On the New Blog

As of today until the autumn of next year I will be updating only the following blog:

http://molsenmissionblog.blogspot.com/

Feel free to follow that one as well. I may return to this (hopefully with a new resolve) after my return from Louisiana, but until then I implore that you take care! Have many adventures! Defeat much evil!

On Trixie

I have the tendency of minding my own business and looking for privacy in very public places. No, I don’t really think about these things, but I expect that most people have the sense to not approach me, because I’m a very avoidable kind of person. I couldn’t tell you why. Most people say I look angry all the time. This is probably true, but it is false impression. If you ever happen upon me with my brow knit in an arrow pointing directly down to the point of my nose, don’t jump to this conclusion else you find yourself making a gross misjudgment. I am rarely angry, but often deep in thought. Or not. If I’m not deep in thought, then I’m probably just lost and could use a few pointers in the right direction. Please be kind and draw my attention back to reality!

So this unfortunate habit of mine, naturally, gets me into trouble far more often than I would like. People like to ask what’s wrong or they feel the need to cheer me up. I was just fine, thanks. Really, why would anything be up? Why would anything be wrong? I’m here, I’m in good health, and I have a job. I’m set. People don’t usually get this, and rarely do they believe it when I try to explain it to them. In living sometimes with people who don’t understand that I’m honestly not the kind of person who feels any sort of overbearing emotion other than apathy, I’ve come to scare some of them off. This is never my intention. The only person I’ve ever wanted to scare off was Trixie.

If you’ve ever read my blog before, you might remember that I had the intention of writing on my adventures with Trixie. Luckily this didn’t come to fruition, because Trixie was only here for three months. They were torturous, and by the end of them I had thrown a temper tantrum in a Target and threatened her life. Yes, I did just say I was not an overly emotional person, but it got to be that bad. To be honest, it was such a horrific ordeal, that I really don’t even remember her real name. I try not to.

I do have some fond memories of Trixie. There was that one time we tried to hang out and watch a movie and I bought a couple of movies with more dramatic themes than comical. She’d never heard of the movies I was buying, and I hadn’t seen any of the comedies she was waving in my face. I’m fairly certain that one of those ‘OMG this movie is sooooo good!’ specimens was ‘The Hottie and the Nottie’.

Then there was that other time where I was so stressed from living with her that I spent the night crying in my room, which she heard and took to be her cue to console me. Oh what beautiful irony!

The best story I have of that tumultuous period, however, comes from when I was still naïve to her idiosyncrasies.

I was sitting on the couch in my lovely spot, reading a book and relaxing as the setting sun shone through the blinds. It was quiet. Tonks rested on the floor with her bone. The only sounds were the pages of my book turning and my occasional comments to Tonks. I don’t know where she came from, but suddenly my impossibly plastic roommate was in the room. She plopped down on the couch next to me with a can of mixed nuts and started to munch.

I honestly couldn’t tell you why she’d bothered to sit next to me. I was wondering why she didn’t immediately turn on the TV. She didn’t even say hi. After considering this for a nano second, I decided that she must, as a social person, just be craving a close proximity with someone of her own species. Hey look at that, I’m human after all. I returned to my book and said nothing.

“Do you want some nuts?” she suddenly asked, interrupting my journey into the unknown of ancient Assyria. I politely feigned an interest in accepting her offer. I noted the label on the can. An enticing photograph of several variations of nuts indicated to me that I did not want some nuts.

“Nah, I don’t want to risk the cashews,” I said. I was not lying. I don’t like cashews. I also don’t like macadamia nuts, which is tragic because I do like white chocolate chips in cookies. I suppose I could make cookies with white chocolate chips and just not call them macadamia nut cookies, but that would require me to bake. I’m not fond of baking. I digress.

My eyes turned back towards my book, Trixie shook the can of nuts and looked in at the contents. She then uttered a question I never thought I would ever hear from an Earth-born human over the age of five.

“What’s a cashew?”

It came out seeping with obstinance, as though this were a perfectly reasonable question asked by a perfectly reasonable person, and I was the fool for knowing. That or her intonation was meant to disclose her disgust, as though she spontaneously decided that she should be as put off by cashews as I was.

In any case, it claimed my full attention. I dropped my book and my jaw. I was nonplussed. What’s a cashew? For a moment I found myself wondering the same thing. Not that I don’t know what a cashew is, I just never thought I’d have to explain cashews. To anyone. How do you explain cashews? They’re round-ish and beige-ish and cashew-ish!

“They’re… the… cashew-shaped… ones?” Yes, I could have said ‘crescent-shaped’ or ‘smiley-shaped’, what have you, but at this point I wasn’t exactly sure what this girl was capable of defining. Besides, ‘cashew-shaped’ is the metaphor you would be looking for to describe something else before having to use ‘smiley-shaped’, right? I also couldn’t think of any better way to describe such a basic food that lists pretty high in the ‘Most Important Basic Foods That Everyone and Their Dog Knows’ category.

She continued to shake the can searching for this mystery nut that, unless she knew what it was, would not be found with her keen detective skills. She pulled one out anyway; a clear stab in the dark.

“Is this a cashew?”

The round little nut stared me in the face. The shape betrayed a tiny expression of perplexity that would have earned me thousands of dollars had it been the likeness of Jesus rather than of Curly of the Three Stooges.

“No. That’s a… uh… hazelnut.”

Trixie looked at me as if to read me for lies. Really, I don’t know how she could possibly doubt me at this point. If I had called it a cabbage, I’m pretty sure she would have bought it. She looked at the nut and rolled it around in inspection before uttering that companion of Stupid Questions, the Mother of All Ignorant Statements:

“Oh. I thought that was a pecan.” I peed my pants in astonishment. She tossed the confused little hazelnut back in the can and shook it again, “What’s a pecan?”

Are you KIDDING ME?! Trixie is at least twenty years old. She lives on her own. She shops for her own food, and she doesn’t know what nuts are what? How can she blindly trust that someone isn’t slipping fatal nut-like things in her Planters can? What will happen when she has to rely on her survival skills and she doesn’t know which berries are safe? I wanted to slap her for being so blissfully satisfied in her potentially DEADLY ignorance!

I blinked a few times and twitched to check that my nerves were alert and I wasn’t sleeping, “Pecans are the ones shaped like brains.” Easier than cashews, pecans always remind me of brains. Metaphor nailed.

“Oh, well I think I ate all of those. OH! Are cashews those long curvey ones?” The look in her eyes indicated to me that she was quite excited at having used deductive logic to figure out on her own what a cashew was. I meekly nodded my head, my jaw still hanging and my eyes wide and fixed on her in amazement.

She shook the can one more time, but in my face, “I ate all those, you sure you don’t want some?”

I shook my head in response, “No. That’s okay… uh… thanks anyway…”

I lifted my book to my nose, praying that it would consume me whole and save me from this Empress of Blockheads. She left me to my peace a few seconds later, but I wasn’t able to keep reading. Not after that. In retrospect, I do believe that that may be the only memory I have of Trixie. It may be one of the clearest memories I have of anything. It’s certainly a memory I won’t ever forget.

On Waiting for a Mission Call

I’ve been absent from the blogging world. Not having readers is key in my diminishing motivation, and so is the fact that I have a book (no joke) to write in the next month. But here I am, not really feeling the scholarly spirit, pining away over my prospective future.

            I decided earlier this year that the time had come that I devote my life to my faith. I’ve tried before to dedicate myself to becoming a disciple of Christ, but it’s not all that easy. I’ve been too cynical to really buy into faith, but then I realized that I’ve had it all along. It’s something I can’t really help, and since I’ve given into the promptings of the Spirit, I’ve been the happiest I think I’ll ever be. It’s pretty fantastic. So in gratitude and an effort to completely roll over to doing the work of the Lord, I’ve submitted an application to serve a mission for a year and a half. So far I’ve been waiting a little over a month for a call to come in the mail, and it has yet to come. This is discouraging, but nevertheless it does not detract from the distraction that comes with the anxiety. So here’s a list of things to do while waiting for a mission call.

1)      Write a missionary- I have a friend on a mission now, and despite the fact that he doesn’t write back, I still make it a point to write him. It’s good practice for the day when I lose all freedom to communication.

2)      Celebrate a holiday- Halloween has passed since I submitted my paperwork, and I almost forgot it. While waiting for the mail I forgot to go out and compile a costume, so what I ended up doing was pretty last minute. I almost went as a missionary, but I think that would have been lost without the identifiable tag. So I wore something from a couple of years ago.

3)      Make people think you have your call- Mission calls typically come on Wednesdays, and so Thursdays are great days to tease your coworkers. You can’t really do this every Thursday though, because they do lose interest, but if you wait two weeks and then announce that THIS Wednesday is THE Wednesday, everybody gets excited and starts placing bets, and then it doesn’t feel like you’ve been waiting for eternity. And it’s really fun to pretend that you have a big secret. By the time I do get my call, I’m pretty sure some people will think I’ve had it for a couple of weeks.

4)      Peruse Google Maps- Typically this is an activity best done when you know where you’re going, but it’s also a great way to get to know every nook and cranny on this planet, so you won’t be surprised when you get called to an impoverished or remote part of the globe. As it turns out, much of the planet is remote or impoverished, so I’m already sufficiently disappointed that where I’m probably going is going to be super uncomfortable.

5)      Throw parties- There is a certain ritualistic ceremony that comes with getting a mission call that includes calling all your relatives together to be present when you open the letter foretelling your future. Now my family isn’t particularly close, but I have planned and thrown two parties with my immediate family. No call yet, and I do believe in crying at my own party, but I’ve been able to spend time with my family nonetheless.

6)      Prioritize the people in your life- Now some people I barely know have demanded to be texted as soon as I know. Normally I don’t really think to talk to anybody about my life, and I’m slightly uncomfortable with the idea of letting everyone and their dog know where I’m going, but it’s gotten confusing, and I’ve begun to reevaluate the relationships I have. I have a scrap piece of paper in my pocket that has people listed according to importance and the method by which I will announce my call to them. I have a list of people who will find out in person, over Facebook, over text, and via phone. This list includes everyone from my mother, to my professors, to that one girl I had a class with five years ago and whom I hadn’t seen since until she was my waitress at a restaurant last week.

7)      Don’t do your homework- I’m spending a year and a half somewhere else reading nothing but scripture. The chances of me having to repeat this semester of Greek is pretty high no matter how much I remember.

8)      Facebook more- No internet for a YEAR and a HALF?! I don’t Facebook too much as it is, but I’m soaking in as much as I can of absolutely nothing while I still have the freedom to do so! It also helps to like religiously related things to make it look like you haven’t given up hope, and that you’re still really super serious about your testimony.

9)      Shop, but don’t shop- I made a promise to myself that I wouldn’t do any clothes shopping until I got my call. I don’t want to go out and buy a whole bunch of cold weather things only to be called to Tahiti and have to buy more clothes for a warmer climate. I’m not made of money. It’s easy enough to not shop for a month, but I’ve technically been not shopping in my anticipation since July. It’s now November, and whether I like it or not I really do need to buy cold weather clothing. It’s also like my wardrobe has decided to rebel against me, because I’ve had to replace most of those absolutely necessary yet really expensive items like sturdy undergarments (which will go away anyway as soon as I get endowed!) and jeans and tennis shoes (which I won’t be wearing once I’m on the mission). In about a week all my jeans got massive holes in them, and my tennis shoes wore out in the sole. And yet you really want to start shopping for things you probably will need, but don’t want to get now because you don’t want to look too eager.

10)  Plan your post-missionary life- I’m dropping a whole lot of life to do this, and it’s not going to be easy to pick up where I’ve left off, but I’m older and I don’t have much of my twenties left to make up for the time I’ll be gone. So far it looks like I may be applying to BYU at some point, taking my GRE, and figuring out how the dating world works. I’ve also been planning on how to rearrange the décor in my room, since everything will be in storage while I’m gone.

11)  Google different questions and phrases related to ‘mission call’- I feel really proactive wasting time looking at forums in which people talk about their horrible experiences or great experiences or whatever. Sometimes I feel discouraged, sometimes I feel strengthened.

12)  Practice reaction faces and write down reaction one liners for the big day- I’m the type of person who has to script the humor into her life, otherwise nothing funny ever happens, and I actually really like everything to be as hilarious and preposterous as possible. I remember when I got baptized when I was eight. When my dad brought me up out of the water I beamed at the gaggle of supporters watching and exclaimed, “I feel like an astronaut!” I promise my one liners have gotten better.

13)  Stalk the MTC website- They have a virtual tour, which is fun. Sort of. I feel creepy staring at the people in the pictures. That’s why I hate looking at pictures on Facebook.  I’m stalking them, and they don’t know, nor can they do anything about it. I’m a predator!

14)  Cuddle with your dog- You’re going to miss your furry friends most! They can’t talk on the telephone when you call in May and December, and they can’t write to you!

15)  Throw away inappropriate media- I was never the kid who got offended by the music I listened to, but now that everything I listen to will be at the mercy of the scrutiny of my companions (who will undoubtedly be better people than myself), I’m going to have to be super selective of the music and books that I sneak into my bags.

16)  Go do things with your friends that you’ve never done- I’m going paintballing tonight. I’ve never been paintballing. I probably will never get this opportunity again. No, I’m not dying, but in a way I feel like I am. I could paintball when I get home, but everything will be different.

17)  Stand by the mailbox and wait- Worst way to spend your time. Especially if it’s not Wednesday.

18)  Acquaint yourself with mythology- I’m trying above all to think of this as a quest. I love mythology, I love epic quests, and missions definitely seem to fit the bill. They aren’t easy, they aren’t fun, they aren’t vacations, but they’re worthwhile and bring you closer to cosmic understanding. I plan above all to ride off into the sunset like Don Quixote. It’s easier to anticipate such a difficult experience in such a way.

19)  Text your bishop ten times a day- He’s the only way to find out where your papers are and what’s being done with them, and it’s not like he’s not waiting by the mailbox too. Or at least he should be reminded that nothing is more important right now than you getting your call. Okay, so I don’t text him ten times a day, but I feel like the biggest nuisance on the planet.

20)  Blog about things to do while waiting- Because that massive paper for history is going to have to learn to write itself, that book for your discussion next week will have to read itself, and Greek is a dead language that nobody really cares about. The only thing on your mind right now is that dang mission call!

On the Removal of Wisdom Teeth

My intelligence, according to my mother, will prove to be greatly diminished in the coming years as the only anchor I had (in the form of teeth, no less) has been literally ripped from my skull in an act of barbarism. I'm thoroughly convinced that the reason why we extract wisdom teeth is simply to satiate Man's desire to release energy in the form of violence. As it's no longer socially acceptable to kill your neighbor for sport, we've taken to claiming chunks of each other. Dentists, then, are a cult to be avoided; they are a regular gaggle of Shylocks waiting for their pound of flesh.

I'll admit it didn't hurt, but then again, I couldn't get enough Novocaine. My dentist said he'd never used so much on a patient before, and all I could respond with was cradling my arms and swinging them back and forth to indicate that I was a baby (I would have said as much, but I was too swelled to form words with my mouth). Actually, the experience wasn't all that unpleasant, considering the laughing gas. What was unpleasant was having my 'fight or flight' instinct completely countered. I kept thinking on the need to get away. I knew what came next, and I needed to escape in the name of self preservation. “It's not fair! This isn't natural!” I exclaimed, “You can't trump instinct! If we weren't meant to have wisdom teeth, then we wouldn't have them! Let me go!” Now you might imagine that I was tied down to a table, writhing and screaming at the top of my lungs, but actually it came out as a gigglish slur as my arms flopped about the sides of the chair.

The dentist's office was very well furnished and included televisions on the ceiling. As a child, all I can recall were small, sterilized rooms with stimulating or distracting visuals. Though I didn't get anything out of the film I was watching, it was nice to have some other noise to compete against the unpleasant sounds coming from right next to my eardrums. No, I don't remember anything of it, save that they mentioned Marseilles once. I got excited and started slurring to the dentist as he had his little pliers around my tooth.

“'Ahsthei Wahngze (this is the best I can do at typing out how it sounded)! Cahognize' 'ei 'e Gweeks uhn'il 'e 'O-uhns 'ook I' an' calle' I' 'Ah-alia!” I opened my thoughts up for conversation at a most inopportune moment.

Doctor Hamilton, my dentist, took his tools from out of my mouth, “What was that?”

I pointed up at the television screen and repeated what I'd just said, but it still made no sense to him, so he continued with his work. What I'd been trying to say, of course, was “Marseilles France! Colonized by the Greeks until the Romans took it and called it Massalia!” The doctor gave a knowing nod regardless, and continued about his work.

I lulled in and out, trying to stay awake in the case that falling asleep would mean death. I think that's actually why I started reciting the Greek alphabet. Afterwards I couldn't recall the reasoning, but I think that's it. My mom said I was signing out the letters I was reciting, and I started spelling things out, although very poorly. Delta-Rho-Upsilon-Lambda-Tau-Alpha was an unsuccessful attempt at spelling 'drugs' and ending up with 'delta'. 'Drulta' has yet to be defined.

I survived, and I've been sleeping all weekend. So much for getting my reading done. I've been on four different drugs at a time that render me incapable of walking in a straight line. My siblings were convinced that my faceplants on the floor were a bit melodramatic, but I really don't hold meds very well. All in all, a rather simple procedure. I've had worse, and without the numbing it would have topped them all, but I wouldn't mind if I had to do it again. I have some fillings to get before October, so I will be back on the gas very soon.  

On Reacting to Receiving The Extended Edition of 'The Lord of the Rings' on Blu-Ray in the Mail

I have it. I am so excited to finally have it. The whole bleeding trilogy in ALL of its glory is mine, and this is how it's playing out.

About an hour and a half ago I arrived home, and looked all about my front porch. Nothing there. I did, however, at least get the last of the books I ordered on Amazon, so I was pleased enough to let it go for a moment to go inside and open that.

At four thirty five, I'm wondering where on the road my precious is, so I mosey over to Amazon's website to check the tracking information.

"TRACKING: DELIVERED. DON'T EXPECT TO HEAR FROM US AGAIN."

WHAT?! I didn't see it! Someone's stolen it! Some stupid fat hobbit has taken it! Maybe that one from yesterday, yes. We must FIND it, precious, and KILLS it!

Four thirty eight: I open my front door a crack. The eye searches for the precious. IT IS THERE! The hobbits have not stolen it after all! We takes it off the front porch and brings it inside. The package is shredded to pieces as we pull it from its sarcophagus. Oh, it is lovely. There is plastic all over it. TEAR IT! TEAR IT NOW!

Four forty: Oh my goodness, I have to go potty.

We goes potty.

OH MY GOODNESS! MY LOVE! WE HAS IT! IT SMELLS SO PRETTY AND NEW! And it has a map of Middle Earth on the inside flappy thing! TAKE A PICTURE!

Four forty five:  Set it on the shelf to take a picture to text to the world that I HAS THE PRECIOUS! But the stupid window is letting in too much sunlight so you can't clearly see the Blu-Ray symbol on it to signify that this is THE precious. Damn.

Put it on the desk in the front room where there is no direct sunlight. Natural light still looks bad. DAMN.

Go to room, close the blinds, and keep it mildly dark. TOO DARK. Damn damn DAMN!!!!

Lay down on the floor in the hall, turn on a single light, and pose precious for a picture. Good enough. Text to friends.

Four fifty: Find the best place to house the precious. With other movies? No. It is too good to rank with such filth. It must be the center of the WORLD. But then people will think I'm crazy. Okay. Settle on special place on movie shelf, intentionally propping it in a way that looks unintentional like I just threw it on there only I didn't because I LIKE TO LOOK AT IT!

Four fifty one: Decide to watch it now instead of all at once tomorrow.

Four fifty one and thirty seconds: NO! Must resist! Savor the moment! Watch tomorrow!

Four fifty two: Update Facebook status in glee, and start blog to try and keep mind from watching the precious. PATIENCE IS A VIRTUE!

Five twelve: NOT RIGHT NOW IT ISN'T!

On the Films I Will not Allow my Roommate to Mock

Of the films that I own, there are a few that are particularly close to my heart. My roommate Krissy has a habit of making a mockery of films that we watch, whether or not we've seen them before, and while I'm generally alright with poking a bit of fun at movies, there is a pretty definite list of films she's not allowed to mock. This is that list. (As compiled from the movies I personally own in no particular order other than the way they sit my shelves.)

Newsies


Yes, this movie has a lot of silly singing and dancing by the likes of silly little dancing boys, I get that. That's about as funny as it gets for me, however, as it is a testament of juvenile diligence against The Man. I admire that. So just shut up. The punishment for mocking Christian Bale being quite un-Batman like is a dirty glare.

Amazing Grace
Memoirs of a Geisha
The Prestige


I suppose you could almost say that mocking anything with Michael Caine is punishable by death, but this movie wouldn't need him in it to be put on the 'no mockery' list. It's got Christian Bale (who I'd never EVER want to piss off) and Hugh Jackman (who can be totally manly and dance in a tux at the same time) to give it major cred with yours truly, but it's a Nolan flick, and yes, I'm a sucker for Nolan. Making fun of The Prestige will get you a lecture on your under appreciation for the art of illusion.

Gypsy

Let it be mentioned that movies before 1970 generally have the protection placed upon them, unless they are really REALLY bad. Monster flicks are bad. Musicals are not, generally speaking. If it's come out since the movie musical revival it's probably okay to spit on, but music and movies used to go hand in hand and were part of what made Hollywood so appealing in the day. You will probably never make fun of this in my presence, because I watch my musicals on me onesy.

The Lord of the Rings

Nothing else needs to be said but "Death. Lots and lots of death."

The Last of the Mohicans
The Secret Garden
Finding Neverland
Batman Begins
The Dark Knight
Gladiator

Not much needs to be said about this one either, but death does also cross my mind. I mean, I know what's wrong with it historically, but you don't. So really it comes down to the fact that you wouldn't piss me off so much because this movie is awesome and shouldn't be mocked, rather any joke making on your part would only annoy me because you don't know the material or context. You'd only be punishing yourself.

The Jane Austen Book Club
Ever After
The Count of Monte Cristo
Casablanca
Roman Holiday
V for Vendetta
Gone with the Wind


May the wrath of the cinema gods be upon thee for slandering this film. I know I'm not the only one who would be cross with you. Punishable by public ridicule. I will invite the neighbors over to throw pies at you.

Vanity Fair
The Rocketeer
Children of Men
The Last Samurai
Kingdom of Heaven


See Gladiator. For that matter, it should be assumed that most all historical fiction is protected. Unless it is historical fiction that is derived from or inspired by myth, because Hollywood tends to foul those up the most. Troy, for example, is okay to mock because it's a crap movie. Please make fun of Troy. Also feel free to make fun of Pirates of the Caribbean. I really enjoy the first one, but it's asking for it.

The Patriot
The Golden Compass
Girl with a Pearl Earring
Sunshine Cleaning
Valkyrie


It's not a great movie, but I like it. And it's not so much that you shouldn't make fun because I like it, but I'm sort of scared to ever mock Nazis on TV in the case that they hear me and come blazing through the screen to take my soul to eternal Auschwitz or something. So it's not just me. You just really shouldn't mess with Nazis. Unless Quentin Tarantino has given you permission and you're watching Inglourious Basterds.

Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day
Sense and Sensibility
Animated Movies


Animated movies are sort of just one big conglomerate on the list because I know you have respect for them as much as I do. However, this is especially true for traditionally animated movies. This is another mockery punishable by death. By all means, have your fun with CG movies. As long as they aren't Pixar. We don't defecate on Pixar in this house. Don Bluth films are also gold, as well as traditionally musical animations. Feel free to mock anything by Ralph Bakshi, who sucks at life. Take good care to use this privilege! It's the only time you get to make fun of LOTR, because his 1978 production of it is atrocious!

On the Social Pressures of Kindergarten

Upon entering kindergarten I was, for the first time in my life, suddenly immersed in a most diverse society from what I was used to. I was sitting at tables with strangers talking of things that I knew nothing about. Some people were more popular than others for some reason, and they were invited to sit at the special alligator table.

This alligator was a cardboard construct that resembled an alligator (or perhaps a crocodile; the shape was a bit too ambiguous to confidently be defined) lying prostrate across it, the legs dividing the table into six equal parts. To sit near the head was deemed most desirable, while the tail end was little better than sitting at the round table to which I was mostly dismissed.

I liked the round table. I could see everyone else and what they were doing, while the children at the alligator table had to talk in raised voices during snack time to hear each other. I was only once or twice chosen to sit at the table, which is evidence to me that sitting here was most definitely not based on merit. I was not a troublesome child, after all. Actually, in retrospect, it very well may have been intended to separate the nuisances from the rest of us, and then to separate them further from each other by dividing them by walls. The alligator was a simple ruse meant to assure the children that it wasn't actually a punishment. On the contrary, it was definitely a reward. What is this world coming to?

Considering the behaviors and favored topics of discussion amongst these children, it doesn't actually surprise me if that were indeed the case. The very few times I found myself sitting at the table, I was rather shocked to find that this recycled reptile was the center of a very heathen cult.

I remember being seated one day at the belly of the beast. It's left foreleg and hindquarter stood between me and two other girls who were muttering about a most curious subject that no five year old should be subjected to.

"So the alligator came into my room last night," the girl to my right spoke as if ready to launch into gossip. The girl on my left shifted with piqued interest, and my ears couldn't help but perk up. I was settling into self-consciousness and attention starved adolescence just as They planned. These kids thought of themselves as the cream of the crop, and knowing that I was just as deserving, I wanted to be counted among them.

"Yeah, and we totally did it," she giggled. Did it? Did what? It didn't seem to matter that I was clueless. The girl on my left also giggled. This was also the cue for the boy on the other side of the alligator to stand and smile over at her from his side. It seems that most everyone at this table was acutely aware of what it  was and what it meant to do it. The boy made suggestive faces at the girl who'd done whatever she'd done, as though she were someone he was suddenly very interested in.

I don't really want to divulge in the fantasies of this peer. No doubt any reader here will know what it was she was talking about, so I'll skip on ahead. From her details I quickly learned what she meant by her story and why it was so delectably entertaining to the other listeners. These children were the pagan worshippers of a perceived animal deity made out of paper. This was my first lesson in both sex and religion, and how they can correlate far more than I had understood. Up until then I was aware of one God, and believed that it was something for my parents to do  that had something to do with the fact that I had a younger brother. The details were very cloudy from there, as it was very VERY bad, and should never EVER be talked about, thought of, or enacted by anyone until they were very VERY old. 

The others proceeded with topping each other's stories. It got very graphic. I began to panic. It was nearing my turn. If I was going to be initiated into this cult and become a disciple of their deity as self consciousness demanded me to want above all else, I had to have the most disgusting tale of debauchery with a member of another species. I couldn't even define 'debauchery' at the time if my life had depended on it. I decided that I didn't care. This was weird, and I was learning too much about things that made no sense whatsoever.

"What did you do?" I was addressed.

"Me? With the alligator?" I looked at the belly in a fright, trying to imagine this as a real animal with godly super powers. "Well," I hesitated, thinking of something truly appalling, "the alligator flew into my room..." It was like the beginning address of a prayer by now, and I was practicing my first, "and I climbed onto his back and he flew out. We went to the moon, and we killed a dragon and took the treasure." I was trying to imagine what would happen if I were left with a magic alligator or a god. I really just could not wrap my head around intimacy. "Then we came back and the alligator said I could keep the treasure, and that we were best friends and then he flew away." Glancing around at the face of the smiling creature, I just couldn't believe that something appearing to be so kind and friendly would ever do the unspeakable things that these children were claiming.

Instead of unanimous groaning, my tale was greeted with silence. The subject was changed after a moment, and I never sat at the alligator table again. Was I ever happy to be reimmersed into the culture of my beloved round table of equality and innocence. I never ever tried to lie my way into a social group ever again.

Which is of course a lie.

Timothy was one of my friends in kindergarten. Timothy had something wrong with his eyes, requiring him to wear glasses. All I knew about glasses was that my dad wore glasses. My dad, in my five year old mind, was a super hero and a grown up. So Timothy was like my dad; mature and dignified. I didn't know that kids could wear glasses, but upon the discovery that they could, I immediately devised my plan to obtaining glasses.

I tried asking for some, to no avail. Apparently I had to have a vision impairment, whatever that means, so I had to try harder. I begged and pleaded. Timothy wore them. Timothy was cool. I wanted to be cool. Didn't my parents want me to be cool too?! No amount of whining would change the fact that I was not going to get glasses. I was defeated. But the war was not over.

In those days it was common to screen children for various things, and I always got a kick out of screenings. Poke and prod me all you wanted, I knew I was physically invincible. Up until puberty, I was perfect. No amount of perfection, however, was going to keep me from my glasses. They brought in an eye specialist. I brought out my amazing acting skills.

The teacher aides filed us out into the hall, where we had to stand several feet away from a chart of letters getting progressively smaller as you read them. In my perfection, I got a perfect score equalling a perfect F. I was proud. The war was mine, and my parents would HAVE to give me glasses now that I had an impairment.

I think they sent my mother a note, and she made an appointment with the doctor. All I remember is the torture. At that age I was sure that this was my punishment for lying, and to this day there is definitely a fair part of me that still believes it was meant to punish me for lying. What was so bad about it? Nothing really, at first. I kept up the fraud through much of the appointment. I lied about everything I read and pretended not see things I was meant to see.

Oh the cleverness of me! This con was going without a hitch until the blasted doctor pulled out the secret weapon. I was placed in a chair and told to lay my head back. An aide held my eyelids open.

"What are you doing now?" I asked innocently.

"We're just going to put some eye drops in to *mumble mumble*," was the response. Okay, so it wasn't a mumble, but I was five and there is no way I'm going to remember whatever it was a doctor told me when I was five.

I don't know what it was that these drops were meant to do, but they did something else altogether. Those blasted drops burned through my eye like staring at the sun too long, and I was sure they were really going to blind me for lying. I shrieked in pain and began to flail my little limbs about in a frenzy. They knew! How did they know I was lying? All I wanted were glasses! Why couldn't I just have my glasses?! This may have been worse than the alligator cult!

Everything spilled out. No con was worth this, and I was done for. I started to confess my sins as the aide held me down for the other eye, "I LIED! I CAN SEE JUST FINE! PLEASE LET ME GO!!!" I could see the blurry outline of my mother standing there as the doctor finished his work. Fine. You win. I deserve this, and you deserve to gloat in your triumph over a five year old liar. Heaven knows it wasn't the last time I'd try to pull the wool on her, and I would grow wiser. Revenge would be sweet indeed, you sadistic matron!

The doctor didn't stop. As I sat there with the burning in my retinas, the grown ups had a chat. I think I may have continued rambling like a madman in the chair, detailing my plans and swearing to never do it again if they would only let me go. I doubt they heard me or cared. Adults do have a way of undermining precocious children. Finally the pain subsided and my mother took me home. Needless to say, I didn't get glasses any time soon, but I would one day don that most coveted diadem of knowledge and power.

It was eighth grade and I was getting headaches from looking at the different colors on the white board. My depth perception was the pits. It was determined that I was near sighted in my right eye and I was given glasses. I only wore them up until half way through college when I realized that none of my professors were really using the white boards, so I stopped wearing them.

Kids, remember this; fitting in is not necessarily worth it. If you can make it through kindergarten, you can make it through anything.