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!