Ridiculous Speculation, Part II

Really only 2 days until I'm climbing aboard an airplane and heading off to the magical land of Utah! I can't stop thinking about it! No. Really. I can't. It's in my head 24/7. So I'm going to tell you more about what I'm going to be doing!

On Saturday morning, October 8th, I will wake up confused about my surroundings. Then slowly it will dawn on me that I'm on Matt's aunt Kay's couch. Everyone else will likely be awake already and will say "Good morning, sunshine!" and I'll mumble something incoherent and stagger my way back to the bedroom where my suitcase is. I will rifle through it, still half awake, and select something likely entirely too formal for the brunch we'll be going to, but I'd like to make a good impression so I won't really care. Then I'll shuffle into the bathroom with my clothing and my cosmetics bag. I'll set everything on the counter and then realize I forgot underwear so I'll have to go back to my suitcase and get them.

Then, I will attempt to turn on the shower. I'm notoriously bad at figuring out how to turn on other peoples' showers. 50% of the time I have to stumble out naked and wrapped in a towel to the house owner and ask them to turn on their shower for me. They'll roll their eyes and do something so simple that I spend my entire shower ashamed and wanting to die.

After my shower I will likely blow-dry my hair partially. This might be the most important part of my day.

Then I'll go to the obligatory brunch with people I don't know very well, and I'll sit and smile politely in my sweater and be quiet so as not to frighten anyone. Hopefully Matt will come sit by me and play tic-tac-toe with me.

The we'll go back to Kay's house and get ready for Ash's wedding. I'll put on my skirt and sweater and then go stand outside to make sure it's not windy. If it is windy, I'll come back inside and safety pin the inside folds of my skirt so it doesn't catch the wind and I don't flash everyone my leopard print underwear.

Then we'll go to the wedding and I'll make a fool of myself doing the Chicken Dance and Cotton-Eyed Joe and the Macarena and maybe even the Electric Slide. Hopefully they'll also play some Lady Gaga. Then I'll finagle Matt into letting me have his piece of wedding cake. Then I will probably not catch the bouquet because let's face it... who's going to marry me? Then I might cry in the bathroom about how I'm going to die a virgin.

Then, after the wedding, we'll come back to Kay's house and get ready for the Cougars game. I'll try to convince Matt that we should paint our faces like big Y's but he will say no so I'll just do it on my nails. Then we'll go to Lavell Edwards Stadium and watch BYU beat San Jose State and I'll get so excited I'll probably cry.

And that's what is going to happen on October 8th.

My Future Plans

...and by "future" I mean 8 days from now.

8 days from now I'll be boarding a flight direct to Salt Lake City. 2.4 hours later I will disembark the plane and arrive at Salt Lake International Airport. At that point I will probably pee myself from excitement. Just kidding. I'm sure I'll make it to a bathroom in time.

In said bathroom I will put on more makeup, because the stuff I put on earlier probably got sweated off on the plane due to anxiety. I will then run a brush through my hair in an attempt to look less ratty. Then I will practice my cool face in the mirror for a minute before emerging.

I will then walk down the hallway towards my welcome party, which will likely consist of 2 people. The one I am most concerned about is a boy who I may or may not have fallen in love with a few months ago. The other one will probably be his sister, who is cool too. But I'm probably going to drop everything and maybe cry and definitely hug him. And hopefully he will hug me back and say "I've missed you" and I'll say "I've missed you too" and we'll kiss and... okay, probably not. But I have it all built up in my head... and it's going to be glorious.

Then we'll get my baggage. Matt's sister Megan will make a comment about how cute it is and I will say "Thanks! I got it at TJ Maxx! Who would have guessed?" and we'll talk about how much we love the Maxx and then Matt will roll his eyes and be like "Seriously you guys?" and I'll laugh and hug him.

Then we'll go out to lunch at the Garden in the Joseph Smith building, and we'll have this glorious, breathtaking view of the temple and I might cry again and Matt and I might (won't) kiss again (because we didn't in the first place) and it will be so beautiful that I'll make him take a picture of me. And then I'll insist on paying for lunch because that's the kind of person I am. And then we'll hold hands (all 3 of us) and walk around downtown Salt Lake City. And I'll see the temple and I'll be like OMG I WANT TO MARRY YOU RIGHT THERE only I won't say that because it would be scary.

Then Matt will drive us home in his new Mitsubishi Galant and I'll sit in the back seat and talk the whole time about how great I think baseball is.

And that is a basic synopsis of October 7th from 12:25 CST to 3:30 or so MST.

A Catholic and a Jew walk into a bar... the Mormon ducks.

My name is Glory and I’m a Mormon.

Some of you may be familiar with the "I'm a Mormon" campaign. If not, familiarize yourself. People ask me all the time (read: twice, ever) why the church is doing this campaign. And the answer is: Like 80% of the country knows little to nothing about us. They picture us like these weird 80's housewives praying in denim jumpers and mock turtle necks. Now I'm not saying that there aren't some LDS ladies sitting around in jumpers. There are. But I'm willing to venture that most of us aren't. I'm also willing to venture that there are some Catholics and Baptists sitting around in denim jumpers watching The View. We can't help everyone.

My point is, though, that we're not stuck in the 90's. We dress modestly but not out of date. I’m wearing skinny jeans, boots and a belted sweater today. Nobody would know I’m LDS.

Oh, by the way. LDS stands for Latter-Day Saint. Because the “Mormon Church” isn’t actually called that at all. We are the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. A lot of people don’t know that. I’m always baffled when people try to tell me that Mormons aren’t Christians. JESUS CHRIST is like... in the name of our church, you guys. It’s right there on the sides of our buildings.

My best friend was explaining to a British boy once that I’m LDS and he was befuddled by the fact that I had a cellphone and the internet. She had to explain that he was thinking of the Amish, not Mormons. She told him that we had missionaries that had a book they wanted you to read and he was like, “Oh yeah! We have them. But over here we call them Jehovah’s Witness!”

I just have to stop and shake my head at things like that. I’ve heard people say a lot of things about Mormons... everything from, “Mormons are weird” to “Mormonism is a satanic political conspiracy.” I’m always just like... “What? Wait... where did you hear that?” and their answer is always that someone told them so.

Guess what? We’re NOT a satanic political conspiracy! You’re thinking of communists. We’re not communists. Most of us are Republicans. I’M not, I’m one of those backwards liberals. But that’s beside the point. We’re also not weird. Okay, I guess some of us are weird. But that doesn’t have anything to do with our religion. There are weird Catholics, weird atheists, weird Muslims, weird Jews... you get where I’m going here.

Let’s address some Mormon stereotypes.

1. Mormons are Polygamists: Negatory. We aren’t. At one time we were, but polygamy has been practiced in many different cultures. The church denounced the practice of polygamy over 100 years ago. It’s old news. Get o’er it.

1. Mormons have a lot of kids: Some of us do. That’s a choice. Some of us only have 2, some don’t even have kids. We tend to have larger families than most though, because family is a central part of the Church.

1. Mormons live in Utah: We sure do! We also live in Japan, Boston, Alaska, Russia, Spain, Chile, Nebraska, Mexico, Tonga and the UK. Not all of us live in Utah. That’s just where the originals settled. Don’t kid yourself... You can’t escape the Mormons. We’re everywhere.

1. Mormons can’t drink: We CAN. We just choose not to. The Word of Wisdom urges us not to partake in alcohol, coffee, tea, tobacco and other recreational drugs.

1. All Mormons eat is Jell-o and casseroles: I don’t really know why people think this... All I eat is steak and salad. But I mean... why wouldn’t we eat Jell-o? Do you know how awesome Jell-o is? Really awesome.

1. Mormonism is a cult: Cult-a relatively small group of people having religious beliefs or practices regarded by others as strange or sinister. Didn’t all religions start out as cults? I don’t think, though, at 13 million members strong, we can really be regarded as a cult. We’re legit, people. Deal with it.

Okay, here’s my point about all of this. If you want to know more about Mormons, ASK A MORMON! We’ll be straight up about our beliefs. We don’t bite... and we don’t sacrifice babies in the Temple. I don’t know why people would even think that. Seriously. Just ask us. Most of us are pretty cool.

I speak from experience. Because I’m like, awesome.

It has been established that I have boobs.

Surprise!

I'm shopping online right now for wigs instead of doing my homework because let's face it... I'd rather have a wig. My priorities are solid.

I decided to try this fun experiment today. I asked people what my identifiers were. I walked up to people I knew and said, "What is my identifier?" (or asked them on Facebook.) And most people were like, "huh?" and then I had to sigh and roll my eyes and be like, "you know, what's the one thing that identifies me the most?" And here is a sampling of what the 16 people I asked said.

"BOOBS."

"You're really funny...?"

"You've got nice boobs."

"You're sort of a bitch."

"Sarcasm."

"You've always seemed really smart."

"Your eyes. They're different."

"Your sense of humor."

"Your boobs."

"You don't really care what other people think."

"Your fashion sense."

"MORMON!"

"Unique Jewelry."

"You're smart."

"Your artistic ability."

"Your boldness."

So.... I'm funny and smart and have boobs. I guess. Or something.

It's just interesting to see what people think about you. I thought it would be an interesting little experiment to see what people thought of when they thought of me... what my most distinguishing trait was. Apparently it's my boobs. And yes, it was all men who said boobs. I mean, yeah... I've got some good boobs, but I've always thought my sparkling personality overshadowed them. I guess I was wrong.

I went to a murder house.

No really. I swear. Here, look:

Surprisingly nobody axed me for taking this picture...

Perhaps as you have figured out, it was in Villisca. (That's in Iowa.) Want to know more about the brutal murder of 8 people that took place 99.25 years ago in a tiny Iowa town? Go here. Now I'm gonna tell you about my day because it was all very interesting. Ready? OK!

My mom's best friend Heidi and I went to Maryville, MO to watch a football game at Northwest Missouri State University. Her son Tyler is a quarterback there. He's my brother from another mother. I've known him literally since he was born. Our moms met in Lamaze class and we were born 3 days apart. They've been friends ever since and we were practically born friends. I hadn't gotten a chance to see him play yet. So Heidi and I drove 2 and change hours to Maryille to see the game. It was a great game... they won 70-17. It was a blowout. And Ty had a great touchdown pass too. Then we tailgated for a while and ate some bratwurst and drank some soda and talked some trash. I think at some point I said something about hookers and blow which I'm sure won me some major points with everyone in the vicinity. But we were talking about 2012 and what better way to spend your last year than... I'm a terrible person, aren't I? Especially for a Mormon. I'm a terrible Mormon.

Speaking of terrible Mormon-ism (not terrible Mormonism because Mormonism is awesome)... I was supposed to go to the General Relief Society Meeting. But I didn't. Because I spent most of the day talking about hookers and blow and going to a murder house. I need to get my priorities straight perhaps.

Anyway. The murder house. By the time we got to Villisca, it was dark. As soon as we turned into the town, a chill went down my spine. Let's face it... I've said it before and I'll say it again: Nothing good ever happens in small towns. They're creepy. Like mega creepy. I don't like them. People get killed and/or eaten there. So what was I doing in a remote small town after dark? Looking for a murder house. Logically.

It was 8 pm on a Saturday night and most of the houses were dark. Which added to the creepiness that had already been there. When we did see lights, it was usually because people were staring out their windows at us. I'm not even kidding. It was really bizarre.

We drove around the town for a good 15 minutes trying to locate the scene of the grisly pre-war crime. While we were driving, a black cat crossed the street in front of us and I was like, "Perfect. Of course. Why WOULDN'T a black cat cross our path?" And in my head I was like, "Ohhhhhhh mannnn, we're gonna diiiiiiie." Also, some hooligan had spun every other street sign so that we couldn't figure out what street we were on for a while. It was Second Ave, for the record. Also for the record, the Murder House is 508 E. 2nd Street.

We finally got to the murder house, jumped out to snap a picture to prove we were there, and then got back in the car before someone could add us to the list of casualties. Which is at least 8 people long, but I'm assuming just by the creeps I got from that town it's at least double digits. The bodies might have just not been found.

Now I'm freaking everyone out including myself, so I'm going to go to bed so I can get up in the morning and go to church like a good Mormon. Which I am. Usually. When I'm not looking for murder houses.

Tell me a-boot it.

High five for bad puns! *smack*

I got new boots today. 2 pairs. Spent more money than I probably ever have in my life. On Born boots. 2 pairs of boots. Today. We getting this? Good.

I'm going to tell you a secret. Ready? Here it is: I love boots more than pretty much anything else in the world. Given a choice between boots and sex, I'd pick boots. Given a choice between boots and candy, I'd take boots. Given a choice between boots and keeping both my kidneys, I'd take boots because I only need one kidney anyway. Boots or Chinese food? Boots or saving the rain forest? Always boots. What am I gonna do about the rainforest anyway?

I got a brown pair and a black pair. They look like this:

I couldn't make up my freakin' mind. I went for black, but my brown boots have been worn so much they're practically bleeding. I can feel the sidewalk through the bottom. Or almost. And these aren't a perfect replacement. But they're fabulous in their own right. And make my legs look outstanding. Same goes for the black. Legs for days. Okay, slight exaggeration. But they do fit my calves spectacularly. Seriously, they are the best thing that will happen to me this month, I can pretty much guarantee it. And they will be perfect for my trip next month. Did I mention my trip? We'll talk about that later.

Boots boots boots.

Yip yap hooray.

Sweater Weather

Yesterday, September 14th, was the first day of sweater weather this season. I have mixed feelings about this because while I love wearing sweaters and boots, getting them all out again means that winter is eminent and I will have to put away my flip flops and skirts. (Except on Sundays as far as the skirts go.) And we all know how we feel about winter, right?

Okay, let me explain something to you about sweater weather. It gets to you. It really does. This isn't an exaggeration. At least, not for me. The first week of sweater weather, you're excited and refreshed that you don't immediately sweat off your makeup when you step outside. The crisp, cool air fills your lungs and you never want to exhale. The second week of sweater weather you have forgotten the significance of putting on your sweater. The third week of sweater weather you start to grow agitated with the static in your hair. The fourth week fills you with dread and the fifth week... by the fifth week of sweater weather you feel the hope slowly slipping away from you, bit by bit, piece by piece, until large chunks of it fall off into your hands and crumble into dust.

Maybe that is just a little bit dramatic. but after a month of the static, tangled hair and dry, itchy skin, I'm already sick of it. And by that point there are still 3 months of it to go. 3 more months of the underside of your hair being tangled into a ratty mess from rubbing against the wooly sweaters. 3 months of chapped lips that make you look like a Kool Aid junkie. 3 more months of having to apply moisturizer to your face every 2 hours so it doesn't flake off.

This makes me nervous because sweater weather has come particularly early this year. By like... a month. And it stayed really late last season too. Which means the year 2011 will have 9 months of sweater weather and 3 months of "I wish I didn't have to wear anything" weather. Someone riddle me this: When am I just going to be COMFORTABLE?!

I had to wear my coat to work last night. I came home with chapped lips, tangled hair and a windburned face. It reminded me of the very beginning of the season, when I wanted to die every night.

In short, I guess sweater weather is back. To which I have this to say:

Balls.

Idea of the Day.

Okay, you guys. I'm pretty much a freakin' genius*. No seriously. I consistently have awesome* ideas. For instance, today I came up with this great new product: pre-made banana splits. Is that already a thing? I've never seen it before so I'm taking credit. Like it would be in a cute little plastic container. You just pop it open and BAM! Instant banana split, yours for the eating! Brilliant, right? You could call them... "In A Split!" or "Let's Split!" Split no longer sounds like a word, does it? Anyways, banana splits, ready to go. Available in the ice cream section. You're welcome, America.

I also had this idea the other day to pre-drill all my shoes for taps and then carry a set of taps in my purse in case I need to bust out an impromptu tap dance routine. Because like seriously. When WOULDN'T that be helpful?

I'd like to point out that my genius* ideas have gotten progressively more feasible as I've matured. Ideas that used to be "magnetic dog" now are ideas like "banana splits to go." (Ignore the tap dancing idea... that was just for personal use.) Come to think of it, though, a lot of my ideas have to do with magnets. Like sewing magnets into the hems of your shirts and then the waistband of your jeans so your shirt wouldn't ride up. I'm sure airport security would love me for that one.

Okay. I'll stop before I make your heads explode with how awesome* I am.

Wait... I really like this website. Go go go!

Now I'm done.

*or insane

Why Do People Talk to Me?

No, seriously.

I just... like, what is wrong with me? Why can't I be serious about anything? I can, if I try hard enough, but I'm really not down with that whole lack of charisma thing. Why would anyone marry someone without charisma? It's beyond me. But it happens all the time. But that's neither here nor there.

Wow, look at that! I somehow managed to work marriage into the conversation yet again! Someone needs to just propose to me already. I mean... what?

Oh, right. I'm a crazy person. I'm sure you've already figured that out by now, but I am just now realizing the extent of it. Like for example, this email I sent to my English professor:

Hi, my name is [Glory Allegory] and I'm a procrastinator, which is why this email is being sent, past midnight, on Monday. Also because I just remembered. I'm in your English class on Mondays and Wednesdays from 12-2. I sit front and center. You can't miss me. I have bangs. Anyway, you said to email you but I'm not sure what this email is supposed to be about. I'm just wingin' it. Most people probably didn't even say anything which I consider to be impolite. But now I've probably made this awkward.

Now I'm going to ask you a legitimate question. Would it be okay if I used my blog for journal checks? I'd use my real journal but 50% of the time the pages are either a list of things I hate or a page full of swear words, neither of which I would consider to be up to my usual standard for my writing. You can ever READ my blog. No really, please read it. The only other people who read it are this guy who is friends with me on Facebook that was foolish enough to let me borrow his really nice camera once and also my neighbor. Anyway, you can let me know in person or via email.

This has been sufficiently awkward. Probably. Not really for me because I'm used to people thinking I'm crazy. But now you likely think I'm insane and have terrible grammar. I don't. I promise. I just write like I think sometimes. My papers will be much better.

Sincerely,

Glory Allegory

First row, third seat from the left (and right)

You see what I mean? Most people were just like "here's your email" and sent it without having to be socially challenged about it. But OHHHH NO. Not me. Gotta take every opportunity to demonstrate my insanity and run with it. In my teeth.

What's my point? I have no idea. All I know is that everyone thinks I'm funny when I talk. Even when I'm not trying to me. My mom laughed at me when I said I should have killed myself today. Granted I WASN'T serious, it was in reference to a burrito, but still. How many mothers would laugh at something like that? Okay, this was a bad example. My mother is wonderful and loves me very much and knows I would not try to kill myself. It was simply the delivery of the line that was comical, I guess. Wow, I'm digging myself a hole.

Anyway, forget it. I'm not making any sense at all. Here, look at this picture I drew in Adobe Illustrator!

It's a dinosaur in an astronaut helmet! Do you like it?!

Sigh. I'm gonna go look at pictures of space on the internet.

I didn't get a new backpack this year.

Every year before school started I used to get a new backpack but this year I didn't. I'm using a suede and leather briefcase/messenger bag thing from 1994 or something that my grandma found in her garage and I swear if you call me a hipster I'm going to kill you in the most obscure way anyone's ever heard of. (Get it?)

I'm going to tell you about my first day of school. I know this post is kind of late-seeming but I work on my own time table. Time is nothing but a string of moments anyway, drifting towards... you know what? Screw it, hippies, I'm just gonna tell you about my day.

For some reason when I printed off my schedule it was listed in reverse order. But I didn't realize that at the time, as I lack all foresight and common sense, so basically I just went to the first room listed. It wasn't until 10 minutes into the class when I realized it was Psychology 1010 instead of History 3200. "Balls," I though. I considered just sitting there the whole class period and not doing anything about it, but that seemed like it would be a huge waste of everyone's time. Plus how was I supposed to explain to my history professor that I just sat through a completely non-essential class for an hour and a half or something. The professor asked for us to introduce ourselves and then asked for volunteers. My hand shot up. She called on me and I said, "Hi, my name is Glory, and I'm not supposed to be in this class, so I'm just gonna go. Byeeeee." And I got up and walked out. And everyone laughed. But in a good way. I think.

Then I find my REAL first class. I take a deep breath and open the door and... oh crap the door is locked. And the reason I know this is: when I pulled on the door, it wouldn't open. So I just ended up falling over backwards. In front of everyone. And then they opened the door for me and the only seat available was....

In the front. I shoved by a few people and took a seat and could feel everyone judging me. The only saving grace is that I looked pretty decent. I wasn't in sweatpants and a baggy tank top toting a Victoria's Secret bag around. Not that there's anything wrong with that... I'm just saying that at least I looked sort of more interesting than that.

Nothing interesting happened in that class, aside from gaining the knowledge that pork is the most comparable meat to human flesh. I'm sure all of you were dying to know that. Nothing terribly interesting happened in the next class either but at least the professor seems cool. WAY better than my last English Comp 1 professor, who was this horrible skinny girl who didn't know Thoreau from Jesus and wouldn't shut up about her cat.

Sometimes it's frustrating to be surrounded by idiots. I should have gone to one of the hundreds of REAL colleges that were dying to have me. (Am I being sarcastic or not? You'll never know. Anyone remember what my ACT score was?) Anyways.

Then the last class I had that day was.... well, my professor told us all his life story very animatedly until I pointedly said, "I'm sorry, but that's Westside Story." And he was like, "Yes! Thank you! I've been waiting for someone to catch that all day!" And I smiled uncomfortably and tried not to look at him the rest of the class. The girl I sit next to is 17 years old. She's been dual enrolled since she was 15. And she's probably going to graduate before me.

You know, it's really miraculous that I don't just give up, what with me being the epic loser that I am. I really honestly think that all I'm good for 99% of the time is a laugh. My mom was like, "You're the female David Sedaris without the homosexuality and screwed up childhood!" And I was like... Sighhhhhh.

Anyway. That was basically my first day of school. This semester isn't terribly exciting but at least I'll more than likely ace everything. My Illustration class is really fun though. That's all for now. I'm gonna go take my clothes off and roll in glitter to the throbbing beat of a slutty techno song. And by that I mean I'm going to go have some yogurt.

Out.