FP

Body Image.

Why does it matter so much? Why is my self esteem inversely related to the fluctuation of my dress size? Why does it have that kind of power? Why do even the nicest of boys put things like "FP" on their list of things to avoid in future spouses. What is "FP" you ask? It stands for "Fat Potential." As in, the likelihood that a certain girl will let herself go and end up being a fat wife. Because heaven forbid she gain a single pound after bearing children and dealing with life and the stress of motherhood.

I learned about "FP" tonight while talking to a couple of guys who I thought the world of.

Several things in the last week have eroded my faith in humanity and snapped the last skinny little thread I've been hanging onto my self confidence with. Not to mention the nearly complete obliteration of my belief that it just may be possible for someone to fall in love with me exactly the way I am. But no, not in this town. I have Fat Potential written all over my thighs and I always will.

Man vs. Machine

Why thank you, dearest printer, for finally printing my documents correctly after a year of refusing to print in anything other than colored ink. I knew the black ink cartridge was fine. I just knew it. It looks like I won this battle in the war of wills.

Pull that crap again and I'll feed you toilet paper. I will. Until we meet again, technology...

Crankity Crank Crank

I have been cranky for the last month. I apologize for secretly and not so secretly wanting to kick everyone in the face. I love you all.

P.S. I quit facebook. FO REALS this time.

Dear Classmate,

If you are realllllly hot and sweaty, do not sit by me. Especially if I'm next to the wall. When you take off your coat, hot air wafts toward me like you are a human space heater. You make me feel like I'm trapped in a sweaty oven with your hair. PLUS. You keep poking me with your notebook. Please respect the armrest as an invisible cootie barrier. You are ruining my life.


Love, but actually hate,

Kristin

Oh, the BYU

Here is a list of things I observed on campus today that made me chuckle and shake my head.

A seriel commenter (you know the type) in my religion class felt that he needed to go on a 5 minute rant about the history of fornication. Because, you know, he, being extremely well versed in the ways of the world as a 23 year old BYU student, felt that he needed to augment my many-times published professor's lecture on First Thessalonians. Thank you for that, you fornication-crazed maniac.

Several students in my Infant Development class halted the progression of the slide show on human reproduction because they "....just didn't get how it worked." That would be understandable if this were say, the puberty lecture we all got in the 5th grade. But no. The maddeningly frequent questions were being asked by girls only a little bit younger than me who HAVE BEEN MARRIED FOR YEARS AND HAVE ALREADY BORN CHILDREN. I kid you not. Only at BYU.

Sometimes, I like to sit in the JFSB in front of the international studies office and watch the International news they have playing on three large flat-screen TVs. One channel was in Arabic, one was Japanese, and the third was tuned in to CNN. The Arabic channel was boring and didn't have any news anchors. Just a series of static pictures and crazy text. The Japanese channel was running a story on the oldest couple to ever complete a marathon. It was an 83 year old Japanese man and his 78 year old wife. They were the cutest little old runners ever. They were totally fit, and both sported hot-pink track suits. A sort of team uniform, if you will. And he totally wore a hot pink fanny pack. I think it is amazing that people SOOOO OLD can be so fit. And then there was CNN. Airing footage of Punxutawney Phil wriggling around in some presenter's hand. Apparently, PETA wants to replace the groundhog's day groundhog with a ROBOT because it's inhumane to keep a groundhog in captivity. Way to go, America. Your news is lame.

And of course. The BYU couple that looked like 10 year olds who were loitering in front of the vending machine while I was waiting to purchase a quick Fresca before class. He wouldn't stop kissing her, and she couldn't figure out HOW TO PUT THE MONEY IN THE MACHINE. Move it or lose it, babies. Mama needs some bubbley.

Go Cougs.

Oh Woe

My computer has been out of comission for a few days. This displeases me. Because I keep thinking of these excellent funny things to blog about but I have no way to release them into the blogosphere. And so the little ideas grow stale and now I don't even remember what any of them were about. If they come back to me, I will surely blog. Oh blog world, I've missed you. Take me back. I'll never leave you again.

Oh hey Ray J

First of all... why are there so many dirty nasty men in the world?

Second of all..... why do the worst of the worst get their own dating game shows? I saw a clip of one today.

Third of all, what kind of man hooks his potential girlfriends (as if the plural nature of the phrase "potential girlfriends" weren't bad enough) up to a polygraph?

Fourth of all, what exactly is the initial screening process for female contestants? I really don't think there is one. If there were, the girl questioned in the manner below would not have made it on. Hopefully.

One contestant answered "no" to all of the following questions:

"Do you have a current boyfriend?"

"Do you still do drugs?"      (Still?!?)

"Have you ever had a pimp?"       (asked in all seriousness)

She failed the polygraph test. Does it really matter which of those questions she was lying about?

EPIC FAIL

Oh no she Dih-ent.

I just got sassed by a customer service representative. That makes me BURNING mad. Do not get loud with me whilst you are telling me that you are going erase a fee as a ONE TIME COURTESY. I heard you the first time. And furthermore, it should be an EVERY time courtesy. I did not get loud with you. Don't try to tell me I KNEW you sneakily cancelled my automatic bill-pay to try to rack up some late fees. If you charge me a fee that I don't deserve, you better be clamouring to kiss up to me. I have been working in customer service for years. I know precisely how to make your life miserable. I will bring tears to your eyes.

I mean.

I would. If I weren't such a Christian woman.

Sick Nasty.

I got crop dusted today. Twice. Not familiar with the term?

crop dusting. verb. definition: Passing gas in a stealth manor, usually while walking through a crowd or a group, so that someone else gets blamed for the stench, or at the very least people besides the assailent must suffer it.

It is soooo much worse to get crop dusted when it is cold outside, because you can actually feel yourself passing through someone else's cloud. Woof.

Shocked and Appalled.

I cannot even believe this is real. Someone showed me this today and I seriously almost had a rage problem for a second. Elbows? Ya. Whatever. Slide tackles... they happen. But almost breaking someones neck with their own pony tail? I seriously sat there with my mouth open for like 5 minutes. We won. Put that in your pipe and smoke it you drunken witch.

Move Over, Swine Flu...

We have a far more dangerous and damaging epidemic on our hands amongst the male students at BYU. It is as vile and viral as they come. And yet, no one seems to be as concerned about it as I am. What is this mystery plague infecting our young men, you ask? Athlete's foot? Giardia? Leprosy? No. Worse:

MUSTACHES.

Dirty, nasty, stringly, fluffy, crumby, mustaches. "Moustaches." Cookie dusters. Soup strainers. Misplaced eyebrows. Stalker 'staches. Face fungus.

Why? WHYYYYYY?

This is my theory: BYU men are not allowed to grow beards. It's against the dress and grooming standards of the honor code. Therefore, they feel that mustaches are an appropriate outlet for expressing their manly capabilities to grow facial hair. They are sorely mistaken.

Mustaches make me want to hurl. And no. They don't look good on anyone. And I am not typically a hater of facial hair.

For example: Take an extremely good looking man. Add the following:

A goatee? Fine.

Sideburns? Excellent.

Manly scruffiness? Superb.

But a mustache?

Woof.

WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?

You have made a beautiful man into an atrocity. Adding a weird patch of lip hair to a handsome face (or ANY face, for that matter) is a recipe for disaster. Lets take a look at the famous evil men in history who have rocked a mustache, shall we?

Hitler.

Sadam Hussein.

Captain Hook.

And basically, every sex offender that ever lived.

Need I go any further? I think not. Please, be responsible. Grow some sideburns. Forget to shave for a couple days. But I beg of you.... do not, under any circumstance, grow a mustache. The consequences are always severe.

Attention Deficit Disorder

I am sending murder vibes to everyone who is yackety yacking in the library right now. I'm in my favorite place to study, but I can't focus because it sounds like feeding time on monkey island. Once upon a time, the middle section of the main floor of the HBLL was a quiet, calm, lovely place to fill my brain with knowledge. NOW... it is covered with these signs:



And filled with chatty Cathys.

HATE HATE DOUBLE HATE. LOOOOOOOOATHE ENTIRELY.

I wish that sign said.... "No BULL SHHHH! Zone"

This is not doing anything to boost my mood, which could use some substantial boosting considering the earlier events of today. Let us start from the very begining.

I was 10 minutes late to my favorite class this morning, and really, really sweaty after walking up the stairs and ramp south of campus. I had to scoot my sweaty self into one of the only open seats in the front row. The girl next to me had total poo breath and I wanted to pass away every time she moved. I really hope it was her breath...

After class I started to make my way from campus up to the Morris center for work, which is about a 10 minute walk. Its usually not too bad, but the skirt I was wearing insisted on scrunching and sliding northward whilst swirling around so that the zipper was all skiwampus and not in the center where it was supposed to be. I literally had to hold it in place all the way to the office. I probably looked like I was trying not to poo my pants. I was relieved to be able to sit down at work and relax.


Until. UNTILLLLLL.....


I felt like I wanted some chocolate milk. I love chocolate milk. It is delectable. We have it in our vending machine in the break room, and I was really excited to drink it. I bought some and as I made my way back to my desk I proceeded to shake it up. I hadn't even opened it yet, and out of nowhere the cap flew off and I sloshed chocolatey goodness all up all over myself as I sat down. It was in my hair. All over my desk. All over my face. All over my neck and down my shirt. All over my arms. All over the outside of my shirt. All over my work phone. All over my backpack. All over the cubicle. In my eyes. I looked like a chocolate swamp thing.

Trying not to draw any attention to myself, I got up and walked briskly to the bathroom, got some paper towels, dried my face off, and hurried back to my desk to clean it off before my computer shorted out from being covered with liquid chocolate.

I sopped up as much of the chocolate puddle on my desk as I could before anyone could see, but hours later I still had tell tale brown splotches all over myself. Like unto this one on my shoulder:

I wish the lighting in this picture were better so that you could see how much dried chocolate milk I had down the right side of my face and hair. (Your Left) It really doesn't do justice to my chocolatey dampness at all. Well, I mean, my clothes stayed wet but my hair definitely dried into a crunchy chocolate shell.

I totally just lost my train of thought. Oh yes. So after my milky mishap I sat in wet milky clothes for the rest of my shift. It was awesome. And when I say awesome, I mean that I smelled like a rotten fudgesicle.

I am in no mood for any late night library shenanigans. If the freshies behind me do not shut their yaps in a about 5 seconds, I am going to LOSE MY FREAKING MIND. Like Andy Bernard.

Also, I just found some more chocolate in my hair.

I know why they call it a fly...

They call it a fly because my pants have an unwavering tendency to FLY open when I walk. So, I had to tape them closed with scotch tape once I got to work. Not all my pants, just one pair of work pants. It sounds a little bit like I'm wearing a diapy when I move. In these days of health following a skinny summer, I have become somewhat more substantial in the area of my bodacious hips. I'm still fly, but my fly likes to fly.

Also, I saw this guy on campus and I had to take a picture of him....


Your eyes do not deceive you. He is wearing under armor, basketball shorts, khaki shorts, dress shoes, dress socks, and a backward winter coat. It was not even cold, and he is not allergic to the sun.

Edumacation Week

Education Week = EFY for old people, minus the T-shirts and cheering, and hopefully minus the dances. Shudder.

During education week, BYU is FLOODED with old ladies and a few old men. This would be okay if it were confined to campus. But no. I went out to lunch yesterday to Zupas, which is my favorite place to eat lunch EVER... and there was a herd of grannies clogging up the line. And every granny was saving a spot in line for 5 of her granny girlfriends, and the tables all had purses and jackets put on them to save their spots. I love old ladies. They are fun. But NOT in quanities large enough to force this poor young man to share a table with 5 geriatric strangers.

The poor little lamb. Those ladies cut in front of me in line. 3 of them. And none of them knew what they wanted. And they kept asking to taste everything, and asking for extra non-fat poppyseed dressing... and on and on and on.

All I ever wanted was a turkey bacon avacado panini.

I loooove pooping in the shower.

Oh wait. No, no I do not enjoy doing that. But I loooooove coming home from Disneyland and seeing that the new home owners rearranged my room for me.

They were even nice enough to tell me where they hid my bedding.

And I am especially excited to be able to cook my food in the uninstalled oven which is in the living room. After I take it out of the unplugged fridge. Which is also in the living room. Next to my washer and dryer.

But the very best thing of all, is the fact that there are no blinds up in my whooole apartment. So I have to army crawl if I'm not dressed before the sun comes up. Joy. Boundless joy.

Dirty dirty

Dear dirty pervert,

You have a gross mustache, and you are short. I was just trying to be polite by saying "hi" in passing. Didn't your mother ever teach you that it is impolite to stare? Especially if you link the awkwardly prolonged eye contact with an inquiry as to an individuals price. I am not a hooker. Do not ask me "how much" I am. Do not circle me like a buzzard as I walk by. And get your hand off your dirty goatee encrusted chin. Pull that shh again and I will destroy your manhood.

Hate,

Kristin.

Okay.

Lets talk about singles wards in Provo, shall we? My ward is awesome. There are a ton of nice girls and a bunch of non-lame guys. I like my ward a ton. And we get to meet in this cute little building!

That being said. Lets talk about the intricacies of seating in the chapel of a singles ward. In the BYU dating world, where you sit during church often flags your avaiability to prospective daters. As lame as it sounds, it is kind of true. Let me enlighten you:

• If you are sitting by only your roommates, you are not dating anyone in the ward.
• If one boy is sitting with you and your roommates, you are either engaged to that boy, or you are just friends with that boy. Easily determined by the presence of an engagement ring.
• If you are sitting by your roommates and several boys, you MAY be casually dating one of those boys.
• If you are sitting by boys and NOT by your roommate, you are either A) not friends with your roommate or B) you are dating one of those boys.
• And finally, if you are a girl, sitting by a boy and all of his roommates, without an of your roommates, and the boy has his arm around you, you are exclusively dating that boy, and any other guy who tries to date you will have to deal with the said boy AND his roommates.
  

Therefore:

If I am not dating you, do not surround me with your roommates and/or put your arm around me for any period of time during Sacrament Meeting. You just took me off the market without my consent. Not cool. But you did smell good, and you are really good looking, so whatever.



That is all.

Pet Peeve

I am severely underimpressed with guys who try really hard to impress girls with their guitar skills. It is one thing to share your talents. It is another thing to try to woo every passing female with your talents. Especially, say, in an office setting. That is all.

The Girl All the Bad Guys Want

Does anyone remember that song by Bowling for Soup? It is epic. Well, I was reminded of its existence this morning when I got hollered at by a construction worker on my way to the office. Let's revisit the one of the best / worst days of gym class during my sophomore year of high school. Come along with me, on a magical journey.

(cue the wiggly screen and dream sequence harp music)

Once upon a time at dear old Davis High School, I had to take "fit for life"... You know. The gym class lovingly referred to as "fit for death" and "run for you life" by all the ill fated underclassman who abandoned hope, all those who entered the field house.

I rarely ever wore shorts to gym class, because I was ashamed of my white legs and bodacious hips. But one week toward the end of the school year it was soo blazingly hotter than hades that I had no choice.

Most of our class time this fateful day was spent out on the track. We had a scheduled 25 minute run during which we were not allowed to stop to walk or take a rest. Jogging for 25 minutes? Anyone who knows me knows that this is not my style. I would rather exercise by riding a bike or playing sports. I truly believe that running is only good for running for your life, so I try to avoid it at all costs. My fastest mile run on record in the history of the world was 9 minutes flat, even as a spry young 8th grader. You can imagine the kind of mood I was already in when minute 15 rolled around.

My pace was always crazy slow and I rarely jogged along side anyone else. So there I was, just trudging away on the track in my seldom worn gym shorts all by my white self when I heard a raucous group of boys coming up behind me. They were lapping me for the 2nd time. Right as they passed me the ring leader of the idiot troop asked in a less than subtle voice:

"Who is that girl?! .... Look at her butt jiggle!"

I kid you not. This was not a kid I had ever been fond of, EVER, because he bullied shy awkward people. Even shy awkward adults and old people. I gave him a piece of my mind probably once a week, but this time I was seriously dumb founded. By the time I thought of something equally rude to say to him he was already 50 yards in front of me, and I'd be darned if I started sprinting to say even one word to the jerk. So I just let it pass.

I kept on running for the rest of the period and tried to will my bum to stop jiggling, but to no avail. I went in to the locker room and changed back into my regular clothes after class as always, but this time I was very aware of my bodily imperfections. After I changed I didn't try very hard to redo my makeup or fix my hair because the self confidence gods were already frowning on me that day. Frowning and shooting spit wads.

Defeated and thirsty, I quickly walked out of the locker room into the commons room in the "old" Davis High building to get a drink. Unluckily for me, I was going to have to walk straight through a clearing in the commons area most commonly inhabited by the most obnoxious senior guys ever, because they had long ago dibsed ALL the benches around the drinking fountain for themselves.

(Pause dream sequence... wiggly picture, harp music)

Back to the song. It's crucial to the ending of this story. Please take a moment to view the music video, courtesy the Tube of You (and the weird kid who decided to add the lyrics. Whatever. It suits my purpose magnificently.)

And it really isn't a fake video, it just takes a second to start.



Anyway. Now that the lyrics are fresh in your head. I'll finish my story.

(Resume dream sequence.)

So there I was, a single girl bravely taking a risky walk through a room filled with jack-aces. Most of the girls were still in the locker room because they were trying to un-sweaty themselves, but there were plenty of guys lined up against the walls everywhere. As I passed through this gauntlet of self consciousness toward the drinking fountain, it got really quiet, and some guy dramatically belted out the following words:



"... And when she waaaaaaalks.... all the wind blows annnnd the Angels Siiiiingggg......!!!"


But no one laughed or made any kind of negative comment about my posterior. I finished getting my drink and walked away, my head a little higher than it had been on the way out of the locker room. If ever there were a confidence booster, that was the best one I had ever heard.

And so, it was one of the best/worst days of my life for my confidence/self consciousness ever. Thank you, dirty construction worker, for reminding me of this memorable treasure of an experience.

Ting Tang, Walla walla Bing Bang

So. My tummy has a heart beat, which would be awesome if I were like, with child. But I'm not. I have had the weirdest pain in my side for a month and I don't know if the doctors just think I'm making it up or what. They keep doing tests but then they wait a week to tell me that they couldn't find anything wrong. It wouldn't be so bad if I were getting better. But I'm getting worse. I think they are just hoping that if they ignore me the pain will go away. Nice plan Stan. Meanwhile, I am lucky if I can eat one meal a day, and if I lay perfectly still in my bed and take Tylenol I can sleep at night sometimes. Last time I checked, WebMD tells you to seek medical attention immediately if you are experiencing throbbing abdominal pain.

So, I have sought out medical attention and they do not have a clue what to do with me. What do I do now? If Dr. House were a real person he would have already insulted me and cured me WEEKS ago. And Dr. Chase would have flirted with me shamelessly because I am just that good looking.

So who else would know what's wrong? Mr. Body? You know.. that guy who had a show on PBS. He wore a bodysuit with all of his internal organs diagramed on the outside. I'm sure he would know. Apparently his name was Mr. Goodbody. Shudder.

He deserves two pictures. I think what creeps me out MOST is that his body suit has attached toes and gloves. Blegh.

Another option: Ms. Frizzle. She could just drive her little magic school bus into my digestional tract and tell me what's wrong.

Or possibly Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman. But she is underqualified, fictional, and unavailable.

Or I could go to a witch doctor. Except when I told Nicole that idea she said, and I quote:

"A shaaman, if you will. They scare the ghosts out of you by rubbing a dead guinea pig on you from your head to your toes. Do you REALLY wanna go that route?"

No. I do not. But at this point I am ready to just show up at the emergency room and tell them that there is an alien growing inside of me that they need to remove. STAT.