the boys.

So I nanny. When I walked into the house yesterday, this was the scene on the coffee table. I then continued to look around the house and find Chemistry for Every Kid on the island in the kitchen. This means that obviously the boys are not doing entertaining enough things and have to resort to intellectual puzzles and reading up on subjects they won't need for another 7 years or so. This also means I should probably step up my game with daily activities so they know that there is a world beyond vectors and the numbers 1 through 9.



When I stepped outside to embark on our trip to Goodwill, I found one of these planted on the step. Of course, I had already seen the unmentionables on a plate in the fridge, which is where this picture was taken, but still I proceeded to ask the younger of the two, "K, whose poop is this?" "M's..." he said with a sheepish grin. (That would be M, as in his older brother.) I'm starting to get to know K a little better. He's quiet, but incredibly devious. When I walked outside after running back in to grab something, he was holding a little black object with a red blinking light... He was filming me, the little bugger! I have no earthly idea what he could use footage of me for, but I hope nothing embarrassing. When I left, I drove over some cherry poppers, conveniently placed right behind my back driver's side tire... You know, those little fireworks that pop when you step on them? I have a pretty good idea who planted them there. I also have a pretty good idea that that person was also filming my reaction from behind the bushes. Sneaky, K. Sneaky. It's on.

weekend in sc.

The boys' mother puts her bagels in the fridge. This should not be a problem, except for the fact that the bagel was rock hard when I pulled it out to toast it, despite its "sell by" date, which happens to be my birthday. We spent the weekend at my grandparents' house on the South Carolina coast. It looks like this.

The baptism boy and my brothers looked like this.







And I, of course, looked like this. But I spent the better part of my day napping.







On Sunday, we went to church. Church is a place where I sing with my mother and grandmother. Church is a place where I get hugged by lots of people whose names escape me right when I need them to stay put in my memory. Church is a place where I am related to everyone except for the black people and the missionaries. (But one of them did have eyes that looked suspiciously like Malphrus eyes.) Church is also a place for people to set me up with boys in the congregation. Last time it was with a boy we'll call J, who plays the saxophone. My mother asked him if he was busy the week of my prom. I was 16. It was mortifying. Did I mention that he's my third cousin? This time, it was with a boy we'll call Little M. (Because in South Carolina, you probably have the same name as your daddy, so to distinguish, one of you gets to be Little ___ and one is Big ___.) But sometimes, the Little is actually really little. Little M is probably about an inch shorter than me in my heels, and probably weighs about the same. I'm not sure if I'm related to him yet, but since I don't think it's love at first sight, we won't have to worry about our children having any inbreeding deformities. (Then again, my grandparents are second cousins and I turned out okay.) He does, however, own his family's oil company, and he flies his own plane. He was very polite, and was mentioned on multiple occasions in our Sunday School lesson regarding his service in fixing people's flat tires. For now, at least, I don't think our relationship is going to work. The distance is going to make things difficult. We drove home with nine people in our car. That's not legal. But despite my protesting, I had to go along with my mother's desire to save gas. That means that seven children (if I can still be counted as a child) are sleeping in my house this week. That also means that the boys have four more friends to keep them from fighting when they swim at my house. Unfortunately, the younger one has an ear infection, so I'll have to come up with some better pinna-friendly activities for a few days.

Bagel verdict: tasteless, bland, pretty much rock solid.
(But I'm eating it because my mother taught me better than to throw away food and I'm a good sport. Just like Liz Templeton.)

good things about today.

1. Purple eyeliner. It's become my standard, because it one, makes my eyes look kind of greenish, and two, it "brings out [my] tan," according to one of my best friends. Its goes with ANY outfit. Trust me.

2. The breakfast burrito my mother brought over this morning. Black beans, scrambled eggs, Havarti cheese, and turkey bacon. Mmm.

3. The fact that I found a piece of food stuck in my teeth from said burrito before meeting the mother of the other boy I'm watching today.

4. The prospect of wearing these babies when it's cold enough for me to want to wear shoes. Pretty sure they were the most expensive piece of footwear at our Goodwill at ten dollars and ninety-one cents. Splurge.

5. Goodwill also provided me with my lovely new Stiffel lamps, under 20 bucks for both. Score.

6. The cute little scab on my right elbow. (Don't worry, I won't post a picture.) I just like scabs because they mean that something is healing itself. Plus when it's gone I'll have a scar. And scars mean that you've been through something probably painful but also probably awesome, and you'll forever have a little reminder of what you learned and how you grew back together again.

Sorry this is so sentimental, but I found this adorable, kitschy little blog that makes me want to be a girl and write cute things on my blog too, so here you go. In other news, we're about to embark on a car trip and return with four extra children. That's right, the grand total is... nine people in a minivan that's made to fit eight. And that's eight, pushing it. Joy.

april love. in june.

I'm always a little hesitant when I start a new movie as to whether or not the story will be satisfying enough. Sadly, I know nothing about Pat Boone or Shirley Jones, except that she was in Carousel, but the promise of a cocky city boy who gets humbled by falling in love with a simple country girl is always alluring. Mmm, and he can sing?! Okay, I'm hooked before five minutes have even passed. Songs and voices from the 50's just always seem to glide over your eardrums like silk. This sounds like Jess and Luke from Gilmore Girls to me. Even Uncle Jed's voice sounds like Scott Patterson's. Anyways. Pat Boone looks super good in a pair of Levi's, let me just say. The story goes a little something like this... Nicky is sent to live with his Uncle Jed and Aunt Henrietta by a judge after he seems to have gotten into a little trouble in Chicago. All we know is that his license was taken and that he's incredibly good with mechanics. The Templetons live next door, and used to be best friends with Uncle Jed before his son died and he became a recluse. I'm sure the son thing will come up later, with a line like "You're not my son!" yelled at Nicky in an argument or something. Liz Templeton is absolutely smitten from day one, even dancing around with his spark plug, covered in grease, after helping him fix up a car. Their first conversation took place on a horse with his arms awkwardly around her waist. Then while she's driving horses for her father, he goes on a car ride with her older sister Fran and sings a song about loving gentle girls. Very innocent and 50's-esque. One classic moment at the dance is the woman playing trombone by herself to earn a prize and the entire band chiming in. You just can't replicate that in today's society. The man after her dances and I found myself smiling along with the crowd. Finally, Nicky sings while Liz looks on adoringly. She's so incredibly innocent that I'm almost waiting for the ball to drop like it would in real life, but as this is a 50's movie, we know she'll get the guy. It's pretty much confirmed when they break into spontaneous song, but then he compliments her sister, and she gets fiesty. You go, girl. He tells her she's a "good sport." Charming. But it's obvious he doesn't get it. I do understand why boys find girls so confusing, though. Anyways, you can probably figure out what happens. It's not exactly what you'd expect, as Nick is little more humble than I thought at the beginning, and takes a while to come around to liking Liz, but it's still good. There are a few extra elements to make the love story interesting, including, of course, singing, horse riding, legal matters, etc. Golden moments include Fran's fashion faux pas at the barbeque, an awkward kiss on the cheek, Liz's middle part, an awkward almost-kiss, etc. It's very high school, complete with the silly games she plays with him. It's an acceptable movie, but not a believably lasting relationship. Moral of the story: good things come to good people, even if they do something illegal.

magic town and the wonders of netflix.

Netflix Instant is a beautiful thing. I've decided to use this time I have (every day for ten whole hours) to watch and review movies provided on Netflix. I'm now on my third movie of the day, Magic Town. You know, there's just something about Jimmy Stewart that I find incredibly attractive. Maybe it's the adorable droopy eyes, or the way he talks out of the side of his mouth, or the accent, or just the way he looks in black and white, but something about Jimmy Stewart makes me fall for him more every time I watch one of his movies. He always pulls off that suave-but-secretly-clueless-hopeless-romantic type so well. Anyone else think he's great? The basic jist of the story is that Rip Smith and his public opinion buddies are getting fired, but find a town called Grandview that matches up to the statistics of the population of the entire United States. His first big run-in with the townspeople comes at a City Council meeting, at which Mary Peterman is proposing her idea for a civic center to be built in the town. Of course, Rip cannot have this. He goes on this tirade about the beauty and virtue of the town and its people, knowing that a civic center could generate more publicity to the town, bringing in more people and ruining his perfect representative sample. As much as I love Jimmy Stewart, a pleasant surprise in this movie is Jane Wyman, who plays Mary Peterman. The movie hit the box office only a year before her divorce from Ronald Reagan was finalized, but that isn't the point. From the beginning of the movie, with her teeniest of smiles after Stewart's character Rip Smith complains to her about the article she wrote about him, she takes the cake. I love watching characters that remind me of myself. She plays it cool while he complains, typing while carrying on a conversation with him, stoic as ever until he makes a flattering response, at which point she lets another little smile slip. She's great, totally falling for him the entire time but trying to keep it hidden while he's trying to be smart and suave but failing just enough to make her purse her lips as she tries to smother her smile. They are also absolutely hilarious together as they both begin to recite poems, Rip making all attempts to get Mary to concede and stop, but she will not. I love that she's stubborn. This whole movie is great, back in the days when a little group of boys could be the junior high band for the dance and when a hug instead of a full-on makeout did not derail a relationship. Rip pretends to be an insurance agent so the people don't get suspicious, but in doing so, fools even the woman he's falling in love with. The town falls in love with him, even retracting the original article Mary wrote. You know what's coming. She's going to find out, feel used, overanalyze and wonder if anything he ever said meant anything to him or if he was just using her to get the information he wanted so he could make his money. "Yessir. I came here to do a job; everything else is just a blind alley." That's right, she overhears this too. Smooth, Rip. But don't you worry, folks, there is a happy ending. Sometimes the implausibility of old movies is just crazy enough to make you believe it could happen. The acting is great, the story is classic. I'd watch this one again.

summer has begun.

Here I sit, settling in for another summer of, that's right, nannying. Maybe a higher power is trying to give me a hint that I need to learn to foster relationships with children, but right now I just finished my own self-directed marathon of Modern Family. (That's right, every episode from both existing seasons. Some people are so considerate to put these things on the internet for free.) Unfortunately, this means I am neglecting my Gilmore Girls marathon and the Netflix DVD's are piling up as my mother and I attempt to make room in our schedules for us to be in the same place, at the same time, with some form of video entertainment system with DVD-playing capabilities. This summer, the nannying is for two boys, ages 13 and 10. Gone are the days of life jackets in the pool and "betending" to be kitty and "I love you." Now I sit quietly on my little chaise lounge in the sunroom and use this lovely laptop for up to ten hours a day. The boys play video games, read, watch television, or play on their blow-up water slide outside. Sometimes I take them to my pool. Right now this is the routine, but hopefully it changes soon, since I have no more episodes of Modern Family left. Earlier, I snuck into the kitchen for a snack. All the Double Stuf Oreo Cakesters are gone. Lame. I don't even like chocolate, so maybe it's a good thing I didn't eat any. It's a wonder there is food in the pantry at all, since the boys have been given free reign in the kitchen to make their own meals. For the older one, a meal could be a peanut-butter-and-Nutella sandwich. However, for the younger one, meals consist of "grazing." His mother told me he doesn't really eat meals, he just "grazes." He also has blue hair. He didn't really speak when I asked him why. This... is my summer.

dating.

So... my roommate and I used to joke (before she got herself a boyfriend) about the question “Why don't boys want us?”

HERE IS THE ANSWER.

Check this out. It is absolutely brilliant. Curious about my own statistics, I decided to do a few additions of my own. Assuming that these calculations are roughly correct for females as well, and that I am approximately as attractive as the guy writing this, (Believe me, I used my most expert creeping skills to locate a picture of this individual, a one Tristan Miller who may have been employed by the German Research Center for Artificial Intelligence at some point in the year 1999, to judge for myself, but to no avail.) the percentage of boys/men (And there is a very distinct difference between the two, one about which I will not go into detail at this time.) in these categories who belong to the same religion as me (which, by my (very rough) calculations of 13 million divided by 6 billion) is approximately .2167 percent. If we multiply that by this guy's calculations for eligible companions, we get about 4057 guys. (Well, 4057.3, but I'm not taking .3 of a guy.) That's in developed countries, not even just the United States. Some of these eligible bachelors with whom I am scientifically compatible could live in France. Or Switzerland, for heaven's sake. One of them could be the man on that train to Bern that didn't wear deodorant.This is where I gave up on my additions. I’m not even going to try and calculate equations that represent how many of those are actually living within a radius of my very few networks, and how likely it is that I will even see them passing on the street, or even whether they have the stamina to ask random girls they see on the street on dates in the first place… but I'm sure it will wheedle down my total immensely. So pretty much... yeah. Dad, next time you ask me why I’m not going on dates, here is your answer.

dear wsc...

Well, as my collegiate education has been going quite well, I'd like to take this time to critique a few social injustices of our school. Namely, those that take place in a lovely building on campus that we will call the WSC, as it is not here to defend itself or give consent for me to use its real name. To begin, let me address the issues as we enter said WSC. I walk into this building at least once a day. Usually it is for the sole purpose of nourishment, as I am what some may call a starving college student, but sometimes it is to buy a t-shirt with the number of the most celebrated basketball player this season emblazoned across the front and back or to attend a class, but that is not the point. The point is... STOP THRUSTING PAPER IN MY FACE. Yes, I would love to hear about the upcoming hockey game or the newest a capella performance. But is it really necessary to throw various quarters of papers in my walkway? I have a pile of these lovely handouts in my room, ready for recycling. It's inescapable, though I have devised a few methods to evade the paper toss. The first is to avoid the area entirely. This may involve walking up the stairs, going around the building, then walking back down the stairs to the one side that no one ever seems to man (But after this, maybe they'll get the hint... Joy.) despite the swarm of them around the other doors. Or if that is not an option, I can always choose to occupy my hands with every electronic device I have on my person at that particular moment. If all else fails, do not make eye contact. Or if necessary, look incredibly angry. I find that the leather jacket helps immensely with this. The second injustice I would like to address is that of automated bathrooms, more specifically, automatic toilet paper. Is each person the same? Do we all need the same amount (5 squares) of incredibly thin single-ply toilet paper every time we use the restroom? I submit that we do not. I am perfectly capable of yanking the toilet paper out of the dispenser until I have the amount I want, thank you very much. Dear WSC, I know about events on campus. And I like getting my own toilet paper. Peace.

V Day.

So. It's that time of year again. If you must know, today my outfit consists of a black shirt, dark gray jeans, and brown boots. I did decide to don the pink and gray heart socks that my mother sent me in honor of this momentous day in the lives of anyone who has ever been attracted to anyone else. Mother Nature has decided to grace us with some of the l-word today, it's 46 degrees outside and I barely need a jacket. I awoke this morning to an upset roommate and Taylor Swift playing in the room next to me. Lovely. Taylor can actually be a bit depressing, especially on a day like today. It's no wonder February is the most depressing month. If you're in a relationship, you're getting frostbite trying to hold your significant other's hand, and if you aren't, you're depressed because you're not in a relationship and you're cold. Upon walking into the lobby of our fair dorms, I was graced with the presence of two people in an extended embrace. Necessary? Nope. They then proceeded to sit next to each other (very closely) and talk about feelings, I presume. I went along with my normal routine, filling my water bottle and glaring at them through my bangs. I doubt they saw, they were too busy gazing into each other's eyes. I continued my day without too many more "incidents." However, I did see a couple making out while walking. Miraculously, they did not run into anyone. Now there's a feat. Very impressive. During my lunch, I did not want to be listening to the (very loud) vocal stylings of the glee club, singing things like "L-O-V-E" and "Can't Hurry Love" and just about anything else with the l-word in it while clothed in hideously costumed, over-the-top pink and red outfits. However, I was graced with an anti-date in honor of the holiday. This included Jamba Juice and a cookie. Valentine's Day isn't that terrible, I suppose, especially if it means I get free food.

2.2.11

"Put your hands in your pockets, you freaks!" This is what I want to shout at every couple I see walking around campus foregoing their circulation to get some quality time holding hands. Of course, I don't. I restrain myself. It's February, and love is in the air. Joyous. However, just because it's Cupid's month doesn't necessarily mean that there is an increase in the amount of public affection shown around campus. Nope. Couples have been everywhere, all the time. Toting their offspring, sporting their rocks, picking each other up from class. I'm not against love or anything, it's just something I didn't expect to see such an abundance of at college. But back to the point. It’s currently 12 degrees outside. Fahrenheit. Ew. Among these lovers traipsing around campus looking into each other's eyes while slowly losing feeling in their extremities are students braving the cold. One of my favorite was braving the cold in, that's right, basketball shorts and flip-flops. This was another moment in which I wanted to scream something like, "Didn't your mother teach you any better?! You freak." "Freak" seems to have become my new word. It accurately describes many people with whom I associate. In the most positive context, of course. I mean, the people of the religion to which I am a member are often called a “peculiar people,” right? We choose to come to an institution in a place where we could potentially lose body parts to frostbite just by walking to grab some dinner. And especially if our hands are out of our pockets so we can have our arms all over each other. Another thing. We don’t need to rub each other’s backs in American Heritage. This is historically known as a very demanding course. Are they taking notes? Nope. They should be. It’s not Valentine’s Day yet, people, and even if it were, you would still need to take notes. Just because you’re in love or whatever does not mean you get an out. Yeah, it’s February. To me, that translate to, “It’s cold.” Not “Let’s waste time and body heat to celebrate our love.”