yukon, ho!

I'm cheating on my blog . . .

2012-01-19T22:09:00.000-08:00

. . . with my work blog. I was just put in charge of the blog at www.nethosting.com/buzz/blog, which is fairly exciting for me, hopefully it will give me a chance to shine there and extend my internship into something more. So, check it out if you're interested, I blog about current, interesting (yes, I do get to pick my own topics) technology news from around industry. In the near future a piece that shows you who wrote which post will be up, as well as a commenting system, and an RSS feed (we're small and slow, be kind). As for right now, I've written the three most recent articles and will be writing all of them from here on out, but before this week's posts, it's sometimes hard to tell which of the three of us writers wrote what.

If you feel so inclined, go ahead and like us on Facebook (http://www.facebook.com/nethosting) and follow us on Twitter (@nethosting).

As for the lack of content on this site you ask? This is my last semester at BYU and it seems like my course load is proof that the English major wants to kick me on my way out the door. So, no. I won't be updating soon. However, I'm as in love with essays as ever and have a handful that I would love to have time to edit in the near future. My post-graduation to-do list is constantly growing . . .

Christmas is here, bringing good cheer

2011-12-05T21:23:00.001-08:00

In years past I've lamented Christmas as a college student. I don't own any decorations and am too poor to buy any. I am craft-illiterate and refuse to taint Christmas by making then hanging severely mangled homemade Christmas decorations. I ring in the month of Christmas with end-of-semester papers and projects followed closely by final exams, and then I jump at the opportunity to work full-time the rest of the month to get a few dollars ahead. I'm not big on listening to Christmas music all of the time (don't lynch me, I like it, just not on those 24/7 radio stations), and I'm not exactly admiring neighbors decorations because I live in a mainly student populated apartment complex. I celebrate Christmas for a few days with my family, whether in Utah or in Washington, and then it's back for a few more days of full-time work before I start the new semester slog all over again. Like I said, this has been the rinse and repeat Christmas pattern for the past few years I've been in college.

I think of Christmas at home with ungodly amounts of cookies, decorations strewn throughout the house, and a Douglas fir filling the living room with needles, its sheer size, and best of all - its smell. All of our hodge podge ornaments are placed conscientiously on the tree to fill up as much space as possible. It used to be easy but as all of the kids get married, one by one, they take their ornaments and the tree looks a little more sparse every year (I am secretly pleased because then I get to put all of my ornaments front and center). One of the radios in the kitchen is tuned to one of those radio stations playing Christmas music 24/7 starting right after Thanksgiving and for some reason, it's not so bad when it's at home. Slowly, presents start congregating under the tree and even though it's never too many, it also looks perfect and full on the old tree skirt that has the 12 Days of Christmas embroidered around it. Stockings are laid out on the fireplace and the white tree advent calendar that never has any candy in it is hung above the railing on the stairs.

On December 1st, something just felt kind of different about Christmas this year, and yet everything seems the same. If anything, it's kind of worse. My apartment is even less decorated than before, I have to work even more, and be with family even less. Regardless, I can't put my finger on it, but something is different. Maybe it's because I started out the month with family, and can now bear the next two weeks of wrapping up classes before I get to see them again. Maybe it was the office decorations I see everyday that are really quite impressive. Maybe it's because I heard my first Christmas song in a commercial last week and even though I don't remember the song or the product (it was not the Victoria's Secret ad, but I have to admit: Carol of the Bells is my favorite Christmas song), it made me so happy my eyes thought someone was chopping onions in my room. Maybe it's because I know there won't be much else this Christmas besides service and family, but I finally figured out that's all I need. Or maybe it really only hit just tonight, after we went caroling to some people that may or may not have needed to know that there was a haphazardly formed group of their peers that have found some common ground every Monday night, that miss them when they don't come. Whatever the reason for my attitude this season, it's refreshing.

P.S.

This is without a doubt the way Carol of the Bells is supposed to be sung. I love a multitude of variations and arrangments but as far as classic, perfect interpretation, this is it.

What is success?

2011-10-17T22:32:00.000-07:00

I've been perusing two folders I have on my laptop hard drive, one created after I had already forgotten about the first. "Blog" and "Writing" are both in my "Work" folder, in a feeble attempt to put my dreams into some sort of action. Neither folder contains many documents. A few I could delete because they really did end up on this blog in some form or another, which I'm pleased about. One I wrote when I was incredibly depressed and I must say it is incredibly good. It will probably never find a place to be displayed for other's admiration for fear of it's implications of my mental health (despite the fact that it's been over a year since writing it.) One I just wrote because I realized I need to write every day and I tried to relax and I couldn't stop thinking about everything and I had read two articles today about relaxing so what should that say to me? In the "Blog" folder I also found a draft of the first ever post I put on this blog. The draft had absolutely nothing to do with the version that ended up being the inaugural post on this blog, but it certainly got me thinking tonight.

When I was 12 a church leader read this poem to my class one Sunday and I have never stopped identifying it as most likely my favorite poem. I was supposed to learn about Ralph Waldo Emerson in one of the classes I've already taken as an English major but either I never actually learned anything or I already forgot it (the curse of being forced to obtain knowledge as opposed to the sponge I can be when I get to learn on my own time.)

What is success?

To laugh often and much
To win the respect of intelligent people and the affection of children
To earn the approval of honest critics and endure the betrayal of false friends
To appreciate beauty
To find the best in others
To give of one's self
To leave the world a bit better, whether by a healthy child, a garden patch, or a redeemed social condition
To have laughed and played with enthusiasm and sung with exultation
To know that even one life has breathed easier because you have lived
This is to have succeeded.

Forgive me if I've blogged about this before, I really can't remember and lack the patience to search through all of my old posts to find this poem. I've been contemplating attempting to get a Master of Fine Arts degree in Creative Non-Fiction (i.e. the genre I'm writing this blog in, e.g. memoirs, personal essay, etc.) There are so many variables, I started to type them out here and realized my own brain doesn't even want to deal with these issues so it pushes them in the back of my mind. More than anything, I wish I could ask my current creative non-fiction professor "Am I good enough? Will I get accepted by a school with faculty I will love and write like and then get published as I teach other students this craft, preferably at a college in the Pacific Northwest?" I doubt he would give me answers, let alone the ones I wanted to hear.

And in the end, does it matter? I define my personal success now as praise from my current workshop class and acceptance into an MFA program and being published somewhere, somehow. But Ralph tells me that's a pretty crappy yardstick. Underneath my constantly reeling brain and ever-bleeding heart, I think I'm inclined to agree, but I often forget (so much that I question my belief in his measurement system at all.) But then there's this blog post, that I'm actually really pleased with. And the wonderful comments I get from family and friends (maybe not the most critical judges, but they sure do help my self-esteem) on so many of these posts. And the tingling, giggling feeling I get when I read incredible essays assigned for my class. It's an odd rising feeling starts just below my sternum and pulses through my clavicle and esophagus, and hovers behind my eyes in a mist that never comes out of my tear ducts (for which I am grateful) that manifests to me that I really want to do this, more than I've wanted to do anything before. That's not to discredit my absolute passion for crime-solving or firefighting as a (younger) child, or my dream of directing a high school band that disintegrated a few short years ago. It's a different kind of manifestation that includes a nugget of hope that I'm not as bad at this as the dementor-like specter would have me believe. It usually sits just inside my left ear and starts sucking out my confidence immediately after I hand in an essay for my workshop class to critique.

I've achieved a lot of the points on Mr. Emerson's list, and I'm still just a baby, so I think I'm doing pretty good, all things considered. Sometimes it's hard to remember that. Someone said this to me once and I love it for it's impeccable attention to the detailed connotations within words we use. I try hard to follow it always: follow your bliss.

A letter to and from Brian Doyle

2011-10-04T16:08:00.000-07:00

So a) check this guy out, Brian Doyle. He's awesome and he has published a ton of awesome pieces but "A Sin" is recent and was near the top of my Google search so that's why it's linked here. I wholeheartedly recommend his most recent book Grace Notes, which I just had to read for my class. When he came to my class last Thursday to be interviewed by my classmates and me, I asked him about his lack of Wikipedia page, so don't try looking there because none of those Brian Doyle's are him.

b) I went to his reading, open to the whole campus, on Friday afternoon and since I had one of his books, I stood in line afterwards and got him to sign it. I shook his hand and said thanks for the reading, and that I had 15 minutes in line to think of something intelligent and failed. He laughed and said he should've done the same thing (thought of something intelligent to say) and then wished me well and I left.

c) I was really bothered by this exchange and he had already admitted to the auditorium that he responds to every single e-mail or letter he receives so I went back to my office and wrote him the following letter, and his reply follows that. Enjoy.

From: Laurie
To: Brian Doyle
Subject: You just signed my book at BYU . . .

I stood in line thinking of something to say for 15 minutes and came up with something, but when I finally got to hand you my book, I got too nervous. In hindsight, I've decided that what I came up with is kind of a nice thing to say about someone and his or her writing, so I think it's worth an e-mail. Sorry for giving you more letters to wade through.

I love reading your writing because you're such an optimist and I'm such a cynic, and I feel healthier after I read your words. Thank you for that respite from myself.

To: Laurie

From: Brian Doyle
Subject: RE: You just signed my book at BYU . . .

Aw, that is the kindest gentlest loveliest note I have had for a long time. Thank you, Laurie. I savor the youness of you. Brian

Don't worry, I got/get misty-eyed when I read/read it.

Of smells

2011-09-16T00:02:00.000-07:00

Every few weeks in my "Writing Creative Non-Fiction" class, we have to submit a 500-1000 word "experiment" with a prompt given to us by the professor. This prompt was to find an essay by Michel Montaigne, use the title and quote a line from the essay somewhere within our own piece.

Although Montaigne wrote over 400 years before Ieven picked up a pen, I find a kindred spirit as I read his essays. No one cancommiserate with me as well as one who “scent[s] at a greater distance . . .than other men.” Rank or sweet, I can pick out a scent sooner than most. WhileMontaigne focused on the perfumed versus the natural, I can only think of thetime and place and feeling associated with every smell my olfaction registers,regardless of the pleasure or displeasure of the fragrance.

When my nose runs awaywith my imagination, I pretend my acute sense of smell is strong enough for adiagnosis of hyperosmia. It must be unnatural that when that woman passes me onthe street and I can detect her Estée Lauder perfume, I think of my mother and Iam there, in her room at six years old. She is wearing a salmon jacket andputting on makeup. Her jewelry box is open on her dresser and next she will puton her earrings that look like long, green leaves that match her skirt. We aregetting ready to go to church on Sunday morning and I am lying on her bed,watching her in the mirror just so I can be with her longer.

Maybe the doctors willbelieve my self-diagnosis of a hyper smelling ability when I prove that I cansmell the adolescent body spray on the teenager all the way across the room. Iam walking down the halls of my high school, shy but pleased to be holdinghands with someone. It is an aroma mixed with guilt, for dodging and sneakingand thinking that I am smarter than any adult in my life.

When my IV line isflushed with saline solution after my medical treatments and I taste it in mymouth and feel it in my eyes and smell it as though it were being spritzed inmy face, then I think maybe I have a special sense of smell. And the wholehospital room is the same as my 17^th spring, when I couldn’t speakor walk because I was tired and ill and something was wrong but no one knewwhat. The smells of disinfectant and bed pans and paper bed sheets remove mefrom the present and take me back a number of years in an instant, with oneinhalation.

Perhaps my strongestpiece of evidence is returning home, only once or twice a year. As I step intomy parent’s home I smell something unidentifiable. It is the dog in the laundryroom, it is the detergent in the dish washer, it is the freshly vacuumedcarpet. It is my father’s aftershave and my mother’s casseroles and my stuffeddog that I slept with every night. It can’t even be categorized as a pleasantodor but it is pleasant in its associations. It is home and it is family and itis make-believe proof that I have hyperosmia, when I know that I don’t. I justhappen to have an acute sense of smell.

On Harry Potter

2011-07-25T13:54:00.000-07:00

I have known that I physically need to write a post on my feelings about Harry Potter for a long time. I have a draft of it, sitting out on the internet, but I was just never satisfied with it. I have no idea where to begin to express Harry and me, or even Joanne and me. Having since written and re-read this entry, I find it inadequate as well, but it does a little better than my other draft.

My fifth grade teacher read Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets to my class. I borrowed Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone from my neighborhood friend after Mrs. Zachrison finished reading in class, so I was caught up on all the details of Harry's life. During all of this, Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban had come out, so I borrowed that from my same neighborhood friend and was now in the same wonderful place as every person cooler than me who had heard about the series before I did. I ordered the next three books (four through six) online so I wouldn't have to do the midnight thing but would get them that day. When I was packing for college, I thought the first six books of the series would be really important to have with me, so I packed them and gave them a shelf in my limited dorm space. I re-read them all in preparation for the release of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. I went to the midnight book release on BYU campus with friends (dressed as a muggle) and read the whole thing that night, before my test the next morning at 10am.

During all of this the movies came out. I couldn't submit to that kind of slaughter of my favorite characters in my favorite world. As the release of the final installment of the movies was drawing near, I was invited to go with some friends and I had to admit I'd never seen a single movie. I watched all 7 in three days, then the last movie in theaters, at midnight, on the fourth day. It had been so long since I had read all of the books that I was detached enough from the movies to not be too offended by what parts of the stories were changed or left out. (except for the third movie . . . I find that movie truly offensive. So much was changed without reason! Arg!) I enjoyed the last movie but I realized it was probably more because I had only read the seventh book once and didn't remember many details. So, I read seven Harry Potter books in seven days to get back in touch with my roots.

It was interesting reading them as an English and editing student. J.K. Rowling uses more adverbs than anyone alive, I think. Her favorites seem to be shrilly and darkly. She was purposefully wordy at some parts. From any other author, in any other series, these two things alone would have driven me berserk. But it doesn't really matter to me, because I fell in love with these books long before I learned that adverbs are taboo and being wordy doesn't make you sound smart. I was trying to classify my passion for Harry Potter, as if I had to explain it to an outside observer. I wouldn't say I'm obsessed; I don't own Harry Potter paraphernalia, I've never dressed up as a Harry Potter character. I did have some wizard duels in 6th grade, and I'm sure I donned a robe to go to a themed party. So how do I convince someone that I'm a true fan, without all of these other outward expressions?

The best way I can think to describe it is like a pure love. Simple, unadulterated, pure. I hope in my life I can do something just as selfless and noble and loving as Harry or Hermione or Ron or Albus or Neville or any of the characters (Sirius, Severus, Lily, James, the list is as long as the books). Juvenile literature gets knocked because they make the good guys so good, but isn't that a glimpse of how wonderful the world could be if we tried to emulate our literary heroes? I don't remember clinging to these books in times of trouble in my youth, I know some people have stories about Hogwarts saving their lives because they were so alone and in such a dark place. I just loved them because they were so wonderful. Is that a good enough reason? Does that qualify me enough to be a super fan? I don't know . . . I don't know who decides these things either, but I hope whoever does comes across this blog post someday. These books are pure, and good, and right, and they're still some of my most favorite literature I've ever read. They're friendly and comforting and still make me cry every time because there isn't a place that draws me in further than Hogwarts and Britain and the wizarding world.

Open Windows

2011-06-30T14:01:00.001-07:00

I wrote this May 1st but due to some recent posting I didn't want to overburden my readers. Here it is now, and it still holds true.

I'm not a very clean person. I mean, every once in a while, I reach a breaking point and go ape on my mess of a room for a solid hour, but that happens . . . maybe once every 4 months. Lucky for me, tonight was one of those nights. In actuality, this was prompted by the impending visit of my parents, so thanks again Mom and Dad, for picking up after me one way or another for my whole life.

A great outcome of this (aside from not living like a slob any more) was that I can finally use the desk in my room. Previously a holding place for a lot of empty envelopes that I never throw away for some reason, it is now a dust-free writing center. I've heard time and again that to sleep more effectively, only use your bed for sleeping in, so your brain isn't confused when you lie down, mistaking your desire to sleep for the internet surfing you were doing in your bed a few hours prior. Plus, although it's called a "laptop," I absolutely despise having my laptop on my lap. That is some intense heat! (get your minds out of the gutter, all of you).

The result of these cleaning sprees is usually me breaking a sweat, and since I only do that about once every 4 months, the benefits of cleanliness are two-fold (cardiovascular and respiratory health). Invariably, that will force me to open the window and let the cool night breeze (currently a balmy 42 degrees Farenheit) dance into my room. And this, three meandering, self-indulgent paragraphs later, is what prompted me to being this blog post. (would more people read these posts if they weren't so lame in the beginning?)

My roommates love the A/C. I moved into this apartment last August and through October they were blasting the A/C. I'm too passive-aggressive to bring it up, or even change the dial myself, but I'm a firm believer in either freezing or sweating it out if the established A/C or heater temperature isn't to your satisfaction (see: miser). So on rare nights like tonight, when no one else realized it was 75 degrees in our apartment, I got to crack the window and listen to the white noise from the distant busy road and smell fresh air for the first time in 5 hours (I don't move very much on Sundays). And then it gets to the point like right now, where it's getting a little too cold and I'm starting to get goose bumps but I don't want to say goodbye to that breeze and that freshness and the hum of passing cars (and the occasional car full of men singing "Party in the USA" at the top of their lungs as they drive by) that reminds me cleanliness is next to godliness and that some fresh air does the body good.

Sister Kramer

2011-06-14T23:11:00.000-07:00

I was "best friends" (quotes because I kind of hate that term) and roommates with the same person for about 3 years of my life. In August, we parted ways and I would be lying if I said it was no big deal. For me, it was a big deal. I realized I didn't know how to have fun or be myself or do things on my own, especially in Provo. I'd be lying if I said I figured it out. I don't think I have. But that's part of this summer social program and this try-new-things agenda I've made for myself, and I think things are going well. Better than before, anyway. Before, I didn't know where to even begin. I was too insecure to strike up conversations with people, let alone make new friends. I was too insecure to just go places on my own (still really bad at that). I spent an inordinate amount of time eating, sleeping, and watching TV, and nothing else.

Sometime during fall semester last year, my co-worker McKenna casually invited me to go to a dance and cultural event on campus with her and a friend. It was a simple gesture that was easy enough for me to accept. This is what McKenna does: makes people feel at ease, even if they're not at ease with themselves. It sparked similar invitations. This is what McKenna does: thoughtfully remembers others. Over a short time, this created a friendship. This is what McKenna does: makes new friends with ease and is incredibly loyal.

I like to think I put up a tough front but to those who spend every workday with me, (McKenna) I'm sure I'm actually pretty transparent. So, I like to think that McKenna didn't realize this incredible service she did for me, by doing this one simple thing so many months ago, and she's just that friendly. But maybe that's exactly it; maybe McKenna saw how much I needed a friend and extended a hand. Each scenario is as likely as the other. And while I'm focusing on this one act, over eight months ago, the truth is that her continued friendship has inspired me to be better, and to find myself how I want to be: fun, friendly, and serving others.

McKenna is beginning an 18-month proselyting mission for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints on July 27th, serving in Budapest, Hungary, speaking Hungarian. McKenna leaves on Monday to go home and prepare to serve. I'd be lying if I said I wouldn't miss her and her hilarious sense of humor and her positive attitude and her willingness to always put up with me and all of my quirks. I'm struggling to put what I'm feeling into words because I think so much of this friendship has been about things unsaid, about an understanding without having to spell out feelings or back track to retract misstatements. There's been a very common ground in this judgment-free relationship, and while I'm going to miss so many things about McKenna while she's serving, that might be what I'll miss the most. How many people do you find in your life, that just kind of get you? I think I'd be more worried, except I know that I won't meet too many people in my life as wonderful as McKenna, so I'm not going to let something as small as a year and a half on the other side of the world stop this friendship.

Welcome back!

2011-05-16T22:58:00.000-07:00

Disclaimer: It's about to get real in this blog post . . . but hopefully still delightful.

I know what you're all* (none of you are) thinking: "Laurie, you've been working full-time and not in classes and just loafing around for the past three weeks. Where are your witty and endearing blog posts about recesses of your life that everyone* (no one) wants to read about!?" Based on past experience, a reader of my blog would assume an apology is forthcoming. In this instance, you are incorrect. No apology, because I have nothing to apologize for. I have been living life for the past three weeks, and it has been glorious.

New leaves are always easiest to turn over when there is some noticeable, tangible shift to hide behind. I picked the change from Winter to Fall semester here in Provo. Turnover in church attendees, no classes, and working full-time all adds up to a perfect opportunity to reinvent myself as a socialite. This is a role I've never taken on in my life before (except for maybe a few miraculous months of sophomore year in high school) and I have to say: I was incredibly nervous to try this social experiment. People who know me best probably think this is strange. People who have known me the past four years probably think this is normal. The phenomenon of my personality switch from outgoing to introverted is probably good fodder for a dissertation, not a blog post, so I'll skip that for now.

My number one method for kicking this habit of hermit-ism was to attend every church function, big or small. It started out small, but it's grown. Now I'm also on an intramural ultimate frisbee team (which used to be a huge passion in my life so I'm pleased as punch to get back to the sport). I've started running a few times a week (to stop embarrassing myself while playing ultimate frisbee). Would you even believe I've started going to bed at 11pm so I can get the recommended amount of sleep every night? (except when I have blogs to write or games to play with new-found friends).

This didn't start out easy. Three weeks later, it's pretty easy, but that first week, I wanted to throw in the towel. The second week, I still kind of wanted to throw in the towel. Last weekend, to the beginning of this week, I've built up some social endurance and I'm getting ready to roll. I doubt anyone who reads my blog needs this advice, and make no mistake: this isn't for you; it's for me because here is what I don't want to forget:

I woke up Saturday morning to the sun peaking through the blinds in my bedroom, with strips of soft light lazily falling onto my face and pillow. I ate breakfast and went to an ultimate frisbee game where I rediscovered how much I truly love to be competitive and active and that I am actually very slightly good at ultimate frisbee. My calves burned and my lungs were stabbed by every breath I gulped down in the rare moments of rest in the game. My face and arms were flushed from exertion and the sun that was starting to beat down in earnest as the hour wore on. I jumped for the disc and collided with someone and laid on the sparse grass, relishing the cool earth on my face. I got up and halfheartedly tried to wipe the grass and dirt of my shirt, shorts, and shins. I felt pleased that at least I was playing good enough defense to get in the way. I could feel the soil that had snuck into my socks and shoes.

Afterwards, I confidently wore brand new denim shorts and a pink t-shirt with ruffles to lunch with two friends that I hadn't seen in over six months. We laughed and ate delicious food and I couldn't stop smiling when I thought about how blessed I am to have such wonderful people in my life. I quickly made plans to spend the afternoon with another friend. As I drove to her house, it hit me as hard as the opponent had in the frisbee game that morning.

Although I had been happy at times through the past two years, this day was by far the happiest I had been in a very long time.

There are still a lot of things in my life that are stressing me out, that I complain about, and that I wish I could change, don't get me wrong. But there was this instance where I was driving in my car and it was running well and the radio was playing a good song and I was singing pretty loud with it and the sun was tanning my arm as it hung lazily out my window and I was warm and felt mild exhaustion after exerting a concentrated effort into performing at a sporting event. And everything was great. Sometimes I'm foolish and wish for perfection in my life. I'm lucky enough to have moments like last Saturday where I realize that not everything in my life is perfect, but there is an intense pleasure that comes from small things, like good friends and active bodies and new leaves.

Writing in Books

2011-04-19T13:22:00.000-07:00

Every piece of advice I've ever received or read or heard about writing has included finding a time every day to write and letting that be your creative outlet time. I'm a night owl so I usually get ideas to write epic sonnets around 1 am, but I force myself to just watch The Nanny reruns until I fall asleep to the lulling sound of Fran Drescher...? I know it would be productive to wake up early and write for a bit before going to school or work, but the last time I tried to "get up early" I woke up 4 hours late, so I am afraid to try. That leaves evening (sorry, prime TV watching time) or lunch breaks (sorry, prime surfing-the-internet-for-no-reason time). So that REALLY leaves writing at work. (Hi boss, I hope you read this.)

(This has a better point, I swear.)

I took a "Writing Literary Criticism" class this semester because it was required, but it actually turned out to be the most awesome writing class ever. Not in a creative way, but I really learned how to write good academic papers and I loved my teacher so it wasn't a horrible experience. Plus, there was one cute, unmarried guy in the class, who was also in my league, whom I talked to twice. (Hi John, I hope you read this.)

On the day of the final, we turned in the big, final, research paper and took an exit survey (WITH A PENCIL!) One question asked me if I read my textbooks via an e-book, and I said no. The next question asked me how I annotated my books, with answer options like "sticky notes" "margin questions" "reading journal" "highlighter" etc. Cue insecurity.

This might be an odd thing to be insecure about, but as a bibliophile who doesn't write ANYTHING in books, I get a lot of grief about it, which is why I usually just don't say anything. I wish I was hip enough to keep a pencil tucked behind my ear, and while I'm eating an egg salad sandwich in my Buddy Holly glasses, my peasant tunic, and my skinny jeans, I could whip that pencil out and write an exclamation or question in the margin of my favorite book. There are a handful of literary people that I really admire (like, people I actually know) that are always talking about comments they've left in novels and textbooks and then look expectantly at me while I laugh and choke on my own saliva. I desperately wish I could write in books.

But I can't. I physically cannot bring myself to do it. And I'm writing this for all the non-marginers (?) out there who need a voice in these troubled times. People tell me they write in books because they love them so much. I buy that. But conversely, they must believe me when I say I don't write in book because I love them so much. One of the top five feelings in the world: opening the crisp pages of a new book. And oy, the smell, the smell. Top book smell: what gloss/ink/whatever they use for National Geographic. But even still, any new book smell is akin to cocaine to me. I just got Bossypants in the mail (loved it, if you don't mind the swears then I recommend you read it for sheer hilarity) and cracking that sucker open was like getting one almighty satisfying crack at the pinata at your 3rd grade frenemy's birthday party. You know, the one hit that actually busts the thing open and kids crowd you like the Aztec god you are, for delivering their only necessary sustenance - candy.

I work so hard at keeping books in pristine condition. I could teach "Paperbacks and Packing Your Backpack" as a class. I check every used book at the bookstore when buying new textbooks to make sure I get the nicest book for the used price. It's hard to keep re-reading books and every time come to it with a fresh pair of eyes, but fresh pages certainly help. This isn't a knock to any margin writers reading this. I wish I had your love of life, but unfortunately I do not.

I went to the University of Utah a month ago to hear Michael Ondaatje speak and someone asked him how he finds new ideas from books he's reading. He just kind of shrugged and said something like (gotta paraphrase, didn't write it down): "I read to read, to get lost in the book for pure pleasure." Again, I always get defensive when even for texts for class, my peers talk about the layering they found within the book after their first read-through and I'm stuck saying something similar to "It just sounded so beautiful . . ." and then choking on my own saliva. But Michael, he backed me up. I read to read and enjoy and not write in the margins or bend pages or fold back covers. I read to get lost and forget what a pencil is. I read because it makes me sleepy and the feeling of closing a book, dropping it next to your bed and slowly closing your eyes while you sink into your pillow is one of the most satisfying feelings in the world.

Roustabout

2011-04-19T13:03:00.000-07:00

Well, since it doesn't seem like my last post took that well, let's try this one, only 450 words! This was the final for my fiction class. The parameters were:

The story must be exactly 450 words.
The title must be "Roustabout."
Somewhere in the story must be the words: weather vane, tether, pelican, and marionette.
A character must die by an act of God (insurance company definition).
The first four words and the last four words must be "It was so cold."

I thought it was really fun to write, I think this didn't come out ... terribly, although expanding it would definitely make it better. We had to read them in front of the class during our potluck final and even though I never shut up in that class and I usually am making everyone laugh, I was shaking while reading this.

Disclaimer for all future and past short stories: just because it's in first person doesn't mean it's about me. It might come as a shock to some of you, but I am not a deckhand, my father did not beat me as a child, and did not die by a flood.

It was so cold that it seemed like the waves that were pounding the deck should be frozen. I’d never been in a storm this bad, or this cold. I tried not to think in comparisons though; I just kept hammering ice off the deck of the boat because hey, at least I had a job. I didn’t know how to do much, except work hard and do what I was told. As a kid, I knew I could adhere to those principles or feel my dad’s backhand across my face, so I listened and learned.

A well-meaning shrink tried to talk to me once about my dad and his parenting methods but I thought, why dig up the past? Yeah, he kicked the crap out of me, but I ran away to the shipyards at 14, and the man’s dead. Like the rest of us, my dad was just another marionette in the narrative run by cheap whiskey and a pitiful paycheck. That shrink should’ve asked what my mom did to him by leaving and what his job did to him by being a dead end. And honestly, there was some poetic justice in him being drowned by an undiscerning current in a flood. Maybe it was sick to be satisfied by that, but I think justice was served.

At dawn, I was relieved for a little bit to catch some sleep. The ship was rocking so badly, I tethered myself to the bunk so I could sleep without fear of rolling out of bed. Worse than the rocking, I could feel the ship veering every which way, like a giant weathervane, victim to the storm’s fickle wind. This was the worst storm I could ever remember being in. I wondered if this might be the last storm, the last job, the last memory of my life.

One time I was sitting on deck, a few years back, and this pelican, just out of nowhere, up and landed on the bow of the boat. It road with us all the way from south to north and never moved once. There was a heavy rain that trip too. We thought the bird was brain dead or something, tried to go out and help it, bring it under the cover just so it wouldn’t freeze to the railing but it started pecking at us if we got too close. I stayed up all night, watching over it. I don’t know what the hell I thought I could do, the bird didn’t care about me at all. I guess I felt like this bird was probably running somewhere too, and it was as tired as I was, because it was so cold.

Suicide

2011-04-16T12:28:00.001-07:00

Don't let the title alarm you, although that is the title of my short story. Don't worry, it's not graphic, but someone does die. Don't worry it's super long, and . . . I have nothing else to say about that, I'm just sorry. But read it, it's not horrendous! This is the revision of my final workshop piece for my fiction class.

Kyle was so bored, he thought he was going to die. Sitting on the steps of the faded red, wooden porch in front of his house, he watched the elderly neighbor across the street swear at the plants in his garden box for not blooming faster. The sky was clear and cerulean, there was a light breeze. And yet, Kyle was dissatisfied.

He had tried every argument he could find on Google about why he needed a dog. He was an only child, he was a teenager with few friends, he didn't get much exercise, he needed more responsibility to mature him into a responsible adult, this was suburban America and everyone had a dog, and the list went on. Neither of his parents seemed convinced that he would really be the one taking care of the dog, instead of them. During the first month or so, he had been relentless but now that time had passed, he didn't hold out hope for his parents to change their minds. However, on days like today, when he wished he had any sort of companion to walk a mile or so to the neighborhood lake with (four or two legged), his dream of owning a dog was alive and well.

That’s not to say Kyle didn’t have any friends. There were a few neighbor boys that periodically tried to include him in their activities. He guessed it was at their mothers’ behest but didn’t complain on the occasions they did invite him to play video games with them or ride bikes. They all had varying degrees of elite social status at school and then there was Kyle. Bryan practiced basketball with the high school team because he was so tall. Trevor was the only kid who climbed onto the cafeteria roof without getting caught or getting scared. Josh could distract teachers long enough in class to make them forget to collect homework from the night before, and everyone loved him for it. Chris had already made out with a few girls at school. Kyle was pretty smart and kind of funny, but didn’t stand out much from the other orchestra kids and track athletes.

The one thing about Kyle was that he didn't have the skin of most teenage boys – that is to say, thick. When the guys teased him for being slower than the rest of them while bike riding on his second hand, blue and purple single-speed Huffy, or getting repeatedly killed in Halo, he took it personally. He could laugh it off for a little while, but after too much mocking, he would make an excuse for why he needed to go home, or to the bathroom, so he could shed a tear or two in private and berate himself for being so sensitive. He assumed if he had a dog, the other guys would be more interested in being his friend instead of using him as an easy target. And even if that pipe dream didn't turn out, at least he’d have one friend on his side no matter what.

Because the neighborhood gang didn’t come around too often, his parents were worried about him. Moving to another state is never easy for a kid, especially when the kid just turned 13. They thought the dog might actually be a good idea, but their worries weren’t just lines to stall their son, they were real concerns. A puppy needed lots of attention, and that would all be on this 13 year old. He’d always done well in school and been a good kid, but it was just a big step.

On that perfect spring day, amid the curses of the irate gardener wafting across the asphalt road, Kyle imagined what he would be doing with his dog, if he had one. Walking him, playing Frisbee, swimming together, reading…well, Kyle would be reading, using the dog as a pillow, and the dog would be dozing, enjoying the company of his master. As he got lost again in his doggy day dream, his father’s forest green SUV pulled into the driveway. Without really looking at him, Kyle offered a lazy hello as he stared at the sort-of-green-but-mostly-yellow crab crass littering the front yard, wondering if a dog would be bothered such a shoddy yard or if he would just be happy to be with Kyle.

“Son, I need some help unloading some stuff from the car.”

Kyle walked to the car and opened the back door. Staring him in the face, was a black, Great Dane puppy.

____

Kyle was so worried, he thought he was going to die. Once again, Scotch had dug a hole in the back yard and once again, Kyle knew his parents would be furious.

After everyone’s initial excitement about Scotch’s arrival, that worry-free day a few short months ago, certain family member’s enthusiasm had dramatically waned. For example, Kyle’s mother had replaced many couch cushions and rugs after a combination of chewing and bathroom accidents. Kyle’s dad had bought a lot of sod and had replaced a lot of lawn tools and lawn furniture. Thankfully, the landlord hadn't been over in a while. Despite it all, Kyle was still on cloud nine.

In moments like this, when he saw dirt flung across the yard and what looked to be the chewed off handle of yet another garden rake in the new hole, he didn't stop loving his dog, but he did worry about him. Threats had already started about where Scotch would end up if Kyle couldn't keep better tabs on him. He had tried every training method every book described in the local library, but nothing seemed to calm the dog down. Lots of exercise and PetSmart obedience classes didn’t help either. Kyle’s parents were incredulous that the dog was untamable and that Kyle still tried so hard. He had been bit, drug, dirtied, and knocked down and through it all, he always had a smile on his face. His books had been eaten, he shoes had been chewed through, his bed had been used as a toilet, and still he didn't give up on his dog. It was getting to the point that his parents were trying to intervene on Kyle’s behalf and take Scotch to a shelter. He wouldn't stand for it. The end result had been if Scotch messes up Kyle’s belongings, that was Kyle’s problems but if Scotch continued to ruin furniture, landscape, and parental belongings, he was going to the pound.

Almost worse than Scotch’s reign of destruction, was his complete disdain for his master. Kyle still gave him treats and top-of-the-line chew toys, but he refused to indulge Kyle. He wouldn't let Kyle give him belly rubs, he dragged Kyle along when he got put on a leash, and Kyle’s ultimate dream of resting his head on his dog, while they both lounged in the sun, dog dozing and boy reading, was never possible with Scotch. Sometimes, when he was feeling particularly down, he wondered whether or not Scotch even wanted to be his dog. His parents and the four pack (as the neighborhood boys called themselves) were always on his case about getting so attached to such a demon animal. No one could see why Kyle loved Scotch so much, and he could never really explain it to them because he wasn't sure himself. The dog didn't really seem to enjoy living where he was and he certainly ruined everything he touched, but . . . he was Kyle’s dog. Kyle wondered if that really counted for anything versus the growing number of strikes against Scotch’s character.

Kyle shook himself from the recollection of Scotch’s misdeeds and corralled the animal in one corner of the fenced backyard (Scotch was always trying to escape, so the fence had been a new investment). After getting the leash on him after only being knocked down twice, Kyle tied the other end of the leash to the back porch and went to work filling the hole back up with dirt from the flower beds. When he was finished, the August sun had turned the back of his neck pink, and sweat was dripping into his eyes. Scotch was chewing the wood of an already ruined step on the porch, so Kyle ran up the steps past him to take a quick shower, hoping to hide all evidence of Scotch’s crime by the time his parents arrived home.

By the time he got out of the shower, his dad was rifling through the mail in the kitchen, his back turned towards the back yard.

“Hey son, what are you up to?”

“Nothing…just took a shower after I went bike riding.”

“Sounds good. Did your mom say what she was going to make for dinner tonight?”

The conversation progressed as if Kyle’s father had no knowledge of the backyard fiasco. Kyle tried to keep the guilt out of his voice and tried to keep his eyes from darting into the backyard. Shortly, his mom arrived and they even started eating dinner, without discussing Scotch’s latest dig. After dinner, Kyle’s dad suggested s’mores in the backyard, and unable to tell the truth, Kyle gulped and nodded, waiting for the hammer to fall.

____

Kyle was so heartbroken, he thought he was going to die. Hanging on the other side of the fence, from his leash stuck on the top of the fence, was Scotch. He had eaten away enough wood on the back porch to yank the leash free from the railing, and made one ill-judged leap from the porch to what he thought would be safety in the neighbor’s yard. His leash caught on the top of the fence, and he had hung himself.

That’s what Kyle’s dad assumed had happened anyway. That’s certainly what it looked like to everyone who heard about the scene over the next few days. Kyle’s parents had been worried about him at first, his best friend (albeit, unreciprocated best friend) had died and Kyle saw it firsthand. He moped and didn't eat much and looked like he had been crying in his room, although he never allowed himself to cry in front of them about it. Once, his mom felt so bad, she offered to replace Scotch. Kyle’s head snapped up and he looked shocked and hurt at such a blasphemous suggestion. After a few weeks though, Kyle seemed to be getting back in the swing of his regular activities. Maybe not with as much spring in his step, but he definitely looked like he was getting over Scotch. And really, his parents thought, how hard could it be to get over such a horrendous pet? It was a sad accident, yes, but they weren't exactly mourning a calmer household without Scotch around.

____

On a Saturday towards the end of September, the doorbell rang. Kyle’s parents were grocery shopping and he was reading on the Scotch-colored, overstuffed, leather La-Z-Boy armchair. When he opened the door, he saw the neighbor boys that hung out with him occasionally (but not at all, since Scotch’s accident).

“Hey. Wanna ride down to the lake with us?” Trevor asked.

“It’s too cold to go swimming, what are you guys going to do?”

“Dunno. Just hang out.”

Kyle didn't really feel like doing nothing outside, partly because he was enjoying his book and partly because he didn't have to stretch his imagination far to envision the boys pushing him into the water.

“Yeah, okay, let me grab my jacket.”

Once they arrived at the lake, the boys started talking amongst themselves, standing on the shore. Kyle stood on the outside of their circle. Bryan, another one of the neighbor boys, said something about his own dog. The group fell silent and glanced at Kyle. Kyle forced a smile and laughed it off. Tension visibly lifted from the boys as they all laughed, and Chris lightly punched Kyle on the arm.

“Hey man, that was crazy about your dog,” Chris said.

“Yeah, I guess it was.”

“No, I mean seriously, was the dog retarded or something?”

“No, he just … I dunno, he was just trying to get out of the yard.”

“Or he was trying to commit suicide,” Josh said.

Bryan sniggered. Kyle’s smile faltered.

“I don’t think that’s what happened.”

“Come on, that mutt was crazy, he was always trying to get away from you. $10 bucks says his last doggy thought was ‘Thank God, I’ll die and be free!’”

All the boys started laughing at this, except Kyle. He couldn't laugh, because the thought had crossed his own mind.

“Shut up,” Kyle whispered.

“Hey man, I’m sorry, I was just kidding around…”

Josh shifted nervously from foot to foot, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his jacket, looking around the group for support.

“I mean, come on man, that dog was always giving you trouble, and now he’s gone. You can’t feel that bad about it, can you?” Trevor asked.

Kyle could hear the blood pounding in his ears, his face was growing warm and he was sure the sheen of tears welling in his eyes was obvious.

“Yeah, definitely. Hey, I have to go home and do some stuff before my parents get home, I’ll see you guys around.”

Kyle quickly jumped on his bike and sped down the road, back to his house, grinding his teeth against the tears threatening to roll down his face.

Make 'em laugh

2011-03-26T18:52:00.000-07:00

Last night, my office had a talent show. My friend was putting it together and was low on participants so she asked me to do a stand-up routine. Now, it sounds better if I claim I was forced into it, but really I have wanted to try stand-up for awhile, and I wasn't really into doing it in front of people I kind of knew, but if I really didn't want to do it, I really wouldn't have said yes. Then, the party planning committee wasn't sure who would M.C and because I'm that self-centered, I volunteered to do that as well.

The whole day I felt pretty ready to puke. I knew I wouldn't back out because I had already committed to doing it, but "nervous" was an understatement. I'd much rather strikeout in front of strangers than in front of people I have to see every day. I practiced my routine in front of friend 1 (already mentioned) and friend 2, who both laughed in all the right spots so I felt a little bit better, but not much. There was free pizza and dessert for everyone, which I didn't eat in case I really did puke, and then the festivities began.

I wasn't really nervous to M.C, for some reason I've done that a lot in my life already. Everyone laughed at all of those jokes and I was feeling good. I mean, I had a mic and everyone's attention, could I really feel that bad? Thankfully, friend 1 (her name is McKenna...I don't know why I can't just say that...) introduced me so that wasn't awkward and I just jumped into my jokes.

Everyone laughed! It was great, actually. I mean, my voice was shaking like a 1920's movie star warble (that's only funny if you've seen that one Family Guy episode...) but the timing was good, I only laughed at my own joke once (because I made eye contact with someone in the audience that was laughing). Big shout out to my mom actually, the whole sketch revolved around the FALSE notion that she was worried about me being 21 and single and assumed I was going to be a cat lady.

Afterwards, I got lots of congratulations, and the "Funniest Talent" award (which...there was no other stand-up so that didn't count for much, but hey, I got a candy bar) and I felt like maybe I really could audition for BYU's stand-up group, Humor U. Unfortunately I found out that auditions happened three days ago, so I missed it, but next year I'll be ready.

I've always enjoyed making people laugh. It probably actually gets really annoying because I'll do just about anything to make someone laugh. It's intoxicating, I feel the best about my life and myself when I'm making someone laugh. I don't think I could ever admit to anyone that I wish I could be famously funny, but secretly I wish I could be famously funny. Who knows, maybe it'll happen...?

Groceries

2011-02-22T15:07:00.000-08:00

My second submission piece for my fiction class.

I walk across the asphalt from my car to the grocery store entrance. My long, brunette hair is blowing in my face but I have an image in my mind; that my hair looks like the hair of a model on a shampoo commercial, so I don’t pull it out of my face and eyes. The automatic glass doors don’t jerk open fast enough and I stutter step to avoid running into them. Someone must have seen the incident and thought I looked like an idiot. I can’t decide between a big cart so there’s enough room for my larger items or a smaller cart so I don’t have to apologize to someone when I accidentally get in their way. I opt for the smaller cart, gripping the blue and gray push handle with resolve. As I pull my grocery list for one from my back pocket (a small, folded, yellow Post-It note), I realize that no one probably noticed such a small piece of paper in my hand. They must’ve thought I was just touching my butt.

I glance over at the grapes on sale right in the entrance to the store, but there is already an elderly woman in a red fleece vest with a cream turtleneck standing there. I don’t want to make her uncomfortable by standing close to her, inspecting grapes. Plus, I probably would’ve picked the wrong bag of grapes and she would’ve pitied me for being so grape-ignorant, not that she even knows me. She looks like my grandmother, with gray, curly, short hair. She even smiles at me and I am surprised she has such nice teeth. But, I know she would’ve judged my grapes. I look right to avoid eye contact with my grandmother and am tempted by the Pop-Tarts. But I know what people think of Pop-Tart eaters, so I veer to the left and head for the bread aisle.

I don’t like bagels that much, but they’re convenient. And, everyone thinks they’re healthy, right, which is a good reason to buy them. I wonder if passing customers (like that man with too much hair gel on his comb over) notice my shopping savvy as I grab the on-sale brand of bagels advertised by the neon yellow sign on the shelf. He probably thinks I am a cheapskate, buying the gross bagel brand just to save a few bucks. He might be six feet tall, but even with his four inch height advantage I think I could get away from him if he were to attack me. I only buy the cinnamon raisin variety because I eat them without any spread. At first I thought I didn’t put cream cheese on my bagels because I was too lazy to put cream cheese on my bagels. I realized I just didn’t like buying cream cheese. I wonder if this overweight, obviously single man thinks less of me without the cream cheese (because really, who eats a bagel without cream cheese?) or if he would think less of me if I had cream cheese in my cart. Of course, I could have cream cheese still in my fridge at home. But, I bet some people have seen me shopping here before and know that I never buy cream cheese. Maybe not overweight flannel shirt guy, but some people. I consider shopping at a different supermarket from now on.

Around the next corner is the open produce area. I know I should buy vegetables but I am nervous to pick out some that aren’t “good.” I only eat vegetables with ranch dressing, and then it becomes more about the dressing than the vegetables so why bother? I don’t know many people who go to the grocery store without buy vegetables. The absence of vegetables in my cart must be alarming, especially to that eccentric looking woman with fly-away auburn hair, who looks kind of like my mother. She seems preoccupied with her apples, and flirting with the middle-aged produce clerk, but I’m pretty sure she saw me walk right by the cucumbers, carrots, and lettuce. I want to get some apples, I eat one every day, but I really don’t want that woman to ask me about my lack of vegetables. I decide to skip buying the apples I really want, that happen to be on sale, and push my cart through the different displays of bananas, cantaloupes, and oranges. Right past the apples.

I stop in the middle of the thoroughfare because the two dollar bags of corn tortilla chips are always on the end of the aisle, nearest to the produce. I try to think about who I could complain to about that. Every time I stop for tortilla chips, my cart is in the middle of all the foot traffic and I know people start to hate me for taking up aisle real estate. That’s why I usually try to get a small cart. I know customers like those two 20-something men in horizontally striped polo shirts, who that are talking to each other and run into me and profusely apologize and then keep walking, did it in on purpose. They wanted to show me what they thought of me being in the way and buying the tortilla chips. The store manager should really think of a better place to stock these chips.

I turn into the next aisle over, the cereal aisle, which always takes the most time for me. I never know what kind of cereal to buy. I look thrifty because I’m buying Malt-o-Meal. I’ve never actually done a price comparison to see if Malt-o-Meal really is a better deal than the box, name brand cereal. The young mother with two children hanging out of her large shopping cart must think I eat cereal every night. Even she doesn’t buy a Malt-o-Meal bag of cereal, and she has a family. I almost put the cereal back, but I don’t want to look too picky so I keep it in my cart. It’s crushing my other groceries and obviously doesn’t fit very well, but I’m still glad I picked a smaller cart, I think. One time I bought the off brand of Malt-o-Meal and it was disgusting. The college student in sweat pants and slippers walks buy me and grabs one such off brand bag of cereal. I know she thinks I’m rich because I buy Malt-o-Meal, and I wish I could tell her I’m not.

-----

After gathering all the items on my list, I pause to brainstorm some other meal options. I’m starting to feel panicky, and for no reason my face is turning red. I know employees and customers have seen me walking through the aisles and if I take too long, they’ll start to think and talk about me. I can hear the cereal mother with her kid, telling her husband on the phone about me. I can see the overweight comb over man chatting with his online friend about the weirdo in the grocery store he saw tonight. Too quickly, I walk to a checkout lane. I start piling my groceries on the conveyor belt, my anxiety growing. The couple holding hands in front of me has ground beef, vegetables, raw pasta, seasoning packets, and more; all the makings of having a good week’s worth of dinners. They know how good their groceries are too, because they’re smiling and talking. I don’t make eye contact with them; I don’t want to read the scorn in their eyes. I know it’s there. I purposely stare at all the other items around the counter. Celebrity gossip magazines with shouting headlines, candy bars, gum, breath mints in really metallic and flashy packaging, fingernail clippers. I’d buy a candy bar, but I know those people in front of me would see it. Then the cashier would see it too.

He starts scanning my items, smiling “pleasantly”. He is judging me too. He drags package after package of my Ramen noodles over the laser light, and tries to make small talk. I wish he would just say it. I wish he would just tell me what he thought of me and my groceries. I want to reach over the ATM pin pad, grab him by his apron, shake him, and walk out without saying a word. I wish I could leave my groceries behind.

Brian the Warrior

2011-02-07T17:38:00.001-08:00

I just wrote out this whole, moving blog post about how much the Redwall series means to kids, with protagonists that work together, advocate for the defenseless, and take control of their own situations even though they are small in stature. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that while I do believe all of that and see that as the genius of Brian Jacques with his series, I can't ignore the 3rd grader in me who started reading those books.

Laurie Banks, a problematic 3rd grader, seemed to only really be good at reading. Math, not her strong suit. Cursive, not her strong suit. Art, not her strong suit. She read books out of the bin marked "11" on the shelves and was the only one to do that, and she was proud. Real proud. She had temper tantrums, got sent to the principal's office, and cried a lot at school. She didn't think about much when she read Redwall except that it was exciting and they were cute animals that had cool, dangerous weapons that did good things for their friends or even strangers that needed help. There were riddles throughout the book that intrigued and challenged and added to the flair of the story. Above all, it was series. A long series. This world never had to end. The good guys always won and it was nice to be in a place where it was easy to tell who was supposed to get the crayons thrown at them and who was supposed to be on your soccer team at recess. It was fun, and continued to be fun through high school, so she kept reading all of the books that Brian Jacques wrote.

I hope kids keep reading these books. I hope parents bridge the word of mouth gaps and keep Redwall Abbey around for their kids. These are wonderful stories and not that I've ever met the man, but there isn't a kindlier looking jacket cover than the one with Brain Jacques smiling up at you. I could get deeper and (like I did in the first paragraph) really identify why kids relate to these texts so much, but let's not over think this. The Redwall series is fun, so let's keep reading fun. I hope authors and publishers and readers alike keep this mantra in mind. Reading should be fun.

Thanks, Mr. Jacques or as I will affectionately refer to you from here on out, Brian the Warrior. Thanks for making reading so fun.

Gyro Combo

2011-02-04T21:09:00.000-08:00

I sit in my office cubicle a lot. It's quiet, the computer has dual monitors, and there's a set of speakers so I don't have to use earbuds for an annoyingly long period of time in a library or common area to study. If I go home, I sit on my bed, facing the TV in my room. Either I end up turning it on and watching reruns of shows I don't actually like or I fall asleep. In my office I usually end up browsing the Internet for inordinate amounts of time, but I feel a little more productive in a quite office chair than anywhere else, even if it isn't accomplishing anything.

The weekend is no exception. But, on Fridays I usually indulge and think "if I'm not doing anything fun, the funnest option I have to get some good food." This particular evening I walked out of my office around 6pm. It's about a 7 minute walk to the student parking lot, across a busy road on campus. I waited for the light to change and started moving with the sound of the electronic bird tweets signaling the walk signal. I hadn't taken many steps when I saw a white, mid-nineties four-door sedan about 100 feet before the crosswalk. I stutter stepped because even though he could've slammed on his breaks and made the stop, I already knew he wasn't going to. He slammed right into a teal, early 2000's SUV of some kind. He caught the back, passenger side panel and spun the car around. His air bags deployed. Another guy was in the crosswalk with me and we both stopped for a second. I realized the red hand started flashing and we were just standing in the middle of the road.

We both kept walking. I looked at the driver of the SUV who was now facing south instead of north. We made eye contact as this middle-aged, dress suit clad, matronly looking red-headed woman took off her seatbelt. I kept looking back. "At least their okay," the kid walking next to me said. No one was getting out of the white sedan. I kept looking back. I heard another man I had passed on the sidewalk before the crosswalk, calling out to both drivers, "are you guys okay? Ma'm are you okay?" The last time I looked back, he was walking between cars. There were flashing blue lights from the BYU police squad car that had already arrived on the scene.

I went through a drive-thru and brought my food back to my office, so I could watch some TV on Netflix with a faster Internet connection than at my apartment. As I approached the same intersection in my car (it was late enough I could park any where on campus by this point), I wondered if it had gotten cleaned up. About 30 minutes had passed and the accident hadn't seemed to terrible to me. I rounded the corner and saw flares stopping traffic from passing north to south. There was an ambulance and a fire truck. Medical personnel was surrounding someone on the pavement. I couldn't see any more than that.

I'm a real jerk sometimes. People invite me to do things and I decline because I'd rather not hassle with the social expectations of laughing at a stupid joke, or pretending I think someone is making an intelligent critique on society when really they're just regurgitating some nonsense from their parents, teacher, or favorite political pundit. Don't get me wrong, I'm not any better, but I would venture that I'm a lot more self aware. Meeting people is hard. I used to be good at it but I forgot how, somewhere over the course of the last few years. I feel awkward and self-conscious when I try to strike up a conversation with someone who I'm assuming is thinking about my acne or my weight or my outfit.

Despite all of this, I really thought I was a good person. I thought if someone needed help, I would drop anything to lend a hand. I walked by those cars and for a split second thought "I should see if they're okay." Then I kept walking. I assumed they all had phones. I assumed that because I didn't see anyone slumped over in their seats that they were fine, just another traffic accident. And in reality, there are all sorts of lawsuits about good Samaritans who get the short end of the stick because they've given improper care at the scene of an accident. I'm not trained in emergency response. I don't really know what the right response would've been. It was probably more of a lose/lose situation. But I can't really change anything now. I didn't stop.

Eight to Five

2011-01-19T12:48:00.000-08:00

Again, a submission for my "Writing Fiction" class. I'm not enamored with what I wrote (procrastination...when will I learn?) but I was surprised that I got positive feedback and of course, a few things that I hope to revise when I have a chance to revisit this piece and put some more time into it, because I really like the concept.

Coolridge was a small air conditioning company in southern Nevada. There weren’t many employees, and even less that worked in the administrative offices. Joe was standing at a table near the front door, sorting the mail. Beth was getting a cup of coffee from the break room before she started calling customers about account balances. Carrie yawned as she pulled up the company website. Roger was checking his e-mail in his cubicle. The owners were behind closed doors, in their offices. Beige paint coated the walls making everything seem more sterile than it really was. The brown and gold flecked industrial carpet didn’t do much either. It could’ve been linoleum and no one would’ve felt better or worse about it. No matter how many tricks the renovators tried to employ to make the office feel warm and inviting, there was no way around the ambivalent chill that pervaded every cubicle and office.

Joe dropped off Beth’s mail in the black, plastic mail holder screwed to the outside of her cubicle wall. Beth had two young kids, was from Arizona, and her husband did something…car repair, Joe thought. She always said hello to him when he dropped off the mail, she looked the plump, pleasant, matronly sort. She drove a grey minivan that looked like it was past its expiration date. She looked worn and her dark brown hair was showing a little grey. He assumed two young kids and a hard working husband probably did that too her more than genetics or age. Her parents lived close; Joe knew they watched her kids during the day. Every day she brought her own lunch, just a sandwich, a piece of fruit, and some water. Nothing ever changed in Beth’s routine, or at least that’s what it looked like. Joe didn’t know her husband had already lost his job and that Beth worked a graveyard shift at a call center to help her family.

Beth smiled at Joe when he dropped off her mail, made some small talk about his dogs. Joe lived alone in a small apartment. He had two big yellow labs; he had pictures of them hung up in his cubicle. He was born and raised in Nevada and had probably never lived farther than fifteen miles away from his parents in his life. He was lanky, mousey, and never stood or sat up straight. He talked about video games a lot. Beth knew he had some online friends that he played something with…maybe a war, shooting type game. She wished she could think of a gentle way to tell him to get a life, separate from his parents and live to a greater potential, but for as well as she knew him, she didn’t want to come off as rude.

Every night, Joe went home to his apartment to see his dogs and eat a frozen dinner. Afterwards, he drove three miles to his parents’ house, where he could sit with his mother who couldn’t remember who he was. He wanted to be an architect but because of his mother’s long time health problems before her memory loss, all the money he and his father had went to her medical bills. Joe didn’t tell anyone. He knew they’d give pity and money and while he could really use the latter, he never wanted to hear someone tell him how sorry they were for his family.

Carrie started an instant message chat with Roger, double checking that his e-mail problem from was resolved. It was full of emoticons and Internet abbreviations, feigning politeness. They worked across the hall from each other, but the only way Carrie ever spoke to Roger was through the keyboard and computer screen. He had to be over 60, with grey hair and age spots on his hands. He also came up to about Carrie’s shoulder so he was easy enough to ignore.

Roger couldn’t stand Carrie. She came across as so artificial with her hair dyed black and her long fluorescent pink fingernails. She showed up late to work almost every day and never got back to anyone in a timely manner, even though there were only a dozen of them in the office and he worked right across the hall from her. Roger knew she ignored him because she couldn’t stand his technological handicaps but she still had to work with him, was it so hard to just be nice and helpful? He’d worked with her for three years now and it never got any better.

Roger’s wife left him a year ago but he never told anyone. He had a convenient excuse for the Christmas party so the subject never got breached. He didn’t have the heart to take down the picture of her from his grey cubicle wall. She cheated on him and he knew for a while but was too spineless to do anything about it. He’d rather have a cheating wife than no wife at all. Now he’d had both and wished everyday she’d come back. He stopped taking care of himself and ate a cheeseburger just about every day for lunch in the office. Carrie thought he was disgusting and wished she didn’t even have to talk to him via e-mail but knew that she couldn’t ignore him forever when he needed something fixed on his computer.

The office had weak fluorescent lighting that washed everyone out. Everyone thought the other looked sick and pasty but they actually looked the same way and didn’t realize it. They all judged each other and they all harbored resentment about something to do with their bosses. Vacation time denied, bonus requests ignored, health insurance premium complaints swept under the rug. No one was brave enough to do more than send one e-mail about one issue. No one was brave enough to complain about the problems while the bosses were in the same building. No one was friendly enough to share the complaining with their co-workers.

They all worked Monday through Friday, from eight in the morning to five at night. At some point in time they had rotated the lunch schedule long enough that they had all eaten lunch together at some point. Christmas was the only time they saw each other outside of work. The party was still a work party though, so if people did show up they were as tight lipped and artificial as they usually were in the office. There were stories of weekend escapades shared and funny anecdotes about children (whether their own or nieces and nephews) were always popular. If they were really questioned about it, they would claim they all knew each other, they were all friends, and they all enjoyed their coworkers.

Carrie collected her family pictures and desk toys and put them in her messenger bag. She walked to the break room and retrieved her coffee mug. Without a word to anyone else she walked out of the office and drove away in her blue, four-door sedan. No one noticed.

Shortly after the door closed from her exit, everyone in the office noticed their inboxes had a new e-mail. The vice president informed everyone that Carrie had been redirecting money from online orders into her bank account. It hadn’t taken long for the CFO to notice, it wasn’t a large sum of money, not to worry. Carrie was let go and the owners didn’t want any rumors floating around about what had happened.

One by one, heads popped up over cubicle walls to try and sneak a look at Carrie and what her reaction to the e-mail was. They all realized she wasn’t there anymore and all of her personal touches to her workspace were gone.

At the end of the day, Roger, Joe, and Beth turned off their computers, picked up their keys and jackets and walked outside. For perhaps the first time in the history of their relationships, they stood around their cars and started to talk. They talked about Carrie, they talked about the bosses, they talked about their kids and nieces and nephews and pets. They talked about smoking and Roger lit a cigarette. They talked about the local sports teams and high school memories. They talked until eight in the evening, when they decided to go out for drinks instead of standing around in the parking lot. They drove to a bar around the corner and talked about shows on TV and movies in theaters and songs on the radio. At ten, Beth had to go. Roger and Joe talked for a little bit longer but parted ways shortly thereafter.

The next day they showed up to work and parked in the same spots and brought the same lunches and did the same work. They had already started the hiring process for Carrie’s replacement and employees were invited via e-mail to send any names or résumés of qualified friends or family members. Beth didn’t tell her husband about what happened to Carrie, and Joe didn’t tell his dogs or his forgetful mother. Roger didn’t tell the story to the picture of his wife on his nightstand. The only thing that really changed was that Carrie left, and that wasn’t too big of a deal.

The Ice Cream Epiphany

2011-01-06T19:22:00.000-08:00

I'm in English 318 this semester, "Writing Fiction". Our first prompt was to steal an anecdote from someone and embellish it. This is a story from my friend Bryan, he was the kid missing the thumb. The most surprising part of this story that's true? The firefighters watching "Ed, Edd, & Eddy". Thankfully this was just a "turn in and get an A" assignment, because I'm not too pleased with it, but here's to posting something rather than nothing!

I turned my face from the gusts, leaves, and debris flying into my eyes. Turning my focus and concentration away from the task at hand (holding branches for my brother to cut with the hedge clippers) was a mistake. It wasn’t so much painful as shocking, that all of the sudden, as clean as scissors cutting paper, my thumb was half gone. The gusty weather blew the clippers off course and straight into my flesh. I ran inside, yelling “ow, ow, ow!” right up to my grandmother. Her face looked pale and her footing started to falter. Since she wasn’t quick enough to give me any helpful advice, I ran to the sink and put what was left of my thumb under the tap. I was grabbing fistfuls of paper towels and any washcloths within reach and wrapping my stub as tightly as possible.

My brother was standing in the doorway, draining to the same color my grandmother was. He had forgotten to drop the clippers, and was holding the blood stained shears in his hand. In the background I could hear my grandmother faintly calling 911. By that time I was focused less on my digit and the towels and more on the “Ed, Edd, and Eddy” show playing on the TV in the living room, in plain view of the kitchen sink. It was a pretty good episode because when the fire department showed up, they didn’t seem to care much about my thumb either, and were standing around our television. About the end of the episode, my mother’s car screeched into the driveway. She whisked me into her car and the fire fighters began to leave as well. Before she shut the door completely, my brother ran to the car, chucking the shears into the lawn. Tears were running down his face as he bent down and awkwardly hugged me despite my seat belt and bulging, towel-laden thumb. He stood on the sidewalk as we drove away, and I knew I wasn't mad at him.

In the emergency room, the doctor sewed the other half of my thumb back on. I’m not sure how he got a hold of it, but there it was, back in its original resting place. Sitting in the waiting room, I finally realized what had happened. I mean, I knew what had happened, but the pain and fear and shock had only just settled on my 11 year old consciousness. Once the doctor was finished, I turned and said, “Mom, I want ice cream”. Without a moment’s hesitation she agreed. As I was slurping on my cone one the drive home, it all clicked in my mind. I wasn’t a masochist but if this was the key to ice cream on demand…I’d have to help my brother with the yard work more often.

My Thoughts on Brittany

2010-12-14T16:53:00.001-08:00

My friend Brittany is leaving Provo tomorrow, to go home to California, to wait for 3 months, to then go to Brazil, to serve an 18 month long proselyting mission for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I realized this past week all of the voids Brittany fills in my life, and how bummed I will be without seeing her at work everyday. I feel like sending this small advert to the Brazilian Missionary Training Center so they know what they're getting.

If you need someone to shorten a word and make it acceptable to say, Brittany can do it.
If you need someone to go to/start a dance party with, Brittany will be there.
Similarly, if you need someone to dance until they literally can't remember what happened while they were dancing, Brittany's your woman.
If you want to hear a hilarious story and bust your gut, Brittany is on it.
If you want a job well done on anything detail oriented, Brittany will not let you down.
If you need a friend, Brittany is willing and able.
If you need someone who cares and will drop everything to help you, someone who will listen and empathize with you, if you need someone who is a genuinely honest and good person, then look no further than Brittany.

I know missionaries get called for specific reasons, to specific places, and I know Brittany is going to touch people's lives (how can she not? She does that without being a missionary here in Provo!) but I still can't help feeling like Brazil doesn't even realize the gift they're getting for the next year and a half. I can't lie, I'm a little bit jealous.

My whip is a ghost of a former ride.

2010-12-13T19:45:00.001-08:00

I’ve drafted a post about my car about 3 separate times now. The problem is that I’ve waited too long to post. I was first hit with the idea to write about Simba (my champagne colored 1998 Toyota Corolla) in the summer when driving up a hill was always in perfect time with a prayer. Actually, the same can be said of my car in any season I drive it in, but it was different in the summer. The windows were rolled down in the summer. My fake Target Ray Bans were sliding down the bridge of my nose in the dry Utah heat. I rested my crooked elbow on the scorching metal of the door frame because even though I was in pain, I looked good. I had one wrist propped casually on the top of my steering wheel, and I was leaning back in my worn, cloth, beige seats. It varied between cool west coast hip-hop pumping through my pitiful speakers or the latest indie band that I had heard about third hand, that probably wasn’t that indie any more. That was always a gamble too, which stereo session in the ‘Rolla would be those speakers last, because they really shouldn’t be handling the volume that the radio was cranked to.

As cars whizzed past me or pulled alongside me at stoplights, freshly washed and waxed, I tried to hold back and only give only half-interested glances at them. Who needs you and your new car, I would yell in my mind, I’m ridin’ slow, homie! One day in particular, it hit me that it was one of the few days I wasn’t in a rush to go anywhere. I wasn’t speeding, I wasn’t praying over my engine, to beg for it to last, because I wasn’t pushing it to get me somewhere in an inhuman speed, let alone a 1998-Toyota-Corolla-with-over-100,000-miles speed. I was enjoying driving slowly, enjoying the sweat on the back of my legs (see this post for more explanation about that) and the cool jams streaming through my car. It wasn’t a lie to convince myself that I appreciated this car and all its quirks; I really do love driving this car with all its quirks. You can’t really knock something that a) was an amazing gift from people that love you, b) hasn’t let you down so far and c) you associate with everyday. Well, maybe you can, but I certainly don’t. Simba, let the good times roll.

In which I post simply to use the phrase "in which"

2010-12-05T21:08:00.000-08:00

I just finished this book called Young Romantics which wasn't particularly good. I told my British Literature professor I was reading it (after we just finished discussing the Romantic period in class) to which he responded "The Publishers Weekly review was lukewarm, but it would be hard not to be a good read with the crazy lives of the people featured in it". That's about how the book went. Sub par writing, but those 19th century poets knew how to get down, and therefore I stuck with it to the end.

I give a much heartier recommendation to Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet for ALL readers of this post. Truly fantastic book. Great writing, engaging narrative, very informative of a kind of different perspective about the Japanese internment during WWII (but it is fiction so have no fear, non-fiction avoiders).

Anyway, back to these dead white guys. For as much as everyone rags on the literary canon being filled with dead white guys, I really love these dead white guys. John Keats, in particular (although, he's wasn't a rich dead white guy so I think everyone in general hates him less. And probably because he died so prematurely, that usually gets you off the hook easier than your older dead white guy friends). Unfortunately Young Romantics really didn't talk about Keats that much. But I digress.

Finishing this book made me think about how different the death of our generations stars will be. At first I thought "There won't be any biographies needed because everyone's stories and personal thoughts are on Facebook, Twitter, and blogs". Then I thought "Nah, I'm sure there are still some hidden gems of celebrities lives that will be exposed upon their death, and people will clamor to read their posthumous biographies". Then I realized, "No, the paparazzi and MTV specials have truly exposed all of that already. When famous actors or musicians die now, people will just go to their Facebook profile to memorialize them". I finally settled on the thought that "Actually, there are some crazy celebrities in the media today. I'm sure there will be a heap of unrevealed information about the majority of celebrities after they die. Plus, Snooki has a book sooooo...biographies will never cease to flourish, even in the midst of all this instant access media".

One time it crossed my mind to write a memoir. I think it was after I read A Girl Named Zippy because that was a great book and to my knowledge, that author wasn't famous before that got published. Of course, I don't have the same kind of good 'ol days, small town America stories that she does (and I'm sure that's what ultimately detracted me) but still...it's an interesting thought to say the least.

...I had a point to this. I think it was something along the lines of: I just finished a huge research project about Facebook last week. It was about how Facebook interactions effect relationships offline. I wouldn't imagine there's much of a counter argument to that, but I just wanted to talk to people about Facebook (I have a sickness, this I know) so I went with a definitive project, not really an exploratory one. My end result: the one thing that all of my interviewees had in common was that they strongly disliked when people posted information deemed "too personal" on Facebook (as do I).

A few other people in my class did research projects about dating culture at BYU. One sentence from both presentations was that "blind dating really isn't blind any more". While sometimes I'm grateful for that (although my only blind date was in high school...) it also makes me a little melancholy. I love Facebook, I love blogging, I love Twitter, and checking my e-mail on my phone. But I can honestly say, more than doing all of those things, I love talking to people and getting to know someone and (I can't believe I'm admitting this...) feeling empathy with someone in a conversation to the point that I cry when they cry, or in a less dramatic way, laugh when they laugh. I'll probably never delete my Facebook account, my Twitter account, or this blog, but I truly hope that when I die and am famous and am having my biography written (after I've published my own memoirs of course) that these are just interesting tidbits and that like the 'young romantics' of the early 19th century, someone has to find out about my personal relationships to know who I truly was.

On Inspiration

2010-11-29T21:26:00.000-08:00

For whatever reason, I have fallen off the writing bandwagon. I really enjoy writing, particularly on this blog where I can pretend that more people read it than actually do. And yet, I seem to be lacking the motivation to write. I’ve read a number of writing blogs and looked into some self-help writing books but my procrastination wins out as I opt to watch Friends re-runs while only doing my homework at half capacity. When I took my creative writing class last winter, the biggest suggestion from the professor was to just have a time everyday where you must write to fulfill a certain, pre-determined length requirement. To help us with that, he also assigned us go to extra curricular performances on campus to get inspiration from all different art forms. I’ve tried to keep up with the writing regularly regiment to some extent, by trying to post weekly on this blog. However, the inspiration gleaning from art on campus has declined. As I was contemplating this, I realized I didn’t have to just get inspiration from a performance or an art exhibit. Not that those aren’t great resources that I do really enjoy, but I feel inspired by a wider variety of mediums.

Tonight, I’ve spent an inordinate amount of time finding and listening to free beats that a Seattle hip hop DJ likes to share for free on his blog. Iranian DJ, Sabzi is part of the dynamic duo, the Blue Scholars based out of Seattle. This is the first hip hop group I wasn’t ashamed to tell people I liked listening to. The Filipino MC, Geo, infuses his lyrics with calls to action by the sedentary public to move for equality for all people and to be aware and loving of our fellow brothers and sisters. Of course there is some language, but this is about the cleanest, quality rap I’ve found. For as much as I enjoy Geo’s brilliant lyrics, Sabzi’s beats are so freshly original, with enough thumping bass and jazz samples to please all levels of hip hops listeners. Currently I’m listening to an album of beats that Sabzi produced and put out for free on his blog (here) for aspiring MCs. That is some Seattle style loving right there.

I read a lot of other amateur writers blogs to get inspiration. Recently, I’ve been reading a lot of Wil Wheaton’s blog (yes, from Star Trek, but now all grown up). His writing is so simple and honest, it’s refreshing to read. He also constantly talks about how in love with his wife and children he is, and it’s always fun to read some warmhearted sentiments from celebrities. I also read a lot of this guy (although, he doesn't update frequently) because a) the title of his blog is PERFECT and b) because another writer friend recommended him to me. He is truly hilarious and sometimes, when I write long boring posts about getting inspiration to write, his posts remind me how to be funny. As always, my favorite blogger by far is Anna, if for no other reason than introducing me to Billy Collins. But really, there are more reasons than that, too many to name really. Just read, and enjoy.

I’m not sure if this is true of all Seattle, or just the people I knew in high school, but there are a lot of excellent photographers that inspire me to try to create something meaningful. Although it’s a tight niche, I love looking at Jeremy Leffel's wedding photos. It is beautiful how he can take something that is so traditionally predictable and put these pictures into a modern, new perspective. I suppose it shouldn't shock me so much, it's what good photography is, but whatever. Once upon a time, I ran around with Jaki Portolese in grade school, and she inspired me to get into photography a little myself. I eventually stopped insulting photography by trying to be a photographer, but I thoroughly enjoy looking at Jaki’s work and it’s two-fold beauty (the photograph and the great wardrobes her models are always in).

So, here’s to writing. I’m trying, I’ll keep trying, and I’ll keep trying to find inspriation. In the meantime, bear with me. Since I’m trying really hard to keep my deadline of 4 posts a month, this week will include beaucoup updates, but I know my die hard fans are really jones-ing for my words constantly in their life. Amirite, amirite!?

For the sake of writing

2010-11-29T18:03:00.001-08:00

Warning: this is only a rant.

I created a PayPal account once, many moons ago. I used it frequently for a few months, when I thought having a job meant I actually had money, and since then it's collected dust. A month and a half ago, I got an e-mail from PayPal notifying me that my account was locked down to limited access because they thought someone was trying to access it. I was truly pleased that despite my inactivity PayPal had my back. I went through some steps to restore access, providing some bank account information, etc, because for as often as I don't use it, PayPal is a highly useful service and I think they've proven they can handle the scum of the Internet and keep my data safe at the same time. Today was such an occasion when I needed it. I went to buy a song (a ONE DOLLAR SONG) from a reputable website (not iTunes, shocking) but they only allowed transactions via PayPal. I received two e-mails in succession: first from the music website saying thanks for purchasing the music, and the second from PayPal saying my account was locked down because someone was trying to access it. ...Really?

However, they have a fairly straight forward user interface on their website so I was able to find the "Resolution Center" and start going to work on restoring my account. First, change password. Check. Second, change security questions. Check. Third, verify location with a phone call. This I have issue with because I only have 300 minutes a month on my current cell phone plan, but I sucked it up and did it anyway. Check. Finally, confirm my bank account. Provide my routing and account number to my checking account, which is already linked to my PayPal account. As I am looking, literally reading, from the bottom of a check in my checkbook, I enter the numbers and press continue. "We're sorry, but you cannot link another account to your PayPal account because your account limited". Okay...a weird problem to say the least, but they do have a FAQ section on the website. I found a question that described my problem. The answer: "If you experience this problem, you must call our service representatives at...". Wait, what? There must be a chat program I can use. Yes, "Sarah" the automated PayPal chat bot. Click click click. "You now must call our service representatives at..."

I call, I'm told my wait time is over 15 minutes, I put the phone on speaker, I grind my teeth as I think of the minutes I'm wasting on this. I'm so shocked when I hear someone finally answer the phone that I accidentally hang up. After many curse words, I call again. Wait another 15 minutes. This time I manage to not hang up, but am told that I will have my account restored in just a minute after some information is verified.

L: So wait, just because my account was so dusty, that's why it was flagged?

PP: Yeah, pretty much.
L: So every 6+ months of disuse on my PayPal account, I'm going to have to call to have my access restored?

PP: Well....Sometimes that happens, yes.

L: So is there a misdirected link on your website, because when I clicked "verify account" it took me to "add an account" and I could never simply verify my original bank account.

PP: Well...yeah, it's entirely possible there's a problem with our website.

L: ...Okay...I know it's not you personally, I'm just asking to ask, but ... man...

PP: Well...if you don't have any more questions, you can see now that your account is fully restored.

L: Yes, I can see that. Thank you.

PayPal is now evil, much like Facebook. They provide a service so valuable and necessary at times, that I can't bring myself to cut the cord from these mothers to my online existence. Damn you, PayPal. Damn you.

Token writer's block post

2010-11-11T20:38:00.000-08:00

I am aching for an idea. An ephemeral, intangible, and therefore invaluable good. I wish I could say that something, anything has popped into my brain and I have been able to run with it, but this is the only canvas I paint the whole truth on. Betraying this medium with that kind of falsehood would be unpardonable. The problem started out small; I couldn’t think of a good blog post idea. When my scope of writing widened (with thoughts like "why shouldn’t I start a novel?") so did my chasm devoid of thought and inspiration. Three fresh drafts about thinking about nothing are sitting on my hard drive now. Because I thought it was a problem of distractions, I downloaded a free program called FocusWriter that shows no other inch of my screen and doesn’t allow pop ups from other running programs. Turns out, it has been more of a distraction to my homework and other reading endeavors than preventing distractions so I can conceive a noteworthy subject to write about. What can I say, I love new toys more than anything.

For a long time, I thought I didn’t have an idea because couldn’t think of a interesting enough topic, all I could keep thinking about was stories from my own life (few and far between as they are). I read The Help by Kathryn Stockett (I give you all a personal recommendation to read it) and thought “see, that is a good idea, race issues in the south in the 60s”. Then I read the end notes from the author and realized that was her life in the south, in the 60s. So it is okay to write a whole work of fiction based on your life...I hope this is a sample of the helpful hints I’ll learn next semester in my class titled “Writing Fiction”. So I turned my attention into crafting my life into something worth reading, more importantly, something worth writing. My mind is blank. My page remains blank. My social calendar remains blank. Unfortunately, it’s hard to pull a good story out of a complete lack of activity.

I read a book titled I Am Not a Serial Killer by Dan Wells (from Orem, how exciting) yesterday. I didn’t love his style, even after I acknowledged it was a piece of teen fiction. I didn’t love his idea (supernatural serial killer...). I didn’t even love his protagonist but his character moved and breathed and grew and now I’ve placed a hold request for the next book in the series. After I finished it, I thought “obviously Dan Wells didn’t live in small town struck with a string of serial killings that were solved by a 15 year old. Yet he’s stretched it into something, why can’t I do the same?” Answer: I have no idea. Maybe this means when my million dollar idea (or at least a thousand word idea) hits it will be something truly spectacular. Hopefully it means I can get back on the bandwagon of producing something readable once a week for this blog, or I might start getting into real trouble... sans a serial killer, of course.

My mom was a librarian.

2010-10-28T16:40:00.000-07:00

I'm writing a paper for my British literature class about John Keats. I can't read his writing, or even about his life without feeling moved to make my own pathetic attempt. Is there a less cliché way to capture the notion that he stirs my soul?

This is the first time this semester I've gone among the books in the library. I forget with every absence from this sacred place, how much I adore libraries. It's more than just books. There is something that also, to further the cliché , moves me when I'm surrounded by dusty tomes resting on shelves from floor to ceiling. I can hear the shoes slapping, pages scraping, pens scratching, chairs creaking and tenants whispering, but it is still silent, overwhelmingly silent. Reverently silent. My own body responds the hallowed ground. I breathe more slowly, more deeply, more quietly. Every step I take is measured and cautious, so as to not disturb what hundreds of thousands of authors have created for my special use and appreciation.

Have you ever thought about that? Every book in a library was written for you. I think if books had the run of the place they would jump off shelves and into laps, admonishing non-readers for their incredibly foolish oversight for not reading "The Masks of Keats" (or whatever it may be) sooner. Books are powerful, make no mistake. I can walk straight through a library without being much affected but the moment I pause and take a closer look, I'm in trouble. Touching a faded spine or sometimes just being sandwiched between two rows chalk full of books gets me. The very essence of the pages presses itself onto me. I feel it on the back of my neck, the inside of my elbows, and in that narrow space on the top of your foot, where your shoe doesn't quite touch. The only option left is to pick up a book and set up camp in the middle of the aisle, because doing anything less at this point, is a travesty.

Crohnie McCrohnsalot

2010-10-21T21:06:00.000-07:00

EDIT: I will one day revisit this topic...in a more eloquent manner.

Oh hey, I have Crohn's disease (warning: there are some pictures, a few of which are not for the squeamish). That might sound casual but that's kind of how I live with it. Every eight weeks or so my symptoms flare and I think "oh yeah..." This isn't to say Crohn's isn't a big deal, I mean look at those pictures...it can be a huge deal (e.g. stomach/colon/intestine removal, extreme diet change, bag for a stomach, etc). But I've been lucky, what can I say. I had great doctors that found it, found what drugs worked for me, health insurance to cover it, and I've been good for 4 and 1/2 years, ish.

I used to get infusions of Remicade (my personal miracle drug) every 12 weeks and the last month before my treatment I would start feeling terrible. When I couldn't stay awake during class, or even get to my morning classes on time, or would be late for work, (fatigue from Crohn's is a big kick in the teeth for me), or would regret eating because I knew eventually I'd have to go to the bathroom, I'd get frustrated that I'd acted so nonchalant the eight weeks prior. Then I realized the disease was nonchalant for the eight weeks prior, there wasn't really anything I could do about it. I wasn't about to wish for a more extreme case of Crohn's (I'm not that masochistic) so there was maybe the most troubling part of my illness: that I couldn't claim it all the time, because most of the time, there was nothing to claim.

But then, I actually got to talk to a doctor who made my treatments more frequent and now my bleed-through might be a few days, (which still suck, but it's better than a month) but nothing too extreme. Today I got my infusion at a new place, and it was good. The nurse was really nice, I was in a room by myself, the IV didn't start itching or hurting, and I just studied French for 2 hours.

So now you're saying "Laurie, get to the point." I guess I can't stop thinking about how lucky I am. Sometimes I almost feel guilty, people hear I have Crohn's and start gushing about my life, trying to alter potlucks around my "eating habits", and I have to clear my throat and say "actually, aside from the ridiculous financial aspect of this garbage, I'm 98% fine. Sometimes if I eat too much candy/ice cream/soda, it bothers my stomach, whereas before it didn't. ...Sorry." (seriously, I never got sick from excessive junk food before Crohn's...it was a mind blowing gift). I'm sure there will be complications later in my life (there just has to be...I'm just going to bank on it) and I should count all financial garbage (I keep saying garbage so I don't swear about it...garbage) as sickness enough.

But when I Google Crohn's out of morbid curiosity, and I see people with massive scars and attached to bags and listing their restricted diets, I just close my internet browser and sit outside for awhile.

Heat

2010-10-17T23:08:00.001-07:00

I have this thing about heat. I don't know how to analyze it, so this post truly has no point, but here it is. Sorry for being gross. Also, this isn't an every day thing. Sometimes I come home and take a cold shower I'm so hot and open every window in the apartment because I can't stand the heat. But the experiences related below happen...I would say often. Often enough to write a blog post about it anyway.

In the summer, I freeze inside air conditioned buildings. For the first twenty seconds after I walk into the heat of the summer air, I feel fantastic. I walk for another twenty seconds, and I start sweating. But for some reason, I enjoy it. I start to feel like I'm doing something with my life, when all I'm really doing is walking to my car, to drive to Dairy Queen, to get some ice cream. Not that I did that everyday, but in general the point is that I wasn't doing any productive. The drive to wherever my destination was would also perpetuate this love of heat, sweat, and disgusting. I wouldn't roll down my window or turn on the A/C or even the fan. I'd just sit and stagnate in a sweltering five minute drive back to my apartment. I would start to feel beads of sweat form at the back of my knee and slowly collect then break and drip down my calf. I wouldn't move, I would just relish the feeling. I would feel the sweat collect on the bridge of my nose and my sunglasses would slowly slide down my face, but I never moved, I never touched anything. I just sat in my car, waiting for the red light to turn green. If I was smart, I'd try to claim this as making me appreciate the outside once I got out of my car. I did, to be sure, but I don't think that was ever the end goal.

Why am I thinking about this now? Because my apartment is on the 3rd floor of my building. I usually keep my door closed so I'm not eavesdropping on the Korean festivities that are never ending in my kitchen (LOVE roommates). The building is right next to a fairly busy road, that gets pretty loud so I try to keep my window closed. To top it all off, I'm usually on my laptop, which is literally on my lap. Have I changed out of my jeans or opened the window or turned off my laptop? Negative. I can feel my face flushing and I can feel perspiration forming on my upper lip and hair line and I'm just sitting here, with my eyes closed, for some inexplicable reason, savoring it.

Against my better judgement

2010-10-09T21:40:00.001-07:00

In every way possible, this post is against everything my brain is telling me to do (i.e. don't post this, run away). The hazards of late night blogging I suppose...Comments are disabled because I don't want to hear concern, and for the record I will state: I am in a very healthy, right state of mind, I promise. Literally, I will write affidavits signed in blood that I am happy and healthy, especially because I'm writing!

In futility I have looked for online writing communities (that would probably be more beneficial for feedback since my readers won't be family and friends) but haven't found anything promising. And, since I think this is the first really great thing I've written in awhile, it's going up. *deep breath* Don't think about the subject material, just appreciate how well everything sounds (if I do say so myself...)

Mind, let me write, let me think, let me feel, let me breathe. Oxygen fills every inch of my lungs and I wait, feeling the expanded tension so when I exhale...the sweet relaxation of exhaling...I know to the exact degree how wonderful it feels. With concentrated effort I let go of my shoulders. I'm not sure my shoulders relax even when I sleep. For some reason the limpness that ripples through my body brings tears to my eyes. I am weary, in body and mind and spirit. I am in isolation of my own creation. The acknowledgement is harder when the steps to evacuate are clear and precise and yet feel so impossible. The silence of the room fills my ears like cotton swabs, and aides my tranquil emancipation. My legs are dead weight, not unable to move but unwilling to move. Dry and raw, my throat is begging my hand to drop this pen and force my legs to move to get a drink of water. Unfortunately, my throat is used least nowadays therefore holds the least amount of sway. A glance at my watch reminds me of the hour and that prolonging returning to an empty apartment is futile. I will slowly pack up my things and slowly walk to my car and slowly drive home. I will lie on my back in my room and stare at the ceiling until I drift away into unconsciousness. Every night is the same.

My Unequivocal Belief

2010-09-25T20:24:00.001-07:00

I was sitting in my room when I thought of the handful teachers I've befriended and kept in touch with over the years. It hit me that I've actually lost touch with all of the teachers I had been e-mailing. I thought of my first teacher-friend, from 3rd grade, Ms. Fox (I'll refer to her as this, because she's married now so this isn't betraying any identities). Always anxious to procrastinate my homework, I jumped on my laptop and searched for her on Facebook. Finding nothing, I did a Google search. A web crawler came up that searches all websites for any information about a person and puts it all together for you. Of course to see the full report and personal information, I'd have to pay, but just to list the people it found with that name, their age and area of location, including known associates, was free. I browsed, realizing Ms. Fox would be in her mid-30's now, and trying to remember her husband's name. I actually kept at it for quite awhile. I incredulously realized that I was putting a creepy amount of effort into this. The only thing I could do if I found her was e-mail her and come off as a stalker. What was I wasting my time for? Suddenly, there she was. 36, Ms. Fox, in the Seattle area, listing her husband's name and her married name. It had to be her.

I quickly searched the Seattle school district website for all elementary schools in the area. I searched her name on every elementary school and within the district website. Finally, when I had grown tired of my game, I tried one last search and came up with a picture directory of faculty. I scrolled, holding my breath and there...there she was, looking exactly the same. Her name and e-mail address. I didn't react for a few seconds, I just stared. Finally, I started to compose an e-mail to her, hoping that the website wasn't listing outdated information. I didn't know how to start. How do I tell someone after a 7-8 year silence that I wanted to get back in touch? How could I draft this without coming off as a creep? I did my best, related some experiences that might jog her memory and let her know that I wanted to stay in touch...but how could I explain why? If she didn't want to respond, what is the one thing I should let her know?

I decided to end my email with gratitude. I remembered her warmth, her friendship, her involvement in my life that meant so much to me, and the multiplication table songs she taught that I still sing to myself for the 7's and above (don't judge, those are tricky). I don't even remember why she meant so much to me, to be honest, but I just remember that she did, and obviously still does. That was all I could tell her, and hope that it didn't scare her into reporting my e-mail as spam. And even now, a few hours later, I'm still thinking about it, still feeling good about just finding her and letting her know.

Today my thoughts were on teachers, but recently I've just been thinking a lot about all the people, teacher or otherwise, that have left a deep influence on me. I've been thinking about how rare it is for an expression of true emotion, particularly face to face, to occur. Personally, I know that I weep voraciously when I try to tell someone how much they've touched my heart, so I try to keep it to writing, but I think even if I didn't, it would still be borderline taboo to be so heartfelt in person. I probably am reserved out of my own misreading of social cues, but it is what it is. The other half of this is that most people (myself included) are really bad at receiving compliments in person. You feel uncomfortable and awkward to be talked about, and even worse if there are other parties present. And yet here it is, my unequivocal belief: everyone should know how much they are loved and the power they wield to touch another life. I hate that all of my posts end on a soapbox, but honestly, give it a try.

"Who the hay knows" 2.0

2010-09-20T09:33:00.001-07:00

An elaboration on my thought 2 weeks ago...I promise I'll come up with something new to blog about eventually.

I think my earliest desired occupation was "detective". I was big on the mystery novel at a young age. Next, was definitely "writer". Then I think for the most part since then, it was always to be a teacher, in some capacity or another. There was a really awkward period in fifth grade where I wanted to be a nuclear physicist (I honestly have no idea...). Throughout all of my career goals, writer was always kind of there, in the back of my mind, like the "in your downtime just write a best seller and hopefully you won't really have to work again" option. The older I got, the more I let the impracticably of it settle in and wash away the desire.

There were stints of authoring fervor, like the middle school screenplay, and the early high school poetry, and now this creative non-fiction blog that I love to death. I have an alter-ego floating around on the internet that I'm trying to use to motivate me to write fiction for once. I suppose what I'm saying is that all of my better judgement is telling me to be an adult and get a real career when I graduate (which I will, keep breathing Mom) but the rest of me is writing, feverishly, to try and do something I love. Despite the astronomical odds, someone has to write novels and someone has to get published, and no where in stone does it say that it can't be me.

As my italicized introduction says, I know I've been beating this topic to death recently, and for the redundancy of it all, I apologize. It's just such a different, positive experience to try my hand at something I think I am good at. To go to a British Literature class and have the professor compare Lord Byron to Tupac, to have a break in the day or go home at night and want to continue doing what I was doing in class, to be doing well in a class without having to consult all other classmates about how to complete something...yes, this is indeed where I was supposed to end up.

So here I am, full circle. Sort of, I'm not taking any forensic science classes, but you know, the writing bit. It just makes me laugh at myself. "Haha Laurie, you thought you could pretend to do something else. What a dummy you are!" I think teaching is not out of my future, I think that's a part of me as well that will be recognized eventually. Despite other identity crises ("am I really this much of a loner?!" post forthcoming) writing, savoring words on a page for the sheer joy of how they sound or look or describe something perfectly; that, is thoroughly me.

Divine

2010-09-11T15:37:00.000-07:00

The BYU alumni readership I have will know of BYUs sketch comedy group, Divine Comedy (I think the video "Halo" is by far the funniest). Thursday night I was perusing YouTube videos instead of doing homework, mainly watching old Divine Comedy sketches. This led me to their website which led me to see their latest post. "Divine Comedy Auditions!" Thursday/Friday, 8-10pm. 2 minutes of original comedic material. I thought for about 30 seconds then decided, "What the heck? At the very worst, I look like a completely fool and failure in front of a few dozen people that are hilarious that I actually admire." ...Luckily, I'm resilient and that thought didn't phase me too bad. Actually, it didn't phase me because the one unequivocal belief I have in myself is that I am an inherently funny person. You're welcome.

I don't know what I was thinking but I didn't think that 8pm on a Friday night, there would be a packed auditorium in the Tanner building on BYU campus. But, alas, it was and I started getting ridiculously nervous. But, no one I knew was there, I couldn't be a loser and cop out now. I was the 25th person to go. It didn't help that the first two people to audition were absolutely hilarious. Within the first 24 people, it was clear that I would not make the cut, but again, couldn't leave at this point.

My sketch was pretty funny, I had the "PDA Blues" and sang about all the ridiculous PDA you see on campus. But, I accompanied myself on my RockBand guitar, for utmost comedic effect. I got laughs after all my punchlines, and my intro, so I guess it was successful. It didn't go as well as I hoped it would because I was so nervous, I think my deliveries came out a little rushed. After all the auditions (which ended around 10:20pm) they announced call backs would be the next morning and you'd get a call that night if you were going to be invited back.

I knew I wouldn't get in the troupe, but I don't think anyone could've helped it. I couldn't let go of a smidgen of hope that maybe I'd at least get to go to callbacks. There were a lot of hilarious people, but there were a lot of train wrecks (everyone got at least a few laughs though, so nothing heartbreaking to the infinite amount of freshmen that tried out). I like to believe I was closer to "hilarious" on the spectrum, and farther away from "train wreck". I also didn't know how long it would take for them to review all the "maybes". I forced my eyes to stay open for two hours, watching mindless TV with one and keeping the other on my phone. At 12:30am, I had to admit it, I wasn't going to call backs.

This morning, while I was lethargically eating Marshmallow Mateys, I was thinking about my slight melancholy, and how I had convinced myself the day before, there was no way I was going to get in, so what was the problem? The indefatigable nature of hope. The reason why most of the time we love it, and the reason this particular weekend, I'm a little bummed. I tried to think of a more profound follow up to that revelation but I think that might be all I got. I'm glad I hope for things, small or big. I'm glad I I don't listen to my pessimistic side all of the time, and that I couldn't just shake off not getting into call backs. I'm glad I have enough positivity in my life that I have hope.

Who the hay knows?

2010-09-06T12:23:00.000-07:00

I desperately want to write. Right now, all the time, always. If I allowed myself to have one silly fantasy about what I could do with the rest of my life, it would be to write and make that a living. In the most glamorous version of this fantasy, I would be a novelist, and live my life in the style of Richard Castle (see ABC's Castle, great show). If it was a slightly more realistic version of this fantasy, I would live my life in the style of a columnist for a big time newspaper, usually in New York but when I start to get really realistic, I realize I would love to end up in Seattle. And then reality truly settles and I realize to become a famous novelist is a very large task and newspapers are dying by the second. So, I drum down everything to be a very popular blogger and at the very least, get to lounge around my swanky loft apartment with my medium-sized dog at my leisure.

When I'm seized with these dreams, I immediately log on to Blogger and try to think of the most ingenious way to make a daily occurrence poignant or hilarious, and if it's a really good day, both. But as you might notice from the infrequency of my posts, most of these fits of "inspiration" result in distraction or really sub-par ideas that sounded good at one time in my subconscious (this is turning out to be one of those, but I think I'll keep it).

Anyway, why am I explaining this process? I'm not sure, but I just read someone's blog about how he tried to be an actor even though it stunk and it made me think about how far I'm willing to try to be an author, or at the very least, a blogger. Time will tell, I have an eon left before I graduate and am forced to make responsible life decisions. But hey, I just changed my major and moved into a completely random apartment a few weeks before the beginning of an important semester, so who's to say I won't be completely silly and try my hand at successful, published, authorship? I had a letter to the editor that once made it into the school newspaper, so that's a start, right?

Oh, Eve 6...

2010-08-25T21:11:00.000-07:00

A personal problem of mine has been growing ever present in my mind. I believe it is a product of my “plugged in” generation. To describe it, the 1990’s band Eve 6 lyric pops into mind and I will diagnose that I think words in clips and phrases. I’ll have to abandon that train of thought for a moment though, despite my fabulous pop culture tie-in, because thinking about Eve 6, the 90’s, and lyrics gets my mind off on a whole other tangent.

Some try to say this is the “perfect Tweet” syndrome, but I know that just as much thought and silent musings are given to concise but hilarious Facebook status updates to condemn this symptom to Twitter users alone. I try to “play it cool” on Facebook and Twitter, not update too often in case I look like I’m trying too hard. Inevitably, this leads to back log and in a week’s time I’m stuck debating whether to use the old update I thought of or the great one-liner I came up with yesterday. Then the never ending debate of what to write in Twitter and what to write in Facebook. I try not to duplicate my material, and while Facebook has a bigger audience, I feel like my dry sarcasm is more appreciated to a Twitter-like audience. All of this stifles my stand-up comedy acts because I can’t develop a joke, it’s got to be contained in a sentence or two!

I reminded myself last week how much I utterly adore reading and how sick I was from missing it. I’ve read four books in the past two days like I’m trying to catch up on my sleep which scientists have already proven to be impossible. That’s how I feel with reading. The time lost can never be made up and more good books are always being published. My standby when I looked longingly at the library was that I had no time for pleasure reading. But, wise words echoed in my mind that “you make time for what’s important”. Is leisure reading a priority? At one point I obviously thought not. I’m trying to pretend that I’ve always been meaning to make this change of heart, and that I’m not changing simply because I’m now, officially, and English major, but I think I must acknowledge that the title has bent me back to a more literary root.

With a resounding YES from the rooftops, I declare that reading for pleasure, for the escape, for the life of it, is in fact a priority! Or can be, anyway. A guilt-free priority that is required to live life to the fullest, if only through the characters in books. Fiction gets knocked a little in that category. “Don’t get too carried away or else you won’t live your own life” is a criticism I’ve heard from non-fiction purist readers. Not personally of course…but I can imagine. Wordsmiths craft their elegant prose and through that I feel emotion I never could have articulated so well. I see colors in metaphors that my mind could never have created. And it makes me see things differently, through those different metaphors.

This brings me to the conclusion that I’ve been musing about today. Are my thoughts in clips and phrases really a problem? I don’t feel more scatterbrained that usual. I don’t feel less connected to my associates than I usually do. Coupled with my latest book devouring, I feel my short bursts of similes about driving down the road are springboards for great writing to come. Or, at times like these, I just feel overwhelmed and write the feeling instead of the words. I haven’t yet forced myself to stop mid-conversation or action to scribble down thoughts yet, but I can imagine that I’m destined to do so in the near future. Life is too beautiful to be seen without flourishing adjectives.

2010-08-08T13:18:00.001-07:00

I'm posting today out of sheer obligation. Not so much the obligation to you, but the obligation that I made to myself, to use this blog as a dumping ground for thoughts and to improve my narrative prose. And maybe a little bit in obligation to you, the reader. But don't let it go to your head...

Change is upon me. Us. Everyone, constantly. In college life, change always hits at the end of one semester and the beginning of another. Historically, there is a more concentrated dose around August and September, when the typical student moves into a new apartment with new people. I've moved every August but I've had a constant roommate as a friendly face, so no matter who else was in the apartment, it didn't matter much. And lo, I embark on this grand new adventure: moving into an apartment with no knowledge of who my future roommates are. This has turned out 66% poorly for me this year, but I'm resolved that I will rise above whatever affliction a crazy roommate might bestow on me in the coming months. Random, do your worst, for I am ready.

Because my life just wasn't exciting enough, I'm also trying to sell a contract that is supposed to begin in 3 weeks, while I am 1 week away from being homeless. Once relieved of this contract, I presently have no alternatives. My own decisions astound me. I enjoy planning events 3 months in advance (at least), and yet I've chosen to do this a month before a very hectic Fall semester begins.

And to wrap everything up nicely, I'm attempting to change my major during what should be my senior year of college but in what is actually my pseudo sophomore year of my major. Information Technology to English. I was never a fan of large paychecks or job security, so changing majors seemed the logical choice, right? Right...

So here I am, in a handful of quandaries (that's really how you spell that... amazing). And yet, my heart rate hasn't reached a dangerous height, my eyes aren't swollen from tears, and I'm even chipper enough to write a blog post. I'll say it again: Change is upon me. Us. Everyone, always. Even when I've thought my life was moving in a very orderly, peaceful direction, it was changing. The change just wasn't so dramatic as it is now. Change is actually a constant so in it's presence, I am comforted.

I won't pretend that it is easy, because it's not, let's get real. But I believe our reactions can make it easier. I do not know what I will do with an English degree. But now I know what I'll be doing for my last few years of college: enjoying myself. I do not know where I am going to be living next week. But I know that it will do me some good to not have every instance of my life accounted for 3 months in advance. I do not know if I will have any friends in the coming year. But I do know that change is good for me.

So in a few months when I'm sobbing, alone on my bed because life is too hard, I'll come back and delete this post. However, currently the sun is shining, I have a full day of leisure reading in front of me, and nothing seems too ridiculous to accomplish. And just to go along with this crazy change business, this post will not receive a title. Look at me, walking on the wild side...

Overdue

2010-07-08T10:39:00.000-07:00

Not just the blog's new makeover (which, anyone on blogger should jump on this new template designer, it's pretty slick) but overdue to return and report about China. I lagged on Shutterfly explanations and picture postings, but one day, one day I will really finish all my picture posting and summarizing. Obviously that should be sooner rather than later but...let's be honest about my very real problem with procrastination.

No, I'm not going to post pictures or descriptions of places here. This "Debriefing of China" post is more reflection. Many people have asked me what I studied, what was my favorite part, what I learned in China, etc.

I studied globalization, which was fantastic. I thought it would be a distant secondary part to us trapezing around China for tourist attractions, but it was a closer second than I realized. It's happening, it's happening now, and I don't believe it will ever stop happening. Is it a bad thing? I don't think it is, but at this point in the game, I think it's less about what it "is" and how countries, companies, and citizens are going to respond to it. Some citizens have less of a say than others, so that's the rub, countries like Ethiopia and Ghana and others in Africa. All in all, my study lead to the discovery that globalization is one murky topic and if anyone asks me what I studied on my trip, I'm going to say "a mixture of economics, social policy, and business."

My favorite part...another conundrum to answer. The obvious answers are seeing the Terra Cotta Warriors, being on the Great Wall, climbing Yellow Mountain, etc. While those were all amazing, and it's rude to downplay any of those, I don't think of those when I think of my favorite moments in China.

I first think of a tomb we visited that was surrounded by an ancient brick wall. Two friends and I looked through the whole thing then had some time to explore the wall before we went back to the tour bus. It was sunny, (I can't say clear because I think there were 5 days in China that I saw blue sky), quiet, peaceful, and there wasn't another soul on the whole wall. There was foliage in the countryside around the area and we just walked around, without saying anything. Why did this matter? Because it was the first time in China (also the 4th week in China) where I had a quiet moment to myself. Technically, I suppose I still wasn't by myself, but it was as close as I could possibly get, given the 1.3 billion populous and the buddy system that was in full force (and rightly so). For the first and last time in China, I felt all encompassing peace.

The second thing I think of is a 3 day river cruise we took down the Yangtze river. I was never alone so it lacked the same magnitude that the city wall had, but it was peaceful in its own right. We took a side trip down a smaller tributary, then got into row boats to go down an even smaller tributary, and it was immensely beautiful. I think people's view of China is rice patties and cracker jack box sized housing. I'm grateful to have had the opportunity to change my view to how beautiful China can be.

I've been ruminating quite a bit of this last question, what I learned in China. I don't think I can give a concise answer to this. Instead, I just have been keeping a running list that I'm not sure will stop growing in the next few months. It's probably cliche, most of the readers will become exasperated and say "she was only there for 6 weeks!" but what can I say? I guess I'm naive and easily influenced, but in situations like this, I'm not so sure it's a bad thing. I'll throw out the caveat on this list that many of these things I knew once before, but forgot them along the way.

The List:

1. I love my family more than I thought I could.

2. God doesn't care who you are, where you're from, what you look like, He loves everyone. Everyone.

3. I enjoy my alone time (see above).

4. The Chinese are beautiful people, inside and out, and China is a beautiful country.

5. For all the hurdles facing the Chinese government, I think they're doing the best they know how...for the most part. Let's just say I have no idea where a group would even begin to make policies for 1.3 billion people.

6. I can do hard things.

7. A little bit of optimism in the face of pessimism can work wonders.

8. People are good. There might be some bad things that happen, but all people are good.

9. Change is healthy, positive, and necessary.

10. I'm not an impulse buyer.

11. I need to go to graduate school.

12. I will change the world, one way or another.

To be continued.

再见

2010-05-02T18:20:00.000-07:00

Apparently that means "See you later" in Chinese...but I tried translating "Goodbye" first and the same characters came up so who really knows.

I didn't talk much about this after my post about getting my passport, but I'm headed to China! Nanjing, tomorrow, to be specific. University study abroad trip, and there are only 15 students going with my professor and his wife so I'm ridiculously excited. No, I do not know Chinese or anyone else going but at this point, it's adding to my excitement. I'll still have email, which if we're friends (in real life or on Facebook) you have access to one way or another. Funny thing about China: they censor their internet, so getting to this blog will be extremely difficult, if at all possible. My main concern was backing up my pictures in case of computer or camera failure, so I created a site on Shutterfly, that I believe will be accessible in China.

laurieba.shutterfly.com

I can also post in my "travel journal" on the site so if I feel so inclined to wax eloquent while abroad, I can do so. I'll only be gone for six weeks, but I'm sure the time will fly. I fly out of Sea-Tac airport tomorrow, to LAX, then to South Korea, then to Shanghai, then on the train to Nanjing. The next day I'll start classes in Nanjing University! Only two, one taught by a the BYU professor coming with us and one by a Nanjing professor. One about globalization (the topic of the whole program) and one about Chinese culture and history.

Just furthering my mantra, "Yukon, ho!" and I'll return and report in 6 weeks!

Vulnerable Party!

2010-04-12T11:33:00.000-07:00

I've mentioned before that I'm taking a creative writing class this semester. We just had our last lecture and I turned in my portfolio, and I can say that I really learned a lot and improved as a writer. A few pieces I was actually really proud of, or thought at least that they should be shared, so what better avenue to self-indulge than my blog? The titles to most of the pieces are the titles of the blog post itself. I didn't want to do one huge long one because I thought that would get cumbersome to wade through. I included italicized introductions to every piece, since it's still fairly weak writing and I don't want to be judged without being able to defend myself, heh. So, feedback is much appreciated, but not required. Sorry for spamming you with blog posts, but if you wished I posted more, then today is your lucky day! All my pieces are below this explanatory post.

Poems galore!

2010-04-12T11:26:00.001-07:00

These were the only pieces that I revised and resubmitted for the class. I think my poetry is abysmal, but I really liked the subject of all of these. The prompt for the first one was to use words we didn't know the meaning of before we started writing (abraded and apportioned). Second, was to write the poem from someone else's point of view (think Looney Tunes...). Finally, we did a little bit about ode poems, so that should be self explanatory.

Uno

Sunlight streams through
pristine window panes, warming
white, blue, brown
speckled carpet.

One hundred and eight
black, white, red
cards lay ready
to be apportioned into hands
too small to manage them.

Forced to wait,
brown, gold, green
speckled eyes
too small to tell time
well with tears.

Abraded by youth,
he scatters the cards in rage
changing the game to
one hundred and eight card pick-up.
His back turns,
leaving her tears to fall
and be warmed
in a sunlit patch of
white, blue, brown
speckled carpet.

Note: there are 108 cards in an Uno deck. I remember a sibling's friend throwing the cards and making me pick them up. I don't remember crying, and the sibling actually stayed to help me after his rude friend threw them. It just worked better the way I wrote it.

Elmer's Lament

That damn rabbit.
We started as business partners,
and now I’m the villain.
Forget your lines, don’t do your job,
and somehow that turns into a catch-phrase.
I am NOT a doctor!

I used to think we’d be best friends
forever, traveling the country.
But he started getting more girls than me...
Apparently when you’re a big shot
you don’t have time for “bumbling” old men
with invented speech impediments.

“Time to face facts”, that idiot said.
The people loved him more than me
and I’m stuck here, working as
a sanitation engineer
for rent money.
Ode to the Microwave
You are singular in path
around, around
Either blinded and burned
or cold and alone.

You count on the visitors:
a garden burger that smells like vomit
a Tupperware of unknown sauce
(that explodes like a naked suicide bomber,
no paper towel, no lid)
a stick of butter, unattended
(that turns into a flood of butter,
warm & sticky,
reminiscent of pee).

You are neglected and filthy.
You heat and reheat.
And though the tenant has thirty seconds
he has no time to wipe you
with a damp washcloth.

Africa Bound

2010-04-12T11:23:00.000-07:00

This was the culmination piece for the fiction unit. Surprisingly, I got really positive feedback from the class on this, and my professor. I wrote it at two in the morning the night before it was due, and thought it was cute enough, but my class had a tendency to love the highly theatrical, so I didn't think this would be a favorite. I envisioned Calvin & Hobbes and "Yukon, Ho!" while writing it.

“What are you packing?” his mother asked from the doorway, as the weak February morning sunlight filtered through the slits between the dusty, white, plastic blinds in his room. Books and clothes clogged any pathway from the door to where he was hunched. Stuffing socks, underwear and various instructional manuals into a small duffel bag, he was not to be bothered. The sign on the door said so. “IMPORTANT TRIP PREPERATION-ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK” it declared in bright red, all-capital letters.

“Mom, I’m in a bit of a hurry, could we talk about this later?” Clark didn’t even turn from the task at hand (tearing a world map from the wall, to stow in the worn blue and white duffel). Before wrestling the zipper closed over the contents bursting from the tote, he paused, and inventoried his remaining possessions. He didn’t want to leave anything behind that could potentially save his life on this journey. The bright blue paint of the walls was littered with small black holes, pin holes to be exact. They had been holding up maps, posters of exotic animals, and safety guides, but those were now tucked safely in a pocket of the bag on the floor.

“Sweetheart, you can do whatever you like, as long as I know where you’re planning to go” she said. He finally turned to face her. His electric blue eyes were solemn as he met her gaze and said, “I’m sorry, but I’m going to the African jungle.” He quickly looked away, not wanting to make her cry. As he grappled the zipper on the polyester packing bag, she was silent. I knew she wouldn’t understand. She’s probably crying already, can’t even wait until I leave. Clark remained kneeling on the floor, lacing up his ankle-high, tan hiking boots.

“Are you sure you have to leave so soon? Would you like some food for your trip?” Suppressing a chuckle at her neediness, Clark opened his mouth to decline her offer, but his stomach piped in first with a rumbling growl. She smiled, and said “Come on, I bought more cereal yesterday, have a bowl before you head out.” Grudgingly, he shouldered his pack and followed her into the kitchen. He pondered his travel plans, where he would camp in between villages while on the road. He looked the part of an intrepid explorer. His boots were too big, and his khaki cargo pants hit a little too high on his laces. A favorite red fleece jacket was already zipped up to his chin in preparation to go outside. His dark brown curls were edging dangerously close to his eyelashes, pushed farther down by his favorite baseball cap, worn to show his sworn fealty to the Seattle Mariners.

His train of thought reached the station and he jerked from his present thoughts. “I know what you’re trying to do” he said, giving her a parental glance. Sighing, he patted her hand resting on the counter. “You’re trying to keep me here longer, hoping I’ll forget to go. I’ll write Mom, I promise.” Leaping from the stool, he crossed the kitchen. He bounded down the stairs, looked one last time into his mother’s face, and walked out the door into the wild blue yonder.

He ran from the door and jumped behind a nearby tree. There were stampeding rhinoceroses nearby, he could hear them running and their occasional mating cries. He was familiar with this species, with their multiple body shapes and colors, but knew they were lethal when tested. Best to avoid them, and he headed opposite the black and yellow striped path they frequented. There were a poisonous variety of vines hanging in the path up ahead, silver and shiny. He crouched in a bush out of sight, not wanting to be in the open while searching in a book for some advice. “The vines will kill you, but the blue, rubber-like leaf holding pairs of vines together at the bottom are safe” Clark read out loud, grateful for the foresight to bring that particular book along. He took a deep breath, started to run, and jumped onto the small, bright blue leaf between the two deadly vines. One sleeve brushed the vine and he yelled out in pain, tumbling off of his perch. It didn’t get my skin. That means I’m okay. Clark stood, resituated his duffel, and continued on his trek.

He was keeping his eyes on the trail ahead, but not on his feet below. A bright green cobra, coiled on the ground, took a chunk out of Clark’s foot. He cried out in pain but quickly army crawled out of the reach of the snake. I can’t leave it there, what if it attacks another explorer? His foot was healed and Clark got into a low crouch, circling the beast slowly. Before the reptile knew what hit him, Clark landed on top of the circularly wrapped body and trapped the cold, wet, steely head of the snake in his hand. Clark’s sheer bravery had tamed the monster. There will be less of those on higher ground, so Clark limped towards a distant mountain.

Should’ve packed lighter he thought, as he huffed up the mountain. At the crest, he dropped the bag and removed the red fleece jacket he was wearing. I also should’ve brought some food…wild game will be scarce until the Panama Canal I think. He pulled a map from his bag, trying to orient himself by the position of the sun in the sky, to the longitudinal lines on the grid in his hands. His eyes poured over the different colored countries and provinces. Without realizing what he was doing, he slowly sat down on top of his duffel. In a trance, he pulled out a reference guide to the Pacific Northwest and started cross-referencing native birds (he had packed his slingshot) in the area to what he believed his coordinates were.

Around one o’clock in the afternoon, Clark heard his name being called out. His survival skills kicked in, and leaving all of his scattered belongings where they were, he jumped up into the nearest tree for safety. “CLARK! Lunch is ready!” Ha, a likely story, trying to lure me in with food. His stomach released an untimely exclamation. He heard the assailant stop moving, imagined its eyes roving the jungle canopy for its prey. Clark dared a peek around the top of the hollow, yellow tree trunk he was hiding behind. My only hope is a sneak attack. He propelled himself down the tree trunk with enough velocity to land his flying kick at the end of his run. His high speed assault didn’t land an injury on anything; his predator was nowhere to be seen. As he turned his head, he felt something grab him around the middle from behind. With a yelp he tried to struggle free, but alas! The arms were too strong, too full of love to ever let go.

Clark giggled as his mother threw him over her shoulder, and picked up his duffel bag from the grass, maps and pamphlets already safely packed away. “I thought I was covering my tracks pretty well, how did you find me?” Clark asked. “Well, the African jungle isn’t so far away you know” his mother said, as she reached the bottom of the mountaintop, walked past the tamed cobra and poisonous vines, and right into the backyard.

Love Not For the Faint of Heart

2010-04-12T11:19:00.000-07:00

This was the culmination of the essay unit, but I don't like it that much. Again, in the memoir style. All of these details are embellished, I'll say that up front to keep my parents from worrying. True facts of this story: I stayed overnight in a hospital. I really did think the lady with the broken collarbone should've gone in before me. Everything did seem grey and green and dull. It was cold when the doors opened in the waiting room. There was a single bed sitting the middle of the room, that did seem pretty lonely. My mom really did insist that I go back to bed while she collected my stool sample. Mom's are the best, ever, period.

I overheard the only other person in the room say she had a broken collarbone. I was in front of her in priority to get a room, it seemed like I should talk to a nurse to let her go first. I only had knives in my stomach, which hadn’t been that big of a deal for the past six weeks. Neither had the vomiting, thirty pound weight loss, or extreme fatigue. I couldn’t imagine breaking a bone; I still wince when I think about it. But there she was, sitting cool as a cucumber, I couldn’t believe it. Regardless, my parents wouldn’t have let her go first anyway. I suppose every parent imagines their child should be the first in line in every hospital waiting room, but I wouldn’t know that, seeing as I don’t have any children. Overall, I did feel pretty terrible.

Fluorescent lights always seem to make dismal places worse off. The waiting room looked white washed even though parts of the wall had green in them. Soft drones from the lights made me feel like I was in some sort of honey factory, but without the sweet result. Disinfectant filled my nostrils no matter how concentrated I was on breathing through my mouth. The nurse at the front desk was there for secretarial purposes, but I’m sure it was part of her job description to be warm and inviting. She did an alright job but when automatic doors let cold air in with every entrance, the cold could not be dispelled by just one halfhearted smile at nine in the evening. I highly doubt whoever ordered the chairs for that room had ever sat in one for any length of time. Probably for the best, or they would be aware of how much money they wasted, and that it would have been more polite to force people to stand instead of sit on those numbing plastic chairs.

A nurse came, but no wheelchair. I snailed along behind the nurse, my parents cautiously stepping forward only if I stepped forward. I finally made it, nervous to see a bed in the middle of the room. The bed itself seemed like a great idea, I wanted to pretend the whole day was a dream, but its location troubled me. Like an outcropping in a sea of white tile, it looked so lonely. I knew I would be too, undoubtedly I was staying overnight and undoubtedly, my parents had to go sleep somewhere of their own, presumably our house. I would be huddled on the outcropping, waiting for dawn and the arrival of a rescue crew. The grey plastic rails on either side were there to keep me from falling into the ocean, but they looked like a barrier to any kind of comfort. I was getting ahead of myself, they still had the regiment of tests to run while the night was young, and my parents were still here, waiting.

The bathroom attached to the room was supposed to be a polite convenience, but there wasn’t a seashell picture to be seen, as every really comfortable bathroom has, so it seemed just one more unknown to deal with. More white and green walls and more white tile floors, more fluorescent lights and more bees hovering just out of sight, but I could hear them so I knew they were there. The overall grey was marred by sweeping black curtains every so often; I just couldn’t keep my eyes open. Intravenous this and that started, they told me like it would make a difference to me. I felt like cooked pasta so it could have been cocaine, and I would’ve taken it for lack of strength to do otherwise.

I can still see my mom’s poor face, covered with enough worry to care for a family of diseased children instead of just one. It often gets like that, but this was one of the few times it actually seemed warranted, I mean I was in a hospital. Six weeks of symptoms and I hadn’t said a word to anyone, and I’m sure one day my reward will be my own child doing the same to me. I knew she loved me, but I couldn’t ever interrupt the silence to share something important, it had sat there too long. Like a comfortable house guest, I started to feel it would be an imposition to let him know what an imposition he was. My body was eating away at my small intestine and I really ought to tell my mother, so please just excuse yourself for a minute so I can feel comfortable about saying these things out loud, thank you very much. As I said, it didn’t happen until a few days before Memorial Day weekend, a little late, but better than never.

The last thing they needed was a sample, and then everything would be discussed in the morning. The final hurdle seemed the most daunting of all. I think they all felt very sorry for me, a seventeen year old, going through the rounds of most middle-age colon health tests. Regardless, it had to be done. As previously stated, I knew my mother loved me, but when she helped me across that finish line, small plastic cup in hand because I couldn’t even go to the bathroom by myself, I knew in my cocaine induced stupor, what true love really looked like. Love is helping your spread-too-thin child to the bathroom at midnight in a hospital, and upon realizing that her legs are as strong as jelly, insisting that she go back to the room to lie down while you stay behind to retrieve what the doctor ordered. Odd, a bit disgusting, and thoroughly exhausting, but only mothers are strong enough to wield that kind of love.

Memoir Essay

2010-04-12T11:14:00.000-07:00

One assignment was to write an essay in a memoir style. I didn't think this piece was all that great, but I love the subject matter to death. I really did write this on January 14th, after really just leaving a voicemail on his phone. The details might be slightly embellished (like I don't really remember sweating while picking up grass clippings when I was 4 or 5, or being particularly desperate to move into our new house) but it was a way to illustrate the lessons, which are very real. I also know my dad is 61, but 60 sounded like a better milestone for the story.

I have heard the theory that fathers fight less with their teenage daughters than they do with their teenage sons. The logic of the claim seems sound, citing that fathers and sons are much too alike to see eye-to-eye because one party is in a stage of life where they know they are right, and the other party is in a stage of life where they know they cannot be wrong. Yet, my personal experience does not mirror this phenomenon. Probably due to my tomboy childhood, I have turned out to be the epitome of my father. Wearing tall straw cowboy hats and tan, genuine leather cowboy boots were a favorite outfit of my fathers, even though we lived in the suburbs. I always wanted to be a cowboy. He always wore his dark green fishing vest with brightly colored flies stuck to all the pockets to the river, and kept extra fishing line in the pocket of his Dockers. I always had a habit of picking out vests to wear to school. Bird hunting was the logical use of the purebred bird dog of one variety or another that was always living with us, so naturally, I became a bird hunter assistant and travel companion.

Regardless of our closeness in my single digit years, my father and I were both too stubborn to reach a common ground from when I was twelve until I was twenty. There were no disownments; there were no marks of abuse, just a respectful distance and unspoken truce to speak as little as possible because the few moments when our disagreements did come to a head were not pretty. And yet, here on the fourteenth of January, my father turns sixty, and I can do nothing but think of him. I suppose that is how it ought to be, on the birthday of someone that you love. Perhaps this is more important to me because I have realized how long it has been since I spent any quality time with him. Or maybe, after eight years of purposeful distance, I have begun to realize the opportunities I have missed.

I was four years old, and we had a large front, side, and back yard. The long green grass was always soft and thick, perfect for constant romping around the yellow rambler we were living in. Inevitably, it had to be cut, and inevitably, our Saturday chores began. Bright and early, all five of us kids would trek outside to rake and bag all the grass clippings that had shot out behind the diligent yard worker, my father. The plastic red rakes were too big for me to utilize effectively, so I was designated the task of bag handler. Holding open the black, plastic trash bag (that I could’ve have fit in) always meant itchy grass clippings would fall over the sides and onto my exposed arms and hands. Before the deed was done, the sun would be high in the sky and my shirt would be sticking to my back, my throat dry with grass flying around my face. Why we didn’t have a bag on our lawn mower that would expedite this slave labor by collecting the grass itself, I’m not sure. “Saturdays are work days, just like every other day of the week” I remember hearing.

In a few years, my father started construction on a house. Eventually we would move in, but the process was long and irksome. In the end it was a two story, white house with four large windows on the front. It sat on five acres, one of which my father cleared himself, with the help of my brothers, to build the house on. It wasn’t a mansion, and there wasn’t any breath-taking architecture to be completed. Why was it taking so long to throw up four walls and a roof? Why were there so many details to take care of? “If there is a job worth doing, it is worth doing right” he would always tell me.

A few years after that, we moved across the state. Initially we moved into another yellow rental house with a sloping, scrubby lawn and cheap cabinets. After awhile there, we bought a house around the corner, and were moving out of the burial place of my first pet, Herbie the hamster. I scrubbed the white walls in my room, dusted the clear light fixtures in my bathroom, and swept in the darkest recesses of the garage. The multi-day process was exhausting and obviously excessive. The renters before us hadn’t done nearly as good a job cleaning as we had, but we moved in anyway. No doubt the place would rent with or without my sweat sacrifice. But, “always leave something better than when you found it” was my father’s mantra.

In approximately five years of my childhood, I learned three lessons more valuable than anything I have learned thus far in my fifteen years of organized education. His integrity, humility, and incredible work ethic were more of an example to me than any renowned figure in history. Work, school, and social engagements constantly demand my time. However, my friends, skills, and knowledge I am sure, were acquired through the three principles I remember most from his teachings. So on a milestone like your sixtieth birthday, what should you get? I think you deserve to hear how much your child loves, honors, and respects you; instead of hearing her leave a hurried voicemail on your cell phone at the end of the day, wishing you just another “Happy Birthday”.

Past Burned by House Fire

2010-04-12T11:06:00.000-07:00

We read a newspaper article in class that was really published in the Washington Post. It read like a short fiction piece, included hilarious details that would be great for fiction, but seemed strange (in a good way) in a newspaper. So, the prompt for this piece was to make a fiction piece out of one of three newspaper blurbs (which were real) that we were given. The true part of my story is that there was a woman (Judy James, 42) in West Jordan, UT that paid two teenage boys to burn a house down. She admitted she did it, she was charged with arson, her bail was set at $10,000. The details in between all of that were embellished by yours truly. I think this piece was one of my better one of the semester.

WEST JORDAN, Utah - Ray Markham, 16, and Tony Fledger, 14, were waiting for something interesting to happen on the corner of 3000 East and Center Street on a lackluster Wednesday night. Little did they know the excitement would come from Judy James, a 42 year old woman that could have easily passed for either of their mothers. A stout, disheveled looking woman with fly away auburn hair stopped at the 7-11 the boys were loitering in front of and coerced them into burning a house down at 3836 W. Country Drive, Salt Lake County.

Markham claims they denied the request initially, but the offer was too good to ignore. Fledger further explained, “I mean, this crazy lady is givin’ us free stuff to use, to burn something with? Would you pass that up?” James insisted that she never thought she or they would actually do it, but “to leave that house standing after that S.O.B left me…couldn’t do it...couldn’t.”

The boys deny ever knowing James’ motivation, simply that she handed them the matches, lighter fluid, and paper towels to get the job done. Markham elaborated “it just looked…like I dunno, you ever put off cleaning your room, and then you Mom stops screaming at you about it, and instead she just stares at you and quietly asks you to pick up your clothes? It was kind of like that. She just needed us to do it.”

Carl and Sandy Budging (33 and 30, respectively) were walking their cocker spaniel, Daisy, 3, the very same night, past the very same 7-11. They saw James stumble into the parking lot. The Budgings approached James to check on her mental health. “People are pretty queer when they cry so hard they start laughing, and she was looking mighty queer” Sandy declared. Before either Budging had a chance to ask after her health, both report that James profusely apologized for burning the house down, and that she never should have involved her (James’) children.

At that time, Markham and Fledger returned to the 7-11 to find James. Fledger stated “She told us to go alone, but as we were pouring the gasoline we could see her standing at the edge of the yard. When we threw the lit matches on it, she started screaming about her kids and her husband, and then she freaking ran into the middle of the road! We had to follow her; she didn’t look so good.”

Once detained at the police station, James’ only comment was “tell my boys I’m sorry, I didn’t mean for them to have to see that. Boys shouldn’t have to watch their parents fight.” While her outward appearance came across as composed, while she was detained her eyes never stopped roving the surfaces in her jail cell, never finding repose. James was charged with one count of aggravated arson, a first degree felony. Bail was set at $10,000.

Temperature

2010-04-08T20:51:00.000-07:00

I'm flirting with danger, by writing this specific post in a publicly advertised URL, but we'll see what happens...

I may have a faulty memory, but I seem to remember a house kept around 68 degrees Farenheit during the winter growing up. I also remember never touching the thermostat, it wasn't really mine to mess with anyway. Summer, wasn't an issue because no one in western Washington has air conditioning anyway. Transition to Provo, land of cold winters and hot summers. First year I lived in the dorms where I didn't have much opinion or say about any temperature. Second year I lived in an apartment were we never could figure out our thermostat. Now, I'm here.

It's a user friendly little panel, just inside the kitchen, next to the washer/dryer combo. Flick a switch for "heat" "off" or "cold", use the up and down arrows to pick a temperature for the apartment, look at the little numbers on the digital display to see what the temperature is. A plight of this place is that it's technically 3 stories, though only 2 are livable. The thermostat is on the colder of the two floors so in your room, you're never really sure how hot it is. I would say I'm generally a cold person with poor circulation. I have an abundance of fleece blankets (all 3 of them) and a quilt and comforter to boot. Not all on my bed at the same time, but all available for use in the living room when required.

I don't think I'm that frugal, but I do think I'm aware of waste. So, instead of heating an apartment, I'll just bundle up, slippers, socks, robe, blankets, not move in the nest of down, and I'll warm up eventually. My last unmentionable roommate didn't share this mentality, and after at least 3 discussions, I gave up. I'd come home to a 75 degree condo in the middle of winter and while it might have felt nice for a minute, the money that was slowly draining out of my pocket turned my heart cold when I saw the temperature reading. I'd discuss with my other roommates the idea of leaving it at about 68 degrees when it's cold, turning it down a bit at night and when we leave for the day and no one said otherwise so I assumed the unmentionable roommate was just a little less aware of heating costs, being from southern California.

Enter new roommate (who's fabulous, and not unmentionable at all) and we've all just had the same discussion! It's been a beautiful week here in Provo (mid 60's) and I've been quite toasty after walking around campus all day, Then I become even more toasty when I walk into a 72 degree apartment...So we have an apartment pow wow where I declare a happy medium must be reached, which dissolves into: because I set it to 65 degrees when everyone leaves in the morning, we can leave it at 65 degrees always, and it's too much of a hassle to turn it up when we're home, so 65 is fine. I reserved the right to turn it up when it rains/possibly snows next week because I don't mind turning it up to 68 at all, but if no one else does that's fine.

The point of this was to pose a question, (not to rag on my awesome roommates) and the question is this: am I crazy? Is 68 like sitting in ice water to the rest of the world? Should I not fight that though, because I'm saving more money than everyone else? These are questions the more experienced of my readers can answer...

Analogy time

2010-03-26T15:15:00.000-07:00

As my roommates and I were watching Xavier play Kansas St. last night in a most exciting NCAA Sweet 16 game, we noticed drips of water coming out of the ceiling, right where the tub in one of the rooms would be (we live in a two story condo). Our line of vision followed the drips down to my Wii, my RockBand drums, and my resilient VCR. We all leaped into action, moving the valuables first, then the whole entertainment center, then telling the roommate in the tub to get out of the tub, then calling our landlord, then getting bowls for the water, then getting towels to dry everything off with, then waiting for the landlord to pick up her phone, then wondering what more we could do. As roommates 1 and 2 were talking to said roommate in the bathtub and making phone calls, I felt like I had to do something, the water had to stop or else due to the softness of the ceiling, something was likely to fall through onto our brand new carpet. So, naturally I put my hand against the holes in the ceiling. That would stop it!

After a few minutes, roommate 1 asked me what the heck I was doing because it was just getting my shirt all wet with gross drywall water. I agreed and went to grab the towels. As we sat there, watching our landlord poke a hole through the ceiling as easily as sticking your finger in a pie, I thought about my instinctive reaction. An unstoppable force is pulling something undesired into my direct path, and all I can do is put my hands out, palms up, and believe that it's going to have an effect. I have to stop it, I can do it, get out of the way while I put my rubber-stopper hands up to half a dozen holes and watch them miraculously dry up all the water. What happens in the end? Water keeps flowing, holes keep growing, ceiling is softening, and my shirt is wet and smelly.

I'm not sure where my poetic analogy is going. I think if this issue was at rest in my life/personality type, I would have a flourishing conclusion about "going with the flow" instead of stopping it. Instead, all I can think about is money, school, and life, in that order. Three holes, two hands, and a sporadic sleeping schedule. Unfortunately, I think the way it works is that the drywall is going to keep getting waterlogged until the ceiling bows to it's apex of a monstrous crack right above my arms covering my head, and right at that moment, maybe I'll wise up and finally start depending on the one person that can really stop holes in my life.

Until then, I'm going to invest in a poncho. Wish me luck.

Hobbies

2010-03-10T18:15:00.000-08:00

I've never been one for hobbies. Not that I don't wish I had some, or think that people with hobbies are silly or waste time, or anything like that. No, I just haven't ever been able to justify pursuing something that doesn't directly influencing my future. To be sure, this is a stupid behavior especially because it leads to spending large amounts of time on overly frivolous activities like video games or surfing the internet, but maybe in a small way those are my hobbies. ... Gross.

I started playing trombone in the seventh grade. Then I started playing trombone in the tenth grade. The only reason I didn't quit before high school was because of jazz band. The original motivator was friends in the class and getting out of school to go to different cities and perform for a little bit and play for a lot longer. There was something intoxicating about jazz. The dotted eights, the dominant sevenths, the attitude, the emotion. I'd like to say it was the challenge that I enjoyed, and I did, but truth be told, everything about trombone was a challenge for me. I also can't lie and say I loved the freedom of improvisation, because honestly it scared me to death. I did love the cultivation my music taste received from being in jazz band for so long. Playing jazz made me listen to jazz, made me appreciate jazz. And that's how I began to appreciate artistic nuances, references in other songs, and again, the raw emotion. I'm listening to Blue in Green right now, by Miles Davis, and the poeticism drove me to write this post.

After tenth grade, this wasn't just a hobby, this was the future career path. My freshman year of college, I auditioned for the school of music and didn't get in. In hindsight, this was how things were supposed to happen, but it was hard to hold onto that glimmer of hope at the time. Trombones are valuable, college is expensive, and after all my hard work and time (which again, in hindsight wasn't that much) I could hardly stand to look at it. I stopped playing the trombone on April 16th, 2008. Shortly thereafter, it got sold. Shortly thereafter, I stopped listening to jazz.

My iPod has twenty-five gigabytes of music. The majority of it is jazz and classical. I've listened to the handful of pop, country, rap, and rock bands/artists I have too many times to count. I've purchased quite a bit of new music over the past two years, but invariably, I get bored, claim I need new music, try to discover new bands, but usually end up letting the radio drone out the silence of my car. I debated taking off all the jazz and classical music from my iPod but couldn't bring myself to do it, to waste it even though it was already being wasted.

Today, Wired.com was giving away a collector's edition of a bunch of Miles Davis music and memorabilia. To enter the drawing, I just had to post a comment about how Miles Davis could be one of the greatest musicians of all time. I didn't commit to any ridiculous statement like that, I just posted something silly ("If peeing your pants is cool, then I'm Miles Davis!") and wondered what I'd really do if I had all of that.

Would I listen to it? I have a lot of Miles Davis right now, that I never listen to. I have a lot of Coltrane, Mingus, Thelonious, Hawkins, Basie, and more that I never listen to. I have a whole set of North Texas State University Jazz Band CDs that I cherished as one of the best gifts I've ever received, that I never listen to. I went about the rest of my day, came home, and listened to Miles Davis, Birth of the Cool. Like an addict, I went right back to it, a habit I could never truly shake. Apparently time heals all because the knife music left in me after I changed majors left a hole that nothing but a 32 bar blues could fill.

Ode to Caitlan

2010-02-24T18:03:00.000-08:00

Preface: I'm in a creative writing class and we discussed the "ode" today, which is poetry, but I wasn't about to write a poem and post it on the internet.

I've been pondering my freshman year these past few days. I came to BYU the Summer term before the Fall semester when most of the '07 high school graduates typically begin college. I didn't know a single person that would be there during the summer, but I didn't think much about it until I actually got to my dorm, unpacked, and watched my mom and sister drive out of sight. Then suddenly, I was a little frightened.

My roommate moved in later that night, accompanied by her mom. Truthfully, I remember thinking we probably wouldn't be very good friends. I don't know why, but my initial impression was that she approached everything with more levity than I did, and I wouldn't be able to stand her. The first night as we got ready to go to sleep, I remember her pulling out her scriptures, so I pulled out my scriptures. She pulled out a journal, so I got out a notebook to jot down some thoughts, trying to mirror the duration of her writing as well. Finally, she said a prayer before turning out her light, so I said a prayer before turning out my light. From that night forward, it wasn't so much about doing those things for the sake of doing those things, but it was a function of making sure I wasn't judged. The right reason for doing the right thing came a little later, but that was the catalyst. (We talked later about how we both had the same though, 'don't get judged by the other person' so we kept doing it all summer for that reason)

I don't think I've ever been happier to be wrong. Caitlan and I became fast friends. It was a strong but casual friendship, where we were both confident that we would have a great time if we were ever together, but that didn't mean we had to be together all the time. There were late night runs down the hallway, elastic band jumping, pranks, cafeteria eating, MoTab blasting, and hospital glove drawing times to be had, providing much hilarity. We knew we wouldn't be roommates in the Fall, and thinking about that over the summer was a little depressing. But, it was the first friendship I had that was deeper than geographical location of residence. We still made time to get lunch together, go to sporting events, meet mutual friends, and go to parties. Last year we were roommates again and in hindsight, I can say I was pretty obnoxious. But, that wouldn't negate the good times of the quote wall, a free aquarium, putting barbecue sauce on everything, dance parties, and Little Cesar runs. (Thankfully, Caitlan is one of the most gracious people I've ever met so all of my fallacies as an annoying roommate were forgiven)

This past year we didn't hang out as much as I would've liked, we were both so busy. Texts related funny stories throughout the day or any really big news, but face-to-face visits were farther between. Through the course of the last few months however, Caitlan put in her mission papers, Caitlan got called to serve in the Hawaii Temple Visitors Center, Caitlan left to go into the MTC today, Caitlan will be gone for eighteen months.

I was invited to go to lunch today with her and her family, since I couldn't make it to her farewell, or dinner with other friends last night. It came time to say good-bye and I can say I didn't get choked up, but it was an odd, sad sort of feeling. I'm ecstatic for her opportunity, and what she'll be doing, I know she'll be an amazing missionary, and she'll have the time of her life. It was a sinking feeling I suppose, one where I knew that I had taken her being around and constant texting, for granted. Caitlan makes you feel better, even if you weren't feeling down. Caitlan makes you want to meet people and serve people and be better, without (intentionally/unintentionally) guilt tripping you. Caitlan is a fantastically loyal & genuine friend. Caitlan is already missed.

Can I love television without being obsessed?

2010-01-20T11:14:00.000-08:00

I just wrote out a laborious post about watching "As Time Goes By" this weekend (British TV series with Judi Dench about a middle-age couple falling in love) and being somewhat ashamed about it. After further reflection, I realized I wasn't ashamed at all, and I truly love that show, and I can't wait until next weekend when I have some time to finish watching all of it. So there. Thanks Mom, for introducing me to the greatness that is British humour. Yes, I spelled that with a 'u'. Yes, I've been thinking in "British-speak" to myself for the past two days. And yes, schemes have crossed my mind as to how I could move to London and develop an English accent, even though I've lived in America for the first 20 years of my life.

This leads to another thought I've had recently. I don't feel like I watch that much TV. I watch "30 Rock" regularly, but that's about it. I've been watching earlier seasons of "Scrubs", but have kind of fallen off that bandwagon. And now I've watched 7.5 of 9 seasons of "As Time Goes By" this weekend, but that's about it. Not to say I don't just veg out sometimes, watch a lot of HGTV and "Mythbusters", occasional sporting events, but I always categorized "heavy" TV watchers as someone with two or more shows that they would die before missing on Thursday night, or whenever. Oh, can't forget that my guilty pleasure is Rob Dyrdek's "Fantasy Factory" but it's not in season right now. Again though, in my defense, I watch those online a few days later, it doesn't really dictate my life.

Despite all of that, in everyday conversation, I bring up TV often enough to make me look like a couch potato. Perhaps I just relate things in life to abstract sources really well? Perhaps I like the shows I do because they relate so much to real life? (I really don't believe that one...) I personally think it's because I only tolerate TV I find funny or genuinely interesting (so I'm not sure why I watch HGTV...subconsciously want to be a designer? I'm not sure) and you can always inject funny or interesting comments into conversation. Or so I thought. The more it happens, the more I realize how silly it makes me sound. It's like talking about Facebook in real life, something that has become fairly common place, but I still try to hide it by saying "Someone emailed me" instead of "Someone wrote on my wall/sent me a message". Perhaps it's not as taboo as I think it is, but it's always true that it's never as funny during the second retelling. "Mythbusters" came in handy in my physics class actually, we were discussing pressure so after class I emailed my teacher a link to the episode where a scuba diver's air line gets cut and his whole body is compounded into his helmet because of the water pressure. Great stuff.

All in all, I'm not really sure. I've been making a conscience effort to not talk about TV too much, and an even harder effort to not let it become any sort of importance in my life, but what can I say? I've always been a big fan of music playing in the background, hilarious set-ups, and wrapping up problems in 22 minutes.

A shadow of the older me

2010-01-08T20:34:00.001-08:00

I feel like the subject of my post is a) usually a rant from women older than myself, so I hope this doesn't exasperate anyone and b) is written at 9:30pm on a Friday night, so yeah, I guess I am behaving like 20 going on 45, but whatever.

I'm in the double digits now, of cashiers that call me "ma'm". Really, folks, really? This doesn't bother me, I'm not offended, just confused. This wouldn't even warrant a post if it were in regular places, like Best Buy, or the grocery store. In fact, I'm sure I've been called "ma'm" at those places many times, but that's just polite customer service, so it isn't even memorable. No, what really puzzles me is that I am called "ma'm" at the BYU Cougareat (pronouned: cougar-eat).

For those that don't know, the Cougareat is the small collection of fast food places that have set up shop in the student center on campus. There's a particular favorite of mine if I had to skip lunch and feel like a large dinner and am stuck on campus, called Tomassitos. It pretends to be Italian, about as much as the Olive Garden, but it's filling, as cheap (expensive) as every other place, so why the heck not. Plus, I can get broccoli there, so I feel a little bit better about the whole experience. Not to mention, they are one of two places that have Fresca at their fountain drink machine, which also makes me feel better about myself...I know, I'm sick.

So what's wrong with calling me "ma'm" at the Cougareat? All cashiers at the Cougareat are students, i.e. the same general age group as myself, and I'm pretty sure they are aware that 95% of their clientèle is students. There are non-student (i.e. adult) workers in the Cougareat, but they are managers, that aren't dishing me up and charging my card. I mention Tomassitos because they are the greatest perpetrators of this "ma'm" business. I don't think it's ever happened at Taco Bell, probably never at the burger place, maybe once or twice at the wrap place, probably never at Subway, and those are pretty much the only places I eat there.

As I write this out, perhaps this is a distinction of classier eateries within the Cougareat. Perhaps these cashiers are trained specifically, "we're classier than Taco Bell and Subway, so you better call all polite customers ma'm!" Which also makes sense in relation to the wrap place because they're classier than Taco Bell and Subway too. That leads to the conundrum, can you call anywhere in the Cougareat classy? Probably not, but I've lost sight of those true standards, dining on mainly fast food for the past three years. And really, the wrap place is the classiest (whatever that means) and they call me "ma'm" less than Tomassitos. Maybe they're trying to appeal to a younger crowd because wraps are hip now...I have no idea, I'm getting lost in a world of Cougareat classification theory.

Anyway, to wrap this up (bah!), Tomassitos, what the hay? I'm 20 years old, and am probably younger than all of your employees, really.

Sincerely,

Puzzled in Provo

Freedoooooom, freedooooom, FREEDOOOOOOM!

2009-12-28T20:52:00.000-08:00

Note: The subject of this post must be sung.

Well, while watching "Step Up" for the second time (in a row) in my empty apartment, I figure I could write a little diddly on here. The thought that came to me as I began was obviously about my freedom for the past two weeks, being with family and most importantly, not school. ...No offense to my family...that came out calloused.

To celebrate my freedom last week, I laid around with my family and it was fantastic. Not much sleeping in, but since every day was so leisurely, that was flexible. This week, I have to holla fo' a dolla and came back to go to work Monday through Wednesday. But, after 5 pm every day, I'm essentially still free. I've chosen to indulge in movie watching, TV watching, and guitar playing, but this freedom is a little lackluster compared to last weeks. It's becoming apparent that freedom is not as poignant unless there are at least two (hopefully more) appreciating it in the same vicinity. Unfortunately, it appears that I am the only person in Provo, at least my apartment complex (that is literally true).

Now how to prove that this post wasn't really written in depression, just boredom...Ah ha!

I can't be the only one who laughs out loud at this picture.

Whoa ho, you're getting spoiled

2009-12-15T21:39:00.001-08:00

Two posts, in such (relatively) quick succession? I must be bored! The following thoughts occurred to me, after I analyzed my repetitious behavior for the past week or so.

I am addicted to chocolate milk. Thankfully not the Hershey's syrup, or else I'm sure I'd be a whale, but the Nesquik variety. I inherited three large plastic cups from my last place of residence, and come home every night to do the same thing. Fill one large plastic cup to the brim with milk, then pour in 3 heaping tablespoons of Nesquik powder, stir vigorously, and down in about a minute and thirty seconds. What can I say? This led me to think of other addicting behaviors I have.

I am addicted to 30 Rock, on NBC. More specifically, I'm addicted to Tina Fey. There isn't much to say about this. I've never been one to sit down and watch a show when it airs, I usually go back and catch up online. Even more, I've never really been one to watch an entire season (let alone multiple seasons) of a TV show. 30 Rock is the exception to the second rule (very little supersedes the first). It's just hilarious, and Tina Fey is hilarious, and that's all there is to it.

Those were really the first two thoughts that came to mind. Of course I'm addicted to the internet in general, Twitter and Facebook specifically, but I figure that's pretty much applicable to anyone in America now, so...All in all, a boring post, but I just had to share my love of chocolate milk, and do some more advertising for 30 Rock. Cheers!

I haven't started my paper due tomorrow

2009-12-06T20:21:00.001-08:00

I've fallen to the wayside of all other single, twenty-something bloggers I know, by never posting on this, and I apologize. In my defense, this has been a ridiculous semester, but alas, I know that won't satisfy my word hungry readers. In other news, I have been officially accepted to study abroad in Nanjing, China in Spring 2010, and pending financial and academic roadblocks, I'm very excited to attend. I'll keep you posted.

Some of you might have heard of the internet sensation, a project called PostSecret. I believe I've mentioned it in a previous post on here, but they recently came out with a viral video (the first they've ever done) as seen at this link: http://www.facebook.com/video/video.php?v=190260477694&ref=mf

I'm not going to lie to you, this video made me cry. I suppose that's a small secret of my own (or one of them) to share with all of you. Not blubbering all the way through it, just when it got serious towards the middle/end. There's nothing I love more than this idea, that we're all connected, that we're all more similar than we are different, that if you sit down and talk to someone and genuinely listen, you'll probably hear a lot of yourself in their voice. Am I very good at this? No, as a matter of fact, I'm terrible at meeting new people. But, I do love to do it, I think I've just forgotten how. Isn't that why we're so scared to branch out? Because we're worried we won't be accepted, we won't be like them enough to be considered a friend? Maybe I'm shooting into the dark, but when I think about it, those are some of my anxieties. Why worry about trying to meet new people if nothing will come of it?

I'm not sure I really have an answer, because for all of my e-preaching, like I said, I'm at square one. I started this post intending to resolve this all to some action related answer, but the more I think about it, the more I can't decide what to write. I suppose every day I'll just start with a goal to be more open, with one person in my life, to foster a stronger relationship and mutual trust. Who knows, maybe that one person in my life is someone I'm sitting next to in a lab, or my coworker, or my neighbor. Because really, we're all connected.

Adventure! Intrigue! Get it today for the low price of $99.99!

2009-11-09T19:29:00.000-08:00

I had to think of a catchy title to entice my readers to forgive my prolonged absence and pick their way across my disheveled thoughts. In my defense, I hate school, so I spend a lot of time procrastinating but trying to really start doing schoolwork, then the rest of my time actually doing schoolwork, working furiously before the deadline. But I digress, alas the real reason for this post.

I have a scheme, that this spring, I will learn about globalization in the engineering and technology field, in Nanjing, China. This application process required obtaining a passport which I had never obtained before. It seems to me that the majority of the populous runs a lot of errands on Saturdays, but apparently not enough of the populous does to make the post office passport services stay open for longer than two hours of the day. Regardless, a mailing of a birth certificate, photos taken, two weeks of waiting, and one Saturday line later, I have this little puppy. I didn't think much of it, but I got it in the mail today and now that this little scheme is tangible, I can't help but be a little excited. And, in reality, I probably won't get enough money to go, but now I have a passport, so that's pretty cool, right?

Dusting off the keyboard

2009-10-11T17:50:00.001-07:00

When you feel the need to post, but have nothing profound to say, what do you write? This post will be a smörgåsbord of happy things, because who couldn't do with a little more happy in their life?

1) I just watched one of my favorite movies for the umpteenth, "Chocolat". Nope, didn't forget the 'e', it's the title of a book, by Joann Harris (which I have yet to read) made into a movie, starring Alfred Molina, Judi Dench, and Juliette Binoche. I won't bore you with the details, I will be content to say that you should rent it, that it is a feel good movie, that there is one naughty scene, no questionable language, and it's a chick flick in a very subtle sort of way. Why bring it up? For the sermon in the last five minutes of the movie, from the village's greenhorn priest, on Easter Sunday.

"I'm not sure what the theme of my homily today ought to be. Do I want to speak of the miracle of our Lord's divine transformation? Not really, no. I don't want to talk about His divinity. I'd rather talk about His humanity. I mean, you know, how he lived his life here on Earth. His kindness. His tolerance. Listen, here's what I think. I think we can't go around measuring our goodness by what we don't do, by what we deny ourselves, what we resist and who we exclude. I think we've got to measure goodness by what we embrace, what we create, and who we include."

Whether you're Christian, Hindu, Atheist, or unsure, you can't deny. That is some dang good advice.

2) The happiest song I heard for the first time this week is called "Dental Care" by a band called Owl City. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O0Y1FLp-zlg I don't think they have a music video for it, so here's just a non-obnoxious video behind the music (a rare thing on YouTube). Lyrics, a little silly, whole song concept, a little weird, but overall, a happy go lucky kind of song. When you sing about having a smile on your face, you know it's happy times. Just spreadin' the love!

3) I've started a project. I suppose it should have a title, like a proper project, but instead I'll just explain the details. I've noticed one of the best feelings, universal to the few folks I've talked to, is when a stranger gives a sincere compliment on something about you. Whether, your outfit, your hair, or your smile, you can't help but feel better, even if you were already feeling good. Then comes the kicker: if the compliment comes and you were having a bad day. Your day just 180'd, am I right? In the spirit of "paying it forward", I've tried to give at least one stranger a compliment, everyday. Most of them, probably think I'm weird, but who knows, maybe one person really appreciates it, maybe I just 180'd somebody. It's easier for me, I'm on campus, around strangers everyday. Then again, why does it have to be a stranger? Point is, random compliments can go a long way, give it a shot.

4) Sometimes these are sad, but sometimes these are ridiculously inspiring. Makesmethink.com brightens my day, give it shot!

It's the circle...the circle of life.

2009-09-23T12:06:00.001-07:00

At the tender age of ... sometime before 3rd grade... I watched a movie. A movie, that truly changed my life.

Because of this movie, I started playing softball. Because of this movie, I cuffed my jeans. On a slightly more morbid note, because of this movie, I started cracking my knuckles (you know, when the show the close up of Benny cracking his knuckles as he gets ready to pickle The Beast? Yeah, I do that now). Finally, because of this movie, I absolutely HAD to have these shoes

I grew out of the cuffed jeans, the shoes, and eventually the softball (never stopped cracking my knuckles...). But, as we know, fashion repeats itself. I saw tweens and "punks" buying Chuck Taylors again, but this time around it didn't hold much appeal for me. I joked that I was ahead of my time, wearing those shoes in elementary school, but not high school. It wasn't that I didn't like Converse high tops any more, it's just that you're paying a lot of money for a little bit of shoe. My blog confession is that I'm kind of a brand snob, and I didn't want the knock offs. But, I finally caved. I have some other shoes that are looking a little ragged, so I figured it's time to spend the money, and be hip. The bonus to buying P.F Flyers this time around? It's even cooler to buy them in colors other than black. My life, or at least my shoes, has come full circle.

One short weekend, in the Emerald City.

2009-09-13T13:28:00.000-07:00

Considering my audience of Mormons, family members, and Mormon family members, I'm assuming you all know about the musical "Wicked" or at least know how to get a synopsis on Wikipedia.org. My gracious, generous, hip-happenin Mom hooked me up with a ticket (and one for herself, of course) to the musical of the year. Probably more like two years, but who's counting? I just had to provide a plane ticket for myself, to come to the ever beautiful Emerald City (Seattle, not in the land of Oz) this weekend to see the show. Done and done.

I've been listening to the soundtrack for about a year now, I know all the words by heart, and the only person I annoy with that is my roommate, who has to suffer through my car singing of the whole CD, on occasion. I read the synopsis of the story on Wikipedia, loved the characters, loved the story, loved the music, this was DEFINITELY going to be an amazing night. The closer it got to show time, I couldn't help get concerned. Maybe I was hoping too much. I'd been listening to the original cast soundtrack, and this would be the touring group. Then we see in the program that the girl playing Elphaba (the Wicked Witch of the West) is a standby, not the girl that's been performing all week. What if this production was sub-par?

Of course, it wasn't.

The music started, the stage began to move, the characters began to sing, and I was mesmerized. I was mouthing the words to myself (but not audibly, to the relief of all around me) and sitting open-mouthed during the whole show. I don't want to be melodramatic, so I'm trying to keep this review low-key but honestly, it was spectacular. Elphaba was dynamite, Glinda was perfect, Fiyero was spot on, Morrible, Dillamond, and the Wizard were all superb. My favorite song from the soundtrack is "The Wizard and I" and I think I must've had my mouth open and my face kind of blank because my Mom leaned over and said "Well, do you like it?" I couldn't respond truthfully, because I had already started crying as it was. So, I feebly said "oh, yeah, it's great". She must've known what I meant, because she shoved a tissue in my hand. (Note: If you are a member of the Banks family, you cry whenever something great is happening. It doesn't even have to be that great, just a little out of the ordinary. So, of course, I cried for no reason at the play, just because I love the play. Judge not.)

I can't describe how beautiful the set was, how perfect the costumes were, how moving the music was, and how fantastic the characters were. You'll just have to go see it for yourself. Everyone, should see this play.

Law decrees every home football game changes Provo to Cougar Town.

2009-09-06T17:20:00.000-07:00

Well, first week of school down, and I don't like to think of how many more to go. But, of course with the beginning of a new Fall semester brings the advent of BYU football. Last year, BYU football got a cleat in its mouth for making their slogan (which is broadcast across the student populous through 5 dollar navy tee-shirts) "The Quest". Confusing at first, word soon spread that "The Quest" was the abbreviation for the true motto "The Quest For Perfection". This did not mean perfect sportsmanship, this meant a perfect season. Two years ago the Cougars had an excellent season and fans and sports columnists alike thought they should've been given a BCS bowl. With that much pressure, what else could've happened but the whole team choking, and playing a season that I can't even remember, even though I watched every game. Bronco Mendenhall has been quoted as saying it was his fault for putting too much focus on something that extraneous, and that this season there would be no motto, just playing football.

When I heard that BYU would be playing Oklahoma University last night, I was unenthused. I knew that like classic BYU, they would choke and it would be another slap in the face to the Mountain West Conference. When I did get back from campus yesterday, to my surprise it was only 7-10. The game wore on, I won't bore you with those details, and probably the ones I've provided were too dull for you to wade through, but the important part is this: the after game.

As soon as it was over, I personally opened my apartment door, stood on the front porch and yelled a hearty "WOO HOO!" I watched the rest of the post-game commentary from Bronco and Max Hall and then started to hear cheers throughout the neighborhood. Suddenly, there was an outburst of fireworks. A few minutes later, my roommate and I went to get a pizza a few blocks away, and as we left our apartment, all we heard were car horns honking and people cheering. We drove around the corner to get onto the main thoroughfare through town, and people were literally running through traffic up and down the street. One person had a huge BYU flag and was holding it out behind them as they ran down the suicide lane. Groups of people were just standing outside of apartment complexes cheering at every car that drove by. It was Provo pandemonium, and I loved it. For every honk I heard, I honked. For every yell I heard, I yelled too. Cougar Town has not felt that kind of pride in a long time.

I heard about some of the aftermath today, of last nights festivities. Some people congregated at LaVell Edwards Stadium, even though the game was away, and started a raucous party. Some more groups literally drove to the Salt Lake City airport and greeted the team after their red-eye flight home. Fireworks and honking were still going as I fell asleep last night, close to midnight. If there's no other reason to go to school, it's just to be a part of college football.

P.S The title to this post is not a joke, it is an actual law. Google it.

I have no way to gauge smut.

2009-08-28T12:17:00.000-07:00

As promised, a post about "One Hundred Years of Solitude" by Gabriel García Márquez.

I thoroughly loved this book. I thought it was engaging, well written, and just plain interesting. I'm excited to read "Love in the Time of Cholera", by the same author (and widely publicized in one of my personal favorite movies, Serendipity). Why have I not yet stated "Everyone must read this book"? Because there's ... well, a bit of family lovin', in the non-legal way. I don't know how to explain this without sounding disgusting but because the book starts in the 19th century (or so it seems, the author never says), because it takes place in a remote South American village, because it's not immediate family, and because it isn't graphically described, I wasn't really phased by it. I know, I know. I'm a creeper. I'm just saying, I really enjoyed the book. The author had a way of writing with ease, even about strange village traditions and beliefs. They seem completely foreign to modern logic, but maybe that was part of the appeal to me. Fantasy, in a very realistic way.

For example, when the wandering waif girl shows up with nothing but a satchel and a name, the protagonist family soon discovers the bag contains the bones of her dead parents, begging to be buried properly. I forget specifically why, but for one reason or another, the family waits, and puts the bag of bones in a room. Throughout the next few chapters, the bones are found in different locations throughout the house. A 21st century reader would assume there's a subplot about someone wanting to steal the bones, but it's just common knowledge in this literary world that bones can move of their own free will. I'm poorly explaining this, but the author weaves magic into the mundane, touching all five of your senses in the process.

Don't judge me when you try to read it and are too disgusted to finish it. I suppose I'm just a smutty reader.

We didn't vandalize any art, if you're worried.

2009-08-25T11:41:00.000-07:00

DISCLAIMER: This is not to knock family in Utah. This is not to say I hated going home or didn't love my family before this week...Just wanted to throw that out there.

Once again, I have a good excuse for a lack of blogging, I've been on a mini vacation here:

for the past week. I should be ashamed to admit, before this last visit, I had never returned to my native land with the sole intention of being with my family. That was always pleasant, but I always also had an itinerary that included a long list of eateries to sample and friends to catch up with. For the first time, I told very few people I was even coming back into town, I did see a few friends, but for the most part, I made a point to stay at home. And to my adolescent surprise, it was the best week I've had in a long time. For perhaps the first time in my life, I miss home not because of friends or weather or ease of living, but because I'm not with my family all day, everyday.

Of course, such intense feelings of love and devotion come only, from short trips. The picture above was from Wikipedia. Unfortunately, the only picture from the whole week was one of some audience participation art at the Seattle Art Museum, where myself and two accomplices wrote "poop" in a table of wooden blocks. See, and you thought I had grown up because I enjoyed being with my family.

Oh, Emily

2009-08-13T21:09:00.000-07:00

What to say about Wuthering Heights…I don’t know if I could recommend it. I certainly wouldn’t read it again. Perhaps I didn’t read it in the right spirit, or maybe I wasn’t fully prepared to jump back into the prose of the Bronte sisters. I was quickly reminded of the annoyances felt as I read Jane Eyre and couldn’t stand Rochester. This time, it was Heathcliff, and he was a brute. And yet…I couldn’t stop reading. I wanted to see how low he would go, because like every great English novel, you know he will have a great redemption, in one form or another. Heathcliff ended a little less gloriously than Rochester, but he did pull his weight at the end. There were also a lot more characters to keep track of, that spanned three generations, and two households, and yet, again, I had to know what happened to all of them!

My wise mother once told me that a book has 50 pages, and 50 pages only, to hook you. If that sacred bond is not fulfilled, the book is to be forgotten and never touched again. She didn’t ever say it so dramatically, but…that was essentially the rule. So despite my disgust with eighty percent of the characters, I really was hooked. I really wanted to see how it ended, and it was a pretty good book. I also don’t think I’m very good at analyzing deeper themes from literature. If I was, I might see a larger value in the Heights. However, I just started One Hundred Years of Solitude and it promises to be a lot more interesting thus far. I’ll keep you posted. Ha, get it?

Yes, I posted this at work.

2009-08-06T10:20:00.000-07:00

There's definitely something lost by typing out what you're thinking, instead of writing it out by hand. Handwriting, for one. Sometimes there isn't a perfect font to do the subject justice. However, typing everything out does make me appreciate the feel of a pefectly balanced pen with stark black ink, gliding smoothly on top of white, kept in line by blue. Then there's the subject of portability. I can take my favorite pen and paper in any bag, sit anywhere, and throw something onto paper. When I sit down to type something out, I've gotten comfortable on my familiar 14" laptop with crisp, gleaming keys. When I sit at work all day, every day, with a computer right in front of me, I don't write anything. I've discovered it's because I just feel uncomfortable. That keyboard is not my home! That monitor is not my home! And once again, writing is delayed. So, I suppose this is my long winded apology for post absence. If it makes you feel any better, I wrote this all out in pen before transcribing it onto this blog. On the plus side to technology, my keyboard will not run out of ink, like this pen just has.

Is "The Bell Jar" good?

2009-07-27T21:25:00.000-07:00

I’ve started on four various blog post topics and have not yet been satisfied. So, blogging is not as easy as some make it out to be. The two best kinds of blogging are filled with exciting updates about the life of the author and the lives that directly affect the author. The next best kinds of blogging are the kinds that leave some kind of inspiration with the readers, or at least a sense of wonderment about how profound the author is. I’ve been trying to fulfill the latter since my life is a lesson in mediocrity, updates would be as entertaining as my calculus homework. The third best type of blogging (I’ve done enough math homework today) is a blog filled with hilarity. I structured the previous sentence for the sole purpose of using the word hilarity. And even with that outlet, I couldn’t come up with something really gut-busting.

I suppose the logical thing would be to wait, don’t post and disappoint when I could postpone and post better. At the same time, I feel that blogs are only worth reading if they’re updated on a semi regular basis. Yes , that is a jab to all the blogs I follow that update once under the full moon when Mercury is aligned with Jupiter. I was mulling over funny, inspiring, exciting things to write about and they all fell flat about mid way through. I finally realized that I was fabricating some sort of pen name that could write extraordinary things with vim and vigor. In reality, there is only myself, I write what I can, when I’m awake enough to do so, and vim and vigor is a first come, first serve kind of deal in my life.

I started this blog with the intentions of keeping pictures and day to day activity on Facebook and Twitter, news and updates on my family website, and all miscellaneous, impersonal writing here. Tonight, on this blog attempt #5, I realize that best types of posts 2 and 3 are only accomplished with a bit of personal flair. To leave out the deepest part of myself in my writing and expect it to be readable is preposterous. This post was less for you, and more for me. Perhaps, that's really what this blog is supposed to be for. I'll figure it out eventually, but all the while, I hope you keep reading. Maybe every so often you'll be inspired, excited, or even laugh out loud.

Oh, “and by the way, everything in life is writable about if you have the outgoing guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise. The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt. “-Sylvia Plath

Gonna have to add Sylvia to my reading list, she deserves it after that speech.

Happy Day

2009-07-22T09:25:00.001-07:00

To be honest, doing the dishes is never high on my priority list, much to my roommates dismay. When I finally buckled down and did them the other day, I had a chance to cogitate about why it is, I'm not a fan of dishes in general.

I think it stems of deep distrust. Where did I develop this doubt? From my dependable Dad. I remember coming into the kitchen after he had done the dishes, and there would always be a stack of immaculate dishes sitting in an impectably straight stack in the sink. I used to think it was unnecessary, but come to my own apartment, with my own dishwasher, and I scrub and scrub and scrub before anything goes in the dishwasher. For my father and I, it seems, dishes aren't as easy as throwing them in the top and bottom racks of the dishwasher, it's about cleaning them to be "cleaned". Call me sick, I realize it's a bit obsessive-compulsive, but the older I get, the more I realize how right my Dad is. The dishwasher, is definitely dodgy.

Of course, this judgement isn't passed to all automatic cleaning appliances. After living in an apartment with my own wash machine, I am certain this was God's greatest gift to man. Thanks John E. Turnbull, for getting that party started.

Maiden Voyage

2009-07-20T23:36:00.000-07:00

I've been pondering doing this for quite some time, but lacked the initiative to find the perfect URL. It's a daunting taks finding an address that a) is appropriately original, memorable, and funny and b) isn't already in use. As a tribute to my fantastic brother, I chose a phrase he coined (and defined, take a looksy here to get educated) and would first ask my readership, as minute as that may be, to follow the link, vote up the slang, and start the movement to replace "hyphy". If you don't know what hyphy means, don't bother, get tribal is by far its superior.

The second task was to find a proper title. The dream of course was to find a title and URL to match. However, I felt that this blog would probably have little to do with getting tribal, but more about exploration into the deep unknown. I was searching the internet tirelessly for at least one strip of the many page long story line of Calvin and Hobbes becoming fed up with life and home and with parents, and striking out for the Yukon, but alas, I couldn't find it! At the very least, I provide you with a brief snapshot:

And so here I am, venturing somewhere I've never gone before, the world wide web of blogging. Hello to you all, you'll hear back from me soon, that's how exciting my summer holiday has been so far. Excuse the British-speak, I've been reading a lot of Harry Potter.