Circle, circle. Dot, dot.

Recess. You’re six. The boys chase the girls. Circle, circle. Dot, dot. Now you’ve got the cootie shot. A little tyke named Chad chases a girl, Jessica. Down the slide. Across the monkey bars. Over the tires. Up the stairs. He catches her. Panic. Circle, circle. Square, square. Now you’ve got them everywhere. The game is simple. Boys chase girls. A moment in playground history. No one’s been caught before. This hasn’t been planned. Neither know what to do. Jessica acts. Grabs Chad’s arm. The arm that caught her. The arm that’s holding her. Bites. Hard. He yelps. Circle, circle. Knife, knife. Now you’ve got it all your life. He looks at her. Accuses. Runs away. Chase ensues. Capture. Threat. “If you ever tell anyone I’ll bite you again.”

I never was good at flirting. Circle, circle. Fire, fire. Now your shot will never expire.

How To Lose a Girl in 10 Days

I should be doing homework. Instead I think I’ll blog. In my favorite font. Comic Sans. Boys, this one’s for you:

How To Lose a Girl in 10 Days

RB. A mutual friend introduced us. K meant to introduce me to someone else but there was a twist in the story and I met RB.

First Night. K and I decided to go for a drive. RB decided to come along for the ride. We made it to the stadium parking lot. A quick distance visual: Standing on my balcony I can throw a stone farther than the stadium parking lot. A sneak peak inside the car: K drove. Driver’s seat. I called shotgun. Passenger’s seat. RB. Backseat. We’re talking and laughing and talking more. Suddenly, RB grabs my hand. From… the backseat…? RB&J saga Total Time: 1 hour. Romantic? Mm..eh…uh…ok…I could see the romance, if I pretend. Daring? Yes. Daring can be good. K and I try not to laugh. I go home.

First Weekend. RB is gone. We text a little on Friday. Saturday. He calls. We’re talking. I miss you. Thank you? Uh…RB&J saga Total Time: 2.3 days. I hang up.

First Date. He honks. I live on the 3^rd floor. It's quite a walk. But I look really good. Even if I didn’t I’m worth the 3 flights of stairs. RB says we’re going to drive. Drive and talk. We drive past a McDonalds. He’s hungry. We stop. He doesn’t open the McDonalds door for me. He doesn’t offer to pay. He doesn’t ask if I want anything. I don’t. I don’t eat McDonalds. Minus the ice cream. I always eat ice cream. But it’s polite. I watch him eat. He takes me home. He doesn’t walk me to my door. He does kiss me. RB&J saga Total Time: 4 days.

Birthday. I’m 19. K and RB come over to help us celebrate. RB tries to make stir-fry. It doesn’t work. Not even a little. It’s cute, sweet, thoughtful. I decide he’s not such a bad guy. RB&J saga Total Time: 5 days.

INTERMISSION: RB&J saga continues. We chill, hang out, go out, nothing important happens. Just more honking. RB&J Saga Total Time: 8 days.

Breakup: Guitars Unplugged. I want a guy who comes to the door. RB doesn’t even honk this time. I meet him at the stadium. The show is good. We walk home. We need to talk. He agrees. Stadium stairs are a work out. The metal is cold. It bites through my blue jeans. RB goes first. I think we need to break up. I nod. Yup. He’s flustered. He didn’t think I was going to agree. He starts naming off reasons like I’m arguing. 1. He doesn’t like my friends. A is hilarious so I don’t care. 2. We’re too physical. To all of you wondering: No I did not force him to kiss me. 3. He doesn’t see this ending in marriage. I can’t argue with that. My turn. I agree. He starts naming reasons again. I agree again. He stumbles. Informs me he’s still never been broken up with by anyone. He always breaks up with them. He’s proud his streak hasn’t been broken. I congratulate him. Secretly I wish I’d gone first. We go our separate ways. RB&J saga Total Time: 9 days.

Final reason. Last name. I couldn’t do that to my children. Feel free to guess. You won’t get it. Unless you’ve met him.

Epilogue. RB is married. Happily. I hope. To a girl who lived on the 1^st floor. He didn’t have to honk. She didn’t think he was rude. True love.

Virtual Love

What is the oddest way you could possibly meet someone?? Besides meeting them in Rexburg, falling in love, in two weeks, getting married, within the month, and living happily ever after. Dating websites. Still I have a strict “don’t knock till you try it” policy and since it’s 2 am I thought now might be a good time to see what all the fuss is about.

2:05-Stared at the computer for an eternity trying to think of the name of a single dating website. Finally resorted to my good friend Google. EHarmony. I’ve heard of that one.

2:15-Began dating application.

2:16-Gave up on dating application.

I don’t have much patience for forms. Especially when they’re on the computer. I get bored. Look at how many pages are left and usually end up on Facebook. Since I lost interest halfway down page one I’m not sure but I’m assuming the next ten pages could only be compatibility questions. Apparently things besides the fact that I’m funny, have an awesome family, and what some might call “not exactly tall” matter to my “soon to be happy we chose EHarmony compadre”.

2:23-Realization. Have I been going about 1^st dates completely wrong?? Should I be bringing copies of thousands of already answered compatibility questions so that we can determine if we are indeed a perfect match? Or if we calculate that we have not a hint of compatibility cut all pretences of civilized conversation, drop the fake laugh and end the evening within the comfort of our own apts watching reruns of Tosh.0?

2:24-Realization 2. I don’t have time nor patience for thousands of nonsense, pointless questions. So I abridge.

“20 Things I Would Tell a First Date so He Can Determine if We are Indeed Compatible Like He Hopes”:

1. I’m short. Yes, I’ve heard that joke before. No, you may not pick me up. Unless of course I like you. Or there is a train rattling at full speed towards me. Then by all means feel free to launch me to safety. Just aim for a bush. Or a nice grassy area.

2. I lose things constantly. It’s me. I recently lost my car. For 2 ½ hours.

3. I love summertime and anything associated with it. Heat, sunshine, swimming, bbq’s all of these make me a happy person.

4. I hate the cold. More than I hate anything.

5. It bothers me when towels touch. If they are folded nicely. Fine. No big deal. But if they are just tossed over the towel rack and touching…yuck! I won’t use them.

6. I love hockey!!!

7. I don’t like mashed potatoes. I love all other kinds of potatoes but all yogurt like…bleh! They make me gag. So does pudding.

8. I want to travel. I want to see everything. I want to meet everyone. Yes, I know this is unrealistic. I’ll settle for just traveling everywhere. I’m thinking I’m gonna need a private jet.

9. I translate conversations into German in my head when I’m at work and particularly bored. I also dream in German.

10. Apparently I am not a nice person when I’m asleep. Also I’m a deep sleeper. If you think I’m awake it’s best to assume that I’m not. Anything mean I said should be forgotten. Any bruises received should be iced. Apparently I also talk in German and giggle, lots. I’ve even woken myself up because I was laughing so hard. Something that I have been told is quite unsettling and very creepy.

11. I am terrified of insane asylums. This is not my only irrational fear. I also am scared of the post office. And reaching my hand into a box/bag that I can’t see into.

12. I write songs and poetry. It’s the writing no one will ever see.

13. I want to be an actress. I’d move to Hollywood in a heartbeat.

14. I have more jackets than shoes.

15. I skipped 1^st grade. On the first day in my new class we had a spelling bee. I won. I was embarrassed. Already the “smart girl” I’d just beat a bunch of older kids. I went to sit in my chair, knocked over my desk and flipped over it. I had a bloody nose and from that day on I was shy.

16. I love facial hair. And confidence.

17. I take spontaneous trips to nowhere places. Sometimes I just feel like I need to go, leave, get out of the same nothing and be. My last spontaneous need for somewhere besides here hit me at 4 am.

18. I cry at movies, at books, at paintings. Things that evoke passion. Selfless acts of kindness. Things that remind me that humanity has a soul.

19. If I get a book. I will read it. All. In one sitting. It annoys even me. But at the time the story contains me.

20When I'm rich I will spend my money on cheese. And shoes.

FHE+Devo=Eternity.

Every Monday night Mormon families across the world are participating in Family Home Evening or FHE. Usually this Monday night activity consists of being with your family, having a lesson (on the gospel, emergency preparedness, wilderness survival, etc…), a game, and a treat. At BYU-Idaho FHE consists of being thrown together with a group of people who more than likely you would never talk to under different circumstances, a lesson, flirting and consorting with the opposite sex (this only occurs if you are lucky enough to be in the 10% that doesn’t hate their group), and treats. For those of you thinking but its called FAMILY Home Evening!? Uh ya….I wish I knew how to answer that.

Fall FHE Group:

A is the mom. C is the dad. C took this being dad and all thing kinda literal. He started texting A things like, “Goodnight my love” or “a kiss from your husband” or “if you ever need a knight in shining armor, I’m right here.” This last one is possibly the cheesiest thing you could ever tell a girl who is forced to hang out with you once a week. It didn’t take long for C to fall head over heels for his forced once a week “wife” A didn’t like him, or his loving comments. Not even a little. C persisted and asked A to what BYU-Idaho students have endearingly termed a devo date. Devotional or devo for short is held every Tuesday in the Hart auditorium. Students dress in their Sunday best and listen to a speaker speak of speaker like things.

A & C’s devo date:

A: You all are coming to devotional with me. C asked me to go so you all have to come.

J, T, L, M, & S: (giggles)

J, T, L, M, & S: (more giggles)

L: But he asked you! We can’t go!

T: Ya plus I don’t want to.

A: I don’t care.

In the end A convinced L, M, & S to go with her. At devo she strategically placed herself between L and M. C not very happy with the extra company and the odd seating arrangements comforted himself by doodling. Suddenly, he picked up A’s scriptures, strategically placed the doodle somewhere in their pages, and then continued dreaming about one day A being his real eternity. A had not missed a thing. She quickly found the doodle and was relieved that it was nothing more than a penguin.

Now boys and girls I would love to tell you that this story has a happy ending but sadly not all FHE romances and devo dates end in fairy tales. The penguin did not break the curse and C was left hoping that one day his FHE princess would change her mind. She didn’t.

Rexburg.

Rexburg.

1 town. 8 apartment complexes. 12 apartments. 41 roommates. 3 best friends. Late nights, sleepy giggles, Denny’s runs, whip cream game, burnt carnations, sleepovers, Mean Girls & A Cinderella Story, dance parties, Saturday nights.

5 boyfriends. 1 fiancé. 2 regrets. Lots of dates, a few make outs, lessons learned, flirty texts, crushes, first kiss, m&m’s, Buckmaster.

6 run-ins with cops. 1 Wal Mart roof. 1 21 run. To much Tequila. (Don’t worry dad, not me) megaphones, boredom, burnt couches.

2 cars. 1 bike. Countless miles on foot. 1 car fire. 5 breakdowns. 2 speeding tickets. 1 warrant. 15 hours community service. 2 driver’s license tests. 1 Idaho license. Round-abouts, unplowed roads, spin outs, 4 way stops.

5 jobs. Lots of bosses. 3 years, 1 month, 10 days-plasma center. Biomedics. PCCI. Biomat. 6576 sticks. Hours of boredom, paychecks, friends, coworkers, donors, college football, “that’s what she said”, -40 degree freezers, countless liters of plasma.

1 degree. 1 major. 1 minor. 11 semesters. 122 credits. 3 retakes. Papers, books, portfolios, 3^rd floor library, to many winters.

Rexburg. 4 years.

4 years of my life summed up in numbers. Broken down. Assessed. Dismissed. But the numbers don’t give feeling to the memory associated. There is no life in numbers. The numbers don’t tell about the countless times we snuck out my window; to avoid roommates, to avoid FHE, for candy corn wars, for the lawn that offered sunshine. They avoid the man driving his tractor in a Sunday suit, the drinks bought from Sonic. The bitter cold of a Rexburg night when you walk home from work and the wind cuts through the paper-thin scrubs, you step in a puddle and your leg almost immediately freezes. They don’t capture the scream at KFC, the sound of Guitar Hero. The beauty of my best friends can’t be seen in a number. 6 times I was sent to the dean. But in all reality I just wanted my screen off my window and to sit in the hot tub. Reasons missed in the number six. The stupidity of riding a long board down a hill on your stomach isn’t

in a number even though we only had to try it once. Numbers don’t account for heartbreak, for the countless miles driven to escape Rexburg. To Vegas. 8 short hours and Palm trees are within reach, sunshine and happiness seem possible. To Boise. 4 hours; a short distance to avoid the thoughts you can’t think.

I wish Rexburg could be broken down, assessed, dismissed. The negative memories forgotten, buried and gone. But the truth is it can’t. Somewhere along the way I stopped avoiding referring to Rexburg as home. I stopped saying “I’m headed back to my apt” and simply “I’m headed home.” Somewhere along the way Rexburg became home. And it simply cannot be dismissed because 4 years of life happened here. Rexburg-where you can play in the snow 3 months of the year. The other 9 are to cold. 654,294,273 memories.

Nightmares and Man Eaters

About every week I have a dream. I’m a bride. The look of the dream is never exactly the same. Sometimes I’m dressed in jeans, sometimes I’m in all white and looking gorgeous. Sometimes my family is there. Sometimes no one is there. I’m at a temple. I’m at a park. The feel of the dream is always the same. I’m terrified. I don’t want to. Turn, run, get out.

The latest: I’m dressed in a stiff business like suit. Cream. I walk down a dark aisle in a random church. My groom: Dark, curly hair. Muscular. Very. All in all good looking. I don’t want to marry him. The preacher, father, reverend, whatever he is, is talking to us. We both say I do. The real wedding is about to start. I walk down the aisle. Fight or flight. Flight. “You’re already married” someone says, “When you were talking to the preacher you said I do.” It’s to late. I wake up in a cold sweat. Realize it was a dream and try to calm my rushed breathing and hammering heart. At least I didn’t wake up screaming this time.

Now being the logical person I am I know that either Freud or some psychic out there has the answer. Seeing as Freud would simply claim that I have some sexually repressed desire towards my father’s mother’s brother’s son’s uncle’s grandson’s father twice removed well I went with the psychic. Google presented me with two options. Dream Dictionary and Aunt Flo. Dream Dictionary states: “A wedding reflects your issues about commitment and independence. Such dreams are often negative and highlight some anxiety or fear.” Cheers. Aunt Flo agrees with this, “To get married in your dream-Independence is being questioned.” Double cheers. Who ever thought a Google dream psychic would be right?

¿Habla Español?

No hablo español. Which surprisingly is a problem since I’m taking Hispanic literature. Hispanic Literature: Literature written in Spanish by Spanish folk for Spanish readers. Warning: Must be able to speak Spanish in order to read, comprehend, and respond. Why did I fail this class the first time? Why am I almost failing again? Oh ya…no hablo español.

Spanish 101-First day of class: M starts talking to me. M: a boy about 22, acne, greasy hair, thinks he’s funny. He’s not. I immediately tune everything out. This includes the lesson on, ¿Cómo estas? I don’t know how to answer this question.

Spanish 102: I’m engaged. I meet K in class. She’s also engaged. We do homework together. Homework in Spanish class is insane. It never ends. Writing exercises come first then on to the listening exercises. By the time I get to the oral exercises it’s time to study for the test. I finish the homework by copying the answers out of the back of the book. I pass with an A. I still don’t know the answer to ¿Cómo estas?

Spanish 201: I’m already behind. I try to catch up. I try to learn Spanish. No more copying answers. No more engagement. Life catches up and I start to copy. I pull off a C. Since I didn’t make it out of bed the last month of class I’m calling it a miracle. I’m still behind.

Spanish 202 a.k.a. Hispanic Literature-First Attempt: I drop the second day.

Spanish 202 a.k.a. Hispanic Literature-Second Attempt: It’s early. It’s cold outside. Two things I don’t do. I go to class. It’s to early for Spanish. But even if it were later I wouldn’t understand. My grade starts slipping and my bed starts calling. My second attempt at Spanish 202 didn’t stand a chance.

Spanish 202 a.k.a. Hispanic Literature-Third Attempt: I take the early class again. Mistake #1. I miss classes. Mistake #2. I can’t speak Spanish. Mistake #3. Ever taking a Spanish class. Mistake #4.

Whoever said that Spanish is the language of love is obviously mistaken. It neither impresses me nor makes me fall in love. Now German there is a language I can appreciate. German is beautiful and makes sense. The rules are exceptions and the exceptions have rules that aren’t exceptions. If I were to be honest though I’d admit that Spanish is beautiful, maybe it is the language of love. But it is also the only academic area I have ever had to struggle with. I resent not understanding. I resent Spanish.

I’m supposed to write an essay in Spanish. The topic: How has Hispanic literature influenced your view or appreciation of literature in general? I use Google translate. For the whole thing. Then I give up. I update my blog on how much I hate Hispanic literature. I wonder if my teacher will accept it as my essay? Copy, paste, Google translate magic… homework done. Thank you Google man. I owe you big time.

Fun, Flirty, & 18

Confession. Recently I have dabbled in the pool of 18 year old, freshman boys. By dabbled I of course mean I have simply dipped a toe or two into the water. Confession 2. Maybe it was a foot. Or possibly a leg. Ok, ok so maybe I took a running leap and swan dived into that pool. In any case, I dabbled.

It all started with C. I met him at a dance. He got my number and the texting began.

3 weeks of knowing each other: He told me he liked me. I told him he was 18.

5 weeks of knowing each other: He told me he wanted to date me. I told him I saw problems in a relationship because of his age.

7 weeks of knowing each other: He asked me to be his girlfriend. I said yes. Turns out 18 year olds are determined.

It also turns out that 18 year olds are well…young. C asked me if it was ok if he took someone to prom. I laughed. Realized he wasn’t joking and laughed again. Realized I was to old to even be allowed in to prom as something other than a chaperone and felt like crying. There I was jealous of a 16-year old girl. Feeling old is an odd sensation.

Needless to say 18 year olds are just as volatile as they are carefree and just as quickly as C’s and my relationship took a step forward he was gone. I didn’t mourn his loss. He was 18 and 18 means no commitment. Tip of Advice: An 18 year old is just about to leave to what us, cougars, can only hope will be another country for two years. Nothing says goodbye quite like a suit, tie, and plane ticket across the world.

Last week a boy gave me his number. I asked how old he is. 18. I didn’t bother to text him. I’ve sworn off 18 year olds. No dating them, no kissing them, no involvement. So to all my past 18-year old boys, thank you. Thank you for being young and carefree. Thank you for being fun, and flirty. Thank you for being 18.

Crosswalks and J-birds

Rexburg has a phenomenon wherein a fight between a pedestrian and a car is won by…oh yes a car. Just like everywhere else. Interestingly enough however, the pedestrian’s still seem to believe that it is possible for them to succeed.

Case Study A: Imagine the typical Rexburg day. It is freezing. Quite literally. The temperature is in the negatives. The roads still haven’t been plowed from last week’s snowstorm (which is a whole different topic. Apparently when it snows 9 months out of the year the town just doesn’t have the manpower needed. But I digress.) and conditions are to say the least icy. Jane is approaching the cross walk driving at a slower than normal speed since she just twirled through the round about when Roger hits the crosswalk light and proceeds to cross the street. Jane slams on her brakes but due to the hazardous conditions slides through the crosswalk barely missing Roger.

Problem 1 with Case A: Really walking people??? Just because you hit a light does not guarantee that a car will be able to stop. The yellow light is not magical. It cannot save you. Remember the “Rules of the Road” as taught to you when you were 4 years old. 1. Hit the light. 2. Look both ways to ensure no cars are coming. 3. Proceed across the street.

Problem 2 with Case A: Us, car owners, we try to stop for you we really do. But due to the lack of plowing intelligence maintained by the City of Rexburg the roads are icy. And we are unable to. When my car slides into the street and almost into you I am just as scared as you are. I just know I’ll be the one to survive. Give the cars a little more time to stop before you skip on your way to class.

Case B: It is night. Jane is driving with her roommates singing along to California Girls although let’s face it she’s from Michigan. An infatuated couple, wearing black, dart across the street. Jane slams her brakes and barely misses them.

Problem 1 with Case B: It is nighttime. Yes cars have headlights but alas we still cannot see you “poppers”, especially when you clad yourself in dark colors. I know, I know but you just look so good in that black tee. Well take an extra two seconds and walk to a cross walk and then once again follow, “The Rules of the Road.”

Case C: Jane approaches a crosswalk. Ben is just about to cross the street so being courteous Jane waits. Ben slowly steps out into the street and begins to meander his way across. Maybe stops to pick some yellow flowers growing through a crack in the charcoal pavement for his soon to be wife. He stops and smirks up at Jane. Turns up the I-pod and years later reaches his final destination, the other side.

Problem 1 with Case C: “I will run you over!” is what every single car owner is currently thinking. Once in the street, get across the street. Do not dilly-dally and no meandering. Please don’t think I’m being ridiculous. I don’t expect you to run across the street. However, it shouldn’t take 5 minutes. Nor should it take 2 minutes.

Problem 2 with Case C: Please wipe that smirk off your face. I drive a car. You are walking in negative 20-degree weather. Even if I did stop and wait for you I will still get to school first. Plus I am decently warm. All your smirking does is make me not want to ever stop for you again. Or maybe “accidentally” stop braking. I kid, I kid. But for real.

In the words of the BYU-I Pedestrians, stop getting yourselves killed campaign, “Remember to share the road.”

Disclaimer: Despite some harsh words spoken above I would never intentionally hit someone with my car. That would suck. I hate going to the car wash. :)

So it begins:

Beginnings. The greatest. The worst.

Beginnings are like Christmas mornings and moving to a new town senior year all in one. A smoothly wrapped present waits: red wrapping paper, crisp lines, perky bow. In my case the present is a blog. Moving senior year sucks. Why parents ever do it to their children I have no idea. Mine did not. But I have an imagination. And even my imagination shivers at that cafeteria full of strangers. Beginnings bring out my insecurities. I’m not a fan of facing those. However, apparently blogs are the new thing. Once the fad extended itself past the loving circle of Mormon mothers I knew it was time. Christmas morning has arrived; the red paper lies safely crumpled in a steel waste bin, there remains no choice but to dive into the sea of hormonal girls and acne struck males. So begins my blog.