The Ninth Thing in Common

"What?!" This was only my third time in a row repeating this question.

"I said what song is this?!" He yelled at me from 3 inches away.

"Oh, this is Party in the USA by Miley Cyrus!" I yelled back him, who was a mere 3 inches from my face.

"Who's that?!"

"Some stupid Disney girl!" I had to yell so that my new guy friend and I would be able to hear each other over the screaming girls who jumped in excitement over the tween song.

"I think all the Disney girls should be punched!"

"Yeah, I agree! Lindsay Lohan, Britney Spears, Miley Cyrus...!" Wouldn't it be nice to slap these girls back to reality?

Okay, so this guy and I were getting along great. We seemed to have at least one thing in common: we didn't know how to bridle our innate rage other than wanting to slap millionaire girls who possessed no talent.

Now, usually, for this type of deep conversation, I would have preferred to have been in a nice, quiet restaurant that has candlelit table tops, cloth napkins that go on your lap, where the servers are anxious to bring you four bowls of Fagioli soup, without muttering to themselves, "Dang, this girl's eating like this in front of a guy?!" Where bread sticks come and go at your request. Where you can take a tour of Italy just by ordering The Tour of Italy. This place is known as Olive Garden. However, the pounding dance floor that was full of guys and girls jumping to a Miley Cyrus song would have to suffice as a place where he and I could talk openly about anything and everything. It would only be right--after all, I only met him an hour ago, right in this very spot, and we needed to be loyal to our roots. Plus, uh, we had both come with a ride.

Every night in my dreams
I see you, I feel you
That is how I know you go on

A slow song interrupted our unbridled topic of conversation about how all Disney girls turn out messed up.

"Do you wanna dance?"He said with his hand making its way toward mine. This intriguing guy wants to touch my hand?! I think I may or may not have had a heart attack at that moment.

"Uh, sure." I shrug. "But I don't know how to dance." Play it cool, Shannon, play it cool.

"It's okay. I don't either." We're meant for each other!

Second thing in common.

"You know, I have never seen all of Titanic," he remarked as he swayed me back and forth to the non-Disney girl song.

"I fell asleep in it. I also fell asleep in all three Lord of the Rings movies." Yeah, I know, I know, I have pure talent for the ability to make myself sound interesting.

"Really?! You should watch them again. I read all of those books." Glad I didn't tell him that I also fell asleep in Sherlock Holmes, Avatar, and Invictus.

"I tried reading The Hobbit but couldn't make it past the first chapter." I sure do know how to impress a guy.

"You're not one of those girls who has read Twilight, right?" What kind of girl did he think I was?!

"Um, no. I have never laid a finger on that book and never will."

"Good, but knowing that the author of that book graduated from BYU makes me feel a little embarrassed."

"You know, the makers of Napoleon Dynamite also attended BYU. And I hate that movie. You don't like it, do you?" Please say no. Please say no. Please say no.

"Well, it was funny the first time. Then it got annoying." He saved himself with that last sentence.

"No, it's always been annoying."

Third thing in common.

By this point I couldn't believe it. Was I actually talking to my soul mate? This guy and I seemed to have very similar tastes. Or...at least three things in common!

The fourth thing we shared in common was our love for Seinfeld.

"The only dance I know is The Elaine," I admitted to him. My secret was out.

I then proceeded to stick my fat thumbs up and do little kicks (with my little legs). And, I admit, I had never felt this comfortable in a guy's presence before. I mean, sure, I always make a fool of myself in a guy's presence, but this time was special. Let me rephrase that; I always make a fool of myself in a guy's presence, but this time was special, for it wasn't on accident.

"I also like The Carlton dance," I admit, "but I can't do it."

"The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air is awesome!"

Fifth thing in common. Is this guy perfect for me or what?

"Oh, hey, do you remember the head-banging dance move from A Night at the Roxbury?" He asks me.

"Heck yeah, I do!"

Our sixth thing in common. Aww.

"Okay, well, I'm going to go add that song to the request list. Is the song called What is Love?"

"Yeah, it's by Haddaway."

Is this guy perfect for me or is he perfect for me?

Shake Your Head Yes.

I decided to make this song our song, "...but if they play this song, I don't think anyone here will get the head-bopping reference, except me and you." Yes, I know. I'm a romantic.

For the hour and a half that this guy and I spent talking to each other, I had gotten him to dance, which, when I had first spoken to him, he made it clear that he doesn't dance. I had gotten this guy to open up to me. We were able to connect in some way. Some way that I'd never experienced before.

"Hey, I'm going to go get some water," he told me.

"Oh, I like water!" Seventh thing in common.

As we were having our water cooler chat, he admitted two things to me.

One: "My ride's leaving in a couple of minutes. But I think you're cool and fun. We should stay in touch." Our eighth thing we had in common...because I felt the same way. I think I'm cool and fun.

and

it's really too bad for me that we shared one last, very important ninth common interest: we were both attracted to guys.

I guess I don't need to tell you that the DJ never did play What is Love, but it would've been nice to hear the answer.

Special Delivery

I was young.

I was naive

I was spontaneous.

I was a college sophomore.

And I was bored.

Bad combination.

I've always been big on recycling, thanks to a fourth grade sing-songy program that I participated in for my elementary school. The theme: Recycle, Reduce, Reuse! I still remember the lyrics: Recyccccccle, Reduuuuuse, Reuuuuuuse! Yeah! To stick to my good Samaritan roots that were instilled in me at such an early age, I've strived to reuse anything that's, well, reusable (but only if it's for a good cause).

Examples:

-Have reports from five years ago? Just turn each page around and print your next report on the opposite sides. Your professors will think you're cheap and poor, and guess what, you ARE cheap and poor. Therefore, the professors will have pity on you because you can't afford fresh paper, and will consequently give you a higher grade. Works every time.
-Have old, rotten Halloween candy? Just sell 'em to your younger brother. He will be your number one customer...and only customer.
-Have M&M wrappers, Dorito wrappers, Dasani water labels, ketchup packets, chopsticks, Taco Bell mild sauce packets, and Pizza Hut parmesan cheese and hot pepper wrappers laying around your college apartment? Create a meaty, saucy, sweet, and yummy man: Topher--who will hang around in your kitchen.

Topher with 2 Fans

-Have a dampen room with plain, boring white walls? Just pick up a hubcap from the side of the road and take it back to your apartment. Next, you should paint, and decorate the thang. I used markers and colored the thing to look like the sun. Then I hung it from the ceiling (Well, I didn't hang it from the ceiling). This unusual piece of art will then brighten up any depressing room. Bonus: it will also dramatically cut back your visitor intake. 

-Have a plate of old, hard cookies left on your kitchen table from who-knows-when? Well, then, I have a mighty fine story to tell you about what to do with these. I was attending BYU way back when I committed this random act of kindness, and was just trying to be the good girl, following BYU's motto: Enter to Learn, Go Forth to Serve. Serving is what I do best...especially when it comes to giving cookies away...

But...

My sister and her friend were visiting me for the weekend. Add this element to the mix and it becomes

lethal.

Right. Me entertain my sister and her bubbly friend? Just kill me now. Or then. Not having a car sure limited the activities we could take part in. Hmm. Actually, come to think of it, I guess we all could've taken a joyride in that one shopping cart that I had to push my groceries home in for a few blocks. Hmm. (I hate reflecting on my past because I always think of what I could've done differently).

Fast forward to later in the evening when my sister and her friend were expecting to do something fun. Here you'll get to see our work in the form of entertainment in action...

You will see my sister and her friend dressed incognito. You will hear their voices disguised to having an "Asian accent." You will see me hiding behind bushes with a camcorder, trying to record this once-in-a-lifetime event. You will see my sister and her friend knocking on a random door. You will then see a big, tall black man answer the door (whaaaaaaa? In Utah????? Fo' realz????). You will then see the surprise on my sister's and her friend's face...actually, you won't. They're in disguise, remember?

You will then hear my sister say in her beautiful accent, "Cookies for you," as she stretches her arms out with a plate full of cookies to offer him.

Then you will hear the man boom, "What is this crap?!"

Sister's friend: Cookies for you. (Asian accent still, remember. It makes the whole scenario funnier...to me.)

The dude: You're trying to give this crap to me???

Sister's friend: Cookies...for yooooou?

You will then see the guy turn around to talk to his pals in the apartment. You will see about five guys and a girl just chillin' on the couch, watching the whole awkward instance through the windows.

You will then see the man who is the size of the door frame come back to his "Welcome" mat. Next, you will hear him spew, "YOU are giving ME this crap? I don't want this *bleepity bleep*! Here, YOU eat 'em."

Sister mumbles with none other than, "Cookies for you."

You will see the man getting more mad. You will hear him huffing and puffing. You can only guess that my sister and her friend are shaking in their boots...or, rainbow toe socks over sandals, to be exact.

The man scans the porch, looking to see if this was a joke. Obviously, it was.

"Who the *bleepity bleep* are you?" The man yells at the high school oddly-dressed girls.

You will then hear silence from Sister and Friend. But you will hear snickering coming from my direction.
You will see me trying to zoom in with the camcorder to the looks on Sister and Friend's faces. But you will see nothing. Those dang sunglasses.

You will then hear the man break the silence with his overpowering voice, "Who the *bleepity bleep* are you? And what's this *bleepity bleep* you're trying to give me?!"

"Cookies. For. You."

"What the *bleepity bleep*?"

"Cookies not for you?"

Then you will see Sister and Friend drop the cookies at the man's feet and run like heck.
To my apartment.
That was across the street.

You will see me still hiding behind the bush, not knowing when to leave, as the pals are still looking through the window, and you can see in my face that I'm hesitant to walk past that apartment with a camcorder. You will then see me creep slowly past his apartment window, trying to hide the recorder, acting as if I were not a part of this whole thing that went down. As I walked past his door, still laying on his welcome mat were the cookies that Sister and Friend had so graciously tried to give him:

The cookies that had been sitting in my kitchen for who-knows-how-long, adorned with ketchup "frosting."

Now rewind the Special Delivery to 10 minutes prior to the delivering part. You will see my sister and her friend practicing their "accent." You will see them robing themselves with the most ridiculous clothing. (Cue in scrunchies ornamenting pigtails, rainbow toe socks combined with flip flops, huge sunglasses...) Take two steps to the kitchen and you will see me doing what I do best: recycle, reduce, reuse--but only to be neighborly.

Haha, this is going to be so funny! Let's deliver these cookies...Whoever answers the door won't know what to do. They'll probably look at us as if we're serious...and they'll have to say,  "Thank You"!!!!!!!

We were entertained in the making process before the delivery. Sister and Friend were not entertained during the delivery. We are all entertained with this incident years later.

 And, that is how to reuse perfectly good old, crusty, hard cookies. And guess what, you're doing something very neighborly in the process, because, honestly, most people are happy to receive cookies.

Like a good neighbor, Shannon is there...in the bushes.

A Big, Fat Thumbs Up

What's not to love about Megan Fox? She is an attractive young lady (with good morals, I'm sure), is...uh...in movies, and...she's foxy (pun intended). Well, guess what, I can relate to her. We're basically, like, the same person because of one thing--no, not because we both (ironically) didn't make the cut for People's "100 Most Beautiful" people of the year edition (pshh, I don't care that I wasn't chosen. It's not as if I need a magazine to tell me who's beautiful. I can just look in the mirror for that). What connection do I have to Megan Fox, then? It's simple: Our thumbs. Love thumbody? Yes, I do.

I never thought that thumbs were a big deal. I mean, they only make life easier by helping you hold or grip things, so, seriously, what's the big deal? But this story if totally opposite for Megan. Her thumbs are, apparently, her downfall. Her thumb problem has guys now giving her a rating of 8.4/10 instead of 9.8/10! Oh, the horror. And, well, no one cares what my thumbs look like (heck, even I don't).

I thought that I was the only person in the world with my kind of thumbs--which, in a way, made me unique. Thumbs up, Shannon. But, then, during my freshman year at BYU, I met another girl who had thumbs that looked like mine. Whaaaaaaaaaaa? To make the situation even more confusing, this girl and I were both born on the same day of the same year. Whaaaaaaaaaa? So, then I started to try and figure out this weird-looking-thumb-situation and try to make sense out of the whole thing. The only reasonable conclusion in my mind was that only people who were born on my birthday have my kind of thumbs. Then, Megan Fox had to come along and expose to the world her thumbs. Thanks for stealing the limelight, Megan.

I don't watch football, but I guess during a 2010 Superbowl commercial, Megan starred in a Motorola ad, along with her fine acting skills. What's this have to do with thumbs? Well, from what I read the next day on the ever informative Yahoo! news, Motorola had hired a hand model to replace Megan's up-close hand shots. Why? Because if the public saw what Megan's thumbs really looked like, they'd focus more on her thumbs than on the phone they were trying to sell. Way to steal the limelight from everyone, Megan, geez. This Yahoo! article also informed me what exactly type of thumbs I have. I just thought they were Shannon-and-people-born-on-Shannon's-birthday thumbs, but I found out there's a technical name: Brachydactyly. To make it simple, it means our thumbs look like this:

Our thumbs are short and fat!

Just because we have alien thumbs doesn't mean we have a green thumb. But it does mean that we are experts at pushing thumbtacks into the wall. And we're also good at...oh, I don't know. How about this scenario: your friend is hammering a nail into the floor, but the hammer accidentally slips and instead of hitting the nail on the head, it hits your friend's thumb. Now your friend is probably walking around with a huge swollen thumb. Well, I'm good at looking like I have a huge swollen thumb, without actually hitting my thumb with a hammer. It's not even painful.

However, it's still easier to think of things we're not very skillful at (like texting, my thumb is too fat to fit on one button. My text recipients usually get results like: qr0qy#i0 instead of: hi how r u). Uh, having fat thumbs also makes it difficult to bowl. Yeah, sometimes my thumb gets stuck in the ball. Yeah...it really happens. Annnnd, I can't even do sign language. Uh, every time a student in my class farted, and I signed to them asking if they needed the bathroom, the kids probably thought I was shaking my fist at them in anger (my thumb is too short to even show up between my fingers). Makes sense. Unfortunately, I recognized that my dream of ever becoming a rock star fell flat (not B-flatflat, either) when I finished my growth spurt and realized that my hands would always be the size of a fourth grader's. In fact, I stopped taking piano lessons after three years because once I got into the hard stuff, my thumbs didn't have the ability to reach the needed keys. Looking on the bright side, I guess I could always play the ukulele for my music career. Sadly, though, I think this instrument is still too massive for my fingers and thumb.

But, still, the only reason I didn't make People's 100 Most Beautiful list is just because my thumbs are holding me back. I have to quote The Rolling Stones and say to People:

Under my thumb

[are] the [people] who once pushed me around

(and I hope it hurt being squished by my sausages. m.wp0###y0. [Dang you.])

A Truthful Joke

Q: What do U of U, UVU, and BYU students all have in common?

A: They all applied to BYU!

(This is the part where you *laugh...heh...heh...heh.)

*If you are laughing, that's becaue you know it's true.

**If you're not laughing, that's because you know it's true.

The Sock and Shoe Bandits

Yesterday there was a cougar warning in our neck of the woods (and no, U of U, I don't mean the BYU Cougars, although you better watch out!...Confession: I don't watch sports. I'm supposed to be supporting my college, right?). Yep, a mountain lion was spotted at the park a couple of blocks away from my house. But forget the cougar. There is something else on the loose that is even more ferocious...to apparel.

My cat.

My cat is a sort of vicious killer--she likes to play "cat and mouse" with her prey before actually killing it. Who would've thought? Last night she had apparently been out hunting in the woods and being so generous as she is, decided to surprise me with a dead mouse left right outside the front door. Aww, how cute. And I must admit that she's pretty talented considering she doesn't even have front claws. It is true what Robert De Niro says in "Meet the Parents": Cats make you work for their affection. They don't sell out like dogs do. So, either my cat loves me because she's bringing me "gifts" or in reality she's actually plotting my death.

I don't know about you, but I'd rather Sassy not bring me dead mice. I'd actually prefer to be brought shoes, underwear, or socks. Oh wait, that's what my other cats carry around the house. Call them lazy...or slow (in the head)...but these other two cats will only "hunt" clothing items--hmm, they must be girls who love a true shopping spree. It has pretty much become a ritual now, because every single night, I repeat, EVERY SINGLE NIGHT, Kudos will go into the master bedroom and drag at least one of the slipper socks (shown at left) into my gram's room. But, the best part is when Kudos makes her hunting cry...it sounds like she's in pain, yet she cries like this the whole time she is dragging the cotton carcus. She truly believes she has caught something and is the proud killer of this sock-shoe thing.

Truffles, the smarter cat, makes a hunting cry as well. Except, she's not dragging around a sock...she's actually upgraded to shoes. I must admit that it's pretty annoying when you're running late and go to put your flip flops on, only to discover that they're two rooms over, like under the kitchen table. Or in the center of the family room. Or in the office. Silly kitty. Why do you think they're carrying around shoes? Are they inadvertently telling us that our feet smell and we need to cover them up?

But wait...that can't be true. Because...Kudos will go through partially opened drawers pulling out underwear. What is she trying to say with this action? I don't know. But I will tell you one thing that I know will never happen, even though it'd probably be a humorous situation: What if you were home alone with your boyfriend? And you're just, like, upstairs chilling, watching a movie or something. But then...your parents come home to discover underwear, socks, shoes all over the floors knowing that you said Johnny was coming over that afternoon. The looks on your parents' faces would be a Kodak Moment, all thanks to your cats named Truffles and Kudos (intimidating names), also known as the Shoe and Sock Bandits.

So, mountain lion, I know you’re perfectly capable of taking down a small human and stuff (which would be sad), but I’m more scared of running late and not being able to find shoes to wear. That would be horrible.