When Life Hands You a Lemon

If They Find Me Dead

2010-04-08T14:01:00.002-06:00

Just wanted to let everyone know that if they find me dead at some point in the near future it will likely be because everything I eat is expired. I am currently making biscuits that expired in February which I shall eat with eggs that expired in March and then I will polish it off with some peanut butter that expired in October. Just thought I should let someone know. Ya know, just in case.

Marry Christmas!

2009-12-25T23:33:00.005-07:00

In the spirit of Christmas, and because Mommacita refuses to post even on Christmas, I have decided to post a Christmas poem I wrote two years ago for a ward talent show. It's my present to you who still check this updated-once-a-year page, so feel free to insert your name in for mine and read it for your own ward talent show. Ho Ho Ho.

Marry Christmas

There is not a good reason why each Christmas season

must be so hard for the lonely.

And nothing’s unkinder than constant reminders

that I’m lacking my “one and only.”

The mistletoe’s mocking and the single red stocking

like a donkey I’m forced to carry.

But the worst of it all is the maddening call

for a Christmas that has to be Marry!

It’s very apparent this language is errant

in making the day about marriage.

But the thought to me came that I know who to blame,

and he rides in that big deer-pulled carriage.

He’s bearded and fat and wears a red hat.

(He loses big points for style.)

Yes, it’s clear that Kris Kringle began as a single

and probably was for a while.

That plump little elf only thought of himself

and of getting his lady in red.

He claimed saying “happy” just wasn’t that snappy--

that we should say merry instead.

But now I am knowing that, despite his Ho-hoing,

dear Kris had a secret concealed.

By repeating that phrase at a quickening pace,

his plot is clearly revealed.

Merry Christmas. Merry Christmas.

Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas,

MerryChristmasMerryChristmasMerryChristmas,

Merrychristmasmerrychristmasmerrychristmas

Merry Kris mus marry kris Must Marry Kris!

Must Marry Kris?!

I believe he’s a criminal for such a subliminal

desperate attempt for a wife.

He has in the doing successfully ruined

all Christmas for my single life.

I loathe him! I hate him! I’ll ever berate him

when I see him with his bell at the mall.

He thinks he’s so slick cuz he used a cheap trick

to capture his beautiful doll.

But then again, maybe he isn’t that crazy

for taking up that sneaky cause.

It’s easy to see that there’s no Mrs. Me

but we know there’s a Mrs. Claus.

So I’ll follow his lead cuz I have the same need.

And it’s a need that I have a lotta.

I’ll update my wish list, forget about Christmas,

and wish you a Merry Limon-gotta!

Merry Limon-gotta, everyone!!

Nice Jean Skirt!

2009-09-25T09:39:00.004-06:00

I was talking with DP last night and I was reminded of a conversation I witnessed many years ago at a certain longtime job of mine.

LRD and I were sitting in our cubicle talking--as we worked, of course--when the department secretary (DS), who used to work with us, came in to drop off some paperwork.

LRD: DS, I love your skirt!

DS: (looking down at her ankle length jean skirt) Oh!

LRD: You look like a cowgirl!

DS: Oh. (clearly disappointed)

LRD: (clearly recognizing that disappointment) But, I mean, like a cowgirl dressed up and going out for the night!

DS: Oh! (much more comfortable with that description)

LRD: To a barn dance!

DS: Oh. (not so comfortable)

At this point I started laughing so hard that they both stopped talking and that was the end of the awkwardness. Luckily, the two of them were good enough friends that DS wasn't offended. Sometimes I replay this moment in my head and think about how DS's reaction went up, down, up, down. Then I replay old episodes of the Simpsons.

Doth Mine Eyes Deceive Me?

2009-09-22T13:35:00.004-06:00

I'm pretty sure that I saw it. But sometimes you're walking across campus (or down a crowded street) and you see flashes that your brain then has to decode, and by the time you realize what you saw it's too late to casually run back and take another look.

So I'm pretty sure I saw it. But I can't be positive. I mean, it looked like it. But why would she have done that? Why would anyone do that? I don't think even normal ones look good, but to make one that can so quickly be compared to the original is just a bad idea. Especially when not even the original looks very appealing.

But there she was, walking right past me. With a tattoo on her arm. A tattoo of her own face. On her arm. Her face is now on her arm. Her slightly bulging arm. Her slightly bulging face is now on her slightly bulging arm. The same short black hair, the same round face. On her arm. Two faces. One body. Too much.

There it was, the bulging face on the bulging arm, and I with only one second to appreciate it. Depreciate it? I will always regret that I didn't stop, run back, grab her by the bulging shoulders and shake her and scream, "Why?! Why did you put your bulging face on your bulging arm? Isn't one of your bulging faces enough for the world? Can't you just look in the mirror like a normal person? Don't I already know what your bulging face looks like from looking at your bulging face, which happens to be right next to your depiction of your bulging face? Do you often wear masks that hide your bulging face, but still want people to know what you look like in case they ever see you without the mask? (still shaking) Do you think that people can't get enough of your bulging face? Cuz they can! Believe me they can! It's bulging!"

I could probably go on for a while. But the more I picture both bulging faces shaking in horror, the less I want to keep shaking.

Or maybe it was a tattoo of some animal or the word MOM. I did just see it for a second. I guess I'll never know.

Hearing Aids and Sweaty Butts

2009-07-27T18:54:00.002-06:00

A girl who had been struggling with a staph infection sat next to me in Sunday school. We'll call her Staphanie. The lesson had already started, so we were forced to whisper a greeting.

Staph: Hi!

Limon: Hey. How are you doing?

Staph: Eh. Groany sound. Um. Eh.

Limon: Well, you made it to church, so that's a good sign.

Staph: My butt is sweating.

Limon: Your butt is sweating?

Staph: (laughing hysterically but mostly silently)

Limon: (realizing that she did not say her butt was sweating, flipping through rolodex of possibilities) Your brother's wedding?

Staph: (laughing harder and less silently)

Limon: What? What did you say?

Staph: But it's spreading!

Limon: Oh, that's a relief.

Do I need hearing aids? Anyone else ever had a mishearing quite so awkward?

Life of the Unemployed

2009-07-08T14:42:00.008-06:00

10:00 AM: Wake up. Realize that you don't have anything to do. Roll over.

11:00 AM: Wake up. Realize that you don't have anything to do, but decide that you are probably starting to break the word of wisdom or something. Get up.

11:15 AM: Eat a bowl of cereal.

11:25 AM: Eat another bowl of cereal.

11:35 AM: Sigh because Wimbledon is over and you no longer have anything active to watch. Turn on old episodes of Stargate: SG-1.

3:00 PM: Play that song from the closing credits of the second Narnia movie on the guitar.

3:30 PM: Put on the 60-minute P90X DVD your roommate had illegally burned.

3:35 PM: Realize you are really out of shape.

3:50 PM: Realize that Plyometrics is a fancy way of saying squatting and jumping until you want to throw up.

3:52 PM: Wonder if there was anything life-changing on the rest of the video.

3:53 PM: Press pause to take a "short" break.

3:55 PM: Decide that Plyometrics will still be there when you are unemployed next week. Remove DVD.

4:00 PM: Eat a pork chop that your roommate hasn't eaten yet because you have no food because you sold your contract for the summer and you don't really have any place to live and therefore no cabinets to put food in and therefore no food.

5:00 PM: Try to convince your roommate to play tennis.

6:00 PM: Hit the ball out by two feet for the sixty-fifth time.

6:10 PM: Return home in shame.

6:15 PM: Watch So You Think You Can Dance.

8:00 PM: See 11:35 AM.

10:00 PM: Go alone to see "Drag Me to Hell" at the dollar theater because rottentomatoes.com gave it 95% positive reviews and you don't have any friends that would want to go see it with you.

12:00 AM: Play the guitar.

12:30 AM: Review your scheduled activities for tomorrow.

12:30:05 AM: Fall asleep watching something on hulu.com.

4:38 AM: Dream about having something better to do with your life.

Hanky, Anyone?

2009-04-06T01:00:00.006-06:00

My roommate uses a handkerchief. When he sneezes or needs to blow his nose, he rolls a little onto his hip to reach into his back pocket and pull out the folded white handkerchief. He then puts the hanky to his nose and blows several times with incredible force. And I feel like there must be something the hanky isn't catching that ends up on his lap. Maybe not, but I just don't like to think about it. Then he does the obligatory pick and roll, when he shoves his hanky-covered fingers into his nostrils and, in perfect symmetry, massages the inside of his nose in circles. Then comes the worst part. He takes two corners and shakes the snot-formed wrinkles out of the hanky. He folds it back up to conceal its use and rolls once more onto his hips and sllllliiiides the germ farm back into his pocket.

This whole process is unbelievable, and though it only takes twenty or thirty seconds, it's the kind of gift that lasts a lifetime.

A Conversation with a Four-year-old

2009-03-30T11:31:00.004-06:00

Chris is the four-year-old son of the director of my a cappella group. He is also the funniest four-year old I have seen in a long time.

The other day we were at his house doing some recording with the group, and we were talking about how long it would take to finish recording.

Chris: How many minutes until you have to record?

Me: Probably like a million.

Chris: Like a billion?

Me: Probably like a trillion.

Chris: Like a jillion? Like a tillian? Like a willian?

Me: Who's William?

Chris: That's my grandma's name!

Me: She has a weird name.

Chris: Well, it kind of rhymes with her name.

Me: What's her name? (trying to think what woman's name could rhyme with William)

Chris: Debbie.

I then laughed really hard and told one of the other guys in the group. I looked back at Christian and he had his mad face on. He was obviously upset that I was laughing so hard, which means he wasn't joking this time, and clearly did not understand what "rhymes with" means. Don't worry, though, I apologized and tickled him, and it turns out it works as well on four-year-olds as it does on me!

Why the Japanese Are Afraid of Americans

2009-03-25T18:12:00.005-06:00

(And Why Americans Are Afraid of the Japanese)

What? WHAT? Where to begin. I don't even know whether to try and come up with theories. Take a look.

Theory #1-Language Video
The fact that the robber speaks in an awkwardly clear way, the subtitles in both languages, and the rhythmic repetition of the English words all point to this theory being the correct one.

Theory #2-Exercise Video
This is another likely option. The women in spandex doing drill team/aerobics moves to a catchy beat reminds me of my gym. And the movie that plays while they are exercising is also very much like my gym. And the way I don't know if I'll ever have the motivation to experience that video again is also kind of like my gym.

Theory #3-Victim and Witness Instruction Video
Take anything you want! Spare me my life! I was robbed by two men! Seems like sound instruction to me.

Theory #4-Japanese Game Show
I can't tell whether that lady won or lost. I'm thinking maybe the man with the bra on his head won. He did end up with a purse.

Theory #5-An Episode of America's Best Dance Crew
They had the moves, but where was that guy from N Sync?

That's all I got. Anyone have any better ideas? And who is P-Low the Skillful Abbot?

Feigning a Schoolboy

2008-11-07T13:10:00.005-07:00

I just got asked to Preference. Over text. For tonight. If you aren't aware, Preference is a dance at BYU along the lines of Sadie Hawkins or MORP, where the girls ask the boys. I specifically use the terms boys and girls because I, although I still feel 16, am a man of 27. Isn't that too old to be going to a dance like this? Maybe not, but it seems like it will require more energy than I can spare on such a frivolous activity. In my ripened state I need to save my energy for more age-appropriate activities like lawn bowling, listening to NPR, and tatting lace.

And who is Sadie Hawkins anyway? The first girl to ask a boy out? That seems like a silly thing to gain such notoriety. Or maybe she was a real women's rights activist, in which case she deserves better recognition than a dance named after her. What mediocre achievements did she bring to pass that merit such a limp reward?

[Stopping to look her up on Wikipedia]

Turns out that Sadie Hawkins was a character of legend from the Li'l Abner comic strip who couldn't get married and so her father declared that there would be a footrace with all the town's bachelors. Whomever Sadie caught up to would have to marry her.

That seems appropriately mediocre.

So does this mean that I am at the tail end of the footrace? Isn't there someone who twisted an ankle? Were rollerblades allowed and I was unaware? Is this an insult to me?

I'm guessing not. I'm guessing she was just hoping that I would be kind enough to show her a fun time. I don't know if I am today. I'm 27. Most of the kids there will be freshman and sophomores. I don't know this girl very well, but it's not likely that anything will develop between us.

And, furthermore, she asked me over text! How many times have I had girls warn me never to ask someone out over text? Several. At least three. Double (decker) standard (with cheese)! How do I respond to this mediocre showing of interest? She likes me enough to chase me down in a footrace, but not enough for a simple phone call? She's lukewarm, and thus she must be spewed forth. Or maybe I'll go. But either way I need to respond within the next ten minutes.

What would you do?

Pewts from an Unborn Child

2008-10-15T13:06:00.013-06:00

My professor yesterday was talking about how a particular issue becomes a problem especially with fetus pewts. I looked at the girl next to me and she slowly looked at me with a very confused look on her face. "What is she talking about?" she asked me.

What is a pewt? And why do fetuses have them? And why is this legal issue relevant to those pewts?

Pewts is not a word, according to dictionary dot com. So that couldn't be what she said. Other possibilities:

Piutes: members of a group of North American Indians of the Uto-Aztecan family dwelling in California, Nevada, Utah, and Arizona.

Fetus Piutes: unborn Utes.

Pewits: Any of several Old World birds of the genus Vanellus related to the plovers, especially V. vanellus, having a narrow crest and erratic flight behavior

Fetus Pewits: Plover eggs

Puce: a dark brown or purplish color

Fetus Puce: unborn poo

I'm not sure how these things relate to an ethics class, but I'll leave that up to your imagination.

*Also, it became clear after about one second that the professor had said "fee disputes." Just in case you were wondering.

Still Burping

2008-10-09T18:05:00.001-06:00

Still burping.

The Answer to All of Life's Problems

2008-09-19T12:42:00.005-06:00

I went to the doctor yesterday to inquire about a few things that have been bothering me lately. First off is the way that my heart has been racing periodically in reaction to stressors in my life. That one seemed like an obvious stress/anxiety reaction, but my mommy wanted me to make sure it wasn't something more serious. (Don't worry, when I went in for the EKG, my pulse was 43 beats per minute, so no racing heart there.)

What really concerns me is the other problem: I have been burping for since July 5. On that day, which was a fast Sunday, I burped on average about once every thirty seconds from 11 AM until 11 PM. I didn't even really notice for the first hour or so, but then it just got silly. I lied down for a nap and gas was seeping/popping out of my esophagus into my mouth. Now, these are not sick gross burps, but rather non-acidic, odorless burps, so it could definitely be worse. But imagine burping all day long.

For the next month, the burping was reduced to more manageable amounts until I had another day like that Sunday. I made all the kids at the youth camp I worked for count with me. On a forty minute drive I burped forty times. I then bought some Gas-X, which helped a little bit.

Now it is September, over two months later, and I am still burping! I burp at least once every ten minutes and at most five times in a minute. Where is all this gas coming from?!? Do I have a tube attached to my back that I can't see? Have all my friends seen it and not told me? Jerks. Google says that most of the time it results from subconsciously swallowing air, a habit that develops when people consciously swallow air to make joke burps. I don't do that. I don't find much funny about burps. Unless there is a clown involved. And even then it's more likely to be scary like that Stephen King mini-series "It" than funny like that Stephen King movie "The Mist."

Worst of all, after the meeting with the doctor, he told me to look it up on Google. Huh? You went to who knows how many years of medical school to say, "Look it up on Google"? I hope that's what lawyers do after law school. Want to sue your landlord? Look it up on Google! Want to write a will? Look it up on Google! Want to defend yourself from murder charges? Look it up on Google! Maybe that makes a compelling closing argument for the jury: Look it up on Google! (That probably would have worked in the OJ Simpson case.)

So if you have any other problems in your life, look it up on Google. No, seriously try it. I think it might work. That doctor might be on to something. Google's pretty sweet. Let me know how it goes.

Willkommen zu Hause!

2008-09-16T10:35:00.005-06:00

"I am from ze lant of chocolate!" That's one of my favorite memories from the Simpsons.

JTS returned from a two-month tryst in Germany on Thursday. Now, despite the fact that we repeatedly asked him through Facebook messages if we should sell his contract, and despite the fact that he repeatedly told us to, when he got to the house, he was shocked to find that there were no contracts left. He doesn't have a place to live. He just kept saying, "Why didn't anyone tell me that there were no contracts left?" When we reminded him of the several messages on Facebook, he said, "Yeah, I knew you sold my contract, but why didn't you tell me that there were no other contracts left?"

So, despite the inexplicable miscommunication, JTS was very forgiving of the way we ousted him from the house. What's interesting, though, is the fact that he has yet to actually find a place to live. Luckily, Bard B is in Hawaii with his family for the week, so JTS has just stayed in his room. Unluckily, Bard B comes back tomorrow, and our house is way too small for extra inhabitants.

Whenever JTS does something annoying, I just remind him that he doesn't live here anymore. For example, when he heats up chili in the microwave without an effective cover, or when he makes demands about the air conditioning. "You don't even live here," I say. Then we laugh and laugh as I call the police and report a trespasser.

The last straw came this morning when JTS informed me that Ryan, a guy in our ward last year who became good friends with JTS in Europe, would be staying at our house for the next few days. That means that Bard B will be back in his bed (that's like a little tongue twister), Ryan will be sleeping on the couch in our small living room, and JTS will be sleeping on the floor in the computer/closet area of the bedroom Frazzle B and I share. Did JTS ask any of us if that was ok? No. Are either of them going to be helping with the utilities? Doubtful. Is there food going to take up room in our fridge? Definitely. Is Frazzle B going to have to jump over JTS several times every morning in order to get ready for the day. You'd better believe it. After all this, I only have one thing to say:

YOU DON'T EVEN LIVE HERE!!!

A Year Gone and Yet to Be Remembered

2008-09-12T11:56:00.004-06:00

It really has been 356 days since the last post. It turns out that law school isn't as funny as you might think. It's kind of funny, but in that "we laugh at nerdy things" way. For example, one day class was being periodically interrupted by the familiar sounds of sawing and hammering. The professor finally stopped his lecture and said, "What is that noise?" One of the students said, "I think someone's doing some construction." We all laughed at him. That's funny stuff, right? Only in law school.

You see, 68 percent of law school is proving that you are smarter than the person next to you. It's the way the grades are given, it's the way friends are made, it's the way jobs interviews are claimed. When this poor student sincerely suggested that there was construction going on, everyone laughed because that was so obvious that only someone at the bottom of the class would suggest it. And yes, the professor laughed too.

Speaking of bottom of the class, that is where I have fallen into a comfortable pillow of mediocrity. It feels like being in one of those huge love sacks that has a pin in it, and every time you are getting comfortable, it sticks you right in the buttinski. Or the back of the neck. Or in the eyes. Luckily, I have been developing callouses on the butt and on the back of the neck and on my eyes, so I can still enjoy that big sack of ease.

The point is that all these eye callouses have made it harder to see how many funny things are going on every day. So I have recommitted myself to recognizing the ironic, the sarcastic, the stupid, the hypocritical, the hilarious, and the droll in order to share it with those very few who dare to start reading my blog again.

Most of my roommate Frazzle B's friends from ballroom dance have met me several times. None of them ever remembers having met me. It gets annoying. The quintessential example of this phenomenon occurred on Sunday. Frazzle B and I went to a regional conference for church and sat with his dance friends and I met one of them (for the fourth or fifth time). That night we went to a party and that same guy looked me in the eyes, shook my hand and introduced himself. I told him my name and he looked at me a little harder and said, "Limon . . . from . . . today?" He was obviously embarrassed, especially when Bard B, my other roommate, told him that they had met twice before, and I informed him that we had met six times or so. It's a wonder that people like that can manage in the world.

(PS-If I have ever forgotten your name or having met you, I apologize. I'm sure I had a good reason that this other guy didn't.)

I Love Practical Jokes

2007-09-22T18:21:00.000-06:00

When I lived in DC, my friends and I occasionally went to an acquaintance's house for parties that were consistently lame. We would make them fun for us by dancing and being crazy, but everyone else would just stare at us.

When we finished our time there, we were having a group email discussion and someone mentioned the lame parties. So I made a new email address under the name of this guy, whom we'll call Hanson, and sent them this email:

Hey guys,

I just wanted to comment on "We can all pretend that we are back at one of Hanson's parties...without all of the awkward conversation-less ward friends, of course."

I really don't apreciate you guys always talking smack behind my back. It's like you think I won't find out about it. Sorry that my parties didn't suit your style. Next time I'll remember to spare you the akwardness and not invite you.

Hanson

They realized almost immediately that it was me.

As I was reading through my old emails, I found this one and decided to revive the fun of fake emails from real people.

Hey friends,
I just wanted to get your current addresses so that I can send you invitations to my wedding. I know it took a long time, and many of you are surprised that I made it at all, but the Lord blesses us all in His time. And my time has come. So send me your addresses, please!

Thanks,
Hanson

The Bantha, whom I still see at school and who was the first one to realize that it was me the first time, responded cordially.

Hey Hanson!

Congratulations! Here is my address:
XXX North XXX West
Provo, UT 8460x

The Bantha

I couldn't believe that she didn't remember. So of course I continued. Here are the remainder of the emails. It's important to note that Hanson and the Bantha really did not know each other very well and that he is not, as far as I know, getting married.

The Bantha!
It's been so long! I am so glad that you responded so quickly. I wanted to ask you a question. Would you be able to make it DC on Nov. 25? I would really love it if you could come to the sealing, but I only have twenty-five seats (you know the bride gets what she wants), so I need to know as soon as you can figure it out. Let me know!
Thanks,
Hanson

Hanson,

I'll be in DC in October interviewing for jobs, but I'll be back at
school in November. I'm going to BYU Law School right now. Actually,
Limon just started here too. But I just wanted to say
congratulations. That is wonderful that you are getting married!

Good Luck!
The Bantha

The Bantha,
Well, when will you be in DC? Maybe we could move the date up. I'll talk to my fiance and see what we can do. I think the earliest we could do it would be October 19. Will you be in town before then? It's really important to me that you are there for my big day. Please let me know. Make sure to tell Limon to send me his address too. Thanks,
Hanson

Hanson,
Amusing. Sorry, I won't be in town. But still, congratulations!

The Bantha,
I talked to Samantha, and she said that she's willing to do it whenever you are in town. We've been engaged for a long time, so she's actually quite glad to move it up. Also, if you are going to be in town in October, would you mind being one of the brides maids? Samantha's cousin went on a study abroad, so we are one lady short. Please let me know when you are going to be here and what size dress you need. We'll take care of it, so you wouldn't have to pay. Let me know!
Hanson

Don't be ridiculous. I get it. very funny.

The Bantha,
Ok. I don't know why you are being so mean. I really look back at that summer in DC as one of the best times of my life. The friends I made there have been really important to me over the past few years, and I know I haven't been the best at keeping in touch, but that doesn't mean that it would be "ridiculous" to think its important that my friends are at my wedding. I needed someone to fill in for Samantha's cousin and I thought you would be willing to do it if you would be in DC. Apparently I misjudged our friendship, both in your willingness to help me out and in your kindness to me. Just forget about the whole thing. Maybe when you are getting married you will be less "ridiculous" in wanting your friends to be there.
Good luck with law school.
Hanson

TWO Days later, without a response:

The Bantha,
Also, I just wanted you to tell Limon hi for me. I just think
that he's the coolest guy around. He's so funny and handsome, and if I were a woman, I would try and marry him all the time.
And again, don't be so mean.
Hanson

So I finally saw her and she said that she figured out it was me and put that email in her spam blocker. I can't believe she would consider funny emails like that spam! Oh well. I just hope that no one ends up seeing Hanson and asking how Samantha is.

2007-09-21T20:13:00.000-06:00

Our Contracts professor is pretty funny. While discussing breach of contract and remedies and damages he posed the following question:

If you fail to pay your exorcist, do you get repossessed?

It's a good question.

English As a First Language

2007-09-17T14:16:00.000-06:00

There are certain days when it seems that I am unable to understand what people are trying to say. Yesterday was one of those days.

During Sunday School, the teacher was teaching about the wonderful world of forgiveness.

Teacher: The act of forgiving doubles, triples, quadruples . . .

Me: (whispering to the girl next to me) What is a double? How can you forgive a double? Is he talking about baseball? Quadruple? It's called a home run!

And while I was whispering, I missed the end of his comment, which the girl next to me kindly repeated.

Teacher: . . . our ability to love others.

Turns out that doubles can be a verb.

In the opening announcements in Elders' Quorum, the president introduced some of the new callings in the quorum.

EQP: And, though we didn't need this calling last year, we are certainly going to need one this year. Joe Schmo has been called as the Set-up director.

Me: (in my head) Are you kidding me? They called someone to set us up on dates? That's really weird. I don't think I like the idea of a stranger receiving revelation on who I need to go out with. I don't even receive that revelation! And why do we need it more this year than last? Are we obviously uglier than the people who lived here before?

Me: (out loud) Set-up director?

Someone else: For setting up the chairs before sacrament meeting.

That makes more sense.

Whether it is caused by my inattention, my ignorance, or my imagination, my inability to
understand basic English needs to be taken care of. I am going to buy a learn English in five cassette tapes later today. That should take care of it.

Our One-Year Aniversario

2007-09-13T10:54:00.000-06:00

We recently celebrated the one-year anniversary of our trip to Rio de Janeiro by going to a new restaurant in Provo called Bona Brasil. The food was great and the people were friendly, but the best moment came when the cashier, who had been working for fourteen hours, came out to chat with us. It was getting late, so not many people were left in the restaurant. We found out that we had a mutual friend and that this friend and the cashier were going to the same mission in just a few weeks. We were asking her if she knew how to do any of the great latin dances famous in Brazil. We let her know that Frazzle B was on the ballroom dance team at BYU, and she asked if he could samba. He said only if she did it with him.

As they were dancing in the middle of this slightly run down restaurant, JTS, Bard B, and I all noticed that Frazzle B's fly was down. There he was, swinging his hips, as he is known to do, with his fly down. We of course began laughing and furtively pointing at his crotch. The dancers began to take note of our odd behavior and the attention was drawn to his fly. The dancing slowly died as Frazzle B reached down and felt the metal zipper-pull at the bottom of the zipper. When the cashier noticed, she slowly turned away and reached her hand down to her own zipper. She bent over slightly as one who is trying to keep from peeing and sat down in a booth across from ours. Her fly was down too! What are the chances that two strangers would begin doing the samba in a restaurant with their flies down? I don't know for sure, but I should have bet on it. I'd be a millionaire. Regrets.

The Magical World of Degravitania

2007-09-11T12:45:00.000-06:00

My family is doing a Biggest Loser competition this fall in an attempt to promote healthy living. I was glad to participate, since every few months I try to lose big anyway. We are supposed to weigh in every week, but I haven't been able to get to a scale, since I haven't been to the gym in over a month. I finally got there yesterday and was very curious about how my weight was doing. I stepped up onto the doctor's-type scale and moved the weight over to 200. The arm dropped. So I moved the weight back to 150 and moved the smaller weight up to 50. The arm stayed up. So apparently I weigh somewhere between 200 and 200. But not 200 or 200. I went downstairs to the faculty weight room and the same thing happened. Luckily there was a normal bathroom scale next to it. I stepped on and the dial swung around to reveal my true weight--180. Now I was really pleased and surprised to see that, because I haven't been 180 since maybe seventh grade. Not joking.

So I figure that in order to find my actual weight, I need to travel to a mythical land. To get to Narnia, you must go through the wardrobe. To Wonderland, you go through the looking glass. To Oz, you go through a concussion. Maybe I found the passageway to Degravitania, the land where your weight disappears and then drops by 20 pounds. I will be charging for admission at the low price of 20 dollars. Just meet me outside the university gym. (Please note the twenty-pound-lighter Mr. Tumnus.)

Your Word Against Mine

2006-10-27T09:55:00.000-06:00

My coworker, History Buff, decided that we all needed to have words that best defined us stand as a sort of calling card. We went about the work of carefully selecting the perfect word for each of us. I will now expound the words we selected and some evidence to expain our decisions.

History Buff is GARRULOUS

gar‧ru‧lous /ˈgærələs, ˈgæryə-/ –adjective

1. given to prosy, rambling, or tedious loquacity : pointlessly or annoyingly talkative

When were all in a class together for work, the teacher began to tell a story about George Washington that was very incidental to the topic of the lecture. History Buff raised her hand and began to explain why the story he was telling was wrong and how it should be told. She reaised her hand three times, thus increasing the length and importance of the story from short and peripheral to long and central. I just put my head on the desk and giggled softly. Also, see any post involving History Buff.

Limon is FACETIOUS

fa‧ce‧tious /fəˈsiʃəs/ –adjective

1. not meant to be taken seriously or literally: a facetious remark.
2. amusing; humorous.
3. lacking serious intent; concerned with something nonessential, amusing, or frivolous: a facetious person.

Years ago, a new employee came by my desk to use the phone to make a personal call. I told him that personal calls were not appropriate on company time and that it had better be an emergency. Five months later he told me he hated me. Also, see any post involving anything.

Math Whiz is DUPLICITOUS

du‧plic‧i‧tous /duˈplɪsɪtəs, dyu-/ –adjective

marked by deliberate deceptiveness especially by pretending one set of feelings and acting under the influence of another; "she was a deceitful scheming little thing"- Israel Zangwill; "a double-dealing double agent"; "a double-faced infernal traitor and schemer"- W.M.Thackeray [syn: ambidextrous, deceitful, double-dealing, Janus-faced, two-faced, double-faced, double-tongued]

This one was chosen by garrulous History Buff because whenever duplicitous Math Whiz and she were alone at work, he was kind and considerate. But whenever facetious ol' Limon came around, Math Whiz became mean and sarcastic, rolling his eyes and mocking everything she said. So even though I did all those things all the time, she still liked me better because I was consistent. Consistently facetiously mean, but consistent, nonetheless.

Science Queen is TRENCHANT

trench‧ant /ˈtrɛntʃənt/ –adjective
1. incisive or keen, as language or a person; caustic; cutting: trenchant wit.

Science Queen has a particular way of cutting right to the heart of any situation, even if that heart stops beating for a moment in the process. Once a friend of hers from another department came back to visit.

SQ: Wow! Those are really ugly shoes!

BFF: Oh, well, I just thought they were, you know, one of those things that are ugly but you just have to buy them.

SQ: Um, okay. Whoa! You have really big feet! What size shoe do you wear?

BFF: 6.

SQ: Oh, that's not too big. It must just be those shoes.

Another time was when we were helping a guy with a brain tumor. After he left we were discussing the fact that he obviously had a crush on her.

SQ: I told him I was married and he asked if he could ask out my sister.

Limon: Did you say yes?

SQ: Of course not. Like I want him to date my sister. Hello! You're dying!

It must be stated that we all like Science Queen quite a bit and she really just speaks her mind, which is quite refreshing. And, trenchant as she is, she is usually right.

So what is your word, and how did you arrive at that decision? Are you lethargic or acrimonious? trepidatious or callipygian?

Limericks

2006-06-20T06:30:00.000-06:00

On Father's Day, we went to my dad's house far a family get-together. After most of the family had left, my two younger siblings, my dad and I stayed to play games. One of the games we played was limericks, in which each person writes one line of a limerick then passes the paper to the left. It's kind of exciting to see how something you wrote the first line for will turn out. And of course they end up having to do with one of two topics: fat and poop. Here are some examples. Names have been removed to protect the less guilty.

A girl once looked just like a pumpkin,
And she wasn't real smart--just a dumb thing.
But she one Halloween
Had an idea real keen:
Wear a girdle for making her rump thin!

He used to hold calves for castration,
A sacrifice for the whole nation.
But then one day he slipped
And his own self he nipped.
Now he trills in soprano vibration.

Although she ate three tons of ice cream,
She still held on tight to the crossbeam.
But she didn't do well
And finally fell
And let out a chocolatey poo-stream.

Whenever he went to the shops,
The salespeople heard some strange plops
They smelled a strange smell
And quickly could tell
They'd better go order more mops.

Backstory: We used to tease my little brother that he had a good friend named Carlita Monchata who tried to move away, so he hid her in his butt, mostly because we figured that someone with a butt that big had to have someone living in it.

When he started courting Carlita,
She was strangely obsessed with his seat-a.
She found it quite nice
Yet paid a dear price,
For she's stuck there for eternitita.

Try it with your family and see if you come up with anything cleaner.

The Best-Laid Plans

2006-06-14T10:31:00.000-06:00

My old boss was finally moving on. She supervised me directly a few years ago, and now her position was available. I mentioned to the History Buff that she should apply, and, after reviewing the posting, she told me that I was the truly qualified one. So I laid my plan. It seemed so perfect, so providential, so serendipitous. My work is one of the few places that hires undergraduates for full-time positions, allowing the student to continue taking classes on company time. It's a pretty great set-up. Sure, I'd have to wait another semester to graduate, but that is just one of my many skills that didn't make the resume.

I applied online and received an email the following day stating that my application could not be processed because I didn't have a bachelor's degree. That didn't make sense, though, because my friend had just been hired as a full-timer without graduating first.

I wrote the Division Head an email explaining my situation. She called me on the afternoon of the Friday that the posting was closing and told me that she thought I would be a great candidate. She then said that she would call HR and see what she could work out. On Monday she said that she had to get the Director's permission to repost the position and even offered to post it just for one day so that I could interview before I went home for a week.

I have to admit I was feeling pretty good about my chances. I mean, she was willing to rearrange everything just to get me interviewed. I was telling everyone (though not as many people as some others).

I came in on Tuesday ready to hear the big news, when who should I meet on my way out to lunch but my good friend Cicada. I have to say that I am always glad to see Cicada since we get along so well. We have always supported each other in the hard times at work and the fun times outside of work. As we walked out to my car, I was about to mention my intentions to get the job when Cicada says, "So did I mention that I am applying for the Corrections job?" She proceeded to tell how her application was denied online so she had to talk to the Division Head, at which point I took over and told the rest of the story with a question mark at the end.

C: Have I told you this already?

L: No.

C: You're applying, too.

L: Yup.

C: AAAAAARRGH! I knew someone I knew would be applying. Well, looks like we are now enemies. I now really regret having told the Division Head that you are a great proofreader: accurate and efficient. I should have said, "He looks at PORN! Limon is a porn-looker!"

L: And I should have linked her into your blog, where she would read all about your true feelings about your workplace.

C: My lies will beat your truths any day!

So the issue was complicated now. I feared a little that in the interview they would ask me why I deserved the job over Cicada. Then I would have to admit that if they hired her they would be happy. Not necessarily happier than I would make them, but it worried me that I knew she would do a great job. I was slightly torn.

That afternoon I got an email from the Division Head informing me that I was being offered the position, without an interview or anything! I IMed Cicada and let her down gently. I just told her that it wan't a surprise that they chose someone so familiar with the inner workings of the office and so skilled in so many ways. I wished her luck in her job search. I also told her that I would hire her if she was really desperate.

So actually the Director said that the position would not be reposted, so neither of us got the job. And Cicada actually tried to convince me that she had been offered the position, seeing as we both got emailed at the same time.

So even though I don't have a new job, I still get to keep an old friend. Emphasis on old. Just kidding, Cicada!

Dr. Jekyll and Mrs. Hyde

2006-05-18T11:22:00.000-06:00

In October, my friend Annie was visiting from Las Vegas and got tickets to the Friday-night Jazz game. She wanted me to get a date to go, so of course I started calling girls in the ward on Friday afternoon. I went through the directory, carefully selecting only one girl from each apartment to ask. No girl likes to feel like the second choice.

As I began calling girls, they were very friendly and very unavailable. I wasn't surprised, recognizing that I was committing the social taboo of calling the night of. I got to the apartment of the girls I was hometeaching and selected one of the other roommates: a fun, smart girl who had always been sincerely excited to see me.

She picked up the phone:

Friendly Girl: Hello? (unenthused voice)

Limon: Friendly Girl? This is Limon! (expecting the same excited greeting that I had always received in person)

FG: Hi.

Limon: (shocked into speechlessness) uh . . . Do you want to go on the date?

FG (who shall now be known as Grumpy Girl): Oh. Sorry I already have plans for tonight.

Limon: Oh, that's too bad! (glad as anything that I don't have to spend more time with this girl)

GG: Thanks. Bye.

Even Annie, who was sitting next to me at the time, was confused by the type of girl that is so grumpy while being asked out on a date. I couldn't understand it. She had always been so nice. I figured that she was (a) a bad phone conversationalist, (b) secretly hating me, or (c) sitting next to a girl that I had already called.

I was so confused and dismayed by the awkwardness of the conversation that I decided I would never call her again. When I saw her again, GG was somehow switched back to FG, though I couldn't tell why. I was so unsure about the bipolarity of this girl that I always treaded carefully.

Tuesday night I was talking with the roommates of this girl, some of my good friends. I decided that since FG/GG had just moved to Arizona for the summer it was time to find out why she was so rude on the phone. I told them the story and they laughed in shock. They told me they knew what must have happened. I must have called the wrong girl. There were three reasons they knew that it was not their roommate:
1. She never told them about it, which she surely would have done.
2. She never answers the phone like that, even when she hates the person. She is always too excited, like a good BYU girl should be.
3. Her phone number in the ward directory was mistakenly replaced with the phone number of another girl with the same first name, a girl whose behavior was consistent with the phone call.

I was immediately hit with a big shot of guilt for holding a mini-grudge against this innocent girl. The roommates told me yesterday that they talked with FG and she said, "I told you Limon always treated me weird! All of fall semester!" And so I did.

So here is my official apology to this sweet girl who was treated poorly because of the faulty ward directory:

I'm sorry!!!!!
Love,
Limon

Two Miracles in One Day

2006-04-17T12:17:00.000-06:00

Thus saith the scriptures.

"And when we obtain any blessing from God, it is by obedience to that law upon which it is predicated."

I had a test today in Music of World Cultures on Scotland, Ireland, Scandinavia, the U.S., and Latin America. We take the listening section in class and the written section in the testing center. As of last night I had not listened to any of the fifty listening clips or read any of the chapters. So of course I did what any student in that situation would do: I stayed up until 2:30 watching "Miracle," an inspiring tale of victory in the face of seemingly insurmountable obstacles. Obstacles like the Soviet ice hockey team. And no, I do not mean to say that obstacles like the Soviet ice hockey team. It's a fragment, and no, I will not consider revising.

After my late night of emotional preparation for the test, I woke up at 6:30 AM. I read through the chapters once while lying in bed, then rolled over at 8:00 for a nap. I woke up at 9:00, and, having showered and dressed already, I went to class.

With three minutes left in my walk, I decided it would be a good idea to review the vocabulary lists at the end of each chapter. Then I entered the room. As he handed out the test, I realized that I would either have to guess like I'd never guessed before or fail miserably. He approached the computer console and began to bring up the test clips. JTS called. I answered the phone then whispered quickly, "I'm taking a test!" and hung up.

Professor Grape-on-a-toothpick (due to his incredibly large old-man belly) was still trying to get the music clips to play. They wouldn't. My heart rose in that half-excited way that it does when a seemingly impossible miracle might take place. But then he realized we could just move into the room next door, where the class had been canceled. My heart dropped back down to its original position in the pit of my stomach, and we packed up our things and moved.

There were not enough seats in the new room, so I sat on the floor. I figured I had better give the seats to those who might have something substantial to write. Professor G.o.a.t. tried again to bring up the music in vain. I began to feel like the U.S. Olympic Ice Hockey Team in the first medal round against the Soviets. If we could just hold them off for the rest of the period, a real miracle would take place. He tried to call IT services, but he soon realized that there would not be time to fix the speakers and take the test. I could basically count down the final few seconds as his brow became more and more furrowed. 3. 2. 1. Canceled! We won! The Americans have won the World Cultures Test Championship!

But in my excitement, I find that a part of me balks at the idea of receiving such an obvious blessing when I seemed to be so disobedient in preparing. So what exactly is the law upon which this blessing was predicated? And where can I get more of that?

Longwood Gardens

2006-03-22T12:36:00.000-07:00

After reading Cicada's Longwood post, I decided to come out of hiding for a moment to share what was one of the funniest experiences of my childhood.

My family had moved out of our old apartment, but the deal to the new house had fallen through, so we moved in with a sixty-year-old friend of the family, Mrs. Graham. We lived with her for four months or so, but to my four-year-old mind it seemed an eternity. We had six kids and she had four still living at home. She even gave up her own bed for my parents while she slept on the couch. We then moved to the house my mom still lives in, but we have kept in close contact with Mrs. Graham ever since.

You must realize that Mrs. Graham is as lively a widow as you will ever meet. She is an actress, was in the Miss America pageant, and loves to play Yahtzee with kids. She also loves gardening, which is where our story really begins.

One of her favorite places in the world is the aforementioned Longwood Gardens. She used to take me there from time to time. We would wander around the gardens pretending to speak a different language while she picked off pieces of plants so she could transfer them to her own garden.

When I was in first grade she told me to bring a friend. I invited my friend Danae, who made an immediate impression on Mrs. Graham by complaining about everything, at which point I told Mrs. Graham that she was no better with her complaining about Danae's complaining. What a clever child I was! We had not spent long around the gardens when we got to the main lake. The cold winter air had created a veneer of ice about four feet wide around the circumference of the lake. The fish were still swimming underneath and the ducks were still paddling in the middle. Mrs. Graham stopped along the sidewalk to talk (as she often did at inopportune moments) while Danae and I approached the muddy side of the lake.

I plucked a reed from the marshy bank and began to poke the ice. It broke with relative ease under the pressure of the reed. When I had successfully broken the ice nearest the bank, I reached a little farther, extending my arm to its fullest length and leaning forward in order to split the ice. I leaned a little too far and tumbled head first into the icy water. My eyes shot open with shock under the thin ice and I saw the feet of the ducks reaching deep into the water as they passed, unshaken.

I turned myself around, and with arms heavy from a wet winter coat, I threw my upper body back onto the bank and gasped for breath. Danae was still screaming. I looked up in time to see Mrs. Graham still talking to her new friend. She then looked at me and put her hands to her face as she proceeded to laugh. She walked slowly over to me, laughing the whole time. She helped pull me up, then said, "Sorry for laughing, it's just that you looked like a crocodile!" It was that day I learned that crocodiles are hilarious.

We spent the rest of the visit in the office, waiting for my clothes to dry. I wore some clothes in the lost and found, which I remember being scratchy and plaid. And so the only question I had at the end of that cold day was, Who loses their pants at Longwood Gardens?

Like Finding a Long-Lost Friend

2006-03-06T14:36:00.000-07:00

Years ago, I saw a clip on MTV in which Weird Al Yankovic interviewed Marshall Mathers, aka "Eminem." The clip made me laugh so hard that I have thought of it periodically since then, waiting for the day when I would chance upon it in my weekly 10-minute allotment of MTV. While trying to explain the interview to JTS, he suggested that I find it on the Internet.

The Internet! Of course! Why hadn't I thought of that before? Now I only needed to try and do what my Stake President warns against: going into a corner and grabbing an Internet. But where am I to find one of these Internets now that the Ivy House has conveniently disappeared? How does a whole house disappear without anyone asking any questions? From whom am I to "borrow" bandwidth now?

Luckily, no one needed help with Stats today, so I found myslef with both the time and the opportunity. And now, I can share with you one of the funniest fake interviews of all time, if you have ten minutes to laugh out loud.

An FHE to Remember

2006-02-28T12:44:00.000-07:00

Part I

Last night I woke up from my nap just in time to head over to FHE. After a short lesson we played a very interesting game. The basic idea is that one person stands in the middle, blindfolded, with a pillow. He or she then walks around the room and hits the other seated participants with the pillow. When he or she does, the person hit must snort like a pig. Then the one blindfolded must guess who it is by the snort. If the guess is right, the snorter goes to the middle. If wrong, the one blindfolded must move on to someone else.

Sounds stupid, but it is actually pretty fun.

Except for poor Leeza. Leeza, you see, has an incredibly high-pitched giggle, that easily transforms into a high-pitched pig squeal. And she can't stop herself from laughing. This makes it very easy for anyone blindfolded to know who she is. So, when Drew was in the middle, he was pretty relieved to find that he had hit a squeaking, squealing girl pig with his pillow. But he just stood there, paused in an inexplicable stupor. He had to know it was her; the laugh was unmistakable. Yet he stood there silent. Finally, he said, "Leslie? It's Leslie, right?" which, of course, no one wanted to respond to for fear of giving up their location. The convulsions and flailings and mouth-grabbing moments of silent, contained laughter only added to the awkward tension as Drew continued to ask if it was Leslie. We eventually let him now that it was Leeza, but that we would count it. He removed the blindfold ans sheepishly sat down.

Only five muntes later, Drew was back in the center, swinging his pillow wildly. He again hit Leeza. The girl was laughing so hard inside that she didn't even snort. She just convulsed as he continued to prod her with the pillow. Eventually, she couldn't hold it any longer, and a single high-pitched, squeaking laugh escaped. "Leslie!" he cried in triumph. The whole room, once tensely silent, erupted in disbelieving laughter. "It's Leeza!"

Part II

As I ate the Oreos for treat, a quote scribbled on a post-it note on the wall caught my attention. "You are not a loser. You were once a sperm, among millions, and you made it to the egg." As I laughed about that, one of the girls in the apartment turned me around and said, "You are not a loser," continuing the quote. Frazzle B overheard and looked at her in confusion. We pointed out the quote on the wall and he laughed too. The girl explained how one of her professors had said that in class. "So now we know we are not losers," she said.

Frazzle B interjected: But does that apply to girls, too?

Girl: Frazzle B! (in a shocked, pitying way)

Frazzle B: What?

Limon: No, girls are just made of eggs. Lots of eggs. We'd better get out of here.

Part III

On the way home, Frazzle B and I explained what he had said inside to JTS.

Frazzle B: And then Limon said, "No, girls are just made of eggs. Lots of eggs."

JTS: Yeah, that's why they're so stupid.

Ironic that a night of Leslies, eggs, and the origins of women's stupidity should end with that assertion. Somehow it seems it might not be the girls . . .

Four

2006-02-23T13:06:00.000-07:00

I am not sure what being "tagged" means, but it's probably akin to the contract Ursula made Ariel sign: legal and binding. So, as Cicada pointed out, this is for when I don't have anything else to write.

Four Jobs I've Had
1. Busboy at Marita's Cantina, the Mexican restaurant and bar owned by an Indian and run by whites and blacks.

2. Book shelver at the Township Library, the job I stayed with for almost three years. But then, I only worked four hours a week, so I guess the total number of hours probably equals about one month of a real job.

3. Trashman. I hung on to the back of the truck and always smelled like, you guessed it, trash.

4. "Route Coordinator" for Preventive Pest Control. Crappiest two months of work in my life. I would choose trashman any day of the week.

Four Movies I Can Watch Over and Over Again
1. Zoolander. Why do I find stupid people so funny?

2. The Color Purple: Why do I find Oprah so moving?

3. The Emperor's New Groove: Why do I find mean people to be such good role models?

4. X-men 2: Why do I feel so empowered after watching Wolverine rip people to shreds?

Four Places I've Lived
1. Springfield, PA

2. Houston, TX

3. Las Vegas, Nevada

4. Washington, D.C.

Four TV Shows I Love
1. The Simpsons. It's my bread and butter.

2. Late Night with Conan O'Brien. He reminds me of me.

3. Law and Order (but only SVU and the original (Criminal Intent should be shot (Can you shoot a television series?)))

4. Lost, even though it sometimes moves slower than molasses.

Four Highly Regarded and Recommended TV Shows That I've Never Watched a Full Episode of
1. Arrested Development, and now it seems it's too late to repent

2. House

3. Grey's Anatomy

4. Trading Spaces

Four Places I've Vacationed
1. Malta

2. Richmond, IN

3. Costa Mesa, CA

4. Sadly, the last time I went on a vacation that lasted more than a few days was my weeklong trip to Malta when I was 13. I need a good long vacation.

Four of My Favorite Dishes
1. Lasagna. Do I need to say more? I'll even appreciate the cheaper cottage cheese variety.

2. Almost anything involving sweet potatoes. Like charquican, a Chilean dish with lots of vegetables mashed up. Yum.

3. Tex-mex style enchiladas, the only Mexican food I prefer the Americanized way.

4. A really good roast with vegetables. Then I can feel like it's healthy.

Four Site I Visit Daily
1. USA Today Daily Crossword

2. BYU Homepage

3. Google

4. Wells Fargo

Four Places I'd Rather Be Right Now
1. In Central America on the beach

2. Playing the piano

3. At the gym

4. At Tucano's

Four Bloggers I Am Tagging
1. Sarah Louise, because I don't think she comes here much anymore.

2. redlaw, because she has probably been answering the questions in her head anyway.

3. daltongirl, because I am curious.

4. stupidramblings, because I assume he has the time.

California Cheatin' on Such a Winter's Day

2006-02-21T15:11:00.000-07:00

After a long Saturday at Disneyland, the Sabbath was an especially subdued as we visited a friend's ward in Newport Beach. That evening, after a very pleasant visit with jrose, my traveling companions and I headed out to a nearby park to play a few games of croquet. Since it was past the park's closing, we made sure to set up in a less obvious area with a single light above us.

As JB pulled into the lead with a string of successful hits, she overshot one of the wickets, but still had two more shots on that turn. If she could get it back through the hoop, then she could use her last shot to send the right way through the wicket and score an extra shot.

She moved quickly as the rest of us talked about other things. I saw her hit the ball and it hadn't seemed to go all the way back through the wicket, but I had a bad angle and the light was bad, so I didn't say anything as she continued to play, hitting the ball quickly. Frazzle B had a much better angle than I did, and asked, "Did you make that shot?"

JB: Yes. She then proceeds to move the ball back to the original spot, as if she hadn't made the shot.

Frazzle B: Well, did you make it?

JB: FINE!! No, I didn't make it!

Limon: What!!?? You just cheated in croquet?

I laughed and laughed. What motivates an almost twenty-year-old woman winning a midnight game of croquet to cheat? Was she that concerned that she would lose? Then not only to cheat, but to automatically lie about the cheating while moving the ball back. She dubbed that particular wicket the Hoop of Shame. I agreed that it was an appropriate designation. And, of course, she then fell to last place in just a few short rounds.

Automatic lying. It reminds me of when a girl in my Spanish class in high school asked me if I plucked my eyebrows, which of course I did and do (who likes a unibrow?). I said "No" in an offended tone of voice before I even realized what had happened. Of course I couldn't immediately change my answer. "Oh, pluck my eyebrows? Yes, of course. I thought you said something else." Anybody else have any experiences with cheating or lying? I hope you all say yes (or no with a wink).

A Morning Sonnet

2006-02-14T11:08:00.000-07:00

I occasionally have five-minute periods when I swear that Shakespeare enters my body. This hasn't happened in a while because Debbie Downer has apparently bought a season pass. ("By the way, it's official: I can't have children.") Today, however, I am reminded of a sonnet ole Bill and I wrote one morning while at work in DC.

A Morning Sonnet

Mere words cannot express the deep desire
I had to stay in bed this early morn.
As if some cold extinguish-ed the fire
and left me feeling altogether worn.
I lay and tossed and turned in brief denial
that Sun had re-assumed his rightful place
as the bright and cheer'ly overrated smile
on Sky's regretfully ever-lightening face.
But up from depths of pillow'd night I flew,
with speed unseen except in days of old,
my highest, noblest dreams to now pursue,
or see what boredoms Day might now unfold.
I yearn to see what Day has got in store
but yearn for bedtime's riches even more.

Good morning, World!

Multitasking

2006-02-02T10:26:00.000-07:00

On my way to work today I saw a lot of people running in the rain. I guess they were taking advantage of the ice-free sidewalks and the above-freezing temperatures. I have to admit that I am impressed by such fortitude. Then I saw her. Decked out in the typical winter running garb, fleece headband and all, she was "running" while reading a book. I say "running" because it was closer to a brisk walk. I can't imagine she was getting much of a workout, and the book must not require that much concentration or careful handling, since it was a paperback and would probably be a puddle of pulp by the end of the "run." But what multitasking! I have been in that situation before--I think we all have. "Do I 'run,' or do I read this paperback I don't care about?" Decisions like this often require what I tend to call "the best of both worlds," the two worlds being the world of running in the rain and the world of paperbacks I don't care about.

Multitasking is a skill that far too few people have mastered. I should have stopped and asked her what her secret was, but she was too engrossed in her book. But it got me thinking, if this girl can manage to increase body and mind at the same time, what other opportunities to multitask am I missing?

Sleeping and Eating:
Before retiring, after brushing my teeth, I will insert a small feeding tube through my nose. This tube will drip all the meals I would have wasted time eating the following day into my empty, sleeping stomach. A quick yank when I awake, and maybe a glass of pie for dessert. Fed and napped at once.

Time saved: 1.5 hours

Hanging out with Friends and Singing Practice:
I am required a certain number of hours of singing practice per week. So, instead of isolating myself in one of those dank practice rooms, I will simply visit my friends, singing my conversations.
Ex.: Hey Limon!
Limon: Hellooooooooooo! Hooww aaarre YOOUU! (Did you hear the crescendoing ascending fourth on the last one?)

Time saved: 1 hour

Hometeaching and Being Home Taught:
I will invite my home teachers over to my hometeachees' house. I will then receive my lesson while pointing at my HTs and nodding and smiling at the girls. Then I will ask who wants to say the closing prayer.

Time saved: 1 hour

Yoga and Test Taking:
I will get my test and enter the Testing Center. After taking my seat, I will begin reading the questions while stretching and contorting my body into all sorts of crazy positions. I will have to wear spandex, or at least sweatpants to give proper range of motion, as well as sit in one of the desks with the springy seatback. I will also have to place some sort of protective rubber ending over the point of the old #2 so that no one's eye gets poked out during my Warrior pose or my Triangle position.

Time saved: 1 hour

Talking to Mom and Dating:
I will keep in touch with the one who has loved me best while finding she who will love me best. It will show how sensitive I am and how important family is to me. I will also be able to get some great tips in the moment on how to treat my date (just like Cyrano de Bergerac!), and I will finally be able to find out how to deal with that foot fungus.

Time saved: 2 hours

I am really excited to be able to free up over six hours tomorrow. This is going to be the key to my success, I can tell already. Thanks, "Running" Girl. You have really inspired me.

If I am missing any obvious ways to multitask after the fashion of "Running" Girl, please let me know!

The One I Couldn't Remember!

2006-01-27T12:14:00.000-07:00

While telling a tangential story to my friend Frazzle B, I remembered the last interesting thing. Now I can sleep well. Here you have it.

JB, the girl of lasagna infamy, started a rather intense conversation before ward prayer that she obviously felt compelled to finish right after ward prayer. I, however, was conveniently stowed away in the bedroom of my neighbor's house that we call Narnia (and have for years, predating the recent Chronicles craze) because the door is located at the back of someone's closet area. I was in there with the lights out trying to get the weak, stolen wireless signal from someone in "Ivy House" (sorry, whoever you are). I heard the door open behind me, and assuming it was one of the neighbors, I just ignored them. Then I heard the delicate voice of a female saying, "Limon?" I turned around but could not see her face.

"Announce yourself!" I screamed. Just kidding. That would be weird.

The odd part about this bedroom is that it has become a storage closet for the unused mattresses in the house. Since the occupancy dropped from eleven to six this last summer, there are a lot of unused mattresses. In fact, in order to get to the far side of the room, you have to jimmy yourself between two of them, then shuffle sideways while trying not to fall over.

Interesting. So here I am, breaking the honor code in a dark, secluded room, and the only thing that physically keeps me and my late night visitor from falling rapturously into each other's arms is a myriad of mattresses, a bevy of boxsprings, yea, a flood of frames. It might be the first time that a mattress has protected someone's chastity. Interesting.

Isn't It Interesting?

2006-01-24T15:24:00.000-07:00

I have had a few experiences recently that have reminded me that life has a seemingly endless supply of ironic moments ripe for the proverbial picking by astute observers. It reminds me of the time I saw the Carpenter's Guild building. It was made entirely of beautiful marble.

I Hate Money!

Singing Girl has her own car. She lives in a very expensive condo. She pretty much buys whatever she wants. Her parents still pay for her insurance. She just got a large engagement ring. She is a pretty materialistic girl. After describing the post-wedding financial "burdens," she screams, "I hate money. I really do." Interesting. A girl who is in the top 5 percent of all the world's consumers has such a loathing for the very thing that provides her luxuriously care-free life. Interesting.

That Car is in the Way!

My new roommate moved in with his diesel-powered Ford F350, the immense presence of which has been a slight inconvenience for the rest of the residents. My neighbor has the hatchback Aspire, which has trouble clearing a thimble. There are only two places in the lot, which holds 16 cars for 13 people, where the F350 can rest its weary pistons. (These two places include one where it covers two spots and one where it covers three.) The Aspire has been in one of those spots for the last week, still covered in snow.

Yesterday F350 Dude knocked on my door. "Dude, do you know whose little white car that is?" I responded in the affirmative. "Cause he has to move that. Right now I am parked in the middle of the lot, and no one can get out." Interesting. The man who moves in with the truck the size of the greater metropolitan area of Cincinnati complains about the longtime resident who owns one of the tiniest cars I have seen on the road since Steve Urkel's converted laundry basket. Interesting.

The One I Can't Remember

I know there is one more I wanted to share, but I can't think of it for the life of me. Feel free to fill in your experiences until I can remember.

When Words Betray Stupidity

2006-01-20T13:01:00.000-07:00

Sometimes our tongues get the best of us. Here is a brief recap of the malapropisms, slips of the tongue, and just plain stupidity that I have encountered.

Today:

History Buff: My husband likes most people that are nice to him. I tend to expect more of my friends--I need to like them and they need to have the same standards. I guess I am just more spectacle of new people.

Yesterday:

The Girl from the Other Side of the Cubicle Wall who Drives Me Insane with Her Incessant Chattering: So you know how theaters in Utah are trying to ban the new movie Broadback Mountain [no, not "Brokeback Mountain"]? Well it just doesn't make any sense that a movie like that would be banned from theaters because the characters are gay when there are other movies that are much worse. Like the new movie Hostile [pronounced with the long i as in "Hoss-style" rather than "Hostel"]. It has the worst violence that this guy on the radio had ever seen, yet no one is trying to ban that from theaters.

From the summer in DC:

The Bantha to wcl: I don't like calimari. They're just covered with all those little testicles.

From senior year:

The Blond Girl: I have a lot of respect for Hannukans.
Limon: You mean Jews?
TBG: Sure.

Limon [yes, even I]: When I went to see my obstetrician--
AP English Class: Your what?
Limon: I mean my optometrist. For my eyes. Never mind.

Conclusion:

So I guess you can't judge a mouth by a single word. Or at least I hope you won't. It takes at least two. (Sorry, The Girl from the Other Side of the Cubicle Wall who Drives Me Insane with Her Incessant Chattering, but you've exceeded your limit.)

Eddie Bauer

2005-12-17T23:44:00.000-07:00

I was shopping for a present for my brother at the mall today and went into Eddie Bauer since I was wearing a pair of their jeans that I bought six years ago. That, apparently was my first mistake. As I was leaving after some unsuccessful rummaging, the sales associate intercepted my escape route and asked, "Did you find anything you liked?"

As far as I can tell, this is not an appropriate question to ask someone as they are leaving your store empty-handed. This is because there is no appropriate response when you are leaving their store empty-handed. These are the options I can see for this situation:

Scenario 1
SA: Did you find anything you liked?

Limon: No, your store is urine-soaked hell hole. (Or a "pee-pee soaked heck hole" for those of you who are from Utah County.)

Scenario 2
SA: Did you find anything you liked?

Limon: No. You see, I am blind, and what I thought was Braille on the counters turned out to be the nails holding the shelves together. I am actually just going to see the ACLU to complain about that and the Merry Christmas sign. You see, I am also Jewish.

Scenario 3
SA: Did you find anything you liked?

Limon: Yes, unfortunately my mom says I can't buy skirts anymore. At least not with her credit card or until I start shaving my legs.

Scenario 4
SA: Did you find anything you liked?

Limon: Yes, but I have to run right now because I am having an awful attack of dysentery, and I don't know if I can hold . . . Whoops!

Scenario 5
SA: Did you find anything you liked?

Limon: Yes. It's just that I can't imagine spending fifty dollars for a sweater, forty dollars for a shirt, or twenty dollars for a hat, all of which blatantly advertise your company. Shouldn't you be paying me to be a walking billboard?

Scenario 6 (The Actual One)
SA: Did you find anything you liked?

Limon: No. (walks even faster out the door)

So I don't have much courage when it comes to talking to sales associates who probably have x-ray vision and can spy directly into my wallet, who see me intentionally look at things I would never buy just to make my way to the sales rack without embarassment. But next time I will be prepared with plenty of words he won't like.

It's a Small World After All

2005-12-09T23:46:00.000-07:00

I sang in the talent show at the work Christmas party, and, afterwards, a few people came up to offer their thanks and congratulations for a song well sung. One of these people took the opportunity to play the do-you-know-this-person game. This woman was middle aged and full friendliness.

Woman: Limon is your name, right?

Limon: That's right!

W: Are you related to a Mark Limon?

L: No, I'm not. Sorry.

W: Because I went to school with a Mark Limon at Utah State years ago.

L: Yeah, most of my family is from the East.

W: He works at IHC now.

L: Cool. (IHC?)

W: He's doing some really great work with blah blah blah.

L: Wow. That is neat.

Awkward pause.

L: Well,

W: Well. Huh. shrug. Small world!

L: Yeah.

Small world? That two people have the same last name and aren't related? No, ma'am, big world. Very big world.

Face Transplant

2005-12-01T14:10:00.000-07:00

I read an article in the paper by Associated Press that reported that just recently in Lyon, France, the first successful partial face transplant was performed on a woman severely disfigured by a dog bite.

"The 38-year-old woman, who wants to remain anonymous, had a nose, lips and chin grafted onto her face from a brain-dead donor whose family gave consent."

This raises a few questions:

1. Why does she want to remain anonymous? Did this "dog" also happen to have a warrant for her arrest in connection with a drug cartel being run out of her hair salon? Did she also insist that she get new documents, such as a passport, driver's license, and Colombian visa, delivered to her hospital room? Who does she think she's fooling? We watch TV.

2. Why did the family give consent? How much money would I have to pay you to cut the nose and lower face off of your wife on life support? Were they planning on letting her die anyway? Because, believe me, once you have no nose, life ain't pretty. Ask Michael Jackson. Or Latoya. Did they replace the nose and mouth of this poor brain-dead woman? Does she now have a clown nose? Or did they spring for the glasses-mustache combo? What if she wakes up? Will she just claim she has a "really cleft chin"? Why doesn't anyone ever think of the brain-dead?

3. Did the woman get to preview a selection of faces before making her final choice? If so, do you think she tried to get a nose and a chin from different people? Or are there no substitutions on this combo? If she didn't get to choose, what if she got stuck with a brain-dead Whoopi or Jay Leno? Would the skin tones blend? Could she afford the foundation? Would the new chin cause neck and back problems? Could she afford the chiropractor? Sure, it's fun to be on the bandwagon of exciting medical breakthroughs, but who pays for the after-effects of the miracle surgery?

I love Associated Press, but he certainly left some important questions unanswered. I should write him a letter. Does anyone know his address?

The Rosie-Roo Challenge

2005-11-18T12:03:00.000-07:00

At the hardest part of my mission, I was sent an angel to save me from my sadness. He came in the form of a 300-pound, bespectacled band geek with a name that he swears is pretty in Swedish. His last name was Rosenlof, which apparently means "rose leaf." His name was particularly easy to lampoon, especially given his being large in stature and his meticulous, molasses way of doing things. After going through the normal nicknames that he had heard throughout his life, he told me that it had all been done. I took that challenge and spent the last year of my mission on special assignment: make up ridiculous nicknames for Elder Rosenlof.

The unoriginals:

Rosensloth
Slowsensloth
Rosenloaf
Raisinloaf

The first time I made him laugh, while we walked in the scary area below the I-10:

Oh, Elder Wovencloth.

When we caught him in a lie:

Elder Mentirosenlof ("liar" in Spanish: mentiroso)

What caused him to say, "Oh no! That might catch on!":

Elder Clovenhoof

When we realized he might have a heart attack after eating two helpings at Rocio's house:

Elder Closinoff, first name, Arteries

What I would have called him if he had ever stepped in chicken noodle soup:

Elder Toesinbroth

What I would have called him had he had a fight with some Catholic priests:

Elder Foesincloth

What I would have called him had he ever tried to use the discount clothing store as his personal storage area:

Elder StowsinRoss

I extend the challenge to all of you to help poor Rosie by coming up with some more original nicknames for him!

Hey, Rosie-Roo! I miss you!

Mob Mentality

2005-11-16T23:45:00.000-07:00

I think it's something we've all experienced: the incredible ability of a large group of people to (1) come up with bad ideas and (2) mutate any possibly good ideas into bad ones.

Last night in FHE, we discussed the charge given to us by the activities committee of creating a three-minute film for the closing social Academy Awards night. I had thought of a possible idea based on my Friday night experience: you see a guy getting ready for a date. Then you show him on the many phases of the date; at the movies, playing in the park, laughing and talking. But you only show him, through the use of clever camera angles. Then you show him at the doorstep. He then starts kissing the girl, but the it turns out he is only kissing himself, you know, that stupid making-out-with-yourself thing. Then, in a Sixth Sense inspired moment, you see clips of him on his date--by himself. Then maybe at the end you see a girl at the next door making out with herself, too. Then they can get together. Who knows.

I was certainly not set on having my idea done, but I did have a few requirements for the film:

It has to be manageable in 3 minutes.
It has to have a point.
It has to at least be good in theory.

The other idea that pooled a lot of support was a girl watching TV. She could surf through the channels and see lots of different TV shows. That means a lot of people would get to participate, which is good, but it would also not have a point, which is bad.

As the group leader, I was moderating the discussion, which meant that I couldn't executively decide that we would do my idea. So I just hinted a lot. Then another girl who was on the same page as I, spoke up and basically decided for the group.

Once we had decided on the idea, the mob mentality took over. Somehow the idea eventually mutated into a black-and-white silent film with people sitting in different apartments asking each other, "I wonder what Limon is up to tonight? He's probably doing whatever," at which point you would see me doing whatever. If I let it go on, it probably would have ended up about a talking whale who befriends Napoleon and carries him away from Elba Island in Jonah-like fashion.

I decided in that moment to end FHE, saying, "The 'details' will be worked out in a smaller group, one comprised of people who can keep from taking a simple idea and distorting it in such a way that even Mandy Moore wouldn't star in it."

The moral of the story is that we should avoid attempting to come to a consensus in a group of more than four people. In a larger group, those who disagree generally keep their mouths shut, opting rather to slowly change the consensus back to their idea through subtle manipulation.

The Daily Universe

2005-11-08T11:51:00.000-07:00

The name of the Daily Universe, the BYU school newspaper, should be changed to something scathing and unclever, like the Crappy Universe or the Daily Toilet Paper. It is so consistently awful that I don't even know where to begin. How about the first thing I read today, the caption to the picture on the front page:

Incumbent mayoral candidate Lewis K. Billings Dave Bailey, left, speaks on October 27 as candidate Dave Bailey looks listens to his remarks.

Did they have two sentences that they couldn't decide between? Because it looks as though they just smashed them together. Or maybe it is just a very odd coincidence that the incumbent and the other candidate have the same final names, and also a new verb has been discovered: to look listen. I look listen, you look listen, he/she looks listens.

When do we draw the line? I call upon the literate world to unite in protest against the slaughter of the English language!
Let it be known that cutting paragraphs off in the middle of a sentence is more than just a bad break.
Let it be known that "in light of" and "in lieu of" are in no way synonymous!
Let it be known that "soggy" is not an appropriate word to have in the headline of a front-page story!

I am not suggesting that we write letters to the editor, because I have already assumed that he or she cannot read. I am just hoping that by some miracle, we can hold our magic rings out and yell,
"Grammar!"
"Punctuation!"
"Spelling!"
"Style!"
"Heart!"
then have some bluish green man appear, saying, "With your powers combined, I am Captain Universe!" At this point he would go and destroy the Brimhall Building--or grab a red pencil and do some real editing. Either one would work for me right now. Meanwhile, I'll be looking listening to some books music.

What's Funny Is Funny

2005-11-07T15:31:00.000-07:00

And credit needs to given.

From an e-mail from wcl:

About two months ago a girl, wait, maybe you were here for this one. I can't remember. I'll just tell you like you weren't here. About two months ago a girl bore her testimony and made an inappropriate comment that made me cringe. Just as the shock of it was wearing off, she stood yesterday and made the same disgusting comment. Here's the comment: "You'll have to bear with me because I have a plumbing problem. My bladder is connected to my tear ducts. It's genetic."

WHAT?! She pees out of her eyes? Doesn't that stink? Doesn't that stain your face? Doesn't it sting your eyes? GROSS. Even if her bladder were connected to her tear ducts, would that mean that her eyes should uncontrollably leak urine every time she testifies? Why wasn't this girl taught anything as a child? Where were her parents, primary teachers, or EFY counselors? Please stop referring to bathroom activities in testimony meeting. Two other people then referenced her comment by admitting to "plumbing problems." Unbelievable. Stupid people. Oh, and Sacrament Mtg. went for two hours after that comment. I was dying.

Please teach the children to not pee out of their eyes.

As long as you continue to write me e-mails like that, I will, wcl, I will.

Speaking of teaching children, check out Daltongirl's master teaching moments.

What You Overhear at the Office

2005-11-04T12:00:00.000-07:00

From the other side of the cubicle:

She: (in threatening tone) You'd better learn not to laugh at me.

He: (in earnest) I'm sorry. I'll try not to find things funny. I mean, it's not what you're saying, it's just that you say it with kind of a whiny voice. I hope you don't take that wrong.

She: Oh.

He: It's just the whining that I think is funny. I mean, I know going to the hospital is not that funny.

Likening the Scriptures

2005-11-01T10:59:00.000-07:00

Last night I was Ether. And I do not mean that I was an all-pervading, infinitely elastic, massless medium formerly postulated as the medium of propagation of electromagnetic waves. I mean Ether, son of Coriantor, Ether.

I helped prepare for and attended a Halloween party at my neighbor's house. It started out well enough. The whole house was decorated. The basement bedroom was transformed into a movie room. The living room and carport were dances. There was a VIP lounge on the third floor where you could eat fondue and go on the balcony. There were probably about five hundred people that ended up coming.

I was dressed as a pepper shaker. When people asked if I was a pepper shaker, I said, "No, I am a lazy cheap man," because that felt more honest. I must also note that the best costumes of the night were two guys who dressed up like the Wheelers from Return to Oz, starring Fairuza Balk. They really skated around all night and were rather creepy, until one came up and asked for water. I said it was upstairs and said, dejectedly, "All those stairs." Then he wheeled away, sad-like.

I began to feel like Ether, however, when three different groups of guys showed up as strippers. Bow ties and all. When we said you must wear a costume, we also should have mentioned that skin does not count as a costume, unless you are a dressed as a hamster. The ladies of the night were also in rare form, some girls even coming as "just-got-out-of-the-shower girls," dressed only in towels. The height of my disgust came when I witnessed a girl in a corset and pink panty-pants dancing with one of the aforementioned strippers on a table outside. She proceeded to take off his belt and undo his pants. The pants dropped far enough to see the side strap of a thong before he pulled them back up and buttoned them.

I felt the Spirit of the Lord urging me to retreat to my cave to record the iniquities and abominations of the people. I don't have a cave, so I just went home. But I know Nephi would be proud of me for likening my somewhat righteous indignation to the work of the prophets of old.

Might I Also Plug . . .

2005-10-31T14:40:00.000-07:00

Just wanted to announce the arrival of Sarah Louise on the blogging scene. If you can't know her in person, it's worth it to know her in blogform.

Happy Halloween!

2005-10-31T12:42:00.000-07:00

Tonight I have so many attractive opportunites that I don't even know what to do about it. Here are my options:

1. Attend the big Halloween bash going on at my neighbor's house.

Pros: There should be a lot of people there. There will be loud music and greasy dancing. They have really gone all out the last few days in decorating, so there should be a lot of cheap spiderweb material at about the level of my head.

Cons: See Pros.

2. Go trick-or-treating with JTS, who is really excited about it.

Pros: I would get lots of good candy. JTS is almost always very funny. I could push the limits of my comfort zone (i.e., healthy growth).

Cons: I don't need to any candy at all, let alone "lots." I would feel really, truly, awkwardly bad if an old woman chastised us for being 24 and acting like children, especially if she quoted 1 Corinithians 13 and sprayed us with a vial of holy water.

3. Stay home and study.

Pros: I might actually have some idea of what my two tests this week would cover. I might get to bed at a decent hour.

Cons: Studying s*cks. (I am employing the censorship style of many radio stations. As if a vowel makes any difference in my brain.)

Whatever I do, I am going to wear my costume (which any of you can copy, as long as you promise not to participate in any of the activities listed above.) I am going to be a salt shaker (or pepper shaker, I haven't decided yet). All you need is a plastic bag for your shirt and a paper plate with black dots drawn on it for your hat. So easy I can barely wait.

Worst Book Ever

2005-10-28T10:48:00.000-06:00

While I'm on the subject of worsts, here is a book on Amazon that I found through a link on stupidramblings blog.

Worst Book Ever

Oh, Hiroyuki, when will you learn English . . . or science . . . or to not use the word "malarkey"? Either way, that is one heck of a thesis statement.

I'd say more, but i have to hurry to get one of the only three copies left in stock (besides the other 29 that are also on sale).

Worst Date Ever

2005-10-27T12:53:00.000-06:00

Every week I attend the Marriage and Relationships Institute class for my stake. I have taken at least one marriage prep class a year since my mission, and I still haven't "passed." Last night's class was particularly interesting, as certain class members shared best and worst date experiences. This isn't mine, but I felt it needed to be shared.

We'll call the two involved in this story Sonny and Cher. Cher was the one sharing the experience, so it seems appropriate.

Sonny and Cher were in the same seminary class but went to different high schools. When Sonny asked Cher to his prom, she knew from the get-go that it would be an awkward night; she didn't know anyone at his school, and she is 6'3" and he is 5'8". (And I am not talking short and stocky here, folks. This guy looked eleven. She passed around the picture from the prom.)

He had not gotten his license yet, so she had to drive. She, however, had just totaled her car and had to beg her dad to let her take the new Lexus (which she managed to scrape all along the side by the end of the night). She picked him up and drove him to one of the nicest restaurants in Malibu. Throughout the meal he continued to try and hold her hand while she was dodging as best she could. When the check came, he didn't have enough money to cover it, so she had to buy her own meal. The lack of fundage also meant that she had to pay for the pictures, which did eventually serve their purpose.

When she got to his school, she realized that he had apparently told everyone there that she was his girlfriend. Then he said he wasn't feeling well and spent the next twenty minutes in the bathroom. She went and waited on the gym bleachers. When he finally came out, he reeked of vomit. She offered to take him home, but he insisted that they dance and have a good time. For once, she was glad that she was so much taller than him. After a few vomit-stench dances, she convinced him that he needed to go home. They stopped on the way so that he could puke. When she walked him to the door, he started to lean in. She leaned back. He asked if he could kiss her. She said, "You're really not feeling well." He insisted and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

Summary:

She's seven inches taller, without the heels and the up-do.
She doesn't know anyone at the school.
She drives and scrapes the new Lexus.
She pays for dinner and pictures.
She finds out she's his girlfriend.
She dances with his vomit breath.
She gets a bile kiss on the cheek.
She won a dinner for two at Cafe Rio for having the
WORST DATE EVER!!!

For the Record

2005-10-26T11:28:00.000-06:00

I guess I never realized what a fuss this story would cause. I feel that I must, if just for the sake of clarity, state some things for the record.

Admissions:

I did not intend to offend anyone, especially not you, (insert name). I apologize if I hurt anyone's feelings, but not if I just challenged some opinions.

I do react poorly when girls ask me out, but I take full responsibility for my feelings and am in the process of working through this particular imperfection. I guess I thought that this would be inferred from the post.

The Woman is, beyond all doubt, a great girl whom I have been trying to decipher my feelings for, which, I am sure you can all agree, is one of the hardest parts of dating.

I shared the stories not to embarrass anyone, but just to give a good laugh to those who wished to read them. This is my humor. I regret to say that, if you wish to continue reading, you will most likely find more of the same. (Some cheer, some boo and hiss.)

In all honesty, I try very hard to be kind to girls more than I am nice to them. Sometimes, especially in this culture, we are too nice at the expense of real kindness. I don't think anyone who knows me would claim that I treat girls with anything but respect.

I am not offended by anything anyone has said. You have a right to your opinions, too.

I do not see the primary purpose of this blog as a place for recording important events, for delving deep into the inner psyche, or for championing important causes. It is primarily for comedic value. And blog space is practically limitless. So I am not too worried about wasting it.

I probably am a weiner. But that's okay for now. Some people really like weiners, especially now that the World Series is on.

Recommendations:

Please do not feel the need to comment anonymously. I do not believe in retaliation. But I do believe in taking responsibility for my opinions.

Please allow for imperfections to be stated, evaluated, and mused over.

Please understand sarcasm, exaggeration, and just plain comic make-believe.

Please laugh. It's a lot easier and a lot more healthy than fuming.

Please come back, if you wish!

Episode III: The Revenge of Audrey Hepburn's Ghost

2005-10-25T11:08:00.000-06:00

To continue and conclude the story from Episodes I and II:

We met in the Wilk by the food court at 6:00 for the 6:45 showing of Charade, then headed over to the Varsity theater at 6:30. There was no one in the theater and they hadn't even started taking tickets yet, so we got our pick of the seats. A few minutes later one other couple walked in and sat directly in front of us. The Varsity does not have stadium seating, so this guy's head basically took up half of the screen. It felt kind of like The Price is Right when one contestant would bid 850 dollars and the next guy would bid 851. We were one-upped.

The movie was kind of strange, but entertaining. If you've seen it, then you know what I mean. Darkly funny.

Now comes the beginning of the end. After the movie, we went to my neighbor's house to witness a CD release by a guy who used to live there. He played for about and hour, which led to the inevitable devolution of the concert to a dance party. We danced with a group of our friends from the ward.

Side note: It's hard to publicize that you are on a date in a group setting like that. You can't verbally announce it, because that is reserved for engagements and pregnancies. You also can't physically announce it. because that would be leading her on, right? Point: no one knew we were on a date.

As the dance slowed down and people started to leave, there were only three of us that were left talking as a few stragglers continued to dance to Celine Dion's greatest hits. I mentioned that it was about time to go. The three of us got up to leave, and as we walked out of the house, the potential for disaster loomed heavy. The Woman, the friend-girl JB, and I started walking slowly towards the Woman's apartment. The thoughts started racing through my head. "JB doesn't know we're on a date! She's going to follow us all the way to the doorstep!
Options:

Quickly write a note on a leaf and pass it back surreptitiously to JB.
Start using words that rhyme with 'go away,' like 'stowaway' and 'overpay.'
Grab the Woman and begin weaving through traffic and hope JB gets hit.
Suggest playing a game of hide and seek--by the time JB counts to one thousand, the Woman will be safely 'hiding' in her apartment.

Darn it. No leaves"

By the time I had finished making the bulleted list, we were arriving at the door. I walked up to the Woman, gave her a hug, and then said, "Thanks for the movie. It was fun." Then to JB, "She took me to a movie tonight."

The effect was immediate. JB's face dropped and paled. "Oh," she stuttered. "You're on a date, and I am here at the doorstep. This is really awkward."

"No, that's fine," I said. "You can have a hug, too. Thanks for coming to the dance." I hugged her, said goodnight, and started to walk away. I looked back and saw JB backing away dizzily and then starting back for home.

The Woman said, "JB, I thought you were going to come in and play the piano for a while."

"Oh yeah."

The next day JB tracked me down to apologize. I tried to make it clear that I didn't mind at all and that I doubt the Woman was upset. She asked what she could do to make it up to me. I said a lasagna would do. So Sunday, Monday, and tonight, I have been enjoying a nice big lasagna. I have now decided that I am definitely willing to have awkward doorsteps for a three-day meal. Any takers?

The Confirmation Call

2005-10-21T11:51:00.000-06:00

So it turns out that I had to call the Woman back the night before the date. She wanted to apologize for how she had asked me out.

Initial coversation:

Woman: Um, hey. Will you do me a favor?

Limon: What?

Woman: Will you go out with me? I just want to go see this movie.

Limon: Oh. Sure.

Follow-up call (no exaggeration needed):

Woman: So, I am really sorry about how I asked you out last night. I didn't mean to sound like I was in eighth grade.

Limon: How would you have done it differently?

Woman: I don't know. I just didn't want the words to come out in that order.

Limon: So you meant to say, "You go will me out with?"

Woman: Oh no, it's happening again. I just keep talking and I can't stop saying stupid things.

Limon: It's not your fault. I always make people nervous.

Woman: Why is that?

Limon: Oh, because I'm really judgmental.

Woman: Are you judging me right now?

Limon: You're at about a 7.9.

Woman: That's pretty low. What, are you a Russian?

Limon: Well, you don't know what the score is out of. And I ain't gon tell you.

Stay tuned for the next installment of "The Girl Who Asked Me Out," the episode entitled "The Case of the Awkward Doorstep Moment."

Greeting Card Fun

2005-10-20T22:43:00.000-06:00

Re-creation of a greeting card being sold in the Morris Center under "Her Birthday":

Front: "I thought I would get you a six pack for your birthday."

My first reaction: "A greeting card promoting pornography being sold at BYU?" But then I opened it up.

Inside: "Here you go. Happy Birthday!"

My second reaction: "Oh phew! I thought this card was about sex, but it's just about alcohol."

Here's my idea for a card that might be a good idea to sell at, let's say, the Cannon Center:

Front: For your birthday, let's smoke this joint!

Inside: Let's fire'em up!

You thought the card was about drugs, but it is actually about violent murder! Joke's on you!

Woman, Get Thee Hence!

2005-10-19T12:23:00.000-06:00

Last night I got asked out on a date for the first time this semester. I don't think I like it. I am sorry, ladies, for being so old fashioned, but my first reaction to a girl asking me out is almost invariably an inexplicable disappointment. (Except in the theoretical, though improbable, case in which it is a girl I have desperately wanted to date but not had the courage to ask out.) So, why should it be that a nice girl asking me out gives me such pause? Let's explore the options.

Genetic Explanation
It's not my fault! My dating habits are only the product of a long genetic history that has preprogrammed me to react poorly to forward women. It must be a mutation on my paternal grandmother's line. She never asked a boy out.
Environmental Explanation
It's not my fault! I have been raised to believe this way. It is years of FHE and Sunday School that have led me to assume that asking for dates was a priesthood responsibility. (I fail to cite any quorums due to the prodigious lack of content in most prepared-during-sacrament-meeting "lessons.")
Chemical Explanation
It's not my fault! Though I may not have been born predisposed or raised poorly, I definitely have taken in a much larger dosage of radiation than is healthy. Watching 5-6 hours of TV a day as a child, mixed with living for a year in apartments next to power generators, combined with my natural aversion to sunscreen, has probably thrown off the balance of dopamine, norepinephrine, and seratonin, thus preventing a healthy acceptance of date offers. I smell a class-action lawsuit! Who's with me?
Freudian Explanation
It's not my fault! That stupid id. Why won't he just stay where he belongs: repressed in the darkest recesses of my mind. I am oedipally waiting for someone like my mother. I recognize that a girl willing to ask out a boy has some sort of repressed envy. I dreamt about a floating cow, which obviously represents the strained relationship with my father that prevents me from committing to anyone. A few years on the couch should help this out.
Beethovenian Explanation
dun-dun-dun-duuuunnnnn
Spiritual Explanation
It's not my fault! It is just God's will. I was so in tune with the Spirit on my mission that I now receive constant revelation with regards to my love life. Obviously, when the right one comes along and asks me out, I will know by a burning in the bosom; a still, small voice; or a heavenly visitation. Thus far all I have received is a stupor of thought.
Probable Explanation
It's all my fault! I am a prideful, vain man who wants to chase down some girl so that I feel like I have conquered someone worth having, thus proving what a catch I am. I mean, obviously if a girl will go for me she must have something wrong with her. I should need to convince her in some way to stoop to my level, because that will prove that she really is the best I could do.

So I guess we'll go see Charade on Friday. I've never seen it, so I hope I'll like it. And if I don't, I know there are plenty of reasons why . . .

Meet Me at the Pit

2005-10-17T13:40:00.000-06:00

At E.T. Richardson Middle School, the proper protocol for declaring a fight was to call someone out. One would do this by saying, "I'm calling you out." Then one would designate the site, which was inevitably the Pit, by saying, "Meet me at the Pit." And I'm not talking about the Peach Pit, where Brandon worked on 90210. I'm talking about the area behind the bar that was right across the trolley tracks from the school property. The lot was so named because its elevation was approximately five feet lower than the surrounding area. A sloping asphalt hill led down on the two sides, while the building itself and a large drainage pipe stemming out of the woods comprised the other two sides.

I was in sixth grade. I was in chorus. I sat by one of my archenemies, who had always made sure to make fun of me. When my fourth-grade teacher couldn't pronounce my nickname the whole year, he capitalized and called me "Mishu the Tissue." Then when someone told me my name in German would be Mikkel (which isn't a name in any language I know of), he called me "Mikkel the Pickle." This was ironic since his name was Nick. He was certainly no more popular than I, which is what gave the courage to stand up for myself once and for all.

He looked at me between verses of "Never-never land" and said, "Only girls wear glasses."

Of course, I looked at him with fury and pushed my frames right up against the bridge of my nose with all the masculinity I could muster. "That's not true."

Nick: Sure it is. Nerdy girls.

I had to defend my honor and the honor of all the other bespectacled men in the world who had to suffer at the hands of the unmyopic.

Me: I'm calling you out.

Nick: What? (In utter disbelief)

Me: Yeah. Meet me at the Pit.

Nick: When?

Me: Today.

I went to the Pit that afternoon, and he was there. Luckily, only one of the smoking slackers that normally hung out there was perched on the drainage pipe. This VJ appointed himself referee and moderator of the fight. He set us in our corners and counted to three. There we were, two overweight unpopular kids ready to duke it out over a ludicrous assertion made during choir practice. At the sound of "Three," Nick came charging at me at full speed. I easily took advantage of his scattered center of balance and tossed him sideways to the ground by his shoulders. He rolled on the ground for a second before hopping up and charging again. I used the same old faux-judo trick twice more before VJ declared me the winner.

Nick: That's not fair. That didn't count. We're fighting again tomorrow.

With that he ran up the hill towards his home, leaving me with a small sense of achievement but a larger sense of dread. What if he beats me tomorrow?

The next day came and went without incident. I walked slowly toward the Pit trying to calm my nerves. As I crossed over the trolley tracks, I was terrified to discover that approximately one hundred middle schoolers had been invited to the fight. VJ was there in the middle, the obvious ringleader and organizer of the event. Nick stood in shock next to VJ. As I approached he backed up and refused to fight, saying that he had to go home. When he ran off, the crowd booed and urged me to follow him home. "I know where he lives!" yelled one of the spectators. "Let's go get him!" screamed another. VJ looked at me and asked, "Aren't you going to go to his house?"

I refused, stating that I knew his mom.

The crowd quickly lost interest and dispersed and I was declared the champion by default. Luckily, no one ever mentioned the fight again, and it faded into the rich tapestry that the history of the Pit has become. And I learned my greatest lesson: only challenge things that are likely to disappear in a large crowd.

The preceding memory was inspired by Cicada's masterful work The Brute Force.

Now That's a Dandy!

2005-10-14T14:48:00.000-06:00

I am taking a conducting class as part of my major, but I certainly don't consider it a priority. The teacher is the conductor of the best choir at the university and thus takes conducting very seriously. He wants us to practice at least an hour a day; so naturally, I average about fifteen minutes a week. He gave us a practice midterm this week, in which we conducted a hymn in front of the class, followed by a round of constructive criticism. He was giving out grades, the average of which was probably a B-. I went last of course, hoping the time would run out. I didn't do so hot. He called me up after class and conversed with me in whispered tones:

Il Maestro: Limon, if you will practice --(pause)-- you will be a dandy conductor.

Limon: Thanks?

I then turned and walked away quickly.

What does that mean? Dandy conductor? or was it dandy conductor, as in Yankee Doodle Dandy conductor? as in, "The best you'll ever do is a rowdy rendition of Yankee Doodle Dandy."

Then I went home and saw the "Reverse Peephole" episode of Seinfeld when Jerry gets a European carry-all (purse) and wears Joe Mayo's fur coat to keep Kramer and Newman from being evicted from the apartment complex. Kramer and the crazy foreign landlord are laughing and calling Jerry a "dandy." Were they saying he was effeminate? Is that what Il Maestro meant? Was he questioning my manhood? I oughta go back there and show him who's a dandy! I'd better find out what he meant exactly before I subdivide his beats and cut him off.

According to Merriam-Webster:

Dandy: of, relating to, or suggestive of a dandy : Foppish. Foppish?

Foppish: characteristic of a fop. Fop?

Fop: a man who is devoted to or vain about his appearance or dress. Vain?

Vain: marked by futility or ineffectualness: Unsuccessful, useless. Useless? Useless!

So, in conclusion, though many claim that practice makes perfect, I have just been informed that practice actually makes a useless conductor overly devoted to fashion. I guess that's not really worth the effort involved in physical violence. But it's certainly some motivation to practice.

Double Jeopardy

2005-10-12T12:15:00.000-06:00

Exposition:
I have been really enjoying my new car. I especially needed it to get to work when I worked three miles south of campus. (And no, the bus is not an option; too many weird people like Cicada.) Many days I would park on campus so that I could drive straight to work. Now that I work on campus again, driving to school when I live two blocks from campus might seem just lazy and inconsiderate. I have been called worse things.
Story:
Anyway, on Monday I was parked in the G-lot, which stands for General parking, during my classes in the morning. When I came out of my class to drive to work (just five blocks north), I found one of those abominable green envelopes under my wiper. "Crap!" I thought. "My first parking ticket ever." I opened the ticket and found that I had been issued a twenty-dollar citation for parking in a G-lot, which actually stands for Graduate parking, without a permit. I cursed myself for my stupidity and drove to work.

I had gone online to register my car with the school, but I hadn't applied for the free Y-lot permit because they asked for the VIN number and I must have left my VIN-number keychain in my other pants. I grabbed my registration out of the glove compartment and ran up to work. I went straight to the computer and applied for the permit. After work, I returned to my car to find another ticket on the windshield.

Summary:
I got a ticket for parking a registered car in a lot where there is enough parking for a basketball arena that holds around 23,000 people, and where only about fifty cars were parked, when a permit is free.

Tangential Rants:
I was walking home and ran into the girls I home teach. Benita began to explain how she had received multiple tickets on Sunday. While she was at church. Worshipping the Lord. Apparently the university insists that there be parking officers on duty just in case the ox is in the mire and someone really needs a parking ticket. It's along the same lines as a nurse or an MTC cafeteria worker.

"I can't go to church today. I have to help deliver babies."
"Oh, me neither. I have to go issue emergency parking citations."

It all starts to seems a little silly.

And don't even get JTS started on bike permits.

"Bike permits! Do I even need to say anymore? Bike. Permits."

Point Being:
I appealed the tickets for the fun of it. They make it so easy to do. I probably deserve to pay. But only for one. I think after one, double jeopardy applies. At least for today.

Hair Today . . .

2005-10-11T11:42:00.000-06:00

I can always tell when I got a bad haircut by the reactions that others give me. It is especially bad when they can't just ignore that it happened. This time, my hair was as long as it has been since my mom used to cut my hair and put it off as long as possible. In other words, my "You look like Clark Kent from Smallville!" hair changed to the "When are you being deployed to Iraq?" hair, and no one could pretend not to have noticed.

Awards for Best Reactions of the Day:

Second Runner-up
FHE Group: You cut your hair! Huh. (One girl says, "Come on, you're a handsome guy," which apparently means that I can pull off a bad haircut. Another says, "Well, I like it," like maybe I might take her out some time if she defends my tight fade.)

First Runner-up
JTS: Wow, your hairline is receding! It really shows with the new haircut.
Limon: Thanks. I asked the barber if he could highlight my baldness. It goes so unappreciated. If you need me, I'll be either be ordering Rogaine or drinking rubbing alcohol.

Grand Prize
History Buff: So, where did you get your haircut?
Limon: BYU Barbershop.
HB: I hear Bon Losee is really good.
Limon: Oh?
HB: Yeah. If they mess up then they refund your money and fix it.
Limon: Wow.
HB: Maybe you should go there next time.
Limon: Yeah. Maybe.

At least after all the stress this haircut has caused me, I won't have to worry so much about my hair, as it is beginning to fall out entirely. So much for trying to follow the honor code.

For a Rainy Day

2005-10-05T13:26:00.000-06:00

The rainy weather over the last few days has been a delight, but cabin fever hovered just barely over my head. I was thinking about some games that would help pass the time, but my friend JTS is easily upset by the standards: the sign game, mafia, the animal game. I realized that I had to draw on my childhood experiences to be ready for the next rainy day. As number five of six boys, with a little sister at the end, we played a wide variation of games. The following are real games that I played as a child, some more consistently than others. Feel free to play them when you are very, very bored, as I apparently was con frecuencia.
Steamroller:
Two or three players roll back and forth on a strip of carpet. The other players try to traverse the strip without being touched and "steam-rolled." Warning: Playing with a group of overweight children may cause serious injury to those rolling around on the ground as a few 200-pound preteens jump around them.

The Sandwich Game:
All but one player assign themselves parts of a sandwich, two large couch cushions standing as the slices of bread. The final player is the knife, who must, while humming the "Jaws" noise, chase down the other players before they can get to the cushions and complete a sandwich. Warning: Playing any food-related game will excite the gastronomical system, causing an increased desire for food, resulting in your mom claiming that "a swarm of locusts has come through the kitchen."

Butt Tag:
The person who is "it" must approach the players backwards and tag them with his posterior. This game is a simple variation of normal tag, but the added element is especially fun when overweight children are involved. They are so easy to dodge, and so hard at the same time. It is better to play this in a small area, which means less running. Warning: Letting your oldest brother play may cause Mom to create a new house rule of no pulling down your pants.

The Bad Harmony Game:
One player tries to sing the melody of a song while all others try and sing harmonies so bad that it pulls that player off. Warning: While singing, you may be mistaken for Wilson-Phillips, and let's face it, no one wants that.

Helium Balloon Volleyball:
Fashion a crude net out of a coffee table or a trombone case. Try to keep the balloon from hitting the ceiling on your side of the net. Warning: This game tends to make the living room smell like B.O.

I Am Falling Off the Couch!:
Pretend to not be able to stay on the couch by slowly rolling off every few seconds while screaming, "Help! I'm falling off the couch!" to your little sister, who cannot seem to resist coming back to help. Tip: Wait to scream until your sister is almost out of sight. This causes the greatest satisfaction as she must run all the way across the room.

Fifty-Two Card Pick Up:
I swear that's not a real game, but it seems to be popular among oldest brothers. Warning: This will make me very annoyed, though not as upset as when you all call me "Kibbles and Bits and Bits and Bits . . ."

Helping Promote Great Entertainment

2005-10-04T11:28:00.000-06:00

Ambrosia told me about her experience watching the new LDS film on the cultural friction that exists between the Utah LDS community and the New York mafia. I realized while thinking about this commentary on cultural mores that many upcoming LDS films that have similarly moving themes have not gotten the publicity that they deserve. I have decided to take this mission upon myself. So, here they are, the newest in a long line of quality family entertaiment:

Marxists at My Mutual

Tommy always thought life was unfair. His sisters and brother always got special treatment. But when a Cuban regime takes over the meetinghouse during a youth activity, he learns what it means when life is really fair.

Geisha Girls' Camp

When the stake girls' camp site was double booked, the leaders didn't realize that their cabinmates would be a group of sexy geisha girls with some campfire songs of their own. Hilarity ensues. Starring Christopher Walken as Tomoko, head geisha girl.

Angels in the Backfield

A struggling BYU football team invokes the help of angels who have less-than-pure motives. Can a frustrated offensive line and a group of deceased U of U graduates overcome their differences and win the big game?

Janice Kapp bin Laden

Love really does break through all barriers--even mountainside caves protected by oil-funded semi-automatics. When an LDS songstress finds herself lost in the Afghani wilderness while writing her new work "Sinner, Put Down That Bread," the only one who can save her life and aching heart is a hardened terrorist with a soft spot for repetitious chord progressions.

So there you have it, the next generation of quality LDS entertainment. Take a moment and think about all the groups of people with whom you have not had the opportunity to rub shoulders and be glad. And please remember to patronize LDS films, just as I have.

Quote of the Day

2005-09-29T15:05:00.000-06:00

After a rather long conversation about the past, present, and future of hybrid cars:

History Buff: So, what kind of car do you drive?

Math Whiz: A Honda Civic.

History Buff: Oh. I drive a Saturn Ion. It has a really great turning radius.

When "a really great turning radius" is the selling point of your car, maybe you should just avoid conversations about cars altogether.

I drive a Honda Accord. It has moderately effective windshield wipers.

So what's unimpressive about your car?

Oh What a Tangled Web I Weave!

2005-09-28T11:21:00.000-06:00

Not to continue the discussion of phobias, but I did get caught in my own web today. The inevitable has finally come to pass: someone finally questioned my credentials at my new job. I made it a full week and a half before anyone asked why I am qualified to tutor statistics.

The truth is that I took Stats 221 two years ago and didn't remember a thing when I applied for the job as a tutor. The fact that I also applied for a math tutor position with the same employer should have tipped him off to the fact that this was a move of desperation rather than of appropriateness, given that I haven't even taken one math course since I graduated high school in '99. I have spent the last six days feverishly studying the course manual and textbook, hoping that no one would call. Thankfully only one person has, and she just had keyed the answer in wrong. What luck for me! Disaster averted! But then History Buff just had to ask, and I was forced to confess.

This incident reminded of some other times I was named the charlatan, revealing a life of suffering for my lies.

The Mission Lie
My companion was complaining ad nauseum about his father and how stupid it was that he only put up one string of lights at Christmas.
I turned to him and said in a resentful voice, "At least you have a dad." A few more seconds of the hurt face did it. He quieted up like a big mouthed girl in a room full of horseflies.
Weeks later I was explaining the latest news from my seldom-heard-from dad when he whipped his head around and said, "Hey, I thought you didn't have a dad!"
"Oops. I mean, just kidding?"

The High School Lie
In high school my friends and I went to buy candy bars in the lunch room (this is before the price hike that caused my friend Heff to exclaim, "What the crap!" the first time I heard that exclamation). DJ hadn't noticed that I had bought a Twix just like his, so when I took his off the table and started to open it, he just thought I was joking. When I started to sniff at it, he looked uncomfortable, and when I started to eat it, he only bored into my skull with his gamma-ray vision. What's worse is that KK, the girl we both liked, knew I had another Twix in my lap, so she was laughing hysterically. When I produced the second bar, it made little difference in his emotional state. The lying apparently scarred him. In fact, he changed all his classes the next semester because I was in them. But the joke's on him: I went with KK to the prom, and they stopped talking entirely.

The Formative Lie
I told my eighth-grade homeroom teacher that I had to go to a club on Day of the Arts, that day of the year when there were no clubs, because I wanted to go see the rock band that was playing in the auditorium. Woods and I gave her the opportunity to take the class there, but she refused; really we had no other choice. She let us go to our respective clubs, and we snuck into the back of the auditorium to see the show, reveling in our rebellion. It was a slow shock, you know, the kind that comes on you none of the sudden, when we realized that the people filing into the row on the other side were the members of our class. We darted from our seats to the other door and waited until the whole class was seated. As Woods popped her head into the hall, we were certain she was spotted. We made a run for it, returning to our class, ready to explain how there were no clubs that day. The teacher came back to the class, and as we opened our mouths to explain, she said, "I don't want to hear it. Just go with the class." That was better anyway, since I accidentally left my bag in the auditorium.

The Conclusion Lie
So there it is, the root of my lying habit is in my love of the arts. It's what began it all. And what has it gotten me? Only a free rock concert, a date to the prom, a bit of much needed respite from the blabberings of an ingrate, and a sweet job. Experience surely is life's greatest teacher. I'll never lie again.

Facing Our Fears

2005-09-27T13:51:00.000-06:00

The professor of my Monday-night abnormal psychology class has a sweet manner about her that is so undaunting that is a bit unnerving. She pleasant beyond reason. The topic of discussion last night was how to help people overcome their irrational fears. The professor, whose fear of spiders was so intense as a child that she would not go on family vacations for fear of the daddy longlegs at the campsite, had asked a class member to catch and bring in a spider so she could demonstrate the technique of modeling. This is when a phobic person watches a nonphobic interact with the object of fear without problems.

When the girl brought the spider in its jar to the front of the class, the professor took a quick step back and said, "That's quite far enough," in her usual agreeable tone.

A volunteer from the class came up to handle the spider while the class squealed in semi-controlled horror and delight. The teacher just stood back and said, "See? I am already feeling more calm watching her handle it." Just then the spider scurried from the girl's hand and wound its way around the wrist and forearm at a very quick pace. "Oh, that's a bit faster than I had planned," said the teacher nervously. After calming herself, she reached out and put her hand next to the spider on the girl's arm. She retracted suddenly, her phobic reflexes kicking in. She gained composure and reached up again, supposedly hoping the spider would crawl onto her arm.

Just as she reached her hand out again, the spider bolted down towards the girl's elbow and dropped off the edge, falling to the floor. Girls screamed, guys gasped, and one especially jittery girl jumped up onto her chair. The professor screamed, "Too fast!" and slammed her foot down on the spider's little body. The class let out a wave of sound followed by a shocked silence. The silence was broken occasionally by stifled laughter.

"I apologize to those of you who like spiders. It was just too fast." Her voice had immediately returned to pleasant, though her face looked more stoicly happy than comfortably relaxed.

Amid the increasing laughter, a girl raised her hand and asked, "Doesn't killing the spider just reinforce your fear of spiders?"

"Yes, um hm," she answered.

I believe it also reinforced little Charlotte's fear of humans. So much for experiential learning.

Like Trying to Find a Needle in a Muffinstack

2005-09-24T14:54:00.000-06:00

My brother and I went grocery shopping today, and besides the wrongly priced Log Cabin syrup, the trip was, overall, very undeceptive. I did notice, however, while walking through the pastry section, which always involves a good, long look at the many deliciously sweet and lard-laden treats, that there was a box of twelve muffins with a broken seal. As I looked more closely, I saw that there was indeed a muffin missing and one that was only half broken--still salvagable. Another muffin had a needle hole in it and seemed to be oozing some sort of fluid. I am assuming it was boston creme.

My brother recently returned from his mission to Russia, and this incident led him to recount a mission story, which about three out of four things do for people at his stage.

Limoncito: "One time on my mission we found a bloody syringe in our borsch."

Limon: "No way!"

Limoncito: "Well, it could have been beet juice, but I'm pretty sure it was blood."

Limon: "Oh." Slightly disappointed. "I guess a syringe is still pretty gross."

Limoncito: "Well, it could have been a potato, but I'm pretty sure it was a needle."

Limon: "You're not very bright, are you?"

Limoncito: "I just don't have a very keen sense of taste."

Limon: "So you ate it anyway?"

Limoncito: "I was hungry."

Note: This story is only loosely based on reality. I am leaving it up to you, the reader, to decide what is true and what is not. It's like a choose your own adventure book, except without all the page turning.

Automatic Word Completion

2005-09-22T15:01:00.000-06:00

Today I was caught as the middle man of a text conversation between History Buff and DP. DP wanted me to tell her that she was a "peach." When I did, she suggested, after serious contemplation, that I tell him he was "a apple." Aside from the incorrect article, it seemed appropriate enough, but then she realized there was an even better fruit to describe him. "No! A mango! That's the party fruit! It fits him perfectly."

"Whatever," I thought.

But when I went to key in "mango" the automatic text completion gave me "manho." I guess the cell phone knows what kind of parties DP goes to.