambled to the prized fans, only to see Mom rearranging our shopping cart to house the large, cumbersome rotating fan's boxes. "Do we really need these, Ma?" I tried to say gently. "Of course!" she said, as she continued to place the fans on the rack below the cart. Defeated, I stared at my brothers. For Mom, there simply was no escaping the adrenaline rush associated with sale shopping.
We left the store 10 minutes later with 12 fans.

Not Your Average Kid

Jacob was weird. Physically, he was a misfit. He was a good head taller than most of our class. He was skinny, too--too skinny. I often stared at him and wondered if his mother ever hugged him, because he just looked too bony and pokey to embrace. I felt sorry for Jacob's mom. She was probably really sore. Jacob also had a curly "rat's tail" on the base of his neck, while the rest of his hair was buzzed short. I was intrigued by this kid. I was used to the blonde-haired, blue-eyed little boys who came with their hair parted and their outfits (hand-picked by their moms, no doubt) matching and starched. Jacob wasn't like that at all. He often wore over-sized button up shirts which usually displayed a fire-breathing dragon, skeleton, or thirsty flames. He wore "wheelies",too. The shoes with wheels on the bottom that my mother always said were too frivolous. Regardless of his appearance, he still was rather odd. He often rode his wheelies backwards, in figure-eights, around the class while he sang Latin-style songs. Which was shocking, because we'd only been exposed to the songs from musicals and Disney channel. And just when we were no longer experiencing culture shock from his mariachi music, Jacob would begin dancing. Yikes.

Jacob was aware that he was different from the rest of our grade. How could he not know? I mean, he was the only one who didn't look like he'd stepped out of a JC Penny catalog. But he was proud of this. One day, he told me that he was exhausted. I stared at him with suspicious eyes. I had been waiting for this kid's story since the day he moved in--everyone had a theory about him. Some thought he was full of it, just trying to get a reaction out of us. Others speculated that he had escaped from an asylum. I was still uncertain, but I was determined to find out. "What's wrong, Jacob?" I asked in what I hoped was an approachable voice. He narrowed his eyes, slowly pushed me against a school wall, placed his hand on my shoulder and took a deep breath. "At least he can breathe." I thought to myself. I knew that I'd been holding mine. "The demands..." he paused. I stared at him, suddenly terrified of the truth. "The demands of being a goblin...are just too much."

I never found out Jacob's story. I guess that ignorance is bliss, after all. 

Peculiar and Bewildered

I stared at my vocabulary list and began to moan. I turned over on the couch, face pressed into a pillow and an arm and a leg lying limp on the floor and began grumbling. "These words are so DUMB! How am I supposed to learn this?" I lifted my head to see jostling, peculiar, and bewildered--the three words I simply could not memorize--staring menacingly at me. I scowled back, then quickly dropped my head back to the indent it had made in the pillow. I began to flail my arms and legs like a crazed octopus until the sounds of footsteps left my limbs frozen in the air. "Mandy?"
I bounced up, and tried to preserve the little ounce of dignity I still possessed by sitting primly on the couch--straight posture and hands folded in my lap. "Whaa-what's wrong with you?" Dad asked, his brows furrowed and his lips quivering (probably struggling to not turn up into a smile). "Oh, you know. Studying." I turned my head to the side and began to casually scratch the back of my head. Dad didn't buy it: he knew I was a crazy person. Dad sat in the chair beside me, extended his arm, and wiggled his fingers back and forth--signaling me to surrender the list. He studied it for a moment, and then asked, "Could you use some inspiration?" My eyes lit up.

Sick-o

Mom gently rapped at my closed door. I shut my eyes even tighter, half believing the "I can't see her, she can't see me" myth. But it didn't work. My squeaky,ungreased hinges creaked as Mom opened my door a crack. Peeking her head in, she asked "Are you doing any better?" I rolled over in bed and moaned. She was about to begin another well-meaning question, but my pathetic whining for mercy caused her to think otherwise. Mom pursed her lips, and held her hands up, palms facing me, as if to both protect herself and indicate her retreat. I had stomach flu, and I was absolutely disgusting--the woman wasn't a saint, and so she backed out of my room slowly. She probably went to disinfect another surface that I had touched, and probably mumbled some choice words about my less-than-sparkling personality. But I didn't care. I was sick and gross. So I pulled my laptop out from its hiding spot under the crocheted afghans and blankets lying on my bed--which I had shamelessly placed atop my cheap ACER PC when I heard my door hinges groan--and started yet another episode on Netflix.

Cookies for Amanda

Brian stared at me with his large, blue eyes wide open. He tried to subtly shake his head no, without being suspected by Grandma. Grandma leaned down to my level, holding an old, glass platter in her hand. "Amanda" (the name that only she called me by;everyone else knew I was Mandy) "would you like a cookie?" I was eager to say yes when another well-meaning sibling stared at me intently. I couldn't understand their meaning, so I cautiously peered onto Grandma's cookie platter to see for myself what the fuss was about. "I bet she can't just choose one!" Grandma giggled to my parents. Mom and Dad politely laughed at Grandma's adequate attempt at humor while my sibling snickered. I pleadingly looked towards them, uncertain what my next move should be. I mean, these cookies clearly were not ordinary cookies--I wasn't sure they were even cookies at all. Quite frankly, they looked absolutely disgusting! But I was foolish enough to not heed my brother's warning, so I had to deal with the consequence. I grabbed a less menacing looking cookies and bit. I've spent the last 12 years trying to forget that taste.

The Tea Party

I carelessly threw the myriads of plastic and cardboard pieces to the ground, unaware of where they may have landed. The mess wasn't worth my attention, not when I was the blushing owner of a brand new Barbie tea set. I raised the pale pink teapot above my head--half expecting the Mormon Tabernacle Choir to chime in shouts of hallelujah. I gently placed the prized object down on the kitchen table, then let my fingers lightly dance over every cup, saucer, and dainty spoon in the collection. My awe-filled examination of the set was interrupted by my dad sauntering into the kitchen. I hopped out of my chair and flew into my daddy's arms--no joke. I mean, after receiving my dream toy unexpectedly, I did sorta feel like I was walking on air. "Dad! Look!" I squealed, grabbing my dad's face and turning it towards my prized possession. Dad grabbed my hand, and together we walked towards the table, where I then began informing Dad about all of the pieces in the set, as Dad attentively chimed in with appreciative "oohs" and "awws". "I think it's about time we had ourselves a tea party, don't you?" Dad asked with a smile. I began to nod my head in absolute approval, when Dad interrupted me with a "But you can't go to one dressed like that." My eyebrows raised in amazement. Who knew that my dad was so wise in terms of tea parties? I practically bounced up the stairs and into my room where I changed into my favorite church dress--gold, gaudy, and poofy. I examined my appearance in the mirror, certain that my attire was appropriate for such an event, before I, in what I hoped was a graceful way, descended the stairs. Dad stood up from the kitchen chair, took both of my hands, and said "You look like a princess". We then began our tea party, where we each elegantly held and sipped our tea cups full of drinking water (the only "classy" drink we had in the house--it was slim pickins that day), while I wondered how I could be so lucky to have a prince living in my very house.

The Chicken Massacre of Fall, 2011

"Are. You. Kidding me." I slammed the microwave door closed. I shook my head, incredulous that Carly could be that inconsiderate. And gross. Dude, she was really gross. I mean, who microwaves chicken until it explodes, covering every edge of the appliance in culinary creations gone wrong, and doesn't clean up? Oh, I was furious. The nerve of that girl! This morning when I'd seen her, this roommate who was clearly raised by some animal kingdom creature, she was giggly. Perky. She told me herself that she was doing great except for a minor issue she had had with the microwave. "Oh goodness. That microwave is always having issues." I laughed in agreement. Issues--"I think SHE has issues, not the microwave", I now mutter to myself. Armed with a dishrag and cleanser,I begin scrubbing the mind-boggling disaster that was now dried onto our kitchen appliance. "Good heavens." I continually groan to myself. This stuff has basically cemented onto all confines of the microwave. In an attempt to work at a better angle I poke my head in the mouth of the beast while I hook my arm around the corner of the microwave. "Now this is just plain ridiculous!" I yell, crazed by my frustration. Nearly 20 minutes later, the microwave is looking pristine and celestial. I slam the door closed, and walk a crooked trajectory away from the scene of the poultry massacre, due to my 20-minute stare into the microwaves' light. My half-blind walk away from the battle field is interrupted by the rattle of our apartment front door. I shoot my head up to see Carly come sauntering in, oblivious to the insane creature I'd evolved into due to the whole chicken fiasco. "Hello, beautiful!" she says in a sing song voice as she dances about the kitchen. I just keep walking, not knowing or caring where I'm going. Hmm. To an asylum, perhaps? But as I walk away, I hear the faint click of the closing microwave door, followed by a cheerful "How sweet are you!" from Carly. But I don't turn back. I just smile smugly to myself and whisper, "Sweetheart, my thoughts definitely are not sweet."

Soccer Shock

I had such a blast writing about gym class, I just knew that I had to write about my first soccer team as well!

At 5 years old, I FINALLY was on my first soccer team, the Red Ladybugs, and gee whiz I was excited. I strutted around the house, proudly presenting my red jersey (which nearly went down to my knees) as well as the thick, knee-length socks. And don't even get me started on my obsessions about the half-time snacks. I knew that when it was my turn to bring "treat"--for that was its official title--my teammates were going to be in for a delectable  surprise. Then I would be known as "the cool girl", the one who brought "squeeze its" for treat. But in all of my excitement about soccer, I forgot one very major detail: this was a sport.
After the initial newness of being on a team wore off, soccer wasn't nearly as enjoyable. I didn't enjoy running, or kicking the ball, and I mostly certainly lacked the accuracy or strength to pass the ball to a teammate or send it soaring into the goal. So I instead spent my time on the field doing more productive things, like picking dandelions. Each game I was sure to make a bouquet for both team's coaches. But soon the fields were virtually free of any dandelion. This meant that I had to actually concentrate on the sport, which my chubby little legs simply could not handle. Luckily, I was basically a genius (. Whenever my coach told me that I was in the game, I would streamline to my parent's side--which was basically the only exercise I got during my whole soccer career--and pick up my lawn chair.
Sitting in the center of the field was an ideal solution. I was able to sit down and view the game, but if the ball did come towards me I could quickly jump to my feet and attempt a kick before again sitting down. This pacified my conscience. I mean, I did give my all. It's just that my all really wasn't all that substantial.

Mercy

Coach Williams cautiously walked towards me as I awkwardly readied myself to bat. She looked down at me as I adjusted...and then readjusted the bat in my sweating hands. My grip loosened and then tightened, because I figured that clenching baseball bats is what the athletes do, and maybe I could simply fake it. But who was I kidding? No one would be convinced that I actually had any athletic ability whatsoever--despite whatever stylistic bluffs I put on--because they knew the truth. They had seen me run away with flailing arms from volleyballs, trip over stationary soccer balls, entangle myself in tether-ball standards, hit myself in the head with hula hoops, and just plain fail at every other sport included in our elementary school PE curriculum. It was a tragedy. I hated the whole entire experience, and I'm sure that witnessing my many athletic failures was bot painful and insulting to the talented sportsmen in my class. And so I now grimaced in anticipation for what the coach might say. The woman put her hand on my shoulder, looked straight into my eyes, and said "Mandy, you have nothing to prove. Walk onto first." For the first time in ages, I smiled in PE. I thanked the sympathetic coach, and tried to walk in a dignified manner to the first base, all the while marveling at the mercy I'd been offered. I don't think I've enjoyed another day of gym class since.

Popsicles

"Root beer or banana?" my older, far-too-mature-for-her-age (and probably for her own good, as well) sister Melissa asked. I stared up at her uncertainly. I still couldn't wrap my head around the fact that we had popsicles, so I certainly couldn't even begin to decide which flavor I should commit to. She smiled down at me (I assume it was a smile, but now that I think about it, it probably was more of a grimace), and handed me a randomly selected package. I looked down at my melting treat with amazement, but my reverie was interrupted with the sounds of thumping and pounding. My head shot up, and I stared at my four older siblings who appeared to be violently attacking their popsicles. One brother was whacking his against a corner of the kitchen counter, while another sat cross-legged on the floor, meticulously performing some sort of operation on his frozen gem. My goodness. What is going on here? Why were they mercilessly beating their popsicles? No wonder Mom never buys us anything fun. But just when I was about to burst into hysterics, Melissa informed me that these popsicles weren't like the usual ones we get--these ones had two joined popsicles, each one on a separate stick--and that they needed to be split in half. I then said something corny, and probably really embarrassing, to verbalize my relief. Melissa smiled at me and tilted her head slightly, as if to nudge me along. I beamed back at her and scampered off to an edge of the kitchen wall. I placed my popsicle against the edge, and then pushed against it with all my weight. After feeling the popsicles separate, I  moved my hands away from my masterpiece so that I could see the damage done. Instead of splitting in half, my popsicle had shattered into dozens of little pieces. I immediately whipped my head toward Melissa, who could only cover her eyes and shake her head in exhaustion. I stared back at the melting mess now cradled in my hand, slid down the wall onto the floor, and began to sob.

Pictures on Walls

Moving into an apartment is a multi-step process. For me, it begins with the necessities: bedding, clothes, and groceries. It requires planning and precision, making sure that every square inch of my dresser is utilized. The filling of closets and drawers is completed after only a couple of hours. Then, technically, the apartment has been moved into. But the most crucial aspects of the apartment haven't even been touched: the decorations, the knick-knacks, the books you never intend to read, the pieces of your life that literally bring vitality to your apartment. As I finally got around to taping my pictures to the wall tonight, I felt a strange familiarity suddenly enter my apartment. This was no longer a building, or (even better) a residence, this was a home that was now strewn with my memories. And so now, I look at my walls and smile in remembrance of happy times, but also with the hope that here I can take more pictures to line the walls of a future place.

Tall Shoes

My hair lay on my shoulders like a hair sprayed yellow poodle. A poodle. Great.  My social status and ultimate quality of life for the next three years hinged on the way my peers perceived me. And so good golly, these kids better be a fan of fluffy canines or I didn't stand a chance. But no worries, for I was sure to make a good impression with my stiff and starched blouse and too-tall-for-my-own good high heels. Man. Who was I kidding? I don't have the coordination or the confidence to pull off such footwear. But I was so determined to let the world (and by "the world" I of course meant Viewmont High School) know that I was a reliable classmate, a trustworthy friend, and a fabulous choice for a prom date, that I was willing to risk my life by wearing those tall shoes.

8-Minute Gravy write-up

Over the river and through the woods....to a random church in Layton, Utah... where we will be celebrating Thanksgiving with obscure Henderson relatives. I know. How pathetic is that (notice there is no question mark at the end of this sentence; it's clearly a statement.). I mean, Isn't it an unofficial law that Thanksgiving be spent at a place that you love with people that are dear to you? But it's okay. Because Dad has informed us that these uncles and aunts we've never met are sure to be entertaining. So we kids stop slouching and mumbling, and try to nonchalantly say that maybe this won't be absolutely terrible. Well we enter the cultural hall and see our man: easily seven feet tall, donning green dress apparel from head to toe, and wearing a huge duck whistle around his neck. This man gets the attention of his children by blowing this ridiculous object, and the kids quickly perk up in response. And would you believe it? They, too, are Junior Explorers also sporting miniature whistles. His two gangly daughters proudly scamper to their father--making a point to puff up their chests to show off their strange instruments. My siblings and I just stared. This was bizarre. My goodness. We had never viewed anything so foreign. We simply exchanged occasional glances among each other, silently reflecting over how grateful we were that our parents let us be athletes and ballerinas instead of Junior Explorers. 

Being Blonde

Who decided to insult the entire population with the recessive blonde hair trait? He (for I'm quite certain that only a man could be so unfeeling to say such an offensive slur) probably has no idea how much grief he has caused. Does he know that because of his initial "blondes are dumb" comment, countless dumb blonde jokes plagued me during my childhood? I'm sure he doesn't know that in retaliation, my overly sensitive seven-year-old self made several unintentionally racist jokes towards my sisters with black hair. I could spew out more reasons why this man deserves to be severely pummeled, but I'm mortified to say that perhaps there is some merit to his argument. I, a through and through natural blonde, acted in a very "blonde" manner tonight, which I am very ashamed of. I'm ashamed that I acted in such a careless manner, but I dare say I'm more ashamed because I realize that I am living proof that such a stigma has some validity. Shame.

Yikes.

Good heavens. I haven't a clue how to blog. In fact, I don't think I have ever seriously followed one before. Unless they're chalked full of anecdotes and pictures of little kids--because I'm basically a sucker for "littles".  Back to topic: but yes, blogging might be an issue for me. What do I have to tell the world? Hmm. I've eaten cereal for a week straight because I'm poor and lazy? But I highly doubt that is worth any significance in even the most insignificant of lives. Man. How can I impact others if I can't even trust my own judgement during my daily struggle to select a pair of shoes to wear? Yikes.
We'll see. Perhaps all I need is a little inspiration. Or perhaps just a lot. A lot of inspiration.