Yet Another Harp Update... with designs!

This has actually been a while in coming, however I've been very slow to update you guys on it.

I got most of my materials so far, just waiting on one last thing before we can really get started.

I also drew out what I want it to look like.

This is the soundboard.

yes, i know one side is bigger than the other, when it's supposed to be symettrical. I can't slice things in half freehand. I didn't have a template for that. 

This is the stringy thingy that I can't remember the name for.... I know it has a name, I just can't remember what. 

also, somehow, these pictures managed to turn themselves while getting sent here. it doesn't make sense. 

But those are my designs for my harp. We'll see how well they translate to wood, but we'll try our best. 

How to Prevent Your Child from Being a Children's Villan

Today, during my Sunday School lesson at church, my teacher asked us a question. He asked us to think about the best advice we've ever had from our parents was.

Naturally, at that moment, my mind went blank and I couldn't think of any advice.

Fortunately for me, the moment of blankness didn't last long, and I remembered some advice. And I can quite honestly say I know the best piece of advice my parents have given me so far in my life, and it is this.

Don't be them.

This has been reiterated to me in several different forms, from "do as I say, not as I do," to "you're supposed to be better than me," to "be yourself."

These usually come up when my mother and I are arguing (usually over something stupid) and I get mad at her logic, and point out that she has made the same mistakes I do. I point out that she's actually made some worse choices than I have.

My mother and I are very similar. We look alike, our tempers are similar, and to a certain extent we share the same tastes. This is both a good and bad thing.

My father and I are very similar. I share many physical features with him, and we share the same sense of humor and several personality traits and ways of thinking. We share a lot of the same tastes. This is also both a good and bad thing.

However, despite being a mold from taking random traits of my parents and smashing them together, I am not them. I am my own person. I am myself.

I listen to music both my father and mother abhor. I have talents they don't have. Going through school was a different experience for me than for either of them. I'm not my parents.

I don't want to make the same mistakes they did. That's why they went through life first. So they could mess up, and then they could tell me about it so I could make different mistakes and learn from them.

Parents, despite how much you want your children to be like you... they're not you.
This is a common mistake parents make, if Hollywood is to be believed. Parents don't understand their children. They shove on them their hopes, their dreams, making them do everything they didn't get the chance to do.

My mom never got to do choir during her school years. I've been in choir since the fourth grade, and she's mentioned at times how she regrets that she never got those same chances I did. However, her lack of ability to do that didn't force me into choir. All she did was teach my how to sing. What I did with that was my own business. I started choir because I wanted to, and I stayed because I fell in love with it.
When, after I graduated, I decided I didn't really want to do choir anymore, and I wouldn't take it in college, my mother was fully supportive of my idea. She too, during the choir experiences I went through, was probably burnt out. But she would have supported me no matter what. She wasn't going to make me continue choir so she could live vicariously through me, thereby not setting me up to be a Hollywood villan who's goal is to destroy all the choir teachers because my mother forced me to be in choir. Maybe she deprived me of getting the chance to be a corny villan, but I'm glad my mother has never forced me to do something I didn't want to do, especially because she didn't get to do it.

It's the same with my father. As I've mentioned, we share several tastes, especially in music. However, as I've gotten older, I've ventured out from his genres he likes to listen to, and found lots of several different kinds of music I like to listen to. And I listen to them with great gusto and lack of apology. When he hears me listening to it, he gives me funny looks and teases me, but since he does that to everyone, it's not like he's forcing me to listen to his music. As he would put it,
"I recognize that you're taste in music is sometimes different from mine. I also recognize that your taste is bad."

So, dear parents, you want to provide your children with such wonderful backstories that they have to reason to become villans for children's book and shows, let them be themselves.

Children, as much fun as being a villan might be, I'm sure you can find better motivation than that. Be yourself. You don't have to be just like your parents. Being different is a good thing. You can learn somethings your parents never even knew.

A Moment of Writer's Block... And The Solution (It's Not What You Think)

The other day I had this wonderful idea for a blog post. It would be witty, hilarious, and garner several laughs and compliments. Like several of my other wonderful ideas, it came at a time when I couldn't exactly stop everything and get on my computer to write it. In this case, it came while I was biking to work, so I couldn't even stop to write down my idea. 

However, I still remembered the idea when I got home from work, so I started writing the post. But after writing the first sentence.... I was stuck. And I had other things to do. So it got put off for a few days. 

When I finally got around to writing it again today, I discovered something. It wasn't quite as funny as I wanted it to be. It wasn't witty. It was boring and it didn't quite make sense. I couldn't write this post anymore. 

This made me very sad, because my idea showed so much hope and promise, and it was all quite true to life and happiness and rainbows and growing up. 

But my delivery would not have been very good, so I didn't write it, thereby sparing you. And me. 

It's a sad moment when a writer has to face the fact that their idea really doesn't work. However, trying to work through or around that idea can be even harder. Like how I'm trying to write this post right now. I feel like all my creativity has been depleted, since I couldn't come up with an answer for how to write the post I originally wanted to. 

This is also known as writer's block. Which really isn't very fun at all. My friend Amber is sitting next to me write now, trying to write the next chapter for our story, and she's having writer's block. We're both stuck, somewhere where we don't want to be, with not much of an idea of where we're going. 

I mean, we're both listening to the Piano Guys, and their super motivating music, and it's not helping us. 

Update: Amber decided that she should not work on our chapter at the moment until she gets her groove back and can write something that makes sense. She's writing a different story, and suddenly she turns to me and goes:

"I love how random questions come up in my story. Like, what diseases do sheep get?"

In a fit of brilliance, I start naming off ways sheep could get sick, and possible diseases they could get. I then ask her how on earth that came up in her story. She explains that some farmer's flock of sheep just had about half of them die. 

My response?

"Poison."

Immediately. I just assume poison. This is what happens to you when you become a writer. Unless maybe you write children's stories. I also start listing off other ways half a flock of sheep could suddenly die. I can't finish a simple blog post, but I can easily list, off the top of my head, with no research whatsoever, half a dozen or so ways to kill a large group of sheep. 

This is what sucks about writer's block. At this moment I can help solve everyone else's problems, but I cannot solve the problem of what to write about in a simple blog post. 

However, with this conversation, I was suddenly struck by a way to end this post. I would talk about this conversation and how sometimes the solution to writer's block sometimes comes in unexpected ways. 

So, if you're ever stuck with writer's block.....

Kill half a flock of sheep half a dozen ways. Maybe you'll figure out how to start that blog post. 

No sheep were harmed in the making of this blog post. 

If I Had the Words For Sorrow

If I had the words for sorrow,
I would write a lovely song.
And sing those words of sorrow
To try and right the wrong.

If I had the words for laughter,
I could tell a thousand jokes.
I'd make the world feel better
And lift up a little hope.

If I had the words for loving,
with all the kindness contained therein,
I would show the world how loving
people lets everyone win.

If I had the words...
I could do so many things.
But even without words,
My example can show everything.

I can cry the tears of sorrow,
And laugh with my dear friends.
I can cuddle with small children
Until the daylight ends.

So when the sun goes down,
And you have no words to say,
Don't worry.
Chances are they'll know anyway.

Just tell people that you love them
And live up to what you say.
Your children will adore you
Your friends will not betray.

And you will be the better
For while you do good,
You'll find the words you were looking for
To use and change the world.

Harp Update

This makes me really happy. If you can't read the photo, it's an email I received saying that my harp pieces have been shipped and shall arrive in 1-2 days.

1-2 days. DAYS. I'm super stoked. If I could come up with something witty to say about this, I would. But I don't know any harp jokes.

Do you? I know, like, one, but it's not very nice to the harp.

If you want to give me your harp jokes, I would greatly appreciate it.

My Eating Habits Are Determined By Colors

There is nothing quite like the experience of eating with a young child. One fundamental aspect of eating with any young child is the inevitable pickiness.

No, this does not refer to food pickiness, although that creates so much joy in feeding little kids.

I was referring to the fact that if there is any slight difference among the dishes that you use to eat, your young child will pick a favorite. If you don't give them their favorite dishes to eat off of, they will immediately pitch a screaming fit and refuse to eat off the rejected dishes. However, the person that has the favorite dish might find their food disappearing into the mouth of the young child. True story.

This malady is not merely limited to every single child in our family, however. No, it's limited to every single young child able to tell the difference between red and blue.

In order to resist the urge to give in to your young picky children, I have devised the following ways to get them to eat off the unwanted dishes anyway.

(Disclaimer: While most of these methods have been tested and used by yours truly, I cannot guarantee 100% success. I can't even guarantee any success.)


1) Give all your children assigned dishes for their own personal use. This will eliminate arguing between the children on who gets what dishes. Although one would note that if there is one group favorite among all the dishes you own, someone's feelings will get hurt. In that case, I would suggest that you hurt everyone's feelings and don't give the dish to anyone, possibly keeping it for your own use.

2) Get rid of all your dishes. Buy new ones, making sure they are all identical, and use those instead.

3) Tell them to suck it up, life isn't fair, and eat off the unwanted dishes anyway.

4) Lie to them. If they ask for a blue cup, tell them the green cup you are holding in your hand is blue. They won't know.

5) Gather all the children together. Tell them you are going to give them a lesson in letting go of material objects. Destroy the beloved dish in front of their young, innocent eyes. You may have to worry about them needing therapy later in life, but the lack of whining at the dinner table will be worth it.

There you are. Save some precious sanity. Prevent children from making your eating habits determined by colors.

And They Called Her Felder

Brittany Fielder and I first met one fine morning in Mrs. Edison's classroom in fourth grade, sitting beside the back door and a huge window. It was morning, and we apparently had nothing to do, because we were talking to each other.

Which is odd in and of itself, because I didn't talk to people in elementary school. Neither did she.

But we talked. About horses mostly. We were young girls in fourth grade. Of course we loved horses. And she either already had a horse or was going to get one, because I remember being very jealous of the fact she had a horse and I didn't.

That is the earliest memory I have of my dearest friend. It might of course be a memory my mind just made up, because all my memories of elementary school are awfully hazy. But that moment, sitting in the early morning Georgia sunshine, in a classroom waiting for math to start, I remember meeting my best friend.

After fourth grade we didn't see or talk to each other for a couple years. I don't really remember any important friendship moments happening until I think it was seventh grade.

I had just gotten to school that morning, and after we got off the bus, we were supposed to go the the gym and sit in the section designated to our grade level. So, I went off to go sit with the other seventh graders, when I saw one of my other friends waving at me. (And I don't even remember which friend it was. It just wasn't Brittany.)

I went to go sit with them, and we talked. Well, more like they talked and I listened, occasionally putting in my two cents. (I wasn't very big on talking in middle school either.)

We did that for the whole year. As we didn't all have classes or lunch together, that was our one time to gather our little group of nerdy bookish girl friends around and geek out together.

That was also where mine and Brittany's friendship was cemented. I guess it mostly had to do with the fact that we were both very nerdy and bookish, and spent most of our mornings (and classtime, and lockertime, and about every other time we could get our hands on) reading. (Yeah. I was the kid the teachers had to tell to stop reading. How sad is that? All those kids who can barely read, and I get scolded for reading.)

As we spent most of our time reading, we didn't really get involved in the conversations of our other, slightly more socially adapted friends, so we ended up talking to each other when we felt a need to talk.

We continued sitting together for the entirety of our middle school careers. We grew to be good friends. We teased each other. We gave each other book reviews. I answered a lot of questions about being a Mormon. She answered a lot of questions about what it's like to not be Mormon.

We grew up, sitting on those bleachers in middle school. We went through all the sex ed classes, talked about our various boys we had crushes on, hated on the stupid teachers, compared grades, complained about school, and ultimately ended up loving school because that ended up being the times when we got to see each other, distance and a lack of being able to drive separating us.

We started high school. We got some classes together. We ate lunch together. We grew even closer. We survived that freshman year.

Sophomore year. The year, it seemed. She introduced me to AVPM. We started sharing our various fandoms, and discovering we liked the same kind of things. We both didn't tend to like main characters, in either movies or books. She had a thing for the bad guys. I had a thing for the minor characters. We ended up liking both, just because the other did. The year I went insane, and she helped me get through it all. The year we started writing stories. The year we loved and got rejected. The year of The Random Conversation That Never Actually Happened. The year we had the creepy APUSH teacher, and the prospect of not having fine arts classes next year killed us. The year of Biology and Chicky. The year we planned our futures together.

Junior year. The year everything we had worked so hard to build seemed ready to fall apart. The year all our friends seemed ready to leave us. The year some of them did. The year when all we really had for sure was each other's backs. The year with Mr. Nunn and our stupid vocabulary stories I wrote and we acted out. The year I started drama and we went to One-Act. The last time for both of us. The year I did her makeup. The year we never wanted to end. The year we wrote notes to each other and shoved them in each other's lockers, just like all the cheesy high school movies.

The year, during winter break, I moved to Hawaii. Our goodbyes were tearful, with promises made to keep in touch and always remember each other.

We've both kept those promises.

We still talk to each other regularly. She is one of the few people from Georgia I still talk to. I talk to her even more often than some of my Hawaiian friends, as we talk almost every single day.

We make silly YouTube videos for each other. We write each other letters. We text. We use Facebook. We would both die without the Internet to help us keep in touch.

She is one of my oldest and dearest friends. Brittany- clumsy, socially awkward, brilliant, caring, loving, accepting, neurotic, OCD, a tomboy, completely insane, my sister.

I'm making this post because we were talking the other day and I jokingly promised her that I would. But she deserves it. This is for you, Brit. Because you're wonderful. Never forget that.

My Harp (Some Assembly Required)

So, I'm going to get a harp. 

Quite honestly, this is something I never really thought I would ever be saying in my entire life. 

I never thought I would be playing a harp, either. I mean, I play the piano and sing. I always thought if I were to learn another instrument, it would be something like a flute. Or a violin. Or a guitar. I'd still really like to learn how to play the guitar. I just don't have an actual guitar. 

Anyway, I'm getting a harp. Well, more like I'm building a harp. And I'm super excited.

My dear friend and second mother Miz Rebecca has several harps. She also happens to build them- for a price. They are quite lovely Irish harps. Both she and her daughter, Amber, play them. (Yes, this is the same Amber that happens to be my writing partner.) 

I was over at their house one day, and Amber was playing her harp. I was bored, so I asked her if I could play around with it for a little bit. So she showed me the basics of how to play it, and which strings were what notes, and I played around with it. 

And I was hooked. It was a lot of fun. Surprisingly, I managed to display some basic skills at playing the harp. It's not unlike playing the piano, you just pluck instead of press the keys. 

After several days of my coming over to their house for the only purpose of playing that harp, Miz Rebecca came up to me as I was leaving one day, and asked me if I wanted my own harp. 

Of course I did. We worked out a plan where I buy all the supplies and help build it. 

I just ordered the supplies online. Hopefully they'll arrive within the week. Once they've arrived, we get to start building it. 

I can't wait! You'll get updates (and pictures) as we get building it. 

Dystopian Hunger

The other day, my writing partner and I decided that we should get around to writing this story we've been saying we'll get around to writing for about a month now. Having decided we'll actually write it, I went over to her house after work and let myself in, walking up to her room, where we started planning it.

One of the first things Amber and I noticed was that while I had the skeleton of a plot and characters, we didn't really have a setting. We started thinking a little bit, and I remembered something I had thought of a day or so earlier.

I wanted this to be set in a dystopia.

A dystopia, for those of you who don't know it, is... not a utopia.

Dictionary.com defines it as "a society characterized by human misery, as squalor, oppression, disease, and overcrowding."

In fiction, most often dystopias find themselves as seriously flawed utopias. The most recent literary example of a dystopia is The Hunger Games. Also good examples are 1984 and The Giver. Often literary dystopias attempt to present themselves as utopias, but underneath the veneer of perfection, you will find serious and deadly flaws.

So, we both decided this story would best be set in a dystopia. We began world-building. This was actually my first time really world-building. Usually I just set my characters in the place that's near this place, and they do things in places. It's all very vague. So I was very excited to start world-building.

We got a giant map and drew all over it, deciding what countries would take over the world, who was in charge, and where the new borders were. It was a lot of fun.

During this planning session, Amber's mom was downstairs cooking dinner. And it smelled really good. When she was done, she came upstairs to find us still plotting. She told us to come down for dinner.

We ignored her. We were thick in the middle of plotting, and didn't really want to stop. She came back, and invited me to stay as well. So I stayed for dinner.

It was a good dinner. I rather enjoyed it. I stayed after dinner a little longer, then went home. I got home and found myself in a rather strange position. I was very, very hungry. And I had only eaten dinner a few hours ago.

It was strange. My mind was still working, thinking, trying to churn out new ideas for my dystopia, and I was hungry.

So I ate.

Then I awoke the next morning, chock-full of brand new ideas... and I was still hungry. I was hungry all day. I went to Writer's Club, bringing candy (because I was hungry) and I found Amber making cookies. She had also been experiencing odd hunger pains. We hadn't really gotten hungry until we had created our dystopia. It was strange. It still is strange.

Maybe creating dystopias makes everyone hungry. That would explain Suzanne Collins' titling of her book The Hunger Games.

It's been a few days since we created it, and I'm not as hungry anymore. But it was really really really odd.

What is the Point of Business Cards Again?

Yesterday, I was at work. (I know, it's wonderful. I only go there almost every day...) I had been assigned to work on the front counter, and so I was doing that. We were in the middle of one of our lunch rushes, when a rather tall haole man wearing an ENORMOUS camera walked towards my register. This was a really big camera. And a very nice one as well. At least, by my standards of telling how nice a camera is, which standards look something like this:

1) that is a phone. not a camera.

2) that is a very cheap, very small, disposable camera.

3) that is a digital camera, but still very small and looks like mine. which, while it is good, does not take super amazing professional pictures.

4) that is a big, very nice, expensive looking camera. I'm just guessing you take good pictures with that.

5) where is the rest of your camera crew? and the director and post-production team?

Those are my standards for cameras. This one was a 4. So, my thought was that he is a photo tourist. I remarked that he had a very nice camera. He agreed with me (so humble, that one) and then, after paying me for his food, he proceeded to hand me a business card.

And I was temporarily dumbfounded.

What was I supposed to do with this business card? Keep it? Use it? Make a blog post out of it? Accidentally lose it? Deliberately lose it?

I mean, I know the point of business cards is to advertise your business and get people to use you. And this was quite a nice business card. Look at it:

(you're welcome for the free advertising, dan!)

This guy apparently will do all sorts of photography for you. I think he covered all the bases. And he's pretty good at his job. 

But it just seemed so awkward to me. I express a slight feeling of admiration for his camera, and the next thing I know, I'm getting handed a business card. 

Maybe it's me. Maybe I just don't understand advertising. Maybe I'm just really shy and don't like talking to strangers. (wait. then how did I end up in the foodservice industry???) 

I mean, I'm pretty shameless about self-promoting myself to my friends. I nag them about this blog all the time. But have I ever done this to a stranger? No. I just shove this on the Internet, and if random strangers would like to look at it, hopefully I'll entertain them, and hopefully they like it and keep coming back for more. 

I think if I were to make a business card for my blog, it would look something like this:

yes, i did draw that all by myself. and color it too.

So, everyone reading this, if you feel so inclined, print out my business card. Hand it out awkwardly to strangers. Tell me your stories. Get me some more viewers. 

I'll be in my room, trying to figure out a way to convince my mother to let me set this business card on fire. 

The Shortest Walk Ever

Tonight, I found out what my family would do in a sudden downpour.

The night started off simply, innocently enough. We were going to go for a walk for Family Home Evening. We got all the children ready, and as we were starting to walk, there was even a rainbow. We all stopped to admire it. Look, it's right here!

look at this rainbow. love it. sing a song about it.

Anyway, after admiring and taking pictures of the rainbow, we started on our walk. We didn't even get out of our neighborhood before little droplets of water started falling from the sky. As this happens often here in Hawaii, we continued our walk undeterred, sure that it would just be a few drops, and the sky would clear for the rest of our walk. 

After getting out of our neighborhood, the droplets of water turned savage, and started attacking us. After a few seconds, we were soaked. David started using his little brother, Peter, as a rain shield. (One would note that Peter does not make a good shield.) We all turned tail and began running back home, taking off our shoes to get better traction on the wet grass. (Ok, this is Hawaii. It doesn't take much to get us to take off footwear.) 

After getting home, Jared remarked that Family Home Evening couldn't be over so fast. I told him that we had learned a lot about our family during this walk. We learned what we would do in the case of an emergency rainstorm. Throw each other to the wind, each man for himself, and use each other as human shields against the rain. We love each other so much. It was an awesome walk. 

And, of course, eating sherbet afterwards was lovely too. 

Some Writing Thoughts

Well, I don't know if you have been able to tell by now, but I have a confession (such that it is) to make.

I am a writer.

Just in case it wasn't painfully obvious.

And I suppose it isn't entirely obvious. My dear sweet grandmother emailed me the other day, saying she had looked at my blog, and she loved it. She also said that I should try my hand at writing a story.
I felt slightly awkward as I replied to her that I already had written one story, and was working on two more. 

I wasn't always like this. A couple years ago I was a normal child. Well, as normal as I was then. I didn't like writing. Papers were a horrible thing to be feared.

In my sophomore year of high school, I took an American Lit class. My teacher gave us a special assignment at the beginning of the year. Every month we were to write something. It didn't matter how long it was. It didn't matter what it was on. The only restrictions placed on us were that it could not be a research paper, and we had to read it out loud to the class every other month.

That assignment was my gateway to writing. I wrote a short little story that first month. It wasn't anything special. But it opened my mind to the things I could do with a pen and paper. I started getting ideas for a story, and I actually wrote it. For the rest of the year, I spent my time working on my story, trying to finish it.

It took two years, but I ended up finishing that story.

Then I got an idea for another story, and I started working on that. Things just kind of escalated from there. And somewhere in there, I became a writer.

I've learned a lot. I've changed a lot. I'm super snobby about books and movies now. I cringe at basic spelling and grammar mistakes. Unless it's in dialogue of course, because you can do anything in dialogue. I have weird conversations with my writer friends that would - and have - scared passerbys. (or is it passersby?)

Writing is a lot of fun. There's nothing quite as amazing as going back and reading something you've created and realizing that you created something amazing, something people can feel and relate to, something that generates an emotional reaction. I've written scenes that have caused my friends to scream/squeal (from both joy and sadness/fear). I've made my little sister cry. (It was actually rather interesting. Mom told me she was sitting in bed, reading and crying, and I'm standing there laughing my head off.)

Words have fantastic power, and writing gives me a way to utilize that power. And it's pretty awesome.

Independence Day: The Story of Founding Chickens, America, and Barbeque

It was a bright morning. The sun was shining, and the sky was a glorious shade of blue. Little puffy white clouds drifted above, spreading joy and cheer on this summer morning.

However, for George WashChicken and PatChick Henry, this day was not a day of beauty. It was to be a day of glory, of fighting, of honor. Today, they would establish the chicken nation, and get away from the horrid oppression of the humans.

“Hey, PatChick,” George WashChicken said, looking at his reflection in the mirror. “Are we sure we want to go with the tricorn hat? I think it makes me look fat. Couldn’t we have gone with the fedora? I thought I looked rather succulent in that.”

PatChick Henry sighed. “We can’t go with the fedora. We are rebels, starting a revolution against the humans! We are not little hipster chickens, running around, doing stuff before it’s ‘cool’.”

“Why are we doing this again?” Ben FrankChicken asked PatChick.

“Because,” PatChick said, his voice beginning to betray his impatience. “We need to show the humans that they aren’t in charge. We have rights, too. Do you like living every day in the threat that we could be eaten? Our eggs are stolen every day, and if our wives stop producing eggs, they get taken and killed! We deserve recompense! Recognition! This injustice needs to end!”

“Couldn’t we just as easily make an endearing YouTube video and a Facebook page and gain thousands of followers and love over the Internet?” Ben asked.

“It’s not the same,” PatChick said. “This day, today, is a day significant to the American humans. It’s the day they celebrate their independence. It’s also the day we shall celebrate ours, and take over the humans.”

“That sounded really significant,” George said, strutting toward them. “You better watch out, or some human English teacher is going to use you to torture English students.”

“Let the puny human children get tortured,” PatChick said. “This day, chickens shall rule.”

“Well, not if we don’t get started,” George pointed out. “It’s like already 11 am.”

“Ooh- lunchtime,” Ben said.

“No lunch breaks!” PatChick interrupted. “We have a mission to accomplish.”

Together the three chickens strutted toward the nearest gathering of humans, conveniently nearby. It appeared that they were all related, as they shared the same facial features and hair color.

“Look, mom, a chicken!” a little boy cried out.

“Don’t touch that, Jeremy,” a woman, presumably the mother, warned the boy. “It’s a feral chicken. It probably has all sorts of diseases and other nasty things.”

“Mmmm,” a mature male voice said. “Chicken. Good eatin’.”

“You’re not serious,” another voice called out.

“I don’t see why not,” an older boy walked towards the chickens. “We have all this other stuff to barbeque, but no chicken.”

“I am PatChick Henry!” the rooster crowed as a crowd gathered around him. “I am here to take over you puny humans, and establish the free country for chickens!” He paused as he noticed Ben and George weren’t beside him. To be more specific, Ben and George were currently running around, headless. Little children chased their bodies, laughing at the sight. PatChick ruffled his wings indignantly, suddenly angered. These humans had taken his friends and just killed them. Now they were dead. He backed away from the now-ominous crowd.

“Give me liberty or give me death, you foul demonic fiends!”

.

.

.

A few hours later, a crowd gathered around the grill, where freshly cooked chicken was almost done cooking. The smell was intoxicating.

“Happy Independence Day, Dad,” Jeremy said as he got a drumstick.

“You too, son,” the dad said.

“This is good chicken,” the mom said.

“That’s cuz this is ‘merica,” the dad replied. 

Why Watching Movies on a Date is a Bad Idea

Well, look at that. It's your date night. Whatever are you going to do? If you're like most of the people I know, you are significantly low on cash, and there's probably not a lot of cheap entertainment around for you to easily get to.

Hey, you can totally go over to your house and watch a movie, right? That's cheap. That's fun. Rent a new blockbuster or watch an old classic. Whatever floats your boat. There's no way this can possibly go wrong, barring an unforeseen power outage.

Stop right there. You might want to rethink your game plan for your date. Sure, watching movies is fun and cheap and rather enjoyable to do as a couple, but have you considered the drawbacks?

Did you think about the fact that his arm is going to go almost completely numb by the end of the movie? Or, if you forego the leaning-on-each-other method of couple movie watching, if you're holding hands, someone's hand is going to lose all feeling?

That's just the first problem of watching a movie as a couple. Both of you cannot be in complete happiness and comfort. I'm pretty sure that's breaking a law of dating physics. Someone must feel physical pain. My boyfriend and I are movie aficionados, and so we watch a lot of them together. So far, I've made his arm go numb, he's made my hand go numb, his arm and my hand went numb, I've pulled my shoulder, and also gotten a crick in my neck.

I don't even know how we manage to do that much damage to each other just be sitting next to each other. It doesn't make sense.

Of course, you can sometimes be lucky enough to escape physical pain (easy enough. just don't hold hands or use his shoulder as a pillow. no pain if you're not touching.) Of course, in escaping physical pain, we must of course have other problems occur.

True story.

I was at my boyfriend's house. We were going to watch the Two Towers. About 5 minutes into the movie, his mom comes into the living room where we were watching it.
"I'm going to the emergency room."
We stare at her. She doesn't really look in any state to go to the emergency room.
"I cut my finger slicing watermelon and it won't stop bleeding."
Ok. That makes more sense. So she leaves, and for the next half hour, our watching is interrupted by her constantly texting her son to remind him of all the stuff he should do.
It eventually dies down, and we get back to acting like the nerds we are, geeking out over Lord of the Rings.
About halfway through the movie, his grandparents and little sister come in, having just gotten back from watching Brave. His grandmother rushes over to him.
"Where is your mother?"
"Oh, she's in the emergency room."
At which his grandmother starts freaking out. I try to reassure her.
"She just cut her finger. She'll be fine."
I don't think she even heard me or noticed my presence, as she continued to be worried, so my boyfriend repeated what I said, and she calmed down- slightly.
After consulting with her husband, she decided she would take the little sister and drive to the emergency room to be with her daughter. So they all left, not even five minutes after arriving back home.
About twenty minutes later, they all return home. The cut finger is butterfly bandaged, and all is peaceful. For a moment. The little sister walks into the living room.
"What are you watching?"
awkward pause. "Two Towers."
"This doesn't look like Lord of the Rings to me."
My boyfriend and I look at each other. We can't think of anything that screams Lord of the Rings more than the Battle of Helm's Deep.
We share our candy with the little sister, and eventually the movie ends and all is well.

Look at the adventure just watching a movie was.

Also a true story.

When my friend's parents were dating, he invited her over to watch a movie at his apartment. The movie was Wait Until Dark.
According to the description by my friend, this is an extremely dark and intense and creepy movie.
Anyway, they are watching this movie. Alone. In the dark.
They reach the climax, where the bad guy (who had been stabbed at this point) leaps out of the darkness towards the main character.
The roommate walks in. They don't notice. So, like a good roommate, he takes advantage of this moment.
He jumps out at the couple sitting on the couch.
My friend's dad throws her mom off the couch and then proceeds to throw himself to the floor. Presumably the roommate is laughing his head off.
To this day, the dad insists he was 'protecting' her mom... while she insists he was getting her out of his way.

See what happens when you watch movies? Nothing good. Unless, of course, you wish to have stories to tell and laugh at and share for posterity. So maybe then going out on movie dates isn't a bad idea.