Meg Muses

Those who know me personally are probably aware that I’ve been in the habit of sort of “adopting” various kids and teenagers. I’ve been happily married twice—which sounds funny, until I reveal that I was widowed at a relatively young age. Both of these good men were previously married, and had children that I came to know and love as if they’d been mine—even though they weren’t in my house full-time. I’ve step-mothered a grand total of seven kids: four girls, three boys. I also have an almost-three-year-old little girl with my husband.

When my first husband died, I only got to see his kids twice more: at the funeral, and when they came to get stuff from our home. This wasn’t by my choice, but because their mother had never liked me, had spent the years of my marriage systematically belittling her ex and his “fat wife” to not just the children, but to anyone whose social circles might happen to overlap with both of ours. Any attempt on my family’s part to communicate with the children after their father’s passing was met with hostility and barely-veiled threats.

To contrast, my second husband’s ex-wife has only ever been kind to me and about me to everyone, openly encouraging her children to love me and be happy about their father’s remarriage. We aren’t best friends, we don’t always agree on everything; but we are friendly, and we can come to an agreement on tough issues without animosity. The effect on these children’s mental health and self-concept is monumentally different than in the first case.

Why the background? It’s certainly not to air past grievances, though if you want to hear some wild “I thought that kind of thing only happened as a dramatic ploy in movies” stories, give me a shout. What this is about is, you might say I’ve become rather good at parenting other people’s children.

This is compounded by the fact that, by profession, I’m a teacher. It’s not the best-paying job for a person with a master’s degree, but I love it. I work at a school that is almost smack-dab in the center of Salt Lake County, Utah. I teach high school Spanish, but I’m also privileged to teach improv comedy theatre and coach an amazing team of comedic actors. I don’t expect Spanish to be everyone’s favorite class. It wasn’t mine when I was a teenager. But I build a rapport with my teenaged students that improves my life, and I believe it improves theirs. A lot of people that age don’t feel comfortable talking with their parents about their problems—not because of something wrong with the parents or the kids, but because they’re stretching into the independence of adulthood. I’ve become the trusted adult confidante for some vibrant adolescent people going through things nobody would want to.

I’ve taught in four different schools across two states: both public and charter, in Florida and Utah. I’ve taught at a high school, middle school, a K-8, and a K-12 (though the latter two have had me teach secondary kids only). I’ll be the first to admit, large groups of small children scare me. I adore my sass-bucket of a toddler, and have real love and affection for many children of friends and family members, but once you gather more than five of the really young ones together, I’m looking to skedaddle. My favorite group to teach is high schoolers, followed by middle schoolers. I personally believe that decent people who teach elementary school deserve a free pass straight to heaven.

With my high schoolers, they prefer for me to discipline with humor, even good-natured sarcasm. Yes, it exists. The secret is that they have to recognize that the snark is said with genuine affection and concern for their well-being. Because I have developed an easy-going balance of individuality, respect, and classroom rules that prevent violations of either, I rarely have large discipline issues crop up.

Being a teacher in Utah, which is the well-known capital of mormondom, comes with some interesting variations from the norm I came to know in Florida. In the interest of full disclosure, I am LDS, and have been my whole life. I was raised in a combination of states, birth through age 12 on the East Coast, then junior high through college in Utah. I remember living in the Bible Belt in my later childhood, and meeting people who’d never known a Mormon. My own sister had a close friend once that, when her family found out we were LDS, basically dropped all connection with us. I’ve had friends of other Christian faiths (yes, I do see myself as Christian, and no, I don’t accept your classification of me as not) who have sheepishly told me that their pastors have said some nasty things about my faith over the pulpit. Other friends whose primary knowledge of Mormons come from jokes on South Park, binge-watches of Big Love or Sister Wives, or the Book of Mormon musical. Of course, none of these accurately portray LDS doctrine, and mostly focus on lampooning the culture that has grown up around the religion.

But, bypassing the issues I have with entertainment that purposefully mischaracterizes anybody’s faith, there’s something that’s been on my mind as a student, and much later, a teacher in the Beehive State. When I moved here as an almost-teen, I had some major culture shock, HAVING GROWN UP MORMON. It was strange being one of many Mormon kids at school, hearing others in the halls talk about mutual or going to the temple, or any number of things at school. It was off-putting to me to see some of the same kids who were all mormony at church turn around and say and do some very non-mormony things at school. I often managed to find open-minded friends who were not really judgmental towards others (yeah, I write this after just passing judgment—my whole thing is, whatever you claim to believe, act it, and don’t be a jerk about it). Even as a young teenager, though, it BOILED MY BLOOD when people I knew excluded the non-LDS kids because they weren’t Mormon. And I totally called them on it when I saw it. Because I lived on the other side of that. My mom had it worse, and sometimes told me childhood stories of how kids at her school in South Carolina asked to feel her horns. I mean, our own Sunday School lessons often rehashed the histories of the early members of our faith being verbally abused, physically assaulted in various painful and dehumanizing ways, driven out of a string of places, and even martyred for being different. I wanted sometimes to just scream at people for being so sanctimonious that they couldn’t see how counterproductive it was to our claim of Christianity.

Calm down, Meg. It still makes me really angry, though I like to think it’s more along the lines of Jesus chasing the money-lenders out of the temple than along the lines of Herod being miffed at another king happening and ordering deaths as a result.

Back to the school where I teach. Overall, there have been a few factors that seem to have reduced bullying there greatly from the average school of that size. It still exists: wherever you have teenaged people on the path to self-discovery, you’ll find some whose insecurities drive their mean behavior towards others. But I have seen much less of it in our specific student population. We are also more diverse than your average Utah school. In many areas of the state, a visit to school will show you a bunch of white faces, with a tiny sprinkle of other other groups. This isn’t to say I don’t like white people or any other people, but having lots of different racial, cultural, and religious backgrounds represented is fun and fascinating to me. Humanity is this gorgeous mosaic, and the presence of so many shades of skin and eyes and hair, the scents of foods we call “comfort” and those we deem “exotic”, the songs inherent to the accents of the languages of the Earth...they all make it more beautiful.

I’ve heard kids of both LDS and non-LDS backgrounds bemoan ill treatment from the other side, and rightfully so. I’ve personally overheard some kids making the blanket statements of “all Mormons are...” That being said, it’s not nearly as common as the numerous stories of “they were my friends until it became clear I wasn’t interested in coming to church” from both students AND adults of my acquaintance.

It breaks my heart to think back on this week, hearing a mother recount to me how her daughter, a bright, talented, kind young woman, has been repeatedly marginalized by people who should be her friends on grounds of shared values, not passing acquaintances because she worships differently. Just like any mother, her tears were deep-seated, thinking back on the pain her beautiful child has endured from people who regularly consider themselves to be some of the nicest people in the world.

This is NOT a religious thing. It stands against all doctrine of which I’m aware. By being exclusive, by all these series of small unkindnesses, by being dismissive of those who don’t share ALL beliefs and values, you become for others what we’ve always denounced in the mobs that persecuted the early members of the church.

I’m a believer in the doctrine. The culture we’ve created surrounding it still needs work. I’m an LDS mother, but many of the kids I’ve “adopted” into my tribe as a teacher are not of my faith, and I’m asking you to take and apply Elder Uchtdorf’s words. Stop it. Please love “my” kids as friends for yours as much as you do those of our faith.

They are not a number to be added to our millions. They are not a problem to be solved. They are children of God who deserve to be loved, befriended, and accepted in their beliefs as much as your own children do.

Teaching Spanish can become an exercise in the absurd sometimes. Between the odd syntax and grammatical rules ("Whaaaa?! How can a table be feminine? And shoes are masculine?") and students complaining that this is nowhere as easy to learn as English was (well, duh, you've heard its cadences since you were in utero, short stuff), there's some real creativity that has to go into the educational process. And don't even get me started about having to teach supposedly educated middle schoolers things like what a noun and verb are. Does anyone else remember diagramming sentences in elementary school? I do. Maybe not the advanced stuff like direct and indirect objects, but at least nouns, verbs, and adjectives. 

So with my older students, I choose a very grammatical approach, because it helps them understand how to speak English well, too. And with the younger ones, it's pretty much a vocabulary-based system I use. I have some PowerPoints with cute-ish moving GIFs related to all the vocabulary words. I teach the vocab in small chunks, and we do A TON of listen-and-repeat so they can pronounce the words with a slightly less gringo-ish accent. 

I also like to help them connect phrases they've learned to real life situations. I recently started my kids on a set of vocabulary that involved a lot of the social niceties. Things like asking someone to wait, or saying "please" and "thank you". So for one class last week, I went through the phrases and asked students to brainstorm and share some situations that they might be able to use the phrases. The first class really enjoyed the activity, and they seemed to feel more secure about the subject. The second class, though… They showed a disturbing tendency toward becoming future sociopaths.

It sometimes starts with the quiet ones. This petite girl who has hardly spoken in class helpfully suggested that you could use "Por favor" as a way to ask your jailer to let you have your phone call. Which led a boy to say that if you were being chased by the cops, you could tell them to wait while you took a phone call using the word "Espere" (wait). He started this by speaking into an imaginary walkie-talkie on his polo shirt collar: "(static squawk) We've got a runner on Fifth Avenue!" Then there was my little straight-A student who suggested that you should never tell a creepy 40-year-old dude you were chatting online with "Vivo en…" (I live in) with an actual address. And so it continued. Petite Girl giving great ideas on how to be polite in the slammer or while robbing a bank, Walkie-talkie Boy making everything about things you could tell the police as you attempted to escape their grasp, and Straight-A kid reminding his fellow sixth graders that one should never say certain things to their much-older online friends. I did put a stop to it, but the class was honestly one of the strangest I've ever taught. And some of the suggestions, while bizarre, were actually situations in which the vocabulary would be useful.

I probably bring this kind of oddness upon myself. I do strange things and make tenuous, silly connections between the languages as ways to help kids' brains to absorb and maintain the info. I dutifully point out cognates (those words that are almost the same between two languages), make up rhymes, and teach songs. I also sort of secretly enjoy tweaking students' collective noses. Who am I kidding? It's not a secret.

I taught a new set of vocabulary the day after the future criminality was revealed. As I went through the words, I occasionally allowed my native Spanish-speakers to tell the other students what the words meant. They seem to love doing this--it's a chance to shine. I got to the phrase "No sé" (I don't know). So I said it in Spanish, had the kids repeat, and asked if anyone knew what it meant. One kid raised her hand and proudly proclaimed "I don't know!" I gave her a staged perplexed look and responded "Well, why'd you raise your hand then? Who can tell me what 'No sé' means?" Another kid who speaks Spanish at home raises his hand and says "I don't know." Again, I give a look. And ask for another volunteer who actually can tell me what that means. The last kid got wise and said "It means 'I don't know'." To which I nodded sagely. And smirked. Just a little bit.

A few more phrases. More normal call-and-repeat responses. We get to "Se me olvidó", which is Spanish for "I forgot". You can probably already see what I'm headed towards here. I ask for someone to tell the class what it means. A kid raises her hand and says "I forgot". I give her an annoyed look and snap back "But you just raised your hand!" I ask for another volunteer. Who does the same thing. This just could't get any better! The kid gives me an exasperated look, because she has gotten caught in this trap twice in one class! The third kid learns wisdom from the others' negative experience and says "It means 'I forgot'." This causes the class to laugh and nod at being had twice in five minutes. It also cements these two phrases in their brains, because they don't want to be tricked again. Mission accomplished.

I recently had the opportunity to meet up with a former Sunday School student of mine, as he had come to town to enter the Missionary Training Center the following day. It was gratifying to see that this young man (to whom I always applied the moniker of "Lone Y" due to his frequent status of being the only male in the 14-18-year-old class) was so excited to go forth and serve. It was also in the corner of my mind that I got to have a small part in his religious education, of course.

Being Mormon in Utah is rather like being Catholic in Latin America. If you aren't one, you still know one, and many of the more common beliefs are very well-known. Such as our penchant for avoiding Sundays without at least three hours of meetings, alcohol, coffee, and tea. We call it the Word of Wisdom. It's a good code of health, though many of us medicate our woes with liberal applications of chocolate.

So the evening of this visit with Elder Lone Y, we decided to take him to Cheesecake Factory for dinner. We had a very patient waitress, who put up with our excessive questions with aplomb, and she was helpful in our decisions of dishes to order. (By the way, if you like sushi, you REALLY need to try their Ahi Tartare. Nom nom.)

The most helpful moment was when Elder Lone Y was trying to decide on a beverage. I got my standard Diet Coke with lime, my husband--a Coke Zero, our friend--a water. Elder was feeling adventurous. He asked the waitress for suggestions of "delicious-tasting drinks". She said "Maybe some wine? We have a great selection. Or how about a margarita? We also have some good mixers." To which we responded that he was starting his mission in the morning. She gave us a knowing and conspiratorial smile and said "OH! So you want to party tonight!" She started to suggest some of the more potent liquors. This brought on a gale of laughter, as well as repeated reassurances from our squeaky clean young friend that this was not the case. When she returned with our beverages (Lone Y chose a raspberry lemonade), she gave us a sheepish look and let us know that the fellows in the kitchen had almost choked themselves laughing. I was impressed at her ability to take the flack from her coworkers, let alone tell us about it.

Every once in a while, a teacher has the opportunity to change a child's life forever. For some of us, that comes through that wonderful epiphany/light-bulb-moment when a kid finally grasps a difficult concept. For others, it comes through being a confidante and cheerleader when a child is going through a socially or emotionally awkward stretch. For those of us who are sarcastic, mean teachers, we get to teach hilarious life lessons.

I test my students online. A few years back, I found a website that allows me to create very detailed online tests, password protect them so students don't get an early peek or a second try, and grade tests taken with relative ease. It cut my grading time by two-thirds! The problem with bringing this wonderful technology of the interwebs into my classroom is that kids will often think they can fool their old teacher. (Surprising, I know! They don't ever seem to remember that my master's is in educational technology, or that I can techie circles around them on either a Mac or a PC…)

As we were setting up the laptop lab in my classroom, a student raised her hand and said "Señora, someone's Facebook is open on this laptop." Wicked grin. I mean, the grin the Grinch gets when he gets the idea to steal Christmas from the Whos. And my blackened teacher heart grew three sizes, even though it's out of sequence with the Seussian tale.

I had her hand me the laptop, get a different one for herself, and I got the students all logged into their test. Then I went to work. I didn't go snooping, as that would be an invasion of privacy. But I may or may not have changed the offending student's Facebook status. This wasn't a student I had in the current class period, and I didn't let the other students know whose account it was. I did tell them to check around on their classmates' statuses after school, however.

The status? "¡Me encanta la clase de español! It's a magical liopleurodon! It's gonna guide our way to Candy Mountain! -- feeling like maybe I should't check my Facebook on a school computer"

So I check stats on my blog traffic, which has been admittedly slow in the last few months (probably due to the fact that I've been admittedly slow in publishing posts in my writing-a-thesis busy-ness). It's always nice to see that one of my friends in Orlando, Europe, or Latin America gives a darn about me enough to read my random ramblings-on.

The ones that really get me are the folks who visit my blog off of Google. There are those who google it by name: google search "merry widow tumblr". Those are (I'm assuming) friends who know my blog's name and don't want to trudge through the two-and-a-half-page Facebook profile behemoth I have. Then there are the random searches. Several of them happen to do with feet. 

I posted a little bit about my birthday weekend last year, when I went with my best friend of longest standing to get a birthday pedicure. I posted a couple of pics of the cute nail art, and I didn't think anything of it. Honestly, pedicures are a girl's most affordable indulgence in spa nirvana. It's utter bliss to sit in the big ol' massage chair, chatting away with a friend or sister or mama, soak your feet in a mini jetted tub, and have somebody whittle away the imperfections sandals have wrought upon your piggies. Then massage the exhaustion out and paint the nails in bright sparkly colors. With a decorative flower, no less! And maybe play a round of Candy Crush or three when the pedicurists start conversing about silly Americans in Korean.

By the way, I've sometimes wondered what the pedicurists are saying. This is where being a Spanish teacher has left me at a distinct disadvantage. No language skills within the family of Asian languages. I know it's probably not about me. Logically. But then, I have overheard people talking about me in Spanish when they didn't think this gringa could understand. It's pretty fun to take the wind out of someone's sails when you speak to them in their language and let them know that you don't appreciate their negative commentary. But I digress.

Well, apparently those pics of a pedicure a year gone have been a big draw to this page. Search terms have included "egyptian girls feet", "attractive spicy girls feet", "girls with gorgeous feet", "best girls feet", "did you ever squish a bug with your toes?", and (I'm not even kidding about this) "hanged girl's feet". Ummmmmm..... Should I be uncomfortable that searchers from Egypt, Sweden, India, Malaysia, Canada, and Republic of Korea are looking for jollies about my feet? Awkward. You should feel awkward, Mr. "Attractive Spicy Girls Feet". Yeah, I'm talking to you, odd google searcher. 

Yesterday was July 24th, which for Utah Mormons, is a celebration of their persecuted ancestors finally arriving in the Salt Lake Valley in 1847. It is treated much like July 4th, with parades in the summer heat (at least it's a dry heat), carnival-style events, and fireworks displays. I know you people outside of Utah must surely envy our explosive bookends-to-July parties. Not one, but two chances to sit sweating in the 95 degree weather watching junior high marching bands play and horses defecate down main thoroughfares? Sign me up!

I never held much stock with the holiday, though you must know by now that I'm Mormon. Here's the deal: though I am sixth-generation Mormon on my mama's side, our ancestors joined the church and stayed put in South Carolina. Crops were burned. Little girls were publicly accused of having devil horns concealed under their coiffure. There was persecution aplenty, but they stayed, because we are stubborn Southern Mormon son-a-ma-guns. Most summers during my adolescence, we made the reverse trek across the plains in an admittedly air-conditioned minivan to spend our July at my grandparents' farm and by the seashore. I talked a bit about that in a recent post.

Anyway, being here for the Pioneer Day festivities was a different experience for me. And for the first time, I'm married to somebody with honest-to-goodness pioneer ancestors. The solemnity of that did not stop me from referring to the day as Pie-in-Ear Day. But I didn't get pie and put it in anyone's ear, in case you wondered.

We decided to go hiking up above the Alta Ski Resort, in Albion Basin. There's this lovely little gem of a hike to a little lake called Cecret Lake. It's a glacial lake, surrounded by mountains with giant (now-stationary) rockfalls and shale slides down their slopes. The water is green (and cold, though it's illegal to swim in it), and temperatures are delightful in the mid-70s.

On a side rant, the Cottonwood Canyons, Big and Little, have a policy in place that prohibits taking dogs camping or hiking. They say it's because the water from those canyons is culinary grade, and dog or horse poop would pollute it. I say that's a load of pucky. There are moose, squirrels, chipmunks, coyotes, deer, and bears up in them thar hills, and we all know the old adage about what bears do in the woods. So tell me why my tiny dog's doodles--which I always clean up and dispose of--would be any more of a pollutant to water that has to be treated anyway before coming through the good faucets of Salt Lake City! Okay, rant finished.

So the hike is around a mile, mostly uphill, but it takes you through these mountain meadows that still think it's springtime. Plenty of amorous plant activity. Here are some pics of the wildflowers and wildlife we saw. First, this guy who angrily yelled at the toddlers invading his space.

Now, the flowers, which I assure you, I did not capture in their full glory. My favorite, columbine:

 Indian Paintbrush:

Forget-me-nots:

The kindly-named skunk cabbage:

There were fields upon fields of these beauties. I highly recommend this hike!

Then there's the lake itself, up at the top of the trail.

And there were cute little chipmunks, enjoying goldfish crackers and other detritus left by parents of screaming toddlers. I say they're cute because they don't sing pop songs in annoying voices. Thank goodness.

By the way, the shadow behind Chippy there is a rock, not a lion. This isn't Africa, silly.

On our way out, our exit hike was chivvied by this little fellow, who stopped on a rock at a safe distance and screamed that we would be gnawed to death by a thousand of his rabid cousins if we did not leave. At least, I'm thinking that's what he said in squirrel. Look at the anger on his face:

And stay out!

After our hike, it was time to put the pie in Pie-in-Ear Day, so we got pizza from (where else?) The Pie. We took our food to Liberty Park, and sat right next to the fence that blocks access to the fireworks staging grounds. I've never been that close to professional fireworks. I have previously been peppered with the sandy remains of black powder at fireworks displays. I have never been hit by falling casing debris before, though. Alan and I were both gently bonked on the noggin with the cardboard shells of former fireworks several times. Once, we were hit by the same glowing shard, as it glanced off me and smacked his leg, falling safely to continue glowing for several minutes more on the ground. We were in the fireworks show, I tell you. And a rogue firework almost charged us, exploding way closer than the rest. After the amazing display finished, we looked around our spot, and saw the shrapnel all over the ground and vehicles in our proximity. It was an experience like no other.

Being back in Myrtle Beach invites an invasion of a horde of memories, both positive and negative. I’ve been coming here every summer since I was twelve—that’s two+ decades now.

There was the time my sister baked brownies, but forgot the baking powder, thereby creating an inedible brownie brittle. (She claims it was me, but I will deny that until my dying day.) Or when we threw jelly beans off the eighth floor balcony of the Sea Marsh condo, discovering that Starburst jelly beans create a delightful color ring effect on the pool floor. Or the year that my twin cousin Sam broke not one, not two, but THREE different glass-top tables as he was adjusting to an adolescent growth spurt. Good times, all.

One year in our impressionable teens, during our month-long beach extravaganzas, we noticed the presence of another guest in our condo building. My sister and I spent a lot of time on our balcony, as well as significant time by the pool, so our attention was grabbed and riveted by this man. Much in the same way as it is difficult to look away from a gruesome six-car pile-up when you see the cops pull out a body bag.

This was a middle aged man who laid out on the pool patio every day to tan in his I-kid-you-not American flag Speedo. He was there all the time, as attested to by his dark, leathery skin. Now, I’m of the belief that if God had intended men to go around highlighting that area of their anatomy, he would never have invented fig leaves. The very existence of fig trees and fig newtons proves the point that men should cover themselves with a layer of not-skintight fabric. Or three.

As teenage girls, we were horrified that this man not only wore a Speedo every day in public, but that he also chose to desecrate Old Glory with his *ahem* man parts. We didn’t seek him out, mind you. We always spent a lot of time on the little balconies of the rental condos we stayed in. We always had enjoyed watching people down by the ocean. Every year, the people watching was great: proposals, weddings, bad volleyball players, interesting kites, and more. But holy crap! This arresting sight was there every day for several weeks, right under our balcony or beside our pool.

So we did what any horrified teenage girls would do, and named him. He was the Star-spangled Speedo man. I can, to this very day, say that name to produce a shudder in my little sister, and probably in the two cousins that stayed with us that summer. I just have to say to the men out there. I don’t care what nationality (European or otherwise) or orientation you are, Speedos should never be worn unless you are a competitive swimmer who is either practicing or competing at that very moment. And you definitely should not use any patriotic or religious iconography on said competition swimwear.

So here’s a song that brings to mind. It’s totally inspired by that experience during my formative years:

"Oh say, can you see my Speedo on me? If you do, grab some glue, and some Clorox too! These broad stripes and bright stars are a perilous sight From your balcony watch as my swimsuit assails you. There are no pockets in there, I’m exposing a pair… As I bake on this chair, you’ll be gasping for air. Oh say bring that Clorox to wash out your eyes.* Then you’ll finally be free from the specter of my thighs."

*Disclaimer: you should never never never ever, nunca, nunca, jamás, never ever get Clorox anywhere close to your eyes. Or glue them shut. No matter how disgusting a sight might be.

Anyway, this brings me to the point that I want to preach on. As I look around on the beach, I see people wearing all sorts of swimwear that is totally inappropriate for their body type. This is not an issue of modest vs. immodest, this is an issue of people buying swimwear without ever glancing at themselves wearing it in the mirror.

People! Please! When you purchase swimwear, take the time to look at yourself actually wearing it. Take into account that it might be cut for the body you wish you had, not your actual current body. We all come in different shapes, and heaven knows I’m not one who can claim great physical fitness, but I try to find swimsuits that cover areas I’m pretty sure nobody wants to see. It’s not about being ashamed of your body—it’s about realizing that your healthy self-love or obliviousness might be a personal visual affront to others sharing the shoreline.

There are certain things nobody should have to see: my appendectomy scars, your string bikini’s propensity to disappear between folds of flesh, or the exact shape of a man’s entire physique. Oh, and thongs. On anyone. I don’t care if you are a Victoria’s Secret model. This isn’t Brazil or France. Think of the children. And of me.

Rule of thumb. If you or someone you know would be embarrassed to catch you in underwear of the same cut as your swimsuit, don’t wear it. If any part of the swimsuit disappears on you, or if it accentuates features that couldn’t be exposed without possibility of an indecent exposure charge, don’t wear it!

Several months past, I promised to post about how Alan and I went from flirtatious Facebook pals to an actual item. I alluded to the nature of it as having involved the death of a real live chicken, and this was not just a catchy hook, made to keep you on the proverbial edge of your seat for months. Here’s what transpired.

I was at home on a Saturday afternoon, working on an assignment for my master’s program. I was trying to finish the paper because I had plans to hit up the midsingles’ dance later in the evening, and had even arranged to carpool down with some friends. Well…see, the master’s program was all online, and so was I, coincidentally. And Alan happened to be on Facebook, describing for me in detail what his kids were doing: playing with his landlord’s 8 or so chickens in the backyard. Normal stuff: hypnotizing them, using them as hats, and just chasing them around.

I mentioned to him (yes, I was fishing) how I’d love to be witness to those shenanigans. To my surprise, he responded by sending me his address. Awesome!!

So I go over and am introduced to his kids, three daughters and a son, aged 14, 12, 10, and 6. They’re showing my all the chix trix.

This was all well and good, as the kids were having fun, and Alan was seeing that I’m pretty good with the short people.

Well, after a few minutes, I hear a scream from the chicken coop. “He’s dead!! Bob is dead." I forgot to mention that the kids had painstakingly named each and every chicken in the gaggle. Adorable blond 6-year-old boy comes running out of the coop, only to land on his knees, tears streaming down his cheeks, fists raised to the heavens, wailing “Why?! Why?!" Second daughter (the reader) is about to head into a hiccup-cry conniption fit, as she’s never seen ANYTHING die before.

I try to comfort them and say that it might be playing dead because it’s so tired of the constant “loving attention". Alan climbs into the coop and comes out with a chicken, its head flopping floppily over Alan’s arm, little tiny Xes in its beady eyes. Flop. The other two girls are trying to alleviate the situation. Spunky number 3 is saying silly things, and then announces that this is not Bob, it’s Gloria the chicken who has just ascended to that great pearly farmyard in the sky.

Somehow this is slightly better. Blond boy perks up and asks if we can cook Gloria for dinner. Second daughter, though, is still not having any part of it. The other girls are cracking up about the situation. I mean, one of their siblings loved a chicken to death. Gauche humor, but still humor. By this time, Alan and I are both playing both sides, trying to suppress our giggles at the absurdity of it all while placating the tender overwrought sensibilities of the others. Failing both at the suppression and the placating, incidentally. I’m thinking “This, sir, is an ex-parrot." (Gratuitous Monty Python reference) I’m totally expecting a troupe of lumberjacks to burst through the fence and serenade us about sleeping all night and working all day.

At this point he sends the kids inside to shower, as there’s some family shindig at a BBQ joint. Spunky girl asks her dad if I can go with them. I’m thinking that he’s not even asked me out, so a family thing might be a little daunting. He says he’d love for me to go with them. So I took a chance, texted my dance carpool people, and went with him to meet who-knows-how-many of his family. It ended up being fun, even though the Reader refused to eat any poultry as she was in a deep state of mourning for Gloria the ex-chicken. Oh, and I was feeling quite attracted to this man who can simultaneously make obnoxious dead feathered friend jokes and comfort a weeping pre-teen. Previous harmless flirtation has segued into real interest.

Anywhere, after dropping the kids back at the house to sleep under care of the eldest we took the opportunity to hit the singles’ dance—as a date. We enjoyed ourselves, had a preview of the drama with the Duchess I’ve mentioned in other blog posts, and when we went back to his house to say goodnight…he signaled his real interest with a goodnight kiss.

A couple of weeks ago, I posted that I should be crowned the Drama Queen. By way of reminder, this is not because I'm some silly never-left-high-school-mentality type. Oh, no, nothing so simple and silly. I attract drama like the magnetic North Pole pulls a compass needle, unvarying and inexorable. I have no idea how I do this, nor how to make it stop. Granted, at least it's no longer the drama of a husband's ex spreading rumors or trying to get me fired (yes, this has happened to me in the past), but it would be nice to have slightly less people in my life who are out to get me.

Anyway, I promised I would give a continuation of my rationale for self-coronation. If you recall, on Halloween, at the same event where Peter Pan assumed I was his mate-to-be, a girl who believes herself to be a member of the nobility (remember the Duchess?) basically explained her 37-point plan for dating and marrying Alan, one of the fellows in the group we attended the party with. I mentioned in that blog post that I had been flirting pretty strongly with Alan on Facebook. Granted, at that point in time, I was flirting with a pretty diverse group of gents, and dating at a pace that made my mid-singles mind feel all a-whirl. What can I say? I'm Southern. You've got to remember, I was not a particularly unattractive young single before I married, but I really did not date much. 

At any rate, I could tell from the conversations with Alan that he was interested in me, but I did not want to have the "Girl, he's just not into you that way" conversation with the Duchess. I mean, here's a girl in her early 40s who wants to be referred to as nobility, who thinks that this is normal behavior for someone too old to play with Barbies. I didn't want to be unkind, nor did I want to have the kind of intervention I might have with a close girl-friend who is throwing her heart in the wrong direction. Neither my place nor my comfort level. Funny thing was, she had actually told me that I should get to know Alan better about a month before, and I took her word choice to mean that she thought I might like to date this guy.

Anyway, after the Peter Pan debacle on Halloween, I actually called Alan and he sort of talked me through some of the frustration that the utter weirdness and emotional blackmail had caused. First off: COOL! A guy who is willing to listen while I emotionally unload? Not that I do so very often at all, but I thought "wow, he's really great to listen to me vent."

Well, by the following weekend, he invited me to spend some time with him. The story of our first date is worth its own blog post, so I won't go into detail at the moment, but after having dinner and a very interesting time that involved ritual sacrifice of poultry, we ended up going to a singles' dance. As he paid, I felt it appropriate I should dance with him only. Unfortunately, the Duchess spotted us and recognized that we were not dancing with others for the evening. It was like that scene from West Side Story, where Tony and Maria see each other and the whole world stops except for them, and they dance and fall for each other. It was like that, except imagine that some other girl has a crush on Tony and gets caught in the time warp effect, watching the dancing progress in slow motion. And assumes Maria has gone after Tony just to steal him away.

So after the Duchess watches us dance a couple of songs together, she comes up, ignores me, and gives Alan this look of incredulity as if she's his wife and has discovered him at a singles' function. We sort of shrugged it off, and our date ended very pleasantly, with definite interest on both our parts to go out again. And a kiss, though I don't normally kiss on the first date.

Fast forward a week. Alan and I are trying to figure out how exclusive we want to be. We have been hanging out a lot, enjoying each other's company, but both are a little gun-shy at just jumping into a relationship. We are being circumspect in our dating, which is necessary when there's a big group both people come from. Neither of us is really sure we want to be off the market just yet. 

Duchess solves that problem for us. On Sunday morning, I receive a message from a friend on Facebook, saying that the Duchess has been sending private messages to various people we all know in common, claiming that I've basically seduced Alan, and we are sleeping together. Now, if you're not a Mormon single, that might not seem like a huge deal, but the LDS singles' world is a place where personal virtue still matters. So we have to go on the offensive with moral damage control. We officially start showing up to activities as a couple, and are working on making sure our friends know what is going on so that they can also stop the rumor mill. Our friends were wonderful, by the way. Even gentlemen I had dated stepped up and helped to protect our reputation.

Duchess goes to Alan's house and leaves a note on his car. Tells him I'm just playing him and that he needs to repent and get away from me. Only she has his best interests to heart, and I am just using him. Holy crap. We have been dating all of a week. 

Within a couple of weeks, she's changed her mind. She leaves another note on Alan's car (um, creepy stalk much?), this time three pages long. Now I'm the victim. Because I'm widowed, Alan is stealing me from my late husband. More calls to repentance. I'm still playing him, but now he's a willing party in it because he's robbing the cradle (and apparently the grave, what with the deceased husband and all). In public, she ignores our presence, or leaves an activity altogether because we are there. We aren't gross kissy-kissy, just holding hands, for Pete's sake! Oh, ignores us except for the time she sees us together at the temple. In which case she runs to one of the officiators and spews forth the same rumors, flat-out saying we shouldn't be there.

Soooooo, it's been several months since last I posted. Much has happened, and not all will be covered in this post. Roller coaster? Nah, more like bungee jumping. From the moon. 

I've decided that I am the Queen of Drama. Not that I'm all melodramatic about things, though I have been accused of such in the past. No, I am a drama magnet. My last post covered some interesting times I had the week before Halloween. Well, the way Halloween and the weeks following happened...

Going back to one of the Halloween events I went to: I made the interesting choice of participating in a round of speed dating with some of my girlfriends. Me, all dressed as a kitty, and a random group of guys who mostly still lived with their mothers. On a whim, I marked one of the fellows on my card after a conversation that was long enough to exchange pleasantries about the weather and make a Monty Python reference or two. Three days later, I received an email from said fellow, as well as an invitation to have a date. He will be referred to hereafter as Peter Pan.

Now, the gentlemen I've dated have been people that I had the chance to get to know in a public sphere first. You know, weed out the oddities and the pervs somewhat, as much as possible through viewing their social interactions. Because I was reticent to go out on a date with someone I'd talked to but once, I did what a reasonably savvy girl would do: I told him there would be a group of my friends going to a dance Halloween night, and said he could join us if he wished. 

Note, I did not say that he was my date or any such nonsense. I merely wished to see in a non-threatening situation if this guy was date material for me. I also invited another guy friend along, as well as some girlfriends. What transpired was true blog gold.

At the request of Alan, who invited me in the first place, I offered a ride to a woman who I will hereafter refer to as "the Duchess". (Names have been changed to protect the unstable.) All these factors combined to create the perfect storm of bizarre Halloween shenanigans. Some of you may recognize Alan's name from my Facebook activities of late, and yes, this is the same one, but no, I shan't be covering him in much detail in this blog post.

Well, Duchess and I headed down to the Murray Arts Center to meet Alan, Peter Pan, my other guy friend, and supposedly a group of others. As things turned out, it ended up being just us five. On the way, Duchess regaled me with some of her stories of her crush, which just happened to be on one of the gentlemen who would be there. Once there, a few things became apparent:

Peter Pan thought I was his date and sole property

Duchess thought Alan was her date and sole property

my poor guy friend was caught in the middle and striving not to be crushed in the melee

It also became quickly apparent that Peter Pan was not the type of guy for me. Not a bad guy, necessarily, but not somebody I would date. And from a couple of comments he made to the other guys when I ran off to powder my kitty nose, he seemed to think I was a great match for him. Because this was pretty easy to sense, I backed off on the flirting toward him, and because some of the aforementioned comments were a little creepy, I enlisted the help of the other two gentlemen to help keep me out of Mr. Pan's way. (um, Mr. I've-met-you-once wanted me to sit on his lap?!) They agreed to help. The Duchess was oblivious of all of this, but seemed to get her nose out of joint any time Alan asked me to dance. 

When one of the guys got asked to dance by a lady old enough to be his grandmother, we decided to vamoose and hit a different Halloween dance. On the way, the Duchess detailed her plan to date and marry Alan, not knowing I'd been flirting with him on Facebook for a good month already. This other party was a ballroom event, and was fun, even if I haven't danced that style in eons. There were some more creepy comments and leers from Peter Pan, yada yada.

Long story short...as we headed out of the second event, Peter Pan said in a loud voice "So Megan, we're going out this week?" 

In an attempt to save his pride, I said quietly "We'll see."

"We'll see? We are going out this week!" Again, loud enough to wake the dead and attract much attention from onlookers.

Quietly: "I just don't see us dating. I'm sorry."

"Wha---what? You're not going to go out with me? You said you would!" By this time, there are quite a few people looking, and I'm starting to get a little embarrassed. I figured that I had tried to keep it low-key, helping to salve his dignity. Well, if he was going to throw away his dignity like that, I wasn't about to save it.

"Would you rather I lead you on?" I know this was cold. But really! Do NOT call me out in public like that!

He left in a huff, and sent me a long Facebook message (before I even arrived home) about how I broke his heart, and how I made him feel worthless and thank-you-very-much, "Now I know exactly how much of a loser I am!" What. The. Heck. All I said was that I didn't see myself dating him. 

I allowed this to wash over me, and in the morning, composed a simple and calm reply to this misguided attempt at emotional blackmail. I told him that I did not believe in dating just for the sake of dating--that I would not waste a gentleman's time if I didn't see any possibility of a future. It was peer reviewed by a couple of guy friends. In response, he basically tried to emotionally blackmail me again, as well as wheedle a pity date. Yikes. 

For the record, this was my first really negative experience since entering the mid singles dating world. Before that, every guy who I had interacted with or gone on a date with had comported himself as an adult, and a gentleman as well. 

This has been an eventful week on the home front. My little sister had been pregnant for the requisite 40 weeks, plus an additional one for good measure. She's been ready for the arrival of this little girl all throughout this summer pregnancy. Well, much of the week was spent at the hospital either waiting for this little treasure to arrive or visiting the new parents. So, for those who haven't been on Facebook, I present to you Miss Maizie Margaret, along with her favorite aunt:

It's also been a fun week for singles' activities, being that it's the week before Halloween. On Thursday, there was a chili cook-off. I took my famous (perhaps even infamous) chocolate cheesecake flan. I wasn't the only one who noticed the hilarity of serving beans at a singles' shindig. After trying the chili, we played an if-then game, where we wrote a what if question and its answer, and then they were scrambled up to get a bit of silliness going. My personal favorite combination was: "What if they served chili at a midsingles' conference luncheon before the dance?", which was answered by "Then life would be a musical, and we'd all live happily ever after!" I sat at a table with some really hilarious people, and we had a lot of laughs at inappropriate moments. That's the best. Friday night, I went with a couple of girlfriends to a dinner at the Dodo with a bunch of singles I had never met. I had fun overhearing inappropriate comments made in Spanish by one of the guys who was being taught them by someone who actually spoke it. The food was delicious. Here's my seared ahi tuna. Sushi-ish happiness. 

After the dinner, we went to the Tri-Ward Halloween dance. There are apparently three large wards dedicated to midsingles in Salt Lake, and they combine for a few activities a year. This was a costume thing, and it was really cool to see how people dressed. I went as a kitty cat. Here's a picture of my girls and me, rockin' the costumes. Dressing up is fabulous.

So they had a speed dating activity, which was a study in the unfortunate. Two minutes with each person, uncomfortable conversation, and a large portion of the guys talking about how much they like cars. Hmmmmm. Subjects of mutual interest, anyone? The dance itself was proof that my status as a Latino magnet has not changed. In fact, the only guys who asked me to dance were from foreign countries. And, though I didn't show any interest in them, they tried to keep dancing and dancing with me until I had to be borderline rude in response. Right at the end, I was hanging out with my friend Alan, who helped me avoid other awkward entanglements. Note to self: attend dances with a male friend who can get extra-flirtatious in cases of unwelcome attention. This was especially helpful when Mr. Hair-grabber/nose-complimenter (that i had met at a previous dance) walked up and proceeded to ask odd questions that sounded like they were headed for an invitation to go out. It was also nice when another strange fellow who I'd danced with started hovering nearby with obvious intent. We moved around the entire gymnasium, and he followed for a while...nice. Saturday night, there was a dance in my hometown in a barn. Another costume thing. I was a bit nervous, as this one was what I affectionately call a 31-infinity dance. Meaning, once again, I was the youngest person there. Luckily, this time I had a large contingent of girlfriends there. And we had Garrett, our token younger single guy. Here we all are with our costumes. Yeah, I'm a cat again.

On a side note, being a cat is sort of fun for all the off-color comments you get. The cleanest one I can share was about chasing tail... I mean...um...I'm utterly horrified that guys would talk to me like that.  Haha! Just kidding. It was really fun. I don't get embarrassed. I think my sense of shame atrophied and fell off from disuse.  Now, one of the true highlights of the evening was when I discovered while dancing a 40s Charleston (a dance with a lot of kicking) that ballet flats do not stay on my feet. Actually, this was discovered with help from one of the girls in my group, who kindly took a shoe to the head to help me realize it. I am afraid she may have felt that my apology was insincere as I was laughing so hard it hurt. I did feel bad, though, if I close my eyes, I can still see the sparkly beribboned thing fly off my foot and connect. It was like a movie, except that in a movie, it would have been a spiky high heel and a man on whom I had a huge crush. Hey! Things could always be worse! Anyway, we also saved another midsingle guy from having to hang out with the old folks. We spotted him from our segregated balcony of relative youth, swooped in, and added him to our group before he could get discouraged about the local singles situation. Go us! The live band was pretty good--very danceable music. We invaded the main dance floor when some of the fogies went home to soak their dentures. Lots of fun! Here's a slightly photoshopped pic of us all.

Having gone to my share of singles activities recently, I've been thinking about what makes a pick-up line or a compliment effective and attractive. Now, some of these surmisings will simply be based on my own personal preference, but I believe that some girls out there may concur on my thoughts. Well-informed guys too, for that matter. Here are a few compliments, behaviors, and pick up lines that I've either received myself, overheard, or been informed about by a girlfriend. I'm going to analyze them for why they were pleasant or not.

"You look great in (insert color). It really brings out your (insert attractive feature)." 

VERDICT: Effective. It's a specific compliment and shows that the gentleman is paying attention to a lady's efforts to make herself look good, and that he noticed something about her features. 

"Why waste a perfectly good sealing room?"

(Now, before we come to the verdict, a little background is necessary. We had gone to a temple open house walkthrough, and were able to see many of the rooms in this temple, including the sealing room, where marriages take place. This was one of my first activities with the group, and I didn't know many people. A guy I didn't know from Adam's pet frog came up from behind after going through the sealing room, put his arm around my shoulders, and laid this line on me. Sort of akin to telling a non-LDS girl that she shouldn't waste the opportunity of a wedding chapel. Ew.)

VERDICT: Run away! If I don't know you, please don't assume I'm going to be okay with you joking about marrying me. Creepy.

"Would it be okay if I called you?/Can I have your phone number?"

VERDICT: Effective. Being friends on Facebook is all fine and well, but asking for a girl's number demonstrates a bit more interest. Even if you've added her to your online social network, it is more flattering to know somebody wants to actually call you. Hear your voice, instead of relying solely on emoticons to portray emotion or intent.

"We should hang out sometime."

VERDICT: Ah, the nebulous "sometime"! It's a way to make a girl feel undervalued in a single sentence. At first, there's a little lift at thinking, "hey, he wants to spend time with me!", but then the lady realizes that he has not been at all specific, and there is no date on the horizon. Cowboy up. Ask a girl out! She might even say yes...

"Would you like to (insert date activity) with me on (insert day)?"

VERDICT: Great! You're being specific on a day that you would like to take her out, and also letting her know off the bat what you have in mind. 

Liking a woman's Facebook posts. 

VERDICT: This can be a good start, and lets her know you're paying attention to what she has to say. Want to show more interest? Post a response. Send a message. Or mention your thoughts on her posts when next you see her. 

"The fact that you like (insert subject of mutual interest) makes you even cooler to me!" In this case, I believe the subject of mutual interest was a combination of The Simpsons and Monty Python.

VERDICT: Good job! You've told her that you think she's cool, and that you have something in common. Maybe a first date can involve that common interest?

"Is your hair color real?"

VERDICT: I just heard the screech of a record being forcibly stopped, like in the movies. You might as well ask her if she's going grey, or if she's put on a few pounds. Don't ask a girl that! Especially if you are dancing with her for the first time, and especially don't grab a lock of her hair while asking this bit of interest-killing awkwardness! True story, yo!

"Your new niece is almost as cute as her aunt..."

VERDICT: I realize I'm being very specific with this compliment, but I thought it was a really adorable one. Kudos to the gentleman who said this! A+ in Flirtation 101!

Opening doors for a woman.

VERDICT: Want a second date? Or a first one? Chivalry is not dead. Be a gentleman.

"Are you comfortable with me picking you up, or would you rather meet somewhere?"

VERDICT: This would generally come after asking the girl on a date. Good job! This s a great way of showing that you recognize that her privacy is valued, and gives her a chance to avoid every first date out there having her address. Some women just feel more comfortable meeting elsewhere, and can you blame them? Just turn on the news!

Touching a woman's face the first time you meet her.

VERDICT: This is usually Kryptonite, and in the worst way. Don't invade a lady's personal space too much when you're first becoming acquainted. If she shows you she likes your company, a later meeting may afford the opportunity for you to show interest in an appropriate way.

"I like your nose."

VERDICT: This little gem comes from the same person who asked whether my hair color was real. I believe my response was something along the lines of "thank you, it came with my face." Choose a more attractive feature to compliment. Like her eyes, her smile, or her hair. The producer of boogers is not really conducive to effective complimenting. 

Complimenting a woman on a talent she takes pride in. Specific example: I had baked cookies for a gentleman for his birthday. He said "I tried a cookie, smiled so hard that I couldn't see to do anything!" Cute!

VERDICT: Feed her vanity. For some of us, it's our musical ability. Tell us you like how we sing. For others, it's cooking talent. Tell us how delicious our baked goods are. (mine are particularly fabulous, by the way...). For some women, it will be something about her intelligence, or her ability with crafting, or her way with words. I'm open to all of these, by the way...

Pointing out some defect on a woman. Such as acne?

VERDICT: It's really pitiful that I even have to mention this one. THOU SHALT NOT!!

"You look pretty." Can also be "You smell lovely." But that one can be tricky, use with caution.

VERDICT: There's a reason it's an old standby. Every woman wants to be told she's beautiful. As long as this compliment is genuine, it's a great one.

I've been thinking about dating lately. No, scratch that. I've started dating again recently. Somebody who had been widowed told me when I was professing that I would wait X amount of time that I would just know when I was ready. I, of course, scoffed at her well-intentioned advice afterward. I had a timeline and I was gonna stick to it, goldarnit!

Around mid-August, I took a good look around me and realized something. I believe my exact words were something along the lines of "Oh, shizzpickles! Everyone around me comes in pairs!" Maybe not shizzpickles, but some other Mormon-appropriate expletive, I'm sure. It wasn't a moment of gotta-get-me-a-man-ness, and it certainly wasn't a drive to date. In fact, the idea was faintly terrifying. I just wanted to find other adults in a similar life situation to spend time around.

So I mentioned this to my best friend of longest standing, Amy. This is a girl I met on the bus to junior high and knew immediately would be my BFF. I'm not kidding about this. It's one of a few very clear moments of inspiration I can remember from my earlier years. She has a sister who is also in this boat of post-20s singledom. I consider her to be my best-friend-in-law. When she heard I was interested in hanging out with others like moi, she invited me to join a group she sometimes attends.

So, as anyone who's been reading my blog would know, I've been going to various activities, from LDS Institute classes to choir singing to dances to conferences with this group. And it's been really fun. There's this whole world of great single people I'd never have been aware of. Now, don't get me wrong; there are some very interesting quirks and foibles to be found when one spends time with mid-singles. I've blogged about some of them, in fact. But I've been impressed with the caliber of folks I've met of both genders and feel like I'm part of something, no arm-candy required.

So bit by bit, the idea that I might want to date crept up. And it seems that the idea that I might be dateable has cropped up for some as well, which is a good thing too, as I subscribe to the old-fashioned notion that guys should ask. Heck, I even took my phone number off Facebook because a gentleman should ask me for my number. I have been asked, and have had some very pleasant times out. Being single this time around has been a surprising amount of FUN! I never expected that. Probably something to do with knowing who I am and feeling more comfortable in my own skin than in my teens and early twenties. La-dee-dah, being a grown-up is so rad!

Here comes the part that the title of today's blog alludes to. If you've read my other blog posts, you may have noticed that, while I'm more than willing to talk about some of the overarching themes of silliness I find in the singles' world, I've not mentioned a single date. No names of gentlemen, no "I had a date last night", no comparisons or analyses or other such fluff. And I won't. Part of my cock-eyed optimistic belief in chivalry is that I think that any gentleman I go out with deserves the respect and privacy of not having his time with me picked over by others.

This past Friday was an interesting experience which I simply must mercilessly skewer. See, I was invited to this singles' dance in a local city which shall remain nameless, one which is pretty close to where I am residing. Before I get to that gem of a life lesson, I went with a friend to the new local sushi place, aptly named Sushi Monster. I will be returning. Anybody who has known me for a while will know that I myself am a sushi fiend, and jump at the chance to try out different places with a specialty in uncooked seafood. The quality of fish was very high--the whitefin and yellowtail were both divine. And they get total bonus points for putting an orchid on my plate. The waiter was impressed with my prodigious use of the word "prodigious" in an honest-to-goodness sentence. You'd think he'd never met a voracious reader before!

After dinner, we headed over to the aforementioned dance. Now, for those who are not aware, in LDS culture, it's pretty common to find the different groups of singles divided by age. You have the Young Single Adults, who range from high school graduation to 30, the Mid-singles, who are from 31-45 (though some activities do allow a bit more of a range), and the Classics, which I believe are supposedly from 50 on up through dentures. At 33, that puts me into the lower range of the Mid-singles, and I feel pretty comfortable with that range, and even a couple of years beyond. The dance was billed as a 31+ dance. Ho-ly-freak-in'-cow!! When they say PLUS, they really mean PLUS. We are talking Megan-lowered-the-average-age-by-a-lot-just-by-walking-into-the-building PLUUUUUS!!. I think I may have been the youngest person in a 1000-yard radius of the building. 

Please don't get me wrong. I am not referring to people in their 40s when I say this. I have plenty of friends who are in their 40s, and I hope to be as awesome as them when I get there myself! I am referring to the fact that this singles' dance was host to not only folks old enough to be my parents (without having started early, mind you!), but to folks old enough to be my grandparents. I was even asked to dance by a man who, I kid you not, was probably at least 25 years my senior. I'm sorry, but if you are old enough to remember Kennedy's assassination or the Beatles on Ed Sullivan, I'm not your girl. 

So I've realized that, while the age groups sometimes seem arbitrary, there are good reasons they are in place. I was grateful to have a fun group of girls to hang out with, and that there were a couple of guys I knew who showed up who were willing to dance with a young 'un. I can make any experience fun, but in this case, I'm more likely to make fun of the experience. This will not be repeated.

Now, for just a glimpse of the interestingness of the dance, let me show you what was on the table by the water coolers:

That's either a lot of "special someone"s or a quite a few people got a hold of the desperate Kool-aid. I'll try to remain optimistic that it was the first.

So Saturday morning was a very spiritual time with my singles' group: we got to spend time in the Logan Temple, which I've not done in a decade, since I went to school there. It was lovely and peaceful, and I was very glad I went.

Afterward, we had lunch at the Coppermill, which is a staple of Loganite haute cuisine. This is what is considered a "lite meal" portion of Chicken Oscar, which served as two meals even so!

Sunday, I had a great day for a lot of reasons, not the least of which was a contact from the virtual school I had the interview with last week. Apparently, I've passed muster, so now I just need to pray that a lot of Florida students will want to take Spanish online. Once enough register, I may have a job!  I also had the chance to go to a Fireside (a sort of an LDS presentation) with Janice Kapp Perry, who has been the composer of numerous songs that have been popular in the church for decades. She did a fun singalong of several of the songs I grew up singing in church. Loved it! I knew she was musically talented, but what I didn't know was that she is HILARIOUS. I got to meet her afterwards.

Monday night, the singles' group had an activity at a local corn maze. We had a blast, not least because one of the guys brought his adorable three-year-old, who serenaded us with what I can only describe as a wordless version of the Spiderman song. It made being lost in a cornfield even more fun than it would normally be. :)

My last full day in Orlando was spent at the job interview/orientation for the virtual high school. I'm hoping I get a job with them. I need one.

In the evening, I met with some friends at my favorite Thai place: Thai Basil in Winter Springs. Pad Thai is a-freaking-mazing there! The company was even better. Small crowd, but all people I adore.

After staying until the restaurant closed on us (this is a recurring theme here), I headed back to Carmen's house to grab some ZZZZZZZZs. Well, then there was a Colin Firth movie on, and as we all know, I'm a real sucker for that actor. I mean, he's not Mr. Darcy in everything, but I just enjoy his movies...

So my flight was going to be leaving at 6:30am. At 2:30, I took an hour nap, then woke to pack and rush to the airport. I flew from Orlando to Atlanta, then Atlanta to Denver. In a fit of absolute Bedlam-worthy craziness, I had exactly 25 minutes from plane touchdown to the other plane leaving for Salt Lake. I arrived in terminal C, at the very end, and had to run in my flip-flops all the way to the opposite end of terminal A. I arrived at the gate winded and exhausted, but just in time to get my standby ticket applied for the flight. I rushed down the gangplank and collapsed into my seat for the short flight to SLC. Thank goodness! If I hadn't caught that flight, it would have been an 8-hour layover.

Then it was time for a long nap. Then homework, as I was a little behind due to all my activities and travel and exhaustion. And then I decided to do exactly what any completely fatigued single girl would do: I went dancing! Good times with friends, and bonus points were awarded for getting a foot massage after!

Sunday morning, I was off to Music and the Spoken Word and General Conference. The session was great, and the music was breathtaking. The afternoon was spent watching conference at home with a friend and then going to a musical fireside. 

Having effectively procrastinated my grad school work until the last possible moment, I worked on my assignments at another friend's house. Once finished, I enjoyed a card game and creative banter with the folks there.

Monday was spent hiking to the Logan Canyon Wind Caves with friends. The autumn leaves were glowing red and orange, and the views were lovely. I'll leave my readers with a sample of the beauties of the afternoon.

On Thursday, I did something I never had the chance to in all the ten years I lived in Florida: I went to Busch Gardens. A great friend of mine, who shall remain nameless because she’s in the Witness Protection Program, went with me. Okay, change “Witness Protection Program” to “she called in sick to work and doesn’t want the boss-man to find out”.

  October, first off, is the perfect time to visit Florida theme parks. The kiddies are back in school, there doesn’t seem to be a major school break in other countries, and the weather is less “Hurricane” season and more “Tourist” season. Which means the heat is only in the 80s and the humidity is not so high you choke on the water in the air.

  We got to the park pretty soon after opening, and scoped out the map. My nameless friend has a pass, which meant that I got enough of a discount to make me wish parks offered decent discounts. Our main focus, as we had previously agreed, was going to be roller coasters and other fast thrill rides. She-who-shall-not-be-named-for-her-own-protection and I make fabulous amusement park buddies, as we both love such things. By contrast, there are members of both our families that very specifically avoid them. So we have historically left them home and gone to the parks together instead.

  The day was gorgeous. Deep blue skies, warm, a few clouds. And then there was the utter lack of lines everywhere we went. First thing we saw was the demonstration of a cheetah running, which is sort of like when you tease a pet cat by attaching a toy to a string and dragging it around to make the kitty pounce. Except this was an honest-to-goodness real cheetah. So it was fast, and the people who perform the demonstration actually take their lives into their own hands. Cool. Tease the big kitty cat! I’m over here across the ravine behind the fence.

  Then, OH THE HAPPINESS! We went on our first coaster. The Cheetah Hunt roller coaster. So cool! It really felt like it leapt forward and dodged and weaved like the hunting cheetahs on the nature documentaries. We then rode the Montu which is a roller coaster based on a theme of Egypt. It was a very different feel, as it is suspended in a different way. Because there was no line at all when we came back around, we rode it again.

  From there, we rode the sky tram to get to Sheikra, taking in the sights of the animals below. There were African pronghorn and yaks and elephants.

  Now Sheikra…that’s a splendiferous roller coaster. Only three rows, about ten riders across. Once again, we were able to quickly board and find a spot on the front. This is a ride you want to be on the front. There’s not a floor to the coaster. The anticipation is increased by the utter steepness of the ascent, the car stops at the very edge of the hill, and the drop? Just take a look:

  Now, that’s a drop that is pretty close to vertical. I’m a roller coaster giggler, so I just about laughed myself hoarse on this one.  At this point, we rode one more coaster, then went for a non-spectacular theme park lunch.

We took a little hiatus from coaster riding after food to visit the kangaroo and wallaby exhibit and to watch the ice skating show. It was a really neat take on global exploration. It was like Disney on Ice, but more like Busch Beer on ice. Without the nasty hops smell.

  We then had the chance to ride this rickety looking wooden roller coaster. No loops or barrel rolls, but the construction of it still allowed for some fun surprises. Plus it was sort of a massage for the patootie, what with all the bumpiness. At that point, we felt hot and sticky, and decided to hit the river rapids. As we got into the end of the line, an announcement came on stating that all major (read: cool) attractions were now closed due to incoming inclement weather (read: not cool). So no water rides. We visited the tiger display, though, which was neat in that you could stand just a couple feet from one. Two-inch glass in between, but really fun.

  And then, the sky cracked open and graced us with one of those common Central Florida afternoon monsoons. So my pal and I did what any logical people would do: go to an outdoor café at the back of the park and have ice cream (me) and French fries (secretive friend). By this time, the rain was pouring down in sheets, and lightning was streaking across the sky. I guess the Busch Gardens weather people know what they are talking about…dangerous weather to be on tall metal structures, indeed.

The park was getting close to its closing time, so my amiga and I skipped back toward the exit, making sure to splash in every puddle. I couldn’t have gotten any more soaked if I had sat with my legs in a river up to the knees. There is a simple joy about jumping in not-freezing-cold puddles and splashing another person. It had been years since I felt that brand of gleefulness, so I was glad we felt the urge to.

Driving back to Orlando, we stopped to change into dry clothes, then went for sushi with another friend at our favorite place: Bayridge. Bayridge, how I adore your spicy tuna rolls with crunchy tempura flakes! Of course, the word “sushi” is actually Japanese for “soul therapy”.  We stayed there talking until they kicked us out.