Sunday, Sept 22

Today we had "the talk" in Young Women's again. You know-- the lesson wherein they describe how you should never stop a car in a parking lot with a boy. And how if you do, you should leave your seat belt on.

Excuse me for thinking this, but... I mean, isn't there plenty of trouble you can get into with a seatbelt on? And for that matter-- what kind of trouble are you more likely to get into in a car that you wouldn't just as easily get into, say, in a janitorial closet? (I'm only using this as an example). Or a deserted field. Or the girl's bathroom. I mean, seriously.

So I have resolved to never be alone with a boy, ever.

Until I turn sixteen.

Sigh. I think I'm going to ask my mom to give me mace for my sixteenth birthday.

Saturday, Sept 21

So, they've canceled the race today.

Wanna know why?

Too much snow. No, I'm not kidding.

It's blizzarding up in Truckee, so I guess I can't race today. So sad, isn't it?

I'm sure that Ella will be upset over being denied the opportunity to whup my butt again. But actually, this time I had a chance at beating her-- it was a freestyle race, and I'm better at that. So I'm a little dissappointed. Plus all the visualizing (I imagined Lindsey Lohan this time) is all totally a wash.

I never thought I'd be disappointed about being told I don't have to participate in a three mile race. Things definitely change, don't they, your first year of high school.

Speaking of which, I'm going to weed all of mom's two acres garden so that I can buy proper leg coverings. I'm not going to repeat yesterday's episode. She struck a bargain with me-- if I get the whole thing done, she'll give me $50.00.

Nice, huh???

It will probably take me about a hundred hours anyway, so it comes out to about the same, but what ev. It's easier to have a goal in mind.

Off I go.

Friday, Sept 20, 10:30 pm

I’m sooooo tired.

Just one question: Why do parents have such a difficult time understanding that 5:00 am means that dish night ought to be obliterated from the face of my schedule?

I think I’m going to sound drunk in seminary tomorrow. And Ugly Pants Boy will become Slurred Syllables boy, because he’ll be sure to comment upon it. Odd thing is, lately he’s become even more merciless than usual. The other day he saw something that was written on my hand and accused me of never washing my hands. I explained to him that my fair complexion makes my skin easily stainable, but he would have none of it—he went to the bathroom, grabbed a paper towel, slathered some of that pink industrial ooze on it, and scrubbed my hand with it until the ink (and half of my epidermal cells) came off.

He sure goes to a lot of trouble to prove a point. What’s his problem, anyway?

Ooooh. Ski practice was brutal. Coach really ran me through the gamut. My abs are one solid knotted mass of knots.

G’night.

Fri, Sept 20, 1:45 pm

So, totally wierd--

My pants weren't dry this morning because my mom did like five loads of laundry yesterday and I never had a chance to wash them. So I had on some shorts today, even though it's fifty degrees. I'm willing to brave fifty degree weather in shorts if it means avoiding the only clean pair of jeans that I have left-- the highwater khakis that I washed with my mom's new purple bra by accident during the first week of school.

Yeah. So you understand, right? Anyway, I was trying to keep my knees from knocking from the cold, just innocently walking by the "stoop."

Let me tell you about the stoop-- it's the coolest random piece of concrete on school property. It's the step that leads up to the English wing. It's where all the dread-headed guitar players hang out and reminisce about Jimi Hendrix and burst into random guitar band mania.

Anyway, I was walking by, and suddenly, just as I was passing the second staircase that leads down to my math class, I heard something that sounded suspiciously like a whistle.

I turned around, expecting to see some mircominied, spaggheti strapped, stilletto wearing female masochist, but there was nothing. Nobody. Just me.

I looked suspiciously at the two boys sitting on the stoop and one of them saluted me mockingly.

Holy Crud, my mom might have been right.

I'm not sure how i feel about that.

All I can say is, I'll definitely be wearing pants again tommorrow. And for the rest of my life.


My math teacher took me aside today and told me that she was concerned with the downward trend that my test scores has been taking-- I explained to her that I have less time to study when I have dishes to do and ski practice to go to and seminary in the morning, and she got this absolutely terrifyingly wrinkled expression on her evil-looking face.

I think she's gonna call my mom. Heavenly Father, please twinkle me. Right now. I've been a good girl, right? I mean, I didn't ask that boy to whistle. And my shorts are only a couple of inches above knee length. Nobody's perfect!!! They don't make knee length shorts anymore, Heavenly Father!!

oy.

Just realized that the disgusting smell that has been making me want to hurl ever since I came into the computer lab is emanating from me---

I stepped in dog doo on the way over.

obviously, this is not my day.

Thurs., Sept 19, 9:30 pm

Ski practice was so awesome today!! I’ve been having an all around good day. Ella said something snide about my shoes but it just whooshed right over me—and that’s amazing considering I was still about ten feet in the air after choir.

I took all of my pent up energy and joy and pushed myself harder than I ever had before, this practice. We went up to the snow today, and I beat Ella on the 2K practice race by a whole minute!! Seriously. I stumbled across the finish line, and my coach even gave me a compliment—he said that I rocked and rolled.

Well, that doesn’t sound right. What he says was, “Molly—sometimes you can really rock and roll. I want to see you like this at the race on Saturday.”

Well, that’s what you get for overachievement. People start expecting things. I’ll have to hold back a bit at tommorrow’s practice.

The look on Ella’s face was pretty much worth it, though.


I told my mom about choir, and she was almost as excited about it as I was.

I wonder if, when I’m a mom, I will derive as much vicarious pleasure from my children’s accomplishments as my mom does.

I guess you kind of have to—I mean, what else is there? When you’re a mom, I mean. Seriously. There’s laundry, there’s dishes, there’s driving people places, and there’s kids. Right?

Oooohhh… I just shivered again, remembering that high note I hit, how good it felt coming out….

Steaming past Ella on the uphill run…

How can anyone feel this euphoric?

I’m never gonna be able to sleep again.

Thurs., Sept 19, 2:17 pm

Whoa.

I feel a little dizzy. My heart is still fluttering. And yet, I have this overwhelming feeling of happiness—like I’m about to explode. It feels like I’ve got grape soda running through my veins or something—

I wonder if this is what drugs are like.

If so, I don’t blame people for getting hooked.

I DID IT!!

I got up and began with the little lick at the beginning, and I heard my own timid voice and saw the skeptical looks on the faces of the self-satisfied older kids, and so I just let loose. Roared.

I am Molly, Hear Me Roar. That’s what it was.

They all got into it, after they got over their incredulousity-- clapping, standing, moving to the beat.

I think I heard someone yell out something, just like in my daydream. Hopefully it was something compatible with gospel music, not something obscene.

Anyway, one of the cool older guitar-playing boys came and shook my hand. Seriously—he shook it. Like he was a missionary or something. And told me I was cool and stuff.

Yipee!!!

I’m Aretha.

Wednesday, sept 18, 7:00 pm

So, I told Mr. Davies all last week that I couldn't sing. Now that I'm better, he says I get to try the aretha solo in choir tomorrow.


Oooh, I'm insanely excited just thinking about it. And I sort of feel like barfing, too.

I mean, all those older cool choir kids who hang out in the choir office talking about Eric Whitacre and playing on their Fenders--

They'll all see and hear me too.

I tend to dislike attention. In fact, I try to discourage it as much as possible, by staying quiet and keeping my eyes trained in the general direction of everyone's shoes.

Well, in this case, I don't care. I love this enough-- this black spiritual singing thing, to not care if I make a complete and utter fool of myself. I mean, to be backed by a choir and hand-clapping and an occasional "Help me Lawd--"

this is my dream.

I wasn't able to think of much else throughout ski practice. My coach noticed and bawled me out because my stride wasn't gliding enough or something. I ignored him but then stepped up the pace when I saw that Ella was ahead of me.

I'll be danged if she beats me this time. Seriously.

She still hasn't said anything about my new pants.

Unfortunately, I have to wash them tomorrow, so it'll be back to highwaters and sock stains. I'm sure she'll say plenty then.

We're making miniature temples out of paper mache for young womens' tonight-- I kind of wish we were making miniature temples out of cookies with frosting, because I'm STARVING. Hopefully Mom will bring me something--

oh, here she is. Ohhh-- and she has taco bell. Yay. Bless her.

Tuesday,Sept17,3:30pm

Alas,I do not wish to remove them.

The magic, the beautiful feeling of stylish leggings.

I wore them for as long as I could Monday night(I thought about sleeping in them, but then I realized that would make them wrinkled and unusable for Tuesday).

Seminary was sooooo awesome. Not because I really care about impressing people, good gravy, no. I just felt so free--- free from worrying over whether Ugly Pants Boy was snickering about me to his little beanie-clad friend.

Well, unfortunately it turns out he WAS snickering about me-- Marsie overheard and later told me that he was making fun of my hair, which I braided last night after I took a shower, and so it ended up being all kinky and wierd.

But so what. Hair is eminently changeable, whereas pants--well. You've seen what I've had to go through for these.

Marsie is disgusted with me for "caving", as she puts it, but then I gave her a look and mentioned that I had FHE with the Stevensons, and she immediately got all giggly and peppered me with questions-- so there you go. Both of us have joined the ranks of deep-freeze candidates.

Speaking of Mark Stevenson (even though I'm sooooo sick of speaking of him), he's actually kind of cool. Wierd, but cool. The only thing that bugs me about him is his... well, it's hard to explain. I think he likes thinking of me as needing mentoring, or something. He went to great length to explain to me last night how it's uncool to answer questions during sunday school.

Whatever. I take pity on the poor teachers. I mean, yes, they're obvious questions. Yes, they ask practically the same questions every week. But, c'mon. Just pretend you're in a kabuki play-- answer when it's your turn, KWIM? Just say your line so that poor brother Jones can stop panicking that nobody's answering the questions.

The other thing is his black nail polish. I wonder if Marsie has noticed that yet. Perhaps I had best point it out to her.


Heh. Ella didn't say anything about my pants. I think that's a good sign.

Monday, sept 16, 7:00 PM

I have them. Finally. I will no longer be scrappy, highwater, died-with-red-socks Molly.

I will now be cute Molly, owner of the Perfect Pants.

We had a break from practice today (owing to mass lingering injuries from Saturday's massacre)and Mom agreed to take me to Butte city to buy the pants. She did some eyebrow raising and nose wrinkling, but that's just her job. I mean, if I had a daughter who was about to spend 50 dollars, the equivalent of two Saturdays of babysitting, on pants-- I might do the same.

Actually, I wouldn't. I'd understand as soon as I saw them. I'd say, "here, honey. Here's another 50 dollars-- buy yourself a cute pair of shoes to go with them." Because I'm nice like that. Unlike my mom, who's all about trying to build character by making us weed the yard for the rest of our lives.

Actually, I think it's just that she really doesn't want to weed the yard, and so she needs to pay only 50 cents an hour so that we'll be motivated to get it all done. I mean, it's a big yard.

I don't blame her for that. Heck, I don't blame anyone for anything! I now have the pants!! Ugly Pants Boys of America, give me your best shot. I'm now armored against you and your sly quips-- armored in indigo-haze-washed denim.

Doesn't that sound like a little slice of heaven? Indigo haze washed...

Anyway, I'm putting them on right now. We're going to the Stevensens for family home evening tonight, and I'm going to try them out. On whom, I don't know. I guess, really, I'm trying them out on me.

Yipee!!

Sunday, Sept 15th, 3:02 pm

Okay.

Teenagers are completely deranged.

We'll start with Ugly pants boy. He spends half an hour every weekday striving to make your life more miserable and then, out of sheer evilness, asks you to dance right after your first ski race. And then he starts doing a polka. During "a whole new world". No, seriously. I'm not talking any ordinary sort of polka-ing, either-- this was the masochistic polka of death wherein my weak, trembling knees were made to skirt the room at approximately thirty miles per hour, apparently with the goal of bumping into the largest possible number of people.

And trying to carry on a conversation at the same time. I mean-- imagine it for a second. Not that you'll ever be in these completely twisted circumstances, or anything, but--

UGP(ugly pants boy) So, moll. How did your race go.

ME: *Pant pant* tripped *pant* britney *pant* stilleto...

UGP: I heard Ella beat you.

ME: (giving him as evil a glance as I can muster) this time, maybe.

UGP: Ouch. You kicked me.

ME: Oops. Sorry *pant*, I have no *pant* control over my lower limbs right now.

UGP: (looking at me suspiciously)

Music: Don't you dare closer your eyes, hold your breath it gets better...


Right. And then there was Ella. She comes up to me and is all pally-pally again, complimenting me on my shoes (which I happen to know are really nerdy-- neon orange and hot pink tennis shoes. Mom picked them out. What am I, five?).

Then she proceeds to grill me on Ugly Pants Boy and what he said to me. I just give her a look and tell her she should go ask him herself-- he sure seems to be interested enough to pay attention to the random scoring of the cross country skiing team, so he'd probably love it if she deigned to sidelong glance at him, much less ask him an actual question.

no, I didn't say that. I just said that he asked how I did in the race today. Which really isn't a lie, when you think about it.

And then there's Marcie. For some odd reason, Mark Stevensen showed up tonight-- I guess he had nothing to do, too, now that our families canceled their plans. Anyway, it was sort of nice because he asked me to dance a couple of times, and he's not a half bad dancer-- actually does fun things like flip you around and stuff.

But he also requested completely wierd funk music that had completely undanceable beats-- everyone just stood around and gyrated uncertainly because they weren't sure if it was a fast song where you're expected to pummel the air and do robot and kickboxing impressions, or if it was a slow song and they ought to find someone to make dizzy with endless circling.

Anyway, Marcie is head over heels. I have never seen someone so smitten-- and I never imagined it happening to Marcie. I mean, she's never paid much attention to anything except her Math homework. And her rabbits. I know, that may sound kind of wierd to you, but really it's not. She breeds rabbits and gets tons of money for them-- she's famous in the rabbit world. She's already got practically her whole college education paid for.

Anyway, she's swooning. And it's so obvious-- he can totally tell. He asked her to dance once, and then she asked him.

Hoooly cow. Marcie. I mean, it took her until this year to start shaving her legs. And she refused to wear nail polish or even lip gloss in junior high. It's like her pituitary just kicked in suddenly and now it's going haywire. She didn't talk about anything else during young womens and she giggled when the teacher looked at her reprovingly. Giggled!

Last week, she would have run out of the room crying.

Oy.

I need a nap.