IRS: It's Really Scary

Once upon a time the other day, I had to go to the IRS to get a tax form for Daniel's financial aid. 

I went down on my lunch break during the middle of the day, and boy was I ever glad for an excuse to get out of my boring cubicle. 

Lately dollars have been tight, what with being newlyweds and with Daniel going to school and all, so my first thought when walking up to the federal building was "Whoa... I bet whoever works here makes lots of money." The whole grounds were so neat and fancy, and the building itself was much shinier than any of the surrounding landscape. 

I felt so cool and official going through security. I had to put my keys and stuff in one of those little buckets and walk through the beepy freestanding door. Then they x-rayed my phone and keys. Just to be sure. 

At this point, I should add, I was an experienced professional at visiting government offices, as I had been to this very federal building a few weeks before to change my name with the Social Security peeps. 

The nice security men gave me a name tag and directed me to Floor 6, for the IRS.

As the elevator arrived and I jumped on, I noticed another woman already in the elevator.

As soon as the elevator doors opened, I was glad to escape the presence of the zombie woman with the dead eyes. 

However, the awkward elevator encounter would in no way prepare me for the horror that greeted me on Floor 6.

Loooong, white halls. White walls, white ceiling, white lights, white tile floors. There were no people, just white signs with gold lettering. Waaaaaay down at the end of one of the terrifying halls, I saw a sign that said "IRS" with an arrow. 

I hurried to my destination, not wishing to spend any more time than was absolutely necessary in the creepy labyrinth that was Floor 6. 

As soon as I entered the door, I was greeted with a fancy touch-screen device that asked me why I was there. Then it spit out a little scrap of paper with a number on it indicating when it would be my turn.

Fortunately, I had warned my boss ahead of time that I might be taking an extra-long lunch.

I took a seat next to a kindly old gentleman who seemed to have been there for a long time. He wasn't very talkative. 

There was a sign on the wall asking visitors to be respectful of others. It said something along the lines of:

NO CELL PHONES

NO VIDEO GAMES

NO TALKING

NO JOY

NO HOPE

Eventually, people's numbers started to get called, and a man sitting behind me got his turn to go into one of the unsettling little booths.

*true story, that really happened in real life.

I just needed a copy of my tax return transcript, so about an hour later when I finally got my turn, it took like thirty seconds for the dead-eyed gentleman in the booth to click "Print" and then stamp the thing with the other thing. 

As soon as he handed it to me, I shouted "Thank you very much, sir!" and ran out of there as fast as my stubby little legs could carry me.

Down the long white halls I ran, and dove into the nearest elevator, frantically mashing the Floor 1 button until the elevator started to move. I did NOT want to become a federal zombie, no sir. No matter what they paid me. 

In my mad dash for freedom, I neglected to realize that the elevator had only gone down one floor when the doors opened, and I stumbled out onto Floor 5, which probably housed another department of government services. I wouldn't know, I was only there for a couple of seconds. 

I wasn't about to wait for another elevator, so I stumbled through a crowd of confused and slightly worried bystanders and booked it down the stairs.

I slapped my name tag on the giant wad that the security guards were collecting by the door, wished them a hysterical good day, sirs, and dove into my car.

As I drove back to work, I checked my pulse a couple more times to make sure I was still alive and vowed that if I ever needed something government-y in the future, I would find a way to get it online, or at the very least over the phone.

And never would I ever get a job working in a place like that.

Never.

Who Am I?

Hey internet friends! Today's insightful thoughts of the day has to do with... the overwhelming number of existential crises I've undergone in my lifetime.

Mostly my problem has to do with the fact that I was a huge reader as a child, and at a very young age I exposed myself to quite a bit of thought provoking literature. Which, in turn, provoked quite a few thoughts. Thoughts which, over time, evolved into deep-seated paranoia.

For our first example of a crisis that has haunted me for years, we will turn to the "What is me?" dilemma. This particular crisis focuses on what constitutes my character. Were I being introduced in a book, how would the author portray me? And more importantly, who is the author? Is it a first-person narrative? Third-person? Objective observer? Does the narrator feel negatively or positively about me? 

Logic dictates that of the ways different observers describe me must overlap at some point, so the words that they have in common must be the truth. Right?

Right?

Next, my poor youthful brain was exposed to science fiction, which introduced to me the concept of "Artificial Intelligence." These were characters which, consciously or otherwise, were actually synthetic humans that were constructed by real life people to imitate human life, but never quite achieve humanity themselves. 

For a brief point in my life, while I was struggling with the emotionless void that was my freshman year of college, I convinced myself that the reason I was unable to experience feelings was because something had gone wrong in my programming, or I had downloaded a virus of sorts.  

But the most recent and most pervasive crisis was the "Imaginary Friend" dilemma. I don't know if it was from a book I read, or maybe an episode of Star Trek I watched, or perhaps a weird dream I had, but there came a time when I had quite thoroughly convinced myself that I did not, in fact, possess a corporeal form. 

I was pretty sure that, instead of being a real person that existed in a normal state of being like all my other friends, I was some form of... um... sprite or spirit or perhaps even an alien that only existed in the minds of others. And the most terrifying bit was that my existence depended on people thinking about me. If, at any point, everyone in the world stopped thinking of me at once, I would simply cease to exist.

I thought that maybe getting married would solve that problem for good, but even your husband can't think about you all the time. He's got better things to think about, like Power Rangers and car bits and stuff. Someone once suggested to me that having a baby would ensure my survival, since a baby would depend on me for its existence, but in my mind that's about half a step above having a cat. Babies don't really do what I would consider thinking... Also, ain't nobody got time for that. No sir.

So I started a blog! If my friends and family can't be constantly thinking about me, at least some Russian spam-bot will be reading my posts and artificially jacking up my stats to make me feel better about my life. And to all of you real live people out there that are reading this right now and pondering my reality, thanks for providing me with enough mind-energy to live another day. 

An Old Classic

Word of warning:

Before you read this, be aware that this joke was crafted long ago on a marching band trip that involved hours on a bus and sleeping on the floor of a gym. It may not be suitable for children or more delicate audiences. Or those that don't get jokes concocted in the minds of sleep-deprived college kids.

For the non-musician:

A gock block, also known as a "tempo block" or "jam block" is a plastic version of the good old fashioned wood block. A gock block or set of pitched blocks is used by percussionists in salsa or Latin music. It is also used by many drum majors to keep time on the marching band field due to its durability and volume. 

Now I'm not going to explain the rest of the joke. If you don't get it... don't worry about it.

Without further ado, I present to you a comic strip that started out scribbled on the back of an itinerary, but has lived on in the hearts and minds of band students for years.

Our story begins with a friendly trombonist speaking to a nearby flute player as they stand at attention and wait for the drum major to instruct the clarinet section.

"Hey baby, why don't you and I go find a practice room after rehearsal and work on our embouchure exerci--"

Members of the 2011 Weber State Marching Band, holla back if you remember this.

Little Prizes and More Different Little Prizes!

AAAAAH!

OK, I was too excited. 

Remember how I said I was going to reveal the first little prizes on Sunday, July 28? 

Well... they came early, and I was too stoked about them to keep them secret any longer. 

TA-DAAAHHHH!

Introducing, the first awesome prizes you can win from Plans for Nigel! Above you will see a bunch of adorable pictures of hamsters holding signs with QR codes on them. 

BUT WAIT, THERE'S MORE! 

They aren't just little pictures of hamsters, they're STICKERS of hamsters! Put them on your laptop, your phone, your notebook, your locker, your dog, your bike, your lunchbox, your siblings, or just stick them randomly on public property so everyone can see!

Each sticker is a smallish square slightly less than two U.S. quarter-diameters in length/width (I measured), and features Bandy-called-Walter (right) and our very own Nigel (left) holding a sign which bears a QR code. When scanned with a smartphone or other QR-capable device, these stickers can be used to pull up a secret surprise website that you will never guess!

...yes, it's Plans for Nigel. 

That was a lucky guess, though. I'll bet your mom helped you.

YOU KNOW YOU WANT THEM!

If I had a bazillion dollars, I would wallpaper my apartment in them. 

You can win stickers as prizes (check out the page "Prizes Fun!" above), or if you really want to buy them that bad you can special order them by emailing hemustbehappy.blogspot.com. Each sticker is $0.50 a piece, or buy 3 randomly selected stickers for $1.00. 

I Need to Chill

Once upon a time, I started a blog.

It was just for fun, because all my friends were doing it and I wanted to be a cool kid too.

I found out, after a little while, that I really enjoyed blogging! 

So I started another blog. And that blog had pictures, so it was automatically more awesome.

I found out after a little more while that I really enjoyed writing words and drawing pictures, and people enjoyed reading my words and admiring my pictures.

But I also found out that it's hard to draw and write and think of things to draw and write about all the time, so my blog kind of got neglected. 

I don't remember exactly what it was that got me going again. Maybe it was the excitement of my impending matrimony, or maybe I just had a lot of time on my hands all of a sudden, but I decided it was time to give my blog a little more attention. 

And after a little while, I started to remember how much I like writing and drawing, and more importantly, how much I liked making people laugh. 

"I loved your pictures!" 

"I saw your post the other day, that's so true!"

"I decided I was going to start reading, and then a couple hours later I was like 'I have to stop!'"

"It's so cute!"

And after another little while... I started to get a little bit obsessed. 

I was paying so much attention to my blog that my poor husband was starting to get neglected. 

And my poor hamsters, who are/were the heart and soul of Plans for Nigel.

And my sleep.

And my home.

And my... self.

But I didn't want to neglect my readers! I really do want to be known for my writing someday, and hopefully someday soon. And I really do want to make people laugh, and I want to cheer people up, and I want to make people think, and I want to touch people's hearts and minds and souls and stuff.

So I guess I just have to... quit my real job or something. Or find a way to manipulate time so I have more hours in the day.

But for really, I love you guys. In a mostly platonic way, but I do. I appreciate everyone that reads my blog, and I really appreciate everyone that shares it with their friends and family. Every person that reads is the driving force behind my next idea. If I know that someone's out there waiting for something new, I have a reason to write more things! 

So these words are mostly to say... thanks for all the support and encouragement y'all have provided over the years. And thanks for being awesome. 

These pictures are mostly to say... I want to keep posting, but I think I need to take a step back and become a little less... zealous. But this is good news for you guys! My future posts should be more about funny things and less about begging you to love me. 

But really, please love me. It sustains me.

Just kidding, I don't need you guys.

But really I do!

OK, here's the deal. I do need readers, or I'm a tree falling in the forest and there's anecdotes flying everywhere. So let's hear some trees holla back, shall we? I want feedback from you guys! What do YOU want out of Plans for Nigel? What interesting concepts do YOU want explained by someone who has no idea? What is YOUR favorite breed of cat? 

I want the goods, people! I'm sure you get tired of reading my words all the time. If you give me some words, I promise I'll still draw you pictures. And... you know... I never run out of words either. 

So don't worry.

I'll be right... here...

The Book

Well thanks, Devoted Fan! I appreciate your enthusiasm. 

The honest truth is, I totally already have a book. It's pretty awesome, and I started working on shortly before Plans for Nigel came into being. 

It started out as a place for me to put all my thoughts and ideas and controversial views on things, but it ended up being imbued with magical powers. It's basically a Horcrux.

Well, OK, Equal Opportunity Gender Inclusive Viewer. Yes, I have a book. Technically. 

A book.

But it's not like... a publishy book, in the sense that it's mostly a collection of scribbly drawings and interesting words similar to PFN, but way less organized and drawn with pens rather than digital voodoo. 

So you can't buy it. The ISBN is... 978YOURMOTHER.

Aww, it's going to be alright, Ethnically Diverse Reader. 

I'm not mailing my book to you, because as I stated earlier, it's attached to my soul by an ancient enchantment, and also I work for a book rental company and I know enough to realize that strangers can't be trusted. 

But that doesn't mean you can't read it.

I realized the other day that sometimes when my creativity is... lacking... I can just draw on old, stale creativity that has just been wasting away in my dusty ol' Book for a couple of years! It's just as fascinating and entertaining as Plans for Nigel, but I don't have to think of anything because I already thought of it.

So the good news is, I'll probably be posting marginally more often than usual over the next little while.

That's great, Faithful Supporter Representing An Age Demographic Other Than My Primary Viewers! I'm glad I brought light into your otherwise dreary life. If there's anything I want in this world, it is to fill all the people who have figured out how to operate the internet with joy! 

Well, Someone's Offspring That Should Be Reading My Blog, the idea is to have a legitimate book with actual pages and words and pictures on the pages and a binding with a cover and a real ISBN published in the eventual future. 

So by the time you learn how to read, you could be reading real life books written by me that people paid me for! Even you could someday spend your hard earned money on an illustrated masterpiece that would totally be worth every penny. 

I'll even autograph it if you want. 

For now, here is a sneak preview of the papery-type adventureness that is The Book:

That page actually makes a lot of sense compared to the rest of them.

Prepare yourselves.

For Hipsters, About Hipsters

So, hipsters. Am I right?

Actually I don't know. I'm not totally all up on the pop culture things, but I guess being "hipster" is the new thing now.

From what I understand, it's cool to be hipster but it's not cool to be like everyone else, but all the hipsters are the same and they like certain things, but they all claim to like things that no one else likes, but they all kind of flock together, too. 

So basically, the moral of the story is this: I don't understand hipsters. 

From my research, I've gathered the following data, which I've compiled in this cartoon picture diagram of a modern Utah Hipster. 

1. This same hairdo. The boys, the girls, the... somewhere in between... That's the other thing about hipsters, sometimes it's hard to tell the genders apart.

2. Those stupid freaking glasses. Apparently this is the single most identifying feature of the modern hipster. Throwing these glasses on something and captioning it "I ____ before it was cool" automatically means hipster.

3. Totally just tobacco, man. Hipsters... aren't a part of the system.

4. A stupid scraggly beard. Only the male hipsters sport this facial mold, because apparently it's cool to not be cool and throw grooming to the wind.

5. Thrift store clothes. Hipsters like to disguise the fact that they're mostly all poor college students with the idea that buying stinky old clothes is the latest fashion.

6. Suspenders in daily life. Because holding up your pants with a belt is too mainstream.

7. The slouchy posture. I think this might have something to do with the "tobacco," but also could be a display of their general disregard for cultural ideals.

8. Skinny Jeans. Most of them have skinny legs, too, for some reason. But the idea is to look as lurpy as possible, I guess.

9. Those are Toms. It's part of the Hipster Dress Code.

The most important way to identify a hipster, though, is if they ever refer to anything as "too mainstream" or say that they liked something "before it was cool." The basic idea behind hipsterism is to like things that aren't popular, and if there are any real life genuine hipsters that read this, or even wannabe hipsters, I have the following to say to you:

First off, I hope you weren't offended by my diagram. Lighten up, guys.

Secondly, Plans for Nigel is going to be the next big thing in a couple of years, just you wait and see. So wouldn't it be the most hipster thing ever to get behind the action before it becomes mainstream? Jessayin'. 

Tell all your friends. But, you know, through BBM or telegraph or something. Maybe send them a carrier pigeon.

Also, if you're not a fan of PFN on Facebook, you probably haven't heard about the super great contest I'm hosting, and you're also probably not as awesome as you could be. Fortunately for you, I've added yet another new page called "Prizes Fun!" that will provide you with all the deets. 

So you know you want to get in on that sweet action. To help you out, I'd like to direct your attention to the clicky button at the bottom of every post that will help you easily share it on Facebook, Twitter, Blogger, or email. 

Also, there's now a link to the Facebook page on the sidebar as well. It looks like a picture Hipster Nigel, but it's really a link if you click on it. If you like the page, it will boost your awesomeness level by like... six awesome points. I promise.

Redemption and Remorse

Once upon a time, there was a baby hamster named Radagast.

You may remember him from when I got him like three weeks ago. 

This story is about Radagast, as previously stated. 

Once upon a time there was a baby hamster named Radagast, and he liked to live life on the edge.

He was always super adorable even when he bit people all the frigging time.

He was the most bravest hamster in all the land, and apparently also possessed Spider Hamster* powers.

*he couldn't really swing from webs, but he climbed to great heights against the forces of nature.

He had a weird habit of pulling all the food out of his food dispenser, hiding it in random locations around his cage, and then crawling around and stuffing it all into his face.

And I mean... like... all of it.

If you think that picture is an exaggeration, here is a real life actual picture of him doing it.

If you look reeeeeally closely, you can see how super duper fat his cheeks are from stuffing so much food in.

And yes, that is a toilet paper roll in the background. Once upon a time there was a baby hamster named Radagast and his favorite toy was a toilet paper tube. He made forts and tunnels with it.

His other favorite game was jumping between the upper levels of his cage like some sort of tiny furry daredevil. 

To illustrate to you the daredevility of his stunts, here is a picture of his house:

He started up getting from red shelf to red shelf by running across the top of the wheel, but eventually graduated up to just jumping the gap.

One day, Radagast was home alone and had nothing to do but entertain himself by doing stunts.

We will never know for certain if this is what really happened, but from what I could tell when I got home, it went something like this:

He wasn't even six months old, the little bugger. I'm not entirely sure what it was that killed him, but in a way it almost makes me feel a little better to know that maybe it wasn't my fault that they died. He had plenty of food and water, and his cage had been cleaned fairly recently. After talking to some friends, I found out that the water in our new apartment has higher concentrations of fluoride, and maybe it was a slow poison type situation. Or maybe it was just a coincidence. There are lots and lots of reasons why little hamsters can die, and I've written before about the inherent terror and paranoia that comes from owning a hamster. 

Losing Bandy was hard, but losing both my little friends within a few days of each other was super tough. Sometimes in life there are things we can't control, as I wrote about before, but boy do I wish we could.

And now, for the first time in almost two and a half years...

I have no hamsters. 

Once I Tried Sports

So, I realized as I was looking back over my more recent stories, most of my words lately have been fairly depressing. Since PFN is mostly intended to be a humorous blogtoon, I've decided to address one of the most comical subjects I can think of:

Me attempting to participate in sports-related activities. 

The story starts when I was in 7th grade, and a boy that I liked was on the track team. I don't know what strange ideas possessed my mind and convinced me that being on the track team with him would cause him to like me, especially considering the fact that this particular boy ran like an amazing spirit and would go on to be the boys' state cross country champion in high school. But, since my teeny little brain was clouded by little bitty hormones, I decided to go for it.

Now, let me describe to you my 11-year-old physique...

When I was in 7th grade, I was 4'9 and weighed about 80 pounds. My parents always made fun of me and told me that, technically, Utah law requires anyone under 85 pounds to ride in a car seat. 

My body was not built for athleticism. 

Fortunately I went to public school, and therefore I guess they were required to let anyone and everyone try out for the track team, and the coaches tried really hard to find an event for me. 

First I tried sprinting...

...which turned out to not be my event. Turns out when you have teeny little lungs and little short legs, it's hard to cover any distance with any sort of speed.

Next I tried something a little less... running-oriented. The coaches thought that maybe I would be better at the long jump, since I didn't weigh very much and it didn't require running for much distance.

...that turned out to not really be my niche either.

Obviously I wasn't going to be great at anything that required very long legs, and jumping a great distance in a horizontal direction definitely wasn't for the stubby of limbs. Perhaps, however, my teeny body could get some vertical momentum instead. 

...high jumping also yielded less than thrilling results.

At the end of the tryouts and at the end of the coaches' patience, someone somewhere suggested one final event for me to try.

Seriously, I don't know whose idea it was to have the 80-pound girl throw a 50-pound shot, but I wasn't amused. (Also, yes, I know that a typical shot doesn't weigh more than 9 pounds for women, but it seemed much closer to my body weight than it should have been.)

Needless to say, I did not go home from tryouts that day as the newest member of the track team. This wasn't because I didn't make the team, though. The poor coaches, bless their hearts, tried to convince me that if I kept trying, they could find something for me to excel at, but I decided it wasn't worth the disappointment. Sometimes you just know when you are meant for more... sedentary things.

Lucky for me, though, I went on to try band, and that worked out pretty well for me. The little boy I liked in 7th grade played trumpet, conveniently, and he ended up being my very first date in high school. We're still bestest friends to this day. Also convenient was the fact that my dearly beloved husband played trumpet as well, and had I been a sportsperson, it's likely we would have never met.

As I tell this story to friends and family all these years later, the response I get is almost always "But if they had let you try the pole vault, I'm sure that would have been perfect for you!" 

Somehow, I can't see that ending well either.