Bruise story—it’s tre-es bonnnn!

I promised them in my very first post, and here it is, at long last: a bruise story. And then some.

I’m waiting for the bishop…he’s about 45 minutes behind in his interviews. So I’m in that room in the MARB we used for testimony meeting second to last week, working on a blog entry. Life is gorgeous. The weekend was wonderful: we’re going over Lear in Shakespeare (Young Shakespeare Company’s production of King Lear is on Thursday and I have some serious misgivings about missing The Office for a 45 minute rendition of Lear geared towards elementary school age kids. I bet they cut out the gouging of Gloucester...and lots of Lear's ravings...especially the part where he curses Goneril's womb into sterility) and my roommates and I were in the ward variety show Friday night. Heidi had someone film it and we watched it until 1 in the morning. It was one of those things that could either go very well or completely tank. I was a little nervous at first, but then I got over it real fast. I enjoyed it. That's new. I've never really enjoyed performing before. My ex-roommate said that she almost wet her pants laughing. That was gratifying. Made me feel warm all over. Our “cast picture” is my new wallpaper; you know something’s good when it replaces Fred and George Weasley.

A skit was probably not the best thing to do right before a date (I had beret hair, a purple eyeliner moustache [that's so ironic to me: I was feminine French person with a man's name and a purple moustache. Funny], and peanut butter all over my face to take care of), but whatever. We doubled with his friend and his friend's girlfriend (it's the second time since I've been here that I've gone with someone I don't know all that well and his friends whom I don't know at all, and his friends always include a lovey-dovey couple, and we go back to someone's apartment and play card games. Must be a Provo thing. But my ranting on BYU-style dating is for another post). Some people from the girl's ward came and recruited for a game of Dots (or Commando, depending on your geographical vernacular). We went and played for two hours at the Marriott Center. It was glorious...rural parkour. Jumping railings, rolling around in the dirt, climbing six foot walls, diving into shadows, dropping from six foot walls (or into six foot tall bushes, as Jason did), and running into trees. Ah. I love it. I was running to the very last base when the Dotmaster (DM if you will...oh, I can feel the hackles rising on that one) stopped counting. I was so close! I hurled myself at the tree and had to stop myself with my left hand. It hurt a bit. The pain increased throughout the night. The little veins in the heel of your hand under your thumb? Mine were black. And it was mad swollen. I had to apply frozen peas and carrots before I could go to sleep. Couldn't open jars the next day. But I won that game. It was glorious. Two hours of unrelenting adrenaline. It's all about knowing your abilities, getting the timing right, and strict self-discipline. And getting the angles right behind your covers. I wasn't caught a single time. My dad would be so proud. Now if I could just parlay such stealth, tactical brilliance, and prowess into laser tag, I'd be set for life. Then we had a freshman ward reunion (just the girls, the guys are still on their missions). 7 girls are married. We reveled in engagement stories and other love life tales and such. It's amazing, the older we get, the more mature our conversations. And I mean that in all senses of the word. Then I got to go to the Relief Society broadcast on a chartered bus and with a crafty little sack lunch. (Post break for the interview. My bishop said his wife was “just roaring” all during our skit. Half the ward quoted it to us today. We ARE famous. Back to post.) My roommates and I reminded me of those early Church history pioneer women who put on their bonnets and headed out to their meetings. We were on a chartered exodus to Salt Lake. All I can say is that I love being a woman in this church. I loved that conference. But the 6 hours of unmitigated estrogen…I wasn’t sad to see it end. It SNOWED yesterday and it was cold so I got to wear my red flannel PJs last night. Happiness is flannel PJs. (“I wear my pink pa-ja-mas in the sum-mer when it’s hot…”)

The only thing I can complain about this weekend is really gross. I was on a sugar craving all week long and I felt guilty about it. Then I found out I was completely justified. So instead of beating myself up, I embraced it. I needed to break a twenty so I could get quarters because my tires need air, so Friday afternoon before the variety show, I went to the gas station next to my complex and got a pint of Haagen Dazs butter pecan. I was a little paranoid to carry ice cream past my entire ward’s apartments, because everyone thinks they know what it means when someone at BYU buys ice cream. I went back to studying Steve Martin in The Pink Panther and eating my butter pecan. It was weird: half of it was creamy, half of it was all crystallized and gross. I didn’t have time or attention to spare to figure out what the deal was. I just wanted ice cream. I ate a quarter of it. Next day I had it out and before I ate it I was expressing my disappointment in the quality of “kitchen friendly” Haagen Dazs. I described it to her as seeming freezer burned. Then I thought, “Crest is a dirty little convenience store. I bet it IS freezer burned.” So I turned it over and read: “Best purchased by 4-13-07.” I almost died. 5 ½ months past the sell-by date. Disgusting. I feel really dirty now. If I die in the next week, you all know the reason. In my sock drawer, there's a treasure map that leads to the hiding place of my final will and testament. It's marked with an X.