My Friendship/Dating Application

A friend of mine was recently telling me about a website that has dating applications readers can fill out if they think they'd be a good match for one of the writers.

Naturally, that got me thinking... What would I put on my dating application? And then I thought, "Heck, who says it should only be limited to dating? Let's make this an all inclusive application for anyone to fill out!"

And thus this application was born. I have way too much time on my hands, kids. 

So here it is. Did I miss anything?

Disclaimer- This is not a serious application. I'm joking. It's funny. Laugh with me. But if you do fill it out, I promise to respond with a grade based on how crumby your answers are. 

x,
   m

Oh, and Happy New Years!

Micaela's Application of Love and Friendship

Name:

Gender:

Applying for: Dating/ Friendship/ Both

Date of Submission:

Answer all questions completely and honestly. Use whatever font you feel describes you. Email your completed application to thesnarkblog@gmail.com. Thanks!

1. Who are your top three favorite Disney characters and why do you like them?

2. Word association- Type the first thing that comes into your mind after reading each word or phrase...

Shark-  

Harry Potter- 

 Ke$ha-

Bull Fighting- 

Caffeine- 

Unicorns- 

Sushi- 

3. Do you want to grow up? If yes, what do you want to be? If no, explain why in haiku form.





4. Explain your ideal date/ hang out in 19 words or less.




5. What are the three most important things in your life? (At least two of these things must be serious.)




6. Tell me about your relationship with your mother.




7. What's the best way to get in touch with you? (Include your email, phone, or any other relevant information.)

Flirting is Hard and I'm Bad at It

When A and I broke up, I thought the world was pretty much over. I was convinced that I was going to die alone with twenty cats in a tiny walk-up apartment in hel- I mean Scranton, Pa. Like, seriously. I was sure that no one else could love me ever again because I was weird and awkward and really really liked playing the Sims.

After a few months, I decided it was probably time for me to start looking at other guys. Not dating other guys, per se, but looking at other guys. Romantically. It was super weird at first. I'd spent the last two years looking at one person, thinking he was the be-all, end-all of my life and, suddenly, there were other people that I was allowed, nay, encouraged to "check out." What does that even mean?

I moved out west a few months later. I was determined to get over A. I made a concentrated effort to talk to boys, but it was hard and I usually gave up before I actually got around to the talking part. I would have really great imaginary conversations with all kinds of guys. I think my brain took it the wrong way, though, because when I finally got to the point where I was cool with talking to a cute boy, my brain was working on overdrive to sabotage me. 

It usually went like this:

Me: Oh, look, a male specimen that is suitably attractive. I wish to engage in flirting activities with him. Brain, ready my mental faculties for flirtation. 

Brain: On it boss. Let's just steer you right over there... And we're good. Commence operation.  

Me: Okay. I said hi and he didn't run away screaming. That's a good sign right? 

Brain: We're doing great. Oh, look. He's saying something funny! 

Me: Wow, he's pretty cool. Run the laughter program, please. 

Brain: Running.  

Me: [laughter] He's saying something funny again. Can we impress him with a witty reply? 

Brain: Naw, man. I've got a better idea. I'm gonna run the laughter program again.

Me: Wait...what- [laughter] 

Brain: Mmm... I can do better. Let's amp up the volume and the pitch. Good. Now try snorting as unattractively as possible. Ooo! Idea! Let's inhale some of our own spit and then hack it up like we have an infectious lung disease! Charming. Wheeze, Micaela, wheeze. 

Me: [dying] ... Wait, he's leaving... He's literally sprinting away.  

Brain: Oh, it's cool. Now it's just you and me. Forever and ever and ever and ever...

You get the idea. And it still happens a lot more than I care to admit. And it's way awkward. Texting is my friend. I have time to override my brain's automatic response with witty responses. And I can do it wearing my pajamas. Texting was invented for the sole purpose of giving people like me the chance to find love, I swear. 

Another problem I have with flirting is that I suck at it, especially when I really like someone. They'll say something cute and I'll laugh way too loud because on the inside, I'm screaming "I am a little bit in love with you. Please read my thoughts and love me also. Thank you."But then with people I don't like as much, I can be a flirting machine. It's a paradox.

That last bit wasn't as relevant as I thought it would be, but I felt like it needed to be said. 

Long story short, I'm not going to die alone unless I end up choking to death on my spit while I'm trying to seduce someone. 

This post kind of sucks. If you made it to this point, I'm really proud of you.

x,

   m

Thoughts from the Airport

I have been traveling since 7:30 am. Two time zones later, I'm stuck in an airport because a flight to Charleston took up residence in my gate and refused to leave. I guess they over-booked the flight so much that they need to move four people to a flight that leaves at 11:30 tonight from a different airport. Trouble is none of the highly compliant passengers headed to Charleston were willing to budge on their flight time. The (really not) adorable couple across from me were complaining about it for at least a half hour. The girl even called her mom to check if it was okay if they got in late. Based on the half of the conversation I heard, her mom was fine with it. But no, they didn't take one for they team, they stayed to complain.

Then the airline gave up and (somehow) got a bigger plane. What? That's a thing? They moved all the awful Charlestonians to another gate. It was fun to watch them run when they were informed that their plane was leaving immediately. Revenge is sweet.

Except it isn't. They had caused such a delay that the airport had no choice but to skip my flight altogether and send in the plane scheduled for the next slot and change my gate.

Ugh.

So now I'm sitting in an airport, waiting for my flight to come at least two hours late. I know I'm complaining. Oh, well.

Being stuck in an airport for prolonged periods of time can be pretty interesting. I got to listen to a pilot hit on a super-skinny chick who works for a non-profit, which was pretty much the most stereotypical chick-flick senario I can imagine.

The horribly un-adorable couple going to Charleston talked a lot about how much the world sucks for them in particular while downing Five Guys burgers. How can you be sad about the world while eating Five Guys?

An adorable older couple talked to a young mother and gave her baby Cheerios. The gentleman gave up his seat so the mother could sit down, saying, "Here, you need this more than I do." I'm glad there are still people like that in the world.

Two middle-aged business men compared web browsers and joked about the end of the world. The one guy was excited to see his mother "before the world explodes." Cute.

I watched two strangers become friends, talking about books, and the news, and how hilarious daily life was. It struck me as kind of magical that two people who will never see each other again could become so close so quickly.

And I watched a lot of people be alone. Airports are unique in that they bring a whole lot of people together from all kinds of places very briefly and then fling them all over the world. Some people like to reach out of their worlds and connect with someone else's. Some people like to stay in their bubble, drink their coffee, and read their novel. Neither choice is wrong or better.

I'm more of an observer. I like to find out people's stories from just watching them. Is that super creepy? It probably is.

Anyway, I'm homeward bound after six months away. Wish me luck.

x,
   m

The Plan

I'm at the age where people ask me a lot about my "plans" for the "future." And I'm like, "Well, I'll probably have grilled cheese for dinner, unless I change my mind and want a ham sandwich instead." (For some reason, they don't find that as amusing as I do.)

I think not having a plan comes across as lazy to some people. I get that. There are people that have The Plan from career day in kindergarden, who dressed up like a doctor for Halloween every year, and worked their butts off with an eye single to the glory of doctor-dom. That's great. 

There are other people that at least kind of think they know where their life is heading. They can rattle off the facts of their current plan with no problem. Usually, they're still trying to decide what kind of engineer they want to be or if they want to teach middle or high school. 

And then there's me. I can tell you with 100% honesty that I have regressed plan-wise since kindergarden. Like, seriously, intensely regressed. 

When I was five-to-nine-ish, my plan was solid. I was going to marry a prince named Derek (like in The Swan Princess), thus becoming a princess myself, but never a queen because "queen" sounded old. Simple, stream-line, and impressive. This charmed adults. 

Sometime around my 10th birthday, I decided that it would be pretty sweet to be in the air force or be an astronaut  This was probably because I had a little brother who was finally old enough to have interests, and his interests were planes. My family spent a lot of time talking about, researching, and looking at fighter jets and such. Combine that with my intense love of all things Star Wars (Original Trilogy only.) and you got a dorky little kid who pretended that the playground swings were pilot seats. I'm pretty sure this phase replaced what would have been my horse phase. This both impressed and alarmed adults. 

Enter middle school guidance counselors. One day, in the middle of November, our excessively cheery carer counselor visited my 6th grade class. We were forced to take a quiz online that would supposedly suggest viable career options. My top three were dramatics teacher, ice skater, and ambassador. By 12, I was smart enough to know that money was important (and I didn't know how to ice skate) so I decided that ambassador was probably my best bet. By 8th grade, I had fallen in love with Spanish. I decided that I would become the US's ambassador to Spain. This impressed adults. 

In 10th grade, I realized I didn't really love Spanish as much as I thought I did, and decided I would be a biologist. Don't remember why. This also impressed adults.

By junior year, I had entered a stage of rebellion and discovered my love of writing. My parents had always told me that they would support my career choices, but tened to steer me away from the Education field. So naturally, I started telling people that I wanted to be an English teacher. I still think about being an English teacher, but only when I'm sitting by myself in dark rooms. I continued telling people my English teacher plan for the rest of high school and for some of college. This caused adults to fake a smile and say, "Good for you, dear."

 

These days, I cycle through plans hour by hour. I've watched enough Law & Order: SVU to think that being a police detective would be an interesting job. I've thought about learning Arabic and working for the State Department. My current major is psychology (I'll roll my eyes for you). Working for the FBI sounds like a sweet gig. So does writing a best-seller out of my dad's attic (sorry dad). 

So, yeah, I have no plan. Maybe I'll have one tomorrow, or in a month, or a year, or a decade. I don't know. Things will happen.

And Prince Harry is still single so I've still got time to be a princess. 

x,

    m

Facebook Questions!

Hello! I realize I've been MIA (yet again). I want assure everyone I'm okay. I've just been... dealing with some stuff. I think I'm on the upswing so yay!

Today, I asked Facebook to ask me questions so I could answer them because I was feeling lazy. Oh my gosh, Facebook did not disappoint  I got everything from Victoria's Secret to science-y stuff. I had a lor of fun answering these questions. Enjoy.

   x,
      m

15 Facebook Questions (in the order they were received)

1. How many times have you had to dispose of a body, and how have you done so in the past? I'm a strong advocate of acid, but high grade hydrochloric acid's super pricey... Any suggestions? 

(Dear FBI: I know I'm already on your watch-list, and I'm just joking... you can take your patriot acts and shov- :sniper bullet passes through brain:)

Wow. Getting weird right off the bat.

I have disposed of exactly one dead body in my 18 years of life and it was the body of my fish, Gowie. I was 5 and Gowie had a nice... water burial. In the toilet.

Assuming you mean larger bodies, Siri recommends hiding dead bodies in reservoirs  metal foundries, swamps, mines, or dumps. I recommend not killing people.

2. So Micaela, what have the past few months taught you about life? How has living in Utah affected your life and career goals? Have you met any non-weird boys yet?

The last few months have taught me to appreciate meat and vegetables, avoid unscented laundry detergent, stock up on toilet paper, actively try to see good in other people, and cry when I really need to. I know that's not terribly deep, but this is what seems significant to me so far.

Living in Utah has shown me that it's good to surround yourself with "good" people, but it's better to surround yourself with genuine people. Utah is filled with good people, as is any place, but sometimes it feels like genuine people are few and far between. It's also shown me that, as great as Utah is, I will not be living in Utah after I am done with college. Career-wise, I'm still in limbo.

Non-weird boys... Short answer: Yes. Long answer: I'm learning to embrace the awkward. (In other words, they're still weird, but I'm learning to fin it adorable.)

3. What color would the grass be is Tim Burton was in control of the universe?

Orange.

4. How can people like places or traveling when they have never been or done it before?

I really love this this question. I guess it's the same as liking a person you've never met or loving a song you've only ever heard your friend sing. Places have personalities, like people, and I suppose we connect with places based on our experiences. I, for example, really love Barcelona, Spain, even though I've never been there. I know I love it because I've seen it in pictures and movies and have fallen in love with what I know about the history and culture. Will I ever actually go there? I have no idea.

5. Are you engaged yet? When are you getting married? Am I invited to the wedding? What's your wedding song gonna be? Will you marry me?

No, I don't know, you may be invited to the reception, All About Us by He is We and Owl City, no.

6. How would you describe your perfect day?

Can we assume that I have unlimited resources and the ability to teleport? Cool.

I would wake up at 9:30 am to a gorgeous and nerdy man bringing me a Magleby's Fresh French Toast Platter. I would then enjoy breakfast in bed followed by a refreshing shower. A limo would pick me up and take me to a full service spa, where I would receive a massage, mani/pedi, and facial.

After that, I would teleport to Japan's best sushi restaurant and enjoy a sushi date with Andrew Garfield (who is in love with me). We would laugh and talk and be quite romantic, until I told him I needed to go. He would kiss me goodbye, wiping gentle tears from his face.

I would teleport to Sanibel Island, FL, where I would meet all of my best friends for an afternoon of relaxing in the sun. I would finish the day off with a sunset dinner on the beach with all of my favorite people (my dad, my best friends, my puppy, etc.). We would probably have Thai food, but I wouldn't really notice what I had to eat because I would be so happy to have all my favorite people with me.

Then, I would teleport back to my childhood home just in time to watch the fireflies come out. I'd go to bed at 11.

7. What do carrots remind you of?

Okay, so, in middle school, I rode the bus with my best friend, Laura. Sometimes we would get really cold waiting for the bus to show up, so I came up with this crazy idea that saying "I'm a carrot" over and over helped us keep warm. To this day, I swear to Gosh that it helps.

8. What's the meaning of life?

This video. Or 42. Pretty much, go read/watch The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy.

9. Who the eff is Hank?

BOOM.

Now go watch the Vlog Brothers.

10. Why can't people come up with thoughtful questions on the spot?

For the same reason that people can't come up with thoughtful answers on the spot.

11. If both hydrogen and oxygen fuel fires, then why doesn't water burn?

You pose an interesting question.

12. If a zombie bites a vampire, then that vampire bites a human, does the human become a zombie or a vampire...or a zompire?

Wow. Pressure. All my life, I've been preparing to answer this question.

First, we must establish whether or not vampires can contract disease (since zombie-ism is traditionally said to be transmitted in the form of a virus.) After consulting aioros (a highly reliable source I found on some random webpage), "Vampires are not succeptible to viral illness. If your vampire appears sick, its probable he/she just wants blood, attention, or to not be taken out for walks in broad daylight."

So the answer to your question, as posed, is the human would simply become a vampire. However, what would happen if a vampire bit a zombie who then bit a human? Interesting. I am inclined to think that the human would then, indeed, become a zompire. This is contingent on my hypothesis that zombies can contract vampirisism. I am still in the process of testing said hypothesis.

13. are you on winter track? I want to see you

I am assuming that you are asking if I'm on winter track at BYU-I. The answer is no, as I do not attend BYU-I. Sorry.  :(

14. Why am I only lesbian when Victoria Secret fashion shows are on?

Sexuality is a personal thing that you define between you, yourself and... you. Apparently, your brand of lesbianism only manifests when you're watching anorexic and freakishly tall women wearing itsy-bitsy panties and oversized angel wings. I mean, that's not my thing, but I guess it could appeal to someone...?

Then again, it is possible that you have a thing for starving angels with growth hormone disorders, in which case I urge you to get counseling.

15. Define existence. (Not trolling this time.)

Define "not trolling."

Dragon Pictures and "Banoo"s

I remember it like it was yesterday. 

8th grade band practice had just ended. I was struggling to get my metal folding chair onto the chair racks without dropping my baritone (which was about the same size as me, since I hadn't yet grown) when he approached me, scrawny body clinging to his tuba (which was much bigger than him), glasses falling down his face. 

(He needs a name. Let's call him Jeff.) 

Jeff had long been a thorn in my side. His behavior in 7th grade Spanish had nearly driven me to screaming several times. For, you see, Jeff had three of the most annoying habits anyone can ever have, ever: drawing detailed and sometimes sexually explicit pictures of dragons (think Napoleon Dynamite) and showing them to everyone, correcting everyone every time anyone bothered to open their mouth, and pronouncing "baño" (the spanish word for bathroom) as "banoo."  

Seriously. Banoo. 

Since I was a good student and kinda on the shy side, teachers tended to seat me next to their "problem" students. I think the assumption there was that I'd rub off on them, which everyone knows never happens. * Jeff was a problem student. Guess who sat next to him in Spanish, band, and (briefly) social studies? 

Yup. Me. 

And I was a nice kid. I didn't make fun of him like the other kids. I listened when he explained why his 34th dragon picture was different than all the others, tolerated his mispronounced Spanish in silence, and didn't punch him in the face when he said, "Actually, Ms. Rose, that's wrong" for the 5 millionth time. I didn't think much of it. We weren't friends, and as long as he never talked to me outside of class, there wasn't a problem. Sure, he was weird, but he didn't seem to be contagious. I had been raised to be nice to other people, even when they were a little bit creepy. And he was one person I was actually taller than, so he wasn't threatening.  

Anyways, as I wrestled my chair, I hear him say my name. "Mici!" I turned around to find him right behind me. "Um, hi, Jeff..." I said. I subtly glanced around the room to see if anyone had noticed us talking. Safe for now. 

He cleared his throat and looked me dead in the eyes. "If I asked you out, would you say yes?"

"Um, no." I felt my cheeks go hot. Sure that someone must have noticed us by now, I turned to go.

"Will you go out with me?"

I looked back at him. "No." And I walked (ran?) away, leaving him and his tuba standing by the chair rack. I never talked to him again, preferring to ignore him. 

I told my friends about it later and we all shared a good laugh. After all, Jeff had asked me on a date, and, even though I wasn't exactly a prime catch, I was too good for Jeff... 

Right?

Well, years went by, and I didn't have him in any of my classes until Senior year. He walked into my math class. Nothing had changed. He still had the same annoying hobbies. I was still assigned to sit by him. We all made fun of him. 

But then, one day, he disappeared from school and never came back. Different stories circulated-- his father beat him up really bad, he tried to hurt himself, his mom left his dad-- but all anyone could confirm was that he wasn't dead. Even his girlfriend, who I knew from Marching Band, didn't know much. One thing was sure, though-- his abrupt disappearance wasn't a positive thing. Something bad had happened.

I still don't know what happened to him, and I don't think I ever will. I don't have many regrets in life, but one of them is making fun of Jeff. I don't feel bad about not dating him, I feel bad about ignoring him, laughing when other people made cruel remarks, and letting sarcasm ooze into all my comments to him. I'm not delusional-- I know we never would have been friends-- but I regret the little things that I did that helped make his life harder. 

As someone who's suffered quietly, I know what it's like to have to put on a brave face and pretend nothing's wrong, and I know how much little acts of kindness help. I also know how even the smallest comment can take a horrible day and make it worse. 

Here's to noticing the Jeffs of the world, the underdogs, the lonely, the bizarre, and the broken. Here's to making the extra effort to smile at someone just because, to not rolling your eyes at a comment you think is stupid, and to tolerating other people's quirks. You never know what they're going through. 

Happy weekend, dear Snarkites!

x, 

   m

*Actual result- I was well-versed in lock-picking theory, cuss words, half the school's sex life, and the soccer team's drug habits by the time I graduated from high school. 

Peaches

I know I haven't written in a while. There's a very good reason I haven't. But you're not going to hear that reason because it is boring and sad. Instead, I'm going to get a little personal, if y'all don't mind. I share this not for pity. I share this because I honestly believe it could help someone.

Today, I want to talk about my personal battle with my self-esteem. Ever since I can remember, I've struggled to accept my body, my personality, and my mind as "pretty" or even "normal."The mirror has, I kid you not, reduced me to tears more often than I care to admit. This isn't just an "off-day"type thing-- it's something I live with and fight against every day. And no, it's not like I've never felt "cute" or whatever. I have periods of time that are better than others, months when the girl looking back at me from the mirror is satisfactory. 

A lot of this problem stems from the way I grew up, surrounded by conflict. I was often made to feel that I was the problem, even when I wasn't, but I didn't know any better. I learned that my mother didn't like herself very much, and I felt like she didn't like me much either. We later learned that her self-loathing was rooted in mental illness, and that her illness caused her to project her feelings about herself onto those around her. The first time I remember feeling ugly was when I was in 4th grade. 

I went through a phase in middle school wherein I was convinced I was some kind of genetic freak (though it can be argued that nearly everyone does). Kids told me I had a big nose. I felt stupid almost daily. I measured my self-worth by the number of people that said hi to me in the hallway. An adult once told me that I could be a model if they photoshopped my face out of the pictures. I grew up in this strange state of conflicted logic. Disliking myself was all I'd ever known, so I figured it was normal for me to feel ugly, dumb, and weird. On the other hand, I would compare myself to other girls and think, "If I looked like her, I would be happy," because I assumed that the pretty, smart, normal girls must be happy. As I grew older, I learned that getting attention from boys was where it was at. I measured my love for myself by my romantic prospects, as well as how many friends I had, what grades I got, and how severe my acne was on any given day. 

Then things changed pretty dramatically. My parents separated. My dad and I started talking a lot about my childhood, the way my dear mother's illness had effected both of us, and how we can heal from the damage that had been done. 

I resided in my convoluted logic for years and years. The script I ran in my head told me I was unattractive, stupid, inferior, unwanted, and unloveable. It wasn't until my senior year of high school that I realized the way I felt about myself wasn't healthy or good, and that maybe, just maybe, I didn't see myself clearly. The mental script that I read myself each time I saw myself was harsh, cruel, and perhaps untrue. 

I still struggle with loving myself, but I am making slow and steady progress, but I am a different person than I was a year ago. I see beauty in myself more frequently. I've learned to be gentle with myself, to allow error, and to accept that everyone's a little bit flawed. I've learned that God loves me, simply because I am me, and that He made me the way I needed to be to get the most out of this life. I have discovered unconditional love in places I didn't know I would. I have only just begun to realize my own potential for happiness and love. And I've only just begun to appreciate the girl in the mirror. 

There are two quotes that I adore that I'd like to share. These quotes have gotten me through my toughest days over and over again.

"No one can make you feel inferior without your consent." -Eleanor Roosevelt

"You can be the ripest, juiciest peach in the world and there's still going to be somebody who hates peaches." -Dita Von Teese

Please remember to love yourself... It's worth it. And the more you find beauty in yourself, the more you'll see it in others.

Have a lovely weekend!

x,
   m

Enjoy the Ride

This morning, my dear grandmother passed away. She battled cancer for 8 years, fighting the disease with more grace, bravery, and elegance than I ever thought possible. Everyone who knew her was blessed by her love.

Last week, she expressed her desire to live until Thanksgiving, but her rate of decline made it clear that she had days, not months, to live. So we gathered together to celebrate our own Thanksgiving. The meal was not traditional Thanksgiving fare-- We feasted on ham, toss salad, squash, scalloped potatoes, and two types of Jell-o salad. Everyone agreed that it was the best Thanksgiving meal they'd ever had.

After dinner, we gathered in Grandma's room. She had been bedridden for about a month, and unable to stay awake longer than a few minutes. We talked to her, and though she couldn't respond, I know she heard us. Her bedroom felt sacred. I felt the presence of angels in the room. She woke up to take a few bites, then fell back asleep.

Throughout the night, we all took turns sitting with her and holding her hand, having our private moments with Grandma. My dad, who was in Pennsylvania, talked to her on the phone. My cousins and I sang to her. Being there with her and my dear family was the most sacred experience I've ever had.

This morning, Grandma passed away. She was with my grandfather, her eternal companion. I got the call from my aunt at 9:28. Our family gathered once again to comfort each other and make some final arrangements. The love and support of family is a tender mercy of the Lord. Though this is a time of deep sadness, I can't help but thank God for all the many blessings He's given me and my family. It is beautiful and right that my dear grandmother's death should bring us all together.


Life is challenging and heart-breaking, but it is also sweet. In the turmoil of living, it's easy to forget that each person has the ability to create beauty in their own unique way. Our family, drawn closer by greif-- beauty, created from impossible circumstances.

I know I've said that the last two years have been tough, but they've also been filled with the most tender and radient experiences. The feeling you get when you find joy-- even briefly - in the midst of pain is the purest and most sacred feeling. Living, really living, isn't meant to be easy and smooth. It's meant to take you to the lowest of lows, so you can fully appreciate the soaring joys you're destined to experience.

Gordon B. Hinkley, former president of the LDS church, included the following quote in a devotiona he gave at BYU:

Anyone who imagines that bliss is normal is going to waste a lot of time running around shouting that he's been robbed. The fact is that most putts don't drop. Most beef is tough...Most jobs are more often dull than otherwise...
Life is like an old-time rail journey—delays, sidetracks, smoke, dust, cinders, and jolts, interspersed only occasionally by beautiful vistas and thrilling bursts of speed. The trick is to thank the Lord for letting you have the ride.

And I do. Grandma, it was a blessing and a privilege to be your granddaughter. Thank you for your love of beauty, faith in God, and your always-inspiring example of what it means to be a strong, dedicated wife, mother, and grandmother. I miss you terribly, but I know you're no longer suffering, and that your parents and old friends are so excited to have you with them again. I'll see you in about 80 yeas. I love you.

Grandma, Dad, and Me

Here's to enjoying the ride, cinders, ashes, and all.

x,
   m

Glum-Be-Gone List- Part One

In the spirit of posting a glum blog, I thought I'd take some time to put together a list of things that make me feel optimistic, giggly, and like putting on real pants. I'm going to do this in parts because, frankly, I am constantly coming across new things that are awesome.

Micaela's Glum-Be-Gone List- Part One
Ten things to do when you just need to smile.

1. Listen to Here I Am Alive by Yellowcard. I just discovered this band a few days ago and I am totally in love with this song. It's catchy, the lyrics rock, and makes me wanna jam out. Seriously, great message: Here I am, alive.

2. Try to be Ron Swanson. If you haven't seen the show Parks & Recreation, I implore you to get on Netflix, Hulu, or whatever and watch the crap out of this show. It is the best show on TV (tied with Community, of course) and it is 100% worth your while. Parks & Rec follows tireless government worker, Leslie Knope (played by Amy Polher), and her eccentric crew of colleagues as they take care of business in the Parks Department of Pawnee, Indiana. It borrows the "mockumentary" style of The Office and is comedic genius.

Ron Swanson, the manager of the Parks department, is, to put it lightly, thebomb.com (yes, I'm bringing that back.). Ron has a strict policy of hating the system, loving bacon, and being manly as heck. Check out this clip of him explaining the Ron Swanson Pyramid of Greatness to a bunch of ten-year-olds.

3. Eat / stab Jell-O. You guys, I love Jell-O. It's fun to say, fun to eat, and it comes in every fun color you can imagine. It's also fun to attack with a fork if you're super duper pissed off. Avoid the sugarless crap at all costs.

4. Jam out to The Key of Awesome's One Direction parody. I'm pretty sure I watch this at least once a week because it's flipping hilarious. I almost have it memorized-- True story.

Highlight: Let's all point and run! Pointing at stuff is such fun.

5. Walk around Target. My dad and I discovered the magical healing properties of Target in December and we've been going back ever since. I don't know what it is-- the lighting, the sedatives that they [allegedly do not] pump into the air, the sweet smell of consumerism-- but going to Target always makes me feel better about life. I usually don't even buy anything, I just wander around for an hour and think about my life, look at the Barbies, smell the popcorn, and read the first chapter of a few books. And then I feel 67% better than I did before.

Pro tip: Don't go durring the busy hours. My dad and I always go at 10 pm or later. There are almost no people, and the people that are there are not at all like WalMart 10 o'clock-ers (involuntary shudder). They're worn out college students, single older people, and people doing last minute birthday shopping. These are pleasant people to be around when you're feeling icky because they feel kind of icky, too. They aren't judging you. And even if they are, no one you know will be there, so you're safe. Also, Target has a large supply of...

6. Peanut M&M's (Specifically eat them). They are my favorite edible thing in the whole entire world. You guys, colorful chocolate candies with peanuts in the middle. And the peanuts almost make it okay to eat them a lot because it's protein or something.

7. Write strongly-worded and extremely eloquent letters to people that really piss you off, but not sending them. Pretty much explains itself. I always adhere to the following rules:

- No swearing. That defeats the point.
-Use big words just because you can. Suggestions: irrefutably, exemplary, shenanigans, disconcerting, negligence, unscrupulous, etc.
-Always hand-write. No anger letter is valid unless you get to really slam those words down on a real life piece of paper with an honest-to-goodness pen.
- Never ever send it. I'll be honest, I do have one letter I'm saving that I plan to send on my 50th birthday, but I would never send one in the heat of anger. And I'll probably lose that letter by next week.

8. Watch this: 

9. Talk to people who love you. Everyone knows at least one person that can always make them smile, no matter the scenario. Go to that person. Tell them why you feel like crap. Let them work their magic. When you're feeling cruddy, it's not always good to be alone because you'll start wallowing. 

My favorite person to talk to is my dad. Some people love talking to their mom, sibling(s), a close friend, extended family member, or dog. I'm serious about the dog. Dogs understand, don't ask questions, and don't care if your mascara is running.

Here's a picture of me and my dad because we are adorable:

10. Research pygmy elephants or munchkin cats. Because they exists and they are adorable. 

Hope y'all are having a great weekend. Thanks for all the support, you guys. It means a lot. <3

x,

   m

Micaela's Handy Guide to Grieving

I know I've been absent from the blog-o-sphere lately. I've tried to write about ten times, but I haven't been able to force my ideas into something coherent. When I have to force the words, I'm usually not comfortable publishing them on my blog. It's too embarrassing.

I realized that if I don't just write what's on my mind, I'll never get back to blogging, and I really, really like blogging. So forgive me if this isn't my usual sarcastic commentary on human existence.

Pretty much, I have been sad. So incredibly sad that I've had trouble talking, let alone writing.

"But, Micaela, why are you sad?"

You know how some days everything seems to go horribly wrong? You wake up late, can't find your other shoe, staple your finger to your report, stub your toe twice, and before you know it you're in a bathroom stall taking deep breaths and willing yourself not to dissolve into tears.

That, my friends, has pretty much been the last two years of my life. Except instead of stapling myself or stubbing my toe, my parents split up, I had random fainting spells, I moved across the country, and my grandmother is dying. And a lot of other stuff happened that I don't need to talk about. And right now I'm in the proverbial bathroom stall, holding back very literal tears.

I'm in the grieving process right now. About twenty times a day, I have to step back and say, "Be gentle with yourself, Micaela." So I am. I sleep more than usual. I don't worry about my pants size. I've stopped trying to force myself to smile. If someone makes me feel "less than," I just avoid spending time with them. I bought sweaters that are both extremely comfortable and mildly fashionable that I wear almost all the time. You guys, I've even started watching Gossip Girl again, marathon style, on Netflix. It's ridiculously therapeutic to watch TV that requires zero brain function. (And, let's be honest, in my head I'm totally dating Nate Archibald.)

But grief is dangerous. Sadness easily morphs into anger, and anger is impulsive, boundless, and self-destructive. When I get mad, I have to sit down and remind myself that I'm grieving, and that anger is just a crude mask for sadness.

I'm learning to ask for help. A hug does wonders, as does a Jell-O cup, going for walks, listening to hymns, talking to my dad on the phone, singing along to Le Mis, doing laundry, wearing sweatpants...

I guess my point here is that it's okay to be sad if you do it in the right way. And you realize when it's gone too far. And you ask for help. And you remember to put on pants and stuff.

Thanks for your understanding. I've gotten so much good feedback from my blog thus far, and seriously, it means so much when people tell me they read/like/acknowledge The Epitome of Snark. If you have any ideas of things I should blog about, hit me up.

x,
   m

p.s.- My readers are seriously the best. <3

The Time I Fell Down A Hill Wearing Hiking Boots

I'm pretty much the queen of hormone-based developmental disproportion. It's almost amazing to me that I can function in a semi-typical way because of the trauma I suffered in puberty. Like I've said before, I didn't hit my growth spurt until the summer before high school. I guess I should admit that I did hit a growth spurt or two before then but they weren't height related. By the tender age of 10, both my nose and my feet had both reached their full adult sizes. The nose thing didn't effect anything but my self-esteem, but the feet... the feet turned out to be an issue.

I was 4'3" (shorter than most 10-year-olds) with size 7.5 feet (that's 9.5 inches of foot). It would be an understatement to say that I had trouble moving. I'm sure I tried not to look like a skinny baby elephant, but at some point I gave up. Other kids played sports durring recess. I spent most of my time on the balance beam because my gigantic feet actually helped me stay on. I quit dance class around this time because I could hardly take 4 steps without falling over, and heaven knows that's not a good basis for dancing.

I think if I'd have hit my growth spurt earlier, I probably would have adjusted to walking and moving normally, but four years of being severely clumsy took their toll. I spent so much time at the nurse's office in middle school that she always kept a bed open for me.

When I started high school, I had pretty much grown into my feet (and almost my nose), but I was still adjusting to being 5 feet tall. I should also mention that all my growth had been solely vertical. I weighed all of 100 pounds and looked like a twig. My movement patterns had not changed since middle school, but now I had longer legs and farther to fall. 

And fall I did. I remember it like it was yesterday. 

It was the first week of high school. I over-slept and had to pack my gym bag at hyper-speed and run to school. I didn't really think anything of it until 6th period rolled around and I had to dress down for gym. I didn't know anyone in my class, and given my track record in past gym classes, I was completely dreading the new level of torture I was sure high school gym teachers would inflict.

In typical Micaela fashion, I got totally lost on the way to class. By the time I found the locker room, only a handful of girls were still changing. I threw my shirt and shorts on in a flurry, but when I reached into my bag to get my sneakers, I found... hiking boots. I had accidentally packed my gigantic, beige hiking boots instead of my sneakers. I was the only person in the room by then, so I put on my boots and trotted myself out into the gym...to find that most of the class was already outside. 

I could see the last group of laggers disappearing out the far door, towards the soccer field. I tried to fast walk and catch up to them, but my huge boots made embarrassing clomping noises on the wood floor. I trailed the group at a safe distance, figuring I could catch up just before we joined the rest of the class. I'd forgotten, however, that the soccer field was at the bottom of an incredibly steep hill.* The rest of the class was already there. One of the gym teachers blew her whistle and shouted at us to hurry up. The group in front of me started to run, menuvering the steep hill at incredible speeds, and looking exceedingly cool while doing it. "I can do that," I thought. 

I coached myself to a light jog, boots pounding the ground, and began to descend the hill. 

"This isn't too hard," I thought. "I look cool," I thought. "These boots give me traction," I thought. And then...

"I'm flying." The weight of my boots made me forget to lift one of my feet. My body suddenly called on it's years of dance training, coaxing my feet into a perfect 5th position, which turned out to not be conducive to running. I contorted like some kind of human pretzel, head over heels, as I tumbled the remaining 10 feet down the hill. I swear, at one point I had about three feet of air. 

Finally, the falling stopped. A teacher rushed over to make sure I was okay. I was, until I realized that I had just fallen down a hill wearing comedically large shoes in front of at least 30 people. Everyone was staring at me. Someone laughed, someone else laughed, then a lot of people laughed. I wanted to melt, like the Wicked Witch of the West, leaving only the cursed boots. I had a good cry about it when I got home. 

I like to think I've gotten a little more coordinated since 9th grade, but the truth is I've learned to take myself less seriously. I still fall down all the time. I trip getting onto the shuttle at least twice a week. I'm constantly banging my knees against everything. I got a second-degree burn making a grilled cheese sandwich. Heck, I walked straight into a tree today! This stuff is funny. And if I think it' funny, I can only hope someone else is thinking, "Dang, that girl walked into a tree. That's hilarious." and not, "What on earth is wrong with that spaz-machine?"Because if walking into a tree made someone else smile, even at my expense, it wasn't all bad, was it?

People say learning to love yourself is one of the most important things you should do in life. And, yeah, that's fine and all, but learning to laugh at yourself... I find that more important. Laughing at yourself means you forgive yourself for being a total idiot, and if that isn't love, I don't know what is. 

Here's to another week of hurting myself in humorous ways.

x,

   m

*To those of you who will argue that the hill wasn't that steep: This is MY blog, MY story, and MY injured pride. So shush. 

Sorry I'm Not Emma Watson

I've realized that a lot of my blogging has focused on the past, so this is just going to be an update on some thoughts I'm having. Because I know you're all super curious.

"Is the whole shuttle playing a joke on me?"

I live in "on-campus housing," which is funny because I'm actually about a mile from the outskirts of campus, so I take a shuttle to and from campus most days. I'm not gonna lie, I kinda love being off-campus, and I kinda love the shuttle.

It's a pretty classic set up--seats along the wall, bars on the ceiling for standing riders-- and it's almost always crazy full. It literally makes my day when I get an actual, sitting-down seat. Those of you who have seen me try to do anything involving balance (including walking) know that I am not gifted in that area. Standing on the bus is torture in my mind. I cling to the bar so tightly that my hand is usually numb by the time I get off. My whole arm gets tingly. I've fallen on people a few times. It's bad.

But on the occasions that I'm seated, I experience another phenomenon more strange than my inability to balance. With few exceptions, people don't sit next to me. They would rather stand and have their arm yanked off when the shuttle goes over speed bumps than place their behinds on a seat adjacent to me. Today, for example, two guys opted to stand rather than taking the seats by me. Do I smell bad? Is there something going on that I don't know about? Am I scary? And yeah, there have been brave souls who take the seats next to me, but those seats are always the last two open. You guys, I don't even know what to make of that. I would rather sit by the scariest, most intimidating person at BYU every time I ride the shuttle than stand. I'd rather sit next to pretty much anyone than stand. This may be a result of my balance issues, but I'm pretty sure most people prefer sitting to standing.

Times like that make me think, "Jeeze, sorry I'm not Emma Watson."

"Why can't I just be Emma Watson?"

I love Emma Watson, and even though I try to avoid obsessing over celebrities, I'm a little bit obsessed with her. She's gorgeous, talented, funny, and smart as heck... and let's be real, she's British. Every outfit she wears, haircut she gets, thing she says, and movie she makes send me into a kind of reflection on my life. I mean, she's so... cool. She was in Harry Potter. She's totally nice. People sit next to her when she rides the shuttle.*

I think she kinda represents who younger-me thought I would be by my age, and right now the only thing that I've achieved is having Emma's haircut. So that's something, at least.

"Holy crud, does Fuze juice actually have milk in it?!"

Yes, it really does. Time to take some Lact-Aid.

Anyway, hope y'all had a good week! Happy weekend. :)

x,
  m

*I could not confirm that Emma rides a shuttle, but if she did, people would totally sit by her.

I Kissed the Backstreet Boys (And Why I Miss Being Five)

I can remember being five surprisingly clearly. I woke up at 7am, just because I wanted to. I went to bed at 8 just because Mom said that was bedtime. I was told what to wear, given food on demand, and never had to worry what I looked like in a bathing suit. School consisted of doing elaborate finger-paintings and learning the difference between the letter "r" and the letter "f" (I still struggle with that) and, in my case, being all five of the Backstreet Boys' girlfriend (more on that later).

Aside from my unusual boyfriend situation, life was simple. But, like most kids, I spent a good amount of time trying to act like a grown-up. I remember thinking that the best day of my life would be when I got my first pair of high heels to wear to church, but now that I have heels, I hate wearing them. Like most things we dream about doing as kids, they hurt more than expected. People see you and think, "Huh, she looks taller than usual," but never really notice why, because high heels are something everyone wears. You don't get a medal for not falling down, you don't get a certificate of maturity, you just get new shoes to hobble around in. They're awkward and uncomfortable and make you feel stupid for a while. Eventually, wearing heels is standard, and you never think anything about it.

I also spent a good deal of my time planning my wedding. When I was five, I was pretty convinced that I was going to marry one of the five boys who made up our schools "Backstreet Boys." I once asked if I, too, could be a Backstreet Boy, but I was turned down on account of being a girl. They instead offered me the position of "girlfriend." I realize now that I was more of a skanky groupie than anyone's girlfriend, but I enjoyed the position immensely. I'm pretty sure that I at least hugged all five of them, and I know for a fact that I kissed at least two of them.* I was so excited to grow up and have real boyfriends and get married.

Well, in Mormon tradition, you're supposed to wait until you're 16 before you start dating. While I may or may not have breached that rule, I was 16 when I got my first real boyfriend (let's call him A). The first month we were dating, I found a way to work "boyfriend" into almost every conversation. I'm pretty sure my friends were all ready to kill me.

It was everything I hoped it would be-- going to the movies, making cookies, getting ice cream- and we were together for two years. It was a fairytale, until it came time for us to decide on colleges. Our plan was to go to school together, continue dating, and maybe eventually get married. But fate had other plans. I woke up one morning with the distinct impression that I needed to go to Brigham Young University. We broke up that day. Much like the afore mentioned high heels, I had underestimated the amount of pain that a "grown-up" relationship could cause. It sucked. He was my best friend, and I was suddenly alone.

But what I failed to realize at the time (and what no one thinks about when they're five) is that life goes on. When you're five, it seems like everything's a straight shot. Growing up is complicated, painful, and dangerous. But it is also exciting, beautiful, and natural. It's a good thing. It is right. I made one of my best friends after breaking up with A. I moved across the country. I met new people. I changed more in the course of three months than I ever have in my life.

So yeah, sometimes I miss the simplicity of being five, but when it comes right down to it, I'm so blessed to have these chances to grow and learn about myself.

Also, my roommate and I regularly build pillow forts and give ourselves fake tattoos. So really, you can act like a kid at any age. Keep that in mind.

x,
   m


*In fact, I remember my "first" kiss in almost disgusting detail. I won't go into specifics, but I vividly remember thinking, "This is so gross. I'm never kissing anyone again." But then I kissed another boy the next week. I sure was a skank.

The Holy Ham-Grenade of Antioch (and also Mean Girls.)

If you met me at college, you have probably heard all about The Holy Ham-Grenade of Antioch. There was, in fact, a casual Facebook contest dedicated to naming my creation (shout-out to Mason, who came up with the title as it stands.). If you don't get the reference, I suggest you watch Monty Python and the Holy Grail immediately. It's the only movie I consider to be on-par with Mean Girls in terms of quotability. (Also, watch this. And this... hilarious.)

Okay, enough about my favorite movies. This is the part where I tell you what the heck a Holy Ham-Grenade actually is. It's a delicious creation that brings cheese, ham, and apricot jam together into a toasty, melty union. Most people don't quite understand how the jam could possibly be good, but I promise you... it's perfect.

I know you want one, so here's my official recipe:

The Holy Ham-Grenade of Antioch

• 2 Slices of White Bread
• 2 Slices of Cheddar Cheese
• 2 Slices of Ham
• 1 Generous Spoonful of [hopefully homemade] Apricot Jam (do not use other jams.)
• Butter
• A Frying Pan
• A Vast Love for Delicious Things

1. Heat the frying pan with some butter in it. Be reasonable in the amount of butter you use. You want a nice toasty sandwich, not a deep-fried mess. 

2. While the butter is melting, assemble the Ham-Grenade. Building from the bottom-up, it goes like this: bread, cheese, ham, jam, ham cheese, bread. 

3. Place your Ham-Grenade in the frying pan. Toast at medium heat, just like you're making a grilled cheese. Make sure both the cheese and the jam get melt-y and delicious. You're obviously going to need to flip it... I advise you implement your common sense when deciding how/when to do that. 

4. When toasted to perfection, remove to a plate. Cut your Ham-Grenade diagonally before partaking. 

5. Partake. 

You guys, I am so proud of this sandwich. Here is a picture of me eating it:

As you can see, anyone eating a Holy Ham-Grenade is vastly more attractive than anyone not eating one. HHG have also been know to raise student GPA's by .67 and raise student date-ablity by approximately 37.2%*.

Anyway, hope everyone's having a fantastic Wednesday.

x,
   m


*These results have not been tested or proven by anyone at all.

Hurricanes

I remember a church dance I attended shortly after turning 14. It was the kind of dance where boys asked girls to dance, and the girls were always supposed to say yes the first time a boy asked them.

I was having a great time dancing with my friends to Livin' on a Prayer, but as the song ended a familiar tune began to fade in. The piano into to You and Me by Life House started to play, the cue for all the girls to scatter so they could look lonely enough to get asked to dance. I did just that. Much to my delight, an older boy wandered over to me and offered his arm. He was at least a full foot taller than me, so once we began to dance, my neck was craned up to him at an uncomfortable angle. We started to chat bout who knows what, blowing through the easy topics quickly. We ran out of things to talk about before the second chorus. As we swayed in uncomfortable silence, I wracked my brain for things to say.

"I like your tie," I said. I'm pretty sure my voice cracked. He graciously avoided laughing.

"Thanks... So... if you were weather... what would you be?"

We looked at each other. What a stupid question, we thought in unison.

"I'd be... a spring day?" That seemed safe. Everyone loves spring.

"Cool, me too."

Then, mercifully, the song ended. I never talked to him again, but I wish I could. I need to change my answer.

You may have heard of heard me talk about John Green before. He is my favorite author, hands down. His novel Looking for Alaska, literally changed my life (I'll tell that story someday). There's a quote in the book that replays in my brain at least once a day:

If people were rain, I was drizzle and she was a hurricane.

I've learned a lot since I was 14. I've learned how to cook, clean a bathroom in less than 20 minutes, break-up with someone, fill awkward silences, and properly apply eyeliner. I've learned that I actually enjoy action movies, and that Mean Girls may be the best movie of all time.

But more than that, I've learned that normal is boring. When I was 14, I thought that being "normal" or "average" was somehow the key to being happy. I tourtured myself over that for years, changing my clothes, my hair, the way I talked, my sense of humor, all to meet some imaginary standard of what a "normal person" would do.

Drizzle is average and boring. No one writes news stories about drizzle. There is nothing at all spectacular about drizzle. It almost seems apologetic as it falls.

But hurricanes... Hurricanes demand attention. They are big and powerful and do whatever they want. Never has a hurricane apologized for itself, never has a hurricane held itself back simply to appease other people. Much like the proverbial honey badger, hurricanes don't care. You know when a hurricane has been somewhere because it changes things, rips things to shreds, turns things upside down.

Now, I know that hurricanes are serious business and I'm not trying to make light of the damage and casualties they can cause. I'm just saying... if people were rain, I'd rather be a hurricane than drizzle any day.

Especially now, when someone I love dearly is fighting for her life against cancer, I can't help but think of the mark I'm leaving on the world. My dear grandma is the greatest hurricane I know. When she enters a room, you know. You can see her path through the world because it's marked with the beauty that she imparts on everything she touches. Grandma turns things upside down because they are better that way-- it's just that no one else would have had the good sense to change it.

I want to honor my grandmother by being a hurricane myself. Maybe I'll get there someday. Today I feel like a heavy, no-nonsense downpour, and that's good enough. But because of Grandma's example, I won't be going back to being a drizzle.

Please keep my family in your prayers in this difficult time.

x,
   m

You're Doing It Wrong: Flirting

Okay, it's the moment you've all been waiting for... I'm going to talk about my love life. Let me preface this by saying two things: 1. I won't talk about anything that actually matters (so stop being so nosey) and 2. About 60% of the time, I'm still convinced I look like this:

So I'm always a little surprised when I get any male attention. (On a related note, the shoes in this picture are the famous shoes I wore when I fell down the hill durring that fateful first high school gym class.)

Anyways, flirting. I can think of about a million things I would love for a guy to do in an attempt to win my affections (flowers, chocolate, flowers, serenading me, dancing with me under the fading sunset... also flowers. Let it be noted that I like flowers.) but I think in my months here at college, I've run into several flirting methods that, to be frank, freaked me the heck out. And so, without further ado, I present to you Micaela's List of Things You Should Never Do to Get a Girl to Like You.

1. Ask her complex, Duct-tape-related questions at three-minute intervals. Okay, that sounds very specific, but seriously. If you start a conversation with someone, especially if you're on the bus and can't walk away, make sure you consistently... ya know... talk. If she has time to get out her iPod, listen to most of a Neon Trees song, and text her father an oddly detailed description of her lunch, you're doing it wrong. And when you do decide to grace her with the sound of your voice again, for the love of all that's holy, make sure it's something more engaging than a monologue about how many times you've broken your left bike pedal in the last six months. And if you have to talk about that, laugh when she makes a joke about only pedaling with one foot, because she knows it wasn't funny, but seriously, dude, you're being so awkward. And if you absolutely cannot do that, do not follow with a question about how she feels about BYU Duct-tape. She knows it exists, she just doesn't think it's worth talking about, but it's okay because you'll give her another three minutes to think of a totally unfunny tape joke so you can look at her like she's an idiot. 

2. Offer to build a shrine to her in your closet*. Yeah, that happened. It was followed by the sentence, "I'll make it out of chocolate bars, then light candles around it so I can watch it melt." Strangely enough, the ladies don't really go for that. I know, right?! Women...

3. Shove a package of raw hamburger in her face and tell her it's hers if she eats it all raw*. Chocolate bar might be a good substitute for hamburger, but that's just my opinion. Also, consider the fact that you're walking around with raw hamburger. Contemplate your life. Ask yourself, "Am I trying to die young?" and if the answer is yes, hit me up and I can get you a great shrink. 

4. Dress up in a silver MorphSuit and give her prolonged hugs. If you're not familiar with MorphSuits, they look like this:

But the guy was wearing an orange jersey over it. Regardless of the jersey, it made me think of this: 

(Yeah, I'm terrified of the Slender Man. If you don't know who that is, congratulations, you've never had your pants scared off. I'd tell you to go download and play Slender, but I can't wish that kind of terror on anyone...)

Hugging random strangers is weird enough when you can see their face, but when you add in the fact that this guy a. looked like Slender Man and b. was not actually wearing any pants, you can imagine how creepy things can get. 

If you're concerned she isn't adequately impressed, try hugging her for a really long time. Like, exceed the hug time limit by about 20 seconds. While smelling her hair. Nuzzling her face. Making her a little concerned that she's actually gone crazy. She'll totally want to date you after she recovers from the mental scaring you've caused her.

...Okay, it was hilarious. Seriously one of the best things I've seen at BYU. And the guy smelled awesome and hugged like a champ (Dude, if you're reading this, we should totally cuddle sometime. You don't even need to talk to me, just show up smelling good and willing to hug me.) and seemed to have the same twisted sense of humor I have (Okay, I'm calling it, we're soul mates.), but it was creepy nonetheless. (Seriously, call me sometime?)

Life is weird...

x, 

   m

*Yes, it was the same guy. In all honesty, it was hilarious, and I'm 34.5% sure he was totally kidding... But it was horribly awkward. Nice guy, though. Mad respect for being so gutsy, bro. 

Mutual Weirdness

The fantastic thing about starting college is that no one knows who you are. I know, that's totally a cliche, but it's true. No one knows about the time you fell down a hill on the first day of high school gym, or the time you threw up in front of your locker before the morning bell even rang, or the time you had a major braces/glasses/bowl haircut going on for about 5 years. (Not that any of that ever happened to me... ever.)

My first moth of college was exceptionally suck-tastic. I gained about 5 pounds that month from laying in my bed eating peanut M&M's and hard-core moping. It seems that moping is not, as I had originally anticipated, an aerobic exercise. The few times I did get out of bed (usually because I needed to pee so badly I thought I was going to die), I would avoid the mirror at all costs. Every time I'd catch a glimpse of myself in any reflective surface, I felt like I was looking into the past. The new environment and lack of friends seemed to have thrust me back in time to Middle School Me. All the insecurities of early puberty came rushing back to me faster than I rushed to the vending machine after the peanut M&M's had been restocked. Suddenly, I was 12 again. Everyone else was older, more "developed," more mature, more blonde,  more... cool... and I was... well... me. I had never felt more out of place in my life.

I tried to make friends, I really did, but every time I would meet someone that was potential friend material, I would clam up with the horrifying realization that there was nothing interesting about me. By the end of the first month, I was completely convinced I had alienated every single person I'd met by cracking corny jokes about... well... anything... that I got to a place where I was sure I had nothing to lose.

That's when it happened. I woke up one day and for once in my life, I didn't give a crap. There was going to be a dance that night, one that I had avoided thinking about for the last two weeks. As is wont to happen in the weeks preceding a dance, the conversations of all my female acquaintances had dissolved from mild coherence to crazy, "who's taking me to the dance?" rants. I knew with 100% certainty that no one was going to ask me, so I made plans to go to my aunt's house that day. A few hours before she was supposed to pick me up, she was in a car accident (I'm not even kidding), leaving me stuck on campus for the dreaded event. I decided not to go, after all, I didn't give a crap about anything. Then someone knocked on my door. It was the girl from down the hall and she was determined that I spend the night dancing. I resisted, but she was impressively persistant.

Long story short, I went to the dance and acted like a total dork. I had fun. I made friends. I ate disgusting, room-temperature cheesecake without gagging. It wasn't until I was walking home after the dance that I realized that I had successfully functioned as a human being for like, 4 whole hours. And when I went back to my room that night, I had a new friend with me. She liked Gossip Girl. We watched that together.

When I looked in the mirror the next day, I realized that I had, in fact, gone through puberty. Some girls from down the hall wanted to sit next to me at church. I talked to a boy without making a polygamy joke. I blew my hair dry.

I realized that trying to be friends with people is pointless. Real friends can't be forced, they just happen. They see you in all your dorky-wonderfulness and think "Goshdarn, she's weird but dangit if I don't love being around her." They think that you're at least kind of cool, even when you use words like "copious"or "enthralling." Real friends are the people that you meet and fall into a sort of mutual weirdness with.

I'm so grateful that I'm blessed with such wonderful friends, both old and new. I'm also grateful for puberty.

x,
   m

Sweatpants, or Homesick

Though I've been out West since the beginning of June, I'll readily admit to still having a little culture shock. I mean, I'm from Penn State, one of the biggest party schools in the US. I remember having trouble sleeping because the geniuses at the frat house a few blocks away decided to play Guitar Hero at 3am, totally drunk, over what I can only imagine was the biggest freaking speaker system know to man. That is not the kind of thing you run into at BYU. It just isn't.

But, seriously, the lack of alcohol doesn't really effect me much because never drank anyway. It's the small things that are still getting me. No caffeine sold on campus, hugging everyone you ever see (ever), the way the BYU Police guard the grass like it's the last grass on Earth... and no one wears sweatpants. No one. Ever. 

At Penn State, it's considered a good day if you decide to put on real clothes (ie not pajamas) and brush your hair on the same day. Gray is an acceptable color. Ponytails are the norm. Sometimes, people even leave the house without make-up. Heck, I knew people that had "regular" sweatpants and "dress-up" sweatpants. Uggs are considered an all-purpose shoe. Eastern Casual, as I think of it, values comfort to style at about a 3:1 ratio. 

Western Casual is a whole 'nother ball game. Jeans are the sweatpants of the West. If I leave my apartment wearing jeans, a t-shirt, and Sperry's (a pretty typical school outfit back at home), I will usually feel like a slob by the time I get to the bus stop. Jeans are acceptable, but they're more acceptable if they're day-glo green or leopard print, or, better yet, aren't jeans at all, but skirts! T-shirts are okay, assuming they've been layered half-to-death with cardigans and camisoles. I don't know how people get dressed in the morning! I can only imagine that they're getting up hours before I am, huddled around closets and drawers, inventing new and elaborate outfits, and twisting their (almost exclusively) long hair into complicated braids. And don't even get me started on the lengths some of the boys go to in order to look "vintage" or something.

Tell me that doesn't sound exhausting. I'm proud of myself when I blow-dry my hair. I've been know to dance around the kitchen on such days. 

Am I trying to be critical? Not in the least. People out West tend to look classy, put-together, and intelligent. I admire their dedication, I really do. If I weren't so dedicated to sleep, I'd probably be one of them. I'd wear pink pants and look perpetually pleasant, but sometimes, I miss sweatpants and wearing Uggs in any weather. I miss the color gray (both in clothing and in the weather), I miss ponytails, and not feeling obligated to hug people.

I'm homesick today. You can find me in my room, wearing Uggs and sweats, telling myself That's What She Said jokes. 

x,

   m

Because Life Can Suck

This won't be terribly cheerful for a first blog post, but it's what's been on my mind this week. In wake of what has been one of the hardest years of my life, I've found myself reflecting a lot on how people react to me when I tell them my story. No part of this is meant to be offensive or bitter; I just know what it's like to be hurting and have people not know quite what to do with you. 

Sometimes life straight-up sucks. There are probably a million more elegant ways to say that, but it all means the same thing: Stuff gets hard. When you're older, it seems like it's to be expected. People nod when you tell them what you're going through, they share stories of that one time that their kid/dog/lawyer/car did exactly the same thing you're describing (even if it's nowhere near close). It's like after the age of forty, personal tragedy isn't quite as tragic. I'm 18, so I can't really speak to the truth of any of that, but from what I've observed, people are less likely to treat you like a charity case.

It's different when you're younger. If you so much as whisper the word "abuse," you become a delicate little flower. People cry for you. They compliment you on random stuff that doesn't really matter. They admire you for being so strong and courageous, like you have some kind of choice. You go from being a normal kid to being a glass doll in no time flat. People you've known all your life suddenly treat you like some kind of hero. Acquaintances that you've hardly even discussed the weather with try to get you to "talk about your feelings," like you've been best friends for years. It feels like you have to put on a show and give people what they want, or they'll be disappointed with you. People seem to expect you to cry, pour your heart out, or at least ask them for a tissue.

Or they go the other direction, acting lik the sun is shining out of their butts, avoiding asking personal questions, making you feel like whatever happened to you was a shame to be swept under the rug. I still don't know how to handle those people.

I guess my point here is this: If you know someone is hurting, don't be afraid to treat them just as you did before. They are still the same person. They need reassurance that their tragedy does not define them. Most victims of abuse will spend their whole lives trying to sperate their personal identity from what happened to them-- when you treat them like a ticking time bomb, it solidifies their idea that they are the abuse. These things generally go on for a long time; it isn't more or less real to them now that you happen to know about it. They are quite literally the same person they were before you knew.

If they want to talk, let them talk. If they want to sit and be quiet, let them do that. If they want to act like nothing's wrong, give them the courtesy of acting like nothing is. And for goodness' sake, if you weren't close friends before the incident, don't act like you are. You may mean well, but it comes across as fake and empty. A smile will do, so will a simple, "I like your shirt."If all else fails, "I'm praying for you," is always appropriate.

After a particularly rough month, my best friends were the people that would just sit next to me when I did homework, laugh at my jokes, and treat me like the human I was before. They never asked me if I was "okay" because they knew I wasn't. They asked me how I was doing. I remember one particular incident waiting for class to start. One of my best friends asked me how I was doing. "Fine," I said. She looked at me, straight in the eyes, and said, "I know you're not." "Yeah," I said. Then we both started to laugh. That was one of the brightest spots I remember from the last year.

I don't mean to sound ungrateful by any means-- there are so many people that have helped me and my family more than I could ever express. Countless times, I've been offered a shoulder to cry on, a hug, or a kind word precisely when I needed it the most. Being loving and supportive is good. Being sensitive to others is wonderful. Just make sure you're doing in a way that makes the other person feel comfortable.

x,

   m