"It's like drinking a spice cabinet."

Current Music: That Thing You Do! -- The Wonders

I propose that everyone start incorporating the word “frate” into their vocabularies. Starting now.

Freight? you may be asking. As in, a type of train?

No. Frate. As in “friend date.” As in “social event between a guy and a girl that would generally be categorized as a 'date,' except for the fact that both parties involved know that their feelings for each other are mutually platonic.”

It could clear up so much confusion.

Scenario 1:

Strapping Young Man decides that he wants to take Noble Lady to the company Christmas party, as everyone is expected to have a date, and if a man even thinks about showing up solo, he'll be the laughingstock of the office for the next year.

Strapping Young Man: “Noble Lady, would you like to accompany me to the company Christmas party so I don't become the butt of all the jokes for the next twelve months?”
Noble Lady: “It would be a privilege to join you! But before we discuss the particulars, I must inquire as to your intentions. Is this a date or is it a frate?”
SYM: “Definitely a frate.”
NL: “Excellent. I will take care to abstain from overanalyzing your every move at the party, then.”
SYM: “That would be most appreciated. I'll pick you up at 7:00.”

Scenario 2:

Blushing Young Woman returns home from an evening spent in the company of Loyal, Strong and True Cougar Fan Man, whom she thought she could have been interested in at one time, though it was too soon to tell.

Roommates: “Blushing Young Woman! How was the date?”
Blushing Young Woman: “Well, it was fun, but it felt more like a frate to me.”
Roommates: “Too bad. Let us peruse the ward selectory for future targets.”

And so forth. If "frate" became common enough, Virtuous Maidens with Hookups to Free Tickets to Events in the Harris Fine Arts Center Because of Her Job just might be able to invite her male friends to join her without sending mixed signals.

So spread the word.

"He sounds short." -- Nina

I think I have fibers of dental floss stuck in my teeth.

Oh, the irony . . .

Happy birthday, Heather!

Highlight of the day: Presenting Heather with a birthday card that read something like this:

(on the front): I wanted to get you For A Special Guy on Your Birthday

(inside): May your every wish be already on the way! Happy Birthday. Dinner will have to wait. He's coming at 5:40. Love, Jennifer. P.S.  I suggest you wear jeans.

Few times have I heard her scream so shrilly.

She's out on a motorcycle ride right now.

Sister of the Year Award? Why, thank you. I accept. :)

"Just smile into the carpet!"

I don't know what you're talking about. I definitely did not run a Starburst through the dryer, and I certainly didn't contemplate tasting the melted morsel for .04 seconds before tossing it in the trash.

Erm, I mean, ::shifts eyes::, what Starburst?

"As little as one pound of [bread] dough can be used to suffocate a mouse."

In the spirit of sharing way too much information on the internet, despite the fact that I'm not entirely certain who reads this, let me say this:

Oh, gross! My scalp is peeling!

This'll teach me to wear a hat to the football games.

"Check out my armpits!"

Now that I have partaken of some sustenance, I can share the story I've wanted to tell since 1:40 this afternoon. Are you all at the edges of your seats? Good.

Today, I took The Challenge. I've taken The Challenge before (haven't I told you that story? No? Ask me about it sometime -- it's hilarious.), and I just had to take it again today, because it was going to fulfill one of my childhood dreams. Plus, the Powers That Be were going to throw in a free t-shirt to sweeten the deal, and we all know how I can't pass up one of those. (And it's actually a free t-shirt that I might even wear in public! Those are few and far between.)

I suppose I'm being a bit vague. Allow me to explain: Every semester (I assume), BYU sponsors an Accessibility Awareness Week, in which students spend two hours with a disability, such as using a wheelchair, or wearing an eye patch, or having their hand taped up so they can't use it. When I participated winter semester, I chose the wheelchair.

This time around, I knew that the crutches would be my disability of choice.

You see, when I was a wee tot, I was envious of all the kids who had to use crutches because all of the other kids were especially nice to them and wanted to be their friend. I used to jump off the slide in an attempt to twist my ankle so I could use crutches, too, but all that did was hurt my feet and get grass stains on my knees.

So today was my chance to use crutches, once and for all. And let me tell you, it was not nearly as fun as my six-year-old brain imagined it would be.

Part of the problem is that this particular set of crutches was made for individuals taller than myself. Even adjusting the legs to the shortest setting made it so they would accommodate an individual that was 5'10".

I'm 5'8" -- on a good day.

Cramming the crutches into my armpits, I set off to do one of the tasks -- going down a flight of stairs. Never mind the fact that my backpack was about 85 thousand pounds today (note: if you're going to hobble around on crutches, do not pack your laptop, a large book, and a set of scriptures -- and we're not talking about any small-print fun-size set of scriptures, either; this is the full-size quad of goodness -- into your backpack. It will only cause you grief.). I could suddenly see why they had me sign a release form. With my luck, a real broken leg or possibly even death was a possibility.

Five minutes later (pathetic? Yes.), I managed to maneuver my way to a couch to do a bit of studying. Already, my armpits were protesting the abuse. I told them to suck it up and I set about my business.

After I had recovered sufficiently (read: a long time), I decided I should tackle the second part of the task and go up a flight of stairs. This intention was quickly dashed when I realized I would have to raise the crutches another 4-6 inches to go up a single step, a feat that was rendered physically impossible, as I would've had to raise the crutches through my shoulders, and there's quite a bit of flesh, bone, and sinew that got in the way. So I retreated and took the elevator instead.

In the end, I spent way more time studying than I did using the crutches. Was I a whanny? Perhaps. But I have the battle wounds of a warrior now -- my underarms are marked with nasty red lines even four hours after I returned the crutches.

I don't think I've ever had welts there before.

"I've never pooped a party." -- Cari

Late night facials: yet another reason why having roommates is amazing.

And now my face is fresh, smooth, and kissably soft. Except for maybe the kissable part and the part where I still have chunks of -- I'm not quite sure . . . facial? -- in my eyebrows.

"Remember that time I wrote cream, comma, ice on our shopping list?" -- Me

The second I smashed my finger in a bathroom door at work yesterday, I knew it wasn't going to be any ordinary Monday.

Well, that's not quite true. The second I smashed my finger in the door, I probably thought some exclamation of pain, such as "Yowch!" or "Ow!" or "Papapishu!" I didn't know it wasn't going to be any ordinary Monday until a few seconds after the incident occurred and the initial pain subsided.

I was not to be disappointed.

First, I had the thrill of riding around in the back of a golf cart from the central building at Wyview to the apartment building we were cleaning. Since I was the second-to-last person to hop in, I had the premium opportunity to choose my seat: on top of a telephone, conveniently padded with a questionable-looking scrap of cloth that barely passed as a sweatshirt, or on top of utensils and other sharp, pointy objects.

I chose the telephone.

Curled up in the back of the golf cart, twisted like a pretzel, in a space that even Genie would've found cramped, I clung to the side of the cart and hoped that we wouldn't catch air when we flew over the speed bumps. What a rush.

Then, at my second job at the HFAC, I was given a special assignment to clean all of the drinking fountains before performing my usual duties. Now, this may not seem very exciting to the average Joe, but when you consider my daily tasks (Check bathrooms. Vacuum. Clean glass doors. Dust mop. Lather, rinse, repeat for four hours), it was almost refreshing to clean drinking fountains for a change. Almost.

For FHE last night, we played inner tube water polo. Granted, I was not exactly feeling very keen on it at the beginning ("don't boys know that girls need more than 15 minutes notice if they're going to have to shave before an activity?"), but it was a lot more fun than anticipated. It was a lot more tiring than anticipated, as well. As such, when my roommate Karlie and I -- the only two girls who participated -- weren't busy distracting the men with our feminine charm, splashing around and making waves, and cleverly throwing the ball toward invisible targets nowhere near the goal or where any other teammates were, we were content to just hang onto our inner tubes, float around, and breathe much more heavily than is socially acceptable.

(Okay, I have to give Karlie some props. She was actually pretty good at making goals. I made a couple of goals, too, but I think that's because the goalie was starting to feel sorry for me or something.)

So there you have it.

(Insert snappy conclusion here.)

"Men should be like Kleenex: soft, strong, and disposable." -- Mrs. White

Heather: "If I get five hits on the paddleball in a row right now, I don't have to do homework anymore."
Me: "Um . . . 'kay."
Heather: "If I get seven hits on the paddleball, you don't have to do homework anymore either."
Me: "Riiight."
::Heather attempts to paddleball::
Heather: "DARN!!! I only got one!"

"Do my legs look any shaplier today?"

Hear ye, hear ye:

I'm about to share possibly too much information over the Internet that you probably definitely don't need to know, but are going to read about anyway, because let's face it, how can you not be intrigued by a lead like that?

::clears throat::

I've recently noticed that my hands alternate between getting moderately sweaty and super, super dry (as in, to the point of peeling and looking leprous). This may not present a huge problem right now, but imagine what will happen the first time a gentleman caller tries to hold my hand!

Option 1: His hand will slip out of mine, as if our hands were coated in Vaseline or something. I will furtively wipe my hands on my jeans and hope he tries again, but he'll probably be too grossed out and will never speak to me again. Lose 10 points.

Option 2: He will be shocked and appalled to discover the flakiness of my hands, and as I probably won't have any lotion on me (because that isn't the kind of item I regularly tote around), I will be unable to rectify the situation. He will find some excuse to let go of my hand and will never speak to me again. Go directly to jail, do not pass go, do not collect $200.

So you see, I'm in a bit of a pickle. Unfortunately, my hand dilemma does nothing to deter the creepy guy in my country dance class from caressing the backs of my hands whenever he dances with me.

Jibblie, jibblie, jibblie.

"You look like a salmon that hasn't been completely cooked." -- Heather

Never again will I fail to bring my Blistex with me to work. Never again, I say!

I thought I would be okay today. I thought that maybe I could break the addiction. I thought that I could get through a measly six hours without applying that luscious lubricant to my lips.

I thought wrong.

By the end of work today, I would've given my left eyebrow for a tube of Blistex. And I don't make such statements lightly. I am, after all, rather partial to my left eyebrow. (The right one, on the other hand, is not quite as prized.)

Lesson learned. Tough stuff.

Airing out the dirty laundry . . .

I hope my pants don't fall apart today. While I'm wearing them.

Let me explain.

Last night, I realized that my laundry basket runneth over, and I should probably take care of the pile of clothes before it swallowed small children alive. So I put three loads in the wash, then came back to my apartment.

Then my roommates and I started interpretive dancing to Celine Dion and N'Sync, and it was a joyous occasion for all involved. I'm both a little disappointed and slightly relieved that some ridiculously attractive men didn't walk into our apartment as we were doing so.

Later, it was time to put my laundry into the dryer. However, two or three men were milling about the laundry room, and I didn't really fancy taking the time to find several available dryers and potentially exposing my underdrawers for all to see, so I shoved all three loads of laundry into one dryer as quickly as possible, and then ran off.

I assumed that I could always put another round of quarters in for a second cycle, but when the time came to do so, I couldn't find my trusty roll of quarters. So that plan was foiled. As I retrieved my clothes, I noticed that they were devastatingly damp. I pulled them out anyway and hung them up to finish air-drying.

I quickly ran out of hangers, however, so I started draping clothes over other things – the side of my laundry hamper, the top of my bedroom door, and some clothing rack of one of my roommates (Jessica's?) that I definitely used without asking. Whoops. And even then, my unpleasantly waterlogged socks just sat in a pile in the bottom of my laundry basket. I could do nothing more but cross my fingers and hope for the best.

Fast forward to this morning. I woke up to find that basically none of my clothes had dried overnight, much to my chagrin. I managed to pull out a mostly-dry shirt to wear, and then I poked around my freshly-washed jeans. One pair seemed to have dried fairly well, so I started to pull them on.

It was a LIE. There was no way in heaven I was going to wear that pair of jeans of my own free accord in my apartment, let alone in the 20 degree weather outside.

So I rummaged around my dresser drawers and pulled out a pair of jeans that I haven't worn in many moons . . . for good reason. This particular pair is getting dangerously threadbare in the general region between the legs, and I have lost more than one pair of jeans to holes in the same area. But I figured I would risk it anyway.

So that's how I came to be sitting in class, careful to keep my legs firmly clamped together . . . just in case.