I Lied in Costco and I Did it For the Sake of Pizza and Friendship.

Costco was a mess today.

The guy at the register said they had just let go of their seasonal employees and had gotten rid of a few too many.

To me, it just looked like 900,000 people were trying to buy mini-tamales at the same time.

It was probably a mix of both.

Either way, the trip was stressful, the checkout lines were all the way back to the clothes sections, and we accidentally threw our receipt away between checking out and reaching the door so we were waiting in Costco Jail while the door-lady went and re-printed our receipt.

While we were waiting a cute woman carrying a five-month old baby in a carseat walked through the doors. Another Door-Nazi lady stopped her and asked for her membership card. She said that her mom had ordered the pizza for her 9-year-old sister's birthday party and had just sent her to pick it up.

Door-lady #2 was not budging. No card=No pizza.

After a while of discussing it the woman with the baby seemed so desperate and sad that I stepped in and asked if I could just use my membership card to help her get the pizza.

By this time Door-lady #1 was back with our receipt that said we had bought all the food we said we did (winners!) and quickly piped in "YOU CAN ONLY DO THAT IF YOU ARE RELATED OR REALLY SUPER GOOD FRIENDS. ARE YOU??????"

I paused. And then I looked at the poor girl with the baby and the sister and the pizza-party and I decided that I felt pretty friendly towards her, so I said, "Yeah, we are just good ol' friends. Suuuuuuuper good friends." The baby-mama smirked and nodded in agreement.

Door-lady #1 and Door-lady #2 did not seem convinced.

Then, both of them gave me a long spiel about how a Costco card is like a driver's license (meaning they both make me look kind of bald in their pictures) and if I choose to use MY card for HER pizza then the responsibility is on my head and I will have to accept the consequences and be good to that pizza and try and do right by it, even when times get tough, for richer or poor, etc., etc.

Eventually my new friend and I were on our way to the pizza line where we chatted and became real friends and I met her darling baby and NOBODY EVEN ASKED TO SEE MY COSTCO CARD WHEN WE PICKED UP THE PIZZA. Not a single soul even cared to see my card or my awful picture on it.

I can't believe I told a half-lie to the scary Costco lady for nothing. Also I bet they hate babysitting awful customers like me.

My apologies to everyone involved in this story.

The End.

Car Troubles

Our car died yesterday.

Not just died in the sense that it wouldn't start. More in the sense that it will never start again.

We called her the Prizm Riot, but really she was just a 2001 Chevy Prizm, which is really just a Toyota Corolla with a Chevy logo stamped onto it.

She was the first major purchase Cj and I ever made. We were engaged and I remember driving her off the lot and realizing for the very first time that my life was drastically changing.

Something about cars makes me sentimental. Not new cars. New cars are nice, and they work almost all of the time, and they are fancy and pretty and so incredibly boring.

I like a car with character.

I love that our Prizm's door won't open from the inside because once we got it washed in zero degree weather and then the water froze our door shut, ripping the handle off when we tried to open it.

I love that because the door wouldn't open from the inside I would have to roll down the window every time I parked in order to open it from the outside. And sometimes there would be someone parked next to me and they would start to roll down their window too because they thought I had something to say to them, so I would start to roll mine back up because I felt awkward, and then they would do the same, and sometimes that happened a few times before we were on the same page and I could open my door and walk quickly away before I had to talk to them.

I loved that there is white paint spilled all over the floors in the back seat from some previous owner in some previous location. I like to imagine the scene when they opened their door to find their paint had poured out of its container, paint they had just purchased for a new house, or an old house that needed a new look. I pretend that they said a lot of swears and then their spouse or their mother or their boss yelled at them for being such an idiot, and I don't blame them because there was a LOT of paint. But still, I like that I know a little something about someone else's history. Also I like that I'm not the only idiot who spills everything.

I love that every time the Prizm broke down Cj would call me and we would panic because we had no clue how we were going to pay for this next repair, and it would remind me of the time an old friend of mine said "I think it will be cool one day to be a poor newlywed with nothing to live on but love" and I got so upset with him because that is cheesy and because he had always been wealthy and obviously knew nothing about poor or debt or money or love, I thought. But now I have learned that in some ways he was right because every time our car breaks down I remember that I never love Cj more than when we lay in bed and laugh about the madness of trying to be an adult on a college-student budget and about how we have been sleeping on the floor for four months now because we don't want to buy a bedframe and about how we blew all of our money flying across the country to go on an adventure and about how we don't even regret any part of anything. Not one bit.


I'm sure we will come here again, to this broken, carless situation. I'm sure that at the end of our next car, and probably the next, Cj will still be spending hours frantically scouring the internet for the best next option while I write a nostalgic blog post or essay or journal entry on the whole matter before we move on, traces of our life brushing past the next owner, like the white paint on the floor of our favorite and only Prizm Riot.

RIP old girl.

Online Shopping Advice

Me: "Honey I'm ordering that dress we looked at. What size should I order it in?" 

Cj: "When I am trying to pick a size I always think 'Do I want to get fatter or skinnier'?" 

Me: "Skinnier! I'm getting the smaller size."

Cj: ".....................yeah but then I have to ask myself....am I really going to get skinnier?" 

What a charmer this husband of mine is.

Spontaneity

It was 11:00 and we were hungry so I said Let's go to Denny's! 

and then we were really proud of ourselves for not being boring, old, married people because we could still do things like order two lumberjack slams at midnight on a Wednesday

and then I told Cj that the last time I was at Denny's at midnight on a Wednesday Devin Willie dared me to chug my entire syrup cup and then we saw how many straw wrappers we could throw into someone's cup when they weren't looking

and I told Cj that when I used to come to Denny's we would take up five tables and we would push them all together and stay for hours on refills while some people left and others came and there was a waitress named Cindy who knew us all by name and never told us we had to be quieter even though we were obnoxiously loud and came in three nights a week

and I told Cj that all of this was before smartphones so nobody was skimming twitter while we talked and this was before Instagram so nobody was desperate for the perfect picture to make sure everyone knew that we did things like go to Denny's and everyone was just genuinely happy to be there

and I told Cj that Denny's kind of felt homey to me because of all the late summer nights I had spent there with close friends and he said that was kind of gross and I said more like kind of awesome

and then Cj and I ordered and while we were waiting for our food we wrote out our monthly budget on a napkin and talked about if I had heard from my grandmother recently

and we only used our syrup for our pancakes

like boring, old, married people 

and it was so lovely.

Testimony

I have four blog posts just sitting in my drafts pile and I wasn't planning on publishing any of them tonight.

Nor was I planning on publishing this one.

However, tonight, at 12:52 a.m., which is really 11:52 p.m. because, you know, daylight savings and stuff (leaving me kind of between-days here) I feel compelled to share my testimony.

Which is weird because that is not what this blog is.

There are blogs meant to share people's personal religious feelings and there are blogs meant to share the embarrassing story about the time you walked across the entire BYU campus with the back of your dress accidentally tucked up behind your backpack and everyone saw your undies.

This blog is the latter.

I am very grateful for the former kind of blog. I am grateful that people have space to share and answer questions and share beliefs and hope and messages of Christ. Personally, I choose to share my religion in a different way than this blog.

I also don't ever (ever) want this blog to turn into the type of blog where I portray my life as anything but messy and ridiculous. To be clear: my life IS messy and ridiculous. I have some serious beef with any blogger (or person) who pretends their life is otherwise.

Alls I'm sayin is this:

I have a testimony of my Savior Jesus Christ.

And when I use the word testimony, which can mean so many different things for so many different people, I mean that I believe He is a real person who came to this earth and died for each of us.

I mean that I know that He is my literal brother.

I mean that I believe that Jesus Christ is my Savior in the sense that because of Him I can grow and change and one day live with my Heavenly Father and Heavenly Mother again.

I mean that I know if I try my hardest to be the best person I can, He will make up the rest.

And trust me, with me there is going to be a lot to make up for.

The best part is, I believe that because of Jesus Christ I can live with my family forever, including my best friend Cj (who also happens to be my husband. BONUS.)

If you have questions about why I believe this, just ask. You can also go here: lds.org

Because of the community I live in, I assume the majority of my readers (though not all) are, like me, LDS.

I do not assume that the majority of my readers think or feel or believe the same way that I do. I love discussing belief. I'd love to hear about yours. I am very open to the ideas and beliefs of others. I find them interesting and extremely personal and close to the heart in the best way. I like to get close to people's hearts because that is how we love each other best.

I hope this post comes across as nothing but my desire to share a part of myself with you. You are more than welcome to share back.

I just wanted to put this out there so you know who you are dealing with.

Amen.

So I was at Target this weekend...

...because Cj and I had time to kill between dinner (Wingers) and our movie (The Way Way Back).

We had already finished doing what we always do at Target, which is decide to buy everything in the store, and we were making one last stop in the dressing rooms to make sure we definitely wanted to buy everything in the store. (We did.)

There I was, trying on a cat-print dress in the stall next to a mother and her 8 yr. old daughter, who I knew was named Stella due to the  3,000 times I heard her mother say it.

Stella: "Pants, Pants, Pants. Why do I have to try on so many pants????" (She would have appreciated those pants if she had been through the pantspocalypse that I just experienced.)

Mom: "Because you have to wear pants. Everyone has to wear pants."

Stella: (I hear her begin to play the drums on the wall) "I could wear dresses."

Mom: "Stella, stop hitting on the wall. You can't wear dresses. You show everyone your underwear when you wear dresses. Put these pants on."

Stella: (Begins drumming on the ground) "But those are normal pants. I only like sparkly pants."

Mom: "Stop hitting the ground Stella. We're not buying sparkly pants. We're buying normal pants."

Stella: (Begins kicking the door) "Can I get a sparkly dress?"

Mom: "STELLA, STOP KICKING THE DOOR. WHY CAN'T YOU JUST ACT NORMAL??"

And then Stella began to whimper.

And then Stella began to cry.

And then Stella yelled from the depths of her sparkly, little soul:

"I'M TRYYYYIIINNNGGG TO ACT NORMAL. IT'S HAAAAARRRDDDD." 

And all I could think was: I hear ya Stella. I really, freaking hear ya.

The Pants Story

There has been a lot of pants stuff going on in the last few years. 

First, there was the whole pants-at-church thing:

Then there was the time the one-and-only Lohan forgot to wear pants. (Props to her for representing us pale-skinned women.)

And we can never forget the classic VeggieTales song "Pants" that includes such hilarious lines as "They're pants if you're short and shorts if you're tall" or "It's a verb for a dog and a noun for a kid."




(Admit it: You loved VeggieTales.)

However, no pants story is so great as 

THE TALE OF THE URBAN OUTFITTERS FIASCO PANTS. 

Day #1: It was 2 a.m. and I (being the insomniac I am) was online, checking on a pair of pants that I had been looking at alllllll summer. They were the perfect pair of high-waisted, black skinnies and, to my surprise, they had gone on sale that day. HOORAY. I clicked the button to place my order. The screen froze. And then 1 minute later a screen came up that said the pants had been shipped. 

Weird. I didn't click the submit button. But great, I skipped a few steps. 

Katie, Katie, Katie. By "skipped a few steps" I think you meant "added hours of endless torture and frustration." 

Day #2: I check the confirmation e-mail only to realize that when the website "skipped a few steps" it sent the pants to my pre-set address which was MY OLD ADDRESS!!!!!

I e-mailed Urban but to no avail. "Your pants have already been shipped," they said. "Try dunking your head repeatedly in a large tub of water until you are too dizzy to realize you will never receive your favorite pair of pants you never had."

Day #3: Realizing that I don't have a single family member in Provo at the moment to try and track the pants down, I call on my favorite friends Spencer and Michelle to help me out.

Day #4-#26: Spencer goes to our old apartment. They are not home. He goes again. They are not home. He finally contacts them and tells them to contact him when the pants come. He goes back. They are not home. My sister gets back to Provo and goes to check. They are not home. (Do these people actually even LIVE there?) The pants come in the mail. For unknown reasons the people take them upstairs to where they thought my brother and sister are living. They are not living there. I call the landlord. They have the package. They look for it. They lost the package. I cry. I call Urban. They say they can't do anything for me. I cry some more.

Day #27: I get a phone call from the old landlord. His wife has found the pants!!

"Great," I say, "I will send my sister over to get them today."

"Oh." he says, "My wife just told me that she just took them to the post office and sent them back because she didn't want to deal with them." (What?)

I swear to never wear pants, or call people or like my life ever again. But then...

Day #30: ...Urban e-mails me and says that my pants have been re-shipped to my house. It's a pants miracle!

I honestly don't think this should have been as dramatic as it was. But the sheer frustration of having to track down an expensive pair of pants (that I got for half-price) every day for over a month was too much. I hated that I had to rely on multiple people to go out of their way for me, including the people in my old apartment who turned out to be super nice and just as concerned about my pants as I was. I think everyone realized what a serious issue pants are. I'm really proud of our generation for noting that.

Day #36: My pants FINALLY came in the mail. They are great and I kind of resent them for everything they put me through but we are working through our issues.

I think the real moral of the story is this: Online shopping at 2 a.m. is always a bad idea. But it might lead you to a really funny VeggieTales song.

(Shout-out to Spencer and my sister Rachel for caring enough to repeatedly and awkwardly knock on someone's door for me. That is true friendship right there.)