Mother Goose: Innocent Nursery Rhyme Author, or Bankrupt Philanthropist?

My family is weird.  Ya know how Santa comes on Christmas?  Well, in my family, Mother Goose comes on New Year's Eve and gives presents to children.  I'm not sure if they have to be good or not.  I'm also not sure about a bunch of other things.  Like, Why doesn't Mother Goose come to everyone?  Why New Year's Eve?  How does she get in the house?  Is she actually a goose, or does she just call herself that?  And where do the famous nursery rhymes come in?

In order to find out, I asked a bunch of my family members about Mother Goose.  Turns out, they all had different theories.

One theory is that Mother Goose is just that--a goose.  10 feet tall, in fact.  She carries the gifts in her ginormous tail feathers.  And as she flies off into the night, she cries, "HONK!  Happy New Year!  HONK!"

Theory Number Two:  Mother Goose is not actually a goose. She's an old Grandma.  Very similar to Mrs. Clause.  She owns a goose.  She rides it, in fact.  Now, I've seen geese, and they're not big enough to ride.  So, either this goose is inherently magic, or it eats those little pills like on Alice in Wonderland, that make it grow or shrink depending on which one it eats.

Who knows.

And, apparently, she only comes to some houses.  Like, not even all our state, or our county, or even all of our city.  In fact, I'm pretty sure we're the only house she comes to.  Weird...

So, if you ever want to find out more about Santa Clause, read a book or watch a Christmas movie.  There are none of those about Mother Goose, so good luck.  Oh, and happy new year.  Or something at the end of February.  Honk.

An email to a roommate MIA

Dearest Katie,

I have to be honest with you.  Ever since you left, we've had a hole in our hearts.  We were afraid that our apartment would be forever lacking one, and we couldn't bear living like that.  But then, something marvelous happened!  We replaced you!  Hannah is great, but after a few days we knew that she would never fill that hole in us created when you went to Jerusalem.  This led us to think:  Is Katie the reason for that hole?  We have replaced you, you'd think the hole would be full.  But no, after a few weeks thinking on the matter, we discovered the real reason for the hole: Zac Efron.  He's gone, Katie.  You dragged him out of our home, and we miss him terribly. Hannah doesn't replace him the same way she does you.  We needed another "Zac Efron"-esque roommate.  And we needed him fast.


That being said, it was Jessie's birthday yesterday!  We had a party and balloons and cake and the whole shibang.  It might be worth mentioning that it was Tyler Nicholas' birthday as well.  Have you ever met Tyler's sister, Sarah?  I've only met her once, but she's fantastic.  In fact, she printed out ginormous pictures of Tyler and hung them up in the halls of Building 4 so that anyone passing by would be bombarded with his smiling face, with text on the picture announcing it was his special day!  


It is now that our two stories combine.  It is here that I feel I must also warn you.  It has been far too long since we've seen you, Katie.  Like, a whole two weeks!  You may have forgotten.  Katie, I beg you to remember that we are the kind of people who would keep a bottle of urine in our fridge until it starts to freeze and turn to slushy pee.  We are the kind of people who get very excited over a new product known simply as "Handerpants."  And yes, Katie.  We are the kind of people who take full size pictures of other people's boyfriends and hang them on the walls of our apartment.  Especially if said pictures are this one:

Yes.  T-Nick is in the house.  Specifically OUR house.  And though he may not be a celebrity like Zac, you've got to admit, we've definitely got the next best thing.


Hope all is well with you and yours!  Have a wonderful day.  And please, try your hardest not to miss us too much.  Crying like that is just embarrassing.

-Sara

Marina can read my mind better than I can. I'm not sure if I should be worried or not. Probably.

So, there's something you need to know about me:  I think in colors and pictures.  This makes for some odd conversations sometimes.  Such as, when I was trying to describe a guy in our ward to one of my roommates, and the only way I could think of to distinguish him was, "he just exudes the color red.  All the time.  He just has a very maroon feel to him."  Believe it or not, this statement was met with several concerns about my sanity level, and they still didn't know who I was trying to describe.  Yeah....words is hard, guys.  :/

So, once upon a time, Marina played a song she liked while we were both in our room.

*skip forward about a month*

Me: Marina, what was that one song you played that one time?

Marina: uh.... Can you think of the tune or any of the lyrics or the main message of the song or what it was about?

Me: Nope.

But after thinking for a while, I was able to come up with three hints.  1) It was sung by a woman.  2) It may or may not contain the words "dog" and "mom."  3) It reminds me of the color yellow.

Really, the third hint made no sense to anyone but me (weird, I know), and no, I was not thinking of the song "Yellow" by Coldplay.  Or "Nothin' but a Hound Dog" or "Bohemian Rhapsody." The second hint was unsure.  I didn't actually know if the song contained those words.  So really, the first hint was the only one that was even somewhat helpful.
 
So we did the only rational thing: we played every song Marina had played on itunes from the last 3 months that was sung by a woman.  Surprisingly, this only took a few hours.  I didn't immediately recognize any of them as "The Song," but we found one that I thought might maybe sorta kinda was it. Emphasis on the maybe.

*skip forward a week or two*

I was playing the "Maybe Song" with Marina around.  She commented on what a shame it was that we didn't know for sure what "The Song" was.  That would have been the coolest detective moment ever.  Like on Psych, when they figure out the crime with almost no evidence.  Except, we literally had no evidence.  So cooler than Psych, if that's even possible.  We might even have to crack open a celebratory pineapple if we ever figured it out.

Since we had played every song she had on itunes, she mentioned offhandedly that it might have been a song she had just randomly played off of youtube or something.

"GASP!!" *Marina runs out of the room with an excited scurry*

She comes back and plays this song, which, by the way, is "THE SONG."

It's sung by a woman, and it totally has the words "dog" and "mother" in it!  :D

The moral of the story is, don't even think about thinking something you wouldn't want Marina to think you're thinking.  I think.  Or, the moral of the story is, if you ever have a thought, but aren't sure what that thought is, ask Marina.  She'll take your crazy hints and make sense of them.  Even if the hints make no sense at all.  We still don't know what's up with the color yellow.  Come on, reader.  Doesn't this song just bleed yellow to you?  No?  ....oh.  :(

Hot feet. The opposite of cold feet.

Marina's family is full of good people.  They think of her often.  Many times, they randomly send her money.  Other times, they randomly send her other things.  Like entire sets of dishes--plates, saucers, more different large plates, and bowls.  Oh, and teacups.  What dish set would be complete without 10 teacups?  None, I tell you!  Although Marina was graciously accepting of the two ton gift, a small problem arose.  And by small, I mean, you know.  Not so small.  We have a little less than 0 space in our kitchen cupboards (plus, come on Marina's family.  If we didn't already have dishes by now, we would have been eating like cavemen for months.  Cut us some slack.  We only did that for a few weeks).  Where were we going to put the mass amounts of dishes that had fallen into our possession?  Who knows?

But if you know us, you know that we are innovative human beings.  We found a small space on the shelf above our cupboards where we could stack all the dishes.  So we began.  The shelf, as I mentioned, is above the cupboards.  Aka, it's high.  And we are not at all high.  In height or drugs.  Which is unfortunate.  So in order to get the dishes up there, I climbed barefoot onto the counter and stood on the stove while Marina handed me the many dishes that were soon to call that shelf home.

All was going well, and we were very proud of ourselves for being so brilliant.  *Enter Tim, our FHE dad.*  We obviously don't go to FHE enough, or he would know to expect sights like this from us.  Let's be honest, standing on the stove is not the weirdest thing any of us has done.  Or the most dangerous.  One time Katie set a piece of paper on fire and then proceeded to carry it directly to the trashcan, which happened to be full of flammable materials.  Good thing the rest of us were able to put that fire out before it started, or we might have had an amazing blog post plus a less amazing law suit.  But I digress.

Tim began to stare up at us, with a mix of sheer amazement and concern.  He offered us a step stool in an effort to get me off the stove, but we were content and politely declined.  We continued using our amazing assembly line skills, until I heard Tim say, "Is the stove on?"

Without turning to face him, I looked at Marina and said, "Yeah, could you turn that off now?  It's getting kind of uncomfortable."  Tim's face was priceless.

I think I'm only good at thinking of one-liners when I'm being judgmental.  Keep that in mind.  If I'm ever able to think of a funny one-liner right when it's needed, you're being judged.  Or I'm just extraordinarily witty that day.  You decide.  Do what your heart tells you.

The awkward trials of being accidentally funny

Apparently, I said something funny a few days ago.  Katie swears by it.  But she can't remember what it was.  However, even though none of us can remember me being funny, I have been pressured into remembering it and then writing a blog post about it.  It's possibly the most stressful thing I've ever been through.  I try to dig through my memory for something funny I might have said 3.6 days ago, but I just can't recall it.  Every once and a while I'll say something that I think might be it, but then I look at Katie and she makes no response, or worse, gives a pity laugh.  I'm patronized by the idea that I might have said something amusing that might have changed my entire life for the better and perhaps could have made me money and fame and gotten me several boyfriends, but I just can't remember it.  Also, apparently that one sentence (thought, word, idea?) that I sputtered out 3.6 days ago used up all my funny.  Sorry guys.  I can only be funny when I'm about to go into a memory lapse, apparently.  And that memory lapse also affects my roommates.

Maybe that funny phrase was actually a magic spell, and it makes whomever hears it forget what I said.  Pretty useless, admittedly, unless your goal is to make several people crazy trying to figure out what it is that I said, including myself.  I'm pretty sure if I figure out how to harness this superpower, I could be president of the world.  Or something.  Because I could say something stupid that would make people stop voting for me, but then they would just forget what I said and just remember that I was funny.  Success.  I'm gonna have to practice this.

...

What kind of bear has no teeth?

A gummy bear!

....Yeah, I don't think that was it.  *sigh*

The Story of Why I'm Not Allowed to Go Back to the Library. Like, Ever.

There are two places in the library where I study.

1. The periodicals, my favorite place on campus.  Open, well lit, lots of windows, some trees (real ones, I kid you not), and plenty of space.

Unfortunately, I have a hard time focusing, so if I need to study hardcore, I can't stay in the periodicals.  There are too many people and far too many loud librarians who think loudly refilling the printers with paper is an hourly task.  In such conditions, I peace out and head upstairs to my second study spot.

2. The carrels on the opposite side of the south elevator on the fifth floor.  There are just two, they face a wall, and they are very hard to find.  Seriously, you go around a corner, then around another corner, then around another corner to find this little nook.  There is even a window to gaze out of when I feel stir crazy.  The big problem?  There is no local outlet.

Luckily, I'm a problem solver.  There is an outlet about fifteen feet away, and if one doesn't mind disturbing the tranquility of the fifth floor, you can shove the carrel over to sit by an outlet.

One lovely Tuesday, in an attempt to get into study mode, I went to the fifth floor and started to set up camp.  I started pushing the desk to an outlet when everything went smerfishly awry.

One of the legs of the desk broke.
(In my defense, I'm pretty sure that thing was structurally unsound before I got there!)

So there I was, panickily holding up a desk that was getting heavier by the second, with no idea what to do.  And the longer I stood there, the more hysterically funny the situation got.  Do other people get into these situations?  Seriously.  I was just standing, supporting the desk, trying so hard not to burst into laughter, doing my best to look completely innocent whenever someone came near.

Although the leg was precariously loose and threatening to snap, I managed to wrangle the desk back into a moderately reasonable position against the wall.  As soon as I was convinced it wouldn't fall over, I high tailed it out of there and have since resolved to avoid the fifth floor

I'm still trying to decide if I should a) never speak of this again, b) leave an anonymous note for the library staff about the broken carrel, c) show up in a carpenter's disguise (complete with mustache and toolbelt) and attempt to casually fix the problem on my own, or d) break the other legs (in for a penny, in for a pound).  

Drunken Escapades, Pt. 2

A few days later, the drunk girl called me. I had to call her phone to find it, so presumably she misdialed off the incoming call list. I got a call from a number I didn't recognize and answered, with hopes that it was a job calling to hire me.

Me: "Hello?"
Drunk girl (clearly drunk again): "...it was Travis.  I... I paid my [expletive] bills!"
Me: Confused silence
Drunk girl: "I had so many [expletive] bills!  There was the [expletive] DirecTV bill and I [expletive] paid it."
Me: Awkward silence
Drunk girl: "So... so don't [expletive] worry!"

Then the call ended.  What have I done?  Does this mean I can add drunken confidant(e?) to my resume?  Cause I think that would be kickin'.  Maybe I would have finally been hired to the job at a bakery downtown I really wanted to work at.  Does drunken confidant(e) not add a little spice to a resume?  Tell me I'm wrong if I'm wrong, but I think this will really help me in the professional world.

The moral of the story is that I am never going to do nice things for anyone, ever again.

true story.

sometimes i see the year written out and i panic. i think part of my panic is due to the fact that until about six months ago, i genuinely believed the world was going to end this year. so when i see that it's 2012, i have a very small, very immediate smerf attack. what does this mean for us? is it really so far in the future? is iPhone's siri technology going to pull an iRobot and take over the world?!

then i see things like this picture, and i don't necessarily feel better... but i do absolutely feel like a crazy person.

but we all knew that already, right?

Scooters, and the Many Uses Thereof.

We got ourselves some brand new wheels, y'all!  

Isn't it hot??  We named him Jorge.  It's a Spanish name, apparently.  Which means it is not pronounced like "George."  Duh.  Who would think that?

In testing out our new wheels, we've taken Jorge all over Helaman Halls.  Outside, inside, even up and down the stairs.  We've discovered that it's so much easier and faster to scooter down the hall rather just walk.  Psh.  We don't walk.  Come on.  That's so mainstream.

Because of Jorge the scooter, we have stumbled upon an important truth- and we even did it using the
scientific method.

Step 1: Ask a question.
Would it be beneficial to you to have a scooter if you were randomly being attacked by a mad man?

Step 2: Do background research.
Surprisingly, there are not many scholarly articles on the most effective use of a scooter if one is being raped or molested.  Too bad.  So we settled with asking a few of our hall mates what they thought.  Mostly, we just got weird looks, so we abandoned our research and moved on to step 3.

Step 3: Construct hypothesis.
Having a scooter like Jorge with you in the event of unsuspected attack would be beneficial because you could scoot speedily away.

Step 4: Test with an experiment.
This was easy enough.  Katie and I took turns playing "Mad Rapist" while the other scootered down the hall at high speed.  Turns out, no matter who was running and who was scooting, the runner could always catch them.  We wanted more evidence, however, so we recruited Leah to help us.  She was very willing to chase us down the hall, and the same thing happened.  It wasn't until she switched roles that we realized there was more to this experiment than met the eye.  Leah, upon being chased, turned around to face her attacker.  She picked up Jorge the scooter and began to beat the "Mad Rapist" until she no longer felt threatened.  Then she calmly set Jorge down and walked back to her room.

Step 5: Analyze results and draw conclusion.
If you are ever scootering through campus, be aware that although it may be faster and less work than walking (especially down hill), nothing is faster than just plain running.  So if your fight or flight instinct tells you to run, ditch Jorge.  He'll live, I promise.  And he might even find it in his heart to forgive you.  Eventually.  But if your fight or flight instinct tells you to beat the living daylights out of the creepy man behind you, smerf off and let Jorge do all the work.

because a prank war isn't a prank war unless it starts with a bottle of urine.

it started with an empty bottle of powerade. things just went bad from there- because nothing good comes from late nights. let me begin with that.

about two weeks ago, our dear friend leah was sitting in our room, talking with us, when she picked up a powerade bottle and said "hey guys, i'm going to pee in this." i was like "sure, ok leah, whatever" and dismissed her. until a bottle, helpfully labeled "Pee for Katie" showed up in our fridge. after some very scientific tests, it was confirmed as pee.

one of these things is a bottle of urine. the other is a piece of corn. guess which one leah was freaked by?

we were appalled and revenge hungry. so on a fine sunday evening, we snuck into her room while she was out and stole her closet door as well as the face to her dresser drawers. unfortunately, she figured out what was going on and caught us in the act. that was the turning point in which leah opted for war.

before/after

sara, jessie and i went to my house last weekend for some much-needed girl time. fearing revenge, we were careful to make sure the doors were locked and no one left leah any chance to break in. i should have seen the signs saturday night, when leah starts texting me, asking me if i like sausage, but not telling me why.

anyways, we came home monday night to a room completely SMERFED up! she inflated over 100 trash bags and hung them from the ceiling and walls, she switched mine and sara's mattresses, she wrote "poop" all over our window, she switched all our drawers (jessie's and marina's, also) and she hid a bunch of vending machine sausage on a secret shelf. also, she claims to have peed in our sink. probably, that really happened- we don't like to think about that.

the moral of the story is that leah is a wildcard, but revenge is in the works. more on that later...

Wendy's: The Fast Food Failure.

Did you know that at Wendy's you can "eat great, even late?" But only if you have a car. Multiple times we have tried to go on a late night Wendy's run, only to discover they will not give you fast food goodness unless you have a car and can go through the drive through. The first time this happened, we just borrowed a car from a few random men. No big deal, guys, don't worry. We're alive and still virgins.  The second time, we had no choice but to smerf back to campus and grab my car. Lame.

By the way, did you know Wendy's gives out their recipes? They print them all over the bags! They're going to go out of business if they keep giving out their secrets like this....

Also, have caution. Fireworks are allowed on the grass. Good to know.

Some wise wisdom. Or something.

YUMMY!!!!!

In conclusion, don't go to Wendy's, because they're racist against people who don't have cars, and they give out their recipes anyway, so you might as well just make the fast food yourself at home. The End.

yelling at a cop isn't illegal... right?

because if it is, i'm in trouble.

last night was a big basketball game. i went out with leah and marina, and when i came back, all the spots in our parking lot were full because of all the jerks who stole our parking for the game. as i circled, i became increasingly angry and aggressive, especially in passing people who were parked in non parking spots that made it difficult for me to drive through the lots.

on my last circuit of the lot, i came around a bend where a large truck was obnoxiously stopped in the middle of the road. not in the middle of his lane- in the middle. of the road. and not only was this jerk obstructing traffic, but his brights were on, which made it even more difficult to maneuver around him.

by this point, i was so smerfed up because i couldn't park ANYwhere, that i threw my arms up and started yelling things at this guy from inside my car. he was out, walking around the side of his car, and threw his arms up at me too and started yelling at me. i finally got around the nose of his truck... and was able to see the university police logo on the side of his door. then, looking back, i noticed he was in a police uniform.

i yelled at a cop tonight, folks. THAT'S why you shouldn't drive angry... you do stupid things like make angry gestures at authority figures, and then park in the dairy queen parking lot because you're afraid he'll hunt you down and ticket you and send you to jail. true story.

our fridge is not a fridge.

sara and i have a contraption in the middle of our room.

it looks like a fridge. it sounds like a fridge.

but don't be fooled... it's a contraption of doom and aggravation.

even on the lowest settings, it has a tendency to freeze everything inside. including drinks.

anyway, i noticed the "fridge" wasn't closing right the other night, and i opened it to fix whatever was blocking the door to find a busted diet coke can and frozen diet coke covering nearly every surface. normally i would laugh this off and put it in my ramble-y story box to tell over dinner some night... except this is the FOURTH time a diet coke can has exploded on me. SINCE AUGUST!

twice our "fridge" that is really a freezer has caused diet coke to smerf everywhere. yes, i should've known better and prevented a second time, but i forgot. anyway, enjoy some pictures and a good laugh at my expense. my hallmates sure did.

the worst thing about the whole experience? i had an open container of raspberry lemonade yogurt sitting on a shelf that i started eating, then lost interest and put away to eat later. now it is questionably edible, as there is diet coke all up in it. normally i might throw it away, but come on now... raspberry lemonade! doesn't sound that delicious? not anymore.

-katie

The Dumb Man's Guide to Dinner Dates

There's a youtube video that's been getting a lot of attention lately. It attempts to answer the question, "Can Men and Women Be Just Friends?" Ultimately, the students at USU came to a negative conclusion. To this I say, really? Guys, is it really that hard to just be friends? I would have supported men, defended the position that they are not just flirtatious beasts out on the prowl, looking for some innocent prey to attack, but lately I've seen strong evidence suggesting USU was right.

Exhibit A: There was a guy who was one of my good friends. I liked hanging out with him, and eventually I even started to have a little bit of a crush on him.

Then he went crazy.

He called me 8 times within the course of one hour. 8 times! And all he wanted to do was ask me if I wanted to have dinner with him. So, to all the men out there, here's the break down. To ask a girl to dinner, calling 1 or 2 times is sufficient. She'll see that you called and that you wanted to make plans. Even 3 times is acceptable if there's not much time before you need a reply. However, anything more than 3 tells the girl, "Help! Answer the phone! I'm dying, call an ambulance!!" Knowing this, imagine what I thought when I saw that I had 8 missed calls! Needless to say, I answered call number 9 (I didn't have to wait long, either), expecting a catastrophe. Upon finding out that dinner plans were the only thing crushing his skull, all I could think about was how much I wanted to smack him in the (insert body part of choice here).

In closing: Men, be careful when being persistent. A little goes a long way. Always remember that the twin brother of persistence is creepy, and no girl ever wants to meet him.

Happy hunting!
-Sara