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.