we were allowed to get married only because my mom signed a permission slip and cuz he's already 16.

On Wednesday, I was subbing at Churchill Junior (again) and the teacher I was working for had "Lunch Duty." Although Subs are not normally required to do a teacher's "extras" (coaching teams, teaching their cheerleaders quasi sexual moves,LUNCH DUTY, etc.,) she mentioned that the kids were extra "difficult*" and that Deb, the lunch lady, could really use my help.

*she defining difficult as "sometimes kids who have not paid for a lunch steal milk."

WTF. Is that all you are worried about, Ma'am? Those naughty super-rich east side kids steal the milk?** I'm sorry, but last week, when I was working in Kearns, the Secretary informed me that if the kids started acting out, I could hit a button on the wall and "the school law enforcement would come and assist me." And you, my dear, are worried about spilt, er, ahem, stolen milk.

** Look, I know, it is bad to steal, especially if your mom sends you with a 20 for lunch every day, but really, this is what we are concerned about?

Moving on. I decided I would go help Deb out. I would like to say I did it out of the kindness of my heart, but really I am just super OCD about things and have an insane need to please people. I went down during lunch time, and asked for Deb.

Deb: "Now hey there sweetie, what can I do for you."

Me: "I'm Mrs. Neurotic's sub and I came to help with lunch."

Deb: "You're her sub, I thought you were one of the students who forgot their lunch ticket."

Me: "Nope, although it is not the first time I have been mistaken for a Jr. High School student."

Deb: (defensively) "Well you do look about 14!"

Me: "Thanks, what can I do to help?"

Deb: Go stand over there by the door and make sure nobody takes food out of the cafeteria."

Later, while standing by the door, the janitor comes up to me. She says hello and I smile politely.

Janitor "Are you new?"

Me: "No. I'm just a sub."

Janitor: "Oh I thought you were a new student!"

Me: Grimaces, politely.

My babyface features are one of the myriad of reasons I named my blog the way I did. (Another key factor is my belief that anyone who meets her husband at age 19 and gets married 8 months later is just that, a Mormon Child Bride.)

Fortunately though, my 25 year old husband looks much older than me. Two weeks ago, he ordered a car part from a store, and asked me to go pick it up. The store had misplaced the part, and the salesperson asked me to describe my husband, who had been in earlier to make the order.

Me: Um, Brown hair, 5'8', uhhhh

Salesperson: (calls back to another employee) "Hey Frank! You seen a brown haired person come in here asking for a fuel pressure regulator!"

Frank: Some kid came in here asking for one. Looked about 15 or 16, maybe...

Me: That's him

Salesperson: That little boy? That kid! That's your husband!

Me: He's 25!

Salesperson: "There is no way that little kid is 25!"

Me: "Okay. Did you find the part"

( There was no further point in arguing.)



"So your mom told me that she wasn't sick at all with you."


"When she was pregnant."

"Why were you talking about that with my mom?"

"I dunno. She was just telling me. I don't know why half of the things that happen at your parents house happen.....I find it is better not to know."


"Actually, I think we were trying to conspire some way to......"

"Get me pregnant?"

"Maybe. Yes. I mean no. I mean it is just a joke. I don't know!"

Later, Reading over my shoulder- "I didn't say it like that!"

Yes you did. And now your evil plot has been revealed to the internets!!!!!!!!!

Conclusion- I am not pregnant.


"You just have this love affair with Gmail, don't you?"

"It's just so great! You don't understand!"

"If you love it so much, why don't you marry it?"

"Because it is digital. I just don't get the same kind of satisfaction."


Brilliant Plan!!!!

In the previous post, my friend Lena requested a list of words that "trigger these fits," by fits she means the occasional blogs I post featuring words I hate. She may have been being sarcastic, but I think it is a brilliant plan! This should also be helpful to people who may innocently use these words, but still want their head to be connected to their neck after speaking with me. Everybody wins!

A short, preliminary list of words/phrases I hate.

Well wait, let's review before we start. We know I hate the words-

Ointment, especially when used in the same sentence as...
Getaway (mostly because fellow MCBs* are always going on cute little Getaways....)

I also hate the phrase

"She'll make a good wife...."

Moving on-


are all unacceptable to my brain.

also, the phrase

"get my juices flowing" is egregious. It is particularly bad when they do not qualify what type of "juices." For instance, while it is annoying to hear "I need to get my CREATIVE juices flowing" it is not as bad as no qualifier at all. Juices? are you some kind of fruit? I always just imagine the person sitting there, oozing some kind of icky liquid until they "get the juices flowing" ew. Simply Gross.

So there you have it.

* Mormon Child Brides


I Hate So Many Words.

I am thinking of changing the name of my blog to "I hate a lot of words." What do we think?

Word I hate today- Portions.

Ew. The way the "p" and the "o" sound all long and gross and then that short little "trions" on the end.

Ugh. When I hear words I like a lot or hate intensely, I always form some kind of weird mental image. I do not do this on purpose, it is just my brain. Believe me it would be a lot easier to go through life not having to imagine John from the Bible with a tube of hemorrhoid cream every time I hear the word "ointment." (Aghhhh the image just came back! Why did I do that to myself?") On the other hand, I always think of how black and inky and romantic the river Thames looks at night-time every time I hear the word "spy."

Some of you are now starting to realize why I struggle with getting the most basic tasks done. I refuse to accept responsibility. It is called ADD, and I got it from my father.

Anyway, tangent over. I hate the word portions and every time I hear the word portions I think of a prissy fat Mormon lady with caked on foundation, the type of person who yells at the little primary kid at the ward Linger-Longer for taking to many cookies or too large a "portion" of rainbow jello.

Maybe I should just re-name my blog "I Have Severe and Debilitating Attention Deficit Disorder. This is My Brain."


When Will The Madness End?

Behold. The most offensive instance of "Utah nameitis." Ever.

In today's third period there was a girl named "Qylci." When I got to her name on the roll, I struggled for a few seconds with the pronunciation, prompting her to roll her eyes and say....

"It's Kelsey"

Kelsey?????? wtf. Since when is "Kelsey" spelled with a "Q?"

Since Utahns started having a million kids and running out of suitable names, that's when.

Sheesh. Maybe I'll change my name to Steqphanie and inform people that the "q" is silent.


Bad Things Also Happen to People Who Clean

Today, because I felt guilty for teasing my mother about shouting "Lipstick, Steph, Lipstick!" (After reading the post, she denied ever throwing lipstick down the stairs,) I wore the pink button-down she gave me. And Dan actually noticed it (probably because it wasn't black,) and complimented me on it. So Mom, one point to you.

As of this morning, the score stands thus.

Steph: 1 (Because mom really did throw lipstick)

Mom : 1 (Because the pink shirt really does look good)

I must have felt like making it up to her, so I decided to follow her example (temporarily) and engage in some spring cleaning, mother style. You see, while wearing lipstick and earrings, my mother is the type of person who cannot just clean, she must adopt a scorched-earth policy against dirt. She washes the walls, she dusts, she wraps a rag around a butter knife and cleans the slots of the air vents. All while writing a grant, editing papers, and successfully convincing colleges to give kids scholarships they only sometimes deserve.

I had just finished cleaning the vent (mother did pass on her OCD, THANKS MOM) when I decided to dust the shelf above our stove. It is very high up, since Dan squished it up practically against the ceiling in order to compensate for our midget kitchen. So I was standing on a chair, dusting, when I felt the chair slipping on the linoleum. I was crashing, I was falling on the chair, then onto the floor, then the chair fell on me. After a few minutes of swearing profusely, I decided to not be a baby and get off the floor. In doing so I cracked my head on the counter. I stumbled again, and scraped me hip on the same counter.

I now have-

a goose egg on my head

an enormous, very unattractive bruise on my butt

and a long menacing scratch up my hip bone.

Clumsiness? I think not. Just as I have no business wearing lipstick or khakis, my kitchen has no business being so clean.

Thus, the score stands as follows.

Stephanie: 78927 points. Granted, they are sympathy, but the bruise hurts a lot and this is my blog.

Kitchen: 98789088: For totally kicking my ass.

Mom : -294u56 points, for planting the idea of dusting in my head in the first place.


UPDATE: Dan just read this post and would like everyone to know that he always notices the pink shirt. This is probably true, but I am still going to accuse him of saying that just to suck up to my mother. And I would like to remind him that he is already my parents favorite child and they have already left him everything in the will. So totally unnecessary brown-nosing. I deduct 10 points from your score.