Haves and Have Nots

Today I did plenty of nothing; or, if we're being optimistic, plenty of things that weren't worth my time. And although I can't pretend to enjoy days like these, I did discover some mildly entertaining things.

5. Desire: This is a TV series that I just happened upon. Possibly the worst I've seen. Ever. The plot consists of two beau monde and macho jocks who are in love with the same slutty woman. Oh, and the Mafia is after them. It seems as if the directors tried to spin this novela off of Desperate Housewives or something. And where that show can actually be funny while it is crude, this one is just stupid. The episode I saw had detestable acting, especially in the oddly soap opera-ish moments when a grisly old man tortured one of the surfer dudes because he wouldn't marry his daughter. Needless to say, I found it funny.

4. Pudding: Today was my first attempt at making pudding from scratch. Surprisingly, it worked. However, my chocolate concoction slipped out of its bowl in such a smooth, polished, even mound that I could not resist making a face out of it. I used whipped cream for the eyes, chocolate pupils and nostrils and little white cream fangs and lots of hair. "Here you go convalescent friend who is too ill to leave the couch. Hope this doesn't scare you too much..."

3. While outlining the chapter for history, I have discovered that I hate the French. If it wasn't for Henry III and the Huguenots I would not have been trapped in front of the computer screen all day. And then again, if it hadn't been for Europe at all I would not be taking this class in the first place.
Blast!

2. General Conference: Okay. While this wasn't exactly entertaining, it was enlightening. And that totally counts. Too bad I slept through most or all of the second session.

1. My dreams: While I was sleeping through the aforesaid portion of conference, I had a dream I was riding the ferris wheel at Lagoon with a tank full of Piranhas on my head. On the downward trip they spilled all over me and aggressively seized my flesh and commenced to eat me alive. Natalie and Brittany then started to yell, "Nice job Joslynn! Now we have to go buy more!"

Days like these... you've got to love 'em.

A true Dogface

This is my tribute to all of Heaven's creations that never should have been conceived. We fear them because they are different. But surely on the inside they are just the same... Or are they?

This is Sam, possibly the most repugnant creature to grace God's planet.

As you can see, what Sam lacks in hair is made up in numerous goose pimples and warts. Below his neck hangs a flapping fold of flesh, and his crooked smile is crowned by a set of snaggle teeth.

Did I also mention he's going blind?

Owner Susie Lockheed is proud of her pet. She said, "People are always horrified when I kiss him. He may turn into a prince yet. He's definitely a toad."

Yes Susie. He most certainly is.

When I was first introduced to Sam, I, like many others, recoiled in fear but was soon drawn to him in morbid fascination. He looked like some kind of hideous beast that had been hit by a train and then wrung through a washing machine while simultaneously being beaten with a stick.
The owners of the other contestants in the World's Ugliest Dog Contest may have thought their pooches had a chance at winning - that is, until they saw Sam. He's so ugly the judges recoiled in shock when he was placed on their judging table to claim his winnings for the third consecutive year.
Surprise, surprise.
Although Sam has regretfully passed away, his monstrous legacy will live on and on.

Miss Domesticity

With the recent absence of my mother from our home in South Jordan, I have felt a sudden and decisive pull towards all things domestic. My reason? The alpha female leaves, and another takes her place--me.
Tonight I cleaned the house. I vacuumed, dusted, scrubbed, and set the Beatles going. Then I made dinner. I even stuck toothpicks in the entree. Was this enough? Oh no... as if things weren't getting bad enough! I baked a cake, feeling that I couldn't continue on with the test for which I should be studying until I chopped up at least a dozen peaches and blended some whipping cream. Of course, the cake was lumpy, as my cakes always are. But I like to think I'm getting better.
I'm afraid that those around me have also felt the relentless pressure of my new role. Lately I have been much more naggy. An undeniable know-it-all. "Don't do that! Don't sit there! I knew that was going to happen..."
I could kick myself in the foot.
And now, the confession:
Mom, please come home. Because I am turning into you.

Introverts unite!

I am an introvert.
The idea occurred to me recently, but I have refused to accept it until last night, when the thought actually became pleasureable.

The telephone was ringing, and my mind was hovering somewhere between apprehension and terror. I hesitated until it was too late. The ringing stopped and I was relieved. And that's when it hit me flat over the head: I would rather stay safe in the shadows and away from conflict rather than face it head on. An introvert!

Ah ha! How much better would life be from that angle? There would simply be an excuse for everything!
"Oh, don't mind me. I'm an introvert... Sorry, I can't go to prom with you. I'd rather stay home-- didn't you know? I'm an introvert."

Of course, I am not all introverted. I have my glorious extrovert moments, which are mostly me being abnormal and foolish. But over all I feel much safer standing next to someone else.

I have found in my new position that I do not feel inferior to extroverts, nor do I feel like I need special care and feeding instructions now that my case has been identified. Just let me have a bagel, and a cup of hot chocolate and I'll be content to watch an entire season of The Office by myself.

I suspect introverts were probably put on this planet to provide balance to all of those jabbering extroverts running around talking about nothing 98 percent of the time. Extroverts have a driving passion to be the center of attention. They have a comment about every subject in the world and they have a joke for every situation. In one conversation, an extrovert will make ten statements to one introvert comment.

I was always told that being an introvert was never a popular characteristic. A negative personality trait, if you will. I don't think so. I find that introverts tend to be incredibly thoughtful and intelligent people.

So I only have one thing left to say:
My name is Joslynn, and I am an introvert.
Are you?

Farewell Sweet Summer

I could not go to bed without formally recognizing the official end of summer on this blog. Despite the dullness, the drudgery, and the heat, many good things (and not so good things) have happened.

Allow me to list:
1. A couple days in a houseboat, giggling non-stop with Nicole.
2. Trips to Maggie Moo's. Cinnamoo ice-cream. Mmmm...
3. Wave runners on Bear Lake. (I tore up the water and overcame my fear of tipping over.)
4. Paychecks from Lifetime Fitness
5. Visits to and from Brittany, and a brief glimpse of the magical Beatle's Anthology
6. Maxwell's Silver Hammer
7. Bowling
8. Helping with Brenda's neighbor's wedding reception. Delicious food, beautiful flowers. The company of close friends. Who could ask for more?
9. Pirates Premiere. Yes, Megan and I did wear cheesy shirts, but it was very fun.
10. Cousin visit in Idaho.
11. House shopping with Keenan and Koseli
12. The dollar theater
13. The water park. Cowabunga dude! Kos and I rocked those water slides.
14. Abner
15. A surprise early morning visit from Kathy and Brenda, and then IHOP.
16. Visits from Lindsay at work.
17. Chalking driveways. Everybody's and anybody's.
18. Swinging on the swingset and talking to Nat, Britt, and Brenda. A daring game of 'Truth'.
19. Daph, Britt, and I attempt to run.
20. Some very intuitive conversations with Doyle. (That's Brittany's horse, for those of you who don't know.)
21. Death Cab for Cutie concert. Seeing Mates of State live and falling in love with both of them.
22. Wendy's, Del Taco, and Wendy's and Wendy's and Wendy's.
23. Wild kitten craziness and the desperation that comes with trying to get rid of it
24. IP relay, some messed up notes, and some very yucky cookies.
25. Violent games
26. Visits from Kari, Cambria, Kevin, Sasha, and Kristian.
27. Non-stop Winkle voice.
28. Hormones.
29. Meeting Grace at the mall
30. A completely black solstice party
31. Noodles with Lindsay. Movie with Lindsay. Slurpies with Lindsay.
32. Talking with Brenda until two in the morning.
33. Dead car battery that magically came back to life.
34. Tristen's birthday party
35. Brittany's surgery.
36. My terrible haircut
37. Dinner at Paul and Jaylynn's
38. Scum
39. Sleepover with Kathy and Megan
40. Costco lunch with Megan
41. Starting a journal
42. Cambria's book signing
43. Sam Weller's
44. Gardener Village
45. Skipping Sunday school
46. Starting this blog
47. Scary man experience
48. Drive-in movies, movie theaters, and rented movies
49. Crazy costumes, a Russian hat, a sword, and three sheets
50. Ice-cream 'til two in the morning
51. Hours spent in delightful reading
52. Postcards and letters from afar (or not so much)
53. Hours, and hours, and hours, and hours of laughing. Really hard.

If you have more to add, by all means do! Let us not let this next school year murder the summery feel. Though the days get colder, and shorter, and our lives get busier, we will keep summer in our hearts.
Because, after all, we must continue to glorify its dullness so we have something to be excited about next year.

Lesson to a so-called Rock Star

It has happened. The muses and the stars told me not to do it, but I disregarded them. One would think that receiving several signs against my actions might have persuaded me, but still I stubbornly held fast. The Buick broke down as we ventured in that direction. Still, I was blind. I waited for nearly three hours to bring company along the way. They didn't want to go, so why did I? Why? Why did I do it? I kick myself now, and daydream about how things would have been otherwise... but alas!
I've done it-- I've cut my hair. And there is no going back.
Allow me to describe the damage, the situation, and the events in the order in which they occured:
In my previous post I mentioned briefly that I had a desire to cut my hair. Yesterday I acted upon that impulse. A definite mistake.
It began when Kristian mentioned that a long lost friend of ours works at Supercuts. Just by the name you should know these things shouldn't be tampered with. One's hair is one's dignity. Your haircut must be bad if it is described as 'super'. But I trailed along to the local Supercuts store. And it was there that it happened.
It began as a simple trim, only a few inches, as the girl cutting it (not the friend) had long, raggy, locks with too many fake highlights and not enough conditioning. My first impulse was not to trust her judgement. It would have been a wise decision, had I stuck with it. Instead I decided that she hadn't gone through beauty school for nothing, and she probably knew what she was doing. An hour and a half later, she swiveled me around in my chair and I gazed with shocked horror at the image reflected at me in the glass.
There in the mirror, was me. I had short hair- shoulder length- choppily and chunkily layered in the front. It looked as if she'd chopped it off with a knife and fork, and not a pair of scissors. But that wasn't the worst part. The crowning glory: a set of teensy little bangs, aligned scraggily and semi-straight all the way across my forehead. To one who already has a round face, this 'do' did not do it for me at all! In fact, it was hard to believe this was not just a bad dream.
The girl teased and inspected the round-brushed, blow-dried, froofed-up, mess she'd created.
"Do you like it?" she asked, cautiously. Perhap she'd noticed the horrified look on my face, or the distressed looks I kept tossing in Kristian and Koseli's direction.
"My bangs..." I began politely, "Are a little too short. Can you... do something to make them... look longer? Or something?"
She tried. I'll give her that. But by the time she finsihed I was convinced this girl had never gone to school to become a cosmetologist. A monkey could have cut my hair better than she did. The end product looked something like a cross between Rosie O' Donnel's hair and Pink's. And the more I complained, the shorter my bangs became. At this point they were about an inch long, and because of my cowlick they stuck straight up.
"Let me just trim those up a bit," said the girl nervously, obviously aware that she'd ruined a head of perfectly healthy hair.
"No!"
I was done.
I quickly got out of the chair, brushed nearly eight inches of my beautiful murdered hair out of my lap, and bound over to Koseli and Kristian. I was close to tears.
They told me it wasn't so bad. Besides, they said, I looked like a rock star.
"But I'm not!" I protested. And it's true. I'm as close to a rock star as... nothing.
My anger and frustration was evident enough to give me a full refund of my haircut. They may have been able to give me back my money, but that doesn't help. I want my hair back.
Today I am going to the mall to buy a vast variety of thick headbands, hair clips, and mousse.
I may have rock star bangs, but nobody will see them until they've sufficiently grown out.
It's like Paul said: "What's the difference between a bad haircut and a good haircut?"
"What?"
"About four weeks."

Fiasco!

It started as a simple errand trip. It ended as a fiasco.
In my front driveway, slightly to the west and parked on a strip of gravel is an old blue car. The front bumper is starting to rust, there are dings here and there, and its make and model are decidedly out-dated. It is known as The Buick. Or, better yet, The Couch.
While vacationing here in South Jordan from the wild streets of New York, my brother Kristian decided to pass on the Buick to me, as we are all expecting the worst from the New Yorker. In fact, I am quite surprised I have driven it so many times without a serious explosion.
Everything necessary was completed today for the grand ceremony of switching owners: the inspection, the registration, and the new licenseing. We decided to take it for a spin around town. As I approached the car, being the brainless git I am, I decided to swat out at a few stray hornets who seemed to be lingering around the sideview mirror. Little did I know that the heat of the day only provokes these curious creatures into what we humans lovingly refer to as, "the angry hour." Before you could say "The Predatory Wasps of the Palisades are Out to Get Us" or something like that, I heard Kristian yell...
"RUN Jos! Run!"
And I did.
Around and around the yard I ran screaming for my life as eight angry hornets chased after me, hungry for bloody vengeance.
Kristian ran into the house and seized two bottles of Raid instant Hornet and Wasp Killer. A few moments later the air was thick with poison and half a dozen insects fell out of the air around me and writhed on the ground in their last dying moments.
Quick as thieves we jumped into the car and raced down the street, beginning what could possibly be considered the most ineffectual errand trip ever.
We were going to get our hair cut. I was saving up my courage to cut off at least six inches. And my brother has skater hair. He needed that haircut. Kristian was going to get a new phone plan from T-Mobile, and I a new phone. Unfortunately, these things never happened.
Somewhere around Redwood Road, The Couch died. It just quit. No lights, no engine, nothing.
"Wow!." I said, once again being foolishly naive and stupid. "The clicking stopped!"
We sat in stunned silence for a moment, and with one desperate motion I tried to turn the key in the ignition again. Nothing.
We were stranded.
The situation was not improved by the fact that several angry hornets, nested somewhere within the car or outside of it, had found us, and had proceeded to launch assaults on us, their unarmed victims.
So in his button-up and flip flops, Kristian pushed the car to the side of the road. I steered.
Luckily we were picked up by a kind passerby, and a short while later I was riding in the back of a complete stranger's truck, feeling strange, but quite safe from the ravaging beasts.
It was a surpassingly strange day.
It is funny that even when I have the most ordinary intentions my life takes a sudden swing from calm to calamity.
It's just funny.

Hairy Blopper: Installment #2

At that precise moment, a slightly chubby and very dark young man burst into the compartment.
"Have you seen a weasel around here?" He asked breathlessly. "He's about a foot high, with pink eyes and--"
"There's no weasel here. Who're you?" Demanded Hairy.
"Juan. Juan Wememl." He extended his hand in friendly invitation. Hairy studied the boy. He looked about Hairy's age, with twitching, fat, almond eyes and glistening brown skin. He wore a faded blue cape around his shoulders, a pair of pin-striped trousers, and a newsboy cap with an ostrich feather stuck in the left side.
Hairy accepted the hand at last. It felt moist and bloated in his own.
"Hmmm... pleased to meet you Juan. I suppose. Why're you going to Moldywart's?"
Abdul-Azim seized this heartwarming moment to humbly bow himself out of the compartment. He wanted to get an early claim on Hairy's luggage in the baggage cart.
"I'm a compulsive stealer." He grunted. "You see, I take things all the time. Got caught. Parents were mad. They made me come. You?"
"I am a prince," stated Hairy, puffing up considerabley.
"So'm I!" retorted Juan, with indignation.
This shut Hairy up immediately. He quickly changed tactics.
"What's your stupid weasel's name?"
"He's not stupid!" cried Juan, looking hurt. "And his name is Schnuffles."
Juan sat down on the seat across from Hairy and stared sulkily at the floor. Hairy picked nervously at a loose crimson thread.
The compartment doors opened again, this time revealing a lovely girl holding a large, white, and very ugly rodent in her arms.
She addressed Juan, "Were you the one looking for a weasel? I found him under my seat. I hope you know he ate all the fizzing hizbees in my bag."
Indeed, as she spoke the weasel gave a mighty hiccup and several pink bubbles erupted from the end of its long, pointy nose and floated lazily about the car.
"Ew," Said Hairy. "That's gross."
"What makes you so special?" snapped the girl, turning on Hairy rather rudely. Her cheeks flushed rosily and her tight blonde curls frizzed with acrimony.
"I am a prince." He puffed up like a bullfrog.
"So?"
"Well, I own three chickens." he said quickly, and then added as an afterthought, "They're magical."
"Your pants are ridiculous." she said coldly, and turned to Juan again.
"Here's your weasel. Keep an eye on him, will you? I don't want him to go around eating my stuff anymore! I'm Germiona Greindzher, by the way."
She gently put Schnuffles into his arms. Juan was looking a little shifty eyed, and his face was extremely shiny at this point. We cannot tell if this is because of the heat, Germiona's beauty, or because of the gold bracelet on her wrist.
"Germiona Greindzher?" piped up Hairy from the corner, wanting to be introduced. "What kind of name is that?"
"And what's your name? I don't suppose it's any better. Oh, but I forgot! You're a prince-- with chickens! Ha!"
Hairy pinked and sunk deeper into his pillows.
"That sure is a dumb looking weasel." He replied, in an unpretentious and obliging tone.
Abdul-azim re-appeared at this awkward hiatus to announce to the passengers:
"Master, gentleman, and lady," (pause for a wheezing breath) "We have arrived at Moldywart's School! Huzz, huzz... you're to get your bags and exit the train immediately. Right this way, Prince Hairy...."
The procession exited the car in a rather disgruntled queue, Juan bringing up the rear with Schnuffles in tow.
On the platform Hairy, Juan, and Germiona could see Moldywart's. It was a great black beast of a building.
.........................................................................................................................................................................

Visit us next time in...

Hairy gets a Hangover

or

Juan's Revenge: an Introduction to the Amazing Purple Sock of Power....

Hairy Blopper: Installment #1

Hairy Blopper and the Purple Sock

Written and illustrated by Joslynn Christensen with ideas and input from Nataile Edge

Chapter I

Hairy Introduced

Our story starts deep in the firry heart of a land where magic carpets and puffy Aladdin pants are still in fashion. The hero of this tale is a young boy- aged thirteen- with a sleek black mullet and coke bottle glasses. His name is Hairy Blopper.

Hairy Blopper is a highly unusual boy. One may assume (and I have no idea why) that this uniqueness could be attributed to the anomalous lightining shaped scar on his forehead. However, that most certainly is not the case. There are no hidden powers in this particular scar, no secret messages, and no cause for fame. The fact is that Hairy received it while on a Gondola Serenade Tour in Venice a few years back. The Gondolier dropped his stick, giving Hairy quite the nasty cut. Of course, there is no comparison as to what happened to the Gondolier after the accident... But that's beside the point.

Hairy Blopper is unique, because Harry Blopper is a prince. He owns 40 acres of fertile land on the outstretch of Tunisia, a shrinking manservant, a palace with two Russian onion domes, and three chickens. Do you know many thirteen-year olds who own a manservant? I thought not. Therefore Hairy Blopper's individuality is undeniable. Not only that, but his manservant has green skin, I could add. But that would be a unique characterstic to the manservant, and not Hairy, so we will disregard it.

I'm afraid we must focus for a moment on Hairy's temperment. While the Harry YOU might have in mind is humble and dear, this Hairy is nothing more than a pampered little prince. Unique or not, he is spoiled rotten by his parents (yes he has parents) and whenever his poor goon of a manservant puts one putrid, cracking, yellow toenail out of line he is whipped- CRACK- right across his shriveled hump of a back. Hairy was SO rotten, in fact, that his aunt and uncle (a good honest young couple) at last convinced Hairy's parents to send him to a reformatory school. And THAT is where our story really begins.

Chapter II

An actual beginning

"AB!" Shrieked a pre-pubescent's voice from somewhere in the back of the car.

Hairy Blopper sat amongst mountainous red velvet cushions on the train ride to Moldywart's School for Badly Behaved Youth. His parents had kindly booked him a private car, and in return he had kindly bit his mother's chin as she tried to kiss him goodbye.

"Abdul!"

A green fingernail wrapped itself slowly around the edge of the compartment door.

"Come show your face you ugly git. I want some chocolate. No! I want something to punch! Now come here!"

Abdul-Azim came shuffling into the car. The compartment door snapped shut behind him, and he jumped nervously at the startling sound.

"Ab... I'm going to sock you for telling Mum and Dad I drowned those kittens. They were mad on the way up here-- you're going to get it-- Where are my chickens!"

Abdul-or should we call him Azim?- wheezed nervously. He had tended Hairy ever since he was a wee thing, (and let me assure you he was just as bad mannered then as he is now) and was now getting much too old for this kind of stress.

"Master," panted the tiny man-- or whatever he was, "master, if you please sir, the chickies are in the baggage cart-"

"Oh shut up, you old hag," said Hairy impatiently.

..........................................................................................................................................................................

And that is as far as we shall get tonight. Sorry folks, I'm sure you're dying to read more.

The Penguin's Revenge: Why Sunday is the worst day of the week

I sent her over the edge. I knew it was bad-- but I did it anyway. She was on the brink of insanity, and I pushed her over.
My ward is small, ineffectual, unpretentious, and prejudiced. Everyone is always in other people's business. In other words, my neighborhood is chock full of gossiping old gooses.
Against my better judgment (but for the greater good) I have skipped a few segments of the block schedule at church to chat with a friend on the couches, in the empty classrooms, or on the grass. For privacy's sake we will call this particular friend 'Anne'. Anne talks constantly without pausing for breath or stopping to listen to the other person's response. Anne has that special talent of talking while someone else is talking without losing her train of thought. She can speak to anybody, about anything, for extended periods of time. Do you get my drift? We sluffed Sunday school to save our poor teacher from the wrath of Anne's jabber mouth.
At least, that's what I keep telling myself.
And then we were caught. By the bishop. He pulled up a chair, stared straight through our souls, and asked, "Do you need a new teacher? Why won't you go to class?"
How could we lie? He'd surely know... Unluckily, Miss Chatterbox said,
"She cries a lot. She's too emotional. I don't like listening to her lessons. They're not very good, are they? I mean, she works ALL the time so she probably doesn't have time to prepare them. But still! It's like, hard to listen to her..." and on, and on, and on.
Needless to say, we went to class. The first counselor physically pushed us into the classroom full of pubescent boys and unwarranted Sunday school teacher's tears.
Anne was driving me nuts. Oh, how she talks! Our poor teacher looked frazzled and tired, and every once in a while she would cast hurt looks at the both of us. But Anne was relentless, and so was I. Full to bursting with thoughts I desperately wanted to share, I was peeved how I could not get a word in between Anne's incessant chatter. And then, for one moment, the class was dead silent, and I blurted out this:
"Two penguins were in a bathtub. One says to the other, 'Pass the soap!' The other turns to him and says, 'Do I look like a typewriter to you?'"
Silence. Dreadful, painful, ungrateful, dead air.
SLAM! The teacher had thrown her bible onto the table, where it promptly and obediently snapped shut. BANG! Into her bag she threw the chalk, the binder, the tablecloth. CRASH! In went the vase full of fake flowers. With tears streaming down her face she looked me in the eyes and said:
"You offend me so much. I don't understand, how you can say these things and think it's appropriate. You don't come to class, and when you do, you don't listen. I can't BELIEVE THAT I'M TEACHING THIS CLASS WHEN I HAVE SO MANY OTHER THINGS I COULD BE DOING AND I AM SO UNAPPRECIATED!"
She looked crazy. Her hair stuck out in all odd directions. Her face was flushed and flashed from red, to purple, to white.
And then, SLAM! The door banged shut and she was gone. The class sat in stunned silence for a moment, and the boy next to me put his hand on my shoulder and said kindly, "Well, you've officially run our Sunday school teacher out of the church and down to hell."
Even Anne was speechless.
I had to sacrifice my pride to spare my mother from the dirty looks our neighbors were giving her. Word travels fast where I live, and I'm afraid it goes even quicker when it bodes no good news. On Wednesday I wrote my teacher a note. I poured out my soul onto a little card, trying my best not to fumble my most sincere apology. I made it as eloquent as I could. She ate it up. Today she seized me in the hall by the waist, kissed me on the cheek, and whispered, "I forgive you."
I can laugh about the situation now. It has taken me a week, but the ebullience I feel from the pardon given me is enough to put a smile on my face. From this experience I have learned a valuable lesson: Never tell absurd and meaningless jokes about penguins in the middle of a lesson that a batty and stressed out woman happens to be teaching.
Just don't do it.

Blight of the Star Crossed Lovers and Hopeless Romantics

Each day I am delicately brainwashed by the ideals of silver screen love. I smile at Patrick Swayze's easy moves. Cary Grant, Clark Gable, and Romeo seduce my eye with the satisfaction of a role well fulfilled. Again I have cried at the frightful sight of a ghastly pale Gilbert Blythe emaciated from scarlet fever. And yes, I do always clutch my heart in agony as lovers part.
Diamond sunbursts and marble halls... Hmph.
This unrealistic euphoria is the archetype for almost all books, music, movies, and the media in general. Our society has glitter in its eyes and a soundtrack in its ears. Thus it is blind and deaf to the horrifying, gut-wrenching truth: this could never happen in real life.
Preschool was truly the closest I've ever been to these emotions. It was a simplistic love in its most innocent form. He tried to kiss me at recess, and after that I never spoke to him again.
To quote my beloved Lord Byron:
"Alas! the love of women! it is known
To be a lovely and fearful thing!"
Romance, true romance, unlike the kind they spoon feed you in the movie theater, is an unobtainable concept that has been doing irreparable harm to our psyches for as long as we can remember.
It’s not just the fantasy we’re going after…it’s what we think the fantasy leads to, which is the cause of the problem. It’s that feeling- that chemical imbalance- with the magic, the butterflies in your stomach, and the random acts of sappiness. It wraps around the 10 percent of our tiny brains that we actually use until we are incapable of intelligent thought or rationale. The phrase “Fools in love” truly has meaning.
Wednesday night is girl's night; a feminine evening spent in the company of friends procuring pedicures and gossip. But what does it lack? Ah, yes. The chick flick; which was devised as a means to satisfy the desperate craving for romance in a girl and instead leaves her empty handed and half crazed. This is the stereotypical activity that all women must enjoy, and every Wednesday I am forced to balk at my own misfortunes and seriously ponder my love life. Wait! It doesn't exist!
L-O-V-E, the four letter word that we have created for this psychosis, has been hyped up and cut down so many times as to quite leave me in the dark. The whole idea is extremely vexing. What am I to believe? From the pain I've observed in other people as they recover from falling in love, I am seriously considering a support group for those who have what we call 'The Happily Ever After' syndrome.
There is one thing that hopeless romantics everywhere should never neglect to remember: don't let the glitter blind you from all that crap lying around.
Move over Romanza. We're recovering from love and we will take no nonsense from you.

Jossay's Return: Part I

Often in my mind a nagging Thought creeps about. It settles in the folds of my brain and scratches with its claws until I can't ignore it any longer. "Who?" it asks, "Who, is your favorite person?"
By no means would I ever give any regard to this itchy little Thought. I know far too many glorious and wonderful humans to be so biased. However, if that Thought were to re-think itself, and instead ask, "What is your favorite person?" I could make a reply.

Perhaps in order for one to understand this, I must outline a story to further clarify the facts. Unfortunately this particular story will be very vague and will perhaps cloud up the situation even further. I don't find it unsettling however, and neither should you. There is, after all, only one who will truly know.

There is a body outlined in white. It's shaving cream-no- it's chalk. Either way, it looks dead.
We are so very clever. You may even say that we are stupid cool.
I owe you $1.60. We sit in the car and listen; we are completely quiet, still dressed in our concert black.
Somewhere from my left I hear sarcastic snorts. I turn my head. We make eye contact, grimace, and quickly turn away to hide our smiles. Mr. Thompson has something on his lip... or is that big gay Al's idea of a joke? Either way we laugh the same. It rises to its peak and then ebbs slowly away until it dies. By no means is it a graceful laugh, but it is nothing close to a man's.
No bake cookies are no good. They have turned into peanut-butter oatmeal mush. There are a couple mixed up cards, and some phone calls that have provoked anger; and lies that have ensured it.
A 1945 editon of Pride and Prejudice. A precious note scrawled across lined notebook paper.
Everything is set right with a perfectly organized glass cabinet at one o'clock in the morning.
Crepes make a delicious meal. Tea, anyone? Yes, we love old books.
Will you have seconds? Yes. Thirds? Yes. Fourth's? Ye- No!
Oh how we shall always regret...

Perhaps I should thank you.
To be joined at the hip -related by name and not by blood- is indeed an honor.
Pesky little Thought! If you were to ask the question again, I could indeed make a reply.
And it would go something like this:
Jossay forever!

Wit and Wisdom from a reliable source

We have all heard it a million times before. It is etched in our brains. The beauty, the confusion, the controversy; whether we want it or not it will always have a place in our lives. It is universally acknowledged. It is loved worldwide, yet it is hated within each of us when we cannot understand it. When our ideas match those the footnotes spit out however, we emerge shining and triumphant from our labors. Every time one mentions "assasination", or "skim milk", or 1700 other privately coined phrases, suffixes, and prefixes, we acknowledge its influence.

It is Shakespeare; the Great and Immortal Bard of English literature. 154 sonnets, 37 plays, 13 suicides, and countless loves later, we are still puzzling over this man. My conclusion? Genius.
Sheer, undeniable, perfect, absolute, bona fide genius.

While strolling through Shakespeare's works, I have selected my favorite quotes, thoughts, and facts.

In As You Like It: Because of the obscurities of gender and the fact that women were not allowed to act on stage, Rosalind would have been played by a man, playing a woman. In the play Rosalind emerges as a man who pretends to be a woman who pretends to be a man who pretends to be a woman to win the love of a man.

Romeo and Juliet: "Thou small grey coated gnat."
"Beauty starv'd with your severity
Cuts beauty off from all posterity."

Hamlet: "Thou vicious mole of nature!"
"If thou dost marry, I'll give thee this plague for thy dowry."
"Go, ye giddy goose."

Henry IV: "Thou leathern-jerkin, crystal-button, knot-pated, agatering, puke-stocking, caddis-garter, smooth-tongue, Spanish pouch!"
"You are as rheumatic as two dry toasts."
"Peace, good pintpot, peace, good tickle-brain."

Macbeth: "By the pricking of my thumbs,
Something wicked this way comes."

Call me a nerd. But until you learn to appreciate Shakespeare for its gorgeousness, your insults mean nothing to me, you cockered fly-bitten pumpion!

"All the world 's a stage, and all the men and women merely players. They have their exits and their entrances; And one man in his time plays many parts."

Keena's Kure

I have decided to reveal a startling new trend in modern medicine in which I have recently taken an interest. It is very sparsely known at this point in time, but my connections in the medical field have allowed me an early insight into the situation.
It began with Brooke Greenburg. She is a child frozen in time--though 12 years old, she still has the characteristics of an infant. Through many studies and tests, it has been discovered that little Brooke has an excess amount of DHEA in her system. Although slow growth may not be desirable in a human body, so-called scientist H.W. Keena at Stanford University realized the full potential that the anti-aging hormone, DHEA, could have on society. Through careful analysis and practical problem solving, this ingenious human has developed a monthly DHEA serum to inject in domestic animals. He is calling it, "Keena's Kure."
Now, don't get me wrong. I am not for animal testing, nor would I ever promote an institution that encouraged any morbid practices. This injection is intended specifically for cosmetic purposes. It has little or no side-effect on the creatures (it has only been tested on mammals: felines, canines, and nigripes) though it has been observed that the DHEA has an affect on metabolism and requires more caloric intake on the animal's part, as well as benign red spotting on the soft underbelly.
What does this all mean? I'll tell you. Frou Frou, your precious puppy, will never become a slobbering, smelly, fat, old Catahoula Bulldog, but will rather stay young and sweet forever. Or, more like, as long as you can afford the shots. They're pretty pricey over the black market, running at over $110 per dose.
This dramatic discovery will allow oodles of kittens and baskets of bunnies to stay young and darling for longer.
However, it must be clear that Keena will not turn the world into a perpetual Neverland where puppies and piggies never grow old. Remember, even though Brooke Greenburg looks like a baby, she is still twelve. DHEA will not prolong life, but rather enhance it with the joy and beauty of youth.
Or course, this drug has not been universally accepted in any country excepting Azerbaijan, where the empress has been injecting her pet panda for several months now. Because of certain animal rights activists, this miracle drug cannot be distributed on the market. This is ridiculous, of course, and I believe Terrier-loving Prime Minister Tony Blair should be slapped for his private claims that the injections are inhumane. The British have always been too closed minded when it comes to their dogs.
I for one vouch that as soon as I lay my hands upon a couple of syringes and a bottle of Keena's serum I will take a trip to the local pound and inject as many animals as I can. Their chances of adoption as babies is increased ten-fold. In fact, I have already begun recruiting members to join the Y.A.B.B.A. squad. It is an organization of individuals that will promote Young And Beautiful Babies Always.
Whether you agree with this practice or not, I would dearly love to hear your opinion. If you have any interest in joining Y.A.B.B.A., drop me a line.

Departure of the Small Ones

It has happened at last; I have my room back.
Never before have I missed something so much as the scent of my pillows, or my down comforter--I was so happy to creep into the cool darkness in the wee and twinkling dawn after they left. Gone are the tubs of Benefit product. There will be no more laughing at "Ex's make great speedbumps". No more staying up until 2:00, sleeping in until 11:00, and napping at 3:00. No laughter at dinner. No conversation. No mocha heath ice-cream. The entryway will no longer be flooded with their shoes. They're gone, and with them they have taken that special charm-- that enchanting spell that visiting loved ones always bring.
I have my room back, but I would rather sacrifice my privacy forever than return to how things were before they came.

Dawn of the Diabetics

On this day six years ago my adventure began.

There we sat, surrounded by endless rows of immaculate white T-Shirts. Cambria's feather bed was fluffy and smelled of disuse. She said I looked pale. I told her it was nothing.

I remember that we girls went with Paul and Jaylyn to watch the hot-air balloon launch; I marveled at the blazing colors in the sky, and could almost feel the excited tingling as my feet magically left the ground. We listened to techno music in Kari's car, and I thought maybe this would be enjoyable if I wasn't so thirsty. The best part of the ice-cream was the peaches, and the best part of those was their juice. I only wanted to sit down.
My dad was suspicious. I drank from boiling hot water bottles during the fireworks. An unfortunate local had their bush watered. To the hospital we went. My condition worsened.
I fell in love with my intern. I gave shots to an orange. My mom stayed with me day and night. I felt old, sick, and decrepit. I weighed 57 pounds.
Somebody said to me, "You're going to die?"
I didn't cry. I knew they were ignorant.

I shook up my parents with my shaking. I scarred Koseli's finger. I bumped my head. I went to camp and I hated it; I went back again and hated it still.
I became an expert on islet cells, and insulin, and the form and function of the pancreas. I gave lessons in health class. I taught the firsthand truth.
I discovered I could get out of school easily on any excuse, and that I could use my disease to manipulate and frighten my teachers.
I have a special tool.
For six years my pancreas has not worked. Hooray for implants! Hooray for pumps! And hooray for modern medicine!
As much as I love it, I hope I can rid myself of my power soon.

Born in the USA

The Fourth of July: our nation's most celebrated day. It is a time to enjoy independence, freedom, and liberty with fireworks and delicious food.
Last night I discovered some unexpected ties that I have with America (besides the very obvious ones) and I would just like to briefly outline them. They are amazing. Truly.
It has always been a well known fact that my father is a member of the U.S. Air Force. However, what I did not know is that he is a lieutenant colonel, and in his younger days was chosen selectively out of thousands of applicants by this institution to attend medical school with the entire cost covered. This allowed my parents to stay debt free through all their schooling, as well as a rare opportunity to live in a foreign country. While in Norway, I also found, my dad worked for NATO, and was in charge of all medical care for the air force in that entire country, as well as the Vice President (Walter Mondale) when he came. He has been publicly honored in France, has dined in a palace with war veterans, and has flown all over the world administering aid in a KC-135.
Of course I had to squeeze all of this information out of him drop by drop, and with coaxing and added facts from my informatant... aka Mom.
The next astonishing fact came from my grandfather, who worked at Ft. Detrick in Maryland during WWII as a chemical engineer. That patriotic man is so loyal to his country, that to this day he will not reveal the top secret work that he did during the war. It is a mystery whose nature we can only nit-pick and guess, and from which I have been strictly forbidden to publicly muse.
I suppose this patriotism originates from my great grandfather, who was a prison guard in WWI. He was a given a gun-- with no bullets. While away, his wife and child died from the Spanish Flu epidemic and from his convalescence he was able to meet my great grandmother. His is a romantic tale of heartache, loss, and re-birth. Perhaps I should find out the details before I say any more. I tend to exaggerate my stories greatly.
It is through these family members that I can at last fully appreciate the close bond that I have with our nation's history. It's in my blood... so maybe it's not weird after all that I like politics!

Oh, and by the way, my mom is a Reagan Republican.

Undeniable truths of the week

It's the weekend at last!
From this end up the spectrum, one can look back over the craziness and begin to pull the pieces together. Being able to boast of a particularly interesting week, I find that within the emotions I have discovered several truths. One of these is that no matter how hard you work for something, it never turns out how you hoped. Another is that human beings are naturally jerks, and that if they obtain no personal gain from you, you are worthless to them. The last is that parties are over-rated, always turn out boring, and leave you feeling empty and alone.
I spent all day yesterday cleaning. All day. And the day before that. If I left the room, things would not stay the way I wanted. It was my obsessive compulsive perfectionist Joslynn coming in to play. Therefore I spent a good deal of time guarding the kitchen and growling at anybody who came in. By and by my sister came home from work. "Are you going to put that away?"I would whisper menacingly in her ear. I do believe that my family was sufficiently annoyed with me and were eager to get away.
A dear friend of mine has received phone calls that she did not want. I blame my selfishness and stupidity.
We tried to celebrate the solstice. Summer is here! Endless sunny days, carefree happiness, apparent bliss... I tried to make a pineapple upside down cake. Anyone who tasted it can tell you that I failed. I made popovers that tasted like nothing. Another failure. Even the electricity failed me. No light, no music, nothing to do. It was awful. Tensions were high and I don't think there was a single guest that wanted to be there. A "party" in my dictionary would probably not fit with the definition in Webster's. Last night was a perfect example.
Over this past week, I have discovered that animals do indeed drown in irrigation ditches. I found that I can accomplish more things in one day than I am accustomed to do in a week. I learned the power always goes out at the most inconvenient times. I have found that I indeed cannot cook, that I may never practice for my lessons, and that I can be a completely insensitive brat. I found out that I am less of a man than most people. I have felt a mother's wrath, a sister's love, and a loved one's absence. I have offended, angered, provoked, and saddened. I have grossly and immaturely let someone down. I have passively accepted the will of others with no consideration to my own values. I have said some things that I wish I could take back. I have silenced some thoughts that I wish I could bring forth.
It certainly wan an interesting week.

Life sucks and then you die

Today I had the pleasure of once again feeling my body dragged into Pioneer Comprehensive Medical for a series of tests and analizations that will further determine the fact that all my hormones are severely screwed up.
I sit in the dim little patient's room. It is supposively pleasant because it is painted royal purple using the statistics of Color Therapy; personally I think it a product of bad taste or even colorblindness. Dr. Terina comes in wearing a white suit with a slit much too high for a woman her age, sits down, crosses her legs, consults her clipboard, and asks me several extremely personal questions which I can't answer. Her watery blue eyes bore into my head and I stare at the floor.
"Your testosterone is a little low. Your thyroid is a little low. Your estrogen is a little low."
As Terina continues to explain all the deficiencies in me, my mother will casually cut in with:
"Yes. I would definitely say that Joslynn has mood swings. Actually, she's like that all the time. No, I'm pretty sure she's depressed. Now, will that cream make acne better or worse?"

I hate having my blood drawn. Certainly, I am diabetic, and I do poke my fingers four times a day with a lancett, but there is something terrible about the flobotamist inserting a long needle into your arm. The nausea, the poke, the thought that there is a foreign object under my skin and in my vein, and that it is taking something out. I faint every time.
I have to go back to that wretched clinic next month, two days before my birthday. Supposively I have a wheat sensitivity. What? No bread, no crackers, no high carb foods. Now I will starve to death but I will still gain weight because of the medication that my mother sneakily slips into my water.
Humans get viruses. They grow old, they wither, they get cancer, they have heart attacks, they die.
There certainly is a great deal to live for in the future.

The truth about Men

They are nasty, horrible, dim-witted, putrecent, evil slobs.
And that's all I've to say about that.