So... I had a dream this morning... and it was ALMOST exactly like reality. This is why Ron, Aubrey's boyfriend, didn't come inside at exactly 9am this morning.
So, I wasn't quite conscious... nor was I unconscious...
Here is the dream situation's real and imagined parts:
Real: I was peacefully sleeping on the couch downstairs completely covered by my flowery teal quilt, when I hear that obnoxious knocking... KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK!!! I know immediately who it is -- I open my eyes a slit to gauge how much daylight is in the living room, and my calculating mind determines -- it is 9am, or a little afterwards. And there is knocking. So, it must be Ron knocking. Ron nearly always comes in right at 9am. ... Plus, I can hear him speaking Spanish on the phone through the walls...
Now, all this was true...
The following... was not real. But it seemed unbelievably so. Three details did not jive with reality...
1) The blinds of the window next to the door were all the way up, so Ron could see inside. He usually peeks in the window when he's banging on the door to be let in.
2) ... I suddenly realize that my pants were mysteriously missing.
3) ... Underneath my lack of pants were what the girls in my apartment term "Satan's panties" -- Bright. Red. Red. Underwear.
Fortunately, all this pantlessness was underneath my quilt, so it wasn't blatantly obvious to the outside world that Jenna wasn't wearing pants.
But Ron continues to knock and knock and knock...
Oh no, I find myself thinking. I need to let Ron in. It is cold outside! Oh, but I can't get up. I have no pants! I have no pants! Maybe if I get up, really fast, and dash up the stairs -- Oh no, I can't do that!!! Firstly, Ron would know I was awake and I left him outside. But, more importantly -- [I confess, even in my dreams, I tend to the nerdly side...] in the visible spectrum of light, red has the shortest wavelength and is therefore the most noticeable of any color. That means he'll see my underwear! Unacceptable!
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK...
And here I am, pretending to be asleep, chanting in my head, Red is the shortest wavelength... red is the shortest wavelength... red is the shortest wavelength...
And I don't let him in.
The knocking eventually subsides, and I eventually fall from semiconsciousness back into true unconsciousness.
Later... perhaps as much as an hour later, I swim back into consciousness as I hear Aubrey coming down the stairs, on the phone with Ron. "I saw that you called!" She makes a beeline to the door, opens it, and there he is, sitting on the couch.
I pretend to be asleep, still believing I am pantsless... but then I suddenly realize that... I am indeed wearing pants. Thank goodness. But I still continue to be asleep, for fear of being scolded for not letting Ron in. They eventually leave, and I again fall back asleep.
Friday, December 12, 2008
Saturday, December 6, 2008
Obnoxious and Serious Invasion of Privacy.
There isn't much interesting happening right now... just obnoxious things. And with finals approaching, we are all losing patience more quickly and well, we are fed up. Ticked off. One fuse too short. Upset. Furious, even.
One of my roommates, Aubrey, has a boyfriend. His name is Ron. He's a good guy and is our age. He hasn't been on his mission yet, but that's because he has to work and save up for it. (Strangely enough -- he shares a major and a job with me -- yep. He's a custodian at the library and a neuroscience major, just like me.) However... all of Aubrey's roommates have gotten quite sick of him. Including me. He NEVER leaves. His omnipresence is a tad bit obnoxious. Visiting hours are from 9am to midnight as per the all-important Honor Code. He kind of respects this. Kind of. Actually, not really. Not at all.
He's a bit clingy. Oh wait. Replace "a bit" with "very." So clingy that Aubrey and Ron are practically never apart. And when they are -- that either means that Ron is at work, Ron is at home and asleep and Aubrey is at home asleep, or Aubrey is in the bathroom (in which case Ron is likely to be found outside the bathroom door talking to her as she does her business...). So her space is invaded, of course, and she doesn't seem to mind that much.
The real problem here is that Aubrey has five roommates who also live in her apartment, and their privacy has also been invaded to the point of extreme annoyance. Haylee has the worst of it, because she sleeps in the same room as Aubrey.
If it's between 9am and midnight, he is pretty much guaranteed to be at our place. Unless Aubrey has a class; then he goes with her to that class, and then they both are gone. (Usually he just ditches his own classes.) The part I really hate -- it'll be five minutes past midnight, and he'll be lying on our couch.
"Ron. It's past midnight. OUT!" I'll say.
"I'm sorry," he'll say. And then not move. He usually isn't out until half past midnight. It bugs the heck out of me. That is most definitely against the Honor Code.
If he's not here by 9am each morning, he's here before then, eating breakfast with Aubrey.
"Ron! Get out! You're not allowed in yet!" Shannon would complain.
"I'm sorry," he says, and doesn't move. Again, against the Honor Code, most definitely.
And -- he just goes into Aubrey's room. Aubrey's roommate, Haylee, hates it -- I mean, he just stands by the door, but nonetheless, he is in the room. Boyfriendless Haylee can never escape from him, whereas the rest of us have our bedrooms that Ron never bothers to come into (because Aubrey isn't in them).
"RON! OUT OF THE BEDROOM!" I scream angrily.
"I'm sorry," he says, and ignores me.
He practically lives in our apartment, and all of us except for Aubrey HATE it.
Over Thanksgiving break, Rachel and I were expecting to be the only ones still here. We... were wrong. Ron and Aubrey were here. Aubrey -- that's fine, she lives here. Ron, okay during visiting hours. But he never left. He lost his keys, and his roommates all left for Thanksgiving. Instead of asking his landlord to be let in, or asking a male neighbor if he could spend the night... guess what Ron does? ... He would have slept in our apartment if Rachel and I hadn't been so upset at him. No, no, he slept outside our front door.
The way our apartment is set up is as follows: kitchen and living room downstairs, and bedrooms and bathroom upstairs. Guys aren't allowed in our bedrooms or bathrooms, and we like it that way. However, although there isn't anything wrong with men in the hallway up there according to Honor Code... the five of us who aren't Ron's girlfriend like to take these things called showers sometimes. And we'd like to be able to take these showers, and then open the bathroom door without fear that Ron will be standing there in the hallway to witness us wearing nothing but a towel or robe. (Most of us prefer to dress in our rooms -- usually the steam will fill up the bathroom, making it impossible to dry off properly, especially when you've got long hair that drip-drip-drips incessantly.)
Our solution?
Red tape!
When Ron and Aubrey were gone somewhere, the five of us shouted glories and hallelujahs (not kidding) and began to clean our little apartment hurriedly. It is impossible to clean when Ron and Aubs are here -- they are usually sprawled on the couch or messily cooking something together. Fine with us, except that they never clean up the messes they make. The five of us soon realized that everyone else was feeling the same thing -- "It bothers you too? Really, I'm not the only one? Oh gosh, I was afraid I was the only impatient one!" We had a Ron-bashing party in his rare absence. We soon discovered that we all deplored Ron's presence upstairs. And we decided that if that was bothering us all so much, that we should make it off limits.
Halfway up the stairs we drew a red line with tape, and wrote on it: "CHASTITY LINE: NO MEN BEYOND THIS POINT! THANK YOU!!! (We do take showers sometimes...)"
Except here's the problem... I'm not sure what made us think that a guy who doesn't take the Honor Code seriously would take our red tape line seriously.
Ron and Aubrey came home. Aubrey went upstairs. Ron followed.
"RON!" belted Rachel.
"What?"
"CAN YOU READ?!?!"
"What? Yeah, why?"
"I SAID, CAN YOU READ?!?! LOOK AT THAT RED LINE!"
He looked at it. "Oh. So?"
"Stay downstairs, Ron."
"Why?" he asked, puzzled.
"We don't like it when you're up here. We take showers sometimes, you know."
Ron looked over at our bathroom. "But no one's in the shower right now."
"SO?" the rest of us yelled. "WE DON'T WANT YOU UPSTAIRS!"
... And from then on he proceeded to ignore us. From his point of view, if Aubrey doesn't mind if he's up there, it's okay.
We don't know what to do. I would appreciate any advice in how to proceed... Because otherwise... Next step is for all of us to sit him down and confront him about it. And if he still doesn't comply? Honor Code Office. Which could lead to as serious a consequence as expulsion from the university. (I feel bad for saying this, but that would honestly delight me...) Harsh, perhaps. But he should have considered that before he angered five women.
One of my roommates, Aubrey, has a boyfriend. His name is Ron. He's a good guy and is our age. He hasn't been on his mission yet, but that's because he has to work and save up for it. (Strangely enough -- he shares a major and a job with me -- yep. He's a custodian at the library and a neuroscience major, just like me.) However... all of Aubrey's roommates have gotten quite sick of him. Including me. He NEVER leaves. His omnipresence is a tad bit obnoxious. Visiting hours are from 9am to midnight as per the all-important Honor Code. He kind of respects this. Kind of. Actually, not really. Not at all.
He's a bit clingy. Oh wait. Replace "a bit" with "very." So clingy that Aubrey and Ron are practically never apart. And when they are -- that either means that Ron is at work, Ron is at home and asleep and Aubrey is at home asleep, or Aubrey is in the bathroom (in which case Ron is likely to be found outside the bathroom door talking to her as she does her business...). So her space is invaded, of course, and she doesn't seem to mind that much.
The real problem here is that Aubrey has five roommates who also live in her apartment, and their privacy has also been invaded to the point of extreme annoyance. Haylee has the worst of it, because she sleeps in the same room as Aubrey.
If it's between 9am and midnight, he is pretty much guaranteed to be at our place. Unless Aubrey has a class; then he goes with her to that class, and then they both are gone. (Usually he just ditches his own classes.) The part I really hate -- it'll be five minutes past midnight, and he'll be lying on our couch.
"Ron. It's past midnight. OUT!" I'll say.
"I'm sorry," he'll say. And then not move. He usually isn't out until half past midnight. It bugs the heck out of me. That is most definitely against the Honor Code.
If he's not here by 9am each morning, he's here before then, eating breakfast with Aubrey.
"Ron! Get out! You're not allowed in yet!" Shannon would complain.
"I'm sorry," he says, and doesn't move. Again, against the Honor Code, most definitely.
And -- he just goes into Aubrey's room. Aubrey's roommate, Haylee, hates it -- I mean, he just stands by the door, but nonetheless, he is in the room. Boyfriendless Haylee can never escape from him, whereas the rest of us have our bedrooms that Ron never bothers to come into (because Aubrey isn't in them).
"RON! OUT OF THE BEDROOM!" I scream angrily.
"I'm sorry," he says, and ignores me.
He practically lives in our apartment, and all of us except for Aubrey HATE it.
Over Thanksgiving break, Rachel and I were expecting to be the only ones still here. We... were wrong. Ron and Aubrey were here. Aubrey -- that's fine, she lives here. Ron, okay during visiting hours. But he never left. He lost his keys, and his roommates all left for Thanksgiving. Instead of asking his landlord to be let in, or asking a male neighbor if he could spend the night... guess what Ron does? ... He would have slept in our apartment if Rachel and I hadn't been so upset at him. No, no, he slept outside our front door.
The way our apartment is set up is as follows: kitchen and living room downstairs, and bedrooms and bathroom upstairs. Guys aren't allowed in our bedrooms or bathrooms, and we like it that way. However, although there isn't anything wrong with men in the hallway up there according to Honor Code... the five of us who aren't Ron's girlfriend like to take these things called showers sometimes. And we'd like to be able to take these showers, and then open the bathroom door without fear that Ron will be standing there in the hallway to witness us wearing nothing but a towel or robe. (Most of us prefer to dress in our rooms -- usually the steam will fill up the bathroom, making it impossible to dry off properly, especially when you've got long hair that drip-drip-drips incessantly.)
Our solution?
Red tape!
When Ron and Aubrey were gone somewhere, the five of us shouted glories and hallelujahs (not kidding) and began to clean our little apartment hurriedly. It is impossible to clean when Ron and Aubs are here -- they are usually sprawled on the couch or messily cooking something together. Fine with us, except that they never clean up the messes they make. The five of us soon realized that everyone else was feeling the same thing -- "It bothers you too? Really, I'm not the only one? Oh gosh, I was afraid I was the only impatient one!" We had a Ron-bashing party in his rare absence. We soon discovered that we all deplored Ron's presence upstairs. And we decided that if that was bothering us all so much, that we should make it off limits.
Halfway up the stairs we drew a red line with tape, and wrote on it: "CHASTITY LINE: NO MEN BEYOND THIS POINT! THANK YOU!!! (We do take showers sometimes...)"
Except here's the problem... I'm not sure what made us think that a guy who doesn't take the Honor Code seriously would take our red tape line seriously.
Ron and Aubrey came home. Aubrey went upstairs. Ron followed.
"RON!" belted Rachel.
"What?"
"CAN YOU READ?!?!"
"What? Yeah, why?"
"I SAID, CAN YOU READ?!?! LOOK AT THAT RED LINE!"
He looked at it. "Oh. So?"
"Stay downstairs, Ron."
"Why?" he asked, puzzled.
"We don't like it when you're up here. We take showers sometimes, you know."
Ron looked over at our bathroom. "But no one's in the shower right now."
"SO?" the rest of us yelled. "WE DON'T WANT YOU UPSTAIRS!"
... And from then on he proceeded to ignore us. From his point of view, if Aubrey doesn't mind if he's up there, it's okay.
We don't know what to do. I would appreciate any advice in how to proceed... Because otherwise... Next step is for all of us to sit him down and confront him about it. And if he still doesn't comply? Honor Code Office. Which could lead to as serious a consequence as expulsion from the university. (I feel bad for saying this, but that would honestly delight me...) Harsh, perhaps. But he should have considered that before he angered five women.
Saturday, November 8, 2008
On Socks and Hot Chocolate.
We had our first snow here in Provo this week. And I'd like to tell you of the joy my socks give me.
Last Saturday, in anticipation for the snow, Shannon and I went shoe shopping... I got winter boots, sneakers, and two pairs of church shoes that seemed like they'd survive snow and ice. We were almost going to go to the checkout line when...
"Oh no! All these shoes are black! I need black socks, then!" So Shannon and I went to get some socks. I wanted some nice, warm socks that make my feet happy in the deep of winter. However... it seems it is not common practice to make women's socks practical. Just cute. Who needs warm, cozy socks when you can have cute ones? Psh. It seems to be true of all clothing actually... women's clothing is lacking in the practical department, whereas men's clothing is pretty much just that. Practical, and little else. Where else do you find adorable little jackets that LOOK like they've got pockets, but upon inspection, you find that in fact, there are no pockets. The jacket was just made to look that way in the name of fashion.
You can even see this trend in WHERE you find socks. Women's socks are next to the hats and purses and belts and scarves. Women's socks are accessories. However, do you know where most department stores place mansocks? Next to the underwear. You see, socks are not accessories for men. They are a necessity. Why this difference? I don't know. And I don't understand it. I'm a girl. I get cold feet. Why can't I have thick, practical socks? Socks are not an accessory, ladies. Socks are a necessity, regardless of your gender. Especially if the snow is coming.
So... it is for this reason that Shannon and I made our way to find the mens' socks. Although I have rather small feet for a girl of my height, I've found that if I find the smallest mansocks I can, they are only slightly too big. And I can SO deal with only slightly too big! I found a pack of thick, black socks, and happily threw them in the cart. We got a couple of strange and uneasy looks from the men we ran into whilst gallavanting through the mansock section of Target... after all, we were awfully close to the men's underwear section.
I have always imagined what it will be like when I have free access to some guy's socks. I can just see it now. Newly married, my husband starts noticing that his sock supply has strangely been disappearing twice as fast as it did before he was married. And he will think that this is odd, and perhaps he is just imagining things. But then, one day, he'll look down at his wife's feet -- my feet -- and suddenly he will exclaim something along these lines... "THOSE ARE MY SOCKS!" And I will cackle, affirming his suspicions, and then refuse to give them back. I figure that if I warn him before I marry him that I will be stealing his socks -- and he still marries me -- I will be able to say that he knew before we got married that I would be stealing his socks. And it's his own darn fault if he didn't believe me when I told him so.
And it really is a very good thing that the BYU Honor Code forbids me from going into guys' bedrooms. Otherwise all my guyfriends last year would have noticed a slow and steady depletion of their sock supply during the winter months. I mean, what good is a little brother, if you can't steal his socks? Ah well. Clifton's feet were far bigger than mine anyway. I imagine that I could have fit two of my feet into a single one of his socks.
Anyway, besides socks, another necessity for winter survival is this wonderful thing called hot chocolate. I have a collection. Or, rather I did. Last week I had thirteen or fourteen different flavors. Off the top of my head, these are the ones I remember: milk chocolate, milk chocolate marshmallow, Belgian dark chocolate, mint chocolate truffle, mint chocolate marshmallow, chocolate cinnamon, Italian amaretto, French vanilla, dulce de leche, chocolate raspberry, orange creme, candycane, and roasted hazelnut. 'Twas amazing. The entire top shelf of my pantry is devoted to my hot chocolate collection.
Last Sunday night, when I walked into my apartment having just come home from work, I was met with a few of the following comments: "Jenna! I'm SO sorry!" "Hi... how much do you love us?" and "Uh... we have some bad news for you..."
I inspected their guilty faces plastered with guilty smiles and I knew.
"What happened to the chocolate?"
That was met with an uneasy (or hysterical, depending on the roommate in question) laugh. "Darn, you're good," commented Ron, my roommate Aubrey's boyfriend. I rushed over to the cupboards and looked up at my precious stash of hot chocolate should have been. I had left thirteen varieties. I saw a measly five where those thirteen used to be. When I opened the canisters, I found that most of the powder in the remaining cans was gone.
"Uhh... well, we were in charge of Linger Longer, and we didn't have anything else to feed the masses," commented one of my roomies. I understood. After ward prayer, the entire ward comes over to an apartment... which is supposed to provide some sort of treat for everyone. My roommates told the tale of the hot chocolate brigade. They had brought out the collection, and had lots of hot water ready. And the mugs? We only had about twenty or so, so they had a mugwashing team ready. And they'd crank out clean mugs and hot water, and then the ward members would mix their own pick of hot chocolate flavor from my collection. And they described to me how happy it made everyone. I didn't doubt it. It was so cold outside. My roommates described how popular our little 366 Red Brick apartment was -- people were packed like sardines in our teeny little kitchen and packed like packing peanuts in the living room. [I heard from outside sources how happy everyone was, so I think it wasn't just my roommates exaggerating to save themselves.]
It simultaneously made so happy and so sad.
So happy... because my hot choclate collection had served its purpose. It brought joy to people. That's what I wanted it for. I mean, people would come over, and I'd glowingly show them all the hot chocolate. And then tell them that they could have some whenever they wanted. No one ever took me up on that promise, except for tonight. When I wasn't there. Which was why I was so sad. I had been at work. I didn't get to see anyone smile. I didn't get to hear anyone's glee. I didn't get to see any cold people be warmed from something I gave. And because I had work every Sunday night, and I was so busy during the week, no one really knew who Jenna Griffin was. Nobody knew it was my collection, no one knew that I was the hero of the night. And I felt as invisible as ever.
My roommates have promised to replace all the hot chocolate that they gave away. So, I will soon have another quite formidable hot choclate collection. I suppose that once it is completely replenished, then I can have another hot choclate party... and I suppose that time I will be there, and I can see all the happy people.
Last Saturday, in anticipation for the snow, Shannon and I went shoe shopping... I got winter boots, sneakers, and two pairs of church shoes that seemed like they'd survive snow and ice. We were almost going to go to the checkout line when...
"Oh no! All these shoes are black! I need black socks, then!" So Shannon and I went to get some socks. I wanted some nice, warm socks that make my feet happy in the deep of winter. However... it seems it is not common practice to make women's socks practical. Just cute. Who needs warm, cozy socks when you can have cute ones? Psh. It seems to be true of all clothing actually... women's clothing is lacking in the practical department, whereas men's clothing is pretty much just that. Practical, and little else. Where else do you find adorable little jackets that LOOK like they've got pockets, but upon inspection, you find that in fact, there are no pockets. The jacket was just made to look that way in the name of fashion.
You can even see this trend in WHERE you find socks. Women's socks are next to the hats and purses and belts and scarves. Women's socks are accessories. However, do you know where most department stores place mansocks? Next to the underwear. You see, socks are not accessories for men. They are a necessity. Why this difference? I don't know. And I don't understand it. I'm a girl. I get cold feet. Why can't I have thick, practical socks? Socks are not an accessory, ladies. Socks are a necessity, regardless of your gender. Especially if the snow is coming.
So... it is for this reason that Shannon and I made our way to find the mens' socks. Although I have rather small feet for a girl of my height, I've found that if I find the smallest mansocks I can, they are only slightly too big. And I can SO deal with only slightly too big! I found a pack of thick, black socks, and happily threw them in the cart. We got a couple of strange and uneasy looks from the men we ran into whilst gallavanting through the mansock section of Target... after all, we were awfully close to the men's underwear section.
I have always imagined what it will be like when I have free access to some guy's socks. I can just see it now. Newly married, my husband starts noticing that his sock supply has strangely been disappearing twice as fast as it did before he was married. And he will think that this is odd, and perhaps he is just imagining things. But then, one day, he'll look down at his wife's feet -- my feet -- and suddenly he will exclaim something along these lines... "THOSE ARE MY SOCKS!" And I will cackle, affirming his suspicions, and then refuse to give them back. I figure that if I warn him before I marry him that I will be stealing his socks -- and he still marries me -- I will be able to say that he knew before we got married that I would be stealing his socks. And it's his own darn fault if he didn't believe me when I told him so.
And it really is a very good thing that the BYU Honor Code forbids me from going into guys' bedrooms. Otherwise all my guyfriends last year would have noticed a slow and steady depletion of their sock supply during the winter months. I mean, what good is a little brother, if you can't steal his socks? Ah well. Clifton's feet were far bigger than mine anyway. I imagine that I could have fit two of my feet into a single one of his socks.
Anyway, besides socks, another necessity for winter survival is this wonderful thing called hot chocolate. I have a collection. Or, rather I did. Last week I had thirteen or fourteen different flavors. Off the top of my head, these are the ones I remember: milk chocolate, milk chocolate marshmallow, Belgian dark chocolate, mint chocolate truffle, mint chocolate marshmallow, chocolate cinnamon, Italian amaretto, French vanilla, dulce de leche, chocolate raspberry, orange creme, candycane, and roasted hazelnut. 'Twas amazing. The entire top shelf of my pantry is devoted to my hot chocolate collection.
Last Sunday night, when I walked into my apartment having just come home from work, I was met with a few of the following comments: "Jenna! I'm SO sorry!" "Hi... how much do you love us?" and "Uh... we have some bad news for you..."
I inspected their guilty faces plastered with guilty smiles and I knew.
"What happened to the chocolate?"
That was met with an uneasy (or hysterical, depending on the roommate in question) laugh. "Darn, you're good," commented Ron, my roommate Aubrey's boyfriend. I rushed over to the cupboards and looked up at my precious stash of hot chocolate should have been. I had left thirteen varieties. I saw a measly five where those thirteen used to be. When I opened the canisters, I found that most of the powder in the remaining cans was gone.
"Uhh... well, we were in charge of Linger Longer, and we didn't have anything else to feed the masses," commented one of my roomies. I understood. After ward prayer, the entire ward comes over to an apartment... which is supposed to provide some sort of treat for everyone. My roommates told the tale of the hot chocolate brigade. They had brought out the collection, and had lots of hot water ready. And the mugs? We only had about twenty or so, so they had a mugwashing team ready. And they'd crank out clean mugs and hot water, and then the ward members would mix their own pick of hot chocolate flavor from my collection. And they described to me how happy it made everyone. I didn't doubt it. It was so cold outside. My roommates described how popular our little 366 Red Brick apartment was -- people were packed like sardines in our teeny little kitchen and packed like packing peanuts in the living room. [I heard from outside sources how happy everyone was, so I think it wasn't just my roommates exaggerating to save themselves.]
It simultaneously made so happy and so sad.
So happy... because my hot choclate collection had served its purpose. It brought joy to people. That's what I wanted it for. I mean, people would come over, and I'd glowingly show them all the hot chocolate. And then tell them that they could have some whenever they wanted. No one ever took me up on that promise, except for tonight. When I wasn't there. Which was why I was so sad. I had been at work. I didn't get to see anyone smile. I didn't get to hear anyone's glee. I didn't get to see any cold people be warmed from something I gave. And because I had work every Sunday night, and I was so busy during the week, no one really knew who Jenna Griffin was. Nobody knew it was my collection, no one knew that I was the hero of the night. And I felt as invisible as ever.
My roommates have promised to replace all the hot chocolate that they gave away. So, I will soon have another quite formidable hot choclate collection. I suppose that once it is completely replenished, then I can have another hot choclate party... and I suppose that time I will be there, and I can see all the happy people.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
Pizza Guy Serenade.
Apologies, apologies, apologies! It has been far too long since I sent out an email to y'all. Life has been pretty good. Busy, but good. Like… extremely busy. And an email is long overdue. Sorry!
I had a date two Fridays ago… but don't get too excited, I hadn't met him beforehand. See, being so busy and all, I haven't really had the opportunity to be noticed much by the guys in my ward. After mentioning this to Shannon, she decided to organize a group date, and she proceeded to set me up with her friend Carl. I had absolutely no objection to this, seeing as I hadn't been on a date for four months.
So, Friday night comes, and Shannon has pumpkins! And she made pumpkin dip, too, based on a recipe Rachel's mom had given us. Carl called to say he would be late, but Shannon didn't mind too much. See, Shannon had been having difficulty finding herself a date. No, it's not that she didn't asked anyone, but rather… every guy she's asked has been busy. She finally asked a guy in our ward named Jacob whom she'd been hoping to not have to ask (he likes her, she doesn't like him back, and she would prefer not to lead him on). After that had been worked out, Carl showed up, and the four of us sat in our living room for a moment until Jacob came. Then Shannon announced, "Okay! Let's go! Service date at the Wilk!"
We journeyed up the hill that we all live at the bottom of. Shannon and Jacob talked, and Carl and I talked. Carl mentioned that this is his first semester at BYU and that he just got off his mission three months ago.
"Where'd you serve?" I asked.
"Albania," came the answer.
I blinked. … … "Oh," I said. "I know someone who served there."
He looked up in surprise. "You do? Who?"
"Michael Smith?"
"Oh! I know him!" Carl exclaimed.
Oh dear. Remember Michael Smith? He's the one who I'm pretty darned certain liked me last spring term. You know. The one that visited me every day, threw a surprise birthday party for me, tried to con me into holding his hand, and graced me with a piggyback serenade? The smiley, manipulative one. Remember him? Yes. Him. He also served in Albania, and when he got back he wrote the new Albanian grammar book that the missionaries now use. "Really?" I said.
"Well, not really, I know who he is, and I did a few splits with him, but that's about it."
Phew. Which means I won't have to deal with any Michael Smith stories. Good.
We got to the Wilk, where we proceeded to put to cut out the pieces for school bags. Once Carl and I got tired of cutting fabric, we moved to the coloring tables. We got to color alphabet books for kids. Much more exciting. I freaking love coloring. I found out some more random trivia about my date… he is the fifth of thirteen children, went to Mesa High, and is a mechanical engineering major.
At one point, Shannon's date bit me (Me: "JACOB!" Jacob: "What? It was Shannon!" Me: "SHANNON! JACOB BIT ME!" Shannon: "JACOB!"). Scary… I mean, in past times when a guy starts to stare at me, I always get a little scared and hear myself thinking, "He looks like he's going eat me or something. Run!" Then I'll reassure myself that that's ridiculous… but you know, now I'm not so sure. Jacob scares me now, more than ever. A hint for the guys: don't bite your date or any of the other girls in the date group. Bad idea. We don't like it.
After we got tired of coloring, we headed back to our place. We gathered our pumpkins, newspapers, knives, markers, graham crackers, and pumpkin dip, and headed over to the 4-plex, where our friend Kelsey lives. Now there were four couples. Kelsey and her boyfriend as well as a married couple (that Shannon, Carl, and Kelsey knew) made our date group a party of eight. There were four pumpkins, so one pumpkin per couple.
Carl and I got our pumpkin and immediately began plotting its fate. He grabbed a newspaper and started doodling design ideas. He wasn't very good at it and gave up pretty quickly, handing the marker to me. "Draw something," he urged.
I shrugged, and started to draw pumpkin-type faces with quick strokes. I was unhappy with most of them, so as soon as I finished one face, I moved to another idea. "Wow," I heard. I continued to draw, waiting for him to say he liked one. "Whoa! Stop! That one looks like a bunny!" I looked down at one face I had just drawn. Its eyebrows did look a little like rabbit ears I suppose.
"Yeah," I said. "What about it?"
"Can you draw a bunny?" he asked.
"Uh," I said. I drew a silhouette of one. I hated it. So I kept trying to draw a better one, and I thought I was improving, but Carl kept pointing at the original one I had drawn and saying he liked it. Although it was definitely not my favorite sketch of the many I had drawn on the newspaper, he admired it with such awe that I couldn't refuse. He also requested that we make it a killer zombie bunny. So I added an arrow through his head, and let it hold a scythe.
So Carl gave me the pumpkin and watched expectantly. "Uh… you wanna draw it?" I asked. He shook his head and answered that he couldn't. I shrugged and duplicated the bunny on the pumpkin. He just kind of watched, which made me a little uneasy. He was still watching intently after I had finished, so I then picked up the knife and started to carve it. I had carved out about half of it when I offered the pumpkin to him again. "You wanna carve the rest?"
He shook his head. "No… You're doing a good job." I sighed and finished the carving. This happens every time I end up showing that I can draw while on a date… the guy stops drawing and just watches me draw. A little frustrating, because I like watching another person draw just as much as anybody else. I don't really care if they don't think they're good at it or not. I mean, I don't think I'm very good at in the first place.
Well, after the pumpkins were carved, Carl kind of shuffled his feet and said quietly. "Uhhh… do you wanna go on a walk?"
I blinked. "Sure?"
"It's just that I need to, um, make sure my research paper was received, and I need to go home and do that on my computer and uh… yeah…" He looked very, very embarrassed.
Shrugging, I repeated my previous answer. "Sure, let's go." We walked over to his place, and he dashed to his room. I made myself at home on the couch. 'Twas a comfy couch, really.
When he was done, we walked back to Kelsey's place, Carl apologizing all the while. I'm sorry the system was down earlier, I'm sorry, you must think I'm a loser, I'm sorry, I feel stupid for having to do homework on a date, etc. I dismissed the situation as trivial more than once, but he kept apologizing. Whatever.
When we got back, we had caramel apples, and took pictures. Carl held a knife at my throat for one of them to be funny buuuut... It was scary. Very scary. Another hint for the guys: holding a knife to your date's throat is also not a good idea.
After the pictures we sat in the living room and talked for a while. Carl and I were pretty much done contributing to the conversation about an hour into it, after which everyone else talked and we just listened. When the conversation finally died down, we went home. And I got a hug. (Yay!) And that was the end of that night.
Well, the next morning was Saturday, and we had cleaning checks. The six of us spent hours beautifying our little apartment. By the time we were done, the inspectors came by and peeked around, and passed us. Oh, whatever. We all collapsed on the sofa. And then...
"Pizza!" someone said.
I gasped, and three of us (myself included) shouted, "TIMMY!"
Hm. This needs a bit of explanation. A month or so ago, we were tired and order an extra-large pizza with every single meat topping available. Plus pineapple. When we tasted our heavy-toppinged pizza, we loved and decided that such a delightful creation was worthy of a name. So, we named it Timmy.
I immediately pulled out my laptop and my wallet. My dad and I share a credit card, which I am only allowed to use in times of pizza emergency. No, I can't get candy or clothes or anything else with this card. Just pizza. And this was definitely a time of pizza emergency... six, tired hungry girls with no energy left to fix up a meal? This calls for Timmy! Times two!
I don't know if any of you have ever ordered pizza online... but it's pretty fun. It's a lot easier to mega-customize your pizza without confusing the heck out of the person on the other end, and they even have a space to fill in special instructions for the delivery guy. Then once you order, you get to moniter the progress of your pizza... it tells when your pizza is being assembled, and by who; when your pizza has been put in the oven, and who put it there; when they boxed your pizza, and who did it; when your pizza is on its way and who is bringing it to you.
It is, in short, amazing.
We ordered two Timmys: one with a thin, foldable crust, and the other with a thick, deep dish crust. Mmmm. And of course, as has become tradition, special instructions were along the lines of, "Serenade us, please!"
And the wait began. We watched the computer screen in suspense as it notified us of the adventures our Timmys were having. Finally...
"GUYS! TIMMY IS COMING! AND OUR PIZZA DELIVERY EXPERT'S NAME IS DANIEL!"
We all scrambled around the house for all the extra change we could find. Daniel is a man's name. This is promising for the prospect of a serenade... last time our delivery expert was a girl. And she did not even mention our request for a serenade. She just kind of sniffed disdainfully at our choice in pizza. But Daniel? Not a familiar name. This is promising! We separated our pile of random coins and dollar bills into regular tip and serenade tip. You can't blame us for getting our hopes up. Once the tip was assembled, we all watched out the window in eager anticipation.
Finally... a Domino's car parked in front of our house.
"Eee! Pizza car!"
"I can't see, is he good looking?"
"I can't tell from here! Can you see him? Does he look like the sort of guy that would sing?"
"I don't know, I don't know, I think he's cute though, but the window is too dark!"
We clamored around, unable to wait. Finally, the pizza delivery expert Daniel got out of the car with Timmys in hand. And walked up our sidewalk trying to surpress a grin.
"Guys, I think he's going to sing! He can hardly contain himself!"
"Eeeeeeeeeee!!!"
We opened the door.
"Uh hi," said Daniel. "Are there any guys here?""... No," we replied.
"DANG IT!" he exclaimed, handing us our precious Timmys. "I was hoping for some back up." He moved into serenade position. "Okay, so I thought of the most romantic song I know..."
And with that, he burst into song.
LOUD song. Head tilted back and guitar stance and everything.
"Just a small town girl... living in a LONELY WORLD..." And with that he continued. And he was into it. Three minutes, he goes into a guitar solo... after which he confesses that he doesn't know the rest. We don't care. The six of us burst into applause, and say, "Hold on, we need to get you a bigger tip!" We scrounge around the house for even more tip than we had originally planned... We ended up handing the guy nearly ten dollars in smalls bills and coins... which is nearly a 40% tip. But hey, he deserved it. And after he left, we mourned over our observation that he was married while we enjoyed Timmy. But oh, Timmy was good.
*If any of you are Facebook friends with me, I've been tagged in a video of our pizza guy serenade and you can watch the bit that we caught on camera. It was amazing. Although it was a million times more exciting in person than it is on tape. :D
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
Humiliation.
Today was... humiliating. And frustrating. That is all I can say. But I know you people like to hear from me. So I'll tell you about it.
The day started out well, partially because I got more than enough sleep. Last night I was so discouraged and tired and quite frankly -- zombie-ish, that I finished my work early and went home. Shannon was still up and studying in our room, and although I usually can't sleep with the light on, I was out in less than five minutes. By the time I woke up, I had gotten over nine hours of sleep, and I felt pretty good.
First class was New Testament. I always learn something in this class.
Next on my schedule was tap dance. Tappity tappity tap. I got my score back for the test I had taken last time. 89%! This was extremely pleasing. I mean -- that may be the best test score I've ever gotten on any dance test. Even in 280, my second time through, I only got an 88% on my cha-cha test. So I was very, very pleased. I looked at the comments from the graders... "Stiff upper body." Oh. My pleasure dropped into my feet and a little splurge of embarrassment bubbled in my core. Those stupid titantium rods. They may be my claim to fame at times, but honestly -- it results in an extremely inflexible and irreparably tense posture. Oh. Okay, do I go tell my teacher or not?
No! Little shy Jenna screamed in the loudest voice she could. NOOO!
But bold Jenna disagreed. YES! You could SO get some points back for that.
Shy Jenna shuddered. No. No. This is the best you've ever done on a dance test. Asking for extra points is like... disrespectful or something. I don't even want the points. I'm not in this class for the grade. I just wanted to learn to dance. And I hate talking about my surgery. I hate drawing attention to my scar or my stiffness or anything I can't do because of it... Shy Jenna started to beg. Don't make me do that, please....
Bold Jenna immediately pounced upon this laspe in reason. Aha! You know very well that isn't disrespectful in the least bit. You're just scared.
Shy Jenna said nothing, and bold Jenna knew she was winning. Besides, said bold Jenna, next test may not turn out so well. Next test you might need the graders to consider your, uh, disability.
I DO NOT HAVE A DISABILITY! came the outraged scream.
Bold Jenna just laughed in shy Jenna's face. What? You can't do stuff other people can do. Doesn't that mean disability?
The two quarreled all during class. The end of class finally came. I cautiously approached the teacher. She's a nice lady, really. I shouldn't be scared of her. I shouldn't. I'm not I'm not I'm not I'm not I'm not I'm not... Repeating that to myself convinced me barely enough to stay until the line to talk to her was gone and I was standing in front of her. It was my turn to talk.
I opened my mouth. Nothing. I closed my mouth, swallowed, and opened it again. My voice was raspy, but I managed to say, "Um... there were comments on my test that... um... my uh... upper body... was... st-st-stiff..."
Kenady (the teacher) waited for me to continue. It's not like she looked mean or anything. She's very nice. And she's extremely approachable. But for no reason, as I imagined telling her about the rods in my back, I felt hot embarrassed tears starting to form in my eyes.
Oh no, I thought, not now. You don't need to cry, Jenna, this is perfectly okay, this is perfectly okay! I couldn't stop now though. I wanted nothing more than to just suddenly run away and not say anything about the rods in my back. But I couldn't stop now. So I managed to mumble -- "I have titanium rods in my back and I can't bend or um be flexible or um not be stiff or... um... yeah." By the end of that short explanation I was full-on crying. I couldn't see. My throat was swollen.
I was absolutely humiliated.
And nothing makes me cry more than pure embarrassment.
Thus -- a vicious cycle developed: noticing that I was about to cry, I got embarrassed and willed myself to NOT cry. However, feeling humiliation merely produced more tears. More tears lead to deeper embarrassment which lead to more tears -- and so on and so forth.
Kenady was very nice about it, but I knew she couldn't help but notice my tears. I very much regreted having let bold Jenna talk shy Jenna out of saying nothing. She explained that it was mostly my shoulders and neck and arms that were tense rather than my spine, so that shouldn't have interfered much.
I so too humiliated at this point to fight back. Yes, I know. But my neck is a continuation of my spine. A good portion of my neck is fused to titanium rods too. And my shoulders -- I don't fully understand it myself, but ever since the surgery, I've been the tensest thing ever. And you don't even know what I've done to try and reverse it. And my arms -- I don't know what to tell you about that, since I was very careful to make sure my arms were loose and swinging to the beat like you and the TA do when you're dancing. I swear I've done my best.
But I didn't say that. I nodded as bravely as good, said "Okay," and dashed out the door. I was distraught enough that the effort of climbing the RB stairs didn't even phase me. I finally just found a spot in the library and just sat there. It was no use trying to do homework like this. After about half an hour the tears finally stopped. I was just angry at myself now.
Why did I have to start tearing up in the first place? I don't know. I HATE HATE HATE crying. It is my least favorite activity, especially since I still cry when I am trying SO hard not to. I had no reason to cry in this instance, and still I did -- I mean, I did better on my tap test than I did on most of my other exams this week. I was just embarrassed about the "stiff upper body" comment and the frustration I feel for not being able to do anything about it. I guess, for me, tears of embarrassment are harder to hold back than tears of sadness or joy or anger. I HATE HATE HATE it. Rachelle calls it a "gift for weeping" but I personally view it as a curse. Being able to cry in situations where it is okay to cry is nice... but not as nice as this is horrible: the inability to NOT cry in situations where it is definitely NOT appropriate to cry is a curse of epic proportions.
Well, I eventually calmed down enough to finish reading my psychology chapter, get lunch, and stay awake all through the psychology lecture.
Then I went to my chemistry lab class, in which I had my practical exam. Basically -- I was given an unknown ionic solid, and I had to figure out what it was. Mine was a pale yellow. First off, I had to figure out what it dissolved in.
It didn't dissolve in water, or if it did, it was such a slow reaction that it wouldn't ever happen within the three hour lab period. It did dissolve in nitric acid if I shook the test tube for a while. And most interestingly... when I tested to see if the powdered stuff dissolved in ammonia or sodium hydroxide, the instant the powder hit the solution, it turned from a pale yellow to black.
Ooh. That means that the cation is most definitely mercury(I). That was easy. That means all I have to do now is figure what the anion is.
I tested for halides -- nope, no white precipitate at the end of the test.
I tested for carbonate -- nope, no bubbles upon impact with acid.
I tested for nitrate -- nope, no brown ring at the end of the procedure.
I tested for phosphate -- nope, no yellow precipitate of the end of the test.
I tested for sulfide -- nope, doesn't smell like rotten eggs.
I tested for sulfite -- nope, no precipitate of any sort after adding bromine water.
I tested for sulfate -- maybe.
Well, the sulfate test involves this -- add barium chloride solution to your unknown solution. If you have a sulfate anion, it will react with the barium cation to form an extremely insoluble white precipitate. It won't even dissolve in hydrochloric acid. So, if you add a ton of hydrochloric acid to your precipitate, and it never dissolves, it should be that insoluble white precipitate. Any other sulfate precipitates would dissolve. Here's my problem though. I know that I have a mercury ion in my solution. The mercury reacts with the chloride ion from both the barium chloride and the hydrochloric acid and makes a totally different white precipitate that looks exactly the same. And it obviously wouldn't dissolve in hydrochloric acid because it's a chloride precipitate.
But, since all the other tests turned out negative, I figured the white precipitate that I got at the end of the sulfate test was probably a combination of mercury (I) chloride and barium sulfate. I decided my unknown must therefore be mercury (I) sulfate.
Brianna Teerlink, from my ward last year, is also in my lab section. We figured out that we had the same unknown, because, well, it looks the same and it behaves the same way no matter what. I went to go verify that I had gotten my unknown right. Then I could be done!
Professor Brown kind of looked at me sadly when I showed him my work, and said in his Australian accent, "Nope. You got the mercury part right, but it's not sulfate. Explain to me why you thought it was sulfate."
I did. He kind of raised his eyebrows and pointed at the mercury again everytime I said chloride. "Okay," I said quietly. So ALL of the white precipitate must have been mercury (I) chloride, not just some of it.
So I ran every anion test, except the sulfate, again.
All negative.
I was so frustrated that I felt the hot tears coming again. I hid in a corner of the room until they went away. I was still sniffling though.
Again, I ran every test.
All negative.
I really was going to burst into tears at any moment.
Brianna was getting frustrated too. All her tests were negative. Finally, the lab period was almost over. The teacher left for a meeting, and told our TA what our unknowns were so she could grade them when we were done. Brianna finally went to the TA and explained the whole thing. Angela (our TA) kind of looked at us for a minute and then said, you might want to run your nitrate test again.
We did. Both negative. I even made a known solution in which I had personally added tons of nitrate and ran it side by side with our unkowns. That all also turned out negative. The only problem was ... that should have definitely been a positive. DEFINITELY. So... all the tests were negative, including the nitrate test. But known turned out negative too, so we had to assume it should have been positive.
So, our unknown ended up being mercury (I) nitrate. And I left frustrated.
So that was my day. I'm okay now. Just tired and hoping nothing will go wrong at work! :)
Love, Jenna.
The day started out well, partially because I got more than enough sleep. Last night I was so discouraged and tired and quite frankly -- zombie-ish, that I finished my work early and went home. Shannon was still up and studying in our room, and although I usually can't sleep with the light on, I was out in less than five minutes. By the time I woke up, I had gotten over nine hours of sleep, and I felt pretty good.
First class was New Testament. I always learn something in this class.
Next on my schedule was tap dance. Tappity tappity tap. I got my score back for the test I had taken last time. 89%! This was extremely pleasing. I mean -- that may be the best test score I've ever gotten on any dance test. Even in 280, my second time through, I only got an 88% on my cha-cha test. So I was very, very pleased. I looked at the comments from the graders... "Stiff upper body." Oh. My pleasure dropped into my feet and a little splurge of embarrassment bubbled in my core. Those stupid titantium rods. They may be my claim to fame at times, but honestly -- it results in an extremely inflexible and irreparably tense posture. Oh. Okay, do I go tell my teacher or not?
No! Little shy Jenna screamed in the loudest voice she could. NOOO!
But bold Jenna disagreed. YES! You could SO get some points back for that.
Shy Jenna shuddered. No. No. This is the best you've ever done on a dance test. Asking for extra points is like... disrespectful or something. I don't even want the points. I'm not in this class for the grade. I just wanted to learn to dance. And I hate talking about my surgery. I hate drawing attention to my scar or my stiffness or anything I can't do because of it... Shy Jenna started to beg. Don't make me do that, please....
Bold Jenna immediately pounced upon this laspe in reason. Aha! You know very well that isn't disrespectful in the least bit. You're just scared.
Shy Jenna said nothing, and bold Jenna knew she was winning. Besides, said bold Jenna, next test may not turn out so well. Next test you might need the graders to consider your, uh, disability.
I DO NOT HAVE A DISABILITY! came the outraged scream.
Bold Jenna just laughed in shy Jenna's face. What? You can't do stuff other people can do. Doesn't that mean disability?
The two quarreled all during class. The end of class finally came. I cautiously approached the teacher. She's a nice lady, really. I shouldn't be scared of her. I shouldn't. I'm not I'm not I'm not I'm not I'm not I'm not... Repeating that to myself convinced me barely enough to stay until the line to talk to her was gone and I was standing in front of her. It was my turn to talk.
I opened my mouth. Nothing. I closed my mouth, swallowed, and opened it again. My voice was raspy, but I managed to say, "Um... there were comments on my test that... um... my uh... upper body... was... st-st-stiff..."
Kenady (the teacher) waited for me to continue. It's not like she looked mean or anything. She's very nice. And she's extremely approachable. But for no reason, as I imagined telling her about the rods in my back, I felt hot embarrassed tears starting to form in my eyes.
Oh no, I thought, not now. You don't need to cry, Jenna, this is perfectly okay, this is perfectly okay! I couldn't stop now though. I wanted nothing more than to just suddenly run away and not say anything about the rods in my back. But I couldn't stop now. So I managed to mumble -- "I have titanium rods in my back and I can't bend or um be flexible or um not be stiff or... um... yeah." By the end of that short explanation I was full-on crying. I couldn't see. My throat was swollen.
I was absolutely humiliated.
And nothing makes me cry more than pure embarrassment.
Thus -- a vicious cycle developed: noticing that I was about to cry, I got embarrassed and willed myself to NOT cry. However, feeling humiliation merely produced more tears. More tears lead to deeper embarrassment which lead to more tears -- and so on and so forth.
Kenady was very nice about it, but I knew she couldn't help but notice my tears. I very much regreted having let bold Jenna talk shy Jenna out of saying nothing. She explained that it was mostly my shoulders and neck and arms that were tense rather than my spine, so that shouldn't have interfered much.
I so too humiliated at this point to fight back. Yes, I know. But my neck is a continuation of my spine. A good portion of my neck is fused to titanium rods too. And my shoulders -- I don't fully understand it myself, but ever since the surgery, I've been the tensest thing ever. And you don't even know what I've done to try and reverse it. And my arms -- I don't know what to tell you about that, since I was very careful to make sure my arms were loose and swinging to the beat like you and the TA do when you're dancing. I swear I've done my best.
But I didn't say that. I nodded as bravely as good, said "Okay," and dashed out the door. I was distraught enough that the effort of climbing the RB stairs didn't even phase me. I finally just found a spot in the library and just sat there. It was no use trying to do homework like this. After about half an hour the tears finally stopped. I was just angry at myself now.
Why did I have to start tearing up in the first place? I don't know. I HATE HATE HATE crying. It is my least favorite activity, especially since I still cry when I am trying SO hard not to. I had no reason to cry in this instance, and still I did -- I mean, I did better on my tap test than I did on most of my other exams this week. I was just embarrassed about the "stiff upper body" comment and the frustration I feel for not being able to do anything about it. I guess, for me, tears of embarrassment are harder to hold back than tears of sadness or joy or anger. I HATE HATE HATE it. Rachelle calls it a "gift for weeping" but I personally view it as a curse. Being able to cry in situations where it is okay to cry is nice... but not as nice as this is horrible: the inability to NOT cry in situations where it is definitely NOT appropriate to cry is a curse of epic proportions.
Well, I eventually calmed down enough to finish reading my psychology chapter, get lunch, and stay awake all through the psychology lecture.
Then I went to my chemistry lab class, in which I had my practical exam. Basically -- I was given an unknown ionic solid, and I had to figure out what it was. Mine was a pale yellow. First off, I had to figure out what it dissolved in.
It didn't dissolve in water, or if it did, it was such a slow reaction that it wouldn't ever happen within the three hour lab period. It did dissolve in nitric acid if I shook the test tube for a while. And most interestingly... when I tested to see if the powdered stuff dissolved in ammonia or sodium hydroxide, the instant the powder hit the solution, it turned from a pale yellow to black.
Ooh. That means that the cation is most definitely mercury(I). That was easy. That means all I have to do now is figure what the anion is.
I tested for halides -- nope, no white precipitate at the end of the test.
I tested for carbonate -- nope, no bubbles upon impact with acid.
I tested for nitrate -- nope, no brown ring at the end of the procedure.
I tested for phosphate -- nope, no yellow precipitate of the end of the test.
I tested for sulfide -- nope, doesn't smell like rotten eggs.
I tested for sulfite -- nope, no precipitate of any sort after adding bromine water.
I tested for sulfate -- maybe.
Well, the sulfate test involves this -- add barium chloride solution to your unknown solution. If you have a sulfate anion, it will react with the barium cation to form an extremely insoluble white precipitate. It won't even dissolve in hydrochloric acid. So, if you add a ton of hydrochloric acid to your precipitate, and it never dissolves, it should be that insoluble white precipitate. Any other sulfate precipitates would dissolve. Here's my problem though. I know that I have a mercury ion in my solution. The mercury reacts with the chloride ion from both the barium chloride and the hydrochloric acid and makes a totally different white precipitate that looks exactly the same. And it obviously wouldn't dissolve in hydrochloric acid because it's a chloride precipitate.
But, since all the other tests turned out negative, I figured the white precipitate that I got at the end of the sulfate test was probably a combination of mercury (I) chloride and barium sulfate. I decided my unknown must therefore be mercury (I) sulfate.
Brianna Teerlink, from my ward last year, is also in my lab section. We figured out that we had the same unknown, because, well, it looks the same and it behaves the same way no matter what. I went to go verify that I had gotten my unknown right. Then I could be done!
Professor Brown kind of looked at me sadly when I showed him my work, and said in his Australian accent, "Nope. You got the mercury part right, but it's not sulfate. Explain to me why you thought it was sulfate."
I did. He kind of raised his eyebrows and pointed at the mercury again everytime I said chloride. "Okay," I said quietly. So ALL of the white precipitate must have been mercury (I) chloride, not just some of it.
So I ran every anion test, except the sulfate, again.
All negative.
I was so frustrated that I felt the hot tears coming again. I hid in a corner of the room until they went away. I was still sniffling though.
Again, I ran every test.
All negative.
I really was going to burst into tears at any moment.
Brianna was getting frustrated too. All her tests were negative. Finally, the lab period was almost over. The teacher left for a meeting, and told our TA what our unknowns were so she could grade them when we were done. Brianna finally went to the TA and explained the whole thing. Angela (our TA) kind of looked at us for a minute and then said, you might want to run your nitrate test again.
We did. Both negative. I even made a known solution in which I had personally added tons of nitrate and ran it side by side with our unkowns. That all also turned out negative. The only problem was ... that should have definitely been a positive. DEFINITELY. So... all the tests were negative, including the nitrate test. But known turned out negative too, so we had to assume it should have been positive.
So, our unknown ended up being mercury (I) nitrate. And I left frustrated.
So that was my day. I'm okay now. Just tired and hoping nothing will go wrong at work! :)
Love, Jenna.
Saturday, September 27, 2008
Contrary to Popular Belief, I Have Not Dropped Off the Face of the Earth
Contrary to popular belief, I have not dropped off the face of the earth. I'm just busy. Darned busy. This is the story of my life. I warn you -- not particulary interesting.
Monday -- typical HORRID, dreaded, Monday --
I wake up between 7:30am and 8am. I'm out the door by 8:45. Stopping by the outgoing mailbox to drop off my typical first-class mail, I get to social dance class by 9am. After that class, I usually stay an extra few minutes and practice dancing with a red-headed guy in my class named Matthew. After that, I usually stop by the Cougareat and grab something to eat as brunch... Then I head to the basement of the BYU Bookstore and send away my international mail. I study until noon, when I go to chemistry. After chemistry, I go to physics, and then my family history class. I then head off to the dance lab... this is my form of studying for this class. After that, I'm usually a tad hungry again. I'll grab a bite to eat, and then I tackle the horrible task of getting ready for Tuesday, which involves studying until about 8pm, although I get about half my missionary-friend updates on Mondays. I do break and spend twenty minutes reading all those. [I call my roommates to see what's going on for FHE, but the ward organization has been slow and we don't have FHE groups yet. So there hasn't been FHE thus far...] I get to work pretty early (my shift officially starts at 8:30, but I like to be there by 8:10 so I can leave earlier). I work until nearly midnight, and then I clock out, walk home, and pass out on the couch after checking the living room table for mail with my name on it. Hours on campus: 15.5
Tuesday -- the BANE of my existence --
I wake up same time. Dash to my New Testament class to be there at 9am. As soon as the bell rings, I dash to the RB for tap dance. After that, I pretty much have no hope of finding a seat in the JSB auditorium, and the Marriott Center is pretty far, so I dash to the library, turn on my computer, get my headphones, and watch the broadcasted devotional through the blessed thing known as the Internet. I am usually desperately trying to multitask as I listen to it. After the devotional is over, I dash over to the Cougareat for lunch, and then I have a little bit of time to finish up homework before I dash off to psychology class at 1:35. That lasts until 2:45, when I dash to my little locker in the library. I dump my stuff there, grab my lab manual and goggles, and dash to the Benson building. There I face a three hour lab... I am finally done with that at 6. By then I'm starving. It's dinnertime! After filling my belly with foodstuffs, I go back to my traditional spot in the library and try to finish Wednesday's homework in about an hour and a half. Then I go to work, and clean stuff until the cool library music comes on, at which point I go home, and -- you guessed it -- pass out on the couch after checking the living room table to mail with my name on it. Hours on campus: 15.5
Wednesday -- it's all DOWNHILL from here --
Wake up. Social dance at 9, dance, practice a little, stock up on energy via brunch. Study a teensy bit. Head to the Benson building, find a little napping nook -- NAP. Sleep until Hillary or Jackie walks by and wakes me up, and then I go to chemistry class. Then physics class. Then family history class. Eat! Study! Do my physics homework due next Monday. I consider going to the tap dance lab, after which I go to work, come home, and check the living room table for mail with my name on it. And, no I don't pass out on the couch. At this point I usually have enough energy to climb the stairs and actually sleep in my own bed. Hours on campus: 15.5
Thursday -- I like to call it the GOODNESS that is quasi-Friday --
Wake up. Get to New Testament, then tap dance. If I really sucked at tapping, then I stay in the tap room for an extra hour practicing until I don't suck so badly. Then I eat, study a tad, go to psychology class, and then to a chemistry recitation. This basically just means the TA for my chemistry class tells you how to do the homework. Ooh, and you know how I get about half of all my missionary updates on Monday? I get the other half on Thursday. It is glorious. After my chem recitation, I head directly to the family history lab in the JFSB (which I used to clean... strange...) for a family history workshop. Then I study a mite, and then, on lucky occasions, I go home. Yes, that's right... HOME! I actually get to eat dinner in my own abode. And sometimes I even have time to make goodies. Mmmm, goodies. And then, I have to go to work (with goodies in hand). However, in the middle of every Thursday shift, we have what we like to call a "training meeting." In which we... er... train. By, uh, watching an informative, action and romance-filled movie. Like, say... we just watched Atlantis. And the first week we watched a click flick. (I don't like chick flicks in the slightest, but hey, it beats shining whiteboards.) After that, I go home, check the living room table to mail with my name on it, and snuggle into my covers. Hours on campus: 8-15.5
Friday! -- GLORIOUS Friday! --
Wake up. Social dance at 9am, practice a tad, eat some brunch, study a tad, nap in the Benson building. That's often quite hard because it's the chemistry building... explosions abound! But, I've learned to sleep through all the various explosions and such. I wake up for chemistry class, after which I go to physics class, after which I head to the physics lab, where everyone thinks I'm smart. And then, provided I have finished with my schoolwork for the week, I head to my locker in the library, grab stuff I might need for the weekend, and head home. I check the mail, and on the rare occasion that I get something, I read my letters. At this point I have several options, because it is the start of a glorious thing called a weekend. One option would be a date. I have not, as of yet, had any dates. Sad, I know. Other options include passing out on the couch, starting into the enormous task that is writing letters for all my missionary friends, go to a social event, or just be a bum and do nothing. Hours on campus: 7-11
Saturday -- the one day a week I can get away with NEVER setting foot on campus --
Wake up. At some point in the morning, Rachelle and I (and usually a handful of others) go to the temple and do baptisms, unless there is the sad event that the temple in closed. After that, Rachelle and I might go on a grovery store run if necessary, and then we head to my place and make something tasty. This something tasty is usually cookies of some sort, but once a month we make a pie. It has gotten to the point that I feel handicapped if Rachelle isn't there when I'm making food. Rachelle and I think it would be a tragedy if we ever lived a great distance apart. We'll have to be next-door neighbors for the rest of our lives. After the food is done and we've enjoyed it, Rachelle usually goes home, and the rest of my Saturday is devoted to socializing and writing missionary letters and doing homework and all that jazz. Of course, I also check the mail. Mmm, mail.
Sunday -- almost a perfect day of REST --
Wake up. Churchify myself, climb up the hill to the Testing Center, go to church. Come home. At this point I hope to have that thing called homework completed for now, but if not, I do that. I write missionary letters, make and eat a tasty Sunday dinner, and all the wonderful things that Sunday is. I work from 7pm to 10:30pm, after which I come home and sleeeeeeep.
So there. I'm a very busy woman I suppose. Weekends don't last nearly long enough. Y'all are lucky you're even getting this; I have five tests next week which I should be studying for somehow. Truth. Sad, sad truth.
Love, Jenna
Monday -- typical HORRID, dreaded, Monday --
I wake up between 7:30am and 8am. I'm out the door by 8:45. Stopping by the outgoing mailbox to drop off my typical first-class mail, I get to social dance class by 9am. After that class, I usually stay an extra few minutes and practice dancing with a red-headed guy in my class named Matthew. After that, I usually stop by the Cougareat and grab something to eat as brunch... Then I head to the basement of the BYU Bookstore and send away my international mail. I study until noon, when I go to chemistry. After chemistry, I go to physics, and then my family history class. I then head off to the dance lab... this is my form of studying for this class. After that, I'm usually a tad hungry again. I'll grab a bite to eat, and then I tackle the horrible task of getting ready for Tuesday, which involves studying until about 8pm, although I get about half my missionary-friend updates on Mondays. I do break and spend twenty minutes reading all those. [I call my roommates to see what's going on for FHE, but the ward organization has been slow and we don't have FHE groups yet. So there hasn't been FHE thus far...] I get to work pretty early (my shift officially starts at 8:30, but I like to be there by 8:10 so I can leave earlier). I work until nearly midnight, and then I clock out, walk home, and pass out on the couch after checking the living room table for mail with my name on it. Hours on campus: 15.5
Tuesday -- the BANE of my existence --
I wake up same time. Dash to my New Testament class to be there at 9am. As soon as the bell rings, I dash to the RB for tap dance. After that, I pretty much have no hope of finding a seat in the JSB auditorium, and the Marriott Center is pretty far, so I dash to the library, turn on my computer, get my headphones, and watch the broadcasted devotional through the blessed thing known as the Internet. I am usually desperately trying to multitask as I listen to it. After the devotional is over, I dash over to the Cougareat for lunch, and then I have a little bit of time to finish up homework before I dash off to psychology class at 1:35. That lasts until 2:45, when I dash to my little locker in the library. I dump my stuff there, grab my lab manual and goggles, and dash to the Benson building. There I face a three hour lab... I am finally done with that at 6. By then I'm starving. It's dinnertime! After filling my belly with foodstuffs, I go back to my traditional spot in the library and try to finish Wednesday's homework in about an hour and a half. Then I go to work, and clean stuff until the cool library music comes on, at which point I go home, and -- you guessed it -- pass out on the couch after checking the living room table to mail with my name on it. Hours on campus: 15.5
Wednesday -- it's all DOWNHILL from here --
Wake up. Social dance at 9, dance, practice a little, stock up on energy via brunch. Study a teensy bit. Head to the Benson building, find a little napping nook -- NAP. Sleep until Hillary or Jackie walks by and wakes me up, and then I go to chemistry class. Then physics class. Then family history class. Eat! Study! Do my physics homework due next Monday. I consider going to the tap dance lab, after which I go to work, come home, and check the living room table for mail with my name on it. And, no I don't pass out on the couch. At this point I usually have enough energy to climb the stairs and actually sleep in my own bed. Hours on campus: 15.5
Thursday -- I like to call it the GOODNESS that is quasi-Friday --
Wake up. Get to New Testament, then tap dance. If I really sucked at tapping, then I stay in the tap room for an extra hour practicing until I don't suck so badly. Then I eat, study a tad, go to psychology class, and then to a chemistry recitation. This basically just means the TA for my chemistry class tells you how to do the homework. Ooh, and you know how I get about half of all my missionary updates on Monday? I get the other half on Thursday. It is glorious. After my chem recitation, I head directly to the family history lab in the JFSB (which I used to clean... strange...) for a family history workshop. Then I study a mite, and then, on lucky occasions, I go home. Yes, that's right... HOME! I actually get to eat dinner in my own abode. And sometimes I even have time to make goodies. Mmmm, goodies. And then, I have to go to work (with goodies in hand). However, in the middle of every Thursday shift, we have what we like to call a "training meeting." In which we... er... train. By, uh, watching an informative, action and romance-filled movie. Like, say... we just watched Atlantis. And the first week we watched a click flick. (I don't like chick flicks in the slightest, but hey, it beats shining whiteboards.) After that, I go home, check the living room table to mail with my name on it, and snuggle into my covers. Hours on campus: 8-15.5
Friday! -- GLORIOUS Friday! --
Wake up. Social dance at 9am, practice a tad, eat some brunch, study a tad, nap in the Benson building. That's often quite hard because it's the chemistry building... explosions abound! But, I've learned to sleep through all the various explosions and such. I wake up for chemistry class, after which I go to physics class, after which I head to the physics lab, where everyone thinks I'm smart. And then, provided I have finished with my schoolwork for the week, I head to my locker in the library, grab stuff I might need for the weekend, and head home. I check the mail, and on the rare occasion that I get something, I read my letters. At this point I have several options, because it is the start of a glorious thing called a weekend. One option would be a date. I have not, as of yet, had any dates. Sad, I know. Other options include passing out on the couch, starting into the enormous task that is writing letters for all my missionary friends, go to a social event, or just be a bum and do nothing. Hours on campus: 7-11
Saturday -- the one day a week I can get away with NEVER setting foot on campus --
Wake up. At some point in the morning, Rachelle and I (and usually a handful of others) go to the temple and do baptisms, unless there is the sad event that the temple in closed. After that, Rachelle and I might go on a grovery store run if necessary, and then we head to my place and make something tasty. This something tasty is usually cookies of some sort, but once a month we make a pie. It has gotten to the point that I feel handicapped if Rachelle isn't there when I'm making food. Rachelle and I think it would be a tragedy if we ever lived a great distance apart. We'll have to be next-door neighbors for the rest of our lives. After the food is done and we've enjoyed it, Rachelle usually goes home, and the rest of my Saturday is devoted to socializing and writing missionary letters and doing homework and all that jazz. Of course, I also check the mail. Mmm, mail.
Sunday -- almost a perfect day of REST --
Wake up. Churchify myself, climb up the hill to the Testing Center, go to church. Come home. At this point I hope to have that thing called homework completed for now, but if not, I do that. I write missionary letters, make and eat a tasty Sunday dinner, and all the wonderful things that Sunday is. I work from 7pm to 10:30pm, after which I come home and sleeeeeeep.
So there. I'm a very busy woman I suppose. Weekends don't last nearly long enough. Y'all are lucky you're even getting this; I have five tests next week which I should be studying for somehow. Truth. Sad, sad truth.
Love, Jenna
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Fall 2008 -- Meet the Roommates.
Here comes the start of a new year. I don't remember what I've told people about the upcoming madness, but here is what I'll be studying this semester... chemistry, physics, psychology, family history, the New Testament, tap dance, ballroom dance, and flexibilty. I'd say that's pretty well-rounded, eh?
I am again living in Monticello. This is the same place I was living for spring term. My room houses six girls: me, Rachel, Hillary, Shannon, Haylee, and Aubrey. We are all in our second year at BYU, except for Shannon, who is in her third. Rachel and Hillary are the same nutcases I lived with last year; Shannon, Aubrey, and Haylee are all new roommates.
I am also employed again. Among the jobs that had flexible enough hours to fix with my crazy class schedule were these: MTC dishroom worker, catering, and custodial. And I am kind of ashamed to say that the custodial job attracted me like a moth is attracted to a fire. I know! The last one I had was way too early to be considered humanly possible! Not to worry though. I work at nights and not in the early morning. And it shouldn't have that great of an impact on my social life because I have Friday and Saturday nights off -- two very important nights for BYU students to have available, if you know what I mean. I do work on Sunday, but I thought about it quite a bit, and I decided that would be alright.
The truth of the matter is, even BYU can't just shut down on Sundays. On Sundays you just have to remember not to take the task of cleaning up campus too lightly. You have to remember that the mission of the custodial crews is to create an environment where everyone has the opportunity to learn and feel the Spirit. I figure that's okay to do on Sunday, especially in dedicated buildings.
So, I work Sundays from 7pm to 10:30pm, and Mondays through Thursdays from 8:30pm to midnight -- in the library -- the Harold B. Lee Library. By far, the biggest building on campus, with the longest operating hours. Some of you older people may think those hours are a little late. I'm a college kid. Since spring term I've been up that late anyway. And my classes don't start until later in the morning, so I shouldn't be too sleep-deprived.
One major plus is I get to hear the cool closing music every night. [Just before closing, someone blasts some sort of music over the loud speakers so that everybody stops studying and leaves.] An even bigger plus? My pay... is pretty impressive for a custodial worker. I get $8.81/hr. And, since I worked six months last year in custodial, in two months I am eligible for a twenty cent raise... which means $9.01/hr. That's definitely not so bad... less Ramen and more steak... And, on Thursdays, we have... er... what we call "training meetings"... in which we all chill and eat food and watch a two-hour movie. While we are still being paid. I think this job may be a good thing.
Well, meet my roommates. [Disclaimer: I have only recently met Shannon, Haylee, and Aubrey. My descriptions of them may not be entirely accurate. Not even my first impressions are entirely accurate... :) ]
First, Rachel, from Bountiful, Utah.
Rachel's dad describes Rachel, Hillary, and I as three squirrels in a box with one nut. And possibly one video camera. Some of you have witnessed the variety of noises I can make. Rachel can do all of these in a much more squirrelly fashion than I can. However, over the course of the past year, we have pretty much invented a secret language. I am not entirely sure how to describe this to you. Perhaps some language samples?
Standard greeting... "Eeeeeeeeeeeee buuuuddeeee!" Repeat as desired. Can last for up to ten minutes. Common question... "Yabbadet?" This is translated as, "You have a date?"
And here is a conversation. Hint for interpretation: Speak aloud when reading. Other hints for context: I was considering working at Scoreboard Grill, in catering, or Brick Oven Pizza. Pudding is code for adventure. And there was a cute guy at Scoreboard Grill whose phone number Rachel wanted to acquire somehow.
Rachel: "Heh, mebbeewen'yoo gittajahba' dat skohbohd'pless, wee'shavv summpudd'ns! Bweehee!"
Me: "Butsai wansa jahba'n ketring'orit brikuven pitsuh. Isa'needs moola."
Rachel: "We'dasstoo. Akae, igissyakin gitajahbwe'rrya waht. ... Hirreekinn'giddajahbad sko'bohd!"
Congrats if you understood that.
Rachel is rather short... and, er, how shall I say? Compact weight. She has brown hair and green eyes and hands with short, little fingers. And she has quite a deep voice. She can hit lower notes that most of the men in my ward. In fact, my sister Becca was able to recognize Rachel on the phone because it sounded like I was talking to a man. She is also pretty darn tough. She chucks packages for a living... in FedEx Ground. Advice from her... Packages are filthy. Who knows where they've been. Scrub your packages, people!
Rachel writes... um... interesting stories in her free time, featuring pheonix-squirrels and tall, dark, ominous men whose hiccups sound like, "YOU'VE GOT FIVE SECONDS TO RUN!" She routinely comes up with crazy characters and then traps then in department stores and slowly kills them off. One by one. She has also studied war and weapons extensively (she even took History of Warfare last semester) and can write amazing battle scenes.
Rachel's current major is Food Industry Management. After graduating, she hopes to go on a mission, complete culinary school... and, as potential careers, she is considering the following: blacksmith, taxi driver in New York city, and Disneyland chef. Her dream house is a grain silo.
Her current suitor is a missionary who she has never met in New York, by the name of Elder Joshua Jolley. I mentioned him before. He sent her a tape recording of him reading aloud all of Deuteronomy 1 as well as three letter of recommendation. (Imagine that! Getting a package FROM a missionary. One you don't even know...). However, Rachel has rejected his proposal of marriage on the grounds that he is only six feet tall and his voice is higher than hers. Also, he is not nearly ominous enough, and he signs his love letters, "85% serious."
Second roommate -- Hillary, from North Salt Lake, Utah.
Hillary is slightly taller than Rachel. She has long, mousy heir and glasses. And, out of all of us, she is probably the most hyperactive. By far. She had ridiculous ADD and is a packrat. She is also likely to have seen every cartoon ever broadcast on the planet Earth. It is virtually impossible to get a hold of her on Saturday morning because she is likely to have been swallowed up alive by the incidence of Saturday morning cartoons. She especially likes the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. She dreams about them.
Despite her ADD and obsession with TMNT, which sometimes prevent her from studying most effectively, Hillary is brilliant. She aspires to do something in the medical field -- last I heard, it was an orthopedic surgeon. Although she has the soul of an angel, this slightly concerns me. I have visions of her randomly remembering some urgently exciting thing she saw on TMNT and bursting into story -- and then having an assistant remind her... "Um, Doctor? We're in the OR, remember?" Bless her soul, but I hope she never operates on me. I'd be in there forever because she'd keep forgetting that she was performing a surgery.
Although Hillary is going through all the pre-med classes, she is an English major. She loves, loves, loves to write. Sometimes, at night, she'll bolt upright with an idea, jot it down, and go back to sleep. Her pet piece of work right now involves a twin-sworded warrior woman by the name of Haika... who won't kill anyone. How that works, I don't know. She likes to knock people out... with... the... hilts... of... the... swords... Riiiiiiigggggghhhhhttttt...
Hillary is an angel, and couldn't ever hurt anyone. Not even on paper. She is awfully sweet, but is sometimes overly concerned for our health. She has been trained in first-aid and emergency response, so if any of us were to be injured, she is bound by law to tend to our injuries. At least that's what she says when trying to convince us not to do something stupid. She also likes to pile corn and asparagus onto our plates at dinner time. And, she has a strange habit of telling me as I drag myself out of bed how beautiful I am... but only when I am groggy. I am wondering if she thinks telling me that when my brain is half-conscious will somehow get the message "I am beautiful" into my subconscious...
It is because of Hillary that I cannot marry Ben Poulsen. Rachel thought it was a swell idea, but I reminded her that Hillary is desperately in love with him. [Not to mention that I've only met him once. At his farewell.] Although she would never be able to purposefully murder me for marrying the man she loves, she would probably attempt it and fail three times. And then, purely by accident, she'd somehow kill me through some outlandish method. I would die a horrible death drowning in hot cocoa because she made me laugh too hard while drinking it... and then poor Ben would be devastated by the violent death of his wife.
Shannon, from Mesa, Arizona.
Shannon is the roommate I share a room with. Like Hillary, she is majoring in English. She is short and slender, and has a round face that she has somehow managed to perfectly frame with short, brown hair. I met her on Monday. As far as I can tell thus far, she is a perfect little package of goodness. She is extremely neat and tidy. Somehow, no matter how I try to make my bed perfectly, the perfection of her bed makes my bed look messy.
She is kind of shy and dreadfully afraid of inconveniencing people. This may prove to be a problem, because I have a similar phobia. I am afraid that if there were ever a disagreement between us, it would never be addressed, because both of us would be too dreadfully shy to bring it up. However, I expect Shannon and I will get along quite well. Out of the blue one morning we began to talk a bit about the gospel and families and such. I spilled all my deep, dark secrets.
I am a little mystified at this. I can count on one hand, with fingers left over, how many people I've told my deep, dark secrets to. And usually I didn't tell them a thing until I had watched their every move for months. And somehow I was okay with telling her some of the things I hide after knowing her for three days. I don't know. I suppose you could say that things are just clicking into place.
Haylee, from Sandy, Utah.
I met Haylee on Thursday night. I have to crack her thick shell and see what sort of person is under there. She seems a bit shy and rather reserved. She, like the rest of us, has brown hair and pretty brown eyes. She was going to major in Accounting, but decided instead on Information Systems.
However, she seems easy to get along with, and, quite importantly, not judgmental. Which in all likelihood means will get along with everyone fabulously.
Aubrey, from somewhere in Australia. I keep forgetting exactly where, but I suppose it doesn't matter too much to me since -- in all likelihood -- I am likely to never get to go there.
So -- of course -- she has one of those remarkably cool accents, plus a fairly deep and pleasantly husky voice to make it even cooler. If Australian chocolate had a voice, it would sound like Aubrey. She's got curly, brown hair with hazel eyes although she isn't very tall. Pretty much, all I can say about her is that she's gorgeous.
From the looks of things, she cooks quite a bit. She has quite the arsenal of spices... we had to move our spice collection to a larger cupboard. Haylee reports that Aubrey has pretty much been all over the world. She has the souvenirs to prove it, including exotic cookbooks which she uses pretty often. Among her other souvenirs from her world travels are some exciting clothes. She has an outfit with poofy pants reminiscent of Princess Jasmine's. And a matching scarf.
She is majoring in Middle Eastern Studies, I think, or something close to it. She speaks a little bit of Arabic and is learning Hindi this year. She writes her shopping list in Arabic.
Personality-wise... I haven't gotten to see much of it, except that she doesn't talk that much.
EXCEPT...
Haylee and Aubrey were roommates last year in Gates Hall. They know each other quite well. Together, they are a perfect pair of extroverts. But alone, they don't talk much.
That wouldn't be so bad, except they have a tendency to isolate themselves in the room they share. Which means the rest of us run the risk of never getting to know them due to never seeing them. I fear that I will be living with two strangers for all of the next two semesters. Especially since what I have seen of the two of them... suggests I wouldn't enjoy a lot of activities we might share.
Haylee and Aubrey appear to be the perfect stereotype of girly girls at first glance.
They went shopping today, spending hundreds of dollars without half a thought. Our apartment is now fully stocked with decorations, a fish, and fairy lights. So I now know I can't ever go with them when they go shopping. I won't be able to buy ANYTHING compared to what they'll get. I would be exposed as a pennypincher instantly.
Their bedroom is interesting. Pink. With a wall devoted to pictures of, in their words, "hot men..." Mainly guys who star in chick flicks and Disney movies and such.
It also appears that they're obsessed with how they look, although Haylee is much more self-conscious about it. They have to be wearing something in style and gorgeous. I've never seen them not wearing makeup, even in the early morning or late night...
Haylee runs and hides if she's wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt, apologizing profusely for looking like a hobo. At this I blink. Look at her. And marvel. She's apologizing for looking prettier than I probably will on my wedding day. I don't understand. I really don't.
Perhaps it is strange to feel like this... and I know I shouldn't ever feel like this, but truthfully, it kind of freaks me out. It makes ME want to apologize and go hide in my room for looking like a hobo. I mean, I'm not always wearing makeup. I'll even go out of the house and into public, all day, without it. And the sort of clothes Haylee apologizes for looking like a hobo in, are nicer than the majority of items in my wardrobe.
So... I don't know. Haylee, Aubrey, and I will have no problem coexisting peacefully. They seem to be easy to live with. However, developing a friendship might be harder, especially for me. They're so different, and I have yet to find something I have in common with them, except perhaps being female, enjoying good food, and requiring cleanliness. I'm a little nervous.
In fact, I am nervous about this entire semester in general.
We'll see. I hope it works out... Wish me luck.
Love, Jenna the Queasy.
I am again living in Monticello. This is the same place I was living for spring term. My room houses six girls: me, Rachel, Hillary, Shannon, Haylee, and Aubrey. We are all in our second year at BYU, except for Shannon, who is in her third. Rachel and Hillary are the same nutcases I lived with last year; Shannon, Aubrey, and Haylee are all new roommates.
I am also employed again. Among the jobs that had flexible enough hours to fix with my crazy class schedule were these: MTC dishroom worker, catering, and custodial. And I am kind of ashamed to say that the custodial job attracted me like a moth is attracted to a fire. I know! The last one I had was way too early to be considered humanly possible! Not to worry though. I work at nights and not in the early morning. And it shouldn't have that great of an impact on my social life because I have Friday and Saturday nights off -- two very important nights for BYU students to have available, if you know what I mean. I do work on Sunday, but I thought about it quite a bit, and I decided that would be alright.
The truth of the matter is, even BYU can't just shut down on Sundays. On Sundays you just have to remember not to take the task of cleaning up campus too lightly. You have to remember that the mission of the custodial crews is to create an environment where everyone has the opportunity to learn and feel the Spirit. I figure that's okay to do on Sunday, especially in dedicated buildings.
So, I work Sundays from 7pm to 10:30pm, and Mondays through Thursdays from 8:30pm to midnight -- in the library -- the Harold B. Lee Library. By far, the biggest building on campus, with the longest operating hours. Some of you older people may think those hours are a little late. I'm a college kid. Since spring term I've been up that late anyway. And my classes don't start until later in the morning, so I shouldn't be too sleep-deprived.
One major plus is I get to hear the cool closing music every night. [Just before closing, someone blasts some sort of music over the loud speakers so that everybody stops studying and leaves.] An even bigger plus? My pay... is pretty impressive for a custodial worker. I get $8.81/hr. And, since I worked six months last year in custodial, in two months I am eligible for a twenty cent raise... which means $9.01/hr. That's definitely not so bad... less Ramen and more steak... And, on Thursdays, we have... er... what we call "training meetings"... in which we all chill and eat food and watch a two-hour movie. While we are still being paid. I think this job may be a good thing.
Well, meet my roommates. [Disclaimer: I have only recently met Shannon, Haylee, and Aubrey. My descriptions of them may not be entirely accurate. Not even my first impressions are entirely accurate... :) ]
First, Rachel, from Bountiful, Utah.
Rachel's dad describes Rachel, Hillary, and I as three squirrels in a box with one nut. And possibly one video camera. Some of you have witnessed the variety of noises I can make. Rachel can do all of these in a much more squirrelly fashion than I can. However, over the course of the past year, we have pretty much invented a secret language. I am not entirely sure how to describe this to you. Perhaps some language samples?
Standard greeting... "Eeeeeeeeeeeee buuuuddeeee!" Repeat as desired. Can last for up to ten minutes. Common question... "Yabbadet?" This is translated as, "You have a date?"
And here is a conversation. Hint for interpretation: Speak aloud when reading. Other hints for context: I was considering working at Scoreboard Grill, in catering, or Brick Oven Pizza. Pudding is code for adventure. And there was a cute guy at Scoreboard Grill whose phone number Rachel wanted to acquire somehow.
Rachel: "Heh, mebbeewen'yoo gittajahba' dat skohbohd'pless, wee'shavv summpudd'ns! Bweehee!"
Me: "Butsai wansa jahba'n ketring'orit brikuven pitsuh. Isa'needs moola."
Rachel: "We'dasstoo. Akae, igissyakin gitajahbwe'rrya waht. ... Hirreekinn'giddajahbad sko'bohd!"
Congrats if you understood that.
Rachel is rather short... and, er, how shall I say? Compact weight. She has brown hair and green eyes and hands with short, little fingers. And she has quite a deep voice. She can hit lower notes that most of the men in my ward. In fact, my sister Becca was able to recognize Rachel on the phone because it sounded like I was talking to a man. She is also pretty darn tough. She chucks packages for a living... in FedEx Ground. Advice from her... Packages are filthy. Who knows where they've been. Scrub your packages, people!
Rachel writes... um... interesting stories in her free time, featuring pheonix-squirrels and tall, dark, ominous men whose hiccups sound like, "YOU'VE GOT FIVE SECONDS TO RUN!" She routinely comes up with crazy characters and then traps then in department stores and slowly kills them off. One by one. She has also studied war and weapons extensively (she even took History of Warfare last semester) and can write amazing battle scenes.
Rachel's current major is Food Industry Management. After graduating, she hopes to go on a mission, complete culinary school... and, as potential careers, she is considering the following: blacksmith, taxi driver in New York city, and Disneyland chef. Her dream house is a grain silo.
Her current suitor is a missionary who she has never met in New York, by the name of Elder Joshua Jolley. I mentioned him before. He sent her a tape recording of him reading aloud all of Deuteronomy 1 as well as three letter of recommendation. (Imagine that! Getting a package FROM a missionary. One you don't even know...). However, Rachel has rejected his proposal of marriage on the grounds that he is only six feet tall and his voice is higher than hers. Also, he is not nearly ominous enough, and he signs his love letters, "85% serious."
Second roommate -- Hillary, from North Salt Lake, Utah.
Hillary is slightly taller than Rachel. She has long, mousy heir and glasses. And, out of all of us, she is probably the most hyperactive. By far. She had ridiculous ADD and is a packrat. She is also likely to have seen every cartoon ever broadcast on the planet Earth. It is virtually impossible to get a hold of her on Saturday morning because she is likely to have been swallowed up alive by the incidence of Saturday morning cartoons. She especially likes the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. She dreams about them.
Despite her ADD and obsession with TMNT, which sometimes prevent her from studying most effectively, Hillary is brilliant. She aspires to do something in the medical field -- last I heard, it was an orthopedic surgeon. Although she has the soul of an angel, this slightly concerns me. I have visions of her randomly remembering some urgently exciting thing she saw on TMNT and bursting into story -- and then having an assistant remind her... "Um, Doctor? We're in the OR, remember?" Bless her soul, but I hope she never operates on me. I'd be in there forever because she'd keep forgetting that she was performing a surgery.
Although Hillary is going through all the pre-med classes, she is an English major. She loves, loves, loves to write. Sometimes, at night, she'll bolt upright with an idea, jot it down, and go back to sleep. Her pet piece of work right now involves a twin-sworded warrior woman by the name of Haika... who won't kill anyone. How that works, I don't know. She likes to knock people out... with... the... hilts... of... the... swords... Riiiiiiigggggghhhhhttttt...
Hillary is an angel, and couldn't ever hurt anyone. Not even on paper. She is awfully sweet, but is sometimes overly concerned for our health. She has been trained in first-aid and emergency response, so if any of us were to be injured, she is bound by law to tend to our injuries. At least that's what she says when trying to convince us not to do something stupid. She also likes to pile corn and asparagus onto our plates at dinner time. And, she has a strange habit of telling me as I drag myself out of bed how beautiful I am... but only when I am groggy. I am wondering if she thinks telling me that when my brain is half-conscious will somehow get the message "I am beautiful" into my subconscious...
It is because of Hillary that I cannot marry Ben Poulsen. Rachel thought it was a swell idea, but I reminded her that Hillary is desperately in love with him. [Not to mention that I've only met him once. At his farewell.] Although she would never be able to purposefully murder me for marrying the man she loves, she would probably attempt it and fail three times. And then, purely by accident, she'd somehow kill me through some outlandish method. I would die a horrible death drowning in hot cocoa because she made me laugh too hard while drinking it... and then poor Ben would be devastated by the violent death of his wife.
Shannon, from Mesa, Arizona.
Shannon is the roommate I share a room with. Like Hillary, she is majoring in English. She is short and slender, and has a round face that she has somehow managed to perfectly frame with short, brown hair. I met her on Monday. As far as I can tell thus far, she is a perfect little package of goodness. She is extremely neat and tidy. Somehow, no matter how I try to make my bed perfectly, the perfection of her bed makes my bed look messy.
She is kind of shy and dreadfully afraid of inconveniencing people. This may prove to be a problem, because I have a similar phobia. I am afraid that if there were ever a disagreement between us, it would never be addressed, because both of us would be too dreadfully shy to bring it up. However, I expect Shannon and I will get along quite well. Out of the blue one morning we began to talk a bit about the gospel and families and such. I spilled all my deep, dark secrets.
I am a little mystified at this. I can count on one hand, with fingers left over, how many people I've told my deep, dark secrets to. And usually I didn't tell them a thing until I had watched their every move for months. And somehow I was okay with telling her some of the things I hide after knowing her for three days. I don't know. I suppose you could say that things are just clicking into place.
Haylee, from Sandy, Utah.
I met Haylee on Thursday night. I have to crack her thick shell and see what sort of person is under there. She seems a bit shy and rather reserved. She, like the rest of us, has brown hair and pretty brown eyes. She was going to major in Accounting, but decided instead on Information Systems.
However, she seems easy to get along with, and, quite importantly, not judgmental. Which in all likelihood means will get along with everyone fabulously.
Aubrey, from somewhere in Australia. I keep forgetting exactly where, but I suppose it doesn't matter too much to me since -- in all likelihood -- I am likely to never get to go there.
So -- of course -- she has one of those remarkably cool accents, plus a fairly deep and pleasantly husky voice to make it even cooler. If Australian chocolate had a voice, it would sound like Aubrey. She's got curly, brown hair with hazel eyes although she isn't very tall. Pretty much, all I can say about her is that she's gorgeous.
From the looks of things, she cooks quite a bit. She has quite the arsenal of spices... we had to move our spice collection to a larger cupboard. Haylee reports that Aubrey has pretty much been all over the world. She has the souvenirs to prove it, including exotic cookbooks which she uses pretty often. Among her other souvenirs from her world travels are some exciting clothes. She has an outfit with poofy pants reminiscent of Princess Jasmine's. And a matching scarf.
She is majoring in Middle Eastern Studies, I think, or something close to it. She speaks a little bit of Arabic and is learning Hindi this year. She writes her shopping list in Arabic.
Personality-wise... I haven't gotten to see much of it, except that she doesn't talk that much.
EXCEPT...
Haylee and Aubrey were roommates last year in Gates Hall. They know each other quite well. Together, they are a perfect pair of extroverts. But alone, they don't talk much.
That wouldn't be so bad, except they have a tendency to isolate themselves in the room they share. Which means the rest of us run the risk of never getting to know them due to never seeing them. I fear that I will be living with two strangers for all of the next two semesters. Especially since what I have seen of the two of them... suggests I wouldn't enjoy a lot of activities we might share.
Haylee and Aubrey appear to be the perfect stereotype of girly girls at first glance.
They went shopping today, spending hundreds of dollars without half a thought. Our apartment is now fully stocked with decorations, a fish, and fairy lights. So I now know I can't ever go with them when they go shopping. I won't be able to buy ANYTHING compared to what they'll get. I would be exposed as a pennypincher instantly.
Their bedroom is interesting. Pink. With a wall devoted to pictures of, in their words, "hot men..." Mainly guys who star in chick flicks and Disney movies and such.
It also appears that they're obsessed with how they look, although Haylee is much more self-conscious about it. They have to be wearing something in style and gorgeous. I've never seen them not wearing makeup, even in the early morning or late night...
Haylee runs and hides if she's wearing sweatpants and a t-shirt, apologizing profusely for looking like a hobo. At this I blink. Look at her. And marvel. She's apologizing for looking prettier than I probably will on my wedding day. I don't understand. I really don't.
Perhaps it is strange to feel like this... and I know I shouldn't ever feel like this, but truthfully, it kind of freaks me out. It makes ME want to apologize and go hide in my room for looking like a hobo. I mean, I'm not always wearing makeup. I'll even go out of the house and into public, all day, without it. And the sort of clothes Haylee apologizes for looking like a hobo in, are nicer than the majority of items in my wardrobe.
So... I don't know. Haylee, Aubrey, and I will have no problem coexisting peacefully. They seem to be easy to live with. However, developing a friendship might be harder, especially for me. They're so different, and I have yet to find something I have in common with them, except perhaps being female, enjoying good food, and requiring cleanliness. I'm a little nervous.
In fact, I am nervous about this entire semester in general.
We'll see. I hope it works out... Wish me luck.
Love, Jenna the Queasy.
Friday, August 22, 2008
Return to BYU Part II: Men with Faces and Light!
Monday morning we woke up fairly earlyish -- today was the day for emptying my storage unit.
I got dressed, Rachel got dressed, and... Rachelle came over. Angel Rachelle was going to help me move back in! I was getting out my paperwork for the storage unit, when -- VRRRRRRRROOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMM! The apartment sprang to life -- especially the blender -- and the three of us jumped. I sprinted to the kitchen to turn off the blender. We had power! The clocks on the kitchen appliances were blinking happily, and the refrigerator was humming with glee... the lights were shining brightly, and, of course, the residents were jumping with joy. Electricity is niiiice.
Rachelle got into her cute little silver Civic, and Rachel and I got into her teal and decaying Mazda, and we drove to Orem. At one point, Rachel and I lost Rachelle. And I hadn't brought my cell phone. So, using Rachel's dying cell, we called Hillary and begged her to find Rachelle's number. Hillary didn't have it, but she hung up and proceeded to tear apart her room in search of an old 68th ward directory. I sighed. "Well," I said dejectedly, "I'll go sign an Intent to Vacate Form and you can go park where she'll see you if see was looking for us."
I went and filled out all the paperwork necessary, and went back outside to -- Rachelle! She was waving happily at me. Now... where is Rachel? Crud. I sighed. We found her near the main road, then I jumped from Rachelle's car to Rachel's car (Rachel didn't have the code to get into the gate). We got into the storage facility and then drove over to my happy little spider-infested storage unit, O16. We broke in (with our keys, of course) and proceeded to... cringe and cough at the dust that flew up in the air at the disturbance of the door. And then we winced as we watched the spiders scurrying away from the sudden sunlight pouring into the unit. Poor creatures. We took brooms to the pesky eight-legged creatures, but after determining that they were all harmless daddy long legs... we were a little less disturbed at our arachnid infestation. We still ferociously took my happy green broom and swept off all the boxes in attempts to destroy any stow away spiders and/or webs, but we weren't quite as concerned as before.
We very carefully packed Rachelle's and Rachel's cars, swept out the unit in an attempt to unhouse as many spiders as we could, and then happily drove back to Provo. However, upon approaching our apartment... no parking spaces. Anywhere. Finally, Rachel found a teeny space on a street kind of close to us, but unfortunately, she had to parallel park to get into it, which she isn't very good at, and definitely isn't good at. Rachelle, however, could not find a parking space. She parked illegally in the lot right next to our little red brick building, and we rushedly emptied her car.
Then -- Rachel and Rachelle switched the places of their cars. Now Rachel was parked illegally, and Rachelle was in that teeny little spot on the road far away. We rushedly emptied Rachel's car, and then -- we determined that we ought to go buy some groceries. In Rachelle's car though -- her Civic had air conditioning, whereas Rachel's Mazda didn't. So, Rachel and Rachelle switched car spaces again. Then we all clambered into Rachelle's vehicle and journeyed to the nearest Smith's.
Sadly, I had a mere thirty-six dollars in my checking account, and a happy little Benjamin my dad gave me (he was concerned that I wouldn't be able to live on thirty-six dollars). So I was careful, but I still ended up buying a lot of stuff -- I mean, the refrigerator was bone dry. Real food is good. All the lines for the real cashiers were full -- and the self-service stations were empty. Unfortunately, those don't accept one-hundred-dollar bills. And the total came to... forty dollars. So... I inserted a five I hadn't realized I had, and then paid for the rest with my debit card. Which effectively lowered the balance in my checking account to a scrawny $1.70. That made me sick inside. Darn it, I need to get that Benjamin into my checking account! It's all I have! I could be mugged any second now! This is dangerous. However... that would require getting to the bank. Which wouldn't be so bad if I had a Wells Fargo account, since they have one in the BYU Bookstore... but I don't. So I live in constant and paranoid risk of mugment. I've never been mugged, and I would hate for this to be the first time -- I mean, it's a hundred bucks. That enough to feed me for... I don't know. A month or longer! I could totally live on potatoes, and scrambled eggs, and other ridiculously cheap sorts of food, and I could totally make it last me for forever!!!
Ooh, sorry, got off track.
Rachelle dropped us off at our apartment and left, since there wasn't any legal parking, and we brought our food inside.
Commence the unpacking! Box after box after box of stuff!
I unpacked all the gajillions of canned food first, which I had used to fill a garbage can that I used to use as a mop bucket. Then there was a ginormous clear bin full of spices and other non-perishable foods that I didn't want mice to get at. I opened the lid. And ohhh... The distinct aroma of a spice cupboard wafted up to my nose. Ah... Spices. The essence of flavor! I filled my cupboards happily. I moved on to the many boxes of dishes. Then the boxes of blankets and bedding. Then the boxes of winter clothing. Then the boxes of school supplies. Then the boxes of piano music and old school books. Then... the printer and the CD player... and... my goodness. It's all out. And put in place. And happy.
And... goodness. It was a lot easier to unpack than it was to pack it all up in the first place. Especially since I was keenly aware of all the nooks and crevices in which I could hide things. And I had already created an organizational system last term. It was a happy, triumphant feeling indeed.
Shortly thereafter, I took a shower to clean off all the dustiness I now felt from the storage unit encounters, and then Rachel and I went to dinner with her grandfather, aunt, mother, father, and brother at Chuck-A-Rama. We stuffed ourselves with not-cold-canned-ravioli-goodness. Then we went back home.
And it was Monday evening. And I now had nothing to do!
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK!
I went to answer. A blond guy with glasses and brown eyes and two girls (one brunette and one blonde) looked at me. The brunette looked familiar... her name was Michelle and had been in my FHE group last semester.
"Hey," said the guy. "Want to do a makeshift Family Home Evening, since nobody lives at BYU anymore?"
"Of course," said I, and Rachel agreed when she came down. "What are we doing?"
He shrugged. "We were thinking of going to the malt shoppe."
Rachel and I introduced ourselves, the blond introduced himself as Mark, and the girls introduced themselves as Michelle and Shalise.
We had already eaten and were quite full. But FHE was not about stuffing ourselves, it was about having FHE. So, we continued down the red brick building gathering as many girls as possible. Only then did we try to recruit the guys. It is a universal fact that is it easier to convince guys to do something with girls than it is to convince girls to do something with guys. Because we had a fair number of females in the group, and only one guy thus far... it was easy after that. Soon we had more guys with us than girls, including some guys I recognized from spring term.
We walked down to the Malt Shoppe, which was, thank goodness, within walking distance. There was time to talk.
Mark and I finally figured out that we had met before -- he was the faceless man I met with the fantastic voice. I also found out that he was a shameless flirt. He was trying to describe to me a sweet burger... "You know those burgers that have that slightly sweet taste?"
I shook my head no. "Like... they're sweeter than most burgers," he says. "I have no idea what you're talking about," says I.
He was a little bummed that I didn't know what he was talking about, but he continued. "I don't know... the bun is extra sweet." He paused. "Kind of like you."
I just laughed, although I nearly choked on the laughter since the lame pick-up line was so sudden and unexpected. I looked at him more carefully... am I going to have to watch this one? I don't mind the guys that flirt with everyone. It's the ones that single you out that you have to watch out for. Mark just grinned. "Was that subtle enough for you? You'll quickly find out that I'm that one that's always flirting."
"Aha," I said. "Thanks for the warning. That means I don't have to take you seriously."
He nodded. "Yep. Exactly."
We got to the Malt Shoppe where everyone except Rachel and I ordered something tasty. One of my old home teachers, Chris, had a bunch of quarters, and noticed Rachel and I admiring a jukebox. We were flipping through the songs, and suddenly, Chris nudged a quarter into my fingers. I grinned, and punched in a number.
The jukebox got busy quick, but it startled me at how loud it was. Chris looked down at the jukebox and then at me. He seemed to approve of my choice of music, but also looked mystified. "What is this?"
I grinned. "E.L.O." I replied. "Don't Bring Me Down." He may not have heard it before, but he liked it, judging from the look on his face. Encouraged by my choice of music, others in our makeshift FHE group found songs on the jukebox. We all sat down, and, aside from Rachel and I, ate our goodies. Talked to each other about random stuff. And suddenly, the jukebox broke into blatant triple swing.
Here is what happens to you once you've taken social dance at BYU. You sense the beat and you know -- this song is a triple swing, or a waltz, or a cha cha... and you feel the horrible urge to get up and dance. However, in order to do this you must have a partner of the opposite sex. So, here I was, just stewing to dance. Fingers and feet itching. However, I rather sucked at swing. I suppressed the desire, and I would have gotten away with not dancing at all had I been the only one afflicted.
Suddenly, one the guys whose name I unfortunately did not catch leapt up. "Who wants to triple swing?! I need to swing. This is a swing song!" He looked around at the girls. "Don't any of you know how to dance?"
Chris somehow knew I could and pointed firmly at me. So the guy who wanted to dance zoned in on me. "He's pointing at you. You can dance...?" He offered his hands. Well, I wanted to dance, didn't I? The malt shoppe wasn't much of a dance floor, but it would have to do.
The dancing began. I was surprised at how naturally it came, even if triple swing wasn't my strength in dancing. He wasn't the best lead, but then I wasn't the best follower, so it was okay. He twirled me around like a top, which earned lots of cheering and whistling from the crowd behind me. This was a little bizarre... since when could I dance and look goos while doing it? This must be a recent development. The end of the song came, and he dipped me.
I love dips. They don't teach that in class, but it's happened to me once before, and that was with Zach Smith, who actually was the first to try and teach me triple swing. Sniff. And he is gone on his mission. Sniff. He also doesn't reply to mail ever. Sniff. Dancing also reminds me of Clifton. Sniff. Who is also gone. Sniff. And then I remembered that it was when I was going to dance with Clifton that Ryan called to tell me where he was going on his mission. Sniff. Ack, and he is gone too! They're all gone! All of them! It was like a whole row of dominoes. A whole row of very sad dominoes (for me, definitely NOT for them) I had been trying very hard to keep standing. But sad day, now I am all bummed and remembering that all my guyfriends from last year are gone on missions and I won't see them for a while. That always makes me sad.
Well, the dance was over. And here I was missing my friends that I used to dance with. I was very quiet the rest of time, and just eavesdropped on everyone else's conversations. We walked home, and I went to bed, a little lonelier and deader than I had been before FHE. One of those internal voices always says, Don't be sad. They are where they need to be, and you are where you are supposed to be, and the work is going forth, and -- Then the other voice says, Shut up. I know that. Stop thinking about that. The retort: Just because I shouldn't be sad doesn't mean I'm not. Just because it is more appropriate to not miss people quite so much doesn't mean that's what is going on... And soon it is a whole internal argument that even my internal poet gets involved in, starting to quote Dana Gioia's "Unsaid"...
"So much of what we live goes on inside --
The diaries of grief, the tongue-tied aches
Of unacknowledged love are no less real
For having passed unsaid. What we conceal
Is always more than we dare confide.
Think of the letters that we write our dead."
The unfortunate reality is that pretending not to miss your friends doesn't make you miss them any less. I'm not one for poetry. But I like this one. It is kind of comforting, at least for me. Ooh. You know AP English made a lasting impression on you when you feel the great urge to analyze this. I did analyze it... for fun. And I thought I hated poetry analysis. For your sake, I did not include my analysis of Gioia's poem.
Also for your sakes, I have not included all the supercool stuff I've been learning about the brain this week. I've been doing Education Week and I've been to nearly every neuroscience or psychology-ish class offered. I am starting to notice the intense excitement I feel when I'm learning about the brain. Right now I am resisting every urge to tell you all about the pre-frontal cortex and the limbic system. I want to tell you all about nerve cells and dendrites and such. I want to tell you all about how a child's brain develops and how myelination affects the "terrible two's" and the teenagers. I want to explain to you the basic differences between the male brain and the female brain and how that translates into behavior. I want to tell you about brain disorders and how medications like antidepressants work. I want to tell you how stress damages your brain. I want to tell you how your brain stores memories. And I most especially want to tell you how prayer affects your brain... However, I rather feel that you wouldn't be half as interested as I am. So I will spare you.
I will write again soon, and I hope I didn't bore you.
Love, Jenna.
I got dressed, Rachel got dressed, and... Rachelle came over. Angel Rachelle was going to help me move back in! I was getting out my paperwork for the storage unit, when -- VRRRRRRRROOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMM! The apartment sprang to life -- especially the blender -- and the three of us jumped. I sprinted to the kitchen to turn off the blender. We had power! The clocks on the kitchen appliances were blinking happily, and the refrigerator was humming with glee... the lights were shining brightly, and, of course, the residents were jumping with joy. Electricity is niiiice.
Rachelle got into her cute little silver Civic, and Rachel and I got into her teal and decaying Mazda, and we drove to Orem. At one point, Rachel and I lost Rachelle. And I hadn't brought my cell phone. So, using Rachel's dying cell, we called Hillary and begged her to find Rachelle's number. Hillary didn't have it, but she hung up and proceeded to tear apart her room in search of an old 68th ward directory. I sighed. "Well," I said dejectedly, "I'll go sign an Intent to Vacate Form and you can go park where she'll see you if see was looking for us."
I went and filled out all the paperwork necessary, and went back outside to -- Rachelle! She was waving happily at me. Now... where is Rachel? Crud. I sighed. We found her near the main road, then I jumped from Rachelle's car to Rachel's car (Rachel didn't have the code to get into the gate). We got into the storage facility and then drove over to my happy little spider-infested storage unit, O16. We broke in (with our keys, of course) and proceeded to... cringe and cough at the dust that flew up in the air at the disturbance of the door. And then we winced as we watched the spiders scurrying away from the sudden sunlight pouring into the unit. Poor creatures. We took brooms to the pesky eight-legged creatures, but after determining that they were all harmless daddy long legs... we were a little less disturbed at our arachnid infestation. We still ferociously took my happy green broom and swept off all the boxes in attempts to destroy any stow away spiders and/or webs, but we weren't quite as concerned as before.
We very carefully packed Rachelle's and Rachel's cars, swept out the unit in an attempt to unhouse as many spiders as we could, and then happily drove back to Provo. However, upon approaching our apartment... no parking spaces. Anywhere. Finally, Rachel found a teeny space on a street kind of close to us, but unfortunately, she had to parallel park to get into it, which she isn't very good at, and definitely isn't good at. Rachelle, however, could not find a parking space. She parked illegally in the lot right next to our little red brick building, and we rushedly emptied her car.
Then -- Rachel and Rachelle switched the places of their cars. Now Rachel was parked illegally, and Rachelle was in that teeny little spot on the road far away. We rushedly emptied Rachel's car, and then -- we determined that we ought to go buy some groceries. In Rachelle's car though -- her Civic had air conditioning, whereas Rachel's Mazda didn't. So, Rachel and Rachelle switched car spaces again. Then we all clambered into Rachelle's vehicle and journeyed to the nearest Smith's.
Sadly, I had a mere thirty-six dollars in my checking account, and a happy little Benjamin my dad gave me (he was concerned that I wouldn't be able to live on thirty-six dollars). So I was careful, but I still ended up buying a lot of stuff -- I mean, the refrigerator was bone dry. Real food is good. All the lines for the real cashiers were full -- and the self-service stations were empty. Unfortunately, those don't accept one-hundred-dollar bills. And the total came to... forty dollars. So... I inserted a five I hadn't realized I had, and then paid for the rest with my debit card. Which effectively lowered the balance in my checking account to a scrawny $1.70. That made me sick inside. Darn it, I need to get that Benjamin into my checking account! It's all I have! I could be mugged any second now! This is dangerous. However... that would require getting to the bank. Which wouldn't be so bad if I had a Wells Fargo account, since they have one in the BYU Bookstore... but I don't. So I live in constant and paranoid risk of mugment. I've never been mugged, and I would hate for this to be the first time -- I mean, it's a hundred bucks. That enough to feed me for... I don't know. A month or longer! I could totally live on potatoes, and scrambled eggs, and other ridiculously cheap sorts of food, and I could totally make it last me for forever!!!
Ooh, sorry, got off track.
Rachelle dropped us off at our apartment and left, since there wasn't any legal parking, and we brought our food inside.
Commence the unpacking! Box after box after box of stuff!
I unpacked all the gajillions of canned food first, which I had used to fill a garbage can that I used to use as a mop bucket. Then there was a ginormous clear bin full of spices and other non-perishable foods that I didn't want mice to get at. I opened the lid. And ohhh... The distinct aroma of a spice cupboard wafted up to my nose. Ah... Spices. The essence of flavor! I filled my cupboards happily. I moved on to the many boxes of dishes. Then the boxes of blankets and bedding. Then the boxes of winter clothing. Then the boxes of school supplies. Then the boxes of piano music and old school books. Then... the printer and the CD player... and... my goodness. It's all out. And put in place. And happy.
And... goodness. It was a lot easier to unpack than it was to pack it all up in the first place. Especially since I was keenly aware of all the nooks and crevices in which I could hide things. And I had already created an organizational system last term. It was a happy, triumphant feeling indeed.
Shortly thereafter, I took a shower to clean off all the dustiness I now felt from the storage unit encounters, and then Rachel and I went to dinner with her grandfather, aunt, mother, father, and brother at Chuck-A-Rama. We stuffed ourselves with not-cold-canned-ravioli-
And it was Monday evening. And I now had nothing to do!
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK!
I went to answer. A blond guy with glasses and brown eyes and two girls (one brunette and one blonde) looked at me. The brunette looked familiar... her name was Michelle and had been in my FHE group last semester.
"Hey," said the guy. "Want to do a makeshift Family Home Evening, since nobody lives at BYU anymore?"
"Of course," said I, and Rachel agreed when she came down. "What are we doing?"
He shrugged. "We were thinking of going to the malt shoppe."
Rachel and I introduced ourselves, the blond introduced himself as Mark, and the girls introduced themselves as Michelle and Shalise.
We had already eaten and were quite full. But FHE was not about stuffing ourselves, it was about having FHE. So, we continued down the red brick building gathering as many girls as possible. Only then did we try to recruit the guys. It is a universal fact that is it easier to convince guys to do something with girls than it is to convince girls to do something with guys. Because we had a fair number of females in the group, and only one guy thus far... it was easy after that. Soon we had more guys with us than girls, including some guys I recognized from spring term.
We walked down to the Malt Shoppe, which was, thank goodness, within walking distance. There was time to talk.
Mark and I finally figured out that we had met before -- he was the faceless man I met with the fantastic voice. I also found out that he was a shameless flirt. He was trying to describe to me a sweet burger... "You know those burgers that have that slightly sweet taste?"
I shook my head no. "Like... they're sweeter than most burgers," he says. "I have no idea what you're talking about," says I.
He was a little bummed that I didn't know what he was talking about, but he continued. "I don't know... the bun is extra sweet." He paused. "Kind of like you."
I just laughed, although I nearly choked on the laughter since the lame pick-up line was so sudden and unexpected. I looked at him more carefully... am I going to have to watch this one? I don't mind the guys that flirt with everyone. It's the ones that single you out that you have to watch out for. Mark just grinned. "Was that subtle enough for you? You'll quickly find out that I'm that one that's always flirting."
"Aha," I said. "Thanks for the warning. That means I don't have to take you seriously."
He nodded. "Yep. Exactly."
We got to the Malt Shoppe where everyone except Rachel and I ordered something tasty. One of my old home teachers, Chris, had a bunch of quarters, and noticed Rachel and I admiring a jukebox. We were flipping through the songs, and suddenly, Chris nudged a quarter into my fingers. I grinned, and punched in a number.
The jukebox got busy quick, but it startled me at how loud it was. Chris looked down at the jukebox and then at me. He seemed to approve of my choice of music, but also looked mystified. "What is this?"
I grinned. "E.L.O." I replied. "Don't Bring Me Down." He may not have heard it before, but he liked it, judging from the look on his face. Encouraged by my choice of music, others in our makeshift FHE group found songs on the jukebox. We all sat down, and, aside from Rachel and I, ate our goodies. Talked to each other about random stuff. And suddenly, the jukebox broke into blatant triple swing.
Here is what happens to you once you've taken social dance at BYU. You sense the beat and you know -- this song is a triple swing, or a waltz, or a cha cha... and you feel the horrible urge to get up and dance. However, in order to do this you must have a partner of the opposite sex. So, here I was, just stewing to dance. Fingers and feet itching. However, I rather sucked at swing. I suppressed the desire, and I would have gotten away with not dancing at all had I been the only one afflicted.
Suddenly, one the guys whose name I unfortunately did not catch leapt up. "Who wants to triple swing?! I need to swing. This is a swing song!" He looked around at the girls. "Don't any of you know how to dance?"
Chris somehow knew I could and pointed firmly at me. So the guy who wanted to dance zoned in on me. "He's pointing at you. You can dance...?" He offered his hands. Well, I wanted to dance, didn't I? The malt shoppe wasn't much of a dance floor, but it would have to do.
The dancing began. I was surprised at how naturally it came, even if triple swing wasn't my strength in dancing. He wasn't the best lead, but then I wasn't the best follower, so it was okay. He twirled me around like a top, which earned lots of cheering and whistling from the crowd behind me. This was a little bizarre... since when could I dance and look goos while doing it? This must be a recent development. The end of the song came, and he dipped me.
I love dips. They don't teach that in class, but it's happened to me once before, and that was with Zach Smith, who actually was the first to try and teach me triple swing. Sniff. And he is gone on his mission. Sniff. He also doesn't reply to mail ever. Sniff. Dancing also reminds me of Clifton. Sniff. Who is also gone. Sniff. And then I remembered that it was when I was going to dance with Clifton that Ryan called to tell me where he was going on his mission. Sniff. Ack, and he is gone too! They're all gone! All of them! It was like a whole row of dominoes. A whole row of very sad dominoes (for me, definitely NOT for them) I had been trying very hard to keep standing. But sad day, now I am all bummed and remembering that all my guyfriends from last year are gone on missions and I won't see them for a while. That always makes me sad.
Well, the dance was over. And here I was missing my friends that I used to dance with. I was very quiet the rest of time, and just eavesdropped on everyone else's conversations. We walked home, and I went to bed, a little lonelier and deader than I had been before FHE. One of those internal voices always says, Don't be sad. They are where they need to be, and you are where you are supposed to be, and the work is going forth, and -- Then the other voice says, Shut up. I know that. Stop thinking about that. The retort: Just because I shouldn't be sad doesn't mean I'm not. Just because it is more appropriate to not miss people quite so much doesn't mean that's what is going on... And soon it is a whole internal argument that even my internal poet gets involved in, starting to quote Dana Gioia's "Unsaid"...
"So much of what we live goes on inside --
The diaries of grief, the tongue-tied aches
Of unacknowledged love are no less real
For having passed unsaid. What we conceal
Is always more than we dare confide.
Think of the letters that we write our dead."
The unfortunate reality is that pretending not to miss your friends doesn't make you miss them any less. I'm not one for poetry. But I like this one. It is kind of comforting, at least for me. Ooh. You know AP English made a lasting impression on you when you feel the great urge to analyze this. I did analyze it... for fun. And I thought I hated poetry analysis. For your sake, I did not include my analysis of Gioia's poem.
Also for your sakes, I have not included all the supercool stuff I've been learning about the brain this week. I've been doing Education Week and I've been to nearly every neuroscience or psychology-ish class offered. I am starting to notice the intense excitement I feel when I'm learning about the brain. Right now I am resisting every urge to tell you all about the pre-frontal cortex and the limbic system. I want to tell you all about nerve cells and dendrites and such. I want to tell you all about how a child's brain develops and how myelination affects the "terrible two's" and the teenagers. I want to explain to you the basic differences between the male brain and the female brain and how that translates into behavior. I want to tell you about brain disorders and how medications like antidepressants work. I want to tell you how stress damages your brain. I want to tell you how your brain stores memories. And I most especially want to tell you how prayer affects your brain... However, I rather feel that you wouldn't be half as interested as I am. So I will spare you.
I will write again soon, and I hope I didn't bore you.
Love, Jenna.
Return to BYU Part I: Faceless Men and Darkness.
I see many of you picked up on my extreme excitement upon coming back home to Provo and BYU. Here is the epic tale of my return.
It is Saturday morning, the long-awaited sixteenth of August. I groggily hear the all-too-familiar sound of my phone ringing... Ah, alarm. That means wake up. Yugh, can it be 6:30 already? I look at the clock. Indeed, it can. Maybe staying up until 1:30 wasn't such a bright idea. But I had to finish packing... which meant cleaning all my laundry. And I had to watch the Olympics, of course. Which meant staying up later than I usually do. And... then waking up feeling a bit more tired than I should like. Oh, sigh. I turned off the alarm and considered getting up and getting ready. But the bed was comfy -- the kind of comfy that never happens when you're actually allowed to be sleeping, and inconveniently presents itself only at the times when it is definitely not acceptable to stay in bed. So... I cuddled up in the blankets, enjoying another five minutes of happy sleepiness, while managing not to fall back asleep. I was much too excited to fall back asleep.
I eventually climbed out of bed and got ready for my flight, which really only took about half-an-hour... I had done most of the time-consuming preparations the night before. And soon I was ready. I kissed the members of my family who were too tired to get up to see me off and hugged them as best as I could while they lay groggily in their beds.
Mother (as I like to pronounce it, moe-thur) and one of my sisters helped me load my two suitcases into the car, and we drove off. The ride seemed so long. And then we got to the airport. Mom tried to get my luggage out, but she was unable. I grabbed my two fairly heavy red bags, my horribly scarred and sunburnt backpack, and my laptop bag. And I waved goodbye to my mother and sister, and I turned to the airport behind me. Goodbye Phoenix.
I checked in my suitcases and made it through security with ease. I got this airport thing down. And, I was among the first of the passengers from my flight to show up in the terminal, so I had a fairly decent choice of seats. All is well. I had about an hour until I'd be allowed to board the airplane, so I pulled out my pen and paper and wrote letters to missionary buddies. The hour passed by as quickly as my thoughts would allow it to -- excitement sometimes makes time last longer. Writing usually makes it go by abnormally fast. So, it balanced out. Before I knew it, I was on the plane sitting in an aisle seat next to a middle-aged couple who both entertained themselves with books. And about a hour and a half later, the plane landed, and I was off to reclaim my red suitcases.
Grandma Salisbury picked up my bags and I, we went and filled our empty stomachs with Chinese food, and we visited my great-aunt Alice. Then it was off to Provo. For real.
I remember during that last ride when I finally saw the Y again. It made me happy.
And then soon the streets started to look familiar.
And then...
"That's my apartment!" I happily leaped out of the car, dashed behind the red brick building where I lived, and made my way to the office where I gratefully commandeered my key for apartment #366. I was the first one to check in for my apartment.
I burst out of the office and made a beeline for the back of the red brick building. They had replaced the back doors last spring term, and they didn't have numbers on them anymore. But ha! I used to live here! I know which door is mine, even if they do look all the same. I triumphantly opened the third door on the left and entered the familiar kitchen.
Wait a minute.
My kitchen was full of random pieces of furniture. Mattresses, book shelves, and other thingamabobs that definitely weren't here last time I lived here. Interesting. I also picked up on the fact that... the refrigerator and freezer doors were open. I inspected it. The refrigerator wasn't on, so it didn't really matter that the doors were open. I closed them. I looked over at my oven. Usually there was a time on the the display. The display was black, blank, and lifeless. I looked over at the where the time on the microwave should be. Same thing. Black, blank, and lifeless. I flipped the switch for the kitchen on and off -- nothing.
My suspicions were confirmed -- we have no electricity. Aw, darn it!
I ran the faucet. The water was warm enough, so we had hot water. That was nice. I'd been paying the gas bill all summer, since it would have been more expensive to turn it off and then pay for the servicemen to come turn it back on. However, I hadn't been paying for electricity -- Ingrid had been in charge of that bill. And it would have stood to reason that she would have canceled the service so she wouldn't have to pay for it anymore.
I should have expected a lack of electricity. I really should have.
I decided to think about it later; Grandma was waiting for me in the car. I went out, retrieved my suitcases, and she left. I lugged my luggage up to my room. Hm. I noticed that the bedroom window had been left open. That was okay -- I suspected that having the window open all summer had prevented my apartment from turning into an oven. I mean, it was around sixty degrees at night. That would have kept it cool. And, thanks to the flyscreen, there weren't any excess bugs or dirt or any other ill effects that could have happened from having a window open for two months.
I went back downstairs and hugged my grandmother goodbye. She drove away, and I was alone. I called up Rachel -- she was ten minutes away -- and she agreed to pay for electricity, since we didn't have any. I waited for ten agonizing minutes. And then -- ka-blammy! I looked out the window and saw them -- Rachel and her mother.
It was like one of those cheesy, cliché moments you see on those stupid TV shows of long-separated couples finally seeing each other, fields apart. And then they run through the grassy fields and embrace each other, spinning around and around and around -- and the whole time some incredibly dramatic and/or romantic music is playing.
Got that image in your head? Now, replace that cheesy, romantic image with this -- instead of the couple, you've got one Jenna and one Rachel. Instead of the flowery fields, you've got a grassy volleyball court. And instead of the background music, you have the Jenna and the Rachel squealing, "Eeeeeeeeeeee!" like two squirrelish mosquitoes on loudspeakers about to collide like two speeding bullet trains.
If that doesn't show you what it was like -- nothing will. It was pure joy.
We got to unloading all Rachel's junk from the back of her father's brand new, shiny, white truck. Her little brother, Andrew, is autistic, and he sort of helped. Mostly he was mischievously putting things in the wheels and exhaust of Dad's shiny, new truck. We got to calling the electric company -- or, at least Rachel did.
She impatiently listed to the computer lady chant off the normal office hours, and that the estimated wait time was greater than five minutes or not. I don't think she was listening to it very closely, but she thought we should go visit the power company in person and set up the account. We found out where the the utilities building was -- less than a block away, and we drove over.
Except -- it was closed. Rachel's parents and brother followed us in that shiny, white truck that -- hm. It shouldn't be making that noise, should it?
SKKKKKRRRREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE.... skree skkkuuurrreeeeeee... They parked, and it stopped. Rachel's dad determined that the horrid sound was coming from the front wheel. It seems that Andrew had put a rock or something into the wheel and it was wreaking havoc as best it could. And it was stuck in the wheel. Ugh. So we sat and watched Brother Cope drive in backwards circles in the parking lot as Rachel and I waited for the power people to get to us.
Finally, "Hello, Provo Utilities, how may I help you?" YES! YEEESSS!!! Even if Brother Cope wasn't having much luck with the truck -- we are soooo talking to a real man -- electricity, here we come!
Rachel set up the account and such. And then... "Electricity won't be on until Monday morning." Ah, phooey. Rachel and I headed back to our apartment, Brother Cope still driving in circles, backwards. Poor sap. He'd just gotten the truck that morning. Brand, stinkin' new. Unfortunate day!
Aw, well. Rachel unpacked and such. We only had until the sun was down to do whatever it was we need to do...
KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK! Somebody loves us? Already? Ee!
Rachel and I answered the door - one of the guys in our ward, Andrew, wanted us to come and watch a movie at his place. Apparently, everybody is ridiculously bored here at Monticello. About three quarters of the previous population left for the next two weeks. Andrew looked dejectedly bored. "Who else is coming?" "Hopefully... as many people as possible. It's like... a ghost town around here. And it's so quiet here."
So, we went to his house and watched a movie called Vantage Point. It was a little annoying because it kept rewinding and showing the same event from someone else's point of view... After that, we watched the Olympics a little. And then I went home to a pitch black apartment.
I started to get ready for bed, beginning with the removal of my contacts. I went to my bedroom and sat on my bed... and suddenly realized... oh. There... is pretty much no electricity. At all. Which pretty much means no light. Which makes it much more difficult to read my scriptures. I sat dejectedly on the bed for a moment.
You people have to understand something about me to fully understand this moment. You people all think I'm perfect. I submit to you that I am not. My whole life... consistent scripture reading has been my nemesis, my struggle. I could never do it two days in a row. I was absolutely amazed when I could do it for two or three consecutive days. And then, suddenly, for no apparent reason, and after approximately fifteen years of constant struggle -- I could finally do it. I hadn't skipped a day for nearly two whole months. Okay, so two months might seem a little pathetic to you, but the truth is, it seems like a great accomplishment for me. One that I am immensely proud of.
And it seems so shameful. To stop now. Just because I have no light. How lame is that.
So, I am on a quest to find light.
Light, light.
Oh! Flashlight! I have one of those!
... ... ... Except... I don't. My flashlight is currently in my storage unit. In Orem. That isn't going to work. I look out my window. Street lamp! That's light! I look out the bathroom window. The volleyball court is lit! I could sit on my back step and read. That would be better than sitting in the gutter and reading by dim and flickering lamp light.
I grab my daddy's scriptures, which I stole (with his permission), and sauntered downstairs to my back step. Now that I could see, I realized and remembered... oh. My contacts are... not... in... my... eyes. Ah, well. It's a good thing I am near-sighted. I will still be able to read. If I hold the book rather close to my face.
So there I was, a triple combination nearly plastered to my face, trying to read it in the dim volleyball court lights.
"Do I know you?" said a bass voice. An extremely attractive bass voice.
I looked up, as is the habit for a sighted person. I was painfully reminded that my contacts were way upstairs in the bathroom as I looked up at the flesh-colored blob in front of me. Aw, crap. But he asked a question; I should answer it.
"Um, I don't know. I can't tell. I can't see you." And it was the truth. I didn't know if I knew that voice or not.
He came closer. I still couldn't see him. "I'm Mark," he said, rather attractively. Dang it, dang it, dang it. I want to know what you look like.
"I'm Jenna. I was here for spring, and I went home for summer," I replied.
"Ah, then I wouldn't know you. I showed up for summer."
"Ah, yes. Then I definitely wouldn't know you." Nice to have that established. We continued the small talk until he noticed that I was busy, and then the flesh-colored blob sauntered off with its attractive voice. I grumbled a little to myself. I didn't even know at all what he looked like. My very best guess? Blond*, I think. Possibly with glasses. And if I had to guess what color his eyes were I would guess dark brown. But I wouldn't bet my life on it for fear of death.
I finished reading and went back inside. I curled up on the couch, because my bedding was still in the storage unit. And I fell asleep.
Sunday morning! Rachel had gone to a farewell, so I had to go to church all by my lonesome. It was pretty much the happiest thing ever. I missed BYU wards. After that, I was pretty much all by my lonesome for a while.
What to eat, what to eat?!
Well, we don't have anything perishable. Nor do we have electricity to heat up anything. I sighed dejectedly as I pulled a can of ravioli out of the cupboard. A spoon, a spoon! Dang it. No silverware. It's all in my storage unit. All in Orem! Gah! I search through the drawers of dishes Rachel brought. And... I found... a spatula!
I sat of my blue couch and ate a happy little can of cold, canned ravioli. With a spatula. If you're hungry enough, it isn't that bad. After that, I pulled out my letter-writing equipment and finished one letter I started in the airport, and wrote another two. In the midst of writing my little brother Cliftonius, I noticed a little teal car in front of my apartment trying to parallel park, and failing miserably. I laughed at it. That must be Rachel. It was. Rachel hadn't been home long when...
My phone went off. Jackie Bodily called to ask if she and Rachelle could come over with a gift. I accepted the offer, of course.
They came; the gift was a chocolate creme pie. Ee! (Aw, dang it. I need to make a pie this month!) Pie is good. Rachel and I devoured it before their eyes, and talked with Rachelle until the sun went down. (Jackie had to leave early.)
Then Rachel says abruptly, "Jenna. Who is Mark?"
I blink. "A guy in our ward."
"Oh. He has an amazing voice! What does he look like?!"
I bow my head in shame. "I don't know." I proceeded to explain the situation.
She scolded me.
"How do you know about Mark?" I queried.
"Um... My bedroom window was open last night. And while I was in bed, I heard this glorious bass voice say, 'Hi. I'm Mark.' And then I heard, 'Hi. I'm Jenna.'"
I laughed. "You should have come down. Then you could have told me what he looked like!"
"Yes, I was debating how to do such a thing. But I didn't have my contacts in either, and I was in a tank top and grubby pajama pants. I was seriously considering looking for some sort of shirt to throw on over my tank, but then it was dark and there was no hope of fixing the pajama pants too at such short notice."
I laughed again. I consoled with the fact that soon we'd have a ward directory, and then we could find out what the mysterious Mark looked like.
Her idea was to get our scriptures and read on the porch again -- with our contacts in, which we did. Sadly, no Mark.
------
*Quick grammar quiz! Blond or blonde? It comes from the French. Blond is for males and blonde is for females. Less well-known is brunet versus brunette. Brunet is for males and brunette is for females. Said the same way, but spelled different. Just like fiancé versus fiancée. If you want to remember it, consider the words male and female. The word female has one more 'e'. This is what you get for corresponding with a nerd. :)
It is Saturday morning, the long-awaited sixteenth of August. I groggily hear the all-too-familiar sound of my phone ringing... Ah, alarm. That means wake up. Yugh, can it be 6:30 already? I look at the clock. Indeed, it can. Maybe staying up until 1:30 wasn't such a bright idea. But I had to finish packing... which meant cleaning all my laundry. And I had to watch the Olympics, of course. Which meant staying up later than I usually do. And... then waking up feeling a bit more tired than I should like. Oh, sigh. I turned off the alarm and considered getting up and getting ready. But the bed was comfy -- the kind of comfy that never happens when you're actually allowed to be sleeping, and inconveniently presents itself only at the times when it is definitely not acceptable to stay in bed. So... I cuddled up in the blankets, enjoying another five minutes of happy sleepiness, while managing not to fall back asleep. I was much too excited to fall back asleep.
I eventually climbed out of bed and got ready for my flight, which really only took about half-an-hour... I had done most of the time-consuming preparations the night before. And soon I was ready. I kissed the members of my family who were too tired to get up to see me off and hugged them as best as I could while they lay groggily in their beds.
Mother (as I like to pronounce it, moe-thur) and one of my sisters helped me load my two suitcases into the car, and we drove off. The ride seemed so long. And then we got to the airport. Mom tried to get my luggage out, but she was unable. I grabbed my two fairly heavy red bags, my horribly scarred and sunburnt backpack, and my laptop bag. And I waved goodbye to my mother and sister, and I turned to the airport behind me. Goodbye Phoenix.
I checked in my suitcases and made it through security with ease. I got this airport thing down. And, I was among the first of the passengers from my flight to show up in the terminal, so I had a fairly decent choice of seats. All is well. I had about an hour until I'd be allowed to board the airplane, so I pulled out my pen and paper and wrote letters to missionary buddies. The hour passed by as quickly as my thoughts would allow it to -- excitement sometimes makes time last longer. Writing usually makes it go by abnormally fast. So, it balanced out. Before I knew it, I was on the plane sitting in an aisle seat next to a middle-aged couple who both entertained themselves with books. And about a hour and a half later, the plane landed, and I was off to reclaim my red suitcases.
Grandma Salisbury picked up my bags and I, we went and filled our empty stomachs with Chinese food, and we visited my great-aunt Alice. Then it was off to Provo. For real.
I remember during that last ride when I finally saw the Y again. It made me happy.
And then soon the streets started to look familiar.
And then...
"That's my apartment!" I happily leaped out of the car, dashed behind the red brick building where I lived, and made my way to the office where I gratefully commandeered my key for apartment #366. I was the first one to check in for my apartment.
I burst out of the office and made a beeline for the back of the red brick building. They had replaced the back doors last spring term, and they didn't have numbers on them anymore. But ha! I used to live here! I know which door is mine, even if they do look all the same. I triumphantly opened the third door on the left and entered the familiar kitchen.
Wait a minute.
My kitchen was full of random pieces of furniture. Mattresses, book shelves, and other thingamabobs that definitely weren't here last time I lived here. Interesting. I also picked up on the fact that... the refrigerator and freezer doors were open. I inspected it. The refrigerator wasn't on, so it didn't really matter that the doors were open. I closed them. I looked over at my oven. Usually there was a time on the the display. The display was black, blank, and lifeless. I looked over at the where the time on the microwave should be. Same thing. Black, blank, and lifeless. I flipped the switch for the kitchen on and off -- nothing.
My suspicions were confirmed -- we have no electricity. Aw, darn it!
I ran the faucet. The water was warm enough, so we had hot water. That was nice. I'd been paying the gas bill all summer, since it would have been more expensive to turn it off and then pay for the servicemen to come turn it back on. However, I hadn't been paying for electricity -- Ingrid had been in charge of that bill. And it would have stood to reason that she would have canceled the service so she wouldn't have to pay for it anymore.
I should have expected a lack of electricity. I really should have.
I decided to think about it later; Grandma was waiting for me in the car. I went out, retrieved my suitcases, and she left. I lugged my luggage up to my room. Hm. I noticed that the bedroom window had been left open. That was okay -- I suspected that having the window open all summer had prevented my apartment from turning into an oven. I mean, it was around sixty degrees at night. That would have kept it cool. And, thanks to the flyscreen, there weren't any excess bugs or dirt or any other ill effects that could have happened from having a window open for two months.
I went back downstairs and hugged my grandmother goodbye. She drove away, and I was alone. I called up Rachel -- she was ten minutes away -- and she agreed to pay for electricity, since we didn't have any. I waited for ten agonizing minutes. And then -- ka-blammy! I looked out the window and saw them -- Rachel and her mother.
It was like one of those cheesy, cliché moments you see on those stupid TV shows of long-separated couples finally seeing each other, fields apart. And then they run through the grassy fields and embrace each other, spinning around and around and around -- and the whole time some incredibly dramatic and/or romantic music is playing.
Got that image in your head? Now, replace that cheesy, romantic image with this -- instead of the couple, you've got one Jenna and one Rachel. Instead of the flowery fields, you've got a grassy volleyball court. And instead of the background music, you have the Jenna and the Rachel squealing, "Eeeeeeeeeeee!" like two squirrelish mosquitoes on loudspeakers about to collide like two speeding bullet trains.
If that doesn't show you what it was like -- nothing will. It was pure joy.
We got to unloading all Rachel's junk from the back of her father's brand new, shiny, white truck. Her little brother, Andrew, is autistic, and he sort of helped. Mostly he was mischievously putting things in the wheels and exhaust of Dad's shiny, new truck. We got to calling the electric company -- or, at least Rachel did.
She impatiently listed to the computer lady chant off the normal office hours, and that the estimated wait time was greater than five minutes or not. I don't think she was listening to it very closely, but she thought we should go visit the power company in person and set up the account. We found out where the the utilities building was -- less than a block away, and we drove over.
Except -- it was closed. Rachel's parents and brother followed us in that shiny, white truck that -- hm. It shouldn't be making that noise, should it?
SKKKKKRRRREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE
Finally, "Hello, Provo Utilities, how may I help you?" YES! YEEESSS!!! Even if Brother Cope wasn't having much luck with the truck -- we are soooo talking to a real man -- electricity, here we come!
Rachel set up the account and such. And then... "Electricity won't be on until Monday morning." Ah, phooey. Rachel and I headed back to our apartment, Brother Cope still driving in circles, backwards. Poor sap. He'd just gotten the truck that morning. Brand, stinkin' new. Unfortunate day!
Aw, well. Rachel unpacked and such. We only had until the sun was down to do whatever it was we need to do...
KNOCK, KNOCK, KNOCK! Somebody loves us? Already? Ee!
Rachel and I answered the door - one of the guys in our ward, Andrew, wanted us to come and watch a movie at his place. Apparently, everybody is ridiculously bored here at Monticello. About three quarters of the previous population left for the next two weeks. Andrew looked dejectedly bored. "Who else is coming?" "Hopefully... as many people as possible. It's like... a ghost town around here. And it's so quiet here."
So, we went to his house and watched a movie called Vantage Point. It was a little annoying because it kept rewinding and showing the same event from someone else's point of view... After that, we watched the Olympics a little. And then I went home to a pitch black apartment.
I started to get ready for bed, beginning with the removal of my contacts. I went to my bedroom and sat on my bed... and suddenly realized... oh. There... is pretty much no electricity. At all. Which pretty much means no light. Which makes it much more difficult to read my scriptures. I sat dejectedly on the bed for a moment.
You people have to understand something about me to fully understand this moment. You people all think I'm perfect. I submit to you that I am not. My whole life... consistent scripture reading has been my nemesis, my struggle. I could never do it two days in a row. I was absolutely amazed when I could do it for two or three consecutive days. And then, suddenly, for no apparent reason, and after approximately fifteen years of constant struggle -- I could finally do it. I hadn't skipped a day for nearly two whole months. Okay, so two months might seem a little pathetic to you, but the truth is, it seems like a great accomplishment for me. One that I am immensely proud of.
And it seems so shameful. To stop now. Just because I have no light. How lame is that.
So, I am on a quest to find light.
Light, light.
Oh! Flashlight! I have one of those!
... ... ... Except... I don't. My flashlight is currently in my storage unit. In Orem. That isn't going to work. I look out my window. Street lamp! That's light! I look out the bathroom window. The volleyball court is lit! I could sit on my back step and read. That would be better than sitting in the gutter and reading by dim and flickering lamp light.
I grab my daddy's scriptures, which I stole (with his permission), and sauntered downstairs to my back step. Now that I could see, I realized and remembered... oh. My contacts are... not... in... my... eyes. Ah, well. It's a good thing I am near-sighted. I will still be able to read. If I hold the book rather close to my face.
So there I was, a triple combination nearly plastered to my face, trying to read it in the dim volleyball court lights.
"Do I know you?" said a bass voice. An extremely attractive bass voice.
I looked up, as is the habit for a sighted person. I was painfully reminded that my contacts were way upstairs in the bathroom as I looked up at the flesh-colored blob in front of me. Aw, crap. But he asked a question; I should answer it.
"Um, I don't know. I can't tell. I can't see you." And it was the truth. I didn't know if I knew that voice or not.
He came closer. I still couldn't see him. "I'm Mark," he said, rather attractively. Dang it, dang it, dang it. I want to know what you look like.
"I'm Jenna. I was here for spring, and I went home for summer," I replied.
"Ah, then I wouldn't know you. I showed up for summer."
"Ah, yes. Then I definitely wouldn't know you." Nice to have that established. We continued the small talk until he noticed that I was busy, and then the flesh-colored blob sauntered off with its attractive voice. I grumbled a little to myself. I didn't even know at all what he looked like. My very best guess? Blond*, I think. Possibly with glasses. And if I had to guess what color his eyes were I would guess dark brown. But I wouldn't bet my life on it for fear of death.
I finished reading and went back inside. I curled up on the couch, because my bedding was still in the storage unit. And I fell asleep.
Sunday morning! Rachel had gone to a farewell, so I had to go to church all by my lonesome. It was pretty much the happiest thing ever. I missed BYU wards. After that, I was pretty much all by my lonesome for a while.
What to eat, what to eat?!
Well, we don't have anything perishable. Nor do we have electricity to heat up anything. I sighed dejectedly as I pulled a can of ravioli out of the cupboard. A spoon, a spoon! Dang it. No silverware. It's all in my storage unit. All in Orem! Gah! I search through the drawers of dishes Rachel brought. And... I found... a spatula!
I sat of my blue couch and ate a happy little can of cold, canned ravioli. With a spatula. If you're hungry enough, it isn't that bad. After that, I pulled out my letter-writing equipment and finished one letter I started in the airport, and wrote another two. In the midst of writing my little brother Cliftonius, I noticed a little teal car in front of my apartment trying to parallel park, and failing miserably. I laughed at it. That must be Rachel. It was. Rachel hadn't been home long when...
My phone went off. Jackie Bodily called to ask if she and Rachelle could come over with a gift. I accepted the offer, of course.
They came; the gift was a chocolate creme pie. Ee! (Aw, dang it. I need to make a pie this month!) Pie is good. Rachel and I devoured it before their eyes, and talked with Rachelle until the sun went down. (Jackie had to leave early.)
Then Rachel says abruptly, "Jenna. Who is Mark?"
I blink. "A guy in our ward."
"Oh. He has an amazing voice! What does he look like?!"
I bow my head in shame. "I don't know." I proceeded to explain the situation.
She scolded me.
"How do you know about Mark?" I queried.
"Um... My bedroom window was open last night. And while I was in bed, I heard this glorious bass voice say, 'Hi. I'm Mark.' And then I heard, 'Hi. I'm Jenna.'"
I laughed. "You should have come down. Then you could have told me what he looked like!"
"Yes, I was debating how to do such a thing. But I didn't have my contacts in either, and I was in a tank top and grubby pajama pants. I was seriously considering looking for some sort of shirt to throw on over my tank, but then it was dark and there was no hope of fixing the pajama pants too at such short notice."
I laughed again. I consoled with the fact that soon we'd have a ward directory, and then we could find out what the mysterious Mark looked like.
Her idea was to get our scriptures and read on the porch again -- with our contacts in, which we did. Sadly, no Mark.
------
*Quick grammar quiz! Blond or blonde? It comes from the French. Blond is for males and blonde is for females. Less well-known is brunet versus brunette. Brunet is for males and brunette is for females. Said the same way, but spelled different. Just like fiancé versus fiancée. If you want to remember it, consider the words male and female. The word female has one more 'e'. This is what you get for corresponding with a nerd. :)
Monday, August 11, 2008
Seizures and Love Letters
Guess what, everyone! I leave on Saturday morning, and I am sooo excited. You all really have no idea. (Perhaps you do, but I will always insist that you don't.) My flight to Salt Lake leaves at 9:40am, so if any of you want to see me, you'll probably have to do it by Friday night, because after that, I'm outta here!
So, as always, you can contact me via email (jennamarie.griffin@gmail.com) or Facebook... or, if you love me extra special, you can call me up (602)577-2899 or perhaps send me snail mail: 366 E. 800 N., Provo, UT 84606. I'll be back for a little longer than a week and a half for Christmas break... not too long though. I'm flying in the evening of December 23rd, and then flying back the morning of January 3rd. And after that? I won't be back until the following Christmas. I don't that'll be too much of a problem, since I think I'm pretty good at keeping in touch. :)
Well, still no good stories. But hey, I can tell you a secret. Or, perhaps it isn't really a secret.
I have an involuntary shivering problem.
I'll be minding my own business, and then, like a Frisbee from the middle of nowhere -- it hits me. I shudder, sometimes violently.
Okay, okay, you say. That happens to everybody. But I say, no! It doesn't! Truthfully, most people shiver only when they have a good reason to... like say, it's freezing. Or maybe something creepy just happened. Or maybe someone sneaked up behind you and blew cold breath on your neck. (Oh, if you don't shudder at the thought, something is sooo wrong with you.)
But I shiver often enough and obviously enough to warrant concern.
I'll be sitting on the couch happily, thinking happy thoughts, being perfectly warm, and then -- graaghglghlgghaa! A series of nerves fire and it's a seizuresque shiver.
You know, it doesn't bother me, most of the time. Except --
Sometimes I shiver over and over and over again in a short period of time. When this happens, the muscles around my spine start to ache and I get a little shaky. But that's okay, it doesn't bother me that bad. Although when it happens on dates, he'll look over at me and nervously ask if I'm okay. It usually scares the living daylights out of whoever he is, even if I assure him this is perfectly normal.
Sometimes this happens: I'll have both my hands in front of me, and suddenly those nerves will fire -- and my arms will tense up -- and more nerves will fire -- and -- SMACK! I've clapped quite loudly, and my hands are stinging. And all this, involuntarily. I can only pray this never happens during a funeral. Or when I'm in the same room as a clap-activated bomb. Or when I'm trying to hide from a killer in a dark room with clapper lights. This could be potentially disastrous, no?
My dad is also quite concerned about this shivering phenomenon. He tells me I should see a doctor or something.
I say, Whhhyyy?! It's totally benign. The worst thing that ever become of it is... hm. Annoyance.
Well, he says, the doctor could give you some anti-seizure medication.
Yes, I say, but why would I want to be taking that for the rest of my life? I couldn't think of a good enough reason. Honestly... I can't stand the sight of blood, so we won't have to worry about me slicing a major artery during neurosurgery or anything.
About a month ago, my dad asked me -- Do you ever shiver like that when you're sleeping and wake up?
Naw, I say.
Never? Are you sure? He proceeds to interrogate me, and I answer truthfully. Soon, I realize... well, yes, I have.
See, sometimes, I wake up suddenly in the middle of night scared to death. I feel like either someone has grabbed me by the shoulders and given me a good, hard shake, or like I've fallen from a few feet in the air onto the bed. I used to attribute this to bad dreams which I didn't remember, but were intense enough to trigger a physical reaction... but... honestly, the shivering thing makes more sense.
Well, of course, my dad would be the first to wonder... What if you're cuddling with your husband and you both fall asleep and then you shiver and wake him up!?
Hm. I'd expect that wouldn't be enough to keep him awake for too long... I don't think that's a disaster. Honestly, if I were him I'd be more worried about wifey stealing all the covers. BAHAHA! And I think many normal couples suffer from the blanket-hog syndrome and the subsequent freezing awakeness of the thus coverless spouse, so I doubt a little shiver now and then would damage our relationship much.
So, all I can say about the shivers is... the condition is much too benign to worry about. Unless that clap thing happens in close proximity to my significant other's face... then I might slap him pretty hard without meaning to. That could damage our relationship much, ya?
Besides. It is obviously a neurological condition. And -- guess what. I happen to be studying neuroscience. What better field than that to have at your disposal if benign ever turns to malevolent. But for now, I feel no need to see a neurologist so I can get anti-seizure medication. All that would really do... is poison my liver. On the other hand... shivers aren't shortening my lifespan much, so I shan't worry about them.
Now for a secret missionary fan club update.
In other news... Clifton... er, Elder Dudley, has recently been stuck in the MTC due to Visa problems. He's supposed to go to the Mexico Monterrey East Mission. Well, he's not in the MTC anymore -- he's been temporarily assigned to labor in the Salt Lake City South Mission. Which I don't mind so much, because that means any letters he sends will still reach me relatively quickly, whereas if he were sending me something from Mexico, I'd probably have to wait for a long time. He sent me a picture of him and a few of his missionary buddies mimicking the Abbey Road cover in the MTC crosswalk. Genius. I shall have to frame it.
Will... er, Elder Budge, is still in the MTC, but he's leaving for Argentina on Monday. Excitement! In less exciting news, some of the other elders in his district... got scavies, and the hermanas in his district... have milk-chugging contests. Mostly he just wants out of the MTC.
And Ryan... er, Elder Strong... has been in Australia for a while. However, I finally got a letter from him. He wrote it almost a month ago, on that eternally long flight from San Francisco to Sydney. He read all ten letters within the first thirteen hours of that flight (in between Preach My Gospel and the Doctrine and Covenants, he assures me). Yikes... that must have been a rather boring flight. :D Thank goodness for email though. His mom forwards emails to me and his other BYU friends. I can tell you that he doesn't like Vegemite; he says it tastes like someone broke a bunch of pens and spread the inky stuff all over his toast. His companion kind of freaked him out at first because he says "I love you" to everyone and their dog, even when they get flicked off. And, most recently, he's pretty much waay excited about preaching the gospel. He loves it, and I'm pretty much jealous that I'm not serving a mission right now.
What else can I tell you?! Hm...
How about Elder Jolley? I can tell you about him. You don't know who he is. Neither do I really. I only recently found out that his first name was Joshua. Before that, for lack of a first name, I called him Oscar. Well, Elder Joshua Jolley is a good story.
I have mentioned my roommate, Rachel, but I don't remember how well I've described her to you. She is rather short. And squirrel-like, definitely, squirrel-like. She makes bizarre noises, and is usually laughing hilariously at something. She often fantasizes about the perfect man -- tall, dark, and ominous (T.O.D.) and preferably a bass or baritone who enjoys serenading. She has a goal to beat the height differential between her parents when she finds her one true love, and her ideal courtship probably involves numerous food fights and contests to see who can make me spray hot cocoa out my nose the farthest. If any of you are Facebook friends with me, look at my videos. There's one entitle, Territorial Dispute. This is Rachel and I fighting over a pillow. Vicious. Like spider monkeys, vicious.
Rachel has a high school friend named Elder Ben Poulsen, currently serving a mission in the Big Apple. Prior to his departure, I talked to him on the phone twice, and met him once (at his farewell). Rachel, Hillary, and I, the terrible trio, wrote him collective letters last semester... Actually, I remember one letter in particular where we all got lipsticks of different colors and kissed the envelope. And then mailed it away, hoping to freak out a few mailmen, Elder Poulsen, and his companion.
Well, at some point during the summer, Elder Poulsen got a companion named Elder Jolley. Rachel was still writing Elder Poulsen, of course. Letters which no doubt were full of random expressions like, "Look! Flaming phoenix squirrels!" "We'll blow up the ocean!" "Hillary and Jenna are Irishmen and I'm an Irishwoman!" "I got Jenna to spray hot cocoa out her nose, all over the kitchen!" "Wakakakakakaaa..."
So...
Rachel phones me and tells me a tale. She's been receiving love letters from Elder Jolley... and some of these letters referred to a future time when they'd be married.
I demand that she tell me everything she knows about him. Everything. Well, she doesn't know what his first name is. Or where he's from. Or anything. All she knows is what Elder Poulsen has told her. And all Elder Poulsen has told her is that the mysterious Elder Jolley takes his pants off at the dinner table. Awkward, yes, but upon reflection... if there exists a girl for a guy like this, it's a girl like Rachel. And at this point I understand why Elder Jolley is sending Rachel love letters.
Rachel was a little freaked out by her not-so-secret admirer, so she sent back an enormous packet -- an "Application to Write Rachel", which also demanded an audition tape and two sources.
I obtain Elder Poulsen's address from Hillary, and send a letter. Demanding to know who Elder Jolley is. And, I add, in lieu of Johnny Lingo, that Rachel is definitely not an eight-cow woman. It's two dragons, or no deal, since I want a dragon and Hillary will want a dragon as well.
I get two letters back... one from Elder Poulsen, who was rather thrilled at getting a letter. He also asked if he might be eligible to win our marriage pan (an entirely different story, which I may tell later) and told me to warn Rachel about Elder Jolley's audition tape.
The other letter was from Elder Jolley. He informed me that his name was not Oscar, but that it was Joshua. He continued to inform me that he was wondering how he was going to get into Rachel's inner circle of friends, but that by writing his companion, I had provided him with a great opportunity. He proceeded to beg me to be his co-conspirator. And he wanted to know what sort of dragon I wanted.
Well, I was tempted to reply back that I would certainly be his co-conspirator. However, upon further thought, I decided that I ought to inquire more about the position before accepting it. Especially after what Rachel said about the package she received from said Elder Jolley. He had filled out the entire application... and provided an audtion tape, where he read the entire book of Deuteronomy. (Holy crap.) She told me he was not eligible to marry her because his voice wasn't deep enough (tenor) and he was a mere six feet tall (too short...). He also didn't seem to be quite ominous enough -- he's mostly just a clown. So sad. They seemed rather perfect for each other. Well, that is it for comical stories for now. Toodaloo!
So, as always, you can contact me via email (jennamarie.griffin@gmail.com) or Facebook... or, if you love me extra special, you can call me up (602)577-2899 or perhaps send me snail mail: 366 E. 800 N., Provo, UT 84606. I'll be back for a little longer than a week and a half for Christmas break... not too long though. I'm flying in the evening of December 23rd, and then flying back the morning of January 3rd. And after that? I won't be back until the following Christmas. I don't that'll be too much of a problem, since I think I'm pretty good at keeping in touch. :)
Well, still no good stories. But hey, I can tell you a secret. Or, perhaps it isn't really a secret.
I have an involuntary shivering problem.
I'll be minding my own business, and then, like a Frisbee from the middle of nowhere -- it hits me. I shudder, sometimes violently.
Okay, okay, you say. That happens to everybody. But I say, no! It doesn't! Truthfully, most people shiver only when they have a good reason to... like say, it's freezing. Or maybe something creepy just happened. Or maybe someone sneaked up behind you and blew cold breath on your neck. (Oh, if you don't shudder at the thought, something is sooo wrong with you.)
But I shiver often enough and obviously enough to warrant concern.
I'll be sitting on the couch happily, thinking happy thoughts, being perfectly warm, and then -- graaghglghlgghaa! A series of nerves fire and it's a seizuresque shiver.
You know, it doesn't bother me, most of the time. Except --
Sometimes I shiver over and over and over again in a short period of time. When this happens, the muscles around my spine start to ache and I get a little shaky. But that's okay, it doesn't bother me that bad. Although when it happens on dates, he'll look over at me and nervously ask if I'm okay. It usually scares the living daylights out of whoever he is, even if I assure him this is perfectly normal.
Sometimes this happens: I'll have both my hands in front of me, and suddenly those nerves will fire -- and my arms will tense up -- and more nerves will fire -- and -- SMACK! I've clapped quite loudly, and my hands are stinging. And all this, involuntarily. I can only pray this never happens during a funeral. Or when I'm in the same room as a clap-activated bomb. Or when I'm trying to hide from a killer in a dark room with clapper lights. This could be potentially disastrous, no?
My dad is also quite concerned about this shivering phenomenon. He tells me I should see a doctor or something.
I say, Whhhyyy?! It's totally benign. The worst thing that ever become of it is... hm. Annoyance.
Well, he says, the doctor could give you some anti-seizure medication.
Yes, I say, but why would I want to be taking that for the rest of my life? I couldn't think of a good enough reason. Honestly... I can't stand the sight of blood, so we won't have to worry about me slicing a major artery during neurosurgery or anything.
About a month ago, my dad asked me -- Do you ever shiver like that when you're sleeping and wake up?
Naw, I say.
Never? Are you sure? He proceeds to interrogate me, and I answer truthfully. Soon, I realize... well, yes, I have.
See, sometimes, I wake up suddenly in the middle of night scared to death. I feel like either someone has grabbed me by the shoulders and given me a good, hard shake, or like I've fallen from a few feet in the air onto the bed. I used to attribute this to bad dreams which I didn't remember, but were intense enough to trigger a physical reaction... but... honestly, the shivering thing makes more sense.
Well, of course, my dad would be the first to wonder... What if you're cuddling with your husband and you both fall asleep and then you shiver and wake him up!?
Hm. I'd expect that wouldn't be enough to keep him awake for too long... I don't think that's a disaster. Honestly, if I were him I'd be more worried about wifey stealing all the covers. BAHAHA! And I think many normal couples suffer from the blanket-hog syndrome and the subsequent freezing awakeness of the thus coverless spouse, so I doubt a little shiver now and then would damage our relationship much.
So, all I can say about the shivers is... the condition is much too benign to worry about. Unless that clap thing happens in close proximity to my significant other's face... then I might slap him pretty hard without meaning to. That could damage our relationship much, ya?
Besides. It is obviously a neurological condition. And -- guess what. I happen to be studying neuroscience. What better field than that to have at your disposal if benign ever turns to malevolent. But for now, I feel no need to see a neurologist so I can get anti-seizure medication. All that would really do... is poison my liver. On the other hand... shivers aren't shortening my lifespan much, so I shan't worry about them.
Now for a secret missionary fan club update.
In other news... Clifton... er, Elder Dudley, has recently been stuck in the MTC due to Visa problems. He's supposed to go to the Mexico Monterrey East Mission. Well, he's not in the MTC anymore -- he's been temporarily assigned to labor in the Salt Lake City South Mission. Which I don't mind so much, because that means any letters he sends will still reach me relatively quickly, whereas if he were sending me something from Mexico, I'd probably have to wait for a long time. He sent me a picture of him and a few of his missionary buddies mimicking the Abbey Road cover in the MTC crosswalk. Genius. I shall have to frame it.
Will... er, Elder Budge, is still in the MTC, but he's leaving for Argentina on Monday. Excitement! In less exciting news, some of the other elders in his district... got scavies, and the hermanas in his district... have milk-chugging contests. Mostly he just wants out of the MTC.
And Ryan... er, Elder Strong... has been in Australia for a while. However, I finally got a letter from him. He wrote it almost a month ago, on that eternally long flight from San Francisco to Sydney. He read all ten letters within the first thirteen hours of that flight (in between Preach My Gospel and the Doctrine and Covenants, he assures me). Yikes... that must have been a rather boring flight. :D Thank goodness for email though. His mom forwards emails to me and his other BYU friends. I can tell you that he doesn't like Vegemite; he says it tastes like someone broke a bunch of pens and spread the inky stuff all over his toast. His companion kind of freaked him out at first because he says "I love you" to everyone and their dog, even when they get flicked off. And, most recently, he's pretty much waay excited about preaching the gospel. He loves it, and I'm pretty much jealous that I'm not serving a mission right now.
What else can I tell you?! Hm...
How about Elder Jolley? I can tell you about him. You don't know who he is. Neither do I really. I only recently found out that his first name was Joshua. Before that, for lack of a first name, I called him Oscar. Well, Elder Joshua Jolley is a good story.
I have mentioned my roommate, Rachel, but I don't remember how well I've described her to you. She is rather short. And squirrel-like, definitely, squirrel-like. She makes bizarre noises, and is usually laughing hilariously at something. She often fantasizes about the perfect man -- tall, dark, and ominous (T.O.D.) and preferably a bass or baritone who enjoys serenading. She has a goal to beat the height differential between her parents when she finds her one true love, and her ideal courtship probably involves numerous food fights and contests to see who can make me spray hot cocoa out my nose the farthest. If any of you are Facebook friends with me, look at my videos. There's one entitle, Territorial Dispute. This is Rachel and I fighting over a pillow. Vicious. Like spider monkeys, vicious.
Rachel has a high school friend named Elder Ben Poulsen, currently serving a mission in the Big Apple. Prior to his departure, I talked to him on the phone twice, and met him once (at his farewell). Rachel, Hillary, and I, the terrible trio, wrote him collective letters last semester... Actually, I remember one letter in particular where we all got lipsticks of different colors and kissed the envelope. And then mailed it away, hoping to freak out a few mailmen, Elder Poulsen, and his companion.
Well, at some point during the summer, Elder Poulsen got a companion named Elder Jolley. Rachel was still writing Elder Poulsen, of course. Letters which no doubt were full of random expressions like, "Look! Flaming phoenix squirrels!" "We'll blow up the ocean!" "Hillary and Jenna are Irishmen and I'm an Irishwoman!" "I got Jenna to spray hot cocoa out her nose, all over the kitchen!" "Wakakakakakaaa..."
So...
Rachel phones me and tells me a tale. She's been receiving love letters from Elder Jolley... and some of these letters referred to a future time when they'd be married.
I demand that she tell me everything she knows about him. Everything. Well, she doesn't know what his first name is. Or where he's from. Or anything. All she knows is what Elder Poulsen has told her. And all Elder Poulsen has told her is that the mysterious Elder Jolley takes his pants off at the dinner table. Awkward, yes, but upon reflection... if there exists a girl for a guy like this, it's a girl like Rachel. And at this point I understand why Elder Jolley is sending Rachel love letters.
Rachel was a little freaked out by her not-so-secret admirer, so she sent back an enormous packet -- an "Application to Write Rachel", which also demanded an audition tape and two sources.
I obtain Elder Poulsen's address from Hillary, and send a letter. Demanding to know who Elder Jolley is. And, I add, in lieu of Johnny Lingo, that Rachel is definitely not an eight-cow woman. It's two dragons, or no deal, since I want a dragon and Hillary will want a dragon as well.
I get two letters back... one from Elder Poulsen, who was rather thrilled at getting a letter. He also asked if he might be eligible to win our marriage pan (an entirely different story, which I may tell later) and told me to warn Rachel about Elder Jolley's audition tape.
The other letter was from Elder Jolley. He informed me that his name was not Oscar, but that it was Joshua. He continued to inform me that he was wondering how he was going to get into Rachel's inner circle of friends, but that by writing his companion, I had provided him with a great opportunity. He proceeded to beg me to be his co-conspirator. And he wanted to know what sort of dragon I wanted.
Well, I was tempted to reply back that I would certainly be his co-conspirator. However, upon further thought, I decided that I ought to inquire more about the position before accepting it. Especially after what Rachel said about the package she received from said Elder Jolley. He had filled out the entire application... and provided an audtion tape, where he read the entire book of Deuteronomy. (Holy crap.) She told me he was not eligible to marry her because his voice wasn't deep enough (tenor) and he was a mere six feet tall (too short...). He also didn't seem to be quite ominous enough -- he's mostly just a clown. So sad. They seemed rather perfect for each other. Well, that is it for comical stories for now. Toodaloo!
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