Acceptance First, Anger Last

Note: I wrote part of this blog post in May 2014, but I never finished it. I couldn't sleep tonight, so I revisited it in an attempt to bring on the ZZZs. It starts where I originally started it, and I'll note when the original post ends.

I've heard that people can experience the stages of grief in any order and often go through some stages multiples times before they reach acceptance. I can now be a witness to this fact. I just didn't realize it was possible to reach acceptance first and still need to go through the other stages.

To anyone who's still out there reading, you should know that on November 16, 2013, I got my long-awaited, much-anticipated first kiss. The story is quite nice, but I'm not in the mood to share it here just yet, mostly because that relationship has since ended and I'm presently stuck in the beginning of a romantic comedy. My life right now is very status quo: my career exists but it doesn't suit my skill-set or feel long-term; I had what felt like a great dating relationship but have a hard time now remembering what I saw in him and why I trusted him with my heart. If that ever changes, you might get to hear the good parts version, readers. But not today.

One day shy of a month after our first date, The Boy Who First Kissed Me broke up with me. That's not even a 100% accurate description of what happened, but it's the best term I've got, and I've since learned that he used it. So, although he refused to officially and openly date me, at least he recognizes that he broke up with me. What a man.

He gave a few reasons for breaking up with me, the most prominent being a lack of time to give me what I deserve out of a dating relationship. Translation: I'm just not that into you. I knew that's what it meant at the time and tried to get some clarification out of him.

In fact, as an aspiring screenwriter, I feel I should give you a better sense of the action and let you see the pitiful scene for yourself.

Sunday afternoon. Sacrament meeting has just concluded. BOY and GIRL, who have been sitting together, stand up. GIRL is annoyed but trying to hide it because BOY was checking his Fantasy Football scores throughout the meeting. BOY is distracted by the fan club of girls, aged 18-22, who run up to him (age 27), eager to get his opinion on everything from wheat bread versus white bread to the Affordable Care Act. BOY shifts his attention from GIRL to this harem.

GIRL waits nearby. Flashback shots of her waking up in a cold, angry sweat the past several nights are shown. Another flashback depicts the same harem arriving at her apartment Christmas party the night before. HAREM also ran over to BOY with enthusiasm then, chief among them a young 20-something redhead, and BOY turned his attention away from GIRL despite the fact that he arrived an hour late to the party. GIRL said nothing then, but remembering the restless sleep and confusion, she knows she has to say something now.

BOY finishes talking with HAREM, and GIRL recaptures his attention.

GIRL: Hey, I know you're busy, but can I schedule some (BOY'S NAME) time for later today?

BOY: Sure, we can make that happen.

BOY and GIRL part ways.

[End of original blog post.]

The story picks up later that night, around 8:20, following Ward Prayer. GIRL nervously approaches BOY in a crowded room.

GIRL: Can we have our talk now?

BOY: (grimaces) Sure.

GIRL and BOY walk back to GIRL's apartment. BOY does not try to hold GIRL's hand. BOY and GIRL reach the apartment and sit on the love seat. The name of that piece of furniture does not match what is about to happen.

Fade out.

I could give you the Reader's Digest version of that conversation. Heaven knows I've played it over in my head plenty of times since it took place. But I really only remember what he said. And how stunned I felt. And how embarrassed I am now that I almost cried then.

But the details aren't important. Because as heartbroken as I should have been, the next day--a Monday, naturally--I found myself at work, not pining for him and wondering what I did wrong. Instead, a rush of calm flooded over me around lunch time. I just knew it was right that we weren't dating anymore, or using each other or whatever the accurate description is for what we were doing with each other. I found acceptance less than 24 hours after our split.

And that was great. I felt calm and happy and at peace all through the holiday season and the Olympic speed skating trials and even New Year's Eve, a holiday I've wanted to spend with a significant other since I was allowed to date.

I wish that feeling had lasted. I wish I had held onto it more, fought for it to stay. But that's not what happened. Instead, he announced on Facebook the day after Valentine's that he was in a relationship. Apparently he had time for her. Apparently he wasn't ashamed to openly admit that he liked her.

Enter anger and all the stages of grief I hadn't gone through yet. Welcome back to all the questions I had about my worth and my attractiveness as a woman. The year just went downhill from there. I thought a different guy liked me. You heard half of that story in a different post. Yeah, he didn't. But he eventually found the skinnier, nicer version of me, which triggered a whole new set of jealousies and self-loathings when I saw it first-hand.

By August, I'd given up the idea of dating that year. And I'm not sure I want it right now either. I mean, I want it because my biological clock is ticking and the longer I stay single, the more ice cream I consume and the more unrealistic Hallmark Channel movies I watch and the more I fear I am too SOMETHING to be the object of someone's true affections. The less marry-able I become.

The point of this post is not to say that I believe something is wrong with me that makes me undateable. It's just to put some feelings that weigh on my heart and doubts that resound in my mind out into the universe. Because there isn't enough room for them to just stay inside of me anymore.

I want my acceptance back. I want the courage to move forward and think that I could find someone and he could like me and mean it. I want to not think I failed at 2014 because three of my best friends got married but I didn't even hold a boy's hand.

Because I accomplished a lot in 2014:

• I got a new job.
• I bought a car by myself.
• I went to Disneyland twice.
• I got to the other side.

2015 is already better. Not necessarily in the dating arena, though I have felt myself gaining a more balanced perspective on the matter. There have been two boys recently who I've thought "maybe" about. It didn't become anything, but that's not the point. 

The bigger and more important development is that I feel myself wanting to be okay with where I am now. I feel my heart saying, "You is good. You is kind. You is important." And not because of your dating status or whether you've published anything, but because you have faith in the future but appreciate the present. I'm not perfect at it, but I'm doing better.

• I go to the gym more regularly.
• I've taken care of some big-girl things, like 401(k) and HSA and dental insurance.
• I sometimes watch the nightly news instead of reruns of crime procedurals or HGTV.
• I've already finished 5 books this year.
• I'm blogging outside of work now, a first step in writing more and feeling the joy of the creative spirit again.

If you made it this far, congrats. I apologize for starting so many sentences with conjunctions. I know it's allowed, but I think I went overboard. I have hopes that this year will be better than the last. After two long Decembers, I deserve it. So I'm going to give it to myself.

Sitcom of My Life: Out on a Limb

It's been far too long since I've blogged. And I never gave the full story behind the vague but dizzily happy last post. Believe me, I've attempted to write them, but I can't find the words that are honest without being spiteful yet. Let's just say that was the mid-season finale in Season 1 of my personal sitcom/reality show, "Right as Rain." (The title has no particular relevance, except that I love that Adele song and would choose it as my show's theme song if a) I ever got a show and b) Adele would give permission.)

And let's just skip ahead to right now. Right now I'm feeling very Carol Vessey from Ed when she confessed her feelings to Ed, who'd been in unrequited love with her for years, and he didn't respond. So, in typical Ed fashion, Carol went over to Ed's house one morning and sat in his tree until he came out and saw her there.

Ed to Carol: "What are you doing up there?" (I'm paraphrasing here.)

Carol: "I'm out on a limb."

Ed: "But you're not. You are really close to the trunk. You're not out on a limb."

Carol: "I know. I was, but then I got scared. It's really scary to be out on a limb."

Carol, I couldn't agree more. Up until a few weeks ago, I had NEVER straight up said to a boy that I had feelings for him, unless he had already given me physical evidence that my feelings were in some way reciprocated.

And for some reason, two and a half weeks ago, during the season finale, I thought it would be a good idea to confess my feelings to a man who was introduced in the series premiere of my life sitcom nearly 9 months ago. In an email. While he was on vacation. IN ASIA.

Smooth, Whitney. Real smooth.

Because I didn't just confess my feelings. I also scolded him for not telling me an important detail of his life that affected our friendship and potential romantic relationship. Which, I'm realizing now, was a figment of my imagination and his gentleman-like manner.

Oh well.

But now, the wait since I sent the email was been more interminable than any television hiatus. EVER.

We're talking worse than when Jess and Rory kissed on the bridge before Sookie's wedding.

We're talking worse than when Luke and Lorelai kissed at the opening of the Dragonfly Inn.

It's THAT BAD, guys. (And gals.)

But, I also know that writing works for me. It gets my thoughts out of my head and into the universe. Which is why the email seemed like a good idea at the time.

"Who wants to be right as rain? It's better when something is wrong." At least, that's what my theme song says.

An Update/An Explanation

You may have noticed my dedication to TV Christmas movie reviewing has waned somewhat this year.

Well, let's just say I had a very busy weekend. And because of that very busy weekend, I foresee many similarly busy weekends in the near future.

I apologize for any inconvenience. But not much. Because that busy weekend involved a boy and several kisses and a permanent butterfly in my stomach ever since. Which is pretty much the stuff that TV Christmas movies are made of, so I don't feel like I'm missing much.

I'll catch up when I can, but in the meantime, I'll let Harry Connick Jr. explain how my heart feels about it all.

Times Are Getting Better

It's been a while since I written anything about my actual life, but I've been mulling over this post for a while. Well, at least the last month, which has been one of the greatest of my life.

It all started after a 4th of July weekend at home. Towards the end of the trip, I had an intense discussion with my mom about my desires for the future--how I feared they'd never become realities. We both cried, but my stubbornness refused to let her empathy resolve any hard feelings I carried in my heart. I take the blame for that.

Still, the next day driving home with a friend, I felt guilty about the lack of faith I'd exhibited in the conversation with my mom. My friend and I began discussing how I could be more faithful about dating...when inspiration struck. I heard these words (or something like them) begin to come out of my mouth, but I knew they were from a Higher Source:

I just wish I didn't struggle with the same problem over and over again. It feels like no matter how much progress I make, I still fall down again and have to get back up. But, if I'm honest, I guess it's like a an Olympic swimmer or track athlete. The exact nature of what I'm struggling against will never change very much. But my times are getting better. I'm swimming faster. I'm picking myself up more quickly when I fall. I'm even reacting differently when I do fall and have moments of doubt and fear.

That epiphany has sat inside my soul ever since. It reminds me of the sequence of events leading up to Roger Bannister breaking the 4-minute mile. He ran as much as possible but still couldn't seem to break the barrier. Then, he took a small break for a hiking trip somewhere in northern England. The trip not only recharged his inspiration but also altered his mindset. Something inside him shifted away from believing sub-4-minutes was an inhuman barrier. (If that's not exactly what happened, blame the fact that I read The Perfect Mile over 5 years ago. That's how I remember it, and now that means more to me.)

My metaphorical inspiration similarly changed my mindset. In that instant, I went from believing I had very little control over my romantic future to realizing I could do a lot to change it.

Thus began my shortest journey to a date.

Let's flashback a bit to introduce a new character. I'll call him Jackson, but that's not his name. Jackson goes to church with me. I don't remember the first time I noticed him, but whenever it was, I thought he was the best-looking guy in the congregation. This was also before the epiphany, so I also thought he was (1) out of my league and (2) probably had the personality and brains of a the most popular guy on the football team, which is to say, not much of either. Looking back now, those thoughts came from knowing nothing about him and trying to protect myself against liking him. It worked, but only for a short time.

See, I started getting to know Jackson when he joined a group of my friends and acquaintances at a Monday-night church activity. He and others piled into my car and took a trip to campus for a scavenger hunt of interesting sites and circumstances. After actually interacting with him that night instead of judging/assuming from afar, I realized he was both cute and nice. And part of me was hooked.

Of course, that part of me is the part of me incapable (until recently) of interacting with boys once she develops a mild crush on them. Embarrassing, crippling, sad, but true. A few weeks later, I for some reason confessed my crush to some girlfriends. I never do that. But they were pressuring me to say someone, anyone, and Jackson was the name I confessed.

That was right before the 4th of July weekend trip, the unpleasant Mom conversation, and the inspiring friend conversation. But, it required one more catalyst to really get the ball rolling, connect the dots between my crush on Jackson and my agency-activating epiphany.

One Sunday night, after I failed once again to interact with Jackson at various regular Sunday night church activities, a friend and a roommate-friend were discussing their plans to ask boys on a group date. The bravest part of myself (the part which is usually a mute observer) spoke up and said I wanted to join in. Although my immediate thought was "I hate the pressure of having to ask a boy on a date," I was committed. Quickly, our topic of conversation switched from what we'd do to who we'd ask. Several hours of MASH and Face Card Fortune-Telling later, I knew Jackson was my heart's most-desired date for this upcoming event.

But, I still hadn't interacted with him much aside from the short-lived and now distantly-in-the-past scavenger hunt. Enter a plethora of church activities where I (gasp) purposely interacted with Jackson.

• I made sure to get on his boat when we went sailing. (Yes, we went sailing. The most perfect Monday night of my life. I actually held hands with Jackson and another eligible bachelor as we jumped into the lake. I could have died. From. Luck.)
• I gave him my best "Come Hither" eyes and moves at a dance party the following night.
• I intentionally sat next to him at church.
• I had multiple short conversations with him at Sunday night dessert parties.
• My roommate and I baked cookies for him and another boy she was trying to lay some groundwork with.
• Jackson thanked us for making the cookies, looking directly at me the whole time.
• Jackson made the best Dutch oven peach cobbler in the world at another Monday night event, and I purposely thanked him.

Readers, I never get my flirt on that consistently or persistently. It may not seem like much, but to me that was concerted effort. Granted, my roommates and friend had to nudge me almost every step of the way because those darn dancing butterflies in my stomach wouldn't sit still. (Do butterflies sit?) But, for the most part, I didn't chicken out.

Jackson never gave back the plate we used to bring him cookies, giving me the perfect excuse to text him and ask for it back. I used that interaction to ask him his plans for the weekend and set a date for Friday night. Strangely enough, I was less nervous during the actual asking out than I had been through all the little moments of interaction preceding it. Go figure.

What with one thing and another, my roommate and friend secured their own dates, but not for the same night I'd set up with Jackson. Luckily, he'd arranged to change the venue of our date anyway, having gotten some tickets from his job to a dinner theatre showing of "Annie Get Your Gun." Basically, what was going to be a super casual group date turned into a legit dream date with, no joke, the best-looking guy I've ever been out with.

Now for the actual date. Honestly, this part is too fresh for me to relieve in detail on a blogpost. I'm not going to give a play-by-play. Sorry. My prerogative. Here are some vague descriptions to give you a general idea of the night. Imagine what you will with them.

• Our conversation was decent but not amazing. I felt like I was asking most of the questions, a hard thing to balance without going into journalist mode and forgetting to reveal anything about myself.
• He wasn't giving me the same looks I'd had from him in the few weeks leading up to our date. You know, his eyes didn't sparkle when they looked my way and he wasn't smiling with glee at the luck he'd struck to be out with me. But, somehow my heart was okay with that.
• We sat close but not cuddled up during the show. He laughed at the right parts and has quite an appreciation of theatre. Another thing for the plus column.
• I got more details about him as a person. Age, family, major, job, etc. These are things I'd wanted to know but never had a chance to ask.

The best conversation occurred as we drove home from the night. We hugged good-night, not a strong embrace but one that fit the tone of the date. 

As I sat rehashing and analyzing with my roommates, I realized I was happy with whatever comes next and I don't feel pressured to keep flirting with Jackson so he'll fall madly in love with me. I just wanted to get to know him better and find out if my crush had any legs for us to form a relationship on. I'm still not sure; it almost feels like only the surfaces of our true and complete personalities were on that date last night. He actually has both personality and brains in addition to looking genuinely handsome 100% of the time. He just seems like a complete, well-rounded guy. I couldn't tell you which part of him is most impressive. It all just fits.

But, I'm also not heartbroken over not having made huge strides with him. Sorry if I set you up to believe I was about to tell the story of my first kiss/boyfriend. Truly, my efforts during the last 3 weeks which culminated in last night actually just prove to me that my times have improved immeasurably since I started trying to interact with Jackson instead of just mildly hoping he'd notice my amazing qualities from afar. That is the true story of July (and part of August) 2013.  I discovered that I can flirt in my own way and it's both terrifying and fun like a roller coaster. And, like a roller coaster, it's not going to kill me.

If you'd told me a month ago I'd be on a date with Jackson last night, I wouldn't have believed you. But, if you told me today I could be on another date with Jackson or different man I'm attracted to within the next month, I'd know it's actually possible. So, stay tuned. This ride is about to get really interesting.

I'll Be Feeling a Little Olympic...

Ten days and counting, people. Ten days and I will be living the pre-Olympic dream, attending a full day of Team USA Olympic Swimming Trials.

Revel with me.

From Phelps's Facebook page: Trying out some Harrod's fashions.

This time around, London will add medals to Phelps's wardrobe.

From Lochte's upcoming supermodel career: Sporting a classic Ralph Lauren polo.

Vogue, Ryan. Vogue.

My recent (and related) post is actually bringing lots of lookers to the blog, but you may be surprised to hear that Lochte is lapping Phelps thanks to two keywords: grill and girlfriend.

In related news, nine days from now London will have an Olympic trial run . . . er, will continue it's tradition of making good-looking athletes look better. Prep yourself for the Wimbledon whites. Even Phelps knows to bow to the All England Club.

Race to the Finish Line

Just thought of the perfect idea for a graduation party. It will require my Michael Phelps 2008 Olympic highlights DVD. Also, that Michael Phelps calendar I have.

Because we're talking a "Race to the Finish Line" graduation party.

Games: Measure your wingspan against Michael's. Sip a Sonic drink faster than your opponent. Tag team relay races of some kind. Make your best super-stoked full-body expression. And the like.

Medals will be awarded. The best of the Phelps will be playing in the background.

Perhaps I could throw in some London-themed elements, too. A ticking Big Ben. Adele and the Beatles. Appearances by Wills and Kate (and Harry).

No, there will not be bongs.

Any other ideas?

Reaching a "Fever Pitch"

Confession: I have an unhealthy crush on Jimmy Fallon. Unhealthy because (1) I'm too old to have a crush on a celebrity who is (2) married and (3) a former SNL cast member. They aren't exactly known for their moral fiber.

It all started when I watched a super-old (from 2005) romcom this weekend, Fever Pitch, starring Fallon and Drew Barrymore. I usually identify with Drew Barrymore in romcoms because she has a more normal body type and quirky hair and isn't perfect. But I was not

prepared to like Jimmy Fallon.

Of course, in the movie, neither was Drew Barrymore's character. She had a flourishing career as a mathematical analyst in Boston and he was just a nervous high school geometry teacher. So beneath her, right? WRONG! And he has an unhealthy obsession with the Boston Red Sox. So ditch-able, right? WRONG! And her friends keep shooing her away from him. So they should be trusted, right? SUPER WRONG!

In Fever Pitch, Jimmy Fallon has all the charm of Cary Grant showering in a suit in Charade, but in a movie that perfectly integrates the modern shattering of the dreaded Curse of the Bambino. Let me tell you why:

1. The nerves he exhibits when asking for the first date. This is not a guy who is so self-assured he thinks women worship him, nor is he a guy who lacks so much self-esteem you wonder if he can even spell his own name without checking for approval.

2. The way he takes care of her when she gets sick on their first date. We're talking, she throws up everywhere so he cleans her bathroom and gets her Gatorade and rents movies to watch when you're sick. Talk about being a nice guy.

3. The scene where he gets down on one knee and asks her to go to opening day with him. I really have no words for this. Just know that I would totally fall for this.

I could go on, but basically I think this movie does a perfect job of playing with the romcom formula while still ultimately conforming to it. Fallon and Barrymore play the average couple who are surprised to find each other and surprised to find love with one another, in a way that I haven't seen in a romcom in a long time. Plus, this movie also ends with a Barrymore baseball field kiss. So there may be hope for me yet.

So, back to my crush on Jimmy Fallon. I recently joined Twitter for one reason: Jimmy Fallon's late night talk show has a weekly segment called "Late Night Hashtags." Every week, Fallon starts a hashtag on Twitter and the best responses get read on the show.

I WANT TO GET MENTIONED ON LATE NIGHT WITH JIMMY FALLON.

Yesterday, I submitted my first hashtag for #traveldisaster. I recalled a moment several years ago when I took a shuttle from my hometown back to my college town and sat next to an old woman who gave me acne advice for three hours. I noted, in the hashtag, that this was "Not helpful."

And now, thanks to the magic of connecting with complete strangers via Twitter, some dude tweeted me a link to help with my acne. Well, @guyIdon'tknow, that was also "Not helpful." Well-intentioned, but not helpful.

But the whole thing makes me wonder--just for a moment--what if this guy is my Jimmy Fallon geometry teacher?

And then I realize this guy is wearing a gold chain around his neck in his Twitter profile picture, and I proceed to judge him as NOT being my Jimmy Fallon geometry teacher.

Maybe he's my Joe Junior?

Photoshoot: Ron Weasley

I met him today. The man of my dreams. He's just my height, he has a British accent and red hair, and his only flaw is that he can make only one facial expression in photos. See for yourself.

All mine.

My protector.

Dance with me tonight.

A painting of true love's first kiss.

One Ron to go, please.

The Infamous Doorstep

I did something awkward last weekend. The good part is, it came right after something awesome. The bad part is, it came right after something awesome. That something was a date. The date was to the BYU Men's Volleyball game. Someone told me it takes a pretty confident guy to take a girl--a blind date girl--to a sporting event where she could potentially be checking out very athletic guys the whole time. Which I wasn't. Because he was nice and articulate and into tennis and taller than me.

But I temporarily lost my social skills when he dropped me off. Because instead of having the doorstep conversation on the doorstep, I unlocked the door, stepped inside, greeted my roommate and her boyfriend who were cuddling on the couch, and then turned to said Mr. Articulate and had the conversation. With the always awkward end of the night hug.

And then I closed the door. And then my brain kicked in again. Hey, wait. That's not how that was supposed to work. Oh well. I'll never do that again.

Dating Advice: Getting Jimmied

I'm back from my mission, and I'm determined to make a go of the dating game this time around. We're talking, Josie Grossie breaks out of her shell kind of thing, minus the bad hair and total lack of fashion (I hope). Things looked great earlier in the week, until Mr. Supposedly Nice Guy cut off all communication and stopped looking at me. Knife to the heart. My mom's words of wisdom: Tell him no grilled cheese sandwiches unless we're going to move onto a pasta dish. Not originally a metaphor, but I realize it could be.

This episode falls in the category of my new family term, "Getting Jimmied," based on both the jerk-man character from That Thing You Do! and one of sister's recent dating dissers. A Jimmy will act interested and probably even initiate the dating process, but then he'll abruptly cut it off, sometimes with no explanation or, possibly worse, tell you, "I think you're more into this than I am" (even though he started it).

So, stay away from Jimmys and make sure you get a commitment for pasta.

Houston, We Have a List!

The top five reasons I expect to love Houston for the next 18 months are:

5. Whitney Houston. Great name. Although I'm not really sure she has any actual association with Houston.

4. Reba, the sitcom. My favorite. I love the ensemble cast. Again, I don't think they actually filmed in Houston, but they make references to sports teams, like the Rockets, the Astros, and the Texans.

3. Apollo 13. Home of the famous quote, "Houston, we have a problem." A much more uplifting (not to mention true) disaster drama based in that great city than, say, Independence Day.

2. Dean Martin's song, "Houston." A classic where in Dino longs for the city where everything was good for him. Also, featured in the background, the clinks are the sound of a Coca-Cola bottle.

1. The word y'all.

Y'all come back in a year and a half to discover how my predictions came true.

18 on the 18th

Today is my favorite sister's birthday. She's 18. That's ten plus eight. That's not old, but it makes me feel old. Last year in her birthday card, I told her that my first solid memory is of holding her--a brand new baby--in my arms. My first memory is of being a sister. I said, "My life begins with you." And that's still true this year, but feels even more so. Now she'll be graduating from high school and going off to conquer the world. Which she will, by the way, but no need to worry. She's not a dictator. Nonetheless, I'd like to offer some advice to a world that's about to be graced with someone just as pretty and twice as classy as Grace Kelly. David Archuleta, pay careful attention, because this is how I expect you to treat my sister.

1. Never underestimate the power of a pair of high heels. She'll certainly be wearing them every chance she gets, and if anyone knows when to do so, she does.
2. Daisies are a good peace-offering. She loves them. She considers it absolute fact that "daisies are the friendliest flower."
3. Girls are allowed to have whimsical crushes. Hers happen to include Rafael Nadal, Harry Potter, Gilbert Blythe, a certain Eddie she sometimes borrows from me, and her future husband who's already been mentioned in this blog.
4. Don't mistake a quick tongue for a sharp one. She's just as full of wit as I am but has absolutely no harsh words for anyone. She'll make you laugh but never cry. In fact, she's always there to help a friend.
5. Surprise her by showing her a good suspense film. I don't mean horror; she's not into gory slasher movies. She just really enjoys the work of Hitchcock and Shyamalan.
6. Perfectly groomed hair is more important that a spotless bathroom. Let's just say it takes a while to look as good as she does every day and her life is so filled with adventure that she doesn't always have time to clean up the hair products. It's a compromise.
7. Always be available to kill spiders. Something in her genetic makeup prevents her from doing this for herself. And in my opinion, she shouldn't have to.
8. Talking during movies is not a crime. In fact, with us, it's almost a sport. One day the contract will come through on our DVD commentary deal. But until then, we have plenty to say and the will to say it. This might be especially necessary during the aforementioned suspense films. Talking makes them more tolerable.
9. Learn to be sneaky when photographing. She will do anything and everything to keep you from taking a picture of her, although she's incredibly photogenic. She'll probably be embarrassed that I posted a picture of her, but it's the best one I had. Maybe if she allowed more to be taken, I'd have a better one.

Okay, I made it halfway to 18 with my tips. I can't tell the world everything. 18 would certainly not be enough, and everyone deserves the joy of getting to know the greatest sister of all time. Believe me, this is a big step for me. I'm very possessive of her. I think she's so great that I'm not sure the world deserves her. But I also know the world can only be a better place with her in it.

Happy birthday, Joe.
Love, Frank.

The Last Load of Laundry

Not just a great alliteration, "the last load of laundry" is also the horror story that happened to me last night. Finals finally gave me a break and I had some time to do my laundry. So I could continue to wear clothes. I think that's a good idea, so I loaded my darks into the washer, added the detergent, paid my quarters and walked away. When I returned, all my clothes were sopping wet and of course only two of the dryers were working. Neither of them were available. I proceeded to squeeze what water I could back into the washer, but soon the pants I'm wearing have water stains dripping down them and everything in the basket is still soaked.

So I tried a new tactic. I carried everything back to my apartment, which is up two small flights of stairs and at the other end of the building. Little known fact: when wet, laundry is heavy. Also, the holes in a laundry basket are a great way for additional water to drip out onto the carrier. I stopped after one flight of stairs, ran down the hall in my water stained pants, and grabbed a towel to put under the basket. This technique worked okay, but I still had to wring out what I could when I returned to the apartment. In the kitchen sink. Luckily, it wasn't full of dishes.

Two hours later, I'm still waiting for a dryer, so I give up and carry everything to the neighboring building with the help of a few roommates. I'm feeling relieved, thinking that everything will get dry. An hour and a half later, the dryer has barely made a dent in the sogginess of my wardrobe. So I separate it into two different dryers and put both loads in for another hour. And when that's done, it's one o'clock in the morning, and guess what? It's still not dry. I know when I've been defeated. The laundry gods have decided that I do not, in fact, need to continue wearing clothes. As I write this today, I have two basketsfull of laundry in various states of dampness.

The clincher: I still need to do both my whites and my towels. Wish me luck; I have a feeling I'll need it.

Sitting in for Paula Abdul...

Tonight one of my roommates wanted to attend an event on campus called "Italian Idol." Basically, American Idol for the Italian club at my university. When we arrived, I saw a list sitting on the table with these auspicious words at the top: "Sign here if you're interested in being the guest judge." Seeing one name already on the list, I was thinking I wouldn't get picked, so I added my name just for fun. But as time went on, I kept regretting my decision more and more. This could be embarassing. What if I needed to speak Italian? Not going to happen.

Soon, the moment came. I crossed my fingers, praying that the other name on the list was called, or that many more people had signed up. The emcee announced, "And as our guest judge, we only had one person sign up, so can we have" and of course, she asked me to come to the front. Well, I figured I might as well make it cool. So I acted like I just got called to be on The Price is Right, only not as enthusiastically as some people do. Two other judges shared duties with me. To my left, an Italian professor and former mission president. To my right, a student studying Italian and current Italian 101 teacher. I'm not really sure which was Simon and which was Randy, but I was definitely Paula. At this point, I was thinking, "At least it won't be like American Idol, where we have to make comments after everyone performs." But Paula isn't known for being the brilliant one, and just like her, I was wrong.

Of course, I shouldn't brag, but I do have experience judging talent competitions. I once judged the fourth of July talent show in the metropolis of Mackay, Idaho. Population: somewhere around 600. However, the film stylings (aka plagarism skills) of Mr. Kirby Lords would not have taken the top prize at Italian idol. These performers channeled everyone from Pavaroti to Norah Jones to Dean Martin. Naturally, the Dean Martin-esque performance won. Who could go wrong with that old Italian classic "Volare"? Of course, when it came time to make the final decision, they started conversing in Italian. I might have said "si" a few times, but really, I was in way over my head.

Anyway, this year while I'm watching American Idol I'll be a little bit easier on Paula. It's not so easy to come up with intelligent comments in thirty seconds. Sometimes it's easier just to be nice. Straight up.