A black, beady eye stared back at me.

I screamed, dropped my laundry, and hit my head on the wall across from the dryer. Shocked, I stared as a long, silvery tongue slithered out of the lint trap, wrapped itself around my purple sock, and pulled the sock into the depths of the dryer. What WAS that?!?

Later that night, I went back to the dryer to find that eye and its creepy little tongue. Where the dryer usually stood, there was a wooden trap door. I heaved it open to reveal a rope ladder leading to the depths of the basement. I shined my flashlight around the dungeon-like room and realized that the room was at least the size of my whole neighborhood.

Snurfle.

I froze, light trained dead ahead of me. I saw it.

It had feet. Lots and lots of sock-clad feet. White socks, blue socks, running socks, soccer socks, my favorite purple sock. Each besocked foot was accompanied by a long, gray, beefy leg, and all legs merged into a scaly body. At one end it had a stubby tail covered in fluorescent pink spikes and festering boils. At the other end was the head of a lion, if lions had three eyes, green manes, and silver tongues. And it spoke with a British accent.

“Hideous, eh?” it raised its head to look at me.

Words failed.

“Do come closer, darling,” crooned the monster, “I quite enjoy visitors, and yet I rarely see anyone.”

Lonely. That described it!

“I am so lonely down here. That’s why I steal socks, you see? I hope that my victims will come down and pay me a visit, and I would gladly return their socks, but no one ever does. I guess I should start stealing more valuable things.” The sock monster stood and cracked its head on the ceiling.

As I crept closer, I realized that it was smiling at me. A creepy, hungry smile. The monster waved a tiny arm at a cauldron in the corner. “Soup, dear?”

I shook my head, still speechless. How long—?

“Fifteen years, love,” the monster answered my unspoken question, “Fifteen years since I was banished after I accidentally ate a cow and the villagers got angry. ‘Monster!’ they cried. I was not a monster before that. I was a protector.” It sighed and flames shot out of its nostrils, catching my pajamas on fire. “So sorry, here—” A wave of ice water hit me full force.

I was scared, my pajamas were charred, and now I was soaking wet. Brilliant. My fear was slowly turning into anger and annoyance, and I summoned the courage to do what I came down to do.

“I want my sock back,” I whispered.

Dear Reggie,

The noises your fan is making scare me. You can be very quiet, but then your fan starts shrieking and it is very disturbing. Just hang on until I can go get some compressed air and . . . clean out your fan.

I’m a mature person and I refuse to go for the cheap jokes.

You have been quite wonderful since you went to the laptop hospital in March, and I hope this is only a minor setback in your life.

I love you.

Love, Katie

Just seeing that title, what would you think this post would be about?

If you guessed my first leg-shaving experience, then you’re wrong.

No, this experience is much, MUCH more recent than that one.

Let’s go back to the Summer of 2007, shall we?

This was my second summer as a day camp counselor at the delight that was Camp K. I’m not being completely sarcastic when I say it was a delight–some of the kids were downright hilarious (“I punched him on accident!”), I got along with most of the staff (ha ha, kind of. I definitely wasn’t the least despised person), and I got paid. Downsides? Where do I even start? I didn’t get paid enough for what I did (Seriously. Peanuts.), the kids had occasional freak-outs, I had occasional freak-outs (like when KG chucked her water bottle at me. That was awesome), and the hours were long and hot.

So what on earth does this have to do with leg hair?

I think it was Session Two of camp that summer (the summer was split into five two-week sessions). Miss A and I had Groups 5 & 6–AKA Group of Death. There was something about that age (8) that made the kids impossible to deal with. Our group happened to be a bit smaller that session, since it included Independence Day during the time frame (out of the 20 or so kids we were supposed to have, the most that ever showed up on a given day was 12. Awesome).

Back to the point of this post. Anyway, there was this one little girl who was in our group (I’ll call her MM, to protect the innocent and myself) who was . . . a different sort of girl. I can’t really describe her, other than to say that she had a vivid imagination and was kind of clingy. One fine July morning, we were hanging out in the pavilion during Opening, and MM was sitting next to me (I was standing, mind you. The cement was a little too cold for me). For those of you who don’t know me well (or who just don’t know this about me), I hate shaving my legs. Hate hate HATE it. Like, I just went a month without shaving my legs, and it started when it was still warm enough to wear shorts. I finally broke down this past Saturday since I had to go to church the next day and my legs were getting a little out of control. Argh, another tangent.

So anyway. It’s July. It had been a while since my last encounter with a razor (but not too long, mind). My legs were . . . a little stubbly. And MM is practically sitting on my feet. I’m spaced out, listening to Mr B (our camp director) ramble on and on and on about the bead system, when MM starts stroking my legs.

Um, excuse me, MM. Why the HECK are you doing that?!?

MM has a wistful smile on her face as she rubs her hands up and down my shins.

“You should grow your leg hair out, like Mr M.”

Thanks, you weird little girl.

From that day forward, I shaved my legs every single day that summer.

(NOTE: I started this post back in March and forgot to finish it. Now it’s done.)

Random girl on the phone: “So he was all like: ‘yeah, when I kissed you I felt something inside of me that I’d never felt before.’”

My brain: “THAT’S WHAT SHE SAID!”

Real mature.

My life has been kind of hectic, but tonight I am taking time away from folding laundry to give you the run-down on why I can’t sit down and write.

School–We are slowly approaching the middle of the semester. I’m only in three classes this semester, which is great because if I were taking more I would probably die. My Child Development Psych class isn’t too intense (taught by the amazing Dr H), but since Dr H and I are so tight he has high expectations for me in the class. And voices said expectations in front of EVERYONE. If ever I wanted the ground to open up and swallow me whole, I would have wished it with all of the fervency of a six-year-old wishing on her birthday cake candles when I had a question about something on the review sheet and Dr H said “Well, if you don’t understand that, then I doubt anyone else in the class does.” Blerg.

Anyway. My Creative Writing class is pretty interesting. We’re now in the creative nonfiction unit, which is a lot harder than I thought it was going to be. Poetry? Bring it! But CNF? Oh my goodness. Please shoot me now. This week I have to write a story about someone (or something) who is not close to me. I have no idea what I’m going to write it on. And then the following week our masterwork is due. Say what?!? My pieces are horrible! My grade is not going to be fun to look at.

I’m also in Shakespeare and Film. This class blows my mind. Recently, we’ve been discussing epistemology and ontology in relation to Hamlet, Othello, and now Macbeth, and I actually “get” a lot of what we talk about because of my background in psychology. Sometimes I amaze myself with some of the comments I come up with in class. Half the time I feel like I’m just faking it, but apparently I make sense.

Research–I have two research activities going on this semester. First off, I am now a part of Dr S’s massive team. He recruited me specifically to work with the database and get everything organized, but Adrian stole that task from me and has done pretty much all of the work on it (and won’t let me touch it). Now, however, we’ve finally come up with a way to design Dr S’s newest study idea (thanks to the incredible insight of Dr H) and so we’re feverishly figuring out costs and stuff to get the research grants in before Tuesday, when Dr S goes to Anaheim for the week (the first grant deadline is on Thursday). He initially wanted to shoot for the October IRB review (which is on the 20th), but I doubt we’ll have everything ready in a week. Maybe next month. If we do get approval (fingers crossed), we’ll have to get cracking on it right away so we can work out any bugs on it before I graduate and leave (which could be as early as April), since I’m the most familiar with the design (modified human intruder paradigm) and I know the new software (The Observer) we’ll be using really well.

I’m also working on an independent project with Dr H. Basically, I’m just writing up my summer project from Oregon with the hope of getting it published somewhere big-ish. We’re talking like a national peer-reviewed journal. I’ve just been running my data set through every single test I could possibly think of, and trying to get the articles I’ve been reading into some sort of organized format so I know what’s where and what I need more studies on. The lit review is going slow, but I think I have my data at a place where I can just ignore it for now and focus on getting everything else organized.

With all of this going on, it saddens me to say that I had to resign from Sam’s team. I really loved working with him and his other RAs, but it was time to move on and get some different experiences under my belt before I apply to graduate school (maybe).

TA-ing–Yes, I use it as a verb. Anyway, I’m back to being a TA for Psych 304. I know, I know, I was supposed to move on and “broaden my experience,” but Dr S wanted me back for 304. Well, he gave me the choice of doing any combination of TA-ing 304, 111, and joining his research team. I chose research and TA-ing 304. This semester I have a co-TA for my section who is also an undergrad, and happened to be one of my students last Winter. She’s so amazing and hilarious and I really couldn’t think of anyone else I would rather have working with me. Seriously. And guess what? My students are the same awesome combination of absolutely wonderful and terribly maddening as they have been in the past! Sigh.

Life–Life is crazy. I don’t have time to do a lot of the fun things I want to do, but hopefully in the next couple of weeks I can finally get back in firmer control and do some fun things. Rachael’s home from her mission and in Provo, so I need to clear my schedule to hang out with her and hear all of her crazy mission stories. Emily and I keep talking about how we need to hang out and do dinner or something, but we always forget to actually set those plans in stone. Our lab has been challenged to an Ultimate Frisbee smackdown against the CEPICA team.

I think that is all. I do have a funny story to tell, but that is one for the private blog.

I’m alive.

Well, those of you who read this blog typically talk to me outside of this anyway, so that really wasn’t a worry.

Anyway, just a quick update before I buckle down and write my Othello paper (due in 17 hours, give or take). Life is keeping me incredibly busy, but hopefully I’ll have time for a detailed update (travel-log, blerg) tomorrow or Wednesday.

Ode to a Summer’s Day at the Oregon National Primate Research Center (a Shakespearean sonnet)

The wind blows softly on the summer day,

Relaxing out on the wooden bench.

We expect to smell a fragrant bouquet,

But we gag from the putrid monkey stench.

What does a monkey smell like? You may ask—

Take the smelliest things in creation,

Mix them all together and in them bask;

All will pray for mercy in prostration.

The adult monkeys smell the worst of all,

Covered in mud and blood and grime and poo.

But the babies with cuteness will enthrall,

No vomitous stench, only cute lil’ coos.

In the catch, times it by infinity.

The smell makes me want a lobotomy.

*****

Minesweeper (a haiku)

Click. Click. Right click. Click.

One wrong move and it’s over.

Click. Click—BOOM! Dang it.

*****

How High-Fructose Corn Syrup Killed My Dream To Be America’s Next Top Model.

O sweet sugary goodness!

How you make my sodas complete!

Rife with enough chemical compounds

To rot out my teeth.

O great causer of obesity in mice!

Author of leptin resistance!

You taste so exquisite,

Yet you will be the death

Of my dream to be a super-model.

That dream was already quashed, however,

By neither of my parents being over six feet tall.

So we shall be friends, my sweet lover.

Come, give mama some sugar!

On Love:

“I love you.”

A whisper.

A touch.

“Please don’t do this to me.”

A prayer.

A wish.

“Just a bit longer.”

I roll into Chevron on fumes.

“That’ll do car. That’ll do.”

*****

On An Article of Clothing:

They call to me

From the mighty depths of the closet:

“Wear us”

“caress us”

“gaze upon us.”

Impracticality! My brain shouts, They will just bring suffering!

Promises of beauty:

“Elongate the leg-line!”

“Shape the calf!”

“Add inches to your height!”

Don’t give in! The frontal cortex pleads, You will only get

Pain

Suffering

Embarrassment

When you fall.

I reach.

Shouts of joy bounce off the walls.

I finger the shape.

I slip into the violently pink stilettos

And fall flat on my face.

I told you so.

*****

On a Hero:

He soars to the greatest of heights

Rescuing fair projector screens from captivity.

The brave knight in khaki

Brandishes hypothetical constructs and scales of measurement

As his sole defense against the horde

Of disaffected college students.

They come in droves:

“You lieeeeeeee,” they gnash their teeth in anger, “Too haaaaaard!”

It is too much for the brave knight to bear.

He is overcome with the desire to boost his ratemyprofessor.com score.

Two words escape his defeated lips:

“Extra credit!”

*****

On . . . Togas? (a haiku):

Sheet over one arm

And wrapped around the body—

It’s party time, man!

I should be doing something productive, like finishing unpacking and organizing my room, cleaning out my car, maybe doing a few lit searches, or even . . . not writing yet another blog post?

Instead, I am sitting in my kitchen eating Flavor Blasted Goldfish, banging away at my keyboard while the spin cycle on the washing machine drones in the background. This kind of Goldfish reminds me of how Jenna could polish off a bag of these faster than you could say “THAT MONKEY HAS HERPES!!” Which in turn reminds me of everything associated with Oregon. And how I need to bring my neurobiology textbook to FHE tonight for Brad, since we wound up in the same ward. With Steve. What a crazy random happenstance (seriously. I was very surprised yesterday).

Which also reminds me that I need to get Drs H and S to sign an add/drop card for my participation on their research teams.

I have a lot to do.

Back to  . . . trying to be productive?

Talking to Brad about our schedules for this semester has made me eternally grateful that I have paid my dues in 8 AM classes. I mean, I still want to kill Dr S for scheduling our lab meeting for 8 AM on Fridays, but I can handle one day a week of having to get up near the buttcrack of dawn as opposed to having to do it every single day and then having to remain awake for four other classes that same day. If I was able to knock a couple classes out by 10 AM and then be done for the day, that would have been awesome. But the powers-that-be in the Psychology department and the College encouraged (read: paid extra) professors to teach evening classes, which meant I had to stay functional and be ready to return to campus at 4 PM at least twice a week to take the classes I needed.

I love not “having to take any classes.”

Yes, I do have an evening class this semester. It also happens to be the only class I have on Wednesdays. It is also a class that I am extremely excited to take. Creative Writing–I get to do something that I enjoy (obviously) and boost my GPA in the meantime. It’s almost like taking a soccer class–getting graded for something that you love to do and that you do well (or not-so-well). Except you don’t get to knock people over. I mean, I could knock my fellow creative writers over, but then the campus police would get called in and I might get kicked out of school.