Extra Story Bits

Well, I just finished the school week. Yesssss. Three-day weekend. Thank goodness. I have one random story to tell about, which is totally disconnected to anything in any way. And it's not to be taken seriously in the least bit. Mostly it is for my own entertainment. Here it is...

I remember the good old days in Robison. I miss Rachel and Hillary, and our endless talk of perfect men named Tod (tall, dark, and ominous) who could hiccup ominously, or perhaps be invisible. And I especially remember when the snowstorms came. I hopped up on Ashley's bed to look out at 9th East as the cars whizzed by and the snow fell down happily. Rachel came to join me... and genius that she is, she noticed an obvious thing that probably isn't obvious to the normal population.

"Some guy needs to go out into the suicide lane, right next to that manhole. And serenade us. And if he could get a piano out there too, that would be even better." And of course, she was right. It was perfect. We were on the second story, so it was almost like a balcony (almost...) and there's nothing that says love like running into the suicide lane as traffic whizzes by just to sing to you.

So, every time there was a snow storm, Rachel and I would run to my bedroom window and look out the window expectantly. Except none of the guys we knew had this genius (yet quite possibly insane) idea to run out into the suicide lane and serenade the ladies of 126 during any of the many snowstorms we had. Lame. We determined that the probability of us being serenaded in any way was probably around 0.001%. Not very good odds. I mean, none of us had boyfriends. None of us wanted boyfriends. And there's this stupid thing about today's society. Nobody gets serenaded unless there's a little somethin' somethin' goin' on between serenader and serenadee, or said serenader wishes there were. And then there's the issue of said serenader's lacking self confidence in singing skill required for said serenading.

Which is not so cool, I think. You know those lists of things we all have of stuff we need to do before we die? Yes, I'm sure you all have one... Well, among other things like getting married, being the bestest mother and wife ever, going skydiving, conquering my fear of sliding down stair rails, and such -- right in the middle, is one little innocent item. Be serenaded. And I'm not the only one. 'Tis a fairly common thing, I think, even if it isn't consciously on a lot of girls' lists. Subconsciously -- I think it's there on the vast majority of all of them.

But it doesn't really matter, because no one serenades because they think they can't sing. That's true for a lot of people. But honestly, there are really only three situations.

One, you can sing like Michael Bublé. In that case, no worries. You have nothing to be embarrassed about, and your serenadee will love you forever and ever for it. No problems. Unfortunately, this situation applies to a very small population. Dang.

Two, you really can't sing very well at all, but in your egotistical mind you think you are dang talented. Um, hate to say it, but if this is case, don't do any serenading. You can kind of tell the difference between people who know they suck and people who don't. People who don't know are a lot harder to listen to... and people who do know they aren't very good can turn it into a very funny situation.

Which takes us to case three (and I believe this is the case for most of the people I know): you don't have any incredible singing talent, and you know it. Well, in that case, it's still safe to serenade. As long as your intended serenadee has a sense of humor. Then it would just be plain hilarious. And memorable. And then your serenadee can cross "Be serenaded" off that list of theirs and love you forever and ever for it. A warning though -- if your intended serenadee has no sense of humor you'll just embarrass yourself. :D

When we were looking for places to live, and we came to look at Monticello last semester, we immediately noticed the stairs inside the apartment. And, if you can't see the obvious, having your very own personal set of stairs doubles your chances of being serenaded. (True, that only means our chances are 0.002% now, but still... I think that is a significant improvement from 0.001%.)

'Twas a Tuesday night, and, as on all Tuesday nights, I was exhausted beyond all reason. I came home with sore legs and feet from dancing for a few straight hours. And none of had been serenaded even once the whole term. It was definitely time for something fun. And that something fun was the planned Relief Society social. Jackie, Ingrid, Rachelle and I set off to the Granary parking lot -- apparently we were going to watch a movie there. Except when we stepped outside and looked up at the sky...

Dark, dark clouds. Uber wind. And the bizarre thing was, it was fairly warm still. Oh well. Might as well as go to the beginning even if there is a storm coming... I mean, you can't just pass up an opportunity for free food like that. It's a Relief Society function in a single student ward. There should be goodies. Should be. Except when we showed up... we came to discover that it was canceled.

Needless to say, we were disappointed. Not that we really wanted to watch a movie or meet new people or anything, just that we had been stoked for food. The four of us dejectedly walked back to our apartment. And then Ingrid started it.

"I really want pizza."

The other three of us gasped/choked/smiled in agreement with a unanimous "Yesss!!!"

"Don't we have a Domino's flyer magnet somewhere with coupons?" Oh yes, we did. I had thoughtfully put the coupons on the fridge for easy access in case of future craving emergencies (A house full of girls = high high high likelihood for random cravings for random, yummy, really-not-so-good-for-you things...). I got it immediately, and looked at the coupons, but then I realized -- "GUYS! It's 2x Tuesday!" Two large pizzas. Four girls with cravings. Yessssss.

I looked back down at our flyer magnet thing. The coupons were worthless now... You couldn't take two deals at once. But then I saw... "Try ordering online!" written in big red letters. Hmmm... ordering pizza online? That's new...

But it was an adventure of sorts to be had. I brought my computer downstairs and went to dominos.com... and it was glorious. Within seconds the four of us were all ordering pizza. And it was like there were too many options. We chose what sort of crust, and then the size. The toppings form was easy and beautiful. We just clicked the toppings we wanted (whole pizza, only left side, or only right side) and then how much (light, normal, or heavy). And then we ordered. Then there was a little option I noticed...

"Any special instructions for the delivery expert?"

Well, no serious ones. But I just couldn't pass up the opportunity. We typed in, "Serenade will earn extra tip." And then the order was complete.

We were then taken to a page with a meter on it. And basically... we were informed immediately when each step of the pizza-making process what complete -- when the pizza had been made, when it had been put it the oven, when it had come out of the oven, when it was put in a box, and then when it was on its way to our house. It was divine. The four of us waited in eager anticipation. And most of the anticipation was for pizza... but then there was the thought that maybe the delivery man had enough guts to sing us something. Even Mary Had a Little Lamb would have sufficed.

Within twenty minutes of placing our order, our doorbell rang. We answered and stood there eagerly. Nathan, the pizza guy, shuffled his shoes nervously. "Am I sposed ta sing or sumthin?" Well, to the say the least, Nathan did not want to sing anything, claiming he didn't know any songs. We gave him a normal sized tip and he left. And the pizza was good. But it would have been better accompanied by a serenade.

Alas.

Epic.

It was a cold and dreary day. At least inside it was. Outside everything is ridiculously colorful and flowery and, I suppose, obnoxious if you have allergies. I've discovered that dancing can very quickly lead to sore feet and such. And that cramming a semester's worth of a course into seven weeks... means a lot of homework all at once. And so, come Friday night, I am exhausted. Physically and mentally.

And the week was over. A sigh of relief. A smile. A shout to Rachelle that I was done with the week... and the celebration is on. Wendy's run! Jackie was in Arizona, and Ingrid had run off to Park City (that's where her family lives). So it was just us two. I got my usual (junior bacon cheeseburger, two five-piece nuggets, both with honey mustard sauce, and water) and Rachelle got fries and a Frosty. We didn't talk about much as we sat in the restaurant and ate, because there was entertainment. A bunch of freshman girls had kidnapped some other freshman girl for her birthday. Birthday girl was blindfolded. So here, Rachelle's fries served as a sort of make-shift popcorn and we just watched the birthday girl's friends make her shriek. Once the food was gone, and our ears could take no more shrieks... we went home again.

Well, after the end of a long day, it is quite a natural inclination to want a hot shower. Rachelle dashed to the bathroom... and turned on the shower...

Shriek.

"IT'S FREEZING!"

I'm too tired to think about it.

Cold water... happens all the time doesn't it? Well, it never did at Heritage (at least when I was in Robison). Last time I had to deal with cold water was when I lived in Arizona. And when that happened I'd just go out into the garage and turn on the hot water heater again.

Rachelle, though, was furious. "RACHELLE IS A FREAKIN' GREASEBALL! GAAH!"

At this I go check it out myself. Sure enough, the water was freezing. In fact, I'd reckon it was darn close to turning to solid ice cubes. Ugggh.

Rachelle got her jacket on, and said, "Come on, Jenna. Let's go turn in a work order. Our shower is BROKEN!"

..."Broken? The shower works fine..."

"366 DOESN'T HAVE HOT WATER!" Rachelle broke into mumbles... "no hot water... ... ... greaseball.... ... ... work order..."

...I don't think she was very happy. I followed her, all the time not quite sure what to do when the hot water went out, but fairly certain that turning in a work order was the wrong thing to do. We went into the office, which was dark and empty. Rachelle tore off a work order. But there was no pen. And then I had an epiphany.

"Rachelle. Don't turn in a work order. They can't fix it."

"What?"

"We haven't paid for gas. The gas was turned off."

"No way! They wouldn't just turn off the gas! They'd tell us first!"

I blinked. Now that's a theory on gas companies I'd never heard before. "No... I'm fairly certain they'd just turn it off."

"No! That's indecent! That's rude! That's inhuman! They wouldn't turn it off!"

... "Yes, Rachelle. They would." Rachelle didn't believe me. In the slightest. All right. New tactic. I looked around. There was a little yellow paper with teeny print on it. There was a section entitled, Utilities. In desperation, I read it. And found something to use to persuade Rachelle to my side and stop her from making a fool of herself. "Read that," I said, pointing. She read aloud... "Remember to sign up for gas and electricity in one of your names lest the service suddenly go out one day when a former tenant decides to reclaim their deposit..."

"See? They would just shut it off!"

"No! That doesn't make sense! Why would they do that?"

"... Well, if someone cancelled a contract, they'd automatically assume that no one was living there anymore, right? So, it would definitely be more efficient to just shut off the service." Finally Rachelle believed me.

"Oh no..." she said.

So we called the gas company. And sadly... we missed the office hours. Just barely. The computer lady on the other line said... "Please call back during office hours, Monday through Friday, 8:30am to 11pm..." At that our hearts sank. We'd have to wait until MONDAY? Three whole days with cold water?

Well, after that, we all dashed to our computers. Surely the gas company would have a website we could sign up for service on...

"NOOOOOOOOO!!!" we both yelled simultaneously. The wireless... was not working. At all. No. No way. I started to think. I want hot water. There's wireless up on campus... I could lug my computer up to campus... except there's Rape Hill. Bad idea for a girl to climb Rape Hill at midnight all by her lonesome.

"JENNA!" Rachelle was yelling from her bedroom. "WANNA CLIMB RAPE HILL WITH ME?"

"YES!" I yelled back. Rachelle grabbed her computer. I grabbed my wallet. And we set off up the hill. We sat down as soon as we got in range of the wireless internet, and then we found the site for the gas company. I immediately set to putting the gas account in my name, and then I hit submit. And then there was dreadful news on the next page.

"Please allow three business days for the gas service to be activated."

No. No no no no no. Rachelle and I looked at each other. No hot water until WEDNESDAY?

We walked back down Rape Hill dejectedly. Rachelle said, almost in a whimper, "How could this happen to us? We are the sweetest girls ever!"

I nodded. I didn't say much. It really was our fault. We were so busy concentrating on school that none of us actually remembered to sign up for utilities. It was on the to-do list, yes. But we never did it.

I sighed as we went down the hill. We got home and climbed into our respective beds dejectedly. And dreamt of hot showers.

Day two.

Situation worse than originally thought. Whole house is cold. Dishes prove a difficult task. Nothing dissolves in cold water. Hands are ice cubes. Showers torture. Thick, long hair proves to be disadvantage. Shampoo solidifies in cold water. Shampoo refuses to leave hair and scalp alone. Rinsing is evil. Bald would be good. No hair. No shampoo. Soap up. Rinse off. Done. But no. Long hair. Long, thick, cold, soapy hair. Gave up on hair. Was freezing for an hour afterward. All in all, survival occured.

Day three.

Still alive. We are the greaseball girls. Tried to wash hair. Dried it. Disaster occured. There was shampoo still in it. Braided hair to hide the strange texture.

Day four.

Too cold to report. Except we live.

Day five.

Situation desperate. Commandeered neighbor's bathroom. Hot water is glory. But house still cold. Daily function difficult.

And then we got home on Tuesday night to find that the gas had been turned on, but we had to have someone qualified turn on the water heater or something. Gaah. So we went and knocked on our landlord's door. And pleaded our case. He came and turned it on. And balance was restored. Life resumed its natural course. And we celebrated. Chocolate goodies (butterscotch brownies, fudge, chocolate crinkles, and of course, a chocolate creme pie -- two of thirty!) had flowed out of our kitchen like mad in a sad attempt to restore warmth and comfort to our lives. Now the small amount that was left was celebratory in nature. We ate the remaining chocolate and continued in our normal lives.

A New Place For Adventure, Perchance?

I moved into Monticello, my new residence for spring term! I will also be coming back to the same place for fall/winter next year. So far I have three roommates.

The one with whom I am sharing a room is Jackie -- dearest Jackie Corbitt! Except I have a minor fear that one of us might kill the other. Jackie and I are very similar. Except for a few things which often results in sparks flying. Dear Jackie is very... how shall I say... empirical? Well, of course. She's a physics major, and incredibly smart. She has a very linear mind -- very rational. Thus, she has systems.

I've got systems! But... hey, our systems happen to not coincide. And both of us are very resistant to changing these time-tested systems.

For example, take the instance of the peanut butter knife.

Jackie sure does love her peanut butter. She eats it... and almost nothing else. She'll take her knife, get a huge hunk of the stuff, and then she'll put it on a cracker and leave it. But Jackie has this irrational discomfort of eating in front of people. She doesn't do it. She binges in secret. Not really binging, though. She snacks and nibbles... grazes! She'll eat a bite or two. Leave. Come back two minutes, later, and do it again. By the time a few hours have passed, she'll have eaten tons, but none of it will be good for her.

I don't have a particularly huge beef with this. What I do have a beef with is the knife. It'll be covered in peanut butter. And she'll leave it. On my counter. Eew! And she gets upset if we clean it up, because in her mind, it only makes sense to leave it, because inevitably she'll come back and use it again. And thus cleaning it is a futile act, a waste of energy. What she doesn't see is the obvious mess, the blemish on my kitchen. It is quite frankly impossible to keep a kitchen clean when you live with Jackie. I've decided I can handle that, as long as I think of it in similitude of the impossibility of keeping a kitchen clean with children. (Except I do hope my children learn to keep tidy by the time they move out...)

Unfortunately, Jackie doesn't trust my judgment in the slightest, either. She won't listen to me or any advice I may give her. For instance... there is this one guy, Neil, whom I severely dislike and distrust. I tell Jackie exactly what I think about him. But... she keeps going on dates and doing things with him. What she says is that I don't understand, because he's a different person when he's only around her, and when there's a group of people around. I'm not saying I don't believe her. But... I don't. I don't. Jackie doesn't understand people. Well, at one point she told me that she keeps feeling that she needs to stop hanging out with him. I emphatically agree. And then she'll decide, once and for all... no more Neil.

But then! Neil will text, or call, or show up at our door... "Hey Jackie, let's go do something!" And Jackie responds with an enthusiastic, "Yes!" And off she goes. And then she'll disappear for hours and hours, and no one will know where she is. And then she'll come back late at night. Finally, Jackie told Neil she wouldn't date him any more. At all. Maybe Neil is really a good guy, but from what I can tell, he's pulling her strings... "Oh, Jackie, we don't have to date... I respect you... but in the time I've known you, I've become such a better person, and I really just like spending time with you..." etc. I really have no right to have decided this guy is not a good person. I really don't. There is no such empirical evidence to say such a thing. So... Jackie doesn't trust me. Maybe she shouldn't. Maybe I'm just a nutcase.

Maybe I am a nutcase. Last night, Jackie went away around 9 and then didn't come until after 2am... I kept wondering where she was... and finally, Rachelle said, "Oh. Jackie told me not to tell you, but she's with Neil." My heart dropped all the way down to my feet. Now he knows where we live again. And now...

I think the whole point of saying all that was to establish... that now Jackie and I have a big wall between us. I don't confide anything in Jackie. Every time I do, she gives me... a rather condescending look. A sweet, I-care-about-you look, but condescending nonetheless. And what frustrates me is that I'll say something, and she'll completely misinterpret it, and get extremely insulted. And she won't tell me. And so, I can tell she's offended, but she won't tell me what's wrong. Gaah. And she won't confide in me.

This is not a rant about Jackie. I love her dearly. If I wanted to rant, this would be pages and pages and pages long. But I feel I need to establish what the relationship between us is. All I'm saying is that there's a very tall wall between us, that we dance around and pretend is not there. But it is.

That is one roommate. Dearest Jackie Corbitt.

My other roommate, Rachelle Jackson, was in my ward for the last two semesters. She lived in 128, which I believe should have been collectively translated or something. I'm sure the only reason they're all still on Earth is so that the rest of us mere mortals can learn from their examples.

Rachelle and I get along much easier. We are both a tad OCD about cleanth. We are both competent cooks, and we almost immediately discovered that we functioned together nicely while cooking. We like to flip through cookbooks and theorize about cooking some of the goodness we see therein. And we could and would have if we had the ingredients. And when we are cooking together... it is like well-oiled machinery. Immediately when we get to a part in the cooking where only one of us can do the job, one of us unhesitatingly moves to put away used ingredients and clean up messes and dishes we've left behind. And the whole time we'll be talking and talking and talking. I do believe I am quite comfortable with her.

I know Rachelle, but nearly well enough, because I haven't lived with her that long. But... I do believe that I could confide in her. As long as I don't mind the information spreading to a few other people. Which I think is okay with things that I want to tell to everyone, but am comfortable in doing so. Things that I actually need as secrets that no one else will hear though... I still don't know who I'll confide in then. I suppose I could call or email Hillary. But if the situation got bad enough I couldn't ever tell something important over the phone or through an email. Gaah. Oh well. But I can tell Rachelle things, I think. And she tells me things.

I haven't lived with her long enough to be able to give you paragraphs and paragraphs about her. Just that I like her and that she will make the next two months a lot easier for me.

The last roommate I know about is Ingrid. I have had about five minutes interaction with her. But... this is what I know.

She's absolutely gorgeous, like an angel. She has perfect poise, perfect hair, perfect face, perfect style. And her eyes are beautiful. I remember eyes about people... they can tell you a lot about people. You can look in someone's eyes and see how they're feeling. And sometimes, if you're really lucky, you can see what they're thinking. Ingrid was a little aloof and distanced when I met her, but I think she was just a little nervous because she didn't know any of us. Mostly though, she's confident in herself and she has a very friendly demeanor. She kind of glows with happiness and peace, and I get the impression that she has a deep testimony, so I think that maybe she has the potential to become a confidant of mine. I also think that as long as she has her personal space she'll be able to keep her happy, sweet demeanor for the most part. She also has a wonderful laugh.

She's from Park City, so she just drops by about once a day with stuff, and then goes back home. Some time today she'll drop by... permanently.

We may have one more roomie, but we may not. It may just be the four of us.

I've decided that I really like my apartment.

When we moved in at first, my initial project was to set the kitchen in order... of course. I couldn't have any one organizing my domain. The kitchen is Jenna's territory. And oh. I am so pleased with the cupboard space. Cupboards. Everywhere. Which definitely makes it easier to have designated places for things. So Rissa (Rachelle's sister) and I set off to put things away. Except I found nasty surprises in nearly every cupboard. The last tenants obviously didn't know how to clean or organize, or throw away trash. I found cupboard after cupboard full of crud and grime and things that obviously should have made it to the trash. I found a plethora of gross, grimy dishes that I didn't even want to touch. It was even more disgusting than any disgusting pile of dishes I had ever found in 116's excuse of a kitchen. I threw most of them away, only keeping the ones I found left in the dishwasher, which appeared sanitary for the most part. I didn't trust my cleaning skills enough to clean that crud off of the rest of those things. There was the most disgusting dish rack I had ever encountered. There was a pool of stagnant water in the bottom of it, which smelled horrid and seemed to have turned pale yellow with months of bacterial growth or something.

Well, to say the least... I was rather upset. I had no outlet to vent my frustration except to clean and organize, which I was doing frantically. At some point in this process... the doorbell rang. ("We have a doorbell? No way!") I eventually found the landlord outside my kitchen door. He greeted me, explained who he was, and then explained what he was here for. "My wife said that the last tenant left this place filthy. So... if you like we can hire someone to come clean it up for you." Nuh-uh. This is Jenna's kitchen now.

"No. I'll clean it. I've already started anyway."

The landlord looked pensive. Then, "Well, just keep track of how much time you spend cleaning it, so that we can pay you for cleaning it up." With that, he left. And miraculously, my mood changed from just-barely-bridled anger to contentment. I didn't at all mind the idea of being paid to clean up someone else's filthy mess. So I went back to cleaning my kitchen happily. I got all our dishes put away into our cupboards... we now have a medicine cabinet above the oven, and a cookbook and recipe cabinet next to that. We have a spice cupboard, a plate cupboard. A cup cupboard. A bowl cupboard. A shelf devoted to Pyrex items. A shelf devoted to tupperware. A shelf just for mixing bowls. A shelf for Tupperware. A shelf for flower vases (we're girls... we get flowers... the flowers die, and we are left with an assortment of flower vases... I definitely the next guy to bring one of us flowers should forgo the vase and just bring us flowers...). A drawer for utensils and cutlery. A drawer for serving spoons. A drawer for all other utensils. A drawer for rags. A drawer for hot pads and oven mitts. A drawer for rolls of kitcheny things like Saran wrap, aluminum foil, and wax paper. And four humongous cupboards that could be turned into a pantry fit for a queen.

Oh, I could have danced right then. And I did. Only to look down and notice the horrid state my new kitchen floor was in. So... after I swept, I found the oldest mop I'd ever seen and set off to clean that. And then I discovered that my kitchen sink had one of those hose things that you can pull out and spray water anywhere with. I was rather pleased. ("Ooh! I can even rinse off behind the tap when I clean the sink now!") I used that to fill one of our trash cans and I used that as a mop bucket. I mopped happily. Then I cleared the table, cleaned it. Then I scrubbed the counters, since I didn't have any faith that they were actually clean. I scrubbed the happy little windowsill.

And then I looked around at my kitchen. It... was homey now. It was welcoming. It was old-style too. In fact, I might have been glowing right then. My new kitchen definitely had a touch of, "Ooh, look a bunch of girls live here!" That, of course, was okay, since we are all girls. It would even have been all right if it was a manly sort of place. It's okay for a girl to live somewhere that seems masculine. However, it is not okay for a guy to live somewhere girly. Oh, it is good to be a girl.Well, after that I moved on to my new living room. I... have not had a living room for a while. It made me happy. Well, the furniture was all in disarray. And there were boxes and boxes and boxes of Jackie's, Rachelle's, and my stuff all over the place. I sighed. And got to work. I got the feeling that my kitchen-OCD-ness will carry on into the living room.

Then I called Hillary and wished her happy birthday and such. I was quite proud of myself to working up the courage to call someone besides my family. Initiating phone conversations scares me like none other. I know, an irrational fear. But it's so much harder to tell what the other person is saying, and it's even harder to tell what is going on in their heads.

Then our doorbell rang again. Jackie and I answered it to find two men out there. They kind of looked at each other nervously, then proceeded to introduce themselves and ask if we wanted to go see a movie with their big group of people. I considered... I told them I might. Jackie went with them. I... didn't. I don't know what it is about having my home all in disarray, but my self-confidence goes down and my comfort level plummets. I couldn't leave. My house was dirty. And Jenna doesn't do well in big groups of people anyway. Rachelle also left some time later, but with a big group of her high school friends, since one of them was about to leave on his mission.

Now I was alone with the mess. I rolled up my sleeves and got to work. At some point, Ryan called me and I talked to him for a while, finding things I could do to clean with one hand. (I suck at holding a phone with my shoulder and neck. I suspect such cursed inflexibility was a result of that blasted surgery. Gaah.) After he hung up, perhaps to call Hillary and wish her happy birthday, I continued my more efficient two-handed cleaning. Then, I went and stood where I could see the whole room. It was a mess, but I needed to know where things were going to end up.

Here I used my imagination. I painted a picture in my mind of the finished room. Hm. The long couch can stay where it is. But I will not have the television on the coffee table. Ooh, there's a desk over there. I shall leave the desk there. And and I'll put the television there. That would be better. And then I can put a printer next to it. Oh, but then you wouldn't be able to see the television from the little couch. Never mind. The little couch looks better where the coffee table currently is. And the little side table will go between the long and little couches, so that it forms a V. Then I can put the keyboard where the little couch is now.

Then I noticed where the electrical outlets were and distressed a little about that... but in the end, I decided my initial plan was better. I moved and moved things until it resembled a real living room. At this point, I was quite exhausted. I should have gone to bed right then. But I didn't. Bad idea. I started thinking about the people I missed. That got the tears going. And then I started thinking about my family, and I lost it. I was up for a few hours after that. I didn't do anything productive. I just thought and thought and thought viciously. It wasn't a good thing to be doing though, because the more I thought, the sadder I got. I finally slept around 2am.

Sunday came, and I woke up to see a beautiful view. I had commandeered the top bunk. And there was a window up there. I had left the blinds open, so I could see everything that was going on as I fell asleep. I like watching people as they go about their lives and they think no one is there to watch them. And so I just laid awake for awhile watching people walk by. I pulled my computer out from under my pillow and turned it on, as I do every morning when I wake up. I didn't have a desk, so I had made my top bunk the place for it. When I'm not sleeping it'll be my desk. When I am, the computer goes under the pillow, and I sleep.

I got up and got ready for church. I didn't feel like prettying myself up. But I did anyway with the encouragement of my roommates, who patiently reminded me that this is the first time the guys in the ward would ever see me. I didn't tell them, but I thought that maybe that meant it was a better idea not to dress up. I have a hard time when guys only talk to you because you're cute.

We marched up to church... which was in the testing center. It was rather bizarre having sacrament meetings in those cursed desks where so many people's lives and grades had been decided.

I met lots of people in a short amount of time. But a few stood out and stayed with the three of us... his name was Michael Smith. RM, like all the other guys in our ward... he'd been back from Albania for six months. He is also kinda good looking... I remember his eyes were blue and friendly and happy, but just a little uncomfortable. Well, this is my impression of Michael. He is rather eager to make friends. I think he can't stand not having anybody. And so now his life is in limbo. So he smiles an awful lot, and throws compliments out like pretzels, hoping lots of people will like him and thus become his friend. He speaks rather loudly too. But... I think he could be a good friend. He'll ask questions, but not because it's the polite thing to do. He seems genuinely interested, and he listens. And he talks fluently and easily, so it is easy to carry a conversation with him, because he'll throw out good questions that you can give real answers to. My guess is that he'll either make lots of friends quickly, or people will think he's obnoxious. I haven't figured out which case it'll be though. But that is my first impression.

Another RM, Kristen, has been back for a month. She went to China. She's quite friendly, and she also, like so many of the people I've met, sort of glows with happiness and peace. She is also quite confident in life and herself. She'll remember your name if you spell it... at least that's my guess since she always asks how you spell your name before she'll remember it. And then, as far as I've been able to tell, once someone has spelled out their name to her, she doesn't forget. I'm Jenna, J-E-N-N-A. Jenna. She knows my name. And Rachelle's, R-A-chelle. And Jackie, with an I-E. I think I could get closer to her if I wanted to. She lives right next door.

After church we all napped like crazy.

Ward prayer was at 9pm in the parking garage underneath one of the neighboring apartment complexes, the Granary. We went down there and I sang alto with Kristen, which earned another compliment from Michael... "Oh, go alto!" And then we went around and introduced ourselves. Then we sang another hymn, with one guy conducting it with his opened pocketknife. Michael says, "Oh man, you're soooo good!" I haven't quite figured out how to respond to Michael's abundance of compliments yet. So I just smiled. They went through announcements. Then we sang happy birthday to someone named Clay. Kristen and I harmonized exactly the same way. We looked at each other and smiled... but Michael didn't seem to notice that Kristen had been harmonizing too, but enthusiastically complimented my harmonizing skills. I smiled again, not sure what to make of the concentrations of compliments on me...

After ward prayer, everyone collectively went to one of the guys' houses. It was an actual house. Big. Nice. And importantly, clean. Rachelle and I found a corner and stayed there, not quite sure what we were doing here. We were going to leave... but then we were noticed. Nearly every guy came and introduced himself to us, and talked to us for about five minutes each. Not a single female soul came and talked to us. Suspicious.

One thing I absolutely hated though, was that when they would find out that Rachelle and I were both pre-med and that I was a neuroscience major... somehow we weren't human girls anymore. Superhuman or something. But not real people. It was worse when one conversation turned into how Jason hated math. And when they found out I loved math... I was even less human. Gah.

I appreciated that Michael still thought that Rachelle and I were still human beings. He even invited us to go watch a movie with him at his place, but then Rachelle doesn't watch anything except for church movies on Sunday, so we declined. Michael was sad, but we said that we wouldn't mind watch the Testaments or something churchy with him next Sunday. He liked that, and then Rachelle and I went home.

We were going to make rolls, but then Rachelle remembered that she had promised Ryan to call him today. She did that. I wandered around aimlessly as she did that, waiting to make rolls. When she was done, we set to making them and talking and talking and talking. We stayed up till about 2am doing such. We also attempted to decide which pie we'd make in May. But they all looked so good. I wanted to make the key lime pie in May and then the chocolate creme pie in June, but Rachelle begged that we do the chocolate first. So that's what we'll do. The grasshopper pie looked tempting too... But we decided on chocolate creme and that's that. Thursday is May, so we have until then to decide.

Well, sorry, that was long, but after all, I am in a new environment. There is so much to describe.

Much love and pancakes,
Jenna!

P.S.
Oh, what joy! I got the B- I was hoping for in physics! Yay! You don't even know how HAPPY I am about that. It was the hardest class BYU has to offer. Most often failed. And... I didn't fail. I got a B-. Yay! And the best thing, I think my poor ego is still all right. I've decided that I don't really need beautiful GPA... it's about learning and not the grades. I learned a lot. And that's all that matters. Okay okay. I'm still mourning the drop in my GPA. And ego is quite bruised. But no tears. I'm okay. I promise. Haha.