Most of my relatives' names start with 'T.'

So, since moving to Arizona, I've joined a co-ed softball team coached by my cousin Tori. The team is pretty much comprised of people I'm related to, and since a girl recently quit the team, there was an empty space for a girl. I haven't touched a softball (ahem) in about ten years, except for playing catch in my yard about twice. One of those times, I was *this close* to taking out the back window of a Jeep. "Never mind that," said Tori, "The open space is for right field." So I borrowed some cleats (a little too big for me) and a glove from my cousin Tatum and I sashayed out into right field, dressed in the requisite shorty shorts and knee socks. Lucky I make sure to own the essential softball gear.

We play double headers every week that doesn't have a holiday in it. The first week, the ball didn't get anywhere near me, and I skipped around the field like The Littlest Elf Does Gym Class. I struck out about three times and once I got to first, because my dad always yelled at me if I struck out by watching a pitch pass my face. Ergo, I swing at everything.

The second week, some lefthanded jackass actually hit the ball toward me! I stared in shock as the center fielder hurtled past me in a desperate attempt to salvage the play, muttering under his breath and giving me a disbelieving headshake as he walked back to his post. But when I went up to bat, the real fun began.

My swing was never worldshattering or remarkable in any way. It's still not as bad as someone who didn't spend her childhood desperately trying to win her father's love through athletic achievement (no surprise he's not crazy about yours truly), and I can often hit the ball somewhere in between the pitcher, the catcher and the third baseman. This is actually sort of a perfect place for me, because they usually stare at it for a second, like, 'Really?' and then at each other for another second, trying to decide who's responsible for fielding the thing. And by that time I'm already running like the dickens.

This special night was no exception. Right up on past the dickens-running. But just as first base was within my reach, those borrowed, half-size-too-big cleats turned out to be somewhere I wasn't expecting them to be, and before I knew it I was catapulted through the base-coach-box and scrambled to my feet before anyone would notice what was going on. I looked around. Everyone on the field was staring (except the runner on third who was taking this opportunity to score. Good one, Tyler). The first baseman was cautiously approaching, trying to determine whether I was fit to stay on the field. I hurried to my base, and right at that moment the third baseman, annoyed with himself for letting a run in, decided to throw the ball to first, and maybe tag me out. But in his emotional state, he overthrew and the ball rolled around in the dirt in which I'd recently been sprawled. The base coach said, "Take second! Take second!" And before I knew what was happening I was dashing to second base. When I got there, I looked around again. Everyone on the field was staring. The pitcher turned around and my hand unconsciously moved toward my ears, to make sure lobsters weren't crawling out of them. "Are... you... okay?" he managed to stammer. I realized everyone thought I might be suffering from blood loss, trauma to the head, or both. And I cite both of those as the only possible explanation for everything that happened next.

I responded with my best cheer pose, hand on hip, one arm in the air, and I guess they all breathed a sigh of relief. I thought to myself, "I wonder if I should ask for a runner... my knees are starting to bleed kind of profusely..." But I dismissed the thought, reminding myself that runners are for chubby old men and people with torn ACLs. And the game went on.

My cousin Dylan was up to bat next, and, unlike me, he can hit the ball with some measure of accuracy, timing, and force(comma count: 5). He popped the ball in the air, and someone in the infield caught it. I forgot that I wasn't forced to run, because why would I ever have an extra base? I saw the pitcher give me that look again, the one where he's thinking, "I mean she didn't look handicapped..." as he held the ball in front of him near the shortstop. I gave him my winning oh-well-I-tried-and-a-double-on-errors-is-obviously-the-best-I-could-hope-for smile, and he tagged me with the ball, still looking puzzled. As I approached the third base coach, I realized I could have stayed on second and, in the tone and volume I usually reserve for remarking on the weather, I said, "Shit!" But it turns out that when everyone on the field and off is staring at you in befuddled silence, my weather-remarking voice is clearly audible to all. My cousin Tiffani's husband, Tyler, said, "Please don't yell swears in front of my nana." I looked over to see a woman whose age I'll place somewhere between ninety-five and infinity, looking old and dumbstruck, along with all my aunties and several babies. I looked down at my knees, pouring blood, and took advantage of their attention. "Does anyone have a First Aid kit? Or at least some tissues?"

Probably I shouldn't be involved in physical activity.

My friend Josh says art is a constructive way to express myself.

Just how much energy are you willing to put into this boy?

There's this boy (I know, right...how many times have you heard THAT one...). He and I were in History together, and I sort of kinda talked to him a few times...I have a thing for him. Not only is he SUPER cute, but he also has many other fine qualities such as intelligence, maturity (so rare in 22 year old males), and talent. Now, I'm not exactly at a "I'll just call you and we'll totally hang out" place with him...we know eachother, but that's it. I want to get to know him, because, even in the worst case scenario, he'd be a cool guy to be friends with. How do I go about getting to know him in this situation?
-Getting to know you...

ps...I also have these crazy dreams about him where he's a pirate...that has nothing to do with my question...but I thought you might get a laugh out of that...I don't know.

Okay. In order to get close to this boy, you need to start by listing everything you know about him, because as we know, Knowledge is Power. So sit down and make a list of band t-shirts he's worn, food you've smelled on him, what shoes he wears, and everything he's ever said. This might seem crazy, and it is. But school's out and so if you're not running in the same circles, you're going to need to force your way into his life and also (here's the tricky part) not let it look like that's what you're doing. So you're going to need to list places you think he might go and then show up in those places, always looking super hot. If you're facebook friends it might be easier to just see what events he's RSVP'd yes to. And make sure you get invited to the same things.

Now, here's where it starts to get complicated. Once you happen to run into him in a blues bar or at the party of a mutual friend, you have to force him to notice you, but almost exclusively in a positive way. One reason this will be difficult is that you have put a lot of secret energy into ensnaring him, which is likely to make you unusually agitated. You might find yourself jumping high in the air and maybe screaming when approached by small stimuli. You may find that you can only talk in CAPS lock, but an extremely squeaky version. These are things you need to prepare for, in one of two ways. You can practice being in very uncomfortable situations and not having these kinds of reactions (not that reliable), but I always find that practice awkwardness doesn't do the job as well as real awkwardness, and when faced with a real live stalkee, the reactions still manifest. So what I recommend you do is, practice making your CAPSqueak sexy. Try to make your jumpiness into part of your charm. Whatever your pathologies, try to make them seem appealing. Tricking your man is always step one.

Now that that's out of the way, you'll need to Shock and Awe. It's not yet the time for table dancing or taking your shirt off. But the time for casually walking up next to him and calmly remarking on the general depravity of your surroundings is long since past. Embracing your new devil-may-care attitude, I recommend walking up behind him in Casa Que Pasa and giving his ass a little grab. Smile winningly. He'll probably be cool with it. If it looks like an Abort Mission is in order, you can just look horrified and say, 'Oh my gosh! I thought you were my gay boyfriend!(a la Carrie Bradshaw) I am SO sorry for the misunderstanding!' And you know what? You may be able to salvage it. If he asks you how you can have a gay boyfriend, you're in! And you know what? He probably will. Because men have a really hard time understanding that concept. I don't know why.

But you don't have to take this route. You can tailor your own strategy to fit your style and (probably more importantly) that of your intended. But the important thing is, you have his undivided attention. That's why it needs to be a full-on grab and not just a smack. That could be accidental. But with a grab, he's forced to look you in the eye. If you're brave, you'll say, 'Hey there, sexy. How'd you do on the History final? Can I buy you a drink?' If not, you'll probably smile a little apologetically and say, 'That final was crazy, huh?' But I don't know why you would take the lame route at this point. You've already grabbed his ass, you might as well go whole hog. If you're more of the demure school of thought, you probably just winked at him across the room at best. But the point is that now you're talking. But what you need to do after this is, be sure you walk away before he does. Before he even looks at his watch. Remember: You're a teaser. You turn him on, leave him burning, and then you're gone. A little like Batman.

PS Don't under any circumstances tell him about your dreams. Don't ask me how I know this, just trust me.

I worry about my life, not only because of the content of this post, but also because of the fact of it.

So I didn't do a post last week.  MY BAD.  So I'm going to do a real post later this week but I have to post something and right now I'm in the write mood (PAH!) which actually may be the entirely wrong mood to publicize my thoughts but here you go and I'll probably strongly regret this in the morning. 

I think I should be concerned about the state of my life, and I'll tell you why. I cannot have a nice phone.  I've realized I am not grown-up enough for that.  I bought a nice(I mean not that nice, but it wasn't a free phone.  It was like a quick upgrade but I knew even then, instinctively, that I needed to not get that fancy slider. Even though I REALLY wanted it.  But I think everyone knew I hadn't earned that privilege.) phone that was a little soldier and I loved it.  It got lots of chips in the paint, of course, because I regularly hurl it to the ground- not in rage, just in carelessness. I gesticulate wildly a lot and then before I know it my phone's across the room and I'm crawling under strangers' chairs hunting it down.  Anyway, the final straw was pretty much when I dropped it in a pitcher of pink lemonade. After drying out, it would turn on, but it got zero service.  I thought, 'Welp, best thing I can do is try to wash the lemon and sugar off.'  So I took it apart and tossed it in a glass of water, figuring that at best it would help and at worst i'd be back where i started with a phone that didn't work (I did NOT consider that if my phone wouldn't turn on anymore I would lose all my numbers, but that ended up happening later on anyway). Lo and behold, that crazy move enjoyed some measure of success. My sweet phone limped along for like six months,brave in the face of slow death by terminal water damage, which the girl at the Verizon store claimed was pretty common, but I think she was just taking undue credit for my phone's Indomitable Spirit and also Love of Me.  Anyway then I got a phone that was seriously from like 1995.  It had a *blue screen.* Legit.  I was amazed it could text.  It was ginormous and people frequently asked me if it was my home phone brought out into the world by mistake.  No, friends, it wasn't.  It was my Frankenphone.  I somehow went through a couple of phones after that and then had to go back to the Frankenphone, and now I have my current phone which was given to me by a friend.  It's been serving me faithfully for like five months, but as you can see the paint is seriously chipped.

This is due to the aforementioned Casting Aside Dramatically.  Also I pick at it sometimes when I'm nervous.  (Yes, I'm wearing my choir dress. Get over it. It's like a nightgown.)  So by now you're probably saying, so what, Janel, get over it. You trash your phone. No big deal.  But you know what? It IS a Big Deal.  It is a Very BIG DEAL.  And I will tell you why.  (This is where I probably start my sassy side to side head motions that I cannot explain. I usually also put my finger in the air at this point.) I LOVE my phone.  If it was like, you can have your phone with you or you can eat today, I don't know what you would choose but I know what Sharon Stone and I would do.  We would keep our damn phone.  Sharon Stone LOVES to text (probably) and SO DO I.  I love texting more than the average person for sure and am uncomfortably addicted to it.  When I'm having a serious conversation with a friend about life problems but my phone buzzes, I have to do that leg-shaking thing that sometimes people do that you're sharing a couch or lunch table with and you're like STOP SHAKING THE TABLE, ASSHOLE. But you can't help it because you have to get rid of all that nervous energy, wondering who's calling or texting you.  And once it buzzes three times and stops then you know it's a text and so you're like, okay it can wait, but I still REALLY want to know what it is and respond pronto.  But then if it keeps buzzing you're like oh man somebody's calling me and it *might* just be the love of my life, how am I to know? But even so I know that if it's a number I don't have saved I am pretty much never going to answer it anyway.  What if it's that guy who kept calling in every night during closing when I worked at Victoria's Secret? That was a creepy man that I hope I never meet in real life.  The thing is, I don't know his name so I could actually meet him at any time and NOT EVEN KNOW IT.  That man is roaming around loose somewhere and making creepy phone calls to innocent lingerie salespeople.  RUDE.  Anyway the point is I really want to know who's calling or texting me.  My closest relationship in life is probably with my cell phone (because the pickins are slim, folks... but at the same time of course I'm not saying my phone is a backup, I love it for who it is).  So, okay, you're probably still a little confused. Like, okay, you destroy your phone.  Okay, you love your phone and destroy it anyway.  So what?  I'LL TELL YOU SO WHAT. I am REASONABLY CONFIDENT that this is the way I treat all the things I love best- I destroy them.  Isn't that a charming thought? I mean yeah, I also do lots of nice things for people I love such as feed them and tell them I love their sweaters.  But also I destroy them with my inability to Handle With Care.  This is why I really need an LG phone, because I hear they solder their parts instead of glue which allegedly makes the thing more durable, but I'm not sure what kinds of friends are the most durable.  Bubble Boys?  But then at some point you know that bubble is going to get a hole or something and you know those people are super vulnerable from not growing any antibodies and all of a sudden the immune system is compromised and guess what?  You just gave your best and only friend chicken pox or some such shit which doesn't sound that bad but if your body has never been sick and has no idea how to fight that off, you just KILLED your best friend.  Via chicken pox.  Good one.  I bet it would be embarrassing to die of chicken pox in this day and age.  Or any, mostly because who wants to be killed by a chicken? They're like the most retarded, dirty animal of all time and if you put them on one side of a six foot chain link fence and some food on the other side, they will just keep walking into that fence imagining that one of these times they'll be able to walk through.  They can't just walk around.  They're dumber than a fly.  And you just made a chicken kill your best friend so not only is your friend itchy and then dead, but also humiliated. *Good one.*  (This is where I snap my fingers in Z-formation as if to say, 'Mischief Managed.)

UPDATED:

I forgot to mention, one of the biggest things I do to my phone is text in the shower.  That has led to the demise of many a phone.  It's because I love it too much to leave it alone for half an hour.  Make an analogy of THAT, if you can.

I probably shouldn't be allowed to talk.

So today I was standing around, talking to some Unsuspecting Normalsons.  They were like, what's up with that new Fantasia movie? And I was like, you mean the one that came out ten years ago instead of fifty? And they were like, yeah. What's even in that?  And I was like, well, that terrifying Mickey Mouse one is shown again right in the middle.  And they were like, yeah, that Sorcerer's Apprentice is really stupid.  And I was like, Yeah, I KNOW, right? And totally scary! Like, every time Mickey chops up that broom and then it COMES BACK TO LIFE I'm like FFFFFCK!!!! I kinda had a dream like that last night! And they were like, ....

And I was like, 

I was working on an early steamship, and everyone was really impressed with the technology that made it go.  I think I was a waitress, and my friend Grace was going downstairs to clean the pipes out (like you always have to do mid-voyage on your steamship). (It should be noted that I don't actually have a friend Grace, she's a dream-friend.  Like most of my friends) (But then why aren't they better friends, if I just make them up? I need to start imagining friends who don't stab me in the back all the time...) So then it turned out there was a sea serpent in the pipes and I ran down to the basement of the boat just in time to see Grace flailing helplessly as the creature cruelly dragged her back to its pipe-labyrinthine-lair.  I hauled her out and even though she had been hopelessly clutched in the serpent's fangs, she didn't seem to be too much the worse for wear.  I grabbed that serpent and took it up to the kitchen, where I put its head in the garbage disposal (like you always have on your early steamship).  As I realized that this was the best plan I've ever come up with, I decided to grind the whole thing up in the blender.  My brother helped me.  When I was finished, I had a little tadpole of post-blender-sea-serpent goo.  I felt like the right place for that goo was the bowl in which my faithful goldfish, Buckaroo Bonzai, resides.  This later became a problem because, you know how some things can kind of regenerate?  like lizards' tails, or things in a dream?  Well, it turned out the sea serpent just regenerated and my brother had to grab it by the back of the head and put it in the blender.  Then we had the bright idea that if it regenerated but wasn't in water, it would just suffocate since it's a SEA serpent.  As in fish. As in needs water to breathe.  As in why on earth did we put it in that fish bowl anyway?  So we put it in a bag and took it out to the garbage cans out front.  As we got there, we were greeted pleasantly by a friendly but bumbling (like most of my brother's real-life friends) neighbor who I knew had caused this mess in the first place.  After a brief montage of all the ways I could help him see the error of his ways, I just decided to get over it. I put the remains in the garbage can, smiled at the neighbor and went into my house.  LEAVING THE SEA SERPENT UNATTENDED.  I could hear the Jaws theme playing as I walked away.  Even in my dreams, I make Very Poor Life Choices!  And then I was making out with this guy I met in choir but it was actually a little scary. *exhale.*

They exchanged a few perplexed glances with one another and said, ...welp, choir's starting...

The interesting thing about all this (I can hear you say, "Really? Really??) is that this Sea Serpent was really the same monster as the Giant Eel pursuing me and my cabinmates in a dream about two weeks ago:  roughly the length of my driveway, with GIANT fangs.  Kinda Basilisk-esque, in a Harry Potter kind of way.  

A Fairy Tale.

Once upon a time, there was a Princess who lived in an old castle, in the middle of a meadow, in the master bedroom downstairs, with a bathroom/shower directly adjacent. After two Princess Years of living in that room, the Princess grew tired of dirty peasants tromping in and out of her bedroom to use that shower. And also coming in 'to chat,' but really just wandering off and leaving their things on her floor and the door wide open. So the Princess decided to take action and move to an attic room upstairs. She was confident that the relationship between Princesses Who Live in Attic Bedrooms and Princesses Who Are Virtually Enslaved by Fairy Tale Antagonists was correlational and not causal, and, with just a little trepidation, she moved all her furniture up there.
This move resulted in a few changes in the Princess's life. For one thing, she loved having a room that was really and truly her own. She loved that it was a little less accessible to the General Populace (her loyal subjects loved to seek her wise advice), and she loved that her little room had a lock on the door. But, rather unexpectedly, she found herself having to ratchet up her levels of efficiency, because climbing rickety stairs that are slanted and not in the way they're supposed to be (that way too, but also to the side) and aren't big enough for an adult foot to step on unless it's sideways is not something Princesses like to do that often. For another thing, she had to be a lot more conscientious about turning the fan off when she exited the shower, because when the Princess got up to her attic room, the fan sounded like a helicopter beneath her bed. She also learned how other Princesses came to befriend local birds when she discovered the nest in her wall. It didn't come into her room, because this isn't the Dark Ages, for heaven's sake, it's the Twenty-first Century, but those birds sure did wake that Princess up in the morning with their twittering in the nest and scrabbling around. The Princess assured herself (with some difficulty, and a teensy bit darkly) that the birds weren't intentionally waking her two full hours before she was due to get out of bed. And on particularly difficult mornings, she wondered, a little belligerently, to herself, what kinds of girls these other Princesses were, making friends with such noisy and obnoxious animals. But, she inevitably concluded, you really couldn't expect anything else from girls so desperate for a little attention that they'd kiss a frog or move in with a house full of unsavory miners. So, to make a long story short, there were some adjustments to be made.

One day, the Princess had places to be, countries to rule and lives to save, and she had to take a shower before any of that could happen. She had grown pretty used to her little attic room, and normally she brought her clean clothes down to the bathroom and changed into them there. On this occasion, however, the Princess was in a hurry and didn't worry too much about the idea of running back upstairs in her towel. But as she opened the bathroom door after her shower, she suddenly remembered that the Court Music Tutor was teaching a beginners' class for some of the toddler nobility of the surrounding country. 'Oh, well,' thought the Princess, 'the Queens and Nurses might be in the castle, but I don't mind MUCH if they see me in my towel, and after all I haven't much choice at this point.' She stepped out of the bathroom, looked to her left, and saw, to her surprise, the door open and her own former Music Tutor and the father of one of the pupils, Bruce Hamilton, sitting in a wicker chair in the throne room. He smiled a little awkwardly and the Princess stared for a second, looked down, then around, then up, then gave up. She shrugged and trudged upstairs. When she got up to her own little attic bedroom, she realized she was clutching her magenta bra as if presenting it to an award-winner. She sighed, and decided to forget her evening's obligations. The Princess got back in bed.

THE END.

German advisees make this an international blog. (or, Obedience is a great consolation prize)

Dear Janel,

I recently became... involved with a guy who I knew would jerk me around, but my drawing pool is very small, so I decided to just go with it. Sure enough, he's started doing the jerk-around, and I'm not into that. But, Gott in Himmel, I'm bored! is it wrong to try to make him super hot for me so he'll come crawling back, or just a waste of time? Be honest.

-Bored in Berlin

All right. I'm pretty sure you've been wasting your time all along, but hey, sounds like you don't have anything better to do with it anyway, right? And looking super hot when you see him can't possibly hurt. And flirt with a bunch of other guys if you can. Either he'll get jealous and come crawling, or at least you won't look sad and pathetic like you would if you waif around and cry a lot. I wish I didn't know that from experience. Maybe it will even draw some less retarded types your way. If not, at least you now have a reputation for being smokin' hot. And the fact is that if your skirts are short enough, you'll probably find that the lamewad guys of your admittedly limited acquaintance are a lot more readily doing your bidding. And who doesn't want that? Nobody, that's who. Obedience is a pretty great consolation prize.

Should I move out of my grandparents' house and in with some strangers or not? I'm almost 25 and I have a great job, but I moved here a little over six months ago and had hoped to develop some sort of meaningful relationship with a man by this point. And I'm sick of living in their spare room. Even though it's free... But I'm not sure if I should take the plunge and sign a lease when I might hate these strangers.

-Stumped in San Francisco

First of all, you live with your grandparents. That might not be all that conducive to meaningful relationships with men (although maybe you just have the same problem as our Berliner above). And how bad can it be? You lived with your grandparents for six months before you started to scratch your eyes out, so I bet you can handle a six-month lease with some random strangers. Especially since they'll probably try to impress you, at least at first. The first few months of new roommates are usually the cleanest, so you have that to look forward to. And if they suck, you can steal their boyfriends. That's probably the way to go. Or, if they do something truly horrible, like cut their toenails onto the dining room table, you can head down to the local pond and get a bucketful of tadpoles to fill their beds with. Is it tadpole season right now? It seems like, if it's not tadpole season by now, it certainly should be by the time you finish the Super Clean Roommate Honeymoon Period. If there are tadpoles in your neighborhood. Which actually, my dad says that having frogs around is a sign of a healthy ecosystem because apparently frogs breathe through their skin or something... And you live in San Francisco so there could be a lot of pollution... probably is. But actually, if you have the right kind of pollution, maybe that will only help. Because if what you get is like three-eyed tadpoles in this girl's bed, that might just drive the point home. So my advice to you is actually, you're going to need to check out the local ponds before you actually move in. And look into the kinds of tadpoles they actually have. Because if they don't have any tadpoles, you need to not move in there. Because I don't know what you're going to do then.

This is the kind of thing I would've been writing all the time, if I had stuck with a Psych major...esp. if I did all my research papers after 1130pm.

Late at night, many of us find ourselves pondering life's big questions: What is the meaning of life? Who's really behind that damn Tights-as-Pants Phenomenon? Why is there so much more caramel corn in the popcorn tins, when everyone knows cheese is the only kind worth eating, even if it is far too salty for extended consumption? Why doesn't he call when he says he'll call? If not drugs(hard or otherwise...soft? easy?), what does a normal college student do on a bored Friday night alone?
Most of those questions may never be answered by Science. But fortunately, your Intrepid and Bold Investigator has, in a stellar example of admirable Take-One-For-the-Team Attitude, selflessly investigated the latter. You're welcome.
College is a fun, experimental time for most people. It involves making EXTREMELY poor choices, such as spending your parents Life Savings on pot and snowboarding, or having lots of promiscuous sex pretty much as a result of the fact that womanhood is basically synonymous with free alcohol. It involves going to parties where you come closer to death than you ever will until you're actually dying, either via alcohol poisoning or drunken stupidity ('Want to streak through that frozen field? No way that ice is gonna crack, bra!'). It involves spontaneous road trips with friends to alarmingly small towns with names like Grant's Pass, Oregon, or Hoquiam, Washington. Ever heard of them? Didn't think so. I hadn't either.
Problem is, except for that last, those behaviors are all sharply discouraged by Mormon church leaders, parents, and, indeed, many faithful LDS students themselves. But while most bored college kids are taking their clothes off with other bored college kids, or going to bars seeking to forget the state of their credit ratings, what are Mormon kids supposed to do, anyway? In groups, they eat cookies and play games like Scattergories and Scrabble. If they live on the edge, they have a bonfire or other gathering at which they drink Thomas Kemper root beer in an effort to trick their minds- the logic is that if a bottle looks like an alcohol bottle, it probably makes their experience more fun. (In my experience, usually the 'more fun' leads to somebody jumping straight through the main surface of the trampoline and then what's anybody supposed to do?)
While 'gentile' girls are 1. realizing he's not going to call, 2. getting skanked out and 3. going to bars where they will boost their self-esteem by having drinks purchased for them by pre-middle aged men who never left the town where they took a year and a half of college classes, the typical Mormon girl is home, either with her roommates or, if she's a little sadder, by herself. But while those other girls are about to have a crap-tacular Saturday, in which they waste the first six usable hours of the day sleeping (or possibly throwing up), the Mormon girl is preparing to actually enjoy her weekend, and more than that, she betters herself. She reads. She does a crossword. She gets her homework done. She eats a snack, probably. She puts her jammies on by 9pm. And that's when the fun begins, because maybe she chats with friends on Facebook for awhile, before she starts to feel like she has to get things clean before she can go to bed. She organizes things, puts things away. She realizes she NEEDS to change her bedding. Immediately. She starts large loads of towels in the laundry, because Mormon girls live in packs and the towel racks can never stand up to all the towels those girls use, so people are always throwing the towel you have nicely hung over the bar of the shower onto the floor next to the toilet. She keeps her cell phone near, in case a boy should ever text, but she writes in her journal. She ventures toward the kitchen and thinks, who left this cereal bowl with half an inch of milk in it out on the counter? But she realizes that that half-inch of milk is partly solidified and so she retreats back to her own lair in pretty short order. She runs a lint roller over her fleece blankets, because there's never been a house of Mormon girls(probably this phenomenon exists amongst non-Mormon girls, but how would I know? I'm not prepared to make generalized statements on topics about which I have no data) where loose hair isn't a problem, and they always have hundreds of lint rollers around. I can see two from where I'm sitting now. They don't vacuum, because it's probably at least 11pm by now and at least one of their roommates is sure to be asleep.

This is the time when an average Mormon girl might start to wonder why none of the boys of her acquaintance have texted her with regard to how desirable she is. Typical thoughts might be something like "Why am I not on a date right now? I have the best legs in the ward!" or possibly, "How does Sheila Epstein have a boyfriend and I don't?" This is when the evening takes its inevitable downward spiral, which culminates either in an unhealthy snack and a Nora Ephron movie, or a trip down Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus Lane. Finally, one of the boys she knows sends her a perfunctory text about how tired he is and how glad he finally is to be going home. She thinks to herself, "He's sharing his woes with me! It's because he cares!" She reads her scriptures, says her prayers, and goes to bed, not deliriously happy, but taking what she can get.
In a nutshell, when you're a Mormon girl on an off weekend, you get pretty creative. Maybe you even post a blog about all the nothing you did all night. But at least in the morning, you're not going to be pregnant, hung over, or freshly diseased (probably). And your bedroom is pretty tidy. You have new bedding on your bed. So there's that to look forward to. It's not actually so bad. This is your life. Embrace it.

*Actual* advice

Janel,

Do you ever have people who you wish you were friends with? Like they are friends with your friends....but you have no idea how to intiate a friendship between you and them?

I normally just force my friendship on these people. You'd be surprised how often they just say, 'eh, okay.' or ask you out. Look them in the eye and say something like, 'Okay, Reuben. This is stupid. Who are you, anyway? You need to tell me your Life Story. Go.' (You open your eyes wide and smile while saying this, or the effect can be somewhat alarming. Sometimes even after taking these precautions. You might want to practice in the mirror, or at least start with people you don't care about that much) People love to talk about themselves, so that's a great way to get them to have Good Feelings toward you. Another really good method is to have an experience with the person, especially where you help them out, and then refer to it later, like this: 'Hey, Roland, remember that time you broke your pinkie toe and then I drove you to the ER?' another variation of this is 'How are you? Toe any better?' Specific questions are sometimes a little better at having someplace to go. But then you're conversing. And you just pretend you've been friends all along and they don't know the difference. Because, hey, who's so self-assured they don't want another friend? What does not work as well is when you ask them that opening question and he answers 'You mean the time you ran over my foot with your car? Yeah. *Thanks.*' So, even if you get desperate, don't resort to desperate measures. If nothing else, it will probably lead to looking desperate which is something Nobody Wants. In a nutshell, these are the key points to Forcing Friendship on the Lukewarm:
1. Smile a LOT.
2. Act like it doesn't even occur to you that they don't want to be best friends.
3. Be SUPER interested in them.
Sometimes you can even go so far as to say, 'Oh my gosh, Rodney, I did not know you knew all seven styles of Lightsaber fighting! We totally need to be best friends!

That level of adoration is hard to resist.


And now, here's a tip I just think you should have.
Sunday morning, I was getting ready for church and noticed that the hem of my dress was a complete clusterfk. I was running a LITTLE late and didn't want to go through the ginormous production of taking off my dress, getting out the iron and waiting for the iron to heat. So while I was straightening my hair, I just used that iron on my hem. I don't think that would work for general ironing, like if the bodice of the dress was wrinkly I don't think it would solve that problem. But it was pretty handy for those circumstances. Put it in your toolbag.

Problems with Friends...ish

So my friend and I knew this guy when we were both freshmen. At first things seemed normal and we all had some fun times together. Then he started really crushing on her. In conversation if her name came up, he would just gush about her. But she totally was not into him and she even started dating someone else. He has yet to get over her, though. To this day, three years later, he compares every new girl in his life to her, tries to talk with her frequently, took her out for ice cream and brags about how he took a girl with a boyfriend on a date(even though she emphatically states that it was NOT a date, and even if it was SOOO WHAT??), and even consciously bought the same kind of car as her. She's told him many a time that she is not into him, but he seems stuck on her still. What should she do?

--Wary in Wyoming


Okay. So obviously she should not let him take her for ice cream anymore. With most people, insisting on paying for yourself is enough of a hint that the guy won't try to ask you out anymore...on the other hand, dating someone else is considered a pretty strong negative in most circles. So, clearly, we're dealing with a member of the Terminally Dense Brigade here. So we'll need to be a little more upfront. My recommendations are these:
1. Stop talking to him altogether. The situation has progressed beyond Pretending to Stay Friends.
2. In the event that you absolutely MUST talk to him, e.g. he has your cat by the throat, please refer to 1.
3. When you are near him socially or professionally, try to be as repulsive as possible. Do not cover your mouth when you cough or sneeze. Wipe your nose with your sleeve. Then look intently at the sleeve and say something like, "Whoa, there's one for my collection...Anyone have a vial?"
4. If he actually speaks to you and you choose to ignore 1&2, speak only in CAPS Lock (loud and somewhat angry although not quite a shout), and especially while wearing an almost comically scary Angry Face. Like this:
Him:Hello, Sandra, your new socks are very lovely.
You: HELLO. THE CREATURES LIVING IN YOUR FOOT FUNGUS ARE MAKING A PARTICULARLY OFFENSIVE ODOR TODAY. I'M GOING TO NEED YOU TO STEP AWAY. (Or whatever you choose to say. That's just what I'd say.)
Hopefully this will make him really step off, but if all else fails,
5. Punch him in the nards, or have your boyfriend do it. This is about as direct a "No, Thanks" as can be given, and if it is ineffective, you have no choice but to enlist the legal authorities and have him incarcerated in a high-security plastic prison, a la Magneto, enemy of the X-Men.

Or one final option is always saying, "Listen, Troy, I do not want to date you. I have never wanted to date you, and will never want to date you. I'll see you in hell."
Good luck!

I have a friend who is constantly asking me to do things with (read:for) her. She's my friend and is really going through a rough patch, so I try to help. But more often than not, when the time comes and I send her a text that says I'm coming to get her, she has concocted a ridiculous lie about why she can't make it. I don't want to write her off as a friend, because she doesn't really have anyone else...but I can't let this go on! Suggestions?

--Spineless in Santa Fe


Dear Spineless:

There is really only one obvious solution to this problem, and it is...Very Old Squash. Get some pumpkins left over from Halloween-time. Trust me, they can be found. In the dead of night, dress all in black, go to her house, and *squash* them on her porch with all your might. It won't make her stop blowing you off, but it might make you feel better. It would me.