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.

The "E" Word

I wrote this a while ago, actually, but it's been on my mind as I've been writing my NINE short essays for the English Teaching application:

Essays are like babies: impossibly delicate and in constant need of coddling.  I think it’s the precise and fragile nature of essays that, like babies, kind of freaks me out.  “Type up two pages,” “Jot down your thoughts:” these directions feel simple enough, and I can knock them out as quick as ripping off a band aid.  But once the word “essay” is thrown out, I know my professor means business.  It requires a scrupulous thought process as I inch painfully through my MLA-formatted paper.  I struggle through brainstorming, research, and analysis, all the while imaging a spectacled silhouette wielding his beloved red pen in the half light of his office, ready and eager to pounce upon the tender offspring of my labors.  Every portion of an essay must be significant: the words, the structure, and the syntax.  These must combine together in each sentence and paragraph, while still linking back to the pervading theme.  You must never sound forced, but allowing too much casualness into your paper destroys credibility and consequently the very foundation of your argument.  And always, always, always, be sure not only to address the “how” of the prompt, but also the “why.”

            Keeping such exhausting specifications in mind, how should you start an essay?  Most of the best methods have already been taken.  You can’t begin with a “universally acknowledged truth,” a pithy paradox about the times, or even a simple “call me Sarah.”  I usually find myself staring at the blank document until my eyes bleed, then manage to mash a few mangled phrases together and create a weak but workable thesis.  I don’t get too attached, though—my thesis only changes 10,384 times before I actually finish.  As the focal point of the argument, a thesis must, of course, be perfect.  There is no worse error than an unsatisfactory thesis.

            Mr. Werts, my AP English Composition teacher, originally impressed upon me the importance of effective theses and essays throughout my junior year.  The instruction began with my summer reading essay, which at the time I believed was a feat of literary genius the likes of which had never before graced the hallways of Flower Mound High.  Upon reading it, universities across the world would immediately beg my attendance, the Bronte sister angels would descend singing Shakespeare sonnets, and a starving child in Africa would get his very own birthday cake.

            I received a 73%.

            Clearly Mr. Werts was an unstable misanthrope who ate only pickled beets and went home every night to his bald cats and battered copies of Emerson.  Still, I was determined to astonish and inspire him with my analysis of “An Author to her Book.”  After over a week of editing, eating chocolate, and refining, I was awarded with a measly 81.  For the next several months, I wrote, re-wrote, attended teacher-student conferences, cried, re-wrote again, and ultimately dragged myself through a kind of masochistic writing boot camp.  By March, I realized how much Mr. Werts forced me to develop as a writer.  I knew now to explain the significance of the literary devices, and not just show that they were there.  I realized the beauty of embedded quotes and power of a persistently threaded thesis.  I sowed the embryonic beginnings of a halting style that I’ve since continued to cultivate.  Most significantly, I learned that writing is not a skill that, like a cheap soap opera, reaches a dramatic climax and then plateaus.  Rather, the diligent student must always seek to improve and be willing to begin again, while, of course, not tearing their hair out in the process. Patience and perseverance is a must.

            Remembering the Werts “draft, but don’t go daft” theory is absolutely essential for effective body paragraphs.  They must each feature a topic sentence consisting of a transitional phrase and a clear yet stealthily smooth introduction of what the paragraph will discuss, taking care to thread the explanation back to your actual thesis without being repetitive.  I believe accomplishing this in one sentence or less feels vaguely like patting your head and rubbing you stomach while performing Shawn Johnson’s 2008 Olympic gymnastics routine, and will take several attempts to get it right.  Be willing to re-write.  The paragraphs each present the detailed meat of your argument, so using no quotes whatsoever makes you sound like a geezer shouting baseless thoughts from the back porch.  In such cases, start again.  Don’t go overboard though—too many quotes and minimal analysis is called regurgitation, a trait graders find particularly revolting.  The wording should be powerful but clear; using particularly esoteric or hippopotomonstrosesquipedalian vocab might confuse or distract your audience. My own writer death trap is failure to check back to see if I have stayed aligned with my thesis.  If (when) you stray from your original claim, rehash either your paragraph or your thesis.  “Be thou consistent.  Keep thyself on the straight and narrow argument, and thou shalt earn an A” (Shakespeare).

            As for a conclusion, connect to your intro but in a zesty and exciting new way.  I try to think Seventeen Magazine: each issue presents essentially the exact same information but with new models, accessories, or other unique little twists.  If possible, throw in a literary device—professors love that and it makes you sound approximately 6.39 bajillion times more impressive than you actually are.  If you want to sound really profound, apply your message to the world today.  People want to be told what to do, so give them some philosophical advice and they’ll hail you as a bona fide Socrates.

            Essays are a difficult art fraught with complexities and contradictions.  They require painstaking attention to detail coupled with a broad understanding of overarching themes.  The near impossibility of accomplishing both requirements make them particularly frustrating for perfectionists and may instigate multiple psychological break downs resulting in burnt copies of Dickens novels and a dramatic increase in the number of 1950’s musicals viewed per week (not that I would have any personal experience in this area).  None the less, it is possible to finish your 12 page analysis essay by the due date.  Stay vigilant, nurture your brain-child, avoid unnecessary eye ball removal, and remember: as your professor will gladly inform you, your paper will never be perfect.  But my gosh, you had better try.

Subconscious Mind

Some scientist claim that your subconscious mind never rests, and while you sleep it is controlling both your vital forces and you actions. For this reason, I am positive that my sub-conscious is completely, horrifically, hopelessly obnoxious.

I'm an incredibly heavy sleeper, as in there could be an EF5 tornado down the street, a velociraptor mauling a howler monkey next door, and a helicopter blasting Miley Cyrus's "Party in the USA" while landing on our roof, and chances are I would sleep comfortably through all of it. This might not seem like a huge problem until you take into account that all four of my roommates have to listen to all seven of my alarm clocks all five times I hit the snooze button before I finally drag myself out of bed.

Also, I have the unique ability of taking up an entire queen-sized mattress all by myself, whether my sister is on it or not.

Of course, this particular flaw might be acceptable if my dreams were super stellar action packed heroic sequences of Sarah saving the Flower Mound High School senior class from the Darth Vader, high five-ing her pet afro-dog, and getting the official approval of the president of the United States. Oh, and the galaxy is exploding the whole time.

Unfortunately, such is not the case.

Dream 7/20: Sarah bought groceries.

Dream 7/21: Sarah went to do laundry, and it was already finished.

Dream 7/22: Sarah was late to German class.

Dream 7/24: Sarah ate chicken.

I tried looking some of these up on a dream interpretation website, but apparently eating roasted poultry suggests an inner sense of loneliness and someone who has given up on their dream to fly. I consequently rejected that analysis and deferred to the more comforting conclusion that my mind is just an incredibly dull place that can send anyone into the deepest sleep of their life, thus explaining why I have such a hard time getting up.

Perhaps it's my dreams that make me drool like I was studying radians in Pre-cal again. I can't tell you the number of times that I've woken up in a puddle of saliva, which actually really scares me because I'm half convinced no one will want to marry me until I can kick the unsightly drooling habit.

So there you have it. Subconsciously, I am a oblivious, deaf, unmarriageable creeper whose most imaginative thought was picturing myself eating chicken. Alone.

Golden Years

At age 18, I found my dream job.  BYU is pretty famous for hiring an obscene number of students for everything from broadcasting on a national TV station to servicing the portable toilets at track meets.  I liked working the 6 to 10 AM custodial shift at the LDS Missionary Training Center for several reasons:

1. Before 10:30 AM, I am literally the worst person I have ever met ever, so it was the perfect opportunity to learn to act cheerful when my initial response to any human interaction was to curse their dog, their roommate, and their ancestors with a very nasty case of head lice.

2.  I got to wear a name tag, thus enabling me to play "Sister Missionary" for four hours a day, Monday through Friday.

3.  Being a custodian is like a how to class on becoming domestic, which is absolutely essential for any female BYU student.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:MTC_entrance.JPG

I know it doesn't get a lot of glory, but a custodial position at the MTC is basically one of the greatest jobs ever.  For starters, you get to use a walkie-talkie, which makes you feel like a total secret agent, especially when you're asking about deliveries of chemicals such as "Foamy Q&A," "Bio-Bowl," and "Consume."  Seriously, in custodial speak, cleaning toilets sounds like biological warfare (which, on second thought, might not be that far off).

Secondly, in the basement of 18M, there are three celestlial vending machines of glory.  Located within these shining edifices are crunchy donuts, Welches' Fruit Snacks, and (of course) Pop Tarts.  This became our Mecca. All we needed was a simple "I need a 49 on a PTF" (Pop Tart Fiesta) and we knew relief was on it's way for the low low price of 85 cents.

Best of all, you get paid to JOY WATER the entrance ways!  That's right--Joy Water.  Imagine rainbows, glitter, singing fairies, fat, dancing babies, and you have something that is nothing like Joy Watering.  Still, the name is phenomenal.  We actually had a joy water dance it was that inspiring.

And thus we see how at the tender age of 19, Sarah has already passed the golden years of her professional career.