Rattling my piggy bank

Since it basically the end of May, I figured I'd better see how much progress I've made in the financial world.

It wasn't much.

Wait a second, I don't pay rent, or buy food, rarely need to put gas in my car, got my apartment deposit back, and I'm working part time. How do I only have a hundred dollars? What did I even buy?

According to my online bank statement, I spend two to four dollars on snacks every day at work, which comes out to be about 40 bucks. Then there're various outings with the ol' YSA singles ward which cost a total of about 20 bucks. Then there's the climbing gear I just bought at an insanely great price for just under 60 bucks (thanks to Rock Climber). And just because I haven't been blogging about my REAL adventures with da Ladies, doesn't mean they haven't been going down (and I bet you would like to know what I spend on that, you nosy numpties).

I was about to write down a neat little budget, but then I found a note written by my wallet in the front pocket of my jeans.

Tavin,

I'm getting pretty skinny, but it's more like "bulimic" skinny than "marathon" skinny. Not good. We've gotta work something out here. I've included a few suggestions to help keep both of us happy.

1. Eat a ton of cereal before going to work at the ol' gas station, and make a sandwich to take with for when those custard filled doughnut wedges are staring at you.

2. Make sure the awkward friend doesn't "forget" his wallet when you let him mooch a ride to various YSA shindigs and whynots. I've talked with Awkward's wallet, and dude, it's told me some weird stories. I don't trust it. 

3. Don't buy ANY more climbing gear. You've got enough to look cool while you get started, but remember climbing outdoors is free minus the negligible cost of gas, and I can work with you on that. 

4. Keep dating costs to a minimum. Well, don't look like a cheapskate, so maybe a "classy" minimum. Obviously there's going to be that trip down south you've been planning, and I won't stop you from splurging on that hottie, but keep it reasonable. 

Oh, and I'm totally cool with you giving a little kickback to that church of yours every couple of weeks. They always give nice little receipts and make it easy for me to keep track of the money you spend. Plus, I'm sure supporting a charity makes you not feel like the dirty scumbag you sometimes pretend you used to be, or whatever your story is.

Anyway, just remember about those things you told me you want to buy. Y'know, rent and tuition next year? Those are biggies. Oh, and that expensive camera lens. I don't know why you need to spend a thousand bucks on that, but it's your call. I just hold your money for you.

Keep it real, man

Sincerely,

Leather "Heather" Wallet

Filling up on Sundays

Blah, blah, blah, don't work on Sundays, blah, blah, blah.

It was dead today. Apparently there's always less business on Sundays, and with everyone being out of town for Memorial Day, it was even more dead. Needless to say, I got all my work done in the first hour of my shift.

At least, everything I could do until right before closing time, at midnight.

Distraction from Boredom #1: The Rock Climber

My friend came in for somewhere between a half hour to an hour and we talked while I restocked the beer cave. We chatted about girls, the ol' YSA ward, stuff and people that bugged us, more girls, and made plans for rock climbing tomorrow.

Distraction from Boredom #2: The Missionaries

No, I didn't get cornered in the shop by those pesky Mormon boys. Rather, I wrote letters to two good friends who are serving in Peru and Korea. I'm sure Peruvian's girlfriend will be happy upon reading this news.

Distraction from Boredom #3: Gum Girl

Okay, so there's no one in the shop until a cute girl pulls up in a powder blue VW Beetle. We chat for all of 15 seconds while she buys her two packs of gum and explains she comes in all the time only to buy gum, and asks if I'm new.

Not significant.

A woman about 45-years-old enters as Gum Girl exits, and asks if Gum Girl is my girlfriend. Nope, definitely not. I mean, she's cute and all, but definitely has a parking permit for my old high school, placing her at least five years younger than me and WELL below the legal age. Can you say jailbait?

Not sure if I should have written that...

Distraction from Boredom #4

There was one hotdog left. I didn't want to mark it down on the inventory list and needed to clean the hotdog rack anyway, so I just bought it. Not actually that cool.

Distraction from Boredom #5

So I'm pulling off the fountain heads for the Dr. Pepper, when these two women arrive separately and begin laughing when they see each other.

"Are you two in the same ward or something?"

Yup, called it. They both also had the same thought to get a Sabbath Day Diet Coke.

Distraction from Boredom #The Last

So I call one of my coworkers an hour before closing to ask a question (hey, it's my first night closing by myself) and she asked if I was about ready to clock out.

"Wait, we close an hour early on Sundays?" I ask her. Yup, totally. "Oh. That's good/bad. I guess I better start/finish all those closing time jobs real fast."

Good thing I work quickly when I need to. I think I even remembered to clock out.

The Russians are coming!

In blogger, there is a feature you can use to see where your audience is from around the world. Obviously the vast majority of my readers are from America, and I have a few in the UK from the ol mission days. But wouldn't ya know it, there are a disproportionate amount of viewers in Russia.

Wait, what?

I don't even know anyone in Russia. I mean, a friend of mine served his mission there, I once failed to steal a girlfriend away from a different missionary serving in Russia, and I sometimes enjoy playing as the Soviets in Axis & Allies, but beyond that, I have absolutely NO connection to the former world superpower.

I guess there's a lot of people with the internet in Russia, so maybe they just happened upon my blog whilst surfing, but that doesn't make sense because there are a bazillion people in china and japan with the internet, and no one from those countries who've visited.

This can only mean one thing. Espionage.

I knew I was awesome, but I didn't know I was a person of interest to the Russian government until today.

Rock Climbing

For my entire life I've lived within 20 minutes of canyons where the best rock climbing in the world is found. Say what you will about wasted opportunities, but today was my first time ever going.

Yeah, I scaled cliffs. Pretty dangerous. I felt a little bit like Chris O'Donnell in Vertical Limit.

Four of us from the ol singles ward jumped in my friend's truck and went up Big Cottonwood Canyon to some trail my Friend found in this sketchy book from the library. Friend and one of the girls put harnesses on, said some weird climbing words, and Friend climbed up to fasten the rope to the chains at the top of the wall.

When he came down, Belay Girl took the rope and had her turn, cleaning all the carabiners off the bolts as she went.

The other girl went third as I crammed my toes into the climbing shoes Friend obtained for the occasion.

"How hard is this one supposed to be?" I asked.

I was told not to worry about it. How comforting.

"Just put your hands where the chalk residue is," Rapel Girl said after she landed from her descent. "That's what I did because I've never climbed outdoors before."

I'm not sure I went exactly where I was supposed to, but I eventually got to the top and enjoyed a nice rapel back down.

The next one was harder.

I looked up couldn't see any obvious holes. There were a few cracks that looked unsuitable for anything larger than a blade of grass, and just before the top there was a ridiculous overhang that couldn't possibly be part of the climb, right?

I started my ascent and told the girls one of them could have my guitar if I died. It wasn't actually too bad until the overhang. I tried going around, diagonally, and a variety of other ways to get past the lip, all to no avail. The only option was to reach over for a jagged handhold and pull myself up while my legs flailed below.

I failed. My forearms burned, and I could barely lock my fingers onto the jutting rocks, much less pull myself over them.

We ended on an easy one with lots of holes. It proved only a little more difficult than climbing a ladder in some places, which was nice for my ego after failing to pull a Spiderman on wall number two.

Overall, the trip was a success. Even though I can't play guitar because my forearms are dead....

FHE, dancing the night away

There's a huge difference from Logan to Midvale that I completely overlooked.

In Logan, one of the main (or few) nightlife attractions is country swing dancing night at the Fun Park. In Salt Lake, there are actual things to do, so very few of the people in my ward know how to swing dance.

I tricked all the pretty girls into thinking I'm a swing dancing champ, which I guess I am by comparison here. It was kinda cool to go from being a novice in Cache Valley to an expert in Midvale.

The good news: I didn't drop anyone.

Hey, I was pretty rusty. I mean, I don't usually dance unless there's a specific girl it's with, and the last time that was the case was for Statesman Girl 1. Before that it was probably Scotland Cowgirl or No Chin Girl. (I've probably said too much again...)

Anyway, after the dancing, the "in" crowd invited me to get ice cream with them. Ah, the feeling of acceptance being washed down by chocolate ice cream crammed with peanut butter cups was great.

We all got to be bffs and later fb friends and all that stuff. (Maybe I should reconsider some of the things I'm writing...) We played "guess my middle name," which was an okay game and a first for me.

Of course, it didn't hurt to sit between two pretty girls.

Singles ward: one week later

It really pains me to say this, but this week it wasn't so bad.

I mean, aside from priesthood meeting when I walked in late and had to sit by Mr. Acts-Like-He-Owns-The-Place (I ignored his weirdness by tweeting through the meeting), it was a good time at church.

In sunday school and sacrament meeting I've become part of Cute Ginger Girl's back row crew, and it's nice to know I have friends to sit by every week.

Anyway, the point:

In sacrament meeting, right after the high councilman called out the congregation for looking at our phones during his talk (guilty), I decided to set some summer goals. Thinking about how bored I've been, I figured I should prolly meet some new faces.

Let's face it. Not having friends to hang out with blows. That's one of the biggest complaints I have about living in Midvale, because most of my friends have already moved away or got all married. Ew.

Goal: Meet one new person every week.


As soon as I made my mind up to make new friends, I felt like I should probably ask the bishop if I could speak in sacrament meeting-- as if the introductory "It's Stoo-key, not Stuck-ee" from the back of the chapel to the pulpit wasn't awkward enough. 


I also found out our ward plays softball, something I've been dying to do all summer. There will probably be more on that later. 


Back to the goal... 


As soon as church ended, I was stopped by three different groups of girls! Not that it's really out of the ordinary for me to meet girls quickly (no comments from the peanut gallery, please), I was just surprised because all of them wanted to meet me instead of the other way around. 


A quick game summary: 

• Nice Dress Girl is very pretty, seems fun, likes to boulder, and has a wrist tattoo that I find strangely attractive. I could tell from her reaction that she'd been dying for someone to compliment her dress all day.

• BYU Idaho Girl is also pretty, seems fun, gave me her number, and liked my tie. Normally that doesn't mean anything, but she said so as I passed in an obvious attempt to get me to stop. Also, she wanted me to save a dance for her at the country swing fhe coming up. 

• The Group of Four: Not completely sure on all of them, but they're cute enough and not shy. Plus they wanted me to speak Scottish to them. I didn't, but maybe if they're nice to me... One of them added me on the ol facebook the day of church.

• Rock Climbing Girl: People don't usually look great when they're all sweaty and gross, but Rock Climbing Girl is MUCH more attractive in person. She seems cool. 

• Oh, can't forget Cute Ginger Girl. Unless the two phrases after you remember her are "friend zone" and "ginger." (I'm totally going to regret writing this...) All the same, she's way cool. Very sarcastic and very fun. But I guess I didn't meet her today, so maybe she doesn't count after all. 

Life will be much better when I meet new people. Being honest, every new person I meet is probably going to be female anyway, so that's never bad. 

Bad boys, bad boys

Things at the gas station have been pretty mellow since I started working there a week or two ago.

I mean, people buy stuff and not much else changes. Every once in a while I have to clean up a mess or refill the coffee maker or whatever, but that's about the extent of excitement.

Yesterday a guy pulled into the parking lot only to be followed by a white Escalade with flashing undercover police lights and a funky ski rack-looking thing. The guy gets out and starts to come in before the police sergeant calls him over in the authoritative way cops do.

They talked for what seemed an unusually long time to be pulled over, the conversation broken up every few minutes for Guy to search the glove box while his kid also had to stand outside the car.

After a while, another undercover officer enters the parking lot, so that he and Sergeant can take turns standing extremely close to Guy.

The girl working the till and I both thought Guy was going to get arrested just because of how long the ordeal was taking and how close the cops stood to him.

After a while, Sergeant makes Guy and Kid take all their stuff out of the car before the cops confiscate the Honda and both cops head off.

Guy comes into the store and tells Till Girl and I the story. Apparently he was on his way home when his wife called and asked him to buy her a drink. So instead of going the normal way, Guy pulled by our gas station only to get pulled over.

Guy said said Sergeant's Escalade (Which was supposedly impounded and never paid for instead of bought by our tax dollars) has one of those new "smart" systems with scanners on the ski rack that can read 60 license plates per second.

Guy said his plate numbers were flagged with a revoked registration. Apparently he just re-registered, Wife just switched insurances, and Guy has this other court thing that probably held his license. Or something. Anyway, Guy and Kid had to walk a thousand address numbers home with all their stuff in grocery bags and Wife's Dew while their car was taken to the impound lot.

All because he let a white Escalade follow him.

The parking policy

I've worked enough minimum wage jobs to know at most places, policies aren't made by the college student in a company-issued polo shirt, so in my life I've made a conscious choice not to yell at any of said polo shirt-wearing grunts.

That being said, I told the parking garage attendant at the Gateway what I thought about the parking policies last night.

Let me back up.

A girl from Layton and I decided to meet up and watch a movie in Salt Lake. We get to the theater at 7:15ish only to find out the next showing of Avengers is at 9:40. No other movies interested us, so we decided to kill a couple hours walking around all the shops.

Blah, blah, blah, long story short, the movie gets out after midnight, so my car has been sitting in the terrace for a solid five hours.

Apparently when you validate parking at the Gateway, it only knocks two hours off of your total, which obviously isn't enough to even cover the movie, much less the time Layton and I spent wandering around.

I let the guy know how stupid the policy was.

To my surprise, he gave me an additional two validation slips and knocked the price down by six bucks.

Too bad Layton didn't kick up a fuss and get the "annoying customer discount."

Romance section of the library

Hopefully when you see the title of this post, you won't think "Oh no, Tavin's lost it and gone all gay and stuff on us."

No, I have not checked out any romance novels from the library, nor have I swiped a smutty book from my mother's shelf (see "A hidden ability," May 11).

I was reading in one of the comfy chairs in the back corner of the library the other day when the narrator in my mind's ear was rudely interrupted by giggling. I glanced over to the chairs in the nearby laptop area and saw two 14-year-old (tops) kids kissing before I return to my book.

Wait, did I really just see that? Doubletake... Yep.

Giggle. "I like you." More giggling. The kid smacks a loud one on his girl's kisser. Louder giggling.

Ew.

Apparently the school bathrooms, smoking corner behind the church, the park, their bedrooms, and all the other normal 14-year-old make out spots were already taken.

Wedding crashers

Okay, so it's not technically crashing when you get an invitation, but the whole point was to hit on pretty girls with visions of their own white dresses going through their minds.

Suit up.

I show up with my fearless wingman (wingwoman?), sign the book, and get in line for the line. The bride and groom are both more than six feet tall, so we feel like ants.

I always think it's super awkward to shake hands with all the groomsmen, the happy couple, and two sets of parents before I get a chance to meet the bridesmaids.

Unfortunately there are no bridesmaids. There aren't any groomsmen, so Wingwoman shares my disappointment.

We wander over to the food line, grab an empty table, and wave over the photo girl, who happens to be a friend of ours.

The three of us munch on our crepes. Another scan around the tables reveals two normal-sized girls have arrived. One is ginger, so that's a no-go, and the one wearing sunglasses looks pretty cute.

As Wingwoman, Photo Girl, and I chat, we notice Ginger is staring. Designer Shades has also been caught checking me out. Or at least, we think we saw her eyes behind the black lenses.

It's nice to be noticed, but I'm not much of a gambler, so I decide I'm too shallow to risk chatting up a girl whose face I can't accurately judge on a scale from 1 to 2.

Photo Girl and Wingwoman agree there's only one cute guy in the whole place and are about to get their flirt on before one of them recognizes him as the groom's younger brother and nixes the plan, avoiding any awkward kidnapping charges.

Like I said, we're a foot shorter than everyone but the toddlers, so even the teenagers look like adults.

The singles ward

Going to church with the people who have failed to launch has been in the back of my mind since I decided to move to Midvale.

When faced with an experience I'm pretty sure I'll not enjoy, my favorite game is to pretend I'm from Britain.

I think it's hilarious when I can make up any old accent and say I'm from Edinburgh and people will believe me without a second thought. Americans don't know accents well enough to place them anyway.

Plus, da ladies love foreigners.

Alas, my plan to say "alright hen?" to the cute blond sitting up front was foiled when I spot a half-dozen people I knew in high school. Problem was, I was never friends with any of them enough to want to sit close by, so I wandered the hall instead.

I was pretending to study a painting of the resurrection when a cute ginger girl comes around the corner. At first I was afraid for my soul, but then I realized it's a good friend from the year I lived in the port-o-pottie (don't ask...).

We sit on the back row of the sunday school class, catch up, and play "make-fun-of-the-new-girl-who-raises-her-hand-at-every-opportunity-to-share-an-experience-loosely-related-to-the-conversation." This is actually my second-favorite game, so my disappointment of not playing "I'm from Scotland" is quickly erased.

Apparently she just moved in too, because in sacrament meeting the bishop asked her to stand when he awkwardly introduced all the new people in the ward. I chuckled because her face went as red as her hair.

Then a thought crept into my mind: I will have to do the same thing next week when my church records arrive from Logan.

A hidden ability

It's going to be about a week or two before I'm consumed by work everyday, so I've still been a little bored recently.

So I've found something to take my mind off of reality. Not that the talent has been terribly difficult to uncover, but to the surprise of at least myself, I do in fact know how to read.

But really, who knew?

I've been faced with the task of finding decent literature to lose myself in. Since I definitely don't want to read my textbooks for the fall or my mother's cache of smutty romance novels, I've surrendered myself to wandering a couple blocks to the library every few days.

Or at least "every few days" was the plan. Thus far in my summer vacation of boredom (maybe "bordation"? I'll work on it...) I have read three novels in five days. Four if you start counting from when I reclaimed by card number from the lady behind the desk.

Apparently my brain has had a dormant thirst for exercise all these years and has waited for a chance to flex it's synapses (see my use of a big word there?).

Be proud, Levar Burton.

I've even started on another book. It's just a little 300-pager, but I'll probably finish that today. I mean, I've got a solid four hours from now until I'm headed to a wedding. Not mine though, so don't worry ladies...

Bringing home the bacon

Alarm goes off again. Shower. Cereal. Hair. Teeth. Dress.

I put one of my many Aggie gameday shirts on underneath the black button down shirt I put on and head to my first of two job interviews today.

I get there and am called back for a typing test, on which I score miles above what I need to. I move on to a diction test. My raw score comes out good enough to qualify for a better job and pay scale than I expected. The tester double checks the computer and bumps my actual score seven points higher.

"This is the highest score I've ever seen," she says as I feign humility. She takes me into one of the management type's office.

He looks at the scores and we both relax. We talk about nothing during the entire interview, cramming a few logistical details out at the very end as more of an afterthought than the original purpose of our conversation. He lets me pick my schedule and gives me further instructions.

Nailed it.

I leave and go to my second interview of the day. I notice the word "yes" scribbled onto my application and the interview here is just as relaxed as the first, again with formality questions and legal forms as an "Oh yeah, fill these out before you go."

Nailed it again. All thanks to my gameday shirt.

Take that, temp agency...

Is this real life?

You know it's bad when the temp agency you registered with calls and informs you that you're not a good fit for them. I thought "temp" stood for "temporary." I'm only going to be here a few months, doesn't that definition match?

Temp. Teeeeemp. Temmmmmmp. Temp. Temptemptemptemptemptemptemp.

Wait, was it an agency just for Tempe? I definitely don't live in Arizona. I have a friend or two who do though. Maybe the temp agency was worried I will add to the population of immigration worker problems.

Temptation? There is a cupcake shop back home by that name. Maybe the temp agency only hires people who are awesome bakers. I could totally build a cupcake if they gave me a chance.

Tempo is the speed of music, and I only pretend to play guitar and sing. There aren't any jobs in music anyway.

Temperature. Hmm... Maybe the air conditioner broke and they don't want to talk to me in the heat? That doesn't make sense because it's still only May, and July will be much hotter.  

Maybe template? That would make sense because I'm a student looking for work and not a big-shot early graduate with a doctorate degree. Someone like that would be the perfect template of a worker for an employer to hire.

Temp. Tempe. Tempo. Template. Temptation. Temperature.

TempEoLateTionTure.

Too much...

Realization

Back? I'm moving back? I'm going back to my parent's house after four years? Are you sure?

I didn't think that would be me. I didn't think I would be sitting in my sister's old room with moving boxes half open and bulimic suitcases all around me like a frat house the morning after. The golf clubs, blankets, textbooks, towels, sunglasses, shaving cream, shoe boxes, winter boots, hair gel, and shower curtain all say "believe it" with a hungover scowl on their faces.

Wait, so now I'm talking to my things now too?

I've got to get out of here.

Where did my friends go? She a baby? He really joined a church? Where was that job I had after graduation? When did those houses get built? Wasn't there a bookstore here? When did that house burn down? What's this invitation? It's my five year reunion already?

I'm not interested. No thanks. Take me back home. My home. Back where the sagebrush grows. Back where summertime means volleyball, suntans, bikinis, golf, and hiking all day and campfires all night.

That's what last summer was.