Happy Endings

As I write this, I've got eighteen straight hours of sleep under my belt and eyes that still feel like warm puffy roasted marshmallows. It's probably because of all the late nights, early mornings, smoky campfires, and emotional tears. That's right. I am capable of crying at things. I can now say I've temporarily cured my insomnia, and replaced it with a little something called Nostalgia. It's an infectious disease, potentially debilitating in the sense that it keeps you from getting on with your life, and women are especially susceptible to the virus. I am embracing it fully, knowing that soon I will be cured by work and life and sleep. See, I just got back from Girl's Camp. Anyone who has ever been will understand how intense that is...you'll never laugh in quite the same way, dance quite as hard, sleep as little, love as deep, and cry as much as you can at camp. If anyone read this, they'd probably be wondering if I even HAVE a life outside of camp, and the truth is, I really don't. They just won't let me leave. The past three years I've served as a Junior Leader in charge of one committee, then a Leader of Junior Leaders, and finally, Assistant Camp Director. I'm not quite sure why I keep getting asked back. I think it's because I wouldn't know what to do with myself if I didn't. Camp is work, and it starts way back in January when they pick the leaders. In February, they call them. In March, they have meetings and plan dates for all the other meetings. The camp rule is that the meeting will end approximately two hours after the original projected end time. It can get pretty stressful, but the ends justify all when you get to see enemies forgive, friendships forge, and love of God grow. It's magic, and so much fun. We started off the week with an initiation of the new Junior leaders, some of whom still believe to this day that they drank leftover dinner, loogies, dirt, raw eggs, bugs, and salad dressing. The campers showed up the next morning and were treated to a brutal game of Land Quidditch. When all was said and done, I had a broom shaped lump on my head, four detached broom heads, three snapped in half, and several bleeding campers. Let's just say that this is NOT your Camp Hemophilia. I'm sure there were some bruised egos as well; mine in particular. That night, we stayed up late playing Loaded Questions, the ultimate laugh out loud 'you don't wanna know' game. I will never be able to take a bath without thinking "stop looking at me, Sthwan!" or walk the hygiene aisle without laughing at Kelsey's irresistable Flow. The next day brought the most hilarious camp skits I believe we have ever had. Our skit was stakeside story, documenting the tension between JL's and Stake Leaders through song and dance. I amazed myself by singing in front of an audience for the very first time (in my underwear, no less) a little solo number made popular in Westside Story as Maria, but Camp-a-tized in our skit as Diarrhea. Cassie, Kelsey Swope, Kanish, Megan, Loveland, and Midget then convened in the cabin for the traditional reading of my Anasazi journal, circled around a pile of ice cream bars, sandwiches, and candy. That night was Prank Night, disguised on the schedule as Movie night. No one seems to know the truth of how it actually happened, and while there has been mass speculation and myriad accusations, I think the secret will be taken to the perpetrators' graves. The what, however, is common knowledge. Kim, Kendra, and I went to bed on our lovely air mattress and woke up late the next morning, still in our bed, but far from the tent we lived in. We were parked right behind Kris Ball's van in the road outside the Bergeson cabin. We were shoeless and had missed breakfast. I've never been laughed at so much in my life.
Thursday brought boating at Redfish, swim time/pirate attack and takedown at Alturas, a beautiful musical fireside, and the much anticipated Testimony Meeting. Nothing will ever compare to watching girls I led when they were thirteen stand up as amazing leaders themselves to share their own stories of coming to know and love Christ. Powerful. That's all there is to it...After all the years of camp, I have had witness enough to know that this church is the true, full gospel of Jesus Christ. I don't care how much it makes me sound like a dork or a so-called "Jesus Freak." I don't think there is such thing. And now, if you'll excuse me, I've got pictures to put on Facebook, a signed camp quilt to go cuddle in, tender memories to dwell on, and some chocolate to top it all off. I'll do it with the windows open and my pillow that has not been washed because I am creepy and it smells like Camp.

I hope Rhianna doesn't mind...

...but I am currently ruining her song "Disturbia." That is because I am singing it (shamelessly) with my own version of the notes and with the word 'Insomnia' in lieu of the traditional lyrics. Just mixing it up, right? There is honestly not much else to do at this hour. Usually, I would go for a walk, read, maybe draw or paint a little, put on my favorite bright clothes that are even too stupid to wear on the Disney Channel, go hang out at WinCo and buy their ridiculous shape sunglasses, or write to my brother, but as it happens, I HAVE ALREADY DONE ALL OF THE ABOVE. It's not that I don't get tired. I just don't get sleepy. I get in bed and toss and turn all night. But mostly just turn...I can't remember ever actually tossing in bed. What does that even mean? Like to toss things out of bed or actually physically throwing yourself across the mattress? Whatever. I think the problem is just all this freaking ENERGY I have coursing through my veins! I could spend the day running all over the place and playing like there's no tomorrow but instead of being drained, I would have more excitement busting up inside than ever before. If I can stop bouncing, it gives me plenty of time to think about things.
At least, until my insomniac father shows up.
He usually does. Then it becomes an occurence worthy of reality T.V. Sometimes we run, sometimes we clean, (Ha! never again!) sometimes we throw grapes at the ceiling fan. Yeeahh... I don't know how we're ever going to get the wet purple skins off the ceiling. It's not like we meant for this to happen! One minute, I was catching grapes in my mouth, the next, I was racing Dad to throw a grape timed perfectly enough to pass through the churning blades and fall back to the carpet without it being decapitated. (If you think you can't decapitate a grape, you should watch more Veggie Tales) So far, no one has won. Blame the mind-altering chemical imbalances. And hey, it could be worse. I could be agnostic. I could have dyslexia. I could stay up all night wondering if there is a Dog.
So if you'll excuse me, I've got to go make the best of what I've been given. I think there's an egg race about to happen in the backyard.

An Embarkment In Blogging

DISHWASHER; BLOGS: 1, MELISSA: 0

Today, I have done what I once considered the unthinkable. I have created a blog. I used to think of bloggers as narcissistic computer nerds, desperately wanting the world to sit up and take notice of their every thought. Then I realized I was one. Just kidding...at least I hope not. What really happened was that for the first time, I had a small piece of life fall into my lap (not the cereal, unfortunately) and was unable to process it. Just the smallest of moments, not personal or thought-provoking enough for a journal, and in need of too much explanation for too lame of a story for facebook or twitter. But for some reason, I just really wanted to record it for future memory. I had also already meant to start a blog for the benefit of keeping in touch with family, minus the inordinate amounts of phone time spent trying to recreate what goes on in life. And so, today, the blog is born...call it a wild journey in written webisodes, call it a collection of painfully dull stories.
I call it an embarkment.
If you're thinking, "That's not a word..." then you're wrong. It is. I just used it. Embarkment is a legitimate term, first coined by a good friend in a letter that I found deftly hidden in a Funfetti birthday cake (just a little to the left of some cough drops).
That said, here is that little bit of life that will soon become my first blog:
The day started out innocently enough. I don't typically do a lot of cleaning (translation: never) but I needed some laundry. Laundry turned into organizing the closet, then cleaning the room, then doing the dishes. It wasn't until I finished vaccuming the living room that I noticed it: The dishwasher had started a revolution. There, in all its sudsy glory, was a lemon-scented lake where the kitchen floor used to be. Normally, my instincts would have been to go get mom-this is where you sensible people are thinking, "Wouldn't you have turned off the dishwasher first?"-but I was on my own in the little apartment, with only one harebrain to work with. Where is the brave little toaster when you need him??! I learned my first lesson in cleaning products. Don't get dish soap and detergent that are the same color. Then I went with the first idea that came to me, which was to open the back door and swiffer the water out onto the porch. It worked okay, but the sponge mop I found in the closet was a little more effective. I was shoveling water and bubbles out by the quart. Thirty minutes into the effort, I turned around to check out the progress, only to see I simply hadn't made any. This was just the jolly dishwasher's way of reminding me to TURN THE DANG THING OFF. Five soaked bath towels, two hours, and one broken mop later, the floor was once again visible and dry. I had to laugh. This would be what I get for cleaning...It brought to mind a sign I saw on the wall when I was babysitting a few nights before: "A few chores never killed anyone...But why take the chance?" How very true. I decided to skip cleaning the kitchen floor, feeling that my good friend The Dishwasher had already done enough and that it would be far too risky. Who knows, maybe I can multitask after all.