How a vending machine almost made me fail Music History I

Vending machines and I don't get along. They're thieving, abusive miscreants. That's how I've always felt about them. I've had very few good experiences with them. Not even their bounty of peanut butter m&m's can make me like them. More likely than not they take my hard earned cash and keep it without giving me anything in return. And to me, that's a real offense, my penny pinching would put pre-transformation Ebeneezer Scrooge to shame.

That explains why they're thieving miscreants, but why are they abusive? Let me tell you. Once upon a time, I was a sweet, innocent, little freshman who just wanted to get a scantron to take her History of Jazz test. The Book Store was packed with people so I chose to use the handy-dandy student oriented vending machine across the hall, which holds scantrons, blue books, granola bars, pencils, and pretty much anything a student would want. She put her $1.50 in and watched her pack of scantrons drop. She put her hand into the slot to grab it, but it would not come out. It was too big. It would not come out. I was reminded of when I read Where the Red Fern Grows in elementary school. They caught raccoons by putting something in a hole that the raccoon would want, their paw would fit on the way in but the hole wasn't big enough for them to get their paw out while holding the treat. That day I was a raccoon. I would not let go, I wanted to take my test! So I pulled and pulled and pulled while astonished passersby gave me looks I'll be telling my therapist about twenty years from now. Eventually my desperate endeavors bore fruit. I got my scantrons but I left a good portion of my skin behind.

My relationship with vending machines went downhill today. This morning I could not find a blue book for my music history final. For those of you unfamiliar with the world of higher education, blue books are a torture device favored by professors. Of course it would be unreasonable to allow us to take exams on our very own lined paper, we (under threat of failing) must use university-approved lined paper. I would understand it if they passed the blue books out right before the test. That would insure that no one would cheat and write things down beforehand. But we provide them ourselves. Great logic, professor.

Blue books look something like this:



Because the university book store is not open in time to cater to panicked students taking 7:30 a.m. finals I was forced to use the dreaded vending machine once more. Upon arriving I encountered two other students who were having troubles with the vending machine. However, I had already fought with this vending machine and come out conqueror so I stepped up to be the hero. No such luck. I tried to buy 3 packs of blue books (five in each pack) and they all got stuck. They were wedged between the glass and the scantrons so we tried to buy a scantron. Silly desperate students. It didn't work. So I tried buying a pack of the smaller blue books. They too got stuck. Getting desperate I attacked the vending machine with every ounce of ferocity I possess. I kicked, I shoved, I reached up into the belly of the beast. By the time I was thoroughly exhausted they began to fall. Triumphant, we grabbed them and passed the pack of five around to the (conveniently) five people waiting.

And that is how I got one blue book for the price of 20 (plus one pack of scantrons.)

Enough with the gratitude!

Last week I mailed the last of my thank you cards for my wedding presents. They have all been composed, addressed, stamped, and mailed. (Except for about a stack of ten belonging to college students that have moved.) Let me tell you, it was a fantastic feeling. As I handed the stack to the smiling post man (who kindly congratulated me for the feat of handwriting 150+ cards) I felt as if there was a weight lifting off my shoulders. As long as they weren't done I could not be at peace. There was always one more thing on my to do list, and my OCD did not appreciate the line on my list with no check next to it. Not that I actually get my to do list done now either, but I could!

I had the best of intentions of writing them all within three months of getting married. I wanted to be that girl. I had an image of one of my mother's friends getting my very timely card in the mail and saying, "Oh, what a sweet, perfect girl for being so grateful. Her mother obviously raised her right." Sorry mom. I failed you. Rather than getting them all in the mail within three months, as every etiquette book I've ever seen decrees, it took me eight.

I literally had nightmares about these thank you cards. I imagined ladies in my parents' ward meeting for Relief Society and comparing what I had written to each of them.

"My word! A truly grateful young lady wouldn't have written us all identical cards!"

I'm sorry! I got in a rut on my thirtieth card of the day! Dream-self responds.

"She only wrote three sentences to me and four sentences to you. She must not have liked my gift as much."

I loved it, I was grateful. I promise, I promise!

"She told me that 'every little bit helps.' She obviously didn't appreciate my sacrifice to give her a gift."

That was my husband that wrote that. See the man-like handwriting? 

Logically, I knew that no one, especially not the sweet wonderful women of the 21st Ward, would ever compare or complain about thank you notes, but I still worried over every sentence, agonized over every word choice, and generally drove my husband nuts.

But that is all over now. I can now agonize over how awkward I am in my new calling, ward choir director. I really hope that every one knows how incredibly grateful I am for their generosity. The checks and cash we were given paid for our first month of rent. The kitchen appliances make it possible to make a lot of things from scratch, which saves a lot of money for poor starving college students like us. The gift cards keep us clothed and fed. I'm honestly not sure how we would be surviving without the combined generosity of family and friends. Every little bit did count. Thank you!

The Ol' Ball and Chain

Everyone always jokes that when you get married you become chained to your spouse. I dare to disagree. To me, marriage is freedom. Freedom from social norms, mostly. Freedom from staying up late when you don't want to, freedom to do homework on a date, freedom to tell your date to do the dishes from the meal you made; it's great! I really don't feel like I'm chained to Brad, except for that one time when we were actually chained together.

That is a bike lock 'round our waists. And no, I am not a hobo, despite my cardboard sign. (I had four signs: "Trees=Life," "Trees have feelings, too," "The future is green," and "Save the Trees.") For my Grandma Julia's Halloween Party Brad and I dressed up as a tree and a tree hugger. A quick trip to the D.I. and the park was all we needed to create this wonderful getup. We may not be fancy, but we're cheap! We also learned that it is really hard to find fallen branches that actually have pretty leaves still stuck to them, so those leaves are attached with scotch tape. Pretty brilliant I would say. Though this is probably the last time I can convince Brad to wear a headband.

It was rather a successful day. Which is pretty great because this semester has largely felt like this:

Like I'm a buffalo walking against traffic. I miss last school year. Life was blissful, full of new love and cheesiness.

Days filled with sunshine and ferris wheels.

We're still in love, but reality has entered the picture. All of a sudden we have to do homework, and practice, and chores! Which we did last year, too, but somehow it seems like we had time to do other things. I was excited a couple days ago when I had time to actually go to the grocery store, but then I forgot what I was doing, drove to the University (which is the only place I ever go), and sat there confused until I saw my grocery bags and remembered where I was supposed to be.

Only 3 1/2 weeks until Thanksgiving Break, and then 2 more weeks of classes. The end is in sight.

The Grand Adjustment- What you have to get used to when you get married.

Brad and I have been married for six months as of yesterday. Although we've been extremely happy, so much so that we hear people gagging wherever we go, there were a few things that made our lives harder, funnier, or just different. Such as:

1. Sleeping in the same bed as someone else. (This is only what happened for the first few weeks. We have compromised.)
1.  Getting ready for bed: Kenzie: Can we fall asleep while cuddling? Brad: Well…um…how about we just hold hands? Three o’clock in the morning: Brad: I love you so much that I’m going to cuddle with you and stroke your hair and play footsie with you. Kenzie: I was sleeping here, stay on your own side of the bed!
2. Sleep Talking.
1. Brad: We have to save the paper, Kenzie! Kenzie: Why do we have to save the paper? Brad: For the bullets!  Kenzie: What bullets. Brad: For the targets!
2.  Shaking my shoulder Brad: You have to be careful. You’re dangerous. Kenzie: Why am I dangerous? Brad: …
3. Getting ready for bed: Kenzie: More blankets! More blankets! Brad: Are you crazy? My proteins will denature! (Brad would like to point out that he doesn’t know what proteins denaturing means and that he did not actually say those precise words.) Three o’clock in the morning: Kenzie: I’m going to suffocate! Brad: More blankets! More blankets!
4. Playing tug-of-war with the blankets in the middle of the night and then having to wake up your husband because there is no way you’re going to win.
5. Getting ready for bed: Kenzie: I’m so glad we’re married. Three o’clock in the morning: Kenzie: There’s a man in my bed! Why is he there?!?! Get out, get out, get out! Brad grabs my hand and shows me my ring, Brad: See! I married you. I’m allowed to be here. Go to sleep!  

2. Sleeping Habits.

1. 10:45 p.m.: Brad: The night is young! The stars are bright! Kenzie: zzzzzzzzzzzz
2. 6:30 a.m.: Kenzie: Oh what a beautiful morning! Oh what a beautiful day! Brad: I don’t want to get up and I don’t want to be happy and LET ME SLEEP!

3. Style choices of your spouse.

1. Brad: Don’t you think you have too many shoes? Kenzie: Is this really the man I married? You should know better than that.
2. Kenzie: You’re so wrinkled! I look like a terrible wife. Can I iron it for you? Please, please, please? Brad: No.

4. Cooking together.

1. Kenzie: I’m a terrible cook! Brad: It’s okay, you’ll get better. Kenzie: Valiant effort. This is the part where you say, “But it was delicious, my dear sweet perfect wife!”
2. Kenzie: You can’t mash potatoes with a hand mixer! (You can’t open a can with a hammer, you can’t put pancake flour in pizza dough, etc.)  Brad: We Clawson Men can.

5. Saturday night at 10:30. Wife is sick and sleepy but just realized she has run out of...ahem…well…feminine products. What do you do? You go to the store. It’s not so hard until you get to that long aisle chock full of cranky women and brands you’ve never heard of before today. And then you have to scan up and down the aisle for the brand your wife told you specifically to buy.

6. Bad moods. Kenzie: I’m fat and ugly and I don’t know why you wanted to marry me. Sniff, Sniff, Sniff.

1. First month of marriage: Brad: That’s so not true! You’re skinny and beautiful and I love you!
2. Sixth month of marriage: Brad: Here’s some chocolate and a chick flick. And now I will cuddle with you and stroke your hair.

7. Man size proportions.

1. I had pretty much gotten used to cooking for one. Now I cook for two, which means cooking five times as much as I did before.

8. Cold water.

1. Out of the four places we’ve lived in the last six months, two of them have had the hot water go out while we were there. We’re cursed.

9. Each other’s families.

1. Borrowing your husband’s phone, finding “Mom’s Cell” in contacts, then realizing halfway through your conversation that you are not actually talking to your own mother, but your mother-in-law.
2. Calling your brother-in-law (Bruce) your husband’s name (Brad). Or worse yet, calling your husband your sister’s name (Brecklyn). Too many Br’s.
3. Moving in with your in-laws and sharing a bathroom with three girls; your wife, and two sisters-in-law.

10. A new name.

1. One Week After Marriage: Meet a new person, Kenzie: Hi, I'm McKenzie Smith. Ten minutes later conversation still going, Kenzie: Just kidding! Just kidding! I'm not McKenzie Smith! I'm McKenzie Clawson. Just got married. Whew. Weird.
2. I'm pretty expert into turning an S into a C, because I always, always, always start signing Smith first.
3. Person on the phone: Hi, is this Sister Clawson? Kenzie: Actually this is her daughter-in-law, would you like her phone number? Wait...Oh yeah, yeah, that's me.

My Cat Complex

I've known for quite some time that many of my fears aren't exactly what you'd call rational, understandable, or logical. For example, for as long as I can remember I have been terrified of jellyfish. One time my dad left me alone in the jellyfish room of an aquarium in Oregon. I was on the verge of tears when he found me again. I was also fifteen. Even in Finding Nemo I struggle. While watching the jellyfish scene I look something like this:



It is true that jellyfish are more dangerous than they look, but I've lived in a land-locked state for my entire life. How is that I am afraid of jellyfish, when I only see them in aquariums?

Now that we've established that my brain is missing some essential logic components it is time for my next admission. I am not a cat person. No, really. I am really, really not a cat person. Those tails, and those eyes, and that purring. Shudder... I have a hard time with it. There's only one cat I've ever liked. I called him (or her, I was never sure) El Gato Gordo, because he was, well, fat. He belonged to my good friend, Sharlie Tanner. Though there was that one time that El Gato Gordo did get me in trouble. Sharlie, our good friend Chris Payne, and I were at Sharlie's house for some chemistry studying. Feeling the cat walk over my feet under the table I reached over to it and rubbed it with my foot. Or at least I thought I was playing footsie with the cat. It wasn't long before I discovered I was playing footsie with Chris' rather hairy leg. That experience was almost as traumatic as the jellyfish for both Chris and me.

For the past few weeks Brad and I have been house sitting for neighbors of Brad's parents. It has been so great. They have a beautiful home, two wonderful dogs that make me feel loved, a sweet fish, and a washing machine and a dryer! There is only one problem. The cat. Don't get me wrong. As far as cats go, it's a great cat. It's sweet and cuddly and sits and listens to me while I practice (clearly it has good taste in music). This cat really only has one fault, besides that it has the tail and eyes that all cats do. About half way through the night, every night, the cat would jump on the bed and cuddle up to me. It was terrifying. You would think that we'd just shut the door so the cat couldn't come in, right? Nope.  We had to keep the door open because it would get too hot in the room. We tried to pile stuff in the door so air could get in, but not the cat but it turns out cats can jump really high.

Each night every few hours the cat would jump on me, I would pick it up, and take it out of the room. But then it wouldn't be much longer before it would jump up and cuddle with my face again. After about two weeks of little to no sleep, one night when the cat jumped on me I overreacted a tad. Meaning I screamed and burst into tears. My sleep deprived mind could not take it anymore. Brad took the cat out and stroked my hair until I could fall asleep again. Just like what you would do with a scared three year old. The next night Brad had the brilliant idea to open a window instead of the door. But it was too late, I had a cat complex. Every time Brad turned over, I thought it was the cat jumping on the bed and I leapt up and went into ninja mode. When I rolled over and Brad's hair tickled my face, I thought it was the cat and tried to shove it off the bed. We both had a long night.

Our three weeks with the cat are at an end, and I'm finally sleeping more than three hours a time. But the scars will last forever.

Home again, home again!

Well, it's probably about time to update this blog of mine. Since March, Brad and I have basically been dead to our friends. Apparently that's a requirement of marriage, to fall of the face of the earth for about a year. But seriously, we need married friends. We're so dreadfully bored. Please be friends with us! Do you think that sounds too needy? We're not creepy, much. We still love our single friends too, and want to hang out with you. But for some reason, not very many single people like to hang out with us. It could be our newlywed obnoxiousness.

Anyway, if you've been wanting to know what has been going on with us here is the news. Brad got an internship with Moog Medical Devices in early May. (Yay, Brad!) They wanted him to start less than a week after the interview. My parents kept us from living in a cardboard box by taking us in, because there was no way we could sell our old contract and find a new apartment that quick. (And frankly, we need to save as much money as we possibly can.) I figure cardboard box living is inevitable at some point, I am a music major after all, but I'm grateful that day has been delayed. There's no way my violin could have survived the elements.

Some people may consider moving in with their parents so soon after getting married as a failure, but I don't. We've been married for more than three months, which is longer than Kim Kardashian. (Go us! We have good enough marriage skills to still be happy and cheesy after three months of marriage.)

Okay, so they may be winning in the fame and beauty category. But I think I win in the buffness category (at least against Kim Kardashian) because I moved all of our stuff almost entirely by myself! Brad moved up to Davis County, and I stayed behind to finish up my job and pack up our belongings. Our papers and kitchen appliances seem to grow like the rabbit population in Australia every time we move (twice in the last three months).  

Brad did come on a Saturday and helped me move the really heavy stuff, like the bed. But I did carry the kitchenaid all the way to the parking lot! Don't laugh, that thing is dang heavy.

Living at home and being able to ask my mom for help whenever I cook has kept me from too many kitchen disasters. But, come on, it's me! They'll never end. The latest and greatest disaster? Green Velvet Cake. But first some background story.

Our wedding cake was made by Brad's wonderful cousin, Elizabeth. It was Red Velvet; beautiful and delicious. But we didn't get to taste much, because in the fray of smashing it in each other's faces most of it went up our noses.

We tenderly cut our beautiful cake.

"Am I doing this right, Mom?"

Not too bad.

Up the nose.

We're strange.

"Bradley, I seriously cannot breathe!"

He started it. 

After blowing my nose repeatedly, I went and ate a piece of our delicious cake while Brad wiped off as much icing off his tux as he possibly could. He promised me he would not get any cake on my dress and he kept that promise. I didn't promise anything. 

After our honeymoon, it was difficult to make a trip back to my parents' house with our crazy school schedule. By the time we went back, the remainder of the cake was moldy. Brad never got to eat a slice. I felt bad that the poor guy never got a slice of his own wedding cake so I decided to make him a red velvet cake in honor of three months of marriage. I made frosting from scratch for the first time ever, and it was...almost normal. Maybe a little runny and grainy, but it was sweet. I went to make the cake, but I could not find any red food coloring. Instead, I decided to use blue.

Apparently blue+chocolate=green.

I think people who read my blog are probably starting to doubt that I can make cakes. I promise I can! As long as they're sheet cakes. The most amazing part of this story is that my family ate this cake. The whole thing was consumed within two days. Brad told me they ate it so fast because if it had gone moldy, they wouldn't have been able to tell. Ah well. Here's my new summer goal--to make a beautiful cake. Wish me luck!

Who wore it best?

Today's post is a contest for Bradley and I, reminiscent of People magazine's "Who wore it best?" 

McKenzie took a fashion risk by sitting on her longboard, but must have preferred  her lower center of gravity. She completed her ensemble with large shoe laces and a big grin.

Brad preferred the classic look of hoody, shorts, and boat shoes. What do you think, boring or cool?

McKenzie matched red oven mits with her polka-dotted apron and purple dress. This adventurous color combination did not help her remember to put chicken in the chicken dumpling soup.

Brad looked particularly lovely preparing Sunday  Morning Pancakes in his polka-dotted, flowery apron. His fashion sense was an asset in creating the fluffiest pancakes you ever did see.

Brad clearly enjoyed his red number from the Aggie Blue Bike  collection.

We like how McKenzie contrasted her masculine bike with a feminine blue-ish-green-ish feminine shirt. Way to go Kenzie!

Please let us know, who wore it best?

My Episcopalian, Lutheran, Presbyterian, Mormon Easter

On Good Friday I had an incredible opportunity to perform Bach's Johannespassion (St. John Passion) with the American Festival Chorus. The performance was part of the Good Friday service at St. John's Episcopal Church in Logan, UT. That was the Episcopalian part of my Easter. Bach was Lutheran, Reverend Paul Heins from the 1st Presbyterian Church said the prayer, and it was a Mormon Easter because I'm a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints, so that is where I attended my Easter Sunday Service. It was pretty great to go to church on Easter Sunday with my new in-laws.

Besides just the jaw-dropping beauty of Bach choral works, this Easter weekend experience reminded me of a few things I hold dear and also taught me some new things.

1. I am a musician in order to better express my love, praise, and gratitude to my Father in Heaven and my Savior. I lose track of that sometimes. It's similar to when I'm learning a really difficult piece and I get so caught up in learning the tricky notes and chords that I forget to keep track of the phrase and overall structure of the entire work. As I go throughout my life, practicing, trying to earn any money, cleaning my apartment, going to class, studying, rehearsing, applying for jobs, I lose track of the reason behind what I'm doing. I just keep going and going. My practice time will be more effective if when I'm going through my scale routine for the third time that day, I remember that I love to play music for my Savior. A simple truth, but it helps me.

2. Sometimes it is better to stop talking about every point of doctrine that separates churches and remember what we have in common. It is beautiful to me when a hall is packed with people of various backgrounds, lives, professions, goals, and churches who all want to praise Christ for his incredible love for us. Yes, there were many people there just to hear Bach because he's amazing. But I know I wasn't the only one pondering on the incredible sacrifice that Christ made for me.

3. The music also taught me to like Pontius Pilate a little bit more, oddly enough. When I was little we had a cartoon that told the story of Easter. Pilate was portrayed as fat, sloppy, and kind of gross. He sat there and ate grapes as Christ stood before him. As a result, that's always how I've pictured him. But as I listened to the singer that sang his lines, I thought, would I be any better? Now I picture Pilate more like Agrippa, who was almost persuaded to be a Christian, but he feared men too much. I now see Pilate sitting before the Christ with respect. He had heard the stories. He may not have been a Jew waiting for the Messiah, but the power of the miracles that had been performed was still there. Over and over he says to the Jews, "I find no fault in him at all." Not until after they remind him that he cannot admit any man is a king but Caesar, does he give up. Caesar controls his power and he wants to keep it.

How common is that problem? We feel respect and awe and joy as we sit in church, but then we go out into the world, and we're reminded that having faith is not popular. In popular culture those with faith are often portrayed as less intelligent. Sometimes I wonder if I have enough courage to say what I believe when others are judging me for it.When I'm struggling with the question of if I have enough courage, I ask myself, Pilate or Peter? Peter also ended up denying he knew Christ that day, but he repented. He spent the rest of his life proclaiming that Jesus was, is, and always will be the Christ, our Savior, Redeemer, and Friend. I hope I can do the same.

Fave!

This week's failure needs a little, or a lottle of a background story. Once upon a time, Brad and I fell in love, but we hadn't told each other yet. I was very adamant that I would not be the first one to say it; I wanted Brad to say it first. But Brad just couldn't get up the courage. Day after day, I took Brad home, came in and whined to my roommate, "Why won't he tell me he loves me?" Every time we talked on the phone I had to stop myself from saying, "Love you, bye." It was only a matter of time before I slipped, and that would not be as cute of a story to tell later.

Brad had several false starts. We'd be studying together, he'd stop me and say, "McKenzie?"
"Yes?"
"I...I..."
"Yes!"
"I care about you."
"Oh...I care about you, too."
Later, we'd be walking around campus, he'd stop, and say, "McKenzie?"
"Yes?"
"I...I..."
"Yes!"
"I...I really like you."
"Yeah, yeah, me too."
My personal favorite was a door step scene when I drove Brad to his apartment one night.
"McKenzie?"
"Yeah?"
"You're my favorite." This attempt at telling me he loved me didn't work very well.
"Your favorite what?" I exclaimed, "Favorite is an adjective. You can't just stop the sentence there! You have to tell me what favorite I am! Am I your favorite chauffeur? Your favorite violinist? Your favorite kisser? What?"
"Well," Brad said shyly, "You're my favorite girl."
"Your favorite girl? What about your mom?"
"Oh, well. I think it's a tie."
"Oh, okay. I'm glad you like your mom." My head was saying, He loves his mom! And I'm tied with his mom! That means he loves me! Woot! Woot! Woot!
A few days later, I fell asleep while we were watching a movie. Brad sat there for a long time after the movie ended, working up the courage to say those three important words. Taking a deep breath, he shook me awake, "Kenzie?"
"What, Brad?" I said sleepily.
"I...I...I love you."
"Love you, too." I said. And fell back asleep. I didn't realize what had happened until the next morning.
As Brad and I got used to saying "I love you," to each other we also started telling each other, "You're my favorite!" as an inside joke. Which concludes the background story.

Tuesday marked a whole month of marriage, so to celebrate, I made Brad a chocolate cake. A two-layer chocolate cake shaped in a heart. Oh...precious. I wanted to use the fancy new cake decorating stuff that we got for our wedding. I may need more practice.

I wanted to write "You're my favorite." So I started with the Y (notice the adjusted first letter) and realized I wasn't adept enough to write small. So I decided to write just, favorite. I ran out of room.

Here are more Monthiversary pictures. We had a fancy pants dinner at Chic-fil-a. More to come about our Chic-fil-a obsession soon.

Crispy Mashed Potatoes, Combined Laundry, and a Self-Haircut

Before we delve into my most recent embarrassing moments, you have to understand something about me. My mind has always been somewhere else. When I was in elementary school my mom started calling me "Anne." My name is not Anne, it is McKenzie. She was referring to my similarity to the main character from one of our favorite books, Anne of Green Gables. For those of you not familiar with Anne Shirley, you should know that she is constantly getting into "scrapes" (Oh, Canada, you have such a way of phrasing things) because her imagination is continually running wild. As a child, I liked to do my chores while either a) reading a book, or b) thinking about a book. This habit of mine was the number one culprit behind such grand mistakes as:

• Putting the ice cream in the fridge.
• Skipping a step and falling down the stairs. On more than once occasion. Probably on more than fifteen occasions. 
• Spraining my ankle because I tried to clean the bath tub with rags tied to my feet.
• A scar from tripping on the treadmill because I was reading at the same time.
• Having my skirt fall off during church because I was playing with the drawstring and forgot I had undone it.
• Losing homework and library books over, and over, and over.
• Coating the kitchen in a thin layer of marshmallow slime because I got distracted while making Rice Krispy treats.

(This is by no means a comprehensive list.) Now, I am married and my mistakes are doubly as bad because there are two people that get to deal with the messes I make. Brad and I haven't been married for even a month yet and already the adventures abound.

For example, we had only been living in our apartment for a few days when Brad and I got home from school/work at nine thirty. Brad, being the man he is, was starving. I, being the wonderful wife I am, quickly ran to the cupboards to remedy his state of starvation. Boldly going where no college student has gone before, I reached for the instant mashed potatoes. Within five minutes I had a lovely pot of instant mashed potatoes steaming hot, and perfectly stirred--no lumps for me! But, Brad wanted some meat with his meal, as any man is wont to do. The only meat we possessed was canned chicken. And there we had a problem, for we were still in the process of moving and the can opener was nowhere to be found. Fortunately, I married a thinker, an innovator if you will. He grabbed the handy dandy tool kit he got for our wedding, pulled out his hammer and attacked the can with all the fury a hungry man possesses.

Half an hour later, we had a shredded can, cold slimy chicken, and luke-warm mashed potatoes. I threw the chicken into the pot of potatoes, and wanting the chicken to warm up as fast as possible, threw the heat up to the highest setting. A moment or two later, Brad went to stir our potatoes/chicken, but he couldn't. It was a solid mass. One brown solid mass of instant mashed potatoes and canned chicken. It was only choked down through a healthy dosing of instant gravy.

My next mistake was of a much grander scale. This past Sunday Brad and I and my sister, Brecklyn and her husband, Bruce, were visiting the family to watch General Conference together. We're all poor, starving, newly wed college students and were taking advantage of my parents' washer and dryer. Brecklyn came in, put down her basket of whites, and told me that I could finish my laundry first, but to remember her whites were in the white laundry basket. I muttered to myself, "Brecklyn whites, white laundry basket. My whites, black laundry basket. Brecklyn, white. Kenzie, black. Brecklyn, white. Kenzie, black. Okay, I got it."

I didn't got it.

About an hour later, I put Brad and my clean whites in the bottom of the blue laundry basket with the colored clothes, so I'd only have to remember one basket. In the whirlwind of packing the car, I remembered I had brought one basket of coloreds, one basket of whites, so that's what I grabbed. Brad and I got home late, unloaded the car quickly, and went to bed. The next morning, when I got out of the shower, I nearly screamed. There was a white laundry basket. All of a sudden, I remembered my mutterings of the day before, "Brecklyn, white. Kenzie, black." There was no black laundry basket. Brad tried to comfort me as I shook his shoulders, exclaiming over the tragedy I had created in Brecklyn and Bruce's lives. "It's not like I grabbed any kind of laundry, Brad. I took their whites! The whites! I took the whites!!" The white load of laundry is without a doubt the most essential laundry load. Why? Because you need it every single day. You cannot survive one day without clean whites. Brad didn't even believe that it wasn't our laundry for awhile because it turns out that we wear similar sizes and styles of whites that Brecklyn and Bruce do.

It wasn't much longer before I got a panicked call from Brecklyn demanding what was to be done. I was about to go into class, and I would be in class or rehearsal straight until six o'clock that night and had no answers. Luckily, just like when I was little and made my mistakes, my mom was able to bail me out of trouble. She ran to the store and got Bruce a new white scrub top so he could go to school (Bruce is working on his nursing degree, so someday he can save the world as a nurse anesthetist.), and drove up to Logan that night to retrieve Brecklyn's laundry. Problem solved.

Or so I thought. Several hours later, Brad got home from work and I told him that he could stop worrying. My mom had come to get Brecklyn and Bruce's laundry and everything was okay now.
"You did take out our laundry that I put in there, right?" I sunk to the floor and put my head in my hands. Brad reminded me that he had told me that he had combined our clean white clothes with what he thought was the rest of our clean white clothes. But, because I was crying over my fate, believing I would be executed for the gravity of my white collar crime, I didn't actually hear or pay attention to my husband. Consequently, some (but thankfully not all!) of our white clothes were in the hated white basket that was now back in Farmington.   Brecklyn, Bruce, and my mom spent their Tuesday night carefully sorting through that basket, deciding what was ours and what was theirs. They sniffed the armpits of under shirts trying to match deodorant smells, they peered at faded labels trying to read sizes, and they conquered. Finally the battle of the mixed up laundry is won. I hope. Gulp.

The last and final disaster of the week doesn't need much explanation and it surely doesn't need any pictures. It can be told in one sentence.

I tried to trim my own bangs with blunt kitchen scissors.

Here's my wish: that hair grows fast and you got a good laugh.

McKenzie Clawson