I'm becoming a thief.

Even though my condition is not Aladdin-adventure worthy, I wish I had a monkey-friend to help me get food. I am hungry and starving too.

So in the attempt to tide me over until my next meal (who knows where it will come from), I bought some Easy Mac from the vending machine for one dollar. One dollar. Normally, I would be morally against such measures (who knows where that stuff comes from . . . ), but my starvation was in a desperate state. I had only eaten a granola bar more than six hours prior. Upon microwaving it, I began to consider where I might obtain a utensil. I felt that I didn't have much time, therefore I didn't want to walk across campus to the Wilkinson Center to obtain a fork from the Twilight Zone or the Cougar Eat. I meandered into the FLAC (Foreign Language Activity Center) in order to ask the secretary there for pity. (See the state of desperation I'm reduced to?) There was no secretary at the desk, so then I returned to the vending machine area, retrieved my Easy Mac from the microwave (somehow pasta that cooks in three minutes seems highly suspicious to me), and went to the fourth floor.

I went to the work room of the English Composition Office. Really, it's an area that employees only should frequent, but since I'm a former employee, why not? In the drawer labeled (I think I may have even labeled this drawer) "knives and utensils," there were no plastics to be found. I therefore spirited away with a metal spoon. (Not the utensil of choice, but beggars can't be choosers.)

Then I went to a different floor, ate the Easy Mac, washed the spoon in the bathroom with hand soap and hand sanitizer, and replaced it in the drawer. Meanwhile, the unknown secretary didn't notice a thing.

I'm not sure how I feel about all of this. I'm not sure which part of it makes me uncomfortable: is it washing dishes in a bathroom (although, I think, probably sanitary)? Is it the fact that I ate Easy Mac with a spoon? Is it the fact that the ingredients include many things unidentifiable to me? Is it the unappetizing quality of the meal? Is it the fact that I am now wasting much more time blog-confessing rather than doing the thing that I originally felt time-pressed to do? Or perhaps, is it the moral deprivation of my thievery?

There are so many things wrong with this picture.

Happy Birthday, Jon.

My brother Jon likes to think that I have gas. Despite my general lack of flatulence (I'm pretty sure I'm mostly normal in this respect), he likes to make fun of me in front of people and tell them I'm gassy.  (He makes fun of me for other things, too, but that's another story for another day.)

Scenario 1: I didn't go to Sunday family dinner (which has morphed into dessert night and appetizer night in various phases, to the point where I'm just not sure what to call it anymore) this week because I "didn't feel good," which could any number of things, except, probably, that I have gas. I have never once excused myself from any function due to gassiness, at least in my recollection. But Jon decided to tell the group that was my reason, anyway. 

Scenario 2: In Costco yesterday, Jon found some Gas-X while I waited in line.  In another ennobling gesture, He shouted, "Amanda, Amanda!" My attention, along with the attention of the rest of the Costco-member store-goers (or maybe just those behind us in line), was had. Then he said, "I found some Gas-X! Do you want some?" 

I love my brother. Happy 26th, Johnny-boy.

Lemonwater gone wrong.

I recovered my water bottle from the BYU Lost and Found. I was slightly concerned that it wouldn't be mine--I figure I wouldn't be able to tell among the masses of water bottles that must be stored in there. And I have seen similar water bottles on campus.

When the girl brought out the pink Camelbak I had described, she asked, "Was there something in it?"

"Is that a moldy lemon wedge?"

It just proves that it's mine.

The lesson I have learned is that lemons smell good, but moldy lemons do not.

singular

Riding in the elevator turned out to be a good example of why my blog has its name. As soon as the doors closed, I was unexpectedly submerged in complete blackness. Before I had much time to react, though, the lights came back on. No sweat. I pushed the button. But it didn't light up. The elevator was dead. 

I waited for a few minutes and finally pressed the call for help button. Then I sat on the floor and listened to the voices outside. So close, yet so far. Did they know someone was in the elevator? Were they trying to use it? Was someone going to put an "out of order" sign on the outside, apathetic about who was inside?

The elevator eventually came unstuck and operated in emergency mode. Just FYI, the only difference I could perceive was that the doors opened very, very slowly in emergency mode.

drivers license

I finally got the real drivers license in the mail. And it's really disappointing. Somehow I don't look half as freakish. 

your chance to participate in a real democracy

Regardless of the fact that my last name is wrong in the URL, please refer to this blog and comment. I'm feeling like democracy is the way to go with this thing.

Is this normal?

Sometimes I see people, people whom I know, and people whom I like, and I avoid them.

I'm not sure why, and it's a bit bothersome. I'm sure it would be more enjoyable if I just did what I want to do: say hi, be friendly. Why is it that this seemingly simple gesture is at times so extraordinarily difficult for me?

Is it the feeling of unpreparedness always accompanied by a mild sense of awkwardness? I am not sure what to say or do because I didn't plan for it, and didn't expect it . . . ?

Or is it the personal commitment that I have made to myself to always under-perform? To compare and even create scenarios that I have no intention of fulfilling or improving upon?

You know, I just don't know.

update

Exhibit A: Tim and I snowshoeing. We are happy.

Exhibit B: The ring that Tim tastefully chose. (Good work, Timmy boy.)

The Story:

On New Year's Day, Tim brought over a dozen red roses and french toast from Kneader's for breakfast. We planned on going snowshoeing that day after breakfast. We were going to rent from Sundance, which has trails and a rental place. Amber Naumann happened to be in town that day, and I had talked to her about hanging out. I asked Tim if she could come with us, but he insisted that we needed to go snowshoeing alone, which was suspicious. So we went rock climbing instead with Amber at the indoor climbing gym. By the time we were done climbing, it would be too late to go snowshoeing because the rental place at Sundance was closing at 5 p.m. Tim seemed disappointed (also suspicious), but we rescheduled for the next day. Friday (the next day) came, and we went. We didn't rent, even, because his roommate happened to have snowshoes we could borrow.

We drove up to Aspen Grove and started on the way. We finally found the trail to Stuart Falls and snowshoed up to that place where there is the big circular concrete structure. I suggested we climb on top of that, but Tim wanted to go up to the left a ways to see if there was an outlook with a view. There was. I was taking pictures or something. It was very beautiful. Then Tim told me he loved me and pulled out the ring, and asked, "Will you marry me?" The ring was nice. He picked it out himself, but it was very similar to one I'd shown him that I liked. So when he asked, I held out my hand to grab the ring, first. "Wait! You have to say something first," he told me. "Okay!" I replied. Then he let me take it, and I let him put it on my finger. Yeah . . . It's cool.

We called the Mount Timpanogos temple and scheduled the ceremony for the 21st of March at 2:00 p.m. Weird, huh? It's pretty neat-o, I guess!

The Grape-Spitting Game

I enjoy this game quite thoroughly. Wanna play?

Merry Christmas, Lights Out

Yesterday was the Christmas program in our ward, featuring the ward choir. I used to be comfortable in my position as the pianist for sacrament meeting, but then Meredith asked me if I would be choir director.

I told her I was probably not especially qualified for the position. Honestly, I don't think I sing. At all. But I also said that I'd be willing to do it if needed. I guess that's all it takes.

So after a couple months of some scrambling, we threw something together. And I was nervous, but it was going well, I thought, until someone came in late and apparently bumped the light switches. Then my little flock was immersed in darkness.

They faithfully continued singing, and Jean, dear girl, even plodded on with the piano beautifully for a couple of measures.

There was scattered laughter in the congregation and I could feel the impending disaster coming: would we keep singing or simply stop? It was that moment after you realize something happens but you don't really realize what is supposed to be done about it quite yet, and you are sort of waiting for someone to fix it, etc. You know that moment?

Gratefully, we were shortly restored to light. It was a nice little addition to the program.