Here's a Fun Fact...

Confession: I am a major nerd (also a dork - yes, there's a difference), and I'm proud of it.

I've always been relatively nerdy/dorky, but I've been especially letting my nerd flag fly lately. I suppose it started one day when I was contemplating a couple of nerdy tee shirts that I own and my general love for that sort of thing. As it often does (or use to, anyway) a little voice in my head pushed through and reminded me that I'm nearly 26 years old and need to act my age. I usually try to be somewhat mature in the presence of people I don't know well, and for some reason I've had this idea that being 25 is somehow beyond the reach of being young and crazy. Yes, in many ways, 25 is a ripe age for being adult and self reliant, but here's the thing: only in Utah is 25 considered an age to fully grow up. It's really easy to get caught up in the fact that the majority of my graduating (high school) class is married with multiple children and consider myself an old maid who needs to start planning the rest of her life.

Anyway, I realized that I'm still really young, and that means that I can very much get away with being a nerd, including the wearing of crazy tee shirts. This is my official "nerdclaration": I am a nerd. I love anything related to old school NES and Star Wars (the originals - not much for the new ones). I watch Bones, Castle, and Chuck. I pick apart grammar and punctuation (I guess we always knew I was that kind of nerd). I analyze things in TV shows, and I'm a 'shipper. I'm constantly quoting movies and TV shows, and I have an appreciation for all things 80's pop culture. I know enough random facts to do pretty decently while watching Jeopardy! I bought a pair of big nerd glasses, just for fun. I even have a nerdy twitter name: nerdcissistic (follow me if you like). This is a big part of my personality that I've been hiding from a lot of people because I was afraid they would think I was a weirdo, but I don't so much care anymore.

So now you all know. My nerdiness has been exposed to the world :)

Update

It occurs to me that it's been nearly two months since I last blogged, and so here I am, type-typing away, to rectify that.

I can't quite say that I've been busy, per se, though I have recently taken part in such activities as going to Nashville for my brother's law school graduation and having a job interview where I waited on a bench that I was too short for (feet, high heels and all, dangled in the tense pre-interview air). Also exciting: I'll soon be heading for Missouri to attend my friend's wedding (in the Nauvoo temple!). I'm really looking forward to seeing Suzanne after so long, and also to go on this exciting adventure with my friend, Nikki.

At the same time, I've been a little bit less busy than usual. For nearly eight years, I've been the girl who dutifully attended every single ward prayer, Family Home Evening, and any other activity that my ward at the time happened to plan (not that anyone was forcing me to attend; I really did enjoy ward activities). After starting at a new ward a few months ago, however, I realized that I was a little burned out of the whole ward social scene. I've changed wards twice in the past year, each time leaving behind a group of friends and a boy or two with whom I had been attempting to build at least a friendly relationship in hopes that it would go somewhere. I was tired of having to start over again, tired of trying to make and keep everyone in the ward as friends, tired of trying to build up the courage to talk to guys in an attempt to get a date, and tired of trying to keep up with all the ward gossip of who was dating whom. So this time, I opted out.

Now, I know what you're thinking: "Michelle, this isn't healthy! You're missing out on so much, and you'll never get yourself married off this way!" I am aware of these things. I'm not planning on sitting on the sidelines forever; I just need a break. I need some time to go to church for the sole sake of going to church.

I discovered that I had a friend in the ward from a previous ward, who introduced me to her friends in the ward, and that's all the social business that I need for now. I go to church to feel the Spirit, take the Sacrament, and learn about the gospel. The end. And I like it.

Now, lest you all band together to stage some sort of intervention, I assure you that this isn't a forever decision. If all goes well, I'll soon get a new job and move again into my own apartment, and I fully intend to socialize in whichever ward I end up. Conversely, if I still don't have a new job by the time school is back in and my current ward is no longer combined with another for the summer, I'll make an effort to reach out and be more social.

So there you have it. There's no need to worry for me; I just need a break.

Two Television Shows and a Celebrity Crush

Confession: as I am not personally acquainted with any Hollywood actors, I find myself inclined to form my perception of their personalities based on the parts that they play. Excellent example: John Heder in "Napoleon Dynamite". I mean, seriously. Can you really watch that guy in anything else without picturing him in moon boots and giant glasses, saying things like "Why don't you get out of my life and shut up?" or "Just listen to your heart, Pedro. That's what I do." Of course, for this reason, John Heder has just so happened to play several very similar parts. This is called typecasting, and it makes life difficult for some of us. Think about it: any time I see Harrison Ford, I expect him to be a dashing hero. Colin Firth: the very picture of decorum. And Will Ferrell? Let me just say that watching "Stranger than Fiction" was a strange experience for me.

I'm facing a situation such as this as a result of two television shows that I've recently been watching. The first is "Chuck". As some of you are aware, I have a *bit* of a celebrity crush on Zachary Levi. It started when I heard him singing "Terrified" with Katharine McPhee, and increased as I watched the first three seasons of "Chuck". Having reached the end of available discs on Netflix, I began perusing the website for another show to try and discovered "Less Than Perfect". I remembered that I'd always wanted to watch the show when it was on, and since I love Sarah Rue and, bonus!, the cast included Zachary Levi, I decided to give it a go. As I watched the show, however, I realized something: Zachary Levi's character, Kipp, is not much like Chuck...at all. Kipp is narcissistic and arrogant, whereas Chuck is charming in a low-key kind of way. Worst of all, Kipp is mean! He is constantly mocking other characters on the show.

Herein, my friends, lies the danger of typecasting. No matter what Kipp said (or how ridiculous his haircut was), I found myself thinking, "But he's Chuck and we love him!". Sympathizing with Kipp led to other unlikely thoughts, such as initially disliking the characters that the audience is supposed to side with, and finding myself identifying with the mean girl because she's friends with Kipp. Crisis of conscience, people!

Fear not, dear readers, I eventually calmed the confused frenzy in my mind and managed to see things as they were. Having made this very important adjustment, I can now enjoy the show as an impartial viewer...except that I have secret hopes that Sarah Rue and Zachary Levi's characters will get together...pretty sure that won't happen, though.

On the other hand...

Confession: sometimes, I tend to be a tad unobservant. I don't know why that is; I guess that I get so caught up in my thoughts that I don't pay attention to everything that's going on around me.

Case in point: yesterday I somehow managed to get all the way to work without noticing that one of the lenses in my sunglasses had popped out. I guess there's a chance that the lens was in for part of the time...but that would mean that I missed it falling out, so still not good.

I discovered the sad state of my sunglasses on my way into the building. A co-worker happened to call out "hello" behind me just as I was passing the front doors, and as I turned to return the greeting, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the glass. There was only one lens remaining in my sunglasses! Shocked, I commented on it to my co-worker, who remarked that she had thought I was wearing an eye patch.

I guess this balances out the whole "smart kid" thing from my last post...

"Who would want to take pictures of ugly children?" "The UCTA, that's who!"

Confession: my younger brother and I were smart kids. I'm not bragging or anything; we just were. Some kids were good at sports, others were great musicians. Bret and I were smart. We imagined elaborate story-lines when playing Barbies and action figures (a clever boy-girl compromise) and thought up, and in one case typed up, complex rules for our own games.

What I share with you today is one of the glowing moments of growing up with my little brother: the Ugly Child Talent Agency, or UCTA (which can be spelled out or pronounced "ook-tuh", with the double "o" like in cook and a bit of a guttural sound on the "k"). The creation, or rather realization of the existence of, this infamous agency was on this wise: I'm not exactly sure how old we were at the time; my sister posits that she was about five, which would put Bret and myself at 8 and 10, respectively. Bret could not remember, and so fell back on case law lingo: "since time immemorial". Anyhow, my brother and I were discussing one day the proliferation of ugly children in movies. Think about it. "Mary Poppins", "Chitty Chitty Bang Bang", "Bedknobs and Broomsticks". All ugly children. (Also all British children. We believe the UCTA specializes in the representation of British children, though they are by no means the whole of their agency.)

It occurred to us that perhaps there was an agency of sorts that set these....aesthetically challenged children up with lucrative film roles. How else would children such as these make their way into such potentially endearing parts? The UCTA is the only solution. Throughout the years, whenever Bret or I see a less than attractive child featured in film or television, we feel compelled to remark to one another, "Looks like the UCTA is hard at work in this film". And so it is.

So here's to you, UCTA, and your continual promotion of the children that the world has looked over.

Back off, Lumberjack!

Confession: I apparently suffer from a slight case of masklophobia: fear of mascots.

I was reminded of this fact while having lunch with a friend on campus today. I noticed my friend glance behind me and turned to see what she was looking at. Pressed against the window (not right behind me, but across the room) was a giant lumberjack! Well, giant as in a regular-sized person dressed in khakis and a flannel shirt and wearing a giant lumberjack head, complete with scruffy faux-hair and a funky lumberjack hat. I felt a twinge of fear, but calmed myself, knowing that the mascot could not confront me from outside. A minute later, however, I heard heavy steps behind me, and my friend warning me not to look behind me, before the lumberjack walked by, holding a large poster. Grateful that I had not been accosted by the giant wood-cutter, I suggested to my friend that we get going before it made a round trip back to our table. We walked away, only to see another lumberjack further down the hall! They were ganging up on me! When we made a second pass on our way out, my friend graciously walked on the side of the hall closest to the terror. I found myself actually exhibiting physical signs of fear: my heart rate increased, my stomach flipped around, and I was very nearly visibly shuddering. Not good.

This was not my first experience in on-campus mascot terror. A few years back, while studying in one of the campus lounges, a giant red blood drop came up and grabbed my arm, using a gloved finger to tap the place where the blood-drivers would extract my blood donation. It freaked me out! I said something about how I had to go to class soon, and the blood drop left me alone. It's not like you can make much of an argument when you can't say anything.

This leads me to my first reason that mascots/people dressed in costumes covering their heads creep me out. They can't say anything for fear of "breaking character", they're always pantomiming, and, quite frankly, mimes creep me out too. I then find myself awkwardly wondering if I'm supposed to say anything to mascots. Their hearing is probably impaired by the giant plastic heads, and they can't answer anyway! And where do I look while talking? Their "eyes"? Where I suppose their actual eyes might be? Where?! And, speaking of eyes, where are they looking? I mean, are they secretly leering at me, thinking that since I can't see them it exempts them from social mores? Did the mascot get their job as a cover for their perverted ogling, staring at people all day while no one is the wiser? Do mascots have to submit to a background check before donning the mask to avoid such behavior? So many creepy things to consider.

On the other side of things.... I happen to love Disneyland, where costumed characters run amok through the park. I do admit to feeling slightly awkward around them, for sure, but I'm definitely not creeped out. I suppose it's because we expect them to be there, rather than them sneaking up on you, and because the Magical Kingdom isn't really the type of place at which you expect to be leered at...towards... Anyway...

So there it is: terrified of lumberjacks and blood drops. Friend of Mickey and Minnie.

The end.

Snow, Wheels, and a Pair of Heels

Today I present to you a tale of risk, a tale of adventure, a tale...of a journey to a job interview. Yesterday I left my home to find my car covered in snow from the storm the previous evening. Quickly, I swept the snow off my windshields, telling myself that the snow on top would most likely blow off on the road. Little did I know...

I arrived at a stop light and came to a complete stop. Suddenly, my vision was obscured, and then completely cut off, as the snow from the roof of my car came cascading down onto my windshield. Thoonk thoonk thoonk. Panicked, I quickly switched my wipers on to their highest speed in an attempt to clear my field of vision. The wiper blades were able to clear off the windshield, but there still remained a looming mound of snow on the hood of my car, denying me a clear view of the road. I made it through the intersection, but quickly realized that I wouldn't feel safe driving the remainder of the way with the vast amount of snow remaining on my car.

Reluctantly, I pulled my car over to the side of the road (enduring more cascading thoonks as I once again came to a stop) and exited the vehicle, ice scraper/snow brush in hand. I did pretty well on the driver's side, but as I moved to clear off the passenger side, I realized that I had a major problem: the side of the road that I was approaching was a tad slickish and sloped down into a ditch filled with gross, dirty water. I briefly considered getting back into my car and calling it good, but as the majority of the snow was, in fact, on the passenger side, I knew I had no choice but to brave the perils of slick road and muddy water. Did I mention I was in 4 inch heels?

Slowly, I made my way to the other side of my car, grasping to the front of my hood with one hand while brushing off all the snow that I could. Seeing that my car was nearly cleaned off, I dared to move a little further, but I slipped and nearly fell (my shoes weren't much in the way of traction), so the wise choice seemed to be getting back into my car. Having done this, I went on my merry way to the interview, to which I was still able to arrive on time.