Apple of Eris: Dating Suggestion Box

My ward is officially obsessed with dating. Not only do we have a Dating Committee, we also have a dating suggestion box, a ward date night, a weekly dating reminder in church and email, and this past week we had a Dating Panel for the last hour of church. I initially thought that we were going a little overboard, but I knew that things had gone too far when I received an email from the bishop with a list of girls that he and his wife believe were destined for me to go out with. The moment I opened the email I burst out into laughter.

The girls in the ward didn’t know that they had been matched up to all the men in the ward, but of course I felt the need to tell all of my girls that they were being matched to men, and they weren’t the most amused. One of my best friends was tempted to ask the bishop whose list she had been put on so she knows who she should get all gussied up for. Not only was the bishop setting up dates for the guys in the ward, but if you have ever stepped into the room where we hold church, you too received an email. My old roommate was thoroughly confused with his email to date a few girls from our ward because he had moved out of the ward several months before.

Ward date night has been a work in the making for the past couple of semesters, and while it has only been executed this semester, we’ve been hearing about it for forever. When the bishop first brought it up in Elders’ Quorum, he said, “Guys, we need to start dating within the ward. The girls are not going on dates, and let’s face it, they are getting desperate.” My ears perked up like Scooby Doo’s and I sent a text to the girls in Relief Society. Let’s just say that they weren’t too happy being called desperate.

The dating suggestion box has become my apple of Eris. How it works is that a box is brought to our ward activities and anyone can put a boy’s name and a girl’s name on a piece of paper, put it in the box, and then the lucky two are set up on a blind date. So at ward activities, I never take my eye off the box and I swoop in every couple of minutes to submit a match-made-in-hell. Have you ever said anything bad about me? Into the box! Said anything bad about my friends? BOX! Are you loud late at night? THE BOX! Do I just not like your face? The box will be waiting for you. . . . I realize that it is mean of me and that I am using the box for evil, but I just can’t help to get sweet, vindictive, secretive revenge.

I guess my big issue is that I think that church should be just that… church. But somewhere there has been a disconnect and now we are operating as eHarmony as well. Yes, I know that it is important to date and get married, but it does not need to be forced. During the ward dating panel I was so tempted to scream out that exact sentiment, but was not sure if I would be booed out of church or lifted out of my chair in applause, so I sat in agony for an hour while we received dating advice from the engaged/married in our ward. One of my good friends was abducted onto the dating panel and she immediately came up to me after church to apologize because she was just early for church and they asked, so she couldn’t turn them down. If she was single, I would probably give her a horrible date in the suggestion box just for laughs.

I Should Never Be a Handyman

Sometimes, I get the urge to fix things. So when my sink clogged for the second time in a period of two weeks, I thought, “Well yes! I think I CAN fix a clogged sink. It’s all just gravity, right?” Unfortunately, an hour before, I poured my (red) chicken-broth poaching liquid into the sink, along with corn kernels, expired cream, assorted vegetables, and celery hearts.  I didn’t realize that the sink was clogged when I decided to put all this down the sink, but I soon discovered something was amiss. 

First I thought that putting the garbage disposal on would drain my sink. The garbage disposal spun the water around but only made a growing cloud of suds. My next idea included putting MORE water into the sink with a prayer that the laws of pressure and gravity would push the clog out of the pipes. The water level just kept rising, and although it did dilute the color of the water, it just increased my stress. That is when I decided I was a plumber.

So I cleared out under the sink and prepared myself with kitchen towels and bowls to catch the putrid water that was floating about my sink. First, I fingered with the bottom of the T-joint and when I finally removed the U-bend, a trickle of about three drops drained from the pipes. At this point, I knew that it had to be a clog in the garbage disposal side of the pipes (which sticks out horizontally). I unscrewed the joint as slowly as manageable and to my surprise, nothing came out. When I actually disassembled the entire junction, I could see that some plastic was clogging the pipes. Of course the first thing I do when I see the foreign plug is put down my catch basins and then touch it.

The next thing I know is that I am covered in poaching liquid with my hand sealing off the pipe that at one point was clogged. I was so confused to what had just happened, but when I looked across the now wet linoleum floor, I saw a rusty spoon and a spoon handle. Some idiot managed to get a spoon-and-a-half past the garbage disposal, where they made residence in the T-joint of my sink’s plumbing. I wiped some swollen corn off my face and some broth out of my brow and stared out onto what I had just done: I flooded my apartment’s kitchen with corn and chicken broth. I sat in the broth for a good three minutes, choking back tears.

Sitting in the broth, I remembered a time when I accidently filled my grandma’s dishwasher with dish soap instead of dishwasher detergent. Her kitchen flooded with suds while I watched in horror. At first, I tried to scoop the suds into the sink with a cup and prayed that God would grant a miracle where the soap would magically transform into detergent. After the miracle didn’t happen, I had to grab my parents and my grandma to clean up my mess.

Unfortunately enough, this time I didn’t have my parents to clean up the mess, or even to wipe the swollen corn off my face, so I turned back into a plumber and went to work. First, I called out to Joel, who was asleep on the couch (at noon). He moaned, rolled over, and ignored any further pleas I made. I knew two of my other roommates were gone, but wasn’t sure if the Finn had left yet. I took my chances and shouted, “Hey Sampo! Sampo! I need some help in here!” in the most manly, plumber voice I could muster. He came into the kitchen, stared at the slowly creeping water, and I handed him two bowls to empty out into the bath. He emptied them and before I could thank him, he was out the door to the apartment downstairs where they never have issues with plumbing. I reassembled the pipes, grabbed all the beach towels that previous roommates had left, and started to sop up the chicken broth. The time for church was readily approaching, and I had yet to have showered. So I did a quick mop up of the floor with the most fragrant cleaner I could find, and hopped into the shower.

After soaping up twice in the shower, I still felt unclean. I considered for a moment the hazards of showering with bleach, but when I stopped pondering I realized that church started in ten minutes. I didn’t really bother with my hair or with shaving, especially because telling my story would get much more pity if I showed up to church looking like I was run ragged. But the entire time I was in church, I felt dirty and I could have sworn I still had swollen corn in my hair. And then I gained revelation: I was never meant to be a plumber.

Spring Roomates and Vagabonds.

It’s summer term. This means that my apartment complex’s rent is cut in half and people flock to Provo for cheap housing. Each summer, I seem to get the most bizarre roommates, and this summer is no exception. At the time, I have a roommate who is very similar to Napoleon Bonaparte, a roommate who is from Finland, a roommate from Southern California, and a roommate who smokes. 

The roommate who smokes (Andrew) thinks that if he bathes himself in enough Axe nobody will ever realize that he smokes a pack a day. Apparently he doesn’t realize that Axe does nothing to cover the odor of smoke, but makes it smell like prepubescent teens who smoke. When he first moved in he confided in me that he smoked, but don’t worry because he smokes before he goes to work and changes before he comes home, so I didn’t think that it would be too much of a problem.

Andrew started to come home smelling less like tobacco and more like marijuana, and he would laze about on the couch and play Guitar Hero while eating Cheetos. I immediately told him that he reeked of pot, but he denied it and continued on with his munchies.  After his batteries died in his guitar, he decided to follow me around the apartment and try to get a conversation out of me. I, being the ice queen that I am, would give him one word answers or would text through our conversation, hoping he would catch that I wasn’t in the mood for talking. He continued to follow me around until I left the apartment to sit in the park and read.

Andrew, thinking that I am his best friend, asked me to pick up his friend (Joel) who was just kicked out of his apartment… in Colorado. I have issues telling people, “no,” so I told him I would think about it and I would get back to him. Somehow, this translated to Andrew that I would pick his friend up from Colorado and I would be doing it over the weekend. He let me know that he would pay for all the gas and that he was going to pay me for driving, but I never had intentions to go. The thought of being trapped in the cab of my truck with this high, game junkie made me want to shoot myself. I finally lied to him and told him that my sister might need a ride out to Salt Lake and that she gets priority (which is true). Joel took a Greyhound down to Provo and crashed on my couch for the night. The moment he stepped through the doors, it was like a wave of smoke crashed into our apartment. I didn’t realize he would be staying on my couch because nobody said anything to me, but that is where he stayed. 

After four days of Joel living on my couch, the apartment became nearly opaque with smoke. He and Andrew would play Guitar Hero with each other for hours with all the blinds closed, then they would go out to smoke, and then come back to play more Guitar Hero. Joel bought groceries for himself and cleared a shelf for them in our cupboards, making himself right at home. I talked to the other roommates about how they felt about our couch vagabond, and they too didn’t know he would be staying on the couch. I asked Andrew how long Joel would be staying and his response was, “You know, like til’ the middle of June. We’re gonna move in together because I gotta get outta here. Ya know?” The middle of June. I am somewhat intimidated by Andrew because he is my size and a hundred pounds heavier, so I just went to my bedroom to figure out what was going to happen to our apartment.

Andrew must have caught on to the fact that I was dissatisfied, and so he decided to ask all the roommates individually if they had a problem with Joel staying. But he managed to ask in such a way that made it seem that he would kill anyone who said they did have a problem. The roommates told Andrew that they were ok with Joel, but not for a month, and then he came up to me. “You have a problem with Joel staying here?” He tried to seem as intimidating as possible, and something in me snapped. I released my inner sassy-black-woman and told him, “Yeah! Your friend can’t stay here for a month. Your friend can’t stay here for half a month. You know what? Your friend has until Friday to get off my couch before I report him as a stowaway. And when management comes to see that we have a stowaway and they smell the smoke in this apartment, they will kick you out for smoking. So I suggest that you help him find a place to stay.” I am surprised that I didn’t finish by snapping a Z.

That night, Andrew and Joel came into the apartment completely high at midnight and decided it was the perfect time to play Guitar Hero at full blast. I came out of my bedroom and asked them to turn down the volume because I had to get up early in the morning and went back to bed. Five minutes later they had switched from Guitar Hero to sound bites from Beavis and Butthead.  I don’t do well when people disturb my beauty sleep, so once again I asked them to keep it down. This time when I went back to my room, I could hear them talking bad about me and how I was such a stick in the mud. After nearly ripping my door off the hinges, I stormed out and chewed the potheads out so badly that they decided to leave the apartment. The moment I heard them at the bottom of the stairs, I immediately locked the door, locked the windows, drew the blinds, and went to bed with my car keys and laptop hidden in my bedroom (because I wouldn’t be surprised if they stole my truck and computer, and then careened off of a mountain in pot-induced ecstasy).

The next morning, I woke up early with the urge to blast Lady Gaga and do dishes as loud as possible. Joel tried to pretend that he wasn’t affected but I could see that he was awake and bothered. I then decided to open all the windows in the house to let as much sunshine as possible. Joel let out an exasperated groan, stuck his head inside of his pillow case, and tried desperately to plug out all the noise from the kitchen by sticking assorted nuts into his ears. I kept the music playing for three hours, and then took off for class.

Later that night, Joel decided to confront me about my morning shenanigans. Mostly, he wanted to find out if I had problems with him and if I was blasting music to get him out of the house. “I was up early, and the dishes needed to be done. I listen to music when I do dishes. Sorry if it disturbed you.” He told me he was leaving the next morning at five and I would never have to see him again.

The next morning, he was gone… but all of his stuff remained. None of his groceries had been packed up, and I knew he was going to sleep on our couch again, but he probably was going to sneak in and sleep on the couch and then leave before anyone got up. So when I got back home, I decided to open the blinds and stay in the front room until he came back. Around midnight, I saw him hiding behind a tree outside, waiting for me to go to bed. I stayed up, waiting, until he came in. He smoked about three cigarettes and walked around the block four times before he just came upstairs.

The vagabond is still here. If he is still on the couch tomorrow morning, then I will report him to the manager. But I also plan on shutting off the water when he goes to get into the shower, and playing opera music in the morning.