She's Domestic!

Last year I decided to be domestic.  I created a meticulous step by step program to get me from clueless college kid to halo-ed homemaker extraordinaire. 

Step 1: grilled cheese.

Apparently 20 minutes on high is not advisable, nor was attempting to drown the smell out with body spray, unless you are fond Bath and Body's newest "Nuclear Apples" scent.

Step 2: Muffins

These were fail proof--literally just add water.  Unless of course you add four times the required amount, in which case it's time to get creative.  I believe the situation went something like this:

We boiled it too much.  And the blueberries dissolved.

It wouldn't fry.

The result: muffin-pancake-sausages. Truly, it's inspiring and mildly disconcerting how much faith my roommate had in my ideas. Though not as disturbing as the fact that I legitimately enjoyed the product. Not only have I lost all ability to cook, but my taste buds are shot, too. Reason number 346 why Sarah will never find a husband.

Step 3: home made bread

Still, I have not been deterred.

Anyone want to come over for a barbeque this weekend?

Fancy Rocks

My family goes on Road Trips.  It's upper case because they are serious, hard core, capitalization-worthy Road Trips.  Usually my dad drives, which means we really don't get many rest stops, firstly because he has a bladder of steel (the rest of us have to ration our water intake), and secondly he is a focused driver.  Getting from A to B is very serious business, requiring the up most concentration.  Only occasionally have we been side tracked into sight seeing on the way.  Personally, I think Mom would make him stop and smell the roses more often, except it's a little more than we bargained for every time we try.

For example, there's that time we went to the biosphere on the way home from summer vacation.  Mom was pregnant with our last Victoria, my sister and I were running around screaming, Dad was flanked by Shauntae, Heather, and Trevor each trying to climb up for a piggyback ride.  Right at that moment, the tour featuring the subject of "over population" entered.

After this experience, neither of my parents were too keen to leave the societal safety of our blue suburban.

Eventually though, dad became afraid that we didn't think he liked having fun, so he planned a super stellar fun trip to see the grave of the biggest grizzly bear who ever lived in North America.  Eleven feet tall, dad told us, with an appetite as big as the mountains he roved.  Who knows how many sheep, cattle, and possibly HUMANS he might have eaten.  

By this point, we were expecting a monument of Bear-zilla complete with gold encrusted life sized statue, preserved DNA samples to replicate in the event of an alien invasion, and maybe ice cream served in cones the size of his actual fangs.

First though, we had to get there.  Dad loaded us up in the famous suburban and we took off up the mountain trail.  The trail head said it would be about 11 miles, but we figured where we were in a car it wouldn't take more that 20 minutes to get there.  Thirty minutes later . . .

Dad: Hey, only 9 miles to go!

Paige: It's been thirty minutes and we've only gone TWO MILES???

Dad: Technically we've gone 2.69.

Mom:  It takes longer to drive on gravel roads.

Dad: I promise it will be worth it!

Sarah:  This had better be THE MOST incredible statue in the world.

Dad:  Statue?

Not a statue.  No.  Old Ephraim's grave was marked by a rock.  An 11 foot rock.  After about and hour and a half, we reached the clearing and saw the glorified marker.

Turns out, this wasn't even his grave.  Old Ephraim's skeleton currently resides in the basement of the Smithsonian.  They stuck the rock here because they thought that he might have been shot near this mountain. Dad took us on a four hour long round trip to see a shiny rock.

And that is why, even if dad wants to, we never take side trips when traveling.

Cleaning Inspection

We were a day away from the white glove inspection of doom at the MTC, meaning someone was going to come in a make sure the buildings had a celestial sparkle emanating off everything from the chalk tray to the toilet seat.  My boss made it clear that if we failed, we would lose all rights to our firstborn, our church membership, and most importantly, our Pop Tart fiestas.

Consequently, I was in Soviet Russia Cleaning Mode.  Every doorknob was polished.  Twice.  We blasted acid on every surface in the bathroom and scrubbed it with three different brushes.  I made the elders clean the black marks on the stairs and bathroom stalls with a toothbrush.  I was the most hard core cleaner I had ever seen.

This had varying effects on my emotional stability, especially when compounded with my general irrationality in the early morning.  One minute I was a super stellar awesome cleaner tackling one carpet stain after the other, the next I randomly burst into tears because I couldn't remember how to sweep.  I hadn't felt so conflicted since Prince William went off the market.

I was alone in the custodial closet, trying to gather my many varied emotions.

Suddenly, I was overwhelmed with an irrational desire to prove to the world that I WAS A CUSTODIAN!!!  I would pass the inspection and make pancakes to celebrate!  I grabbed the duster and wiped everything.  I cleaned what no one had thought to clean before.  I swiped the top of the bulletin board, each of the chemical containers, the light box, the mop handle . . .

. . . And then the fire alarm went off.

It was 9:30, so all the missionaries and teachers were in their classrooms by then, and everyone had to evacuate.

Missionaries: What happened, Sister Perkins?

Me:  I don't know.  I guess some idiot pulled the fire alarm. 

It was just irritating.  How dare they interrupt my work and dirty my newly polished door handles.

Finally the police showed up and swept through the building.  "It originated in the second floor custodial closet," they told my boss.

I guffawed audibly.  "You've GOT to be kidding me.  I was just in there and there was definitely not a fire."

They turned to me slowly.  I was suddenly aware of the fact that they were armed.  "Sister Perkins.  What chemicals were you mixing?"

Apparently the smoke detector was too close to the light I dusted, and when I thwacked it with the duster it triggered the alarm.  After I proved my innocence, we were let back in.

Missionaries: Sister Perkins, do you know what happened now?

Me: Go back to class, Elders.  You should be focusing on other things.

And that is how I single handedly set off the fire alarm and evacuated an entire building in the MTC.