Shelli Armstrong's Blog, page 6

Sad...

After waiting four months, I got another rejection letter from Woman's World . This is pretty sad news, since, I really liked this story.

Rissa was dreaming of the hot Hawaiian sunshine when she felt a sudden crisp morning chill penetrate the warmth of her coat. A deep, gravelly voice further interrupted her pleasant thoughts saying, “I think this is your stop.” She forced her eyes open and realized that the line of people exiting the train had already poured onto the platform.                “Oh goodness,” she said, grabbing at her belongings, trying to clear the fogginess from her brain.                “Hold the door,” the man said, offering a smile and the wool hat she had just dropped. “I should have nudged you earlier. Better hurry,” he urged.                As Rissa was racing out the door, the train pulled away and she realized she hadn’t the chance to thank him.                Rissa’s commute began early every morning. It took over an hour to get from her house to her office on the train, but she enjoyed the extra reading time the commute provided, and she appreciated avoiding the heavy traffic and icy roads. Normally she read, but yesterday she had been tired. It had taken mere seconds before she drifted to sleep. She nearly missed her stop.                 This morning she juggled two piping hot chocolates and her laptop bag, hoping she would see her champion to properly thank him. She hoped that she would remember what he looked like. Rissa wished her hands weren’t full so we could concentrate on reading, instead she was distracted every time the train stopped letting in a waft of cold air and a crowd of new faces. Finally, a face sparked her memory, and he seemed to remember her, too.                 “Good morning,” he said, looking down at the hot chocolate in her hands.  “Is that for me?”                “I wasn’t sure I’d see you again,” she admitted. “But just in case, I wanted to thank you for yesterday.”                He took the cup of hot chocolate from her, offering a small salute with his cup, “You’re welcome. I was afraid that after you thought about it, you would find it creepy that I knew your stop.”                 “I hadn’t thought of that, but now that you mention it…” she trailed off and grinned. “Really, though, I’m grateful. I’m Rissa.” She pulled out a business card and offered it to him.                 “Greg.” He grabbed the seat across from her and smiled as he tucked her card into his breast pocket, then pulled out his own.                “How did you know it was my stop?” Rissa asked after a moment.                 “I don’t know if I should admit that.”                 She gave an encouraging look.                “Alright,” he conceded, taking a breath. “A couple of weeks ago, I noticed a beautiful woman reading one of my favorite books. I immediately wanted to strike up a conversation about it, but she left the train before I found the nerve.” He nodded at the book sticking out of her bag. “Every day she got closer to the end, I knew I needed to make a move. Yesterday, I finally got the nerve to sit beside her, only to find that she wasn’t reading…she was sleeping.”                 “How disappointing.”                “Not as disappointing as you might think,” he admitted, “because it provided me with a perfectly good reason to speak to you today.”                 Rissa sat back in her chair, studying Greg. He seemed sincere. Not only was he handsome, but he was friendly and personable.                “So this is your favorite book?”                 They spent the rest of her commute sipping hot chocolate and discussing the book until he said gently, “This is your stop.” He got to his feet, handing over her laptop bag as she adjusted her coat.                 “See you tomorrow?”                 “Definitely,” he said.                 The morning commute quickly became Rissa’s favorite part of the day. She often saved Greg a seat and they spent the morning talking. Their conversations ranged from the mundane to the ridiculous and everything in between.                “I’ll save you a seat, tonight,” he said with a smile.                 Rissa was surprised, as she knew they did not take the same train home. But when Rissa boarded their usual car, Greg grinned at her. He was standing in the aisle and pointed to a single available window seat. She noticed that his normal place next to her was occupied by a mother, holding her baby.                 “This train is busier than the one I normally take,” he commented, smiling at the sleeping child and then at Rissa.                 They rode for several stops in silence, catching each other’s eyes while listening to the bustle of the other passengers. Occasionally he grinned at her, and she couldn’t help but return it.                “Will you have dinner with me tonight?” He finally said.                She nodded.                “Then this is our stop.”
Rissa smiled. She liked the sound of that. He offered her his hand and they left the train together.

Driving Lessons

When I was young - and I'd guess about 12-years old or thereabouts - my dad drove a little red manual car. (This was before a deer hit him, or he hit a deer, and drove it with fur sticking out of the headlamp.) One day the car was sitting in the alley as we loaded it or were doing something, and my dad asked me if I wanted to drive.

Yes! Of course I did.

I eagerly climbed into the driver seat and he sat in the passenger seat. We were just going to go down the alley, a simple straight line. My dad instructed me, "Push down the clutch."

"What's the clutch?" I asked, again, very eager to learn.

"Get out."

And that was the end of my driving lessons until I was fifteen and began learning to drive for my permit and then license.

For the record, the second time my dad tried to teach me to drive, he was all sorts of patience and wisdom. And I really need to stress the word patience. I won't say I was a bad driver - duh, because I'm amazing - but, there were a few errors that had me doing some pretty stupid things. (Like riding the car over the parking barrier and/or curb. But let's not talk about that.)

I've felt woefully unskilled ever since. For the most part, one does not need to know how to drive a stick. However, there are few people in my extended family that do not know how. It just seems like something an Armstrong should know how to do. 1) Play basketball. 2) Roof a house. And 3) Drive a manual transmission.

This summer, my friend Matti and I are attending RomCon in Denver, Co. Can I tell you how excited I am? It's going to be pretty amazing. But we are planning to drive, and Matti drives a stick. This has me a little worried. Since she may not want to drive the full 16 hours there and back, if she expects me to help her out (and why wouldn't I want to help? I love driving!) then I have to learn how to drive her car.

So on Sunday, Matti took me out driving. Unfortunately, K-Mart has not gone out of business anywhere around here recently, and we were fresh out of abandoned parking lots. We tried a semi-abandoned parking lot, thinking that on a Sunday, it would not be as busy, and quickly found out that we were wrong about that. Besides, the length of the parking lot didn't really allow the car to get up to a speed high enough that shifting gears was necessary.

Spoiler alert: I am really bad at driving a stick shift.

I stalled the car too many times to count, and for some reason, my dominant left foot wanted nothing to do with driving. "I'm used to being bored!" it demanded. I tried to engage, and it just didn't work very well. After sitting at the exit to the parking lot, I made it onto a much busier street than where I should have been, and then stalled again at the light and then waited on the side of the road until it was all clear and continued driving into the Twilight Zone-country area of Herriman, UT.

I did OK on a straight road. I got into third gear. I even turned around, and DID NOT hit a single one of the eight or nine deer that decided to cross in front of me. I also did not stall the car once I got it moving again after we watched the deer frolic in the field and jump the fences.

Overall, it may not have been the worst lesson I've ever had. But then again... it might have been. Luckily, Matti's car did not seem to sustain any permanent damage, and she was rather patient.

I have until June to learn. I blame my dad for having me so ill prepared for such an adventure, but. . .I suppose that is all in the past now.

Valentine's Day Confession

I don't know why this year Valentine's Day is just rubbing me the wrong way, but it is. I know that I'm a hypocrite about things, and Valentine's Day is one of them. I love romance. I love romance novels - the cheesier the better. (I mean, I did read MLM for a really, really long time, remember?) But the sappy declarations on Facebook, and the tacky gifts and presents at the stores, and the blow up of pictures of flowers* and blah blah blah. For some reason I keep uttering, "God save me from all of this..." and I can't tell if that means I'm taking the Lord's name in vain, or offering up a very sincere prayer.

Luckily, I have a brand new carton of ice cream, and extra cookie dough to add to it, and a night planned to lose myself in writing...sappy romances.

I can't - I won't - attend a "Girls' Night" on Valentine's day. I just can't. It goes against the whole point of the holiday, and I'm nothing if not festive. I'm also a GO BIG or go home kind of person. So, I'm in for the night, ladies. Sorry. (Not sorry.)

*Chuck, I'm not talking about your texts or our conversation this morning. I still want those details!

Extended Family

I need to preface this post and say that I love my family. Love. Love. Love. With my whole heart. I'd hardly change a thing about them. One of the reasons that I will not allow myself to move home is because I know that it would end up with me hanging out with them and no one else, happy as a clam. Because when I am with them, it's really the only place I'd rather be. They - for the most part - accept me as I am: the introverted, weirdo sister that likes history and reading, BBC, dressing up, and formal dinners (that have things like peppers! and spices! Oh my.) amongst a million other things that they just shake their heads at me and love me anyway.

I love them. Except...

I have several friends who because my family is so far away, have introduced me to their own parents and siblings and all have seemingly welcomed me with open arms. It's been lovely to have a place to go on holidays and for short visits and to feel love like only a family can provide.

If there were one thing about my family that I could change, I would make them read more. I would instill upon them my love of books and get them excited about some of the best books that I have read in the past few years. The more I hang out with one of my surrogate families, the more I really wish I could do this.

This particular family is filled with irreverent, hilarious people who are all Harry Potter trivia warlords. When we are on long drives, we play things like 20 Questions - Harry Potter, in which the person tries to stump the rest of the car by picking a most obscure magical creature, item, or place, character, or spell or literally anything, and then everyone else guesses it within the 20 questions. It is hilarious, and the fact that their dad seems to be reigning master over stumping everyone is even more impressive. They have debates over the details of these books. They know the characters intimately, can quote them (probably recite them) and are just geniuses at taking allusions from the books and making them work in other aspects of their lives. It's fun.

Now that Harry Potter is long over (we think...?) another book has come upon the scene and thankfully, I was put on the group text between all the siblings who have read The Name of the Wind, by Patrick Rothfuss. Which means that randomly, in the middle of the day or night, my phone starts lighting up as somebody comes up with a theory or anecdote about the book, and then everyone debates or expands on the idea. Or we all commiserate on how the third book in the trilogy is much too far away from being published.

When I attended the wedding of one of the brothers, we all put references to The Name of the Wind in his guest book. It may have been the most hilarious thing I have ever witnessed/participated in at a wedding.

I wish I could joke with my siblings and send random quotes from shared books that we have read. I wish that we had the easy-going ribbing and joking that comes so naturally to my friends' family members. The Armstrongs are not stiff, stodgy people. We are quite relaxed and...comfortable. But if I could, I would give us more wit. I would give us the easy bantering of shared interested and mutual love and respect that I know we have, but we just don't always know how to display. I would give us a little bit of irreverence that almost always ends in smirking and laughter.

I wish I didn't live so far away, because I feel like in the past ten years I have lived in Utah, I've missed a lot of bonding time with my siblings. I maintain a close relationship with most of them, but it is only as close as a quick phone call can lend. And it's not always enough.

The Demanding Customer

The other night on my way out of town, my friend and I stopped in Layton to have dinner with her husband. They decided on Brick Oven (not a favorite of mine) as I was not planning on eating since I had a giant lunch and was not really hungry.

Brick Oven is a well-known pizza place here in Utah that has recently been expanding to other locations outside of Provo. The building in Layton is much nicer than the one in Provo, with the one exception being that the lights are too close to the table and much, much too bright. I quickly remedied that by unscrewing the light bulb. Seriously, people, it was blinding.

The server came up to us and introduced himself by saying, "My name's Zach*. But people also call me Frodo. It probably has to do with my extremely good looks or something."

Uh-huh.

I had decided that a dessert pizza would be just the ticket to dining without eating a giant meal. I was dreaming of the giant cinnamon roll they sell at The Pie, but could not find a dessert pizza listed anywhere on the menu. When I asked if Frodo had a dessert menu, he didn't know, but we discovered it on the table. No dessert pizzas were listed. However, there was a Sampler item, which included all you can eat pizza samples with a dessert pizza at the end.

I just wanted the dessert pizza. Frodo was confused and tried to sell me on the Sampler. And in particular the garlic chicken pizza, which sounded like vomit on a piece of cardboard.

When I asked him what sorts of dessert pizza were offered on this Sample - there were three pictured, but you couldn't really tell what they were - Frodo didn't know, and confessed that he had only been a server for a few days.  I insisted that I really wanted a dessert pizza, and could he please ask what they had available?

Instead, a manager approached the table.

At this point, I felt as though I were being a troublesome customer. Or, at least that is what it appeared to be. However, it shouldn't have been this difficult. I wanted dessert pizza. They have dessert pizzas. Why couldn't we make this work, and why couldn't he just tell me what kind of dessert pizzas were available?! It was sort of absurd.

After the manager explained to me the different types of dessert pizza (nothing cinnamon roll-like), I decided upon the berry cobbler pizza. And then Frodo and the manager proceeded to check back on me several times.

"Your pizza just went into the oven."
"Ok. Great!"

"Your pizza is cooking right now, but it will be done real soon."
"Thanks."

"I just saw them pulling out your pizza. We'll have it to you shortly."
"Fantastic."

"Here's the pizza, does it look OK?"
"Looks good."

"How's it taste?" (This said with a gleam in his eye, as if he had just delivered a most precious pizza made out of the most delightful ingredients that could be from nowhere else. As if he had done me a great favor, and was ready to be lavished in praises and gratitude.... or maybe I was just reading into it.)
"Really good. Just what I wanted."

Only it wasn't. Actually, it was pretty good. No complaints there, except the mild comment that the topping to fruit ratio was a little off.

I felt like they were really trying to appease me. As if they were afraid I would make a scene and storm out of the store if they didn't give me what I had demanded. I found it mildly hilarious. I don't think I have ever been waited on so much.

Why am I telling this story? Mostly because I don't want to write a post about how much I hated today at work.

*Name has been changed, because...well, frankly, I don't remember.

My Type Part II

If I were a gay man, I would be into bears. For those of you with limited knowledge of the gay culture, a bear is a husky, bearded man with lots of body hair.

Since I'm a straight woman, I like the straight equivalent of that. A man who is ultra-masculine. I like deep voices, strong jawlines, bushy beards and, yes, chest hair. For years, I've been told that I'm too picky. And maybe I am, but, I don't feel like I've been closed minded about going out with different guys. In fact, it's been a pretty good lesson.

For as long as I can remember, I've wanted black babies. They are the cutest. And I love dark brown eyes, and, let's be honest, if I don't marry someone with color in their skin, I'm going to give birth to albinos. So with the opportunity to go out with a black man arose, I jumped at the chance. That story is here: http://shellmarie.blogspot.com/2013/05/the-danger-of-online-dating.html
I'm not saying that all black guys are going to try and catch a glimpse of a single boob, but, it made me realize that I don't have to marry a black guy. It's probably fine if I don't. And if that means, no black babies, then well, I guess it is what it is.

So, instead, I focused on going out with country guys. I like the idea of a country dude. He's hardworking, ripped and not from spending eight hours at the gym, but because he works hard. He's ultra-manly, and smart when it comes to cars, trucks, and just about anything else that needs fixing. But then I went out with a country boy, and I was disappointed by his lack of interest in things around the world, and in trying new things, and... I realized that it was possible that not all country guys are smart enough for me. (Again, not all of them.)

Can I make a confession? Over the last several years, I can't remember a single date that I've been on where I was actually excited about the date or the guy. I mean, I've been on a lot of blind dates. I can't remember the last appropriate guy I've had a crush on.

Appropriate, you ask? I'll explain.

I lusted over the same guy for three years. He wasn't a member of the Church, and was, in fact, quite scandalous. He made me blush. And he always smelled so good, and I was not above imagining the wicked things that could be done if I would just lower my standards even just a little slightly. Not only would he never consider dating me, but I shouldn't consider dating him. Ever. This seems true of a few guys that I've come across. I'm almost certain that if I were a different sort of girl - if I weren't living a promise that I made to keep the law of chastity - things with these guys would be very different. While I would love to do the Mormon equivalent of "hooking up", I know I can't because they would want to take it further. I would have to constantly play goalie, and they would end up frustrated. So for the most part, we just keep our distances.

The last several months, I have had a crush on my general contractor for a project I was in charge of for work. I loved everything about him. His sense of humor. The way he validated my decisions with the project. The fact that he called me "kiddo" or "sunshine" or "dear". I liked listening to his contractor Spanish, as he told his workers what to do. And I liked that he sometimes caught my eye just to roll his own at me as we listened to somebody not make a decision for something that we needed a decision. He would send me texts that say, "Come downstairs," and why is it that a simple command like that makes me fluttery? The only problem, of course, is that not only is he married, but he's the father of one of my co-workers. He's also a grandpa. But, how can I help myself when he texts me after the worst day of my life just to see if I am having a better one the next day? Or the fact that he played contractor Santa? I can't! He's so great. (I will put in as a side note that despite my great love for this man, it is not in anyway a lust or romantic sort of crush.)

In my post yesterday, I mentioned that nice didn't cut it for me. That I didn't like nice. But a dear friend texted me and said that it probably isn't nice that is the problem. The problem is that I want nice, interesting, funny, and smart. Which may sound like a lot - maybe I am picky! But I don't think it is too much to ask for. I enjoy incredible wit. The kind of wit that inspires bantering not unlike what you read in romance novels. Sure, that doesn't seem realistic, but, as I have experienced a good flirtation with a few witty men in my day, I know that it does exist, even if it is harder to find.

But, I still maintain that nice is a problem for me. The thing is, I think that I'm... that my sense of humor... I find myself to be stuck in this weird in-between of the kind of man that I'm looking for. I relish a man who can make me blush. It's no easy feat, either. I make myself blush all the time by simply saying or doing really dumb things. But to say or do something that catches me off guard, and causes heat to flood to my cheeks, not in humiliation, but in a pleasant sort of embarrassment, is one of the greatest things. The only problem is, there is a delicate balance. Some guys take things way too far or become way too gross that the blushes are more from revulsion than they are any sort of delighted  disconcerting emotions. I find that this weird in-between has me much too bawdy and racy for most Mormon guys; but I'm too sweet, innocent...pure for non-Mormon guys. So if I date Mormon dudes, I'm constantly bored; and if I date Non-Mormon dudes, then I'm constantly on the defensive. And either way, I am constantly offending or hurting someone.

So that's my type. If someone could find a ribald, masculine, intelligent, Mormon man please send him my way.

My Type Part I

Have I mentioned how much I dislike online "dating"? It's not really dating, as it is a venue to meet people you wouldn't ordinarily meet; whatever it is, it's weird and it opens up your world to a bunch of...interesting people. (Or uninteresting, as the case often is.)

Everyone who has a profile online knows that the number one thing people look at is your photo. There are a lot of different types of photos that people post. A lot of the times, I just sit there and wonder, "Why?" Why would they pick that particular photo that is a) out of focus, b) decapitates you, c) makes you look like a douche bag - e.g. surrounded by a bunch of half-naked girls, or bathroom selfie pictures; or d) is just really, really unflattering. I'm talking to you kid in the t-shirt tuxedo. I don't go out of my way to contact people who post photos that I do not find attractive. If you can't find a single picture that makes you look somewhat photogenic that wasn't taken by your cell phone, then I question a whole lot of other things. There is one exception: if their profile is hilarious. It doesn't happen often.

I post the most flattering pictures of myself that I have. Obviously. And then when guys compliment me on being "so beautiful" or "hot", I laugh at them. Because I don't look like that everyday. In fact, I'm pretty sure that I am more photogenic than I am attractive. Figure that one out.* And then I'm afraid that if I ever decide that we should meet up, they will think that I've catfished them. But that's kind of not the point of this post.

The thing I judge the most are guys' writing skills. This maybe isn't fair, but I can't help it. I try to overlook typos. But poor grammar, or just poor communication is a huge red flag. So a message like, "Hi you look pretty nice what type of guys are you into" will not get a response, because I don't trust myself not to type, "I prefer men who use punctuation. Best wishes!"

On the other hand, guys that have read my profile and seem to have taken an interest in actually getting to know me are going to get a response. The problem with that is, while I can be a pretty great pen pal, that doesn't necessarily mean that I'm interested. It just means that I liked the question. I can very easily talk about myself - write about myself (as if having a blog didn't give that away already) - so a few questions sent my way are likely to illicit a response and then after we've emailed back and forth for so long, I actually feel obligated to meet the person. Because, otherwise, I feel like I've been leading them on. In writing. As if that were a thing.**

So earlier this year, I went on a few dates with a guy that I had emailed back and forth for a while and who seemed like a very nice sort of dude. He wasn't pushy, and didn't seem weird. He communicated pretty well, had a job, and...seemed nice. He was willing to go to a country western concert of which he would normally have no interest, and so we went. And he was nice. Why can't I think of a single other word to describe him? It doesn't seem fair!

There's that saying that nice guys finish last, that I just don't think is very fair. Nice guys should get awards and all kinds of girls for being nice because there aren't a lot of nice guys out there. There are a lot of douche bags and arrogant jerk faces; or there are the complacent, no-effort, lazy types. But for some reason, nice just doesn't cut it for me. The tri-weekly texts and phone calls to ask "how are you?" are more annoying to me than they are sweet. I can only answer "fine" or "great" or whatever so many times; and how are you really getting to know me better by asking how I am over a text message every few days? So you're trying to let me know that you've been thinking about me? That's great. Really, it is. But you know what would also tell me that you were thinking about me and wouldn't annoy me? A text about how much you hated traffic. Or that you saw a random goat in the middle of the street. Or... it could be anything. Something funny. Or flirty. Or... anything except "how are you" or those "Good morning!" or "Good night!" texts. I can't handle them.

So I wasn't really attracted to him. There didn't seem to be any chemistry. There was no flirting. He didn't make me laugh. He didn't make me sad or depressed, but he didn't make me feel anything really. It was like being back on Celexa. I was just numb to his niceness and the rest of his personality. We didn't have anything in common that I could tell. And while we had perfectly fine conversation...It was just nice. I was bored. Very. In fact, I was in the middle of texting, writing, and setting up dates with a few different other guys that all seemed nice. And I couldn't do it. I crashed and burned, and started ignoring all the messages in my box, and the texts, and the phone calls... (Sorry, not sorry.***)

So if I don't like perfectly nice guys, then what kind of guys do I like? That's a great question. Stay tuned for Part II.


*I know this because of an unintentional test I gave my friends. When one of these online accounts were being set up for me by friends and under duress, the pictures they chose were not the ones where I thought I looked the best. They did not pick the ones that were my best, rather than the ones that "looked most like" me. They were hideous pictures.

**Somebody tell me that that isn't a thing.

***I'll explain in Part II.

Gifting

I have bought one present this year, so far.

I am HORRIBLE at giving gifts. Partially, it is because whenever I go to buy something for someone else, I just spend my money on myself. And partially because I really want my gift to be meaningful and appreciated. Not just, "Oh, thanks. I can use this!" but you know, the type of gift Oprah or Ellen gives that has the recipient weeping at their generosity. I've been on the receiving end of those types of gifts, and it's amazing.

I'm almost always that type that lives by the motto: Go big, or go home. If I can't get my dinner party or friend's birthday party, heck, if I can't get my house, to look the way I want it, well, I might as well give up or not even do it in the first place.

So I end up not buying people anything, because, I have a hard time thinking that a $10 gift certificate to Hot Head is sufficient. But I also can't afford earrings at Tiffany's to give to my sister. It doesn't help that my family is ridiculous to shop for -- I feel like I'm incredibly easy to shop for: just give me books, old maps, home goods...pretty much empty out Target and I would be incredibly happy.

The few times I've really thought I nailed a present, the person is not nearly as excited as I hoped, and it just takes away all the fun.

So now I'm down to two days before Christmas and one present. Today is one of the busiest shopping days of the year. Everyone is doing their last minute shopping, and I don't want to be a part of it. I can feel my Christmas Cheer meter just dropping with the thought of being out in the chaos and traffic. Shudder. But I know that my siblings all tried to find something nice for me, and so I have to - I really want to - return the favor.

Another Reason to Shop Online

I got off work late, had to scrape my car off for the second time today, and found that the roads were still...treacherous. I drove home about 20 mph under my usual and with my hazards on. I still had both hands on the wheel, my back ramrod straight, and my heart in my throat. For the record, it was not even still snowing.

So, considering the 15- turned 30-minute drive home, I decided that I was in no way going to go out and run all the errands that I needed to do. Instead, I've sat down and started shopping online. Yup I'm buying light bulbs online.

If today is any indication of what winter is going to be like (and I'm not just talking about the weather), then this is going to be a long, dreary winter. Let's hope it is NOT indicative of what this season is going to bring.

Troubles of a Stuffy Nose

Two things that shouldn't have to happen, but when they happen, they should never be in the same week:

1. Killing a spider that crawled on your eyelid. (YES! EYE. LID.) Finding a spider in your room is bad enough; finding a spider in your bed is grounds for burning down your house. BUT having a spider somehow manage to jump (because really- you'd think someone could feel a thing crawling in their face) from the window sill (maybe) to your face is traumatizing at best.

2. Developing a cold where you will inevitably be a mouth-breather all night because there is absolutely no clear airway through your nose.

See the problem? That statistic that says we eat 8 spiders a year, or something along those lines, no longer seems so far fetched.