Holy Rollers

Why my life is better . . . because the past and present Relief Society presidents can show up to the ward Halloween party last night in children's size plaid skirts that are dangerously short, and still win "Most Creative Costume." Sorry Hurl Scouts, but the Holy Rollers flirted with the judges.

We didn't want to beat them like that. . .we just wanted to beat them with our skates.

Smart (not as in Elizabeth; she's going on a mission to Paris, France)

I hate pretentious people, but I do consider myself smarter than most of the people I interact with daily. It may also be deemed useful information to some of my audience that 90% of the people I interact with daily are 14 and 15 years old. However, I haven't always been very smart, a fact I will probably rewrite in my memoirs at a later date. In fact, my early educational experience, if evaluated in a single context, may denote a learning disability (I'm not picking on those with "troubles," I'm just glad mine were temporary). One such shame comes when reading my Kindergarten class's Christmas Cookbook. The task was to tell Mrs. Hanneman (stereotypical lower grade teacher who looked like the grandma from a Goldenbook, and was from the most mysterious place I could imagine at that time. Alaska!) our favorite food and how to make it. What I understand now that I didn't as a 5 year old is that Mrs. Hanneman knew that we didn't know how to cook. That the real "gift" we were giving that holiday season was a gag. But while my classmates chose foods like toast and cookies in which they got a few of the ingredients correct, I explained the following recipe, which left my mom feeling a bit sheepish about her dietary decision making at the time and me the class idiot.

Favorite food: "Taco Bell Tostadas"

How to make it: "First you get a burrito (hmm?), and put a salad on top (interesting)."

After Mrs. Hanneman probes for a cook time, I respond with, "Put it in the microwave for 2 seconds."

Ugh. Unfortunately the real humiliation from this event didn't set in until a summer day between 2nd and 3rd grade when I was feeling a bit nostalgic about "the good old days" and decided to rummage through my old school memories (no doubt organized by my sister Lacy, who in the 1st grade had the foresight to label all of her papers from Kindergarten with a "K" and those from 1st grade with a "1," a tradition she has bragged about ever since). Nonetheless, I was disheartened by my poor performance at an early age. However, soon I was properly socialized and institutionalized into the realization that school is a competition. Ah. Cue the next 16 years of schooling in which I only felt good about an academic achievement so long as someone else was beneath me. We call this the American Dream.

But today, at age 26, it is much harder rank myself in the adult world. People feel funny about sharing their ACT scores. Weird. That is unless they are a self-made millionaire who scored below their numerical age at the time of taking it, and in this instance, they share their score as a way of proving that brains are useless and money is a "blessing." That is why the only real measure adults have to distinguish a person's intelligence is through the radio. Huh? Yeah, the only remaining indicator as to whether or not someone should fill out a MENSA application relies completely on whether or not they listen to NPR. You see, this person listens to Harvard grads discuss topics they may or may not understand. But at a party, they can regurgitate enough of the argument to confuse their listener and take the credit as their own original thought. The idea is, if you can keep interest, despite the melodic tones of the show hosts of "This American Life" and the "Jim Leher Newshour," you are smart by default. If you heard a funny joke on "Wait, Wait, Dont Tell Me" about a current event, or a science factoid on "Radio Lab," the guesswork is over. Yep, you're smart. You probably have a newspaper subscription, and it's probably not the USA Today (smart people, you know what I'm talking about).

The point: I have an NPR podcast that helps me go to sleep on wakeless nights. Need I say more?

You're welcome

From the number of comments on the last post, I could tell that "my people" really missed my virtual self and could be near revolt if I didn't get back into CyberSpace ASAP. So, to steal a phrase from Mariah Carey's publicist, "Back by popular demand," my life.

You're welcome.

If you are a real friend (one I have seen before and remember), you will know that I have been out and about this summer. If you are a fake friend (Cyber stalker or friend from elementary school), you now know that I have been out and about this summer. "Out and about" is a phrase I use to be modest about having gone to 12 countries in 30 days during the month of July. And since this is a blog and not a diary, I will share with you some highlights and neglect to mention the moments in which all I wanted was to be in my own bed sucking on a binky.


So, to begin, meet my travel companion, Miss Haddock. We were able to properly document our life together for the unforseen need in the future to create a slide show about it.
At times, we needed a little "space bar," if you know what I mean?? (nudge, nudge)

Some times, we just needed a brush. . .

. . .or some sunglasses

But, most of the time, our lack of preparation was the most enjoyable. Check out "Friday Flip Up Day" in Mykonos, Greece.

I wish someone would have told me the island was a bit breezy.

Despite the language "barrier" (I can mime most languages quite well), I was happy to find my pals Jonas alive and well, while visiting Brugges.

Hung out with some of these *fools.

*Term of endearment to most Bones, Thugs and Harmony fans.

Alas, here is a video clip that you may or may not enjoy. But, if you've gotten this far you've already shirked most of your responsibilities for the day. So, enjoy the man/woman singing her heart out at Sacre Coure.

If you're not jealous, I don't know what else I can do.

So sorry

I apologize for not posting, but I have been summering abroad. I'll probably post about it soon, since it pretty much embodies the title of this blog. Hate me? I thought so.

WANTED: Men

Wow, the double entendre of this blog title is blowing my mind. While obviously, a boyfriend would not be so bad (understatement of 2009), my intention is not to line up potential suitors. Rather, this is really me trying to figure out if by any snowball's chance in Hades (this is a family site people) there are actually any male readers out there. I think in the history of this blog, I have only had one comment by a the "less fairer" sex (Is that right?). So, here's my plea: If you are a boy, man, sir, or man-child and you are reading this, would you please make a comment? I'm devilishly curious. Possibly my self-deprication at times can alienate some potential readers, so I would like to check out my demographic.

(This is who I would love to know was reading my blog. Jake, you out there?)

Hmm . . .

I'm not a detective and I'm certainly not a doctor, but this picture makes me think, well I don't know, but is my mom getting old??? As we crossed the street yesterday, I was nervous that a police officer would stop and give me a gold star for my humanitarian services. (This is a mythical program that I've dreamed up from my childhood perception of policemen mixed with a playground "good deeds" program from my elementary school.) I guess I've always known this day was coming, I just didn't think it'd be this week. If you know my mom personally, please don't tell her about this picture because she's wearing her "around-the-house" crop top and I would be abandoned at age 25 for embarassment. But as you can see, that short shirt all too often sneaks into "out-of-the-house" outtings.

*
* In mom's defense, she has a broken knee and the walker is temporary.

Vay-cay

Over Spring Break last week, I had the chance to vacation in the luxiourious splendor of the greater San Antonio area. It was a true week of pampering. Minus the small, tiny detail that I was sharing my vacation with 12 children ages 1-16. No big d for this socialite, I've always preferred the kinds of vacations where you need to ask, "What is your discount price for children under 10, we have 6 of them?" Nothing like choosing restaurants based on how noisy they are, or spending a rainy afternoon in a spore-infested jump castle. Ah, the sweet life.

I will admit that toting along children has some serious benefits for those of us a little nostalgic for our adolescence. Looks like the only movie we can see that's appropriate for all ages is, "Hannah Montana: The Movie." Bummer. But not really (guilty smile), because if I could go back in time to any age, it would most likely be 14. Back when waiting for Seventeen Magazine to arrive in the mail seemed "so adult." On this trip, we got to eat at multiple restaurants whose specialty is the cheeseburger, go on a rather elaborate Easter Egg Hunt, eat candy from all 12 children's Easter baskets, and hit up a theme park.

Hmm, theme parks. I'll admit that there is something about walking through those oversized entrance gates that fills the heart with excitement and wonderment. Yet, at the end of the day as you pass back through the same gate, you can barely muster up any feeling other than a headache and pure exhaustion. I'm not exactly sure how this happens, but I was saddened during last week's trip to Sea World: San Antonio when I came to the realization that rides make me sick. I couldn't believe it. It's been coming on for some time. After a monumental trip to Lagoon last year, I pinpointed my illness to the mix of theme park roller coasters and carnival rides. But alas, after one jolt on the "Great White" last week, my head was spinning. What a disappointment. Turns out, all I could really enjoy were the animals. Alright.

The sea life at Sea World is pretty amazing. It was cute to watch my two-year old niece Bella see some of these creatures for the first time. During the whale show, she kept calling out "Whale," as if she was even surprise she could say it. However, during the whale show things took a turn for the weird. It was all fine and dandy as Summer, a Marine Biologist/amateur actress, dressed in an orca-striped wet suit, shared her story of living her dream to work with Killer Whales. Every 11-year-old girl in the audience was right there with her. Sadly, I found myself even more amazed by the trainer's ability to do swan dives off of Shamu's nose than Shamu coating the first 16 rows in salt water from a tail flip. But, it wasn't until the music turned to a slightly slower, and more Romantic Enya-esque tune that I now felt that I was watching a love scene between trainer and whale. Echoed by words on a projector telling us to "BELIEVE!" Believe in what exactly? That human and creature can share a life together in and out of the ocean? Frankly, I was confused.

All in all, it was a great trip. However, as I returned back home to my childless existence, I wasn't thinking that the singularity of my singleness was such a sad story. Sorry marrieds.