A Picture Story

As a birthday celebration was winding down at Myron's house last weekend a sudden BANG shook the house. Three possible scenarios at once favored my mind 1. Austin's makeshift bedroom-wall had collapsed with the pressure of the dance party housed within 2. the entertainment system had toppled 3. Red Dawn?

A smoke-ish trail lead us to Sam Gray's room where, upon entry, was discovered our first clue: a disfigured can of spray snow (also commonly known as "flocking").


An upward glance inspired by a flurry of falling debris quickly evidenced that the can had flocked its way into the ceiling.


Upon further investigation a second hole was found, in the back of Sam's dresser, which led to the discovery of a second can of exploded snow.


Sam had neglectfully stored the two cans of spray snow on top of the wall heater behind his dresser. Things apparently got a little heated between the two cans and resulted in an explosive spray snow storm.

The End.

Summer Camp Rules!

So I decided to go to summercamp. Little did I realize, when I signed up for this gig, that I was secretly hoping to be a camper, not a counselor. Camps and Counts live very different lives here on Sebago Lake, the most significant being the number of squishy pillows inhabiting our cot sized beds. Things we do share in common: cot sized beds, 8am bugle wake-up call, 8:30am flagpole line-up, 8:40am breakfast, 12:30pm lunch, 3:15pm snack, 6:30pm dinner. Thus Camp M(ay not be mentioned on blog) becomes Camp Fataponi. (Fatta puh NIGH). Fortunately humidity serves as nature's portion scale and, as a counselor, I end up laboring away the carbs as though I were at fat camp.

Throughout the day I facilitate groups of 8-11 campers on the ropes course. You remember the ropes course. Team building activities, trust falls, climbing walls, zip lines. I know what you are thinking. Maggie on trust falls? And rightly so. Last week I walked a blindfolded 7 year old into a golf cart just moments after assuring her that I am a worthy trust walker. Fortunately her memory is as sharp as her attention span. The trust fallen little camper wept briefly through her tiny blindfold until I explained to the rest of the blindfeld group that she had walked into a golf cart. Then she laughed because "it sounded funny." Now she is climbing like a baby squirrel.

A notable generation gap exists between the other counselors and me. Case: counselor lip sync. I suggested to the ropes staff that we lip sync an Ashlee Simpson song, mess up mid-way, dance a jig, and walk off stage. Speaker tap. Nobody? Only the happy screams of far off campers broke the silence as I awaited (and waited and waited) the award for best idea.

The fruits of my labors:

For days I have been standing idly by as campers enter the ropes course bearing gifts, usually from cooking class, for the return ropes counselors of yester year. Today I finally received my first gift (a chocolate covered pretzel) for being a good belayer on Tall Ships*.

Some Especially Fine Camp Rules:

1. Don't yuck someone else's yum.
2. Poop. Flush. Wipe. Flush.

Especially Fine Camp Highlights:

1. Winning the Subway gift card raffle after audibly muttering, "please, no more food."
2. Bald eagle by name of Washington soars over camp every morning during the Pledge of Allegiance. You know what I love most about America? America.
3. A nest of squirrels is discovered in the Tire Swing Traverse. Baby squirrel falls 50 feet to its doom but miraculously survives.
4. Lice check.
5. Camper runs away to the boat dock, threatens to row herself home to Colorado.

Stay tuned for more notes on camp. Love and miss y'alls.

*Tall Ships is an element that entails climbing to the top of a tall, sail shaped rope web, then canonballing off the top. If the belayer is good, the climber swings really far. Wee.

sole mates

every once in a while a transcendant force of nature will orchestrate a collision of charged chemicals to produce something truly spectacular. when my chemicals first collided with these sassy sneaks, i knew something special was afoot.

this romantic tale begins where most romantic episodes are expected to begin: in an immaculately disarrayed sneaker boutique fitted comfortably within the arches of west hollywood.

it was here that i first met and pursued the sneaker of my daydreams. after days of aggressive pursuit, however, i was forced to concede the inescapable truth that this sneaker of my fancy was in all cases either unavailable or, plain and simple, a wrong fit.

downtrodden by defeat, i mournfully shuffled my way past shelves of comfortably disheveled footwear, anxious to exit this house of heartache and seek comfort in the sapour of red mango. suddenly my periphery was captured by a subtle glimmer of gold. without thought my attention pivoted to the source and i was at once ensnared by what i beheld.

time slowed as i stood fixated on the rich splendor which rested before me. seemingly forged by vulcan himself. worn by hermes. soon after, the space between us filled with an electrical charge familiar only to two souls who are potentially matched for each other. carefully but eagerly i reached for the vivid display. at first contact the connection was undeniable and just like that: zappo. charged chemicals converged.

for weeks i have been stomping around in these comely new kicks and i still recharge with each step. that means only one thing. this relationship will never wear out.

(aren't they splendid)

kenny guess what, i got asked to prom

A few months ago I stepped up to my porch to find a giant cardboard mystery object anxiously awaiting my arrival. "Maggie" the front of it boldly declared in red and gold sprayed paint. Cordially, I invited it inside, where I propped it open to discover the following message:

"You are cordially invited to go on a date with me this weekend. Please RSVP. Phone Number."

Anxious for the identity of my secret admirer, but less than anxious to dial a cold call, I quickly assembled a committee for research. Sara was to search google. Emily was to search phone contacts. And Maggie was to search the archives of her memory for a complete list of potential suitors. Several minutes of arduous research quickly lead us back to where we had begun and I was forced to face the inevitable. Bravely, I dialed the number provided. Fortunately, it went to voicemail. UNfortunately, his greeting failed to provide an identity. Less than eloquently, I RSVP'd for my weekend date and hastily snapped closed my phone. Just then the same phone sang a tune from an unidentified number. The room fell silent and all eyes shifted to the illuminated phone in my hand. (I just said 'phone' alot) "Hello?" I inquired.

"Heyy Maggie, this is Danny."

Danny Doom, we call him. Danny is in my ward and he is a special soul. He is uncommonly sharp and never fails to provide erudite (GRE word) commentary during sunday school. Always in tote with him is a roller backpack filled with soda, which he is eager to share with anyone who might need an abrupt pick me up. He recently took to crocheting during sacrament meeting because it calms his fidgety demeanor. At first he crocheted one long continuous strand of infinitude until my roommate Emily taught him how to loop it back to make a blanket or a scarf. Danny is widely known for his melancholy birthday song which he willingly performs at any birthday occasion, upon request.

Danny: I was just wondering what you were up to this Friday.

Mystery revealed.

Maggie: Danny.. did you leave a surprise on my doorstep?

Danny: Uhhhh, no?


Oops, it wasn't Danny, but you see how my list of suitors continues to grow like Danny's strand of infinitude. Looks like I have a date with Danny.

At long last I received a call back from the number on the cardboard, which I cowardly rolled to voicemail, rather undeftly obtaining the identity of my suitor. Kenny McNett.

I had met Kenny twice before. Once in the church parking lot after FHE, where he wittingly enticed me with tales of dance fighting, and twice on New Year's Eve, where I first unknowingly discouraged his undivulged crush then later unknowingly encouraged this secret crush by meeting lips with him in celebration of the new year.

....to be continued

...a follow up. story updates here and here. thank you kenny!

a sassy experience

I consider myself a pack of smarties because in the 3rd grade I dominated at chalkboard math relay.That is, until Jen Simpson showed up and ruined everything. She was much more accelerated on the draw, and I retired my chalk before the year was out. Fortunately we were soon after separated by classrooms and by the 5th grade I was shining once again. Sadly, in a crushing moment of self-identification, it became clear to me that boys - or certain boy - were not interested in smart girls. True to the Sassy* experience, I dumbed it down in order to entice senseless boy. For years I scoffed at good grades and pretended that I didn't reallly know the difference between affect and effect. This lasted well into the 8th grade, when it became finally clear to me that the most rad of boys were, contrary to prior conjecture, less interested in a diluted version of me. Regardless, I have since remained true to my own sassy experience.

*Sassy: sassy 80's board game marketed to teenage girls and creative cartels of mid-late 20's boys. Sassy Help Question: "I'm 15 and don't have a boyfriend. I'm as pretty as my friends who do have guys. How do I get guys to like me?"
(not-so) Sassy Answer: "Perhaps you're coming off too aloof or shy, or maybe you're too independent, or too smart or too out-spoken. You have to decide if dating is worth giving up part of your personality."

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