Oreo Spelling, Toothpaste, BYU-Idaho, and Related Matters

This isn't exactly the spelling technique as I had envisioned it, but I suppose it would work in a pinch.

I bought a double-sized (Costco) package of Oreos because I recognize the need to hone my date invitation skills as practiced at BYU-Idaho. This begs the question as to precisely why I would ever need to know how to ask boys out at BYU-Idaho since: A) there's no one currently attending the school whom I desire to date; and B) I have no desire to attend the school myself. Still, one can never say never, and I'm all about education and broadening one's horizons. I took the double-pack of Oreos home, placed it on the kitchen counter, and went upstairs to brush my teeth as I self-debated in regard to upon whose windshield I should practice my Oreo spelling skills.

By the time I made it back into the kitchen, the Oreos had been opened. Half of the first of the two packs had been devoured by my brother Matthew, my cousin Josh, and my dad. Keep in mind that only an hour earlier, the three of them, with only the slightest help from my mom, had devoured the dump cake experiment I had produced in the interest of science. They should not have been starving to death.

I complained that there weren't enough Oreos left to spell out any sort of invitation, to which my dad responded, "Exactly how many Oreos do you think you need to spell out, "Voulez vous?"? [double question marks intended] What sort of a father would suggest that his daughter spell out "Voulez vous?" with Oreos, or, for that matter, with anything else? The answer is, "One whose first language was French."  My dad is French-Canadian, and his parents spoke French to him when he was a child. That's the excuse he's sticking with, anyway.

My brother continued  putting Oreos into his mouth two at a time, taking a drink of milk, swallowing, and repeating the process.

My cousin Josh, eating at a pace only slightly slower than that of my brother, paused briefly between bites to say, "You got the wrong kind of Oreos."

"Huh?" I asked. Would Mint Oreos, specially designed Easter motif pastel Oreos, or Double Stuff Oreos have done the job better? I was confused.

"You get those little Oreos," Josh clarified.

My brother, the connoisseur of all things related to junk food, weighed in with his criticism of Josh's suggestion. "There's not enough gooey stuff in the middle of those Mini Oreos to stick on anyone's windshield."

"You use toothpaste to stick them on," he told us.

"What?!?"  my dad, my brother, and I demanded.

"You take along a tube of toothpaste.You unscrew the Mini Oreos, squeeze on a little toothpaste, them stick them on the windshield," Josh explained, speaking slowly as though he was explaining something to people who were hard of hearing, didn't speak English, or were perhaps a bit stupid.

"Who the hell told you this?" my dad asked him,

"My sister went to BYU-Idaho," Josh elucidated. "I know about these things."

"But then you couldn't eat the Oreos off the windshield!" my brother exclaimed. "You might get flourosis from the toothpaste!"

I started to voice my opinion that there are a whole lot of reasons beyond fluoride overdose that a sane person would not eat Oreos off a windshield, but, realizing that my brother doesn't necessarily qualify as a sane person under most definitions of the word sane, I chose to let it go.  For that matter, we were lucky that Matthew was even able to come up with fluorosis as a reason not to eat Oreos glued to a windshield by God knows who. Three years ago I'm fairly certain that he would have gobbled them down with no questions asked.

"This is so low-tech, anyway," my dad observed as he dunked an Oreo in milk and stuck it in his mouth. "Why can't you just use Facebook or Craig's List or something if you really want to ask a guy out? And do you seriously want to date anyone at BYU-Idaho? If you're going to date a Mormon, why not stick with Jared? At least he goes to UCLA."

It was the closest thing to  an endorsement of Jared that I've ever heard come from my dad's mouth.

"When I went to BYU," my dad continued, "a girl once invited me to a dance by spelling out the invitation with lime jello letter molds." He paused to swallow his Oreo.' "Now that was a creative invitation."

"Did you go to the dance with her?" my cousin asked.

"Hell no," my dad replied. "She was a bat-shit crazy."