O Paul Revere, Where Art Thou?

The Red Coats have come and gone. We here at BYU could have been well served today by a Reverian warning of "THE ESTROGEN IS COMING! THE ESTROGEN IS COMING!"

Today and tomorrow comprise two of the most mayhem-filled days at BYU. Yes, it's Women's Conference. You think the Battle of Bunker Hill was bad? You obviously haven't seen the Battle for Mint Brownies at the Cougareat.

During the next two days, 14,000 women will flood campus for inspirational lectures, service opportunities, and spiritual nourishment. While all that's fine and dandy, it brings up one issue of minor concern: ME BEING INCONVENIENCED.

As a 20-something member of Generation Y, I can't help but feel a little put off by the fact that for two days, campus does not revolve around me--A STUDENT. That in order to buy a book for my class, I have to battle hoards of OUT-OF-TOWNERS who don't know their way around the BYU Bookstore. That I actually have to WAIT IN A LINE to use the little girls' room in the Wilk. That I am surrounded by OLD PEOPLE who probably voted for JOHN MCCAIN. Gross.

Today in the BYU Bookstore, I saw a woman handing out York Peppermint Patties. Feeling sad that my importance was being overshadowed by a forest of mom-pants and lanyards, I felt deserving of chocolately respite. However, as "May I please have a . . . " came out of my mouth, I saw that this woman was not handing out YPPs pro bono. Of course, there was a gimmick.

"Sure, you can have a peppermint patty! Here, take a card! Magic Chores: Help your kids do their chores refreshingly fast!"

Refreshingly fast? YPPs = refreshing mint chocolate? The connection between gimmick and sale eluded me, but I could sense what was coming next . . .

" . . . do you have children, miss?"

My options:
(1) Say, "Nope! Bye!"
(2) Violate the ninth commandment.

Naturally, I chose the lesser infraction.

"Nope!"

But as I read "Then why the heck are you taking my peppermint patties??" on her face, I felt my knees buckle (it actually turned out to be my integrity).

"I mean uh . . . not yet . . . I'm pregnant!"

"Awww, really? That's great! Well keep Magic Chores in mind for when your little one starts doing chores a few years down the road. It's helped my three-year old so much!"

"What's his name?" I asked out of genuine curiosity.

"Seth."

I found myself digging myself deeper into the lie, just for fun . . . "Oh, that's great. I need to keep an ear out for good baby names. My husband and I can't agree on anything!"

She smiled. "I know what you mean. Do you know what you're having yet?"

"Um . . . no . . . I'm only . . . 10 weeks along."

"Oh, wow! No wonder you're not showing."

(Phew!)

"I know you're not supposed to tell anybody until you hit 12 weeks, but I'm just so excited!"

"That's great! Is this your first?"

"Mmm hmm. Except I don't know whether to enroll in fall semester, I'm due in October. It would be hard having a baby in the middle of the semester."

"Do it. Just get it done. It's so much easier just to have it done. I'm just starting school right now with a three-year old, and it's rough."

Lies are fun until people start sharing personal information with you. Then you go from zero to scumbag in about .3 seconds. Luckily, right as the guilt started seeping in, another interested woman (who's eggs looked like they'd dried out LONG ago . . . ) stopped by to see what this girl was selling. My exit had arrived.

"Oh, well, great talking to you! I won't keep you any longer and let you talk to this nice woman here. Thanks for the peppermint patty!"

Proverbs 31:10 is a popular scripture read at Women's Conference. It states: "Who can find a virtuous woman? for her price is far beyond rubies."

I'm pretty sure that virtuous women don't lie in order to snag free chocolate.

Maybe next year I should go to Women's Conference.

Gum

I think my aversion to gum-chewing can be traced to a mere five minutes of TV-watching from my youth. I remember when I was about seven years old, I thought it would be pretty cool of me to stay up and watch ER with my parents (after all, if I could handle "Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman," surely I was ready to graduate to the upper echelons of primetime medical programming). Unfortunately, this turned out to be a traumatic experience. The first (and last) episode of ER that I ever watched entailed the extraction of wads of gum from a boy's stomach. Apparently he was "addicted" to swallowing gum, and as soon as they pulled the gooey mess from his throat, he heading for the vending machine to buy more. For whatever reason, this five minutes of TV had an indelible impact on me, and I have always thought gum-chewing to be the most despicable of habits.

I will never understand gum chewers.

1. Gum chewing is gross. Why would anyone want to look like a cow chewing its cud? Disgusting. I mean, I can see the justification in popping in a Winterfresh for a couple minutes post-asiago bagel, but for goodness’ sake spit it out and be done with it once the halitosis is remedied.

2. Gum chewers are rude. I have never met (or rather, heard) a gum chewer who knows how to do so discreetly. They’re always popping it, chomping on it open-mouthed, or blowing bubbles. Even for the few who chew it closed-mouthed, you can still faintly hear their saliva sloshing around in there. With the exception of prepubescents (maybe), nobody wants to hear that.

3. Gum chewers look stupid. Sad, but true. When was the last time you saw a foreign dignitary chewing gum? Or a professor? By the same token, when last the last time you saw a directionless, brainless, 20-something meathead/bimbo chewing gum? Probably in your last class.

4. Gum chewers are inconsiderate. I open this with the caveat that not all gum chewers are careless in their disposal of said masticated product—indeed, some are kind enough to save the wrapper and dispose of it properly—but if I had a nickel for every time my hand grazed an insidious hardened lump underneath a table, or for every sticky mess I’ve stepped in or sat on, or for every nasty black splotch on the sidewalk I see, I would never have to work a day again in my life.

I think we can all agree that #1 is a fair statement to make. #2-4, however, seem like brazen generalizations, do they not? To illustrate these points specifically, allow me to point you to something I found on Yahoo Answers.

The question was “Why is gum chewing considered low class?” I will bracket the violations as they arise.

“Normal” Answer: “It’s not that chewing gum is considered "low class" but rather how it is chewed. "High class" individuals were often raised to eat very properly, mouths shut and silent. However, most people who chew gum tend to chew with their mouths open, blow bubbles, pop it, etc.”

Answer from a gum-chewer: “What the hell? [gratuitous profanity, #2 and #3] Where the hell did you ever hear that from. What idiot told you that? Chewing gum is not considered low class. Low class are people that say chewing gum is low class...[lack of support for this statement, #3] Oh, how I love chewing gum, in-fact [improper use of dash, #3], I'm chewing gum as we speak... For those of you that say chewing gum is low, why do you live a lame useless life? [#2 and #3] Get over your self... Or I'll chew my gum in your face and spit it out on your door step. [#4]”

http://answers.yahoo.com/question/index?qid=20080806210218AAHRRP2

In Singapore, the fine for smuggling (yes, smuggling) gum is $10,000 and a year in prison. Now there’s an initiative I would like to see in 2012.

The Epiphany

This past week, I've had several friends announce baby news. Apparently Christmas Break 2009 was a very loving time. But it got me thinking about babies and parenting (no, Mom, don't get excited), and as I did so, I recalled the the following story . . .

I remember when I was young--okay,younger,--I was with my family driving in the car when my father was asked the most dreaded question in all of parentdom:

"Daddy, who's your favorite?"

Himself being the driver of the vehicle, Ford Excursion, bus, aircraft carrier, it's not like my dad could have just walked away from the topic right then and there. He was pinned. He deftly tried to avert the conversation, but we were no fools! Yes, my friends, we, his posterity, had a right to know. Unfortunately, our efforts were met with a stock answer: "I love you all equally, but in different ways."

Psch. Yeah right. We were young, but we weren't stupid. The conversation continued as we exerted, with all the logical capacities our sub-14-year old minds could muster, the fallacy of our father's statement. Rebuttal after rebuttal, we tried to ensnare our father in his own words, waiting for the one slip-up, the one loophole that we could exploit . . .

that's when I saw it.

Could it be true? Did mine eyes deceive me? I doubted myself. But there it had been! Yes! I had seen it! There, in the rearview mirror, surely as the stars at night, I had seen my father look me in the eyes and mouth "you are."

For years I believed this. For years I kept that secret near and dear to my heart. Never once mentioning it again with my father, never once gloating to the other children. Being the oldest, I did, after all, possess the birthright--did my siblings really need to know that that was not all I had won from them?

Several months ago this, topic came up again in family conversation. My father replied with the same stock answer, but I knew the truth. Later, in private, I approached him.

"Don't worry, Dad. I still know."

My father furrowed his brow. " . . . Still know what?"

"You know . . . that I'm your favorite kid."

"HA! What? You think--what? HA! Where did you hear that?"

Not the response I was expecting. At all. I recounted the story of years past to my father, who vehemently denied it (a cover-up? maybe). Regardless, I left the conversation confused, once again having to revisit the question of "how can a parent not have a favorite kid?"

Today, as I was eating Starburst, I received my answer.

Some days I like pink, some days I like red. I like them both for different reasons, and on some days I definitely prefer one to the other. But I could never choose a favorite.

Ergo, children are like Starbust.

And if I have a yellow kid, I will be pissed.