Senior Homecoming: That One Time When I Decided Sewing a Dress Was a Good Idea

Let me just begin by saying that this post is completely contradictory to my last post. Woopsie. And let me also say that I don't write blog posts about specific events very often, just general topics. And yet, this post is about a specific event. I am made of irony. And I don't even mean that in a weird, metaphorical, existential kind of way.

So I walk into my first hour two Fridays ago and discover a poster and balloons on my chair. And it's homecoming season. My immediate response was "No way. No freaking way. Am I being punked?" (I was, indeed, not being punked. Which is a first.) I got asked to homecoming. Which meant I would not be shooting at people on homecoming day.

And I don't even mean shooting people with real guns. I had decided, after writing my liberating lonely people blog post and looking up some positive (and aesthetically pleasing) quotes on Pinterest, that I would have fun on homecoming night without going to the dance or even having a date. I decided I would organize a single ladies party. I think most single girls have those "I am a strong, independent woman, and I don't need no man!" days and then they listen to songs like "Single Ladies" by Beyonce (who is, ironically, not a single lady. I find this slightly disheartening). I decided that I would get together with my girlfrann's and do a stress-releasing activity-- shooting people. Yes, indeed. I was planning a lazer tagging trip.

And it was going to be pretty fantastic. Lazer tag is a beautiful thing- you run around in the dark, pretending to be in an intense video game or something where your goal is to shoot stuff. And the best part is you can pretend that the other people in the lazer tag arena are the stuff/people you hate and you can be like PEW PEW PEW and get points and win bragging rights, if you are angry and vengeful enough. But even if you aren't angry and vengeful, I am fairly certain there isn't anyone who would turn down the opportunity for bragging rights.

But, anyway, I had this whole lovely plan and was actually feeling okay with all of this. And then LITERALLY the next morning, I got asked to homecoming (fate is cruel, my friends). But really, I was pretty freaking excited about getting to go. The poster and balloons didn't say a name on them, so I carried the stuff around all day and got told "happy birthday" literally a bajillion times. I got wished a happy birthday more than I do on my actual birthday that day. Tragic, I know. Even my weights coach wished me a happy birthday, and that is a huge deal, knowing her. But weights is another topic for another blog post.

Anyway, so I found out who it was and I am seriously very excited! It will be a ton of fun. It might just be the best time I've ever had at a dance. But it hasn't happened yet, this is just part one of the story. Part two comes after this weekend.

So the first thing you do after getting asked to a dance is answer. I got a pizza and wrote something cheesy (ha, see what I did there?) and downright adorable and delivered it to him. He loved it because if there's one thing I know for sure, it's that boys love food. Especially pizza.

With the answering portion done, I had to move onto the next step: a dress.

Here's the deal with dances- the large majority of the girls want to get asked to one-up other girls. As a girl, you get asked, buy the most impressive/unique/OMG dress you can possibly find, meticulously plan your hair/makeup, and get the PERFECT accessories. Typically, this is not to dress up for their date. This is to dress up to show to the other girls that you, perfect princess, are better than them. And, quite frankly, it is very, very fun. Nothing wrong with a little friendly competition, right?

So, anyway. I began the dress search, and most of what I found was the kinda sorta skanky hoe category stuff. And, for some girls, that's totally cool. But for me, being about 6 feet tall, the skanky hoe dresses go from being suggestive to completely provocative. Like, doesn't even cover my butt kind of thing. Which is a little awkward, if you ask me. So I decided the logical direction to take would be to get a long dress and get it shortened to a socially-acceptable length. A foolproof plan, until I realized that I hated every single floor-length gown that would look okay shortened (side note- I DID fall in love with a sparkly, pink, fluffy, tulle ballgown, but alas. That is for prom.). So I went back to the drawing board, and bought a skanky hoe clubbin' dress.

My brilliant plan was to alter my clubbin' attire into something modest (holla, mormons!) and comfortable, that I would feel good wearing. So I gutted the dress. I sewed and ironed and pleated and fitted and tried it on and the change is quite remarkable, I would say. You wouldn't even be able to tell that, in it's former life, my homecoming dress may very well have been hooker attire. And I would appreciate some feedback about my creation, because it appears to be remarkably awesome or remarkably horrific. Let me know, because I want to show up all the other girls at homecoming with my stunning beauty. It's for the greater good.

BEFORE:

 

It's not terrible. But, on a tall person, I could not sit down without flashing everyone. Actually, I couldn't stand without flashing anyone. Which is a slight issue.

AFTER:

Excuse the horrible photo quality. And excuse the weird hem (it was pinned, not sewn yet). But, still, I think this is QUITE the transformation from the original dress. Props to me for being sassy and modest. YAY.

Stay tuned for part two of this adventure.

Where My Loners At?!

School dance season is always a lovely time of year if you're in the typical teenager crowd- you show up to class and there's flower and a poem on your desk and ohehmgee that cute boy you've had your eye on asked you to homecoming/prom/whatever. Hooray! Time to go buy a dress and research hairstyles, asap!

And then there's the rest of us.

Those of us, who, referencing the popular internet meme, are "forever alone". We get excited about reading a book on the weekend, not hanging out with boyfriends/girlfriends. We watch with sadness/envy as the cool kids get asked to dances and such in cute and creative ways, and just sit back and say "Well, that's great, I'm happy for you!". We have lots of free time. We also usually enjoy sci-fi tv shows. Oh, and Pinterest. Now, I shouldn't have a problem with being a loner. I'm 17 years old, so technically I should be okay by myself (I am not entirely self-sufficient yet (see past blog entries about college and the future and stuff)), but watching cool kids get asked to dances gets exhausting. You walk around getting excited for other people and wish you, too, could be excited and go dress shopping and be cool. But alas. Someone has to hold down the fort while everyone else is on fun dates. And that someone is me. (Don't worry, I'll make sure everything stays safe and all of your shows get recorded and your facebook stays in check until you guys get back from your dates. And maybe I'll even bake some cupcakes for you guys to eat when you get back?...)

But there is hope. I have been told that I am the marrying type, not the dating type. Which makes me feel all warm and fuzzy for, like two seconds.... BECAUSE HOW DO YOU GET MARRIED WITHOUT DATING FIRST?!!! (Sorry, accidental caps lock and excessive punctuation. My bad.) I think the message that they're trying to get to me is "You can't get dates so how about you invest in a cat or something?...". (Which is cool I guess, because I already have a cat breed and name figured out and everything!) but it's also kind of a bummer. Maybe I want to have fun, too? I've been to dances before, but those opportunities are few and far between (and they usually involve dress budgets around...ehh... twenty dollars?). But I suppose this is my life calling- to stay lonely single and be productive, doing stuff like spending quality time practicing the cello, or doing homework, or reading, and/or scouring the internet looking for cats to start my crazy-cat lady cat collection. (I have my eye on a hairless cat on craigslist, and I swear, I WILL buy it if provoked.) Plus, if loners like me got asked on dates, who would keep the constant stream of new pins going on pinterest and like everybody's statuses on Facebook about their boyfriends and awesome dates? Nobody. The world would stop functioning. And Pinterest would be sufficiently less interesting. And your homecoming pictures wouldn't have any likes. And there probably wouldn't be a "geek" category on Pinterest, either. You're welcome.

But seriously, this thing I just wrote wasn't meant to be a mopey, "pity-me" fest. I have a point. I think.

I guess by being a loner I get to know myself a little better not defined by another person, as nice as it is to have someone by your side. But, hey, as the gangsters say, "no boyfriend, no problem", right? Plus, with all this free time I spend not talking to boys I get to write blog posts. And you people seem to enjoy these. Aaaaand, most teenage boys are immature anyway. I don't need no lameos in my life, that's for sure! So here's a shout out to all the lonely ones out there. You're not alone, you're clearly recognized by all the other lonely people (which is probably almost about as comforting as the "marrying type" comment (cut me some slack, I try to be inspiring/motivational)). But, hey. Maybe we can all be lonely together.

cats <3

college stuff and whatnot

Most people go on vacations over breaks (I hear that's what breaks are made for, but I think that's just a rumor), but that's way too mainstream for me and my family. Last Friday my parents surprised us with an impromptu trip to California to take my 5-year-old sister, Lani, to Disneyland for the first time. I was allowed to make the decision whether I wanted to go and miss some school, or stay and miss some Disneyland, because I'm almost an adult and stuff.
But before I go on, how about a tangent? The other day I was hanging out with my bff Bentley lol smileyface (that's what teenagers call their friends lately, if you're out of the loop), and it was starting to get late (it was 6 (my bedtime is 4 pm (just kidding, who goes to bed at 4?! Oh, wait, me.) (I actually go to bed at 7). But, seriously, it was getting close to 10, and I was basically staying out until my mom told me to go home, which is our usual routine. My mom ended up calling me around 10:30 to tell me it was late and I should get home. So I said okay and started home. Then I got a second phone call. My mom said nevermind, that I was almost an adult and could set my own curfew. Huh? I can stay out as late as I want? Then I got thinking about it, and she is totally right. A year from now, I'll be in college and can stay up and out as late as I feel like. Most teenagers would find this exhilarating/ empowering/ totally sickkk, but mostly it just scared me a little bit. Like I've said before, I doubt I can be a responsible, independent person who goes to bed at a reasonable hour, much less an adult who goes to school and works and HAS TO FEED HERSELF. Dearest me. I am a grown up. Well, almost. Let's just say I decided to go home anyway, because my mom is smart. Smarter than me.
But, anyway, I got to choose whether or not I went on this little California adventure (unintentional Disney park reference! Ten points for me!), and of course I had to think about it for a little because almost-grown-ups like me typically have lots of homework and productive things to do (ha). But in the end I figured that in a year, besides being an independently operating human being, I will also be poor. Boo! So my prospects of Disneyland in the near future are quite slim. But anyway, I said yes. We went to the beach, Lani and I walked on the beach hand-in-hand and collected pretty shells, and the whole ride home she was so worn out from all the frolicking in the waves that she was completely, drool-running-down-her-face passed out. Watching her sleep soundly with her little princess swimsuit on and a bucket full of shells still in her hands made me miss being little. Seriously, life is so much easier when you're five.
So anyway, we end up at Disneyland the next day. Lani was totally enthralled with the whole place. And the fact that all the workers called her "Princess" as they helped her into her seat didn't hurt, either. I was having a great day riding all the "scary" rides (ie: Splash Mountain, Matterhorn, etc.) with her and then we stopped for dinner later and my day got that much better. I was just walking around Main Street Disney, looking for somewhat affordable food, when my phone started ringing and it went to voicemail. I figured it wasn't that big of a deal, but maybe I should check my voicemail just in case. So I did and it was a call from an NAU admission counselor, telling me THAT I GOT ACCEPTED TO NAU. Now, I know for you future ivy-leaguers, this isn't a huge deal, but for me it is a HUGE deal! I got into a college even with some not-so-great (aka. terrible) SAT scores and average grades. I really am totally excited about this. The more I look into NAU the more it speaks to me... a great music program, small-ish student body, and it snows every once and a while. Which is pretty exciting for someone who grew up in the Phoenix valley of Arizona.
Anyway, so this is exciting and all, but what about Lani? She keeps asking me where my house will be when I move out. And if she can visit. And will I have a cat? And so do I keep going to school. And will I just automatically be a mommy after I move out? And don't even get me started about the questions about graduation. It's a hard concept to explain to a little girl. It's hard to think I will be gone for most of her childhood, and It makes me sad. I don't want to be one of those big sisters who moves out and disappears and only visits on holidays.
But, I guess I can't control that now so I might as well keep moving forward.

THE Plan (aka, my future (and why))

I suppose I should write about my future at some point, considering this is my senior year and that after this year I'll be a real person and what not. It's weird for me to imagine not being a teenager living at home anymore and just sitting around being lazy and doing nothing or doing what I'm doing right now (ie: listening to Taylor Swift and singing along (ie: "WEEEEE ARE NEVER EVEREVEREVERRRR GETTING BAAACK TOGETHERRRR") and blogging....I've been told adults don't have time for things like this). And it makes me sad to think I can't be a lazy loser anymore, I actually have to be productive and support myself and feed myself and stuff. But in addition to all that scary grown up stuff, I also have school to go to and church to attend and return missionaries to date and growing up to do.

So I guess it starts with graduation, where, from what I understand, you get all dressed up in a cute outfit and do your hair all cute just so you can wear a cap and gown that covers both of them up. And then, if you're me, you go early with orchestra on (possibly) the last school bus you will ever ride on to the ASU stadium, and then sit around and do nothing for, like, 3 hours until real graduation starts, which involves lots of speakers and sitting in alphabetical order and playing Pomp and Circumstance (the boring/emotional marcato section with lots of whole notes). Then you walk the stage, get your piece of paper setting you free, shake Dr. Farnsworth's hand and smile for the camera (Hi, Mom!!!) and then celebrating, crying, and lots of pictures. And then the partying begins! Just kidding, I don't do parties.
After high school I want to go to college (probably ASU or NAU) to study music education. And then student teach and then teach orchestra at a high school where the kids will probably be annoying and I will probably be annoyed. I get tired of teenagers really quickly, and yet I don't think I'd be capable of teaching younger kids. Why? I have a problem. I go to my friend's houses, right? And they have younger siblings. So me, being the kind teenager I am, go up to the children and attempt to speak to them... and my friend typically gets offended and asks why I'm being so rude to their sibling. Uhh what?! I guess I'm condescending towards youngsters without even trying. So that is why I am not meant to be a teacher for younger kids...they would all hate me and tell their friends "Oh, yeah, Miss Haws hates us!" (and at the same time I'd be thinking "I'm the nicest teacher EVER. Nice work, self."). It just isn't meant to be.
But anyway, back to why I want to do what I want to do after high school. I've played the cello for, like a million (8) years, and most of that 8 years just sort of blends together into a vague smoothie of a memory (and if we're sticking with the smoothie metaphor, it's super yummy). But one day I do recall clearly was a fall morning during my eighth grade year when it was "fine art's day" for the high school and junior high (which are conveniently next door to each other (which means we inconveniently had to walk)). I was a quiet 8th grader, and, in all honesty, I had no idea what fine art's day was and I was too quiet to ask. I was seriously considering quitting orchestra all together because I felt I wasn't really motivated to work at it. So I just quietly followed my fellow orchestra classmates, carrying my cello, down the little sidewalk that connected the two campuses. We got to the high school where we were seated in the auditorium and greeted by the choir lining the aisles and singing what I vividly remember to be a beautiful/kind of creepy/kind of sad-sounding chorale. The way they were standing made it echo like surround sound, and it was pretty mesmerizing. Anyway, the presentation continued and the orchestra got and played the Saint Paul's Suite. This is the first memory I have of deciding that I most definitely wanted to stay in orchestra for the rest of high school, and maybe beyond that. Something about that song moved me and it's stayed in my head ever since. (If you want to listen to the song to get the whole effect of the experience, here's a link to my favorite movement: Saint Paul's Suite- Movement III. In fact, turn it on and use it as a soundtrack for the rest of this blog post. It makes it more exciting. And listen to the other movements while you're at it. See? You're more cultured already!) After the performance I got paired with a stand partner who was a high schooler (a little terrifying for an eighth grader ( If I remember right, she was a junior at the time, which made he pretty intimidating by my standards)) and the combined junior high/high school orchestra got to learn some songs together and play them. Suddenly I actually got excited about continuing orchestra and learning more music like this. I ended up participating in more competitive cello groups like the MPS Junior High Festival Orchestra, Metropolitan Youth Symphony, and East Valley Youth Symphony. All of which changed my life, but I guess you could credit it all back to fine art's day way back when. And I guess I decided I wanted to be a music teacher someday when I was a sophomore in high school and became teacher's aide for Miss Gheen, my new orchestra teacher at my new school. Typical TAs grade papers, but since there was no paper to be graded, it was up to Miss Gheen's discretion to decide what I had to do. She allowed me to get really involved with helping the class, and I started to really love it and realized that, if I became a music teacher, I could do stuff like this everyday.
So, there you have it. I think the most exciting part of all of this is thinking of all the people's lives I could effect by being a teacher. Sometimes I think about how the kids I will teach are alive, RIGHT now, and it gets me really excited! I can't wait to meet them, go to competitions with them, watch them make (and not make) auditions, and, really, to just watch them turn into amazing people and get to be a part of that. How many people can say that about their jobs (well, maybe doctors (saving lives and whatnot) and those people who play the princesses at Disneyland)? Sooo, shoutout to the future students (holla!), and see you in the not-so-distant future.

Senior Scrapbook #1: I don't want to brag, but I have the coolest parents ever. (aka, My Heroes)

It all started when I was born. It was the morning (well, actually, I have no idea what time of the day it was, but I like to imagine it was a lovely morning with birds singing and flowers blooming and whatnot) of March 25, 1995, in a hospital in Phoenix, Arizona. From what I hear, about a gajillion members of my extended family showed up to the occasion. I was the first grandchild on both sides, so I was (and (who are we kidding) I still am) a big deal. I don’t remember details of what happened that day- I was a little busy being born- but I’m sure if I did remember, I’d be pretty happy. Because, believe it or not, I have the coolest parents ever.

My mom is Cheryl Haws. She grew up in Phoenix and has 7 siblings. Her parents were both in education- her dad was a guidance counselor at Central High School for years and her mom was an elementary and special ed teacher. My Mom was the third oldest in her family and often helped out with her younger siblings. She graduated from Central High School, (a feat not easily accomplished- from what I hear it was a pretty sketch) went to Arizona State University, and ended up teaching first graders at a Jewish charter school before receiving her degree (which is funny, considering she’s Mormon, not Jewish). She met my dad at a church Christmas Eve dance. After the dance they ended up spending almost everyday together. They got engaged and were married that May, just five months later. My mom had me the next March (if you’ve already forgotten that story, refer to the first paragraph and take a nap or something, my goodness), and ended up with three organ-donors-if-Lauren-gets-hurt/back up kids after me- Ellyse, Milan, and Lani (who are 14, 12, and 5, respectively). But anyway, back to Mom. Since then she’s devoted basically all of her time to being an awesome mother to me. She’s driven me across town to auditions and rehearsals, payed for almost six years of private cello lessons for me, helped me with my homework (unless it’s math related- none of us are good at math, so it’s basically the blind leading the blind), comforted me while I cried  about boys or school or mean people or my hair or any other topics ranging from understandable to absolutely ridiculous, and helped raise me to be the person I am today. I admire everything she does- whether it be her calling as an LDS church leader over all the women in our congregation, which requires hours and hours of hard work and nights spent up late taking phone calls from distraught neighbors, or making meals for the family that just had a baby, or putting aside some time in her busy day and asking me to play something on the cello for her and then always applauding and commending me for being so “talented” (regardless of the quality of work- let’s be honest, there are times when I’m no Yo-Yo Ma) and making me want to practice, or just making a lunch for me when I’m running late- complete with a sandwich made with just the right amount of mustard, a water bottle with a lemonade packet (because she knows I don’t like the taste of water), and just enough snacks to get me through a day at school. And if this wasn’t enough, she leaves a note in there that is simple but well thought out and always makes me smile, even though its the- “omg”- worst. day. ever. I know other people claim to have the best mom ever, but I’m fairly certain mine is the best.

My Dad is Christopher Haws. He grew up in North Phoenix, but decided one day as a Junior in high school at Deer Valley High that he wanted a change in scenery. So he called up his Uncle Mark and Aunt Camille and worked out a deal- he’d babysit their young daughters for free if they’d let him live with them and go to Mesa High School for his senior year. Apparently they bought it, because a year later he was graduated from Mesa High School. He spent a little time at BYU Idaho, but he just wasn’t a college person. He went on an LDS Mission to Vancouver, Canada, where he learned how to speak Canadian fluently, eh. He came home from his mission to Arizona, and one Christmas Eve was talked into going to the dance (I sure do hope this story is sounding familiar, and if it isn’t... forget about going back to the previous paragraph, just go do something else). He met my mom and the rest is history. But here’s the thing about my Dad....he’s funny. Not funny in a typical Dad kind of way, but unusually funny. He is an entrepreneur and has owned everything from a moving business to commercial real estate and everything in between. We even owned a spa for a little while. Which is weird, considering he’s not much of a spa person. Right now he owns a children’s swim school (again, weird, because I literally have no memories of him ever swimming) that has locations nationwide. He drives a Mini Cooper. He is actually really great at fashion-related stuff, and has, on multiple occasions, taken me shopping for jeans/prom dresses/shoes, because the stuff he picks is really cute. He decorated our whole house (which looks pretty classy, I might add), right down to the curtains that he sewed himself. Last year I just decided to run for orchestra president on a whim, and he wrote a full-length rap for me, complete with dramatic background music, that emphasized that I wanted to use being orchestra president as a stepping stone to, someday, rule the world. Needless to day, I was voted president. At church, my dad teaches the 14-18 year old sunday school class, and before then he taught the adult sunday school class. I get stopped in church constantly by people who want to ask me, “Do you know how funny your Dad is?” (my question for them is: You know I live in the same house as him, right? And that he works from home? And that I’m always around him?”). Once, he was teaching the adult Sunday school class about Jeremiah in the bible, and he started the class by asking “What do we know about Jeremiah besides that he was a bullfrog and a good friend of mine?”. I’m pretty sure anyone old enough to get the reference laughed, and the ones who didn’t laughed too, because my Dad is just funny like that. But my Dad can be serious though, too. Just the other day I came home from school in tears over what I thought was a traumatic day involving finding out the boy I “liked” didn’t feel the same way about me anymore, and wanted to be “just friends” (note: I am 17. This will seem stupid, like, a year from now, but right now it’s totally sad, okay?!!). My Dad sat down by me gave me some very well-thought-out advice on boys that was something along the lines of “Boys are SO dumb!”, which, to me, meant a lot coming from my Dad. I’m going to go out on a limb and say most dads wouldn’t approach their daughters boy problems with a haz-mat suit on. But my Dad isn’t afraid because, as I said earlier, I have the coolest dad ever.

So anyway, this essay was supposed to be about my hero. But I have two. My friends beg to come over to my house. Not because we have a pool (we don’t), or because we have cool video games (we don’t), or because my house is like Queen Creek Disneyland (it’s not), but because my parents are so darned fun! Like I said earlier, my dad holds the title of “Coolest dad EVER”, and my mom is “Momma Haws” for most of my friends. I don't know how else to express how I feel about them. I can't thank them enough for every concert attended, every gift bought, every laugh shared, and every piece of advice given. They’re just awesome people, and I can’t imagine anyone else being my heroes. This one’s for you, Mom and Dad.