Please bless my death to be this rad.

Sometimes at work, I help make Harley-Davidson funeral sprays.

I know. That's hot.
Flowers are hard-core.

This is what our bums looked like

 when we met these guys:

These are the beautiful star players of the BYU Men's Basketball team.
They walked up to us as we were whacking each others' bums with newspapers and started listing off common names.

"We have a pizza delivery. Is there an Emily here? Or a Rachel? Or a Sarah?"

"I'm Sarah," said my roommate, "but probably not the right one."

"No, it's you!" they insisted, "Who else is here?"




"Ya! You're the right ones! These are for you."

As they handed us the Pizza Factory pizzas and other coupons, Sarah and I silently hyperventilated while the rest of the group took the pizzas, confused. 
The others were visiting from BYU-Idaho, so they had no idea what was going on. One girl almost invited them to play with us.
We all regret that she held back.

"Is that a camera?" asked Charles Abouo.
"Looks like it," said Brandon Davies. "Here get a picture. You'll want it later."

They were right.

And this was the conversation when I got home:

Laura: Mom, I met Charles Abouo today.

Mom: Who's Charles Skabooboo?

Laura: Nevermind.

I met celebs. Beautiful, towering celebs.

Public Frenemy #1 sabotaged my winning putts more than once and hid my golf ball in his pocket.
But then he got it out of the pond when it ricocheted backwards as I jump-putted, so he's on the path to redemption.

Jump-putting is great.

So is sit-putting. 

Also dangerous, though. 
I'm just glad the little boy whose chest served as shot-deflector on the last putt of the game is still living.

Y'aint never done mini-golf like this.

Solar white on top, delectably brown on bottom. 

This is the result of going outside to study, while wearing pants of a different length each day, and waking up an hour later with a new awkward tan-line and no homework done.

I'm trend-setting. Ombre legs are going to be sooooo in this year, you guys. 

I took a scandilicious picture of my ombre-ness, but I figured you'd like this one better. It's not very effective in illustrating the new trend, but it is highly effective in illustrating my self-timer handicap.

Plus also, it's ok to get mustard and mayonnaise stains on your dress and don them proudly the rest of the day. They're like battle-wounds from a barbecue war-zone, but less noble and more piggy.
. . . and then I looked up and my neighbors were watching me from their back deck.

Ombre Legs

It's a good day when your best friend comes home from Europe and brings you gorgeous jewelry and gorgeous chocolate.

But mostly it's a good day just because the best friend came home from Europe.

Because now I have someone to go to ritzy art shows with while eating the free hors d'oevres and wearing blue-jeans. Party.

This. Is. America.
Land of the free. Home of the raves. 

Mayonnaise is an instrument, and chocolate is a vegetable.

"I'm telling you, this shirt is changing my life. Now guys compliment my clothes. Huge guys."

Jordan Says

Like a pro, I pulled the massive delivery van into reverse in an attempted parallel park.

However, I must be a female driver because it took me a good four seconds to realize that the reason I couldn't move any further and there were metal-on-metal shrieks exuding from my rear (the car's rear) was that I had indeed hit the truck behind me.

After looking both ways to make sure no one I knew would see me, I hopped out and examined the damage. I held my breath and released it only when I discovered there was but a paint scratch on the front corner of the truck. However, I'd need to find the driver and have him pull back an inch so I could move without causing further damage.

About this time, my boss's boss walked by. Oh good. Although the driver had come and happily moved his truck with a "don't worry about it," the boss's boss called the police to get the incident reported. Good thing, too, because the campus cops probably haven't had this much excitement since those two Oreos were reported stolen from a TA in the math lab.

The situation became awesome when the cop stepped down from his official minivan wearing real-life aviators.

"Here's what we're going to do," he sniffed. "I've issued the report but I'm not going to give you a ticket, because the situation's already messy enough as it is."

It seemed only fitting, what with the messiness of the situation and all, to fill out the paperwork on two bridal magazines, which the boss's boss and I flipped through and giggled at as Bad Cop checked my Driver's License.
If I don't make the Police Beat this time, so help me . . .

The Law and Me.

This one's bad for my ego.

Don't believe me?

I took before, during, and after shots of this 88-point move.
I made the purple captions.
I concocted the word p'zwn'd.
I cackled on the couch and bragged to my brethren.
I blogged about it.

It must be time to download the Draw Something app,
because I could really use some smartphone humility in my life.

I need a new hobby.

The freeing feeling of driving cross-legged. My spirits were only dampened when I was halfway through running a red light and remembered why people sometimes use feet to drive.

And then I took a picture, which for some reason didn't improve my driving any.
Today I was struck with inspiration.

"Why do the elderly drive slowly?" I asked myself, seriously.

And then it came to me: The elderly drive slowly to stick it to the world. When I'm old, I'm going to drive at a painstaking pace with a big wrinkle-enhancing smile across my face so that my posterity may experience the same traffic-exasperations I have experienced. Why wouldn't our own grandparents do us the same service?

What a fantastic rite and privilege we have to look forward to.
I welcome prunes and dentures like an ELang major might welcome bad metaphors.

Simpleton Pleasure #10

The moment when you pass someone attractive you met last night and realize you're wearing the same outfit as yesterday (come now, a perfectly good outfit combo shouldn't be wasted, and you do it too) and your mouth is full of chicken taco and you blog about it on your way to work and take a raptor-esque picture of your day-2 outfit and finish an unacceptably lengthy sentence. At least there's an awkward and sideways picture for you and your poor, annoyed, OCD souls.


"If no one makes me a good breakfast, I'm going to fail the AP test. But it doesn't matter because I'm not going to college."

"Mom, can you buy me some overalls? I'm letting myself go."

"I'm going to commit suicide . . . why are you guys laughing?"

"Why did I cut off my hair? I look 'ideous."

In other news, if I were to define my "6-pack" today, I would definitely do so softly.
I guess that means I met my goal.
Go team.
Jordan Mopes

Lilies and Ranunculus. 
My favorites.
Has there been a better birthday? I submit that there has not.
Happy Birthday, from the world's raddest parents.

One awesome thing about Blogger is that it allows you to see how people have stumbled upon your blog. This week I was delighted to see that somebody had been directed here after Googling "Dating a Simpleton."  I figure I should be as helpful as possible to my friends on the World Wide Web, so if you are seeking advice on how to woo a Simpleton, you have come to the right place. Because as evidenced by this picture, I know what I'm talking about. (This picture actually doesn't mean anything, except that I really need to get over this heinous obsession with neons.)
1. Aroma up. Anything will do (although Axe is somewhat distastefully cliche). We Simpletons won't know the difference between Gucci and sap from a straight-up pine forest, we just want a whiff of manly when we catch your downdrift as you walk by. Catch my drift?

2. Be nice. Teasing insults worked in the 8th grade, but now you have to work your wily wit into compliments (yikes!) if you really want to woo and win a woman. Not quite so easy, is it? You poor soul. Take luck.

3. Get skills. Harmonica skills, baby-whispering skills, mashed potato sculpting skills . . . Simpletons only want manfriends with bizarre skills.

4. Belt out tunes in the octave above falsetto. Own it. You might get punched, but the truest Simpletons will secretly think you're funny the first two times you do this.

5. Cold. Cereal. Picnic. BOOM. 80 points to Gryffindor.

This is all assuming you want to catch yourself a lady-Simpleton. If you want to know about dating a Y-chromosomal Simpleton, I have 3 rules for you: hair down, lotion up, and smile unceasingly. Dudes are simple like that.

Dating a Simpleton

"If you marry him, you will NOT be getting the giant box of baby clothes I've been building up."

Mother Says

After returning home from a shopping excursion during which three middle-aged women walked in on my favorite outfit combination in the fitting room (Le Birthday Suit--Macy's really should invest in some quality door locks), I discovered that my new pinstriped scarf was crafted for feminine men only and my new leather jeggings are . . . leather jeggings.

Tomorrow's Afternoon Forecast: Back to Forever XXI. Maybe I'll exchange for a color-blocked bandeau and some studded ankle-socks.
I shouldn't shop.

Hallo friends. Just blogging on my blog. From my golden phone. In my bed. And adding pictures (hallelujah!). Taken with my phone. From my bed. And listening to coldplay on Pandora. On my phone. In my bed.

This may be a bad-news-bears situation. Oh hey Laura. I see you are no longer trapped in the year 2004. That's fine. Just please don't forget your beloved boy-bands.

That's all. Auf wiedersehen.

Oh hey.


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