"Hi! I'm public restroom Barbie!"

Today as I was washing my hands in preparation to leave a public restroom, a girl came in, entered a stall, and then proceeded to answer a phone call. I can think of a multitude of reasons NOT to answer a phone call in that situation. 1) Your conversation will not be even remotely private, as your voice bounces around the tile walls and there are no other conversations happening to drown you out. 2) On a similar note, there are other sounds of varying embarrassment levels that occur in a restroom that the person on the other end of the line probably doesn't want to hear. 3) You have to use the restroom. 4) You are using the restroom. It just doesn't make any sense.

And yet I hear girls do it all the time. The only reason to answer such a phone call seems to be that it was a pressing matter, a much anticipated phone call, or some other vital issue that ruled out calling them back two minutes later. I usually try to give such girls the benefit of the doubt, maybe for my own sanity or maybe so they don't see me looking at them like they're an idiot. Not so with this girl today. She answered the phone and proceeded to gush over the person, saying how much she loved them. Then, she told them exactly where she was and what she was doing and said she'd call them back.

I guess one day I'll just have to accept that the world is full of crazy people who put peanut butter and jelly in the same jar, that think it's OK for men to wear pink, or who talk on the phone while in the restroom. Maybe one day I'll just have to join them. But for now I'll have to insist that you're all nuts, and I'm the sane one.

chicken lists

I never intended to make this blog a soap box. I much prefer to write things that will actually be mildly entertaining, but I have something to say to the single men of the world that you might find helpful, and I think all the single ladies (all the single ladies) will agree with me.

Recently I was told of a concept called a 'chicken list'. This is something that, as far as I know, was invented by a former member of my bishopric. A chicken list is where a boy makes a list of the top five females that he is too chicken to ask out, and then said ex-bishopric-member makes it happen.

LAME!

I'm certainly not going to assume that I'm currently on anyone's chicken list, but if I were, the very fact that he was chicken enough to have a chicken list would be the biggest strike against him. One of the easiest ways to impress me would be to man up (that's the nicest way I could say that, but don't think I didn't consider lots meaner ways of saying it), tell me that you like me, and ask me out on a date in no uncertain terms. Rejection sucks. Then you get over it. Or the boy can leave the girl of his dreams on a chicken list and watch while she gets swept off her feet by a real man.

my poor children

Last night I went snowboarding for my second time, and my tailbone is not happy about it. So unhappy, in fact, that I'm actually tempted to buy that $60 pair of biker shorts with padding sown into the rear. Genius. But that isn't what this post is about.

On our way out after returning our rentals, there was a little boy throwing a tantrum: screaming, crying, and kicking the door with his menacing although tiny ski boots. I actually started to laugh and then it was all I could do to contain myself. I know that laughing at a child in that situation can only lead to a downward spiral of anger on his part and hysterical laughter on my part, but I can't help it. I think tantrums are about the funniest thing in the world.

I can only imagine what kind of psychological damage this will cause my kids, should I ever have any. Add to this the childish joy I get from handing someone something and then pulling it away just as they try to grab it, my tendency to say 'no' to any question, even when I mean 'yes', and my fondness of nicknames that, on the surface, sound offensive but actually convey great love, and my kids don't stand a chance.

my bizarro dating life

One of my goals in starting a blog was to have a place to record the funny little things that happen in life but don't quite make the cut into the real journal, the hard copy that I will pass on to my descendants who probably won't care. Today, as I stood with my butt under the hand dryer in the women's restroom at the gym, I realized that today was one of those days.

Just the other day I was telling my friends about how I got pursued romantically by a schizophrenic high-schooler, asked out by an openly married man, and proposed to by a non-English-speaking Mongolian, all in a matter of months. At least, I think it was a proposal. The only thing that was really clear was that, notwithstanding my emphatic correction, he persisted in calling me "my wife" from then on. Anyway, after playing human jungle gym with my nephews for a few hours today, I decided I wanted to go swimming (for the first time in three years) and then spend some time in the sauna. While in the sauna I got trapped in conversation with a stuttering midget who I could have sworn was hitting on me. The way I found out that he was not, in fact, hitting on me, was that, after he tried to hug me, he tried to set me up with the next guy that walked into the sauna. Unfortunately, he was not interested. The one time I would have been grateful for my bizarro dating life...

Oh, are you still wondering about my unconventional use of the hand dryer? I just forgot to take a towel.

the Manti fiasco

It was a Thursday. Forget the insurance agent on the other end of the line, forget what my parents would say, forget the vital bodily fluids spilling from my car, and most of all forget the stupid boy I was foolishly excited to see that night. It was Thursday and my best friend was getting married on Saturday, in Manti, and there I was, watching my beloved Minerva (my minivan) bleed out in Provo. On Thursday.

Friday, 9pm, after appealing to every remote relative and indifferent acquaintance owning anything with four wheels, I finally found a car to borrow. As I climbed into the stylish car Saturday morning, with “plenty of time to spare” according to a friend from the Manti area, I thought my troubles were over. False.

There are two ways to Manti from Provo: through Spanish Fork canyon and through Nephi. No sooner had I entered into Spanish Fork canyon than I knew I had made the wrong choice—construction. I should have known. Heavenly Father is constantly trying to teach me patience, frequently in the form of sending price checks to whichever checkout line I happen to be in or slow people to clog every lane. In one of my better moments, I took a deep breath and chose patience. Apparently it wasn’t as easy to prove my reformation as I had hoped, because half way through the canyon traffic stopped dead, just cars as far as I could see, none of them moving, and no cars coming through from the other direction. I could either sit there and likely be bald before I ever made it to Manti, or I could take my life into my hands, flip a u-ey, and BOOK IT through Nephi. Well, maybe someday I’ll learn patience.

Lucky for me all emergency response an law enforcement vehicles in the area were preoccupied with whatever horrible accident had closed the canyon, because I found myself going 90 in a 45. Not knowing exactly how to get to Manti through Nephi, I added to my dangerous driving by making some phone calls. In this process I received contradictory directions and found out that the car that I was currently using to dart in and out of traffic in a thoroughly illegal manner was unregistered and had multiple outstanding DUIs. Great.

The next hour or so are a blur (possibly because I was going 90, 100, and 110 mph) of illegal driving maneuvers and—wouldn’t you guess it— more construction. As I was racing down the final stretch with the Manti temple in sight, I thought to myself, “if a cop tries to pull me over, maybe I’ll just race him to the temple and claim sanctuary. It worked for Quasimodo.” That proved unnecessary, and I pulled into the temple parking lot, apparently immune from traffic laws, and parked at 10:57. The wedding was at 11:00 and I was supposed to be there at 10:30. Lacking sufficient time to do things in a more dignified manner, I left my fancy shoes in the back seat, hurriedly scooped up my temple clothes in an unseemly heap, and ran up the temple hill in my flip flops. I changed clothes in a whirlwind, leaving my street clothes hanging out of my temple locker and ran to the nearest temple worker to ask for the Reynolds wedding. “I’m sorry, dear, you’re too late.” I’m not ashamed (okay, maybe a little) to admit that I shed a tear or two at this point. It was my best friend and I’d already been through a lot to be there. Immediately I was surrounded by overly sympathetic old women in white who stroked my arm and dried my tears and told me everything would be OK.

When they had calmed me sufficiently, I was led to the sealing room where I had to walk between Elder Dallin H. Oaks, who had already begun his speech, and the happy couple to get to the only available seat. Once there I realized that in my clothes-changing frenzy, I had left on all of my large, loud jewelry. As inconspicuously as I could, I took it off and put it in my pocket while still trying to control my rapid breathing from the sprint up the temple hill. I felt as conspicuous as if I were wearing bright pink to this all-white wedding. After the ceremony, I hugged my friends and went to leave, but the only exit was guarded by an Apostle of the Lord. Normally, I’d be thrilled at the opportunity, but I was humiliated. He shook my hand, pulled me in for a kiss on the cheek, and whispered in my ear, “I’m glad that you could make it, young lady. *Face palm*

so busy having fun

This is officially the easiest semester of my life. In fact, I think you'd be hard pressed to find an easier semester in all the history of higher education. This, in part, may explain the urge to start a blog. Part of the credit (or blame) must also be attributed to my technology in teaching class and part to my friend Ben, who writes an entertaining blog, and part to Alisha May for introducing me to Hyperbole and a Half, the best blog ever. Although I cannot hope to live up to these blogs, and whatever the causes may be, here I am, a blogger at last.

As for my easy semester, I begin each week with the highest of hopes for productivity, complete with schedules, check lists and goals. But being done with class and work by 11 or 12 most days leaves me much too much time for things like Netflix, napping, game playing, and movie nights. In fact, I'm so busy having fun that I hardly get to the gym anymore these days. Really important things- such as preparing for the specialty exam, planning my epic trip to Europe this summer, or working on my thesis- are easily put off till tomorrow, or some other day when I'm not so busy having fun.