inner-10-year-old girl

I had the pleasure of spending the day with my old friend, Whitney.

We giggled about boys. We told stories of stupidity, rumored and of our own.  We walked around trying on clothing WAY out of our price range, and inadvertently added Whitney to a special club in a very high-end clothing store.

We bought a cake pop at Starbucks, just so we could use the bathroom. Guess who ended up eating the cake pop... who knew that Whitney doesn't like cake?!
...

new famous friend :)

Right after finals, I sat next to a very nice man on a plane from Salt Lake to Denver.

As is my custom, I asked, “Are you leaving home or going home?”

“Neither”

“What were you doing in Salt Lake?/why are you going to Denver?”

You know, normal airplane chit-chat.

“I was here for a concert”

“Oh! The Mormon Tabernacle Choir concert?!” I knew several friends who went; that’s the world I live in.

“The what…?” he responded.

 I might have guessed that this bling and chain-clad fellow didn't fly in to Temple Square to hear the Mo-Tab.

“Um… never mind”

“No, I was in a concert.”

“Oh! Cool! What’s your name? Would I have heard of you?”

“You might have. My name’s Sloan Bone. The band’s name is ‘Bone Thugs and Harmony’”

I may be the last person in the world who would have heard of them. To fully appreciate the reality of this scene, I have to give you a background of my musical history and knowledge.

I grew up in show choirs, singing Broadway oldies and pop songs from the 60s; step-touching and snapping to the beats, in bright, cheesy, and often pleather costumes, and we would perform in places like amusement parks and retirement homes.

In high school with my Concert Choir, I sang Schubert’s Mass in G, and a very complicated choral arrangement of, “We Wish You a Merry Christmas.” I was in the Colorado All-State choir, where we sang a Debussy piece, "Nuit d'Etoiles"in the Denver Capital Building.

 My high school musicals consisted of dancing to "Shoeless Joe from Hannibal, MO,"



being the Fairy Godmother in Cinderella,





and directing a musical about women pioneers.

Right now, I am a member of the BYU Women’s Chorus, where we buzz and trill our way through warm ups, so we can sing Sanctus after Sanctus, and some Beatles’ songs...with ukuleles.

The worst part of this all is that it's true.

one should look before one enters a car

about three weeks ago, I had a date call and say he'd pick me up on the curb. For the record, he's a perfect gentleman, and would have come to the door, but we were a little bit late, and it was cold outside, and trying to find parking in my neighborhood is like finding Rudolf on the Fourth of July.

So I ran out, scarf in hand, still putting one arm through the hole of my jacket. I rushed to the white car pulled up by the curb of my apartment complex and jumped in.  As I was organizing myself in the seat, reaching for the seatbelt, I shouted, "HEY! How's it going?" and looked over at the driver.

then promptly said to the confused expression staring back at me:

"Youuuu areeeee not my date."

The nice man laughed, and said, "nope"

"I hope you have a lovely evening. I'll get out of your car now"

When I saw my actual date pulling up right behind. So I popped into his car (which was kind of white, for the record). I asked him if this was the same car he picked me up in last time, and he said no; he was borrowing his roommates.
"ok. cool."

That is a story in itself. However, the story continues.

So last week I was walking around Salt Lake with a blind date, looking at the lights in temple square. A nice man, (Scott I found out later), shouted from across a few people to my date. They knew each other from school, and so he stopped to chat for a moment on the sidewalk. After they discussed some group project, he turned to make small talk with me.
He asked me how I knew my date
"My brother's in your program as well"
he asked me where I lived
"Just south of that restaurant"
"oh? In those apartments?"
"yup!"
"Funny story about that apartment complex..."
I look at my date, and the other couple with us, everyone intent on hearing the funny story.
"I once was parked outside, just on the curb waiting to pick up some friends. And this random girl gets in my car."
At this point I start to giggle. Thinking, what are the chances that another girl got in his car, and that it wasn't me...? He continued,
"She said, 'Hey! how's it going?!" man, he even repeated my inflection pretty convincingly, "then she said, 'Oh you're not my date!' then she gets out!"
so now, I've totally lost it. My giggles are coming out in sobs...
"Do you know who it was?!" he asked
I was thinking I could probably pin this on an invisible roommate, or some crazy friend. but the truth of the matter was just too funny.

"That was me!" I said through hefty laughter.

He said he tweeted about it. #that awkward moment when some girl gets into your car, and realizes you're not her date.

I would have laughed at the tweet.

My friend in the other couple standing beside us, witnessing the whole thing said sincerely, "I'm not even surprised that was you."

honestly, neither am I.

boy story: Wilbur, the curly red-haired coloradan

My apartment went on a roommate date to an acoustic guitar concert. The few of us girls enjoyed what was a exciting night of deep lyrics and provo heartthrobs.

After the show, we walked by the stage, and caught a close glance at one of the performers.

He had played in one of the last bands. Just to give you a picture of this guy: he was wearing shorts and long socks pulled up half-way to his knees, tucked into purple keds. He had a goofy smile and red curly hair, and he was gangly and awkward, but in a cute sort of way. He was a healthy mix of an young Ron Weasley, and Prince Harry. but more awkward. and curly hair. For the sake of this post, we shall call him Wilbur.

I whispered to my roommate, Jenny, as we were leaving, "I kinda want to talk to that kid."
To which she responded, "I'll go with you if you want," she's an awesome wing-woman, "But if you can start a conversation with him, I'll be very impressed."

What was I going to say?
"Hey! You did great! I really liked your set"
To which he would respond, "Thanks! glad you liked it." He might throw in a "thanks for coming" or a "Like us on facebook" too. then that would be the end.

She was right. How could I start a conversation that would be more than two sentences?

Challenge accepted.



So I walked right up to his silly red curly head and said, "Gosh, you look familiar, are you from Colorado?"

Expecting a: "No, I'm from Utah/Arizona/California/Wyoming"and hoping for a: "But Colorado! My roommate/buddy/bishop/dog's uncle has some specific connection to Colorado..."
Taking the chance that conversation would ensue. There's always a connection to the great CO.


What I did NOT expect was what happened:
 "Gosh, you look familiar, are you from Colorado?"
"YA! I am"
"Wait, really?" I was just asking you that to start a conversation. "Denver stake?" thinking he just picked up on my cue, and was playing along,

"Columbine stake."
"Wait, what?! really?"
flabbergasted. That's my stake. "What high school did you go to?"
"CHS"
"REALLY?!" not my high school, but very close by. We probably know tons of people in common. "When did you graduate?!" I might have actutally met him before!
"I graduated in '09.  I served my mission in the Philippines, I'm O positive blood type. what else would you like to know?"
I laughed. It was funny.
"Sorry I just got back from my mission. clearly I'm still awkward. you guys probably think I'm a freak."
Smile. "No we don't"
"So would you maybe want to hang out sometime?'
"Sure!"
pause
Me: "You're just back from your mission right?"
Him: "Ya. ha ha"
Me:  "Well, let me tell you how this goes. here's the part where you..."the rest of my sentence was interrupted by his acknowledging some adoring fan in the distance with a  head nod, before pulling out his phone.
"let's do this. what's your name again?"
Me: "Averill."
Jenny: "Like April with a 'Vuh'" like I said, she's the best wing-woman.
Me: "a-v-e-r-i-l-l"
Wilbur: "Averill. that sounds like a medicine prescription" pause, "But in a...beautiful way"
Huh. I've gotten a lot of responses from that name, but never that.

I contained my giggles until we were walking out the door, when Jenny and I then burst into laughter. Later as we relay the story to our other roommates, I found that what Jenny thought was so funny: "I didn't think she'd even get a conversation, and he got her number. It's bewildering" (that's where the nickname wilbur arose)
I was thinking "heck, I was just trying to prove that I could start a conversation with a random boy. Turns out we were only ten blocks and one grade apart!"

We chit-chatted about my incredible forwardness, and talked about other boys in our lives.
Rachel then said, "I'm rooting for the curly-haired red-head. What's his name?"
I looked at Jenny.
She looked back at me.

the room went silent.

Then roared raucous with laughter.


no one remembered his name!
"Um...He kinda looked like a Wilbur...?"

my one political post

I have thus far avoided any political opinion posts on my facebook,* but I'm writing now, before my opinion becomes moot. 

I sincerely dislike politics. 

The very word "Politics" has negative connotations, bringing to mind a sense of falseness, duplicity, acting. I work with actors. they are very good at making you believe whatever they want. And that is what our political forums have turned into: an act. 

An Oxford professor, Dr. Peter Hacker, recently gave a small lecture at BYU. He stated eloquently that the standard of awareness and real news has been corrupted by mass media communication. We have corrupted the practice of real citizen involvement and discussion. We cannot have serious debates any more because all of our politicians are pre-packedged and pre-programmed. 

To the average voter, to most of Americans, there is no real discussion on what the real problems are, and what real potential solutions might be. There are no conversations, no compromises, and as far as I can tell, there are very few facts. 

Negative campaign ads that take statistics out of context, or commercials that blow up one line from a an entire speech, and ignorant, polarized commentary everywhere, even among my own friends and family.

I would never claim to be an expert on politics, I don't consider myself even politically aware, so that is why some of my experiences drove further the point of my frustration. I worked on both campaigns. Albeit for a short amount of time, I was involved in campaigning for both Romney and Obama in this election, in hopes, both times, to become more educated and aware of the scene. And both sides were as ignorant and closed-minded as the other. A main focus, as far as I could tell, was to villainize the opponent. No one--on either side--mentioned the other candidate's policies, except to remark plainly how insane or awful they were. 

These campaigns have created a necessity to vote, not discuss. They need to motivate voters by rousing passions, providing a sense of urgency; each side is assailing us with a feeling of desperation that the other candidate will destroy our nation--nay, the world. I feel slightly manipulated because of such extremist thinking. 

Also, people tend to jump to conclusions, in order to sound more convincing. (Let's be honest, we've all done that when writing persuasive essays--right?)  

But in their passions, they sometimes skip over some logic. 

A very intelligent, politically active friend of a friend of mine said something to this effect: 

• To my friends who 'say' you believe in women's rights...You're voting for Romney because of his economic abilities? Well look me in the eye and tell me that your take-home pay is more important than your fundamental civil rights, dignity as a citizen of this country... the mental welfare and emotional well-being of your youth, and your very personhood.

And on the other side, we've all heard the argument somewhere along the lines of:

• If you don't want this country to get dragged down to hell by this incompetent, socialist who's ashamed of America, we need to get Obama OUT of the white house! 

What logical fallacies! Romney is not going to take away women's rights. Also, just because he doesn't believe in gay marriage does not mean that the dignity and emotional and mental well-being of our youth is under attack. And need I remind the country that Obama has ALREADY been president for four years? Yes, we have problems, but we are not stuck in hell, and we certainly do not have an incompetent leader. 

They raised upwards of $900 million EACH for this campaign. Obviously both of these men got where they are by having outrageous amounts of support. Neither of them are idiots. Please stop insulting my own intelligence by telling me to vote for one because the other is awful and crazy and incompetent. 

Because he's not. 

Good luck to both of these men. 

Maybe some day, one of these politicians will acknowledge that his opponent had a good idea? Wouldn't that be interesting. 

I'll keep dreaming.  

To my politically-active friends: please tell me what I am missing here. 

*The one facebook post about politics I wrote was to announce that first-time colorado voters need to attach a copy of their license in an absentee ballot. But it was a non-partisan announcement, and turned out to be false anyway. (If they sent you an absentee ballot, they already had your registered license number). 

to every awkward seventh-grade girl: there is hope.

Normally our show travels to elementary schools, but one show of the whole touring run, we performed in front of a middle school audience.

When some of the cast said that we really did not love middle school, my director warned us that we might panic slightly when back in a middle school setting.  I laughed off the thought! But she gave us some mantras to say, just in case. "Talk yourself down: 'I have friends. I am a grown up. I am cool. I am cooler than seventh-graders. I've kissed boys. I'm in a main stage show at BYU.'" The cast just giggled. ya ya, sure. we'd be fine.

Then we stepped inside the middle school building.

Suddenly I was the gangly, acne-covered, braces-clad, big-nosed, awkward being that I was in seventh grade. 

My brain started to get fuzzy.

I was back in the hellish existence that was my adolescence.

"Oh No. Did I put on those stupid jeans again? the ones that only go to my ankle bone? Am I wearing that old pooh bear sweatshirt again?! Are my socks the right length?!"

My mother's voice rang through my thoughts,
"It doesn't matter if those silly kids think you look dorky, honey. Sneakers are so much more practical. You could start the trend! You could make tennis shoes a cool thing!"

Panic set in, my awkward middle school posture came rushing over me.
My memory flashed back to my 7th-grade audition for "Bye Bye Birdie".

I complained about how awful "Put on a Happy Face" was as an audition song for Kim McAfee.

I could hear Kara Semrey's weasel-y little voice croak, "YOU think YOU could play KIM?!"
"Why not?!" "i'm the best singer in the class!" I thought.
"Well first of all, you're waaaaay too tall!"
"And second...?"
In response, she just laughed. An awful, nasal cackle, and she and her posse turned away.
"Good one, Kare Bear" I heard as they followed her down the hall of the tiny theater.


I got cast as "BOY #3". they didn't even register that I was a GIRL.



I had to call upon my director's mantras:
"I am a grown-up. I have friends. I am cool. I'm way cooler now than Kara Semrey ever was in seventh grade. I've kissed boys. I am in a main-stage show at Brigham Young University. Calm down!"

Hunched and fidgety, I felt these Jr. High Schoolers watch me; glaring little beady eyes, staring me down.

A typical day in sleepy hollow

I wake up at some awful hour of the morning. (Sometimes my call time is 6:15 am.) As I arrive at the school, and see another shadow disappearing into a building, I think, "What poor soul is on campus at THIS hour?!" then I chuckle at myself. because I'm here. Blegh.

I do my hair, and put on my makeup and costume.

But it's not quite that easy.
I put on gobs of makeup. corrector, cover-up, foundation, powder, blush, eyeliner, highlight, shadow, mascara... All in an effort to look effortlessly, naturally beautiful.

I tease, spray, mold, and pin my hair into an arrangement of a bounty of cascading curls (attempting to capture my designer's vision).

I put on stockings, then bloomers, then a petticoat, then a huge skirt, then a bustle--the whole thing has my hips carrying an extra 7 pounds all on a very small clasp that is very tight around my waist. then i struggle into a custom-made jacket, where I avoid pulling one single hair out of place. I then velcro, then snap, and then finally lace a ribbon down the front of the bodice to put it all into place.

After all that time and configuring, to create an 1800's New Englander. I feel remarkably... comfortable. I feel like a 19th century ingenue. I feel naturally and effortlessly beautiful. It is quite a remarkable thing: under all of that, I feel very much myself.

Then I get the indescribable pleasure of doing the show. I am a narrator, an old woman, who is a marvelous cook; a mischievous school child; a choir singer with a lisp; and Katrina VanTassel: a sought-after duplicitous peach of a young woman.

I get to sing and dance and just PLAY for most of an hour.

After the show, when I take off my costume, I feel 15 pounds lighter. I wash of my thick makeup, unpin my hair, and feel like myself again. just in a slightly different way.