Savvy goes to the library

So I was on the phone today with Savvymom, who tells me that Savvy The Precious' latest trick is called Running Away (from her mom, into traffic, you name it).

Savvymom: So today I tried to take her to the Orem library because it has the good storytime and the teepee and the stained glass and stuff. Only we get there, and she tears off through the doors and runs all the way through the lobby and down the aisle of the entire children's section, screaming like a banshee the whole time. And because it's got that 3-story vaulted ceiling, the accoustics in there are great. And I can't go chasing after her because I was holding the baby and all their crap and I had a sore knee from where I fell in the dark last night just before I yelled the f-word really loud. So she reaches the teepee at the end, then turns around and starts running the other way, back toward the entrance, completely ignoring me, and when she gets to the automatic doors they open! Whose stupid idea was it to make automatic doors that open for toddlers anyway?

Me: I think the activation thing is in the floor, so they wouldn't be able to distinguish. She didn't run out into traffic or anything, did she?

Savvymom: No, a librarian got in front of her and said, "Your mommy told you to stop." And anyway, they need to change those doors so that you have to be like 3 feet tall to activate them.

Me: But they can't, because that would descriminate against dwarfs.

Savvymom: What??

Me: Yeah, against dwarfs, and against people in wheelchairs, maybe.

Savvymom: Well they could just raise their arm up or something. And, hello, people in wheelchairs would be more than 3 feet tall.

Me: Not if they're dwarfs in wheelchairs. What then, huh? And also if the secret is just to raise your hand, Savvy would totally pick up on that.

Savvymom: And just how many dwarfs in wheelchairs do you think she's gonna see at the Orem Public Library, you freak?

Me: Hey, I'm just saying!

Savvymom: Whatever, you're such an idiot.

By this point we were both laughing uncontrollably.

Me: Hey, can I put this in my blog?

Savvymom: Sure, why not . . .

Only I don't think I told her that I was going to tattle on her for using the f-word. Only she probably will still get the china even if she is a potty-mouth, because she has produced both a male heir and a female heir, even if the female heir is trying her very best to get run over by a car.

When I am a Smug Married I will wear purple. And a muzzle.

image source

Remember how WR and I went to that wedding last weekend and ate roasted meats until we were both sick? During the reception, I learned that people don't reserve the cringe-inducing questions/advice for just the Singletons--they're for the dating people, too. Turns out that some folks will walk up to two people who look like they might possibly be together, or are maybe just standing near each other, and say, “So, are you two married? Are you at least thinking about it, though?” (Thanks. Like the guys need one more reason to run away screaming into the bracken.)

So that got me thinking back to all the things people have said to me and to my friends. Because, you know, if you're single, that's a problem. If you're single and LDS, it's an even bigger problem. I'm pretty sure that being 22 and single in the LDS culture is the same as being 35 and single in the Regular People world--like, you start to wonder if maybe you should be getting your eggs frozen.

So I've decided to make a list, just in case I ever get to be a Smug Married, at which time the euphoria of not having to worry about dying alone and being eaten by cats might just take over. And much like those women whose bodies produce endorphins which make them forget just what a crappy thing childbirth was, I might just forget those years and years of singleness, and how every thoughtless comment from someone was like a drop of acid in the paper cut, and I might actually start saying some of those bone-headed things.
So. Here is the list:

Things I Must Never, Ever, Ever Say to Single People. Ever.
Note: I am not making any of these up. These have all been said--if not to me, then to my friends. I hope it's okay that I'm using these! Also, please do contribute to the list, because I'm sure you've got some of your own!!!

“So . . . are you dating anyone?” (This question is only fun if we are, and we usually aren't. We know you mean well, so stick with “So what’s new?” and you’ll be fine. )

“Don’t worry, it’ll be your turn soon.”

“Wow, I am SOOoooo glad I’m not single anymore.” (You can think it--just don't say it.)

“You know, marriage is just a better way to live.” (You will deserve whatever you get if you say this, because even if it's true there's absolutely nothing I can do about it. You might as well say, "You know, being pretty is just a better way to live.")

“Hey, once you get engaged/married we’ll be able to hang out!” (Sure, if by "hanging out" you mean that I get to hit you in the face with a folding chair.)

“Now, in that dash up the corporate ladder, be sure to leave some room for marriage and family!” (said to AmyJane, the elementary-school teacher)

“So why do you think it is that there are so many single girls out there?” (Only I don’t mind this one so much, because if someone asks me for my opinion I am just fine with letting them have it.)

“So why didn’t you go on a mission then, if you weren’t married?” (Gosh, I guess I didn't go because it was none of your business!")"Does it ever bother you that you're still single?" (C'mere. I'll show you bothered.)

"So when you do get married, you'll probably need to start having babies right away, what with the increased risk of birth defects and all."

Well, guess what's coming right up for you? Menopause! (thank you, Daltongirl's grandmother)

Wait, so your sister is younger than you and she's married? That's kind of funny, don't you think? I mean, what's that about?

Now, don't worry that you're still single. Just remember the scripture where 7 women cleave to the one man. That should give you some comfort. (thanks to Streets' grandfather and the huge family gathering at which he said this)

You're probably going to be the next Sheri Dew. I just love that Sheri Dew. (For the non-LDS crowd, Sheri Dew is a popular leader/speaker/author person in the Church. She is also single, which made a whole bunch of Mormons blink and become confused when she was put in positions of, like, authority and stuff where she told married people what to do. Only she kicks trash, even if some dear single girls have turned her into a patron saint of sorts, which is kind of taking things a bit too far, I think.)

You'll make such a wonderful stepmother when you finally meet some nice divorced man/widower. (thanks, Danalee's mom)

Huh. It used to be that only the fat and weird girls went on missions. (And thank you, Foxyj's mom)

You know, perhaps if you had children of your own you would understand my child better . . . (to Amyjane by a mother whose child is destined for prison and possibly hell)

Hey, so my son just got divorced and asked how you were doing . . .

So, like, you've gotten over me, right? (said by Smug Married Ex of mine, and no, I don't sometimes dream about really really bad things happening to him and about me laughing and pointing.)


And that's all I have so far. Can't wait to see what y'all add!

Ah-tishoo, ah-tishoo, we all fall down!

That's how I have to sing Ring Around the Rosy over here. They've assigned me to help with the nursery kids (18 months to 3 years) at church, and that's just one of the songs that the little pew monkeys get wrong. But I'm too nice to say anything about it.

The kids are actually quite cute (there are 6 of them) and I'm just amazed at how well they've picked up the cute li'l English accents. I wish I could do it as well as they can. One little girl named Phoebe has an American dad and was born in the US, so I like to ask her if she's American. "Yes! I'm Phoebe and I'm American and English and British. I'm both."

So I'm learning new songs like "Wind the Bobbin Up" and stuff that I've never heard of before, and the songs that I thought I knew (like "Ring around the Rosy") are completely different. But, you know, they don't notice yet that I don't have a clue. And lucky for them I'm not the only adult in there. Also they're getting a little bit more used to me since I've been in there for a few weeks. At first only one little girl named Chloe would have any dealings with me--and that consisted of her silently picking out the raisins that had little tiny dried stems still left on and holding them out to me between two fingers so that I could pick the offending stems off. It felt nice to be useful, though.

But, we're not here to talk about the part where I am now the picker-offer of raisin stems and wiper of noses, but about the falling down, which it seemed like pretty much Everyone was doing on the ice last night. I realize that falling must be quite traumatic for the actual athlete, but it's no picnic for me either. I gasp loudly and throw my hands over my mouth and/or face and cry "Oh noooo!!!" and jump so violently that my bottom leaves the seat cushion. So, really, I'm surprised my hair wasn't white by the end of the women's freestyle program last night.

SO Much Falling.

and falling

falling, falling, falling

still with the falling

yikes

And then we have Shizuka Arakawa, who managed to keep it together. And I don't think that she won just because everyone else was rubbish and fell on their trashes. She looked absolutely beautiful and graceful and perfect out there, and her routine was one of the most (if not the most) difficult. After seeing her skate, I wanted her to win, because she was the only one who gave me that Olympic Euphoria you get when you're seeing something breathtaking. And I love that she skated to "Nessun Dorma," because that one always gives me chills.

Yay for the Olympics, Yay!

I am so, SO excited right now. I am seeing my first Winter 2006 Olympic event (it only took me until Day 13) and I finally figured out how to find BBC2 on my landlady's TV in time to catch the final Women's Figureskating.

I was having a real problem with England because the Olympics had been on for days and days and my only hint was that Google had cool Olympic graphics on. The only people I eventually heard talking about it were other expats, like my Finnish and Chinese friends. So finally I decided to take this up with the Brits, on account of how they were the ones who lobbied so hard to get the Olympics in their own country and now they're completely ignoring that it's even on. I mean, seriously, what kind of attitude is that? Possibly people who don't appreciate the Olympics don't actually deserve to host the Olympics.

Only then I called them on it and everything became clear.

Brit Friend: Nah, we're just not that interested in the Olympics, really.

Me: But you're hosting them soon!

Brit Friend #2: Yeah, the Summer Olympics.

Brit Friend: Yeah, we don't care about the Winter Olympics. We don't win anything in those.

Brit Friend #3: Exactly. Since Torville and Dean, it's been like, 'Why bother?'

Brit Friend: But, now, Summer Olympics we're great at. We get into the Summer Olympics.

Brit Friend #2: And the World Cup.

So. Now we know. And now it's on and it's live and I'm watching little Emily Hughes skate and just learned that she only got called up to compete 10 days ago when Michelle Kwan backed out.

So go USA, where we watch both the Summer and Winter Olympics because we win medals at both!!!

[later]

Only ps. I won't give anything away for the people who want to watch this themselves, but I'm thinking a bunch of these skaters will be going home and calling this "The Winter Olympics I Spent Sliding on My Butt."

Bathrooms are always good for a laugh

At least I hope they are, because they're all I have. Today has not been a good day, so I don't actually have any funny stories to offer. Sorry about that. But I've also noticed that if I don't at least post something, then my ratings (or, you know, "visits" for those people who don't think their blog is a television show) go down.

So, anyway, here you have it. One of my classes is in a building (well, actually, all of them are) and during a break I went downstairs to use the facilities. (Note: In UK buildings there will not be bathrooms on every floor. And don't even think about looking for a drinking fountain, cuz it just ain't gonna happen.)

I walked into the bathroom and found a leftover from the Industrial Age:



This pictures don't actually do the place justice, because you can't see how old and rusty and slimy and dank everything was. But trust me, it was gross.



Also I swiped one of the little "sanitary use" bags that they kept wedged behind a pipe in each stall. I was going to take a picture of it to show you, only I haven't gotten around to it yet. But there's this black and white etching of what appears to be an 18th-century sheperdess on the front. Because sheperdesses were notorious for not knowing how to properly dispose of their woman products, I guess. You learn something new every day.

Because it is hailing and stupid outside

I am going to give you pictures of flowers, which I took in warmer and less hail-filled times. The first three were taken near my house, and the last two are on the castle grounds at Nottingham. Only it turns out what they call The Castle isn't actually a castle, but is a Victorian-era building built on the site where all the original castles stood before they got burned down and knocked over and quarried and stuff. But that's neither here nor there. Only it would have been nice if some people could have had a better sense of responsibility to their cultural heritage, that's all, or at least to the witty and attractive library students who might one day choose to visit.

King of Swamp Castle: When I first came here, this was all swamp. Everyone said I was daft to build a castle on a swamp, but I built in all the same, just to show them. It sank into the swamp. So I built a second one. That sank into the swamp. So I built a third. That burned down, fell over, then sank into the swamp. But the fourth one stayed up. And that's what you're going to get, Lad, the strongest castle in all of England.

Some people's children . . .

Anyway, hope you enjoy the flowers! I'm off to eat a curry and possibly do some homework.

My first UK wedding, wherein there were hats

Only a few, though. The bride's mom and the groom's mom had them, and then some of the guests did as well. There were much feathers.

I'm happy to report that the groom was there and very much alive, despite his idiot groomsmen's best efforts. I just had to not look at any of them or their huge English wedding ties.

The bride was 20 minutes late, which is pretty good over here, I am told. WR said you just have to wait until they show up, even if it takes an hour. I told him that if took longer than 30 minutes I wasn't going to give them my gift. Then it could kind of be like the pizza delivery system where you don't have to pay if they take too long. Or maybe you could start taking cash out of the card in increments.

When the bridesmaids appeared, the organist abruptly stopped playing and this dramatic musical score that sounded vaguely familiar and reminded me of sweeping Western vistas started booming over the speaker system. The four bridesmaids walked slowly in kind of a clump down the aisle, and I had to resist the urge to giggle at the gaggle. WR's sister was in the group and she looked a tiny bit nervous but lovely. I understood then why she had been nervous about tripping while walking down the aisle. If one of them stumbled, they would all go in some huge Bridesmaid Pileup. Then the bride came in with her dad and she was, of course, gorgeous. I could not get over the part though where people were marching down the aisle and playing the soundtrack to Legends of the Fall in the chapel. (I found out later that's what it was, which is good, because it would have just driven me crazy all day.) It was a whole new world, people.

There were talks and speakers and stuff, and the only horrifying bit was when this dry tickly cough I thought I was finished with decided to make an appearance. Just as I was about to leap over WR and bolt for the door so as not to be remembered as That American Who Ruined So-and-So's Wedding his mom tossed me a water bottle that she keeps with her. Bless her.

So then the wedding part was over and it was on to the reception and to The Lunch. And friends . . .

It. Was. Amazing.

We all milled about in the hallways at first while the bridal party did pictures, but caterers started coming through with trays of canapes containing things like smoked salmon and these little crispy ceasar salad bites and fried dumplings with vegetable curry inside. As a lover of all finger foods and hors d'oevres and Costco samples, that was right up my alley. I could happily live on the stuff. WR, though, didn't have any, because "little foods" just don't do anything for him.

Finally we made it into the cultural hall/gym, which had been made up all pretty, and saw that the back end of the hall contained a bunch of caterers and chafing dishes, but also an Entire Roast Pig on a spit, and an Entire Roast Lamb on a spit, and then they wheeled out 30 Roast Chickens on a spit.





I could not stop staring, and sweet WR looked as though the gates of heaven had been unexpectedly opened just for his Carnivorous Big-Food-Loving self. "This is the Best Wedding Ever!" Of course our table was closest to the food, and of course we were the last to be called up and got to watch everyone else get their food first. Only we didn't have to worry about there not being anything left when we got there, because Oh My Gosh that was so much food. There were roast potatoes and rosemary potatoes and roast vegetables and stuffing and mint sauce and pitchers of gravy and 8 bottles of sparkling juices on each table. It was like eating Thanksgiving Dinner, and I felt just about as full afterwards.

Then they brought out the desserts and Oh My Gosh the desserts. There was a meringue with berries and lemon cheesecake and blackcurrant cheesecake and dense chocolate fudge cake and then wedding cake (a fruitcake layer and a white sponge cake layer). Three guesses which one I got.

Once the feasting died down and people started raising their heads up from their plates and reacknowledging the presence of those around them, the toasts started. The sound system had a bit of trouble in the beginning, but that turned out to be a good thing because then I could only hear parts of the Best Man's speech. Once he got started, though, I nudged WR.

Me: Hey, is that the guy who organized the Stag Night?

WR: Dunno, probably . . .

Me: (eyes narrowing) Hmmph.

The bits I heard were all rubbish/slightly offensive stories about dumb things the groom did when he was younger. And he got out a ball and chain for the groom to put on. Whatever. Bouncers, people. There will be bouncers.

But then the bride's sweet Greek father gave a toast and said he was sorry there wasn't room for traditional Greek dancing, and then said sweet things about his daughter. And then the groom got up and thanked everyone, and got all choked up when he talked about how much he loves the bride, and that's when I started getting teary.

Turns out I always cry at weddings.

Trying on hats in Debenhams

My American friend Goldilocks and I spent the day in Nottingham. We've both made goals to get off our bums and start visiting places, even if it is freezing cold, and today was Trip #1. I'll do the full report later, but Notts was very nice once we stopped heading off in wrong directions from the train station and wandering off the map and into the outskirts where they keep the gun crime. We did this not once but twice, because we are both Smart People.

Also, who are proper English ladies now, huh? Please feel free to vote for your favorites. I won't be buying any, even if there is a wedding this weekend, because they all cost between £25 and £65. We had to be sneaky about the photos so as not to attract attention to ourselves, and it was difficult because there were other ladies playing with the hats as well. Only maybe they were going to a wedding or Ascot or something and actually needed one.

The white fluffy bunny who lived in the cotton candy tree in the forest of shared feelings

I did promise my dad a post about the bunny, but maybe I'll skip it and give a Valentine's Day report instead.

Turns out that here in the blessed British Isles, they do not celebrate Valentine's Day properly in the schools. Americans (and Canadians?) will back me up here. When you're little Valentine's Day is this huge day-long party, and everyone brings Valentines for everyone else (the kind with Barbie and Shrek and stuff on the front) and you have your little mailbox on your desk, and during the big classroom Valentine's party everyone goes around and delivers them, and you eat candy and cupcakes and drink red Kool-Aid until you're sick, and you spend hours agonizing over whether the boy you like picked that Spiderman valentine especially with you in mind. ("Hmmm . . . Valentine, I'm stuck on you . . . there's a double meaning in that.")

During high school and college, however, it didn't work that way anymore--not unless you have cool friends & family who still buy Shrek Valentines and candy and give them away to everyone, which I have been lucky enough to have. Also I have a mommy who sends Valentines to us in the mail.

But, like, the romance part of Valentine's Day has always been a pretty nonexistent thing. There's a reason we call it Singles Awareness Day. And it's not like you want to go out on February 14th with your girlfriends--not when the streets and restaurants are full of an entire BYU campus worth of disgusting schmoopy couples who are all trying to prove to everyone around them that they are, in fact, The Most In-Love Couple on the Planet, and They Will Tounge Kiss Each Other Right There at the Table to Prove It. So all the reasonable single people (read: me, every single year) stay in with their girls and get takeaway and watch movies and eat lots and lots of chocolate and talk trash about how Valentine's Day is a stupid arbitrary notholiday invented by Hallmark, and how men are stupid for not dating us because we would be so much nicer to them than the mean skanks they're currently dating.

Only this year I got to have my first Valentine's Day as a Smug Dating Someone! Yipee!

I will do my best not to make anyone throw up their chocolate, but friends, it was lovely. WR's original plan was to take me to this pretty town called Stamford to spend the day on Saturday, but we ended up not being able to go. So instead he made reservations at a Thai restaurant, becuase he knows I love me some Thai food. I wore (yes, I'm going to tell you what I wore, so if you're not into such details then too bad for you, because this is MY day) my flowy red knee-length skirt and my black v-neck 3/4-sleeve top, also black heels and black nylons because my legs are scary white and also because it's England and cold. And I'm not drunk/stupid enough to wander around in February wearing one of those those little denim belts that girls here mistake for skirts.


Also WR gave me a present. Yay for presents! He gave me a book, which I would take over chocolate and flowers any day. It's Invisible Cities by Italo Calvino, who I've never heard of before but WR says he's great. Also it's about Venice, which I think is an absolutely gorgeous place that I would love to visit again. And the card was beautiful.

WR liked his gifts too. I got him the Dover edition of love poetry and made him a coupon book with vouchers for things like:

"Candlelit lasagna dinner"
"Hot chocolate at Border's"
"Nice long back rub"
"You get to pick the movie"
"Being as late as you want and [Nem] will not say a word"

I think he's the most excited about that last one.


Dinner was lovely--nearly all the restaurants in the town had pink and red balloons tied up around the tables. At the Thai House they played all the sappy romantic songs like "Dream a Little Dream of Me" and the theme from "Somewhere in Time," but then there was also "All By Myself" thrown into the mix. Don't ask me why. As I looked around I thought, "Huh. So this is what restaurants look like on Valentine's Day. Crazy." It's a small restaurant, and pretty much the entire place was full of couples. I ordered my favorite--masaman curry, with chicken satay as an appetizer. Also there were some Chinese-sounding dishes on the menu. WR got sweet & sour pork (cuz that's Thai) and chicken, egg & sweetcorn soup (ditto). English people with their sweetcorn. But it was really good, and he liked it his intro to Thai(ish) food. Also they gave all the ladies flowers at the end of their meals. Here's mine!

So. There's my story. I'll try to fit the fluffy bunny in next time.

The Secret Garden

When I was in the 6th grade, I won the school library's "Reader of the Year" award. I think that was possibly because I checked out about 3 or 4 books every day from the library and would usually have at least one of them finished by the time school got out. This kind of makes me wonder now just how bad that school must have been that I had so much free time to just sit at my desk and read, but whatever.

My prize was a hardback copy of The Secret Garden, the edition with the lovely Tasha Tudor illustrations. I already had a copy, but the fact is that I won this one, see. And that meant something.

Then in 1993 they did the Warner Brothers film version of the movie and I absolutely fell in love with it. They made England look like this gorgeous magical place, and there were all those sequences where they used time-elapsed photography or whatever to show all the flowers blooming and the really cute little baby lamb being all cute and stuff. As I watched it I thought, "Wow, what it would be like to live in the English countryside and watch it turn all to spring like that. I've really got to get myself over there." This was me at, like, thirteen, mind you.

Only now I am here, and I keep having all these Mary Lennox moments, like when I first noticed the bulbs starting to come up. They're getting ready to flower now, and it's so exciting to check on their progress and to see that spring is on the way. I almost dropped my bags and started weeding the front garden because I could see little green things trying to come up under last year's dead stuff. (It really is too bad about my black thumb. I'm sure that if I could garden, I should be a true proficient.)

Today I was walking home from class and I heard this really pretty bird twittery thing, and I didn't recognize it. (I mean, not that I know all the bird sounds or anything, but lately I've just noticed that there are a lot more bird sounds than there have been. Possibly they're all thawing out now from that flipping Deep Freeze we just had.) So I looked around to see where it came from, and saw my very first English robin, sitting high in the bushes with its pretty red throat, looking just like the one in the film who shows Mary how to get into the secret garden. Also it was singing this really lovely song, which American robins don't actually do, so much. They just tend to hop around like the enormous birds that they are, with their whole "if I don't move then you can't see me" routine.

I did manage to refrain from rushing over to the hedge and beating it with my fists while crying, "Show me the key! Please, show me the key to the garden!"

But I so wanted to.

I will go out with my camera and get pictures of the flowers so we can all have Mary Lennox moments, kay? And if there are people out there who don't know who Mary Lennox is or what The Secret Garden is, please slap yourself and then go to a library and get the book. Or the movie, if you're pressed for time and promise to read the book within the next 6 months.

Market Highlights

I braved the cold and wind today to go to the market, and here are some highlights so you can feel like you were there. First imagine that it was grey and windy and cold and England. That will help.

1. It is not easy to shop for Valentine's Day cards here. They're either schmoopy and sappy, or they're really gross and raunchy. In one of the card stores, these two college-age guys found a Valentine's Day card that has a really long sound byte of a woman giving her best Meg-Ryan-in-the-diner impression. (I'd use the real word but then the Google weirdos might end up here.)So they opened the card twice to listen to the recording. In my head I had it all set out that if they did it a third time I was going to let them have it. Only they didn't. Pity.

2. One stall was selling these pretty wine glasses with twirly stems--sets of 6 for 3 pounds. I looked over and considered it before I remembered that I don't actually need to own or have a place for six pretty goblets. Back when I had an apartment and stuff, though, I would have snagged them up after the obligatory 30 minutes going back and forth over it in my head, which is customary with any major purchase that I make.

As I passed by the stall later these two older ladies were checking out the glasses.

Stall Owner: It's only 3 pounds for the set, really nice wine glasses.

Older English lady: Well, we don't drink.

Stall Owner: Well nah, me neither, 'ats why they're for tea.

So I'm out of the will now, apparently

Savvymom just informed me that, because of my last blog post, I am now dead to both my parents.

I am dead to my mother because when one of the lovely people who were nice enough to comment drew a comparison to her mother and mine, I did not immediately rush to clarify things. And so I inadvertently let the Internet have the idea for 24 hours that my mother is not "into" hair and makeup. Only I've put a picture of her up here where everyone can see how pretty she is, and I told a story about how she used to get perms in Germany during the Cold War.

Only Savvymom says that my mother is not speaking to me and that now Savvymom gets the china. And I couldn't immediately say that she was full of rubbish because I realized that I haven't actually heard from my mom in the last little while. So I'd better remedy this or face missing out on the Wedgewood.

Facts about my mother:

• My mom is beautiful. She would be beautiful without makeup.
• Only she does wear makeup, which she applies very tastefully.
• She cares very much about encouraging others to wear makeup, both in her official capacity as a Mary Kay representative, and also in her unofficial capacity of One Who Must Make Sure that Nemesis Wears Makeup, Especially the Pink Kind. When I fly home I would never dream of getting off the airplane without 1) a box of Krispy Kreme donuts, and 2) a full face of makeup. Otherwise I would probably get left in the terminal with all the display cases of stuffed grizzly bears and polar bears and record-breaking halibut.
• My mother has lovely blond hair.
• My mother gets highlights, and is all hip with the highlights and the product and buys much nicer hair products than I do and knows how to use all of them.
• My guy friends think my mom is hot.
• So do my girl friends.
• If I look anything like her when I am a grandma, I will be thrilled.
  
• I honestly don't remember her offering to take me to a salon back during the Pink Skunk incident. But she probably did, and I probably turned her down because I was too cheap to pay for it.
• She sent me a Valentine's Day package because she loves me and is the best mom in the world. And I really needed the chocolate today.
• I'm sorry, Mom.
  

Now, on to my dad, who has also expressed displeasure with my words:

• My dad did turn down the thermostat to 62 degrees every night. In Alaska. I had to sleep in sweatsuits. When we complained, he said, "You don't need heat. You're asleep."
• I have been the bane of absolutely all my roommates' existences, because I constantly turned down the heat, sometimes after they had gone to sleep. When they complained, I said, "Maybe if you were dressed, you wouldn't be cold."
• Isn't imitation supposed to be the greatest form of flattery?
  

Can I please be back in the will now? I said I was sorry.

Stupid things I've done

The lovely Cicada and Redlaw do such a good job of telling Days of Yore stories that I wanted to have a go at it myself. Please forgive me if mine aren't as good as theirs. Also keep it to yourself if that's what you think.

To people who know me in real life, please forgive me if you've heard this story before. And if you actually participated in said story, then it's me who should be deciding whether to forgive you.

I spent New Year's Eve 1995 (turning 1996) at a friend's house. We had a big huge party, and then the boys went home and the girls had a sleepover. In the morning, the hostess friend, whom we will call K, decided that she wanted to dye her hair a bit blonder. Please keep in mind the following things:

1. This was in Alaska.
2. Alaskan teenagers did not get highlights in salons.
3. Alaskan teenagers didn't even know about salons. Or highlights. Or fashion, for that matter.
4. This information will be important later.

We all drove through the snow to the local drugstore (the only drugstore) in our pajamas so that she could pick out a box of dye. As I browsed the Hair Chemicals aisle, my eye was caught by a box of Clairol Natural Instincts Copper Sunrise, which promised to turn my hair a gorgeous copper red. At the time, I had very long dark blond hair, and I thought red would just look sooooo great with my fair (read: pastier than the underside of a halibut) skin and blue eyes.

I picked up the box and asked the other girls what they thought, and they all said it was a great idea. Of course, it was easy for them to say that because it wasn't their hair. So because I was 1) sixteen, 2) stupid and sleep-deprived, and 3) encouraged by my idiot sleep-deprived friends, I bought the stuff. I tried to find the color on the Clairol website to show you, but it has possibly been recalled in the manner of other dangerous things, like cars that spontaneously burst into flames or strollers that eat babies. This is the closest I could find.

Do keep in mind that mine was more Coppery, though. And, lest you think I am a complete idiot, do know that I purposely bought a dye that was supposed to wash out after 18 washes. I mean, I was thinking. Kind of. Partly.

We got back to K's house and got down to bidness. K did hers first, and because I had such long hair and had never dyed it before, she helped me with mine. When she was done I started drying my hair, because you can never really tell what it's up to when it's wet. As I dried, I started to notice that some sections of my hair had turned copper, while others . . . hadn't, so much. Like, pretty much everything from eyebrow-level down was still dark blond. I finished quickly with the drying, feeling a little bit anxious now, and faced the mirror to see the damage.

And o, my friends, what damage it was. I had a copper stripe down the top and back of my head. And it looked about as horrible as you think that might look. But I still thought, "Hey, that's okay, it's only semi-permanent. I'll just go home and wash my hair a bunch of times and it'll be out before you know it."

So I washed my hair pretty much all day Saturday.
Then I stayed home from church on Sunday and washed it some more.

I eventually had to stop washing it because my fingers lost feeling and were nothing but frozen prune sticks. Also hypothermia was just around the corner, because this was Alaska in January and my dad didn't believe in heating, and so you just didn't get wet and naked all the time, willy-nilly like that. You had to respect the elements!!! So while I washed, and washed, and washed, and washed, I learned a few important things:

1. Those Clairol people are $£%&* !"&^$%£$ *&£^&$ lying liars.
2. My hair hangs on to the color red like The Precious hangs onto other people's electronics: With great passion, steely resolve, and the splintered shrieks of a banshee that has been set on fire.

I told WR this story, and when I got to the part where it just wouldn't wash out, he nodded and said, "So then your mum had to take you to the salon to have it fixed, huh."

Blink.

Blink. Blink.

Me: Um . . . no, actually. I . . . don't know if she even suggested it.

WR: So . . . did you have to go and pay for it yourself then?

Blink.

Me: Well . . . no. I never went to a salon.

WR: Wait, you didn't? You just left it like that?

Blink. Blink.

Me: Huh. Um. . . yeah. . . I don't think it ever occurred to me that someone could fix it!"

So, my question here, is why the heck didn't my mom take me to the salon? Why didn't I think of it either? I mean, they probably had them somewhere, even if we were living in the frozen Arctic tundra--we could have found at least one! I had money, I could have given it to them! So why did I spend three months of my high-school career walking around with a pink skunk stripe in my hair when I didn't have to???

So the story itself is an embarassing one. But now it's topped by the embarrassment of how it took 10 years and a BOY to point out the obvious solution.

The things they say when they think we're not listening

So yesterday I was in my Online Information Retrieval lab, and we were discussing the strengths and weaknesses of the database searching tool thing that the university library uses. (I know, try to contain yourselves from drooling on your keyboards over such a steamy topic. . . )

Anyway, we talked about whether or not the search function was powerful enough to allow for things like spelling mistakes, or dyslexia (you know how Google will say, "Did you mean: _____?"). Turns out it isn't powerful enough. It also doesn't account for what my professor seems to believe is the grandaddy of all the plagues of all the searches, even the Americanisation/Americanization of Terms.

He gave the example of personalization/personalisation.

Professor: If you spell it with an s, you won't get any American stuff, which is bad, because they're churning out articles and things all the blessed time.

Professor: On the other hand, if you spell it with a zed, you don't get any European or UK sources, which is horribe, because, well, they're just better.

Class: Ho ho ho

My Canadian friend, mock offended: Hey, you didn't mention Canada!

Prof: Oh, right. Well, um, North American, then. Is that okay?

MCF: Yeah, I was just teasing. Sometimes we don't know what we are in Canada.

Prof: (walks over to her and speaks very earnestly) You know, if there were a way to distinguish between Canadian and American spelling, we would always choose yours.

And that's when the Prof remembered that there was actually a Yank in the room, and that he was saying The Secret and Sacred Things in front of her. He shot me a sideways glance, to which I responded with the Raised Eyebrow of Impending Doom.

Then I raced to tell the Internet what I found out. The Brits would totally pick Canada if it came down to it. We'll remember that.

Oh yes. We will remember.

Feathers, schmeathers

No offense to the brilliant Emily Dickinson, but to me hope looks like this instead.

These are in the front garden and I can't wait to see what they'll be when they finish growing up. I figure I could use a little bit of hope, because even when life is good there are always the little things that can wear at you if you let them.

For instance:

1. It has been bitterly, bitterly cold here for the past few weeks. Like freeze-the-marrow-in-your-bones cold. So seeing these little shoots reminds me that it won't always be this cold, and I won't always be worried that my frozen bones will just break into a million pieces the next time I fall down the stairs..

2. The second semester officially begins tomorrow, so my lazy mornings are officially over. Only it's okay, because I think the classes will be fun if they don't kill me. I'm especially excited for The Child and the Book (yay for juveline lit!), Legal and Professional Issues, (because I just love Defending My Rights and Sticking It to The Man!) and Online Information Retrieval (making me the Internet's Daddy).

3. My department has now put the fear into my heart regarding my dissertation, which I won't even be able to get started on until May. But I have to pick a topic now. This will be difficult, because I want to do something that is a) easy, b) fascinating, and c) cheap (kind of like me! Um, wait . . . ). Also I want to score at least a 70 on it (distinction) and get it published and win world-wide acclaim when I'm done. You know, little things like that.

And now it's almost midnight, which means that my plan of getting to bed on time this semester is already shot. Oh well . . .

The one where my head explodes

So you know how I posted about the wedding yesterday? Here comes the second half.

You know how in the US there's the whole thing with the bachelor parties? When sweet Mormon boys say they're having a bachelor party, what that really means is that a bunch of guys are getting together to play video games, eat pizza, drink root beer, and say "Dude" a lot. Because that's all you're left with once the booze and the strippers get nixed.

Anyway. Let's cross the pond. Over here they have Stag and Hen Nights. Hen Nights are pretty much Girls' Night Out and are more about food and talking and giggles and maybe spa treatments if you're really lucky. Now, let's say that your typical Stag Night is comprised of 10% food, 30% alcohol, 30% strippers, and 30% pranks. (Don't kill me if the math is off--this is just an estimate.) The sweet Mormon boys around here have decided to adjust the percentages to 20% food and 80% pranks.

Now, I hate pranks. Hate, hate, hate them. My sense of humor toward prankery was killed in junior high when I was on the wrong end of some, and there's just nothing to be done for it. To me, most pranks are nothing more than a protected form of either vandalism or physical/emotional abuse. I can't even watch that show Punk'd because it gives me a stomach ache and makes me want to kick that smug Ashton Kutcher's stupid teeth out and then shove that stupid beanie of his down his throat. But I realize that's just me, and some people can merrily prank away with each other and everyone is on the same page and is okay with it. Fine. Whatever.

Back to Stag Nights. Here are just a few of the things that have been done to grooms by their Mormon buddies during Stag Night:

Stag #1 was taken into the town center and tied to a lamppost wearing nothing but white Speedos and a bow tie.

Stag #2 had his pubic hair dyed green, and then his groomsmen talked about it in the speeches at the wedding reception in front of his virgin bride, her family, and all their guests. (Editor's note: Savvymom and I have now decided that there should be bouncers at weddings.)

Stag #3 was taken up to a local observation point in the park, laid out on this compass stone like a pagan sacrificial offering, and had his body smeared with baked beans, raw eggs, ketchup, and fish guts.

Now, this is stupid. It just is. How is this fun? Why would somebody sign himself UP for something like this? Also, is this how you celebrate what is supposed to be the most important and (to Mormons) most sacred event of your life? Of course, maybe some people reading this are thinking "Yeah, well, it's all in good fun . . . " Only I'm not done yet, because has anyone else sensed the escalation pattern here?

Stag#4 is the groom of the wedding I've been invited to. His buddies took him to dinner, and then took him out somewhere and started throwing all the gross food and stuff on him. Only some of them were throwing whole eggs which he said actually hurt quite a bit and left bruises. Then, they bound and gagged him, stuffed him in the trunk of their car, and started driving around over speedbumps.

Now, this is where I start having some real problems with this, even if the prankee was consenting. What if he started having trouble breathing back there or got sick? How would they know? What if they got into an accident or someone rear-ended them while he was back there? Do they think the "Um, we're friends and we were just playing around" defense is going to hold up then? They also took pictures of him in the trunk and sent them to the bride on her camera phone, so that she could worry about whether or not he was ok. (Let me just say here, if anyone, family and friends included, ever puts me into the trunk of a car, they will find themselves with a set of kicked-out tail lights and every single criminal and civil charge I can possibly press against them. Because you just don't mess around with my life like that.) And also, I can't believe that these are men who have been taught to be responsible citizens and Christlike individuals, yet are doing things that most other people would have to be severely drunk to even consider.

Also, I'm not done yet.

Because it turns out that the groom has diabetes, and his friends knew it. But they decided that a good idea would be to put a whole bunch of laxatives in his dinner, just before the "driving around in the trunk" incident. Landlady J's mother was a diabetic and she says that's absolutely the most dangerous and irresponsible thing you can do to someone with diabetes, because it makes their blood sugar levels drop dramatically and can put them into a diabetic coma or just make them drop dead. So, these guys have absolutely no idea what they're doing, but are just so excited about their chance to behave like drunken soccer hooligans that they don't care, and at this rate something is going to go badly.

So. I am going to stop now, before my brain start leaking out my ears.

I welcome your comments.

Could I BE more popular?

So last week I got two invitations to things, which probably means that I've been accepted into the Upper Crust of British society.

Invitation #1 was a letter from the NHS, inviting me to make an appointment with my doctor for a cervical smear test. I was kind of taken aback by this, and pictured in my head some NHS office worker looking at a computer and going, "Hmm. You know whose cervix we haven't seen yet . . ." But then I came to understand that they just routinely go through the database and send screening invites out to all women between 25 and 64 years of age. And that's kind of nice to know that they care. I suppose I should go, since the embarrassment of the "Are you aware of your breasts?" incident has worn off and I could probably use some new material. Trick is, I don't actually want to accept their kind invitation right now. So, you know, maybe I'll just pretend like I never got it. Shhhhhh!

Invitation #2 was a third-tiered once-removed invite to a wedding. My landlady got a second-tiered invite because hers did come with a paper invitation, even if the mother of the bride did hand it to her and say, "Please ignore the date on the RSVP card, and never mind about the registry card--they just want money." I guess the bride's family has counted up all the responses and are now trying to fill empty seats. If it were me I wouldn't bother, but would instead think, "Hah! That's lessuh y'all I have to feed!"

My invite is third-tiered because it did not include a paper invitation (WR's sister, who is a bridesmaid, passed along the verbal invite). But really, I've only spoken to the bride (who is very sweet, as is the groom) a few times, so I wasn't expecting to be invited at all. It was nice of her to think of me. Also the reception is a sit-down lunch, so like I'm skipping that!

I'm actually excited to attend an English wedding. It's an LDS couple from church, but the rules are a bit different in the UK than they are in the USA. Back home, temple weddings are legally recognized, so LDS couples just go straight there and then have their reception later that night. Most invitations are to the reception rather than to the temple ceremony, which is kept small. But in the UK, a marriage ceremony has to take place in a public building (and the temple isn't open to the public like the chapels are) because someone might need to rush in and declare that the groom is actually already married and keeps his insane first wife locked up in the attic at Thornfield! So most LDS couples get married civilly by the bishop in the chapel in the late morning (which is what they invite people to), have the reception immediately after in the cultural hall/gym, and then travel the three hours to either London or Preston with family & close friends to have the marriage solemnized in the temple. Also the big scandal about this wedding is that two different couples asked for the chapel on the same day and the sweet bishop said yes to both of them and didn't realize what he'd done until he (and everyone else) got two invitations in the mail for the same day. Woops.

So anyway. I'm popular and that's that. And tomorrow I will be giving you the second half of this post, which is the part that will get all the right-thinking people up in arms.

ps. Do we think I have to wear a hat to the wedding? I have no idea. In the movies and the royal weddings they wear lots of hats. But like I would even know where to get one of those things. I'm just gonna go ahead and say no to the hats, just like I'm saying no to the cervical smear. Shhhhhh!

See these stairs? They're going to feature in this story.

You know how I've been using that Soft Touch body butter from Lush? Last night I completed my nightly ritual of buttering up my hands. Now that I'm getting to bed at (mostly) decent hours I can actually have things like nightly rituals. I had to crack down after one too many mornings of waking up with all my lights on, wondering why I'm still wearing shoes.

So I got my hands all greased up and then noticed that the soles of my feet could use some attention--like they're so dry that they might just crack open at any second. So I figured that if it'll work on my hands then it couldn't hurt my feet. And I woke up this morning with soft, sweet-smelling hands and feet. I considered dancing around the house singing about how lovely I felt, but then I remembered that I didn't put anything magical on my teeth last night. It would kind of spoil the "I Feel Pretty" musical number if all the houseplants turned brown and died from my morning breath.

Only, people, it turns out that you don't want soft feet. Soft feet don't grip.

I learned this when I took one step down the stairs and felt my soft pretty foot slide right out from under me. I slid down the entire staircase on my butt (or, to be specific, my left butt) and could not use my soft soft feet to stop myself. As I slid, I prayed that I would not break a leg or crack a rib (my prayer sounded like this: "Ow-ow-ow-ow-ow-ow-ow-ow-ow-ow!!!"). When I finally came to a stop at the bottom and ascertained that I was in fact still in one functioning piece, I gave thanks for (1) carpeting, and (2) the extra padding I gained during the holidays. Then I put Neosporin on all the raw spots, hoping to encourage skin regeneration.

Stupid staircase.