Fits of Pregnancy Madness Vs. Phantom of the Horridly Horrible Haircut

A month or two ago, I was thinking about my personal appearance, and I decided that I needed to have my bangs trimmed a bit. They were constantly falling into my eyes, and I felt like I looked a bit too emo for the sheer amount of pink that I consistently insist on wearing. And then, it happened. In a fit of pregnancy madness, I seized some scissors, and attempted to trim and style my bangs on my own.

A big mistake.

I lived with my mistake instead of going to get it fixed in an attempt to impress upon me this valuable lesson learned: Don't. Just don't. I also lived with it because I have some awesomely wide headbands that don't give me headaches and cover up most of my bangs. That meant I didn't have to see my bangs, or let anyone else see them, while they were growing back out.

Fast forward to last Saturday. Andrew has been pining for a haircut for some time, but he's afraid to go in anywhere to actually accomplish the job. Why? Because haircut people down here are insane, and don't really know how to cut his hair without making him feel like a foolish child. They always cut it too short in the back, so that it sticks up all over the place, instead of listening to him and giving him a haircut like Han Solo's. Maybe haircut people down here just don't watch Star Wars by rule.

But it had gotten to the point where it was either look like a foolish child with rebellious hair, or look like a slob. I don't like when he gets his hair cut because I like the curls that form on the nape of his neck. Andrew prefers looking like a gentleman with tidy hair. I support gentlemanliness, so I allow him to get his hair cut.

We went to a hair salon- actually, lest you gather from the word "salon" that this was a fine or spendy establishment, I shall be frank. It wasn't. It was Great Clips. But it is possible to get a good haircut there. We were ushered to our stylish stylists' chairs at the same time. And thus began the horror.

I will take a moment to say that the girl cutting my hair did an excellent, albeit incredibly slow, job with the back of my hair. Some stylists have a hard time with long layers, but she was wonderful with that task. I was very pleased with how my layers came out. That being accomplished, I will now inform you of what happened to the front of my head. I asked her to start the bang at my right eyebrow, and swoop it down to my left cheek bone. A side bang. A swoop bang. Here is a picture of what I could see since the stylist was standing directly in front of me and was blocking the mirror.

That large mass of pasty whiteness is my skin, yes. And that horrible claw-like appendage is meant to represent the stylist's hand. But pay more attention to the hair flying everywhere. She didn't put any water on my bangs, so with every snip of her sheers, hairs shot out explosively like so many bits of shrapnel. That especially large brown blob was a hair that tried to take up residence in my eye. I kept my peepers firmly shut after that, but I could still feel the little rain of hairs sticking to my nose, cheeks, and lips. At one point, the lady actually dabbed at my face with a cloth to try to alleviate this surfeit of unattached hairs.

But the worst part of it all was this: Look at how she's cutting my bangs. In a straightish line. Does that look like a swoop to you? Nope. It doesn't. And if you tried to say yes, you're wrong, because it doesn't look anything like a swoop. Go get an education.

When she stopped to ask me how I liked it, I just stared in the mirror for a moment. They were very short bangs. Very short. I saw that she had added a bit of a slant to my bangs. Unfortunately, instead of being a sweeping swoop from one side to the other, it started and ended within half an inch. Right at the end. It looked something like I had tried to do it. Since I had asked her to feather it a bit (I have very thick hair), she grabbed her thinning sheers, and snipped at my bangs. That meant that half of my bang hairs were short than the other half. Right next to that cowlick on  my forehead. Yup.

Basically, if you spread and curve your fingers into a claw formation, as if you're pretending to be a monster or something, and then stick that up by your hairline, that's what my bangs looked like.

Since she was waiting for an answer, I turned to ask Andrew what he thought.

He wasn't at all reassuring. I looked back in the mirror, then smiled at the lady, and said, "All done now."

We paid, then left. However, instead of being able to rush home and fully assess the damage done, we had to go grocery shopping. As we walked into the store, a breeze rushed past us, lifting my hair as if I were in some commercial. Only, I don't know what I was advertising. Maybe something like this: "Get your hair cut, and you too can walk slow-mo through a door with bits of hair shrapnel flying off behind you and your bangs sticking all about like a hideous loon!" Not very persuasive. Too bad I was the poster child.

When we were home, I decided that I would just have to wear my faithful old gray headband until my bangs grew back. It was too short to be able to fix with more cutting. I seized the headband and donned it. I dropped my head on the counter. My bangs were too short to stay up in the headband. Too short and sticking out all over the place. I wailed in frustration and went to bed.

The next morning was church. I managed to get my bangs to stay back with a double headband approach to styling. When I got home, I switched to my gray (more comfortable) headband, but kept the band just barely on the hairline. I looked pretty clever.

I started becoming worried that someone would bump into me and knock my headband off. Then I wouldn't be covered in its protective concealment. I knew that if that were to ever happen, dramatically loud chords from The Phantom of the Opera would instantly start playing, and that there would be screaming and general horror all about.

Then I would have to give up the one person that I loved, and go live by myself in a cave somewhere with a little toy wind-up monkey that played "Masquerade." And people might even try to kill me. Not good on either account.

So now I'm trying to decide which is better: Being seized by a fit of pregnancy madness and mangling your own bangs, or paying someone else to make you into the hair version of the Phantom. Only without that sheer musical genius, which at least would be an upside. But also without the homicidal tendencies, which is at least one bright point in all of this.

I think it's the fit of pregnancy madness - because at least that's free ugliness.

Small Sand Toddlers and Slithering Sisterly Tricks

I have multiple sisters. Several sisters. In fact, I have five sisters. Right now, two of them are out in Utah, one doing some student teaching (Megan), and one attending BYU (Bug, commonly referenced as Bugheera by myself). You may recognize Megan from some previous posts, including the story about how we both publicly humiliated ourselves and the speech I gave as her maid of honor. Bugheera is featured in some special Pictorials herself regarding stinky vans and her lousy inability to give directions. Sometimes these two girls manage to get together, and when they do, chaos is the third and permanent member of their trio.

Every Sunday night, my family gets online to video chat via Google Plus. I love hearing stories and seeing faces. It's a great way to stay in touch. But if Megan and Buggy happen to be at the same place while we're trying to talk, then it's more like the rest of us watch them giggle and do lots of this.

That makes it hard to understand anyone at all. But I did manage to hear two stories that I felt deserved some pictures.

One weekend, Buggy and Megan decided to hang out together. On Sunday, they attended church. Bug was hungry during Sunday School, and went for a snack. Apparently, it was the wrong snack to bring into a meeting, because it just so happened to be the most difficult to manage victual in the world.

Megan insisted that she knew the best way to open this treacherous granola bar without making crumbs explode everywhere like fireworks on the Fourth of July. Bug pointed out that the package was already opened, and that Megan's benevolence may in fact just make things worse. Bug lost the fiercely whispered argument, and was promptly proved right when Megan managed to make a mess of it all. The entire granola bar disintegrated in the wrapper. Megan stuffed it under her seat.

If Megan and Bug had been the only attendees at this Sunday School, that trick may have worked. However, a little toddler was also present. He saw the wrapper under the seat and went straight for it. He seized it. He waved his prize about, bellowing like that savage Sand Person from Star Wars, the one that hits Luke upside the head and then raises his stick aloft.

And in case you have no idea what that picture is supposed to be or why it's funny, here. Educate yourself.

The actions of this miniature Tusken Raider gave his surroundings a gentle rain of granola bar crumbs, exactly what Megan and Bug had been desperately hoping to avoid. Whoops.

Later, Megan and Buggy were at home, and decided to try out some fun balancing games. Megan thought it would be a good idea to see if she could balance sitting atop Bug's feet. Megan could feel herself beginning to wobble, but she was determined to give Bug the benefit of the doubt, seeing as Buggy's so strong and all.

It turns out that Megan should have gone with the self-preservation instincts.

Because Megan just wound up square on her noggin, scrunched up like an accordion, and probably sounding like one, too. Bug was most likely laughing uproariously.

They shared these two stories with me, and I laughed at them. I was inspired to make some art out of it. This is a little post to tell my sisters that I love them, and to thank them for the laughs.

Sisters, I love you. Thank you for the laughs.

That is all.

NOTE: Thank you to all who are enjoying The Story and saying nice things about its entertainment value. Andrew and I rather enjoyed reminiscing, even if we didn't enjoy living it at times (the awkward bits). If you missed the last installment, it's The Zero-eth Date. Cheers to reading!

Megan the Ninja Fool

You may recall my beloved sister Megan from her introductory post about how she and I made some grand fools of ourselves in rather majestic fashion. (Incidentally, that post has become one of my top ten viewed in the few weeks that it's been there. Apparently sisters making fools of themselves is really appealing to people nowadays.) Well, good old Megan gave me a call this week, a call that just brought a smile to my face like gold brings a grin to Prince John's ugly mug.

NOTE: I don't have an ugly mug. I have a very pretty mug. Lots of them, actually. You should see the beautiful mug that my friend Michele gave me. She saw this post about how I destroyed my favorite flower mug and she got me a lovely new one. If my flowers had married her beautiful whimsy, this mug would have been the product of that relationship. It's perfect!

Anywho, I'm not talking about Megan and mugs. I'm talking about Megan and April Fools' Day. And already, we know this will be a beautiful and heartwarming tale. We continue.

Megan is in her last semester of college. She lives in a small house with a few other girls, which means much sharing of bathrooms. On April 1, Megan discovered that she needed relief from her oppressive bladder, and accordingly journeyed on to the bathroom. After she got in, however, her senses kicked into ultra mode. She knew what day it was. She knew that she must keep her wits about her. The bathroom becomes one of the most dangerous battlefields on April 1, often being the location of some of the cruelest barbarities known to jokesters and pranksters. Megan wasn't going to let anyone take her by surprise.

While Megan was preparing to go about her business, she noticed a shape lurking behind the shower curtain. There was definitely a roommate back there, lying in wait for the opportune moment to come along! Now, Megan is no booby head. She doesn't let people push her around!

 That's right. Megan went into MegaNinja Mode. None of this pansy stuff for her. Who needs a man to save you when you can totally attack a shower curtain all by yourself? Because that's what she did. Attacked a shower curtain.

Megan's senses are so finely honed that she was able to detect a life form from a different part of the house. Because she could feel the life vibes so strongly, she mistakenly labeled the person as being located in the shower not three feet from her own person. This is no slight against Megan's intelligence. Indeed, this is an homage to her very keen senses. Her powers are so great that she sometimes has a difficult time controlling them.

Let this be a lesson to you all: Megan is no woman to be trifled with. Approach with caution. Cuidado! (That's about as close as I can get to Spanish. I don't speak Spanish. Megan does, since she lived in Santiago, Chile for 18 months as a missionary.) Attention! (French.) WHOA, GURL! WATCHIT! (Weird Slang Stuff.) Well, SHEEYOOOT!!!! (Cowboy.) Mostly, just be wary when trying to prank a blonde MegaNinja. Even if you escape harm, please, consider your shower curtains. A ninja is a dangerous foe to have. A ninja fool is an even more formidable opponent.

That Tanney Girl- A Plea for Help and a Shout of Laughter

Hello, Friends and Family. This post is dedicated to a girl who has a Teaching Predicament. Her name is Tanney. Well, that's not her actual name, but it's the name that I use. That means that when I get on Facebook and I try to type in her name, she doesn't pop up.

That's right. Her name is Tayler. She's a very nice person, but she's not having a very nice time at work right now. She's a Junior High teacher. Some of her students are having issues. (And this is just ONE of the situations: read about her Bad Day here.)

Seriously, though, someone should tell that kid the real story of Pride and Prejudice. Mr. Darcy wasn't a total git in character, had gentlemanly breeding, and was chastised by the woman he declared his love to- and then he loved her enough to change. Not everyone needs to be a Bingley, but for goodness' sake, don't be a WICKHAM!

Poor Tanney was trying to review for the test, and these goobly gooks decided that it would be fun to not let anyone review, and to be insufferably rude to the teacher. They have often interrupted the class, and are ridiculously out of control sometimes. It has gone on for a good while now. Nothing will stop them. Not speaking with vice principles, not in-school detentions, or any other kind of disciplinary action that's been attempted.  Poor Tanney. She doesn't know what to do. Are any of you people teachers? Do you have any suggestions? For more details of the situation, take a look at her blog (link in next paragraph).

I decided that Tanney needed a pick-me-up after this last post of hers about her frustrating day at school (and yes, that's an actual link, not just fancy lettering). So I'm writing this post as a plea for help (see above), and a cry for joyous happiness (see below).

Tanney is a MARVELOUS PERSON. She is a FANTASTIC FRIEND. She is an ENTHUSIASTIC TEACHER. She is also a person of SPECTACULARLY REFINED TASTES!

Notice anything that wasn't there before?

We complement each other so well in our literary tastes!

When I do something like what's on the left, she comes in with what's on the right! Though, to be fair, we have been in the reverse roles as well. We're a good balance.

We will someday both have read every book in existence (worth reading), and both be published and  find our books in a fantastic library somewhere.

That's right! Tanney LOVES Beauty and the Beast, Jane Austen, books and writing, and history. Does she sound familiar? If you answered with "GOLLY! She sounds a lot like Tashya!," you'd be absolutely correct! I told you she was refined!

I really hope that things work out for Tanney and those Trouble Kids of hers. If anyone has a suggestion, I'd love to hear it and pass it on to her. Or you could put it in a comment on her blog post.

Tanney, you are one of my best friends. I love you. You are a magnificent person. Your love for teaching and your love for your students are inspiring. Don't let this take any of the sparkle out of your life. Know that there are plenty of students that do love you, and that you have friends who can't give you hugs in person, but can draw funny pictures of you to try to cheer you up. Have Justin give you lots of hug from me. Keep smiling, keep loving, and keep making the world a better place.

If you get desperate, go read the last PICTORIAL post again. I'll even suggest you pray for a laugh- and happily be embarrassed on your behalf.

Two Tales of A Liberty Fort, Not Bell

Aunt Libby is a wonderful woman. She takes after the Chelson trait of beauteous moments of exceeding embarrassment and ridiculousness happening in bizarre situations at non-opportune times and places. Uncle Jason is her fantabulous husband, who measures at a mere 7 feet tall. Oh wait, he's only like... 6'8" or something tiny like that. Please know that Libby has some snazzy and attractive pajama pants that should bring joy and happiness to all that have the privilege to behold them.

So listen, dear children, for I have to tell, 

Two tales of a Liberty Fort, not Bell.

Libby decided that food would be nice
She desired a sandwich, and a drink with some ice
On she ventured till at last she did find
Something to sate both her body and mind.

"Huzzah! Tasty food that won't stretch my pants,
I'll have some nice meat to go with those plants!"
And on she did go, and went in the door-
To see a back of the head she'd seen before.

"Oh gee whiz, it's my ward mission leader,

It is quite a chance to meet at this feeder,

A place with cuisine to make you feel fine,

Even when eating at a quarter till nine!"

Well, he went away, and soon after that,

Lib felt a breeze as her pants fell down flat!

Not exactly flat, though, more rumpled, 

And frumpled, and maybe a bit grumpled.

"Would you look at that!" thought our lady fair,

"It would seem I'm without my cool bit of flair!

My stylish pants, that I thought of with care,

Have left without thought of how I would fare!"

Thus Lib did look down from her lofty height,

And did ruminate on the fact that she could fight

And wrangle with the fact that she did not mind

For at least she was not showing her whole behind.

Libby leaned down and pulled up her pants

And, while Jason did order their meat and plants,

She went to set herself down in their car

And find some relief from the breeze from down thar.

*End Poem*

Basically, I took a lot of poetic license with that story. I'm not a very good poet, so I need a whole lot of license to make it sorta-kinda-maybe-almost work. Ya. What happened is that Libby was in Subway, and her pants fell down. In public. In Subway. Her pants fell down.

Isn't that HILARIOUS?!

And this weekend, Libby is down here visiting nieces and nephews and going to concerts and having fun with cool people (like us and Porter, we are so cool!). Last night, the four of us went out to CRAIGO'S (or Pizza Pie Cafe down here), which is an amazingly pizzaed place that helps you get pizzaed as well. It's a buffet, so you pay before you go sit down- and Libby got REAL EXCITED because she was going to pay with EXACT CHANGE!!!!! Here you go, Mr. Order Taking Man!

Except...

But wait...

Apparently they've changed a few things since the last time saw a nickel and a quarter. Like basic size. And pictures. And monetary values. But it's all good. Because we love Libby. And that's the Gospel Truth!!

So there are two stories about the best Aunt Libby in the entire universe. I'm sure everyone is jealous and wishes that they had their very own Aunt Libby- but they can't. This one is ours. And we love her more than ever- and not just for the entertainment value.

That One Time I Had Surgery and Almost Died

On Monday, February 6, I had an oral surgery. That is part of one of the many reasons that I haven't written a whole bunch. The other is that I'm busy. The other other reason is that I forget sometimes until someone yells at me, and then I have to apologize and go write a post in their honor. Anywho and twinkle stars, I had oral surgery. It was a bit of a surprise. I went in to the dentist with an "emergency toothache" appointment, and went out with the knowledge that I needed to find a specialist who may or may not be able to save my tooth.

It turns out that I had a large abscess under one of my back teeth, and the infection was deteriorating the tooth root as well the the jaw bone around it. Not good. So they put me on antibiotics to help me while I found someone who specializes in root canal treatments. WHO DOES THAT?!

So we found a specialist, went in for a consultation- he looked at some x-rays and pronounced the sentence:

I almost died. I don't do well with needles, sutures, death, dogs, hyenas, dentists, or killer mole rats. I just don't. Andy was swell, though, and took over from there. Once he set up the appointment for the surgery ("SOONER rather than later would be ideal," said the not-about-to-be-operated-upon-specialist-in-horror-scenarios), Andy took me back home and we prepared a list of meals that I could eat without teeth. It mostly involved yogurt and soup. Lots of soup. There was a sale on soup, actually, so we REALLY stocked up. Like, we have a whole shelf with nothing but soup upon it.

The Day of Doom arrived. I grabbed Francis (my teddy bear who comforts me when I am unwell) and marched resolutely out the door to meet my sure destruction. Andy came too. We got to the dentist's and went in. They took us back and let Andy sit in the corner. He held on to my leg the entire time. I shook it a little every now and then to assure him that I hadn't passed out from an overdose of panic, laughing gas, and sheer adrenaline. I closed my eyes the whole time so I wouldn't see any sharp implements passing over my head and into my mouth, pointy side down. "That was quick and good" according to the specialist, and they stitched me up, and gave Andy a little baggy with a how-to guide of taking care of delusional wives in their post-op states, and a mouth wash, a SUPER soft toothbrush, some chapstick, and an ice pack I was to keep on for 15 minutes, off for 15 minutes for the rest of the day.

I was so numb that I had that bizarre fwumple sensation halfway down my throat, and up to my inner nostril. I was very swollen and didn't know what was happening. When we got home, I called my Mama to tell her that "I HAD THURGERY!" and that I was all done with it.

Andy looked at the list of TO-DO TO CARE FOR YOUR LOONY PATIENT, and noticed the food requirements:

1. Soft foods
2. No chewing
3. No hot foods

No "hot foods" meant no soup. Guess what? Soup was just about all we had. Oh well, Andy sighed. He had to run to class, and I was needing sleep. He put everything that I would need on the bed next to me, made sure I was wrapped up in my fuzzy pink blanket, and got me a raspberry yogurt to eat when I could. He also got me a paper towel so I could clean my numb self up after eating gloppy stuff while being unable to open my mouth more than a centimeter or so.

And then Andy left. I was ALONE.

Thanks to the numbing stuff, lingering effects of laughing gas, and the pain meds I was instructed to take, I was a loopy loony oodle flubble. Seriously. I was.

I sat around for a long time. I napped. I hungered. I struggled to reach forth my tired hand and lift mine yogurt to mine lips, because I felt like Thor.

Granted, it was only at a very specific moment in the movie, but still. I felt like Thor when he was hungry. And, unfortunately, yogurt isn't the most sustaining of foods, and I was still hungry. I also felt like a baby because I had to wipe my face after every bite to get all that stuff that didn't make it into my (for once) tiny mouth. Sheesh.

I called my mother, who is in Tennessee, and not at my house, and doesn't know what I have in my kitchen, and can't get it for me anyway, and asked her what I could eat, because I was so hungry. She asked what I had. I didn't know. I lurched out of bed and hobbled over to the fridge looking like I was Quasimodo's ugly step-sister.

I know because I saw myself in the mirror as I passed by. I also noticed that the area around the surgical area was really red and swollen. It looked like there was some pretty bad bruising coming up. Darn. All I needed when I went back to school the next day. To look like a cross between a lunatic troll and a madwoman ogre. With a giant bruise on my face. The only plus side is that the whole left side of my neck and face were COMPLETELY numb. It actually didn't wear off until the middle of the night.

I told Mama what was in my fridge. She told me what to eat. So I ate that. The kids all took turns on the phone talking at me since I couldn't really speak all that well. I felt contented, having feasted on loads of applesauce, and went to sleep ensconced in my beautiful pink blanket. It's fuzzy, soft, warm, and a lovely shade of pink, just like everything else I own.

When I woke up a while later, I grabbed my phone to check the time. I was hoping that Andy would be home soon. My ice pack had melted, and I had been using frozen peas in a plastic grocery sack on my face. I had basically slept with it as my pillow. As I was getting up, I felt a pulling on my lower cheek (near the surgical area) from the ice pack. I pulled the ice pack away from my face. I looked at it. There was something on that ice pack. Something that looked a whole lot like it had been a part of my face... Skin. My skin was on the ice pack. My FACE skin.

I grabbed my phone again. My phone has a large shiny and reflective touch screen, and it can be used as a small, somewhat deceiving mirror in a pinch. I looked into it to check out my hypothesis and how bad the damage was. Oh fwumple crackers and a bowl of fresh potato soup. My face was FALLING OFF!

I naturally freaked, made a strange delirious noise of horror, kind of like one that Frankenstein would make in a scary black and white film adaptation, and *clutched* my face. THE HORROR! I didn't know what to do. Andy wouldn't be home for a while yet, and I was afraid to call him. I didn't want to move my jaw for fear that it would loosen more of the skin. I didn't even want to take my hand away because that might pull MORE of my face off of my face!

Just as I was about to burst into hysterical tears of terror and madness, I noticed something. The skin that was attached to the ice pack had tiny dark flecks in it. Looking closer, I noticed that they looked a lot like...

...raspberry seeds.

I pulled my hand away from my face. It was true. I had had a major and nearly fatal heart attack because a streak of Yoplait 99% fat free Raspberry Yogurt fell on my face.

Andy came home to me sticking my face into the Cone of Shame, only the Cone was my little yogurt cup. He laughed and asked. I looked pathetic and didn't answer.

Trying To Be Nice, Ending Up The Weirdo Head of Newlyweds

So, you know when you say something completely benign and innocent, and everyone around you thinks that you mean something else? And then you stand there stupidly because you see no escape? That's so awful! And then you spend the rest of the evening thinking about what those other people think of you now that you've said that formerly innocent and benign statement?

Ya. The world of Tashya just got less than awesome.

I was at a fireside tonight for the Relief Society. I was so pumped at the end of it! It was awesome! I was going to be the best person ever! I was going to be the AWESOME-EVERYONE'S-FRIEND-AND-COOL-COMRADE person! So, acting in accordance with these new found urges and idiotic resolution, I went against my normal self. Silly me.

We talked a whole lot.

And that was happening all fine and dandy like. Look at me, being all social! I was talking, making conversation, gushing about our weddings, etc, blah, blah, blah, and all that jazz. And then... I started thinking. Never a good idea.

I KNOW , right?

Anyway, on to me starting to think, without Beauty and the Beast butting in.

This is the moment where I think that, "Hey, Tashya, why don't you just not say anything you don't agree with? How about you just shoosh it up? How about you just keep talking about cookies?"

THEN comes the moment where I ignore my own rarely appearing good sense, and I say something that doesn't even really apply to my current situation.

So why did I say that? I don't know. Every time I felt like I needed to talk to someone, I just talked to Andy. And it was great. He's my best friend! If I wanted to talk to a girl, I just called up Mama, because she's my other best friend! I mean, why did I just make myself sound like an emotionally unstable young lady?

Well, apparently I wasn't the only one who came up with an interesting translation of my thoughtless, yet well meaning, utterance.

This is what they said in response. (All things that I would normally be the one saying.)

This is what they were thinking.

They were talking about how all they wanted to do was to spend time with their wonderful husbands, and how great their husbands were, and how nice it was to spend time with them, and that maybe'd they'd spend time with other people in a year or so. All the while, I was wondering why I had even said that because, guess what? I'm just like the other girls! I hate RS because I can't sit with Andrew! I mean, how pathetic is that! And why would I WANT to spend time with those girls when I could be spending time with my Andrew?! I mean, between schoolwork and schoolwork and schoolwork, Andrew and I don't really have a lot of time to be together. So why would I waste that time on girls?

And then I went home and told Andrew that I did, in fact, love him a lot, and that no matter what nasty and pernicious rumors began circulating, he should know that I'd rather spend time with him than any RS girl. Because I don't smoke weed or drink beer.

Feet VS. Shoes

In case you children were wondering, I probably should listen to Andrew more often. I got these really cute shoes a while ago, and I hadn't broken them in before school started. So I wore them to class. The backs of my feet fell off, so I didn't wear them again very soon. But on Thursday night, National Instruments (NI) was giving an info session (with free food!) and directly afterwards, we were going to a choir concert. 

DRESS UP TIME!!!!

After picking out my outfit and putting on my makeup, I felt ready to face the room full of engineers. And to listen to the strains of melodious melodies and harmonies. I think that it had something to do with the fact that I opened my mouth so widely to put my mascara on. I just inhaled some good vibes or something.

Against Andrew's express wishes and goodly advice, I slipped my dainty little foot into my darling little flats, and marched out the door towards a fantastic evening. 

We drove up to the Wilk, and parked there. Then we went and had free food from NI, and listened to the nice people talk. I remembered some of the guys from when they took us out to Tucanos a while back (in February). All of the recruiters came up and talked about how great it is to work at NI, and how amazing that company is. The great thing about it is that NI really IS a great company! That's where Andy did his internship this past summer, and he LOVED it. 

After the info session, we were walking to the HFAC to go to the concert. I noticed that my feet were a LEEEEEEETLE bit tender, but I didn't want to say anything to Andrew. I didn't want him to be right. So I suffered in silence with the knowledge that my feet were going to be very sore by the end of the night. I refused to take off my shoes or to show any sign of discomfort. As Mad-Eye Moody said, 

That doesn't really apply here, but it's a good quote all the same.

We went to the choir concert, where there was a lot of pretty music that Andy and I both loved and enjoyed very much. We're both music lovers, but we've been so busy lately that we haven't been able to enjoy much musicaling. But the Men's Chorus is a wonderfully fun group to listen to and to watch! How fun! The Concert Choir sang one of my favorite songs "Pilgrim's Hymn" by Stephen Paulus. The song sounds like this:

While we were there, we saw two really interesting things. One was a dude in the front row of the Men's Chorus. He liked to sway back and forth <------------> in a that-way-wardly kind of motion. The other was a little old lady who had donned one of her finest outfits especially for this auspicious occasion. 

Isn't she adorable? I think she is. We enjoyed her outfit as much as we enjoyed the fine music that was swarming about us like a fine scent hangs in the breeze in a flower garden in the sunshine.

On the way to the car after the concert, I had to start slowing down a little because of my feet. Andrew gave me a "look." I confessed that I might maybe kinda sorta have an itsy bitsy teeny weeny merest inkling of the formation of the idea of pain... But I refused help, sped up, and got to the car. And then we were... home. It had arrived. The moment of truth. Andrew and I walked in the door (I actually kinda lurched in just behind him). He looked at me. ............ I looked at him............. He looked at me. ........... Then I walked over to our closet to take off my shoes in peace. It didn't work. 

He and I had different opinions of the state on my lowerest limb.

What I said they felt like. 

 

*Note: ^Above image: A downright dirty lie, if there ever was one done told by an old mama bear sitting on a cactus in the rain forest!

What Andrew said they were like.

This was a gross exaggeration from a man who is very sweet, very loving, and very good at taking care of his wife, but no understanding of the proper ways to train a shoe. "Train a shoe while she is young, and when she has grown old, she will not depart from it!"

What they were actually like doesn't really match either of the above:

So... he was right. He's actually right a whole lot of the time. He's kinda a smart dude like that. 

That concludes the epic battle between foot and shoe. I lost this battle, but I feel like I've gained serious ground in the war of breaking in a new pair of flats. However, it was not without noticeable effect. Between my sore feet and still being a little sick, I was not wholly present while attempting to walk to classes today. There was much stumbling about, nearly falling over, and other general confusion. My teacher commented that he didn't notice much difference from any other day. I'm not sure how to take that comment.

But now Andy and I are home. It's been a long week, but it's nearly over. We both have tests and other nonsense tomorrow. Ptewie! AND it's Andy's birthday, too. Tomorrow or Sunday, I shall tell you all good news that can't be put up with this post, because it's entirely too random. Carry on, sweet children, and sleep sweet.