I use my Google Calendar religiously. I only became more meticulous about documenting every deadline, event, and appointment after I got a smartphone, when my calendar was always at my fingertips. I take pride in being able to spout off birthdays of friends, television series season premier dates, and future dinners with old roommates.
Along with my methodical insertion of dates into my digital day planner, I have also always been highly conscious of deleting past events. I don't want the clutter of dated entries in past days, weeks, and months. I don't want to see the textual litter across an otherwise immaculate landscape of white squares comprising my coming month.
About two weeks ago I realized I don't want to forget anything. I want to remember every coffee date and every Halloween party and every movie night. I want to remember every random drive downtown trying to find a place to grab dinner and every sojourn into Provo. Maybe one day it will become a necessity to wipe out all of these past reminders, but for now, they're each a celebration.
Yukon, ho, to the future of my Google Calendar.
Sunday, November 3, 2013
Thursday, October 17, 2013
India Indians
I feel like this is an odd thing to blog about, particularly after such a long absence from this site, but you know . . . the heart blog what the heart blogs.
I'd like to relate this odd part of my job that brings me inexplicable joy. Every week, our software updates. Developers used to write just a handful of what we call release notes about these updates, and clients and employees were mad they weren't getting more information before things in the software would change. So I was assigned to get the developers to write more release notes, and to shift the paradigm internally that the release notes do not always stink.
To accomplish this, I bribe everyone. I bribe the developers every week with a $10 gift card to whoever writes the "best" release notes (a subjective designation, to be sure, decided entirely by me. No complaints yet but I'm sure they'll come . . .). And, I bribe every other employee in the company with a fun-sized Snickers.
It didn't start that way. My original idea was to hide a little easter egg somewhere in the email (these easter eggs would take the form of a line of text, hidden amongst all the developer-written release notes, that people would only see if they were earnestly reading the release notes then stumbled across a phrase, movie quote, song lyric, something, that wasn't a release note). Then, people would come to my desk, tell me the easter egg and a release note that stood out to them (cool new feature, useful new update, etc.) and I would give them this piece of candy.
And I get it, you know? We're all adults, this all has a general haze of condescension that I really didn't intend but when you offer employees a fun-sized carrot . . . not everyone will be thrilled. I didn't expect everyone in the company to come running for candy.
Having said that, the response has been pretty positive. The unexpected part was the other offices in the company (Provo, Dallas, India) got fairly upset they weren't included. To get a fun-size candy bar. . . . Yes. You read that correctly. All the same, I was glad they wanted to participate and I recruited some candy-disher-outers in the other offices to be proxy for me.
I love getting emails from salespeople we have on the road, in their own regions. I love getting emails from people down the hall from me, not interested in candy and too lazy to come talk to me, but still wanting to participate. I love the boisterous messages from employees in Dallas. But by far, the absolute best part of all of this, has been responses from employees in India.
First of all, they have the most employees in their offices, so they send the most emails. I think if I were to do a ratio of responses to employees though, I would also find that they have more people per capita responding than anywhere else. People drinkin' my Kool-Aid will always warm my heart.
Then there's the fact that most people around the Utah offices have seen me or have sent me other emails about documentation at some point. Our offices in India only employ developers and QA specialists. I have no contact with anyone in India because they're really not looking for client-facing documentation. And yet their emails are always so nice! As if we're friends already. And naturally I respond in the same way because I wish we were friends already.
And finally, I love the language barrier. I'm sorry, but I really do. Last week the easter egg was the button combination you have to push on a controller (or arcade cabinet) to throw the special move in the video game, Super Street Fighter, called the Hadouken. Down, down-forward, forward, punch. One developer in India sent me an explanation about how one of the software updates tied in with Japanese culture and how that was the easter egg. Obviously I've done a terrible job of explaining the game, but it was also rad to get this random, close reading analysis of a release note of all things.
The past two weeks I've just happened to be working late on Thursday evenings. I start to see email responses from India pour in, due to the time difference, and gleefully respond to every single one, along with telling my candy proxy every name so they are "approved" to get whatever sweet treat is being provided over there. Tonight, I brought home my work laptop to do more work but ended up shelving it and watching YouTube from my bed, along with chatting a friend and catching up on Tumblr.
I forgot that I kept open my work email though and slowly I started seeing the first of the India email responses land in my inbox. At first I thought maybe I would quickly sign out and wait for tomorrow to deal with them all, but then someone started chatting me from India, about the game and the candy and the release notes. With a sigh and a smile, I began writing down how many people had emailed, forwarding their names on, and responding to their emails. For "working" on a Thursday night, it sure was a blast, for just a few seconds per email, to connect with the other side of the world, to create new relationships, to feel like we have some kind of report even though we'll probably never ever meet.
This really has no point. This was also probably one of the more boring posts I've ever written. I just love emailing my friends in India. I used to have no desire to travel there, but if maybe I got to travel their for work, it would be more appealing . . .
I'd like to relate this odd part of my job that brings me inexplicable joy. Every week, our software updates. Developers used to write just a handful of what we call release notes about these updates, and clients and employees were mad they weren't getting more information before things in the software would change. So I was assigned to get the developers to write more release notes, and to shift the paradigm internally that the release notes do not always stink.
To accomplish this, I bribe everyone. I bribe the developers every week with a $10 gift card to whoever writes the "best" release notes (a subjective designation, to be sure, decided entirely by me. No complaints yet but I'm sure they'll come . . .). And, I bribe every other employee in the company with a fun-sized Snickers.
It didn't start that way. My original idea was to hide a little easter egg somewhere in the email (these easter eggs would take the form of a line of text, hidden amongst all the developer-written release notes, that people would only see if they were earnestly reading the release notes then stumbled across a phrase, movie quote, song lyric, something, that wasn't a release note). Then, people would come to my desk, tell me the easter egg and a release note that stood out to them (cool new feature, useful new update, etc.) and I would give them this piece of candy.
And I get it, you know? We're all adults, this all has a general haze of condescension that I really didn't intend but when you offer employees a fun-sized carrot . . . not everyone will be thrilled. I didn't expect everyone in the company to come running for candy.
Having said that, the response has been pretty positive. The unexpected part was the other offices in the company (Provo, Dallas, India) got fairly upset they weren't included. To get a fun-size candy bar. . . . Yes. You read that correctly. All the same, I was glad they wanted to participate and I recruited some candy-disher-outers in the other offices to be proxy for me.
I love getting emails from salespeople we have on the road, in their own regions. I love getting emails from people down the hall from me, not interested in candy and too lazy to come talk to me, but still wanting to participate. I love the boisterous messages from employees in Dallas. But by far, the absolute best part of all of this, has been responses from employees in India.
First of all, they have the most employees in their offices, so they send the most emails. I think if I were to do a ratio of responses to employees though, I would also find that they have more people per capita responding than anywhere else. People drinkin' my Kool-Aid will always warm my heart.
Then there's the fact that most people around the Utah offices have seen me or have sent me other emails about documentation at some point. Our offices in India only employ developers and QA specialists. I have no contact with anyone in India because they're really not looking for client-facing documentation. And yet their emails are always so nice! As if we're friends already. And naturally I respond in the same way because I wish we were friends already.
And finally, I love the language barrier. I'm sorry, but I really do. Last week the easter egg was the button combination you have to push on a controller (or arcade cabinet) to throw the special move in the video game, Super Street Fighter, called the Hadouken. Down, down-forward, forward, punch. One developer in India sent me an explanation about how one of the software updates tied in with Japanese culture and how that was the easter egg. Obviously I've done a terrible job of explaining the game, but it was also rad to get this random, close reading analysis of a release note of all things.
The past two weeks I've just happened to be working late on Thursday evenings. I start to see email responses from India pour in, due to the time difference, and gleefully respond to every single one, along with telling my candy proxy every name so they are "approved" to get whatever sweet treat is being provided over there. Tonight, I brought home my work laptop to do more work but ended up shelving it and watching YouTube from my bed, along with chatting a friend and catching up on Tumblr.
I forgot that I kept open my work email though and slowly I started seeing the first of the India email responses land in my inbox. At first I thought maybe I would quickly sign out and wait for tomorrow to deal with them all, but then someone started chatting me from India, about the game and the candy and the release notes. With a sigh and a smile, I began writing down how many people had emailed, forwarding their names on, and responding to their emails. For "working" on a Thursday night, it sure was a blast, for just a few seconds per email, to connect with the other side of the world, to create new relationships, to feel like we have some kind of report even though we'll probably never ever meet.
This really has no point. This was also probably one of the more boring posts I've ever written. I just love emailing my friends in India. I used to have no desire to travel there, but if maybe I got to travel their for work, it would be more appealing . . .
Sunday, May 5, 2013
2 hours late
I'm worried these posts are becoming hackneyed, or too dramatic, but I just have this thing about making sure people know how much I love them. I'm not too bad at saying these things to someone's face, but the catch is that it usually makes me cry which is the bane of my existence, so instead it's just better for everyone if I write it out, you know?
Once Sara told me that she felt good about herself when people who are more introverted spend time with her, because she felt like they were choosing her specifically, when usually they don't choose anyone. I kind of laughed and nodded, because I knew if I told her the truth I'd probably tear up. The secret is that it's quite the opposite. Sara is one of the friendliest, nicest people I have ever met in my entire life. I don't know if I've ever met such a condensed ball of joy and energy in my previous 24 years. I was talking tonight with a friend about how everyone knows and loves and wants to be friends with Sara. And despite all of these demands on her time and these other very nice people in her life, she'll call me and we'll hang out sometimes. It is an incredible privilege to know and be friends with Sara.
And after that, I've hit kind of a writer's block. There are dozens of wonderful things about Sara, but miraculously I have brought them to her attention without crying. She is the greatest example to me of living life to the fullest, no matter what anyone says. She has made me a better person by her example of caring and gumption. Her many, many talents inspire me to develop my own. And she puts people at such an ease, I've been able to tell her these things without weeping at the thought of how much I have loved her in my life. Now that is a skill.
I want to write more. I want to write pages about Sara, but I can't. Because I am an introvert, I find that my deepest connections with people I love are usually less articulate than I'd like them to be. And unfortunately for you, that makes really horrendous reading material, because I end up saying things like "We just have this connection you know?" and no one likes reading garbage like that. So in the same vein of cliche, I will say that there are people in your life that move you to be better, without being down on yourself, and who understand your faults without lording over you with their strengths, and who put you perfectly at ease with yourself, and the world, and Sara is one of those people. Congratulations, to everyone who has had the pleasure of meeting her. We're a lucky bunch.
Once Sara told me that she felt good about herself when people who are more introverted spend time with her, because she felt like they were choosing her specifically, when usually they don't choose anyone. I kind of laughed and nodded, because I knew if I told her the truth I'd probably tear up. The secret is that it's quite the opposite. Sara is one of the friendliest, nicest people I have ever met in my entire life. I don't know if I've ever met such a condensed ball of joy and energy in my previous 24 years. I was talking tonight with a friend about how everyone knows and loves and wants to be friends with Sara. And despite all of these demands on her time and these other very nice people in her life, she'll call me and we'll hang out sometimes. It is an incredible privilege to know and be friends with Sara.
And after that, I've hit kind of a writer's block. There are dozens of wonderful things about Sara, but miraculously I have brought them to her attention without crying. She is the greatest example to me of living life to the fullest, no matter what anyone says. She has made me a better person by her example of caring and gumption. Her many, many talents inspire me to develop my own. And she puts people at such an ease, I've been able to tell her these things without weeping at the thought of how much I have loved her in my life. Now that is a skill.
I want to write more. I want to write pages about Sara, but I can't. Because I am an introvert, I find that my deepest connections with people I love are usually less articulate than I'd like them to be. And unfortunately for you, that makes really horrendous reading material, because I end up saying things like "We just have this connection you know?" and no one likes reading garbage like that. So in the same vein of cliche, I will say that there are people in your life that move you to be better, without being down on yourself, and who understand your faults without lording over you with their strengths, and who put you perfectly at ease with yourself, and the world, and Sara is one of those people. Congratulations, to everyone who has had the pleasure of meeting her. We're a lucky bunch.
Friday, May 3, 2013
Everyone, go get your hair cut.
I started this blog post in about five different ways, and through typing all of those out, the real organization or maybe even purpose for this blog surfaced.
A few weeks ago I got a magical haircut. Most of you have probably seen the picture on Facebook, but I chopped off at least ten inches of my hair and got an epically wonderful pixie cut. I've never felt better about anything in my life, and that is not even hyperbole. The response from 100% of the people in my life was sadness-crushingly positive. It makes me regret the 24 years I lived without this haircut. Here was my true response to getting this haircut, "My face space looks so good the rest of me should look this good."
For what seemed like no reason at all, I finally started the hundred pushup challenge (after seven weeks of the program, you should be able to do one hundred consecutive pushups). I've wanted to do it for years, and just never did. I just ended week 3 (after a week delay during Crohn's exhaustion), and I can now do many more pushups than I could when I started. Gonna start week 4 tomorrow.
I recently, finally, listened to Tig Notaro's "Live" album. She is a stand-up comedian who was diagnosed with cancer, almost died from an intestinal parasite, was dumped by a significant other, and lost her mother to a freak accident, all within the space of four months. And out of these tragedies, she wrote a brilliant set that was released for sale, unedited. She talks about the grand equation, tragedy + time = comedy, and it made me think a lot about Crohn's. For the first time since being diagnosed, and the first time in my life really, I'm thinking about what I'm eating. I'm thinking about my body and my health.
The disease has progressed to the point where I have to, or else my quality of life will be diminished. And through this forced facing of it, it's become even less of a big deal in my life, in some ways. In other ways, it's become a mammoth, staring me down every day, but in some ways, it's just this thing that I tell people about now. Yeah, I am going to skip that event because I have to go to the bathroom a lot. Yeah, I am going to pass on dinner because I know that I won't be able to eat anything at that restaurant. Things that still bother me to talk about: my unbelievably crazy hemorrhoids, but that's probably another blog post.
Tig's set wasn't perfect, it was just raw. It was so raw, and funny, and touching, and original. At one point she apologizes to the audience and asks if they want to hear some stupid, funny jokes and a guy in the crowd yells out, "NO!" She probes him for more information and all he can respond with is "You're f***ing amazing!" The audience dissolves into cheers and applause. The moment chokes me up. Crohn's will never be cancer, and I thank god for that, but I've always wanted to go into comedy, and here's some fodder for a set, I've finally realized. It's not about poop jokes, although those are great, it's about the experience.
That's tangential, I guess, to what I'm talking about. I just want to shout out to Tig Notaro. Anyway, I'm also moving to Salt Lake City. That was probably less a link in this chain of haircut magic, and more just a fortuitous alignment of ending contracts and an open first floor of a house near Liberty Park. But it's emboldening all the same. It fits into the chain.
I've written about change before, and I hope I never stop writing about it. It's so important. It's my favorite variable in life. One thing in my life changed, and it cost me $50, and it's lead to the newest new side of a leaf I maybe have ever turned over in my life. This is coming off as really dramatic. I don't mean it to be, I just want to impress on every reader the joy of the uncertain.
Not to beat the dead horse, but to close this out I'm going to jump back to the whole breaking-up-with-my-fiance thing. For 23 years of my life, my #1 greatest fear was living alone for the rest of my life. And I tried so hard to be okay with it, and to work on myself so that I wouldn't be so dependent on someone else for happiness. And I met amazing people who had lived solo their whole lives, who inspired me for a few days or maybe a week that if I were really to live alone the rest of my life, it would be a great opportunity. Invariably, that inspiration would wane, and the dark shadow of being alone would cast itself over my life.
I don't know when that fear left me officially (probably sometime in early March), but the other day I was practicing answering talk show questions (my favorite pastime, because I'm pretty sure I'm supposed/going to be famous), and I thought "What is my greatest fear?" For the first time, digging deep into my brain, I really couldn't think of anything. That lead me to realize that my mind didn't jump to "being alone" which floored me. Which defaults my greatest fear back to snakes. *shudder*
I think I scared myself so bad, I kind of woke up. Quarter-life crisis. I was so motivated by a fear, I almost married someone. I almost resigned the both of us to a really, really hard and sad life because I was so scared. Soapbox time:
Go get your haircut. Go wake up. Change yourself so fundamentally that you can live your life how you've always wanted to - freely. It's not easy. It sounds flippant to say "go get a haircut" because this was a long time in the works, to be sure. Maybe I have all the people who told me to never get a pixie cut to thank for this, to make the change so poignant at this moment. And maybe I have my ex-fiance to thank for all this, in which case, the price for this revelation was paid in part by another person who was hurt very deeply and that, despite the joy of what I've found, makes my heart ache. The best I can do is go forward and be happy and do great things, even if micro in scale to the rest of the universe, to make sure the payment was worth it.
I just want us all to be ourselves, because then everyone is at their happiest, you know? Let's do that.
A few weeks ago I got a magical haircut. Most of you have probably seen the picture on Facebook, but I chopped off at least ten inches of my hair and got an epically wonderful pixie cut. I've never felt better about anything in my life, and that is not even hyperbole. The response from 100% of the people in my life was sadness-crushingly positive. It makes me regret the 24 years I lived without this haircut. Here was my true response to getting this haircut, "My face space looks so good the rest of me should look this good."
For what seemed like no reason at all, I finally started the hundred pushup challenge (after seven weeks of the program, you should be able to do one hundred consecutive pushups). I've wanted to do it for years, and just never did. I just ended week 3 (after a week delay during Crohn's exhaustion), and I can now do many more pushups than I could when I started. Gonna start week 4 tomorrow.
I recently, finally, listened to Tig Notaro's "Live" album. She is a stand-up comedian who was diagnosed with cancer, almost died from an intestinal parasite, was dumped by a significant other, and lost her mother to a freak accident, all within the space of four months. And out of these tragedies, she wrote a brilliant set that was released for sale, unedited. She talks about the grand equation, tragedy + time = comedy, and it made me think a lot about Crohn's. For the first time since being diagnosed, and the first time in my life really, I'm thinking about what I'm eating. I'm thinking about my body and my health.
The disease has progressed to the point where I have to, or else my quality of life will be diminished. And through this forced facing of it, it's become even less of a big deal in my life, in some ways. In other ways, it's become a mammoth, staring me down every day, but in some ways, it's just this thing that I tell people about now. Yeah, I am going to skip that event because I have to go to the bathroom a lot. Yeah, I am going to pass on dinner because I know that I won't be able to eat anything at that restaurant. Things that still bother me to talk about: my unbelievably crazy hemorrhoids, but that's probably another blog post.
Tig's set wasn't perfect, it was just raw. It was so raw, and funny, and touching, and original. At one point she apologizes to the audience and asks if they want to hear some stupid, funny jokes and a guy in the crowd yells out, "NO!" She probes him for more information and all he can respond with is "You're f***ing amazing!" The audience dissolves into cheers and applause. The moment chokes me up. Crohn's will never be cancer, and I thank god for that, but I've always wanted to go into comedy, and here's some fodder for a set, I've finally realized. It's not about poop jokes, although those are great, it's about the experience.
That's tangential, I guess, to what I'm talking about. I just want to shout out to Tig Notaro. Anyway, I'm also moving to Salt Lake City. That was probably less a link in this chain of haircut magic, and more just a fortuitous alignment of ending contracts and an open first floor of a house near Liberty Park. But it's emboldening all the same. It fits into the chain.
I've written about change before, and I hope I never stop writing about it. It's so important. It's my favorite variable in life. One thing in my life changed, and it cost me $50, and it's lead to the newest new side of a leaf I maybe have ever turned over in my life. This is coming off as really dramatic. I don't mean it to be, I just want to impress on every reader the joy of the uncertain.
Not to beat the dead horse, but to close this out I'm going to jump back to the whole breaking-up-with-my-fiance thing. For 23 years of my life, my #1 greatest fear was living alone for the rest of my life. And I tried so hard to be okay with it, and to work on myself so that I wouldn't be so dependent on someone else for happiness. And I met amazing people who had lived solo their whole lives, who inspired me for a few days or maybe a week that if I were really to live alone the rest of my life, it would be a great opportunity. Invariably, that inspiration would wane, and the dark shadow of being alone would cast itself over my life.
I don't know when that fear left me officially (probably sometime in early March), but the other day I was practicing answering talk show questions (my favorite pastime, because I'm pretty sure I'm supposed/going to be famous), and I thought "What is my greatest fear?" For the first time, digging deep into my brain, I really couldn't think of anything. That lead me to realize that my mind didn't jump to "being alone" which floored me. Which defaults my greatest fear back to snakes. *shudder*
I think I scared myself so bad, I kind of woke up. Quarter-life crisis. I was so motivated by a fear, I almost married someone. I almost resigned the both of us to a really, really hard and sad life because I was so scared. Soapbox time:
Go get your haircut. Go wake up. Change yourself so fundamentally that you can live your life how you've always wanted to - freely. It's not easy. It sounds flippant to say "go get a haircut" because this was a long time in the works, to be sure. Maybe I have all the people who told me to never get a pixie cut to thank for this, to make the change so poignant at this moment. And maybe I have my ex-fiance to thank for all this, in which case, the price for this revelation was paid in part by another person who was hurt very deeply and that, despite the joy of what I've found, makes my heart ache. The best I can do is go forward and be happy and do great things, even if micro in scale to the rest of the universe, to make sure the payment was worth it.
I just want us all to be ourselves, because then everyone is at their happiest, you know? Let's do that.
Thursday, March 28, 2013
A very short, non-fiction story from my life
I tell stories and then people say, "you should write that down!" and I never do. No one ever said that to me about the following story, but I want to remember it.
I was dating a guy and as we walked out of church, my bishop said, "Take care of her" to which this guy winked and said something to the effect of, "Oh I definitely will." I was annoyed because I was pretty sure my bishop didn't even know my last name, let alone know anything about my ability to take care of myself (not to mention the guy's ability to take care of himself).
I was dating a guy and after a double date with my brother and his wife, my brother said, "Well I'd tell you to take care of her, but I know she can take care of herself." I was so pleased I almost wanted to cry.
This story has very little point. Except to say that I can take care of myself. I've needed lots of help in the past, and I'm positive I'll need help in the future, but I can do it. No one has questioned that lately, and it's been pleasant. I just thought of this story today and how much I love my brother in it.
I was dating a guy and as we walked out of church, my bishop said, "Take care of her" to which this guy winked and said something to the effect of, "Oh I definitely will." I was annoyed because I was pretty sure my bishop didn't even know my last name, let alone know anything about my ability to take care of myself (not to mention the guy's ability to take care of himself).
I was dating a guy and after a double date with my brother and his wife, my brother said, "Well I'd tell you to take care of her, but I know she can take care of herself." I was so pleased I almost wanted to cry.
This story has very little point. Except to say that I can take care of myself. I've needed lots of help in the past, and I'm positive I'll need help in the future, but I can do it. No one has questioned that lately, and it's been pleasant. I just thought of this story today and how much I love my brother in it.
Friday, March 8, 2013
Press release
It's amazing the amount of "things" you accumulate in relationships. I'll be specific in this post, because this is in fact my blog. It's amazing what I've had to clean up for the very short time that I dated my former fiance. Our first date was November 30th. He visited my family in Washington with me on December 21st. On January 11th I scheduled our temple sealing. I told him that we shouldn't get married March 7th.
In those short months, on Facebook alone, I changed a relationship status, and profile picture, shared a ring finger-specific picture, took a handful of date night photos, added one of his friends, many of his family, and exchanged comments with my friends about the engagement. Then there's Google. I created a shared Google calendar for us, put big upcoming events (engagement photos, the actual day, bridal showers, the Seattle open house) as well as old ones (day he proposed, first date) on my personal calendar, in addition to his family birthdays and at least one vacation we were planning on taking, created Google Tasks related to the wedding, and I made a whole new email address for what was going to be my new name. Related to the wedding itself, I booked a photographer, rented a wedding dress, picked a cake, paid for half of a ring, asked my friends for addresses so others could send out bridal shower invitations, registered at two places, and added a countdown widget to my phone. I took my Wii and all my games and peripherals to his house.
So here I am, in the peaceful aftermath, slowly cleaning up. Emails to the photographer and the cake decorator. Emails to friends and family letting them know. I'll call the temple and the dress rental shop this afternoon. I deleted the widget and rearranged my home screen. I deleted the calendar, the events, and the reoccurring events that I won't be around to see or share. I completed the "Find an engagement photo outfit" task in my Gmail because I don't need to anymore. I scrubbed my Facebook; it looks as though we never met. And now I'm drafting this press release.
This post has taken a long time to write, and my mind has wandered, but I'll try to return to my original premise. I didn't take many pictures, we didn't exchange cutesy Facebook posts, and we didn't share anything (except for the Wii). We had been dating for only a few months and still, all of these little bits of digital data have collected and need to be cleared away.
That might be a good debate - which is harder (emotionally, physically) to get rid of. Looking at my clean bill of electronic health, I feel cleansed. It was an easy process to sit down and complete. It took some digging to make sure I had covered all of my bases, but now, I feel refreshed. On the other hand, all of my Wii stuff is still sitting in the backseat of my car, because the physical act of multiple trips carrying back to my apartment last night seemed too daunting. Texts and emails of condolences have been trickling in. I still need to cancel the wedding registries. I'm getting the photography deposit back in full, which is a pleasant surprise I just got in my inbox. This is how the day has progressed.
I love that this blog is still here. I love that my purpose and direction for it was so correct when I started it. All of life is a sorting out phase. I just sorted another piece. I learned even more about myself and about humanity. I feel sadness about the relationships that I've lost but not about the life I've lived, or the life I'm going to live.
Long live adventure and sorting and love and celebration and sorrow and catharsis and everything in between. Yukon, ho.
In those short months, on Facebook alone, I changed a relationship status, and profile picture, shared a ring finger-specific picture, took a handful of date night photos, added one of his friends, many of his family, and exchanged comments with my friends about the engagement. Then there's Google. I created a shared Google calendar for us, put big upcoming events (engagement photos, the actual day, bridal showers, the Seattle open house) as well as old ones (day he proposed, first date) on my personal calendar, in addition to his family birthdays and at least one vacation we were planning on taking, created Google Tasks related to the wedding, and I made a whole new email address for what was going to be my new name. Related to the wedding itself, I booked a photographer, rented a wedding dress, picked a cake, paid for half of a ring, asked my friends for addresses so others could send out bridal shower invitations, registered at two places, and added a countdown widget to my phone. I took my Wii and all my games and peripherals to his house.
So here I am, in the peaceful aftermath, slowly cleaning up. Emails to the photographer and the cake decorator. Emails to friends and family letting them know. I'll call the temple and the dress rental shop this afternoon. I deleted the widget and rearranged my home screen. I deleted the calendar, the events, and the reoccurring events that I won't be around to see or share. I completed the "Find an engagement photo outfit" task in my Gmail because I don't need to anymore. I scrubbed my Facebook; it looks as though we never met. And now I'm drafting this press release.
This post has taken a long time to write, and my mind has wandered, but I'll try to return to my original premise. I didn't take many pictures, we didn't exchange cutesy Facebook posts, and we didn't share anything (except for the Wii). We had been dating for only a few months and still, all of these little bits of digital data have collected and need to be cleared away.
That might be a good debate - which is harder (emotionally, physically) to get rid of. Looking at my clean bill of electronic health, I feel cleansed. It was an easy process to sit down and complete. It took some digging to make sure I had covered all of my bases, but now, I feel refreshed. On the other hand, all of my Wii stuff is still sitting in the backseat of my car, because the physical act of multiple trips carrying back to my apartment last night seemed too daunting. Texts and emails of condolences have been trickling in. I still need to cancel the wedding registries. I'm getting the photography deposit back in full, which is a pleasant surprise I just got in my inbox. This is how the day has progressed.
I love that this blog is still here. I love that my purpose and direction for it was so correct when I started it. All of life is a sorting out phase. I just sorted another piece. I learned even more about myself and about humanity. I feel sadness about the relationships that I've lost but not about the life I've lived, or the life I'm going to live.
Long live adventure and sorting and love and celebration and sorrow and catharsis and everything in between. Yukon, ho.
Monday, September 17, 2012
She throws a mean dance party
Ghost town! I've been writing most of my thoughts for littlesistergaming.com, so if you can stand to read about video games and like my writing, check out my project over there.
This however, has nothing to do with video games, but I really wanted to say it. For a few years, a few years ago, I didn't have many friends. Needless to say, I was pretty depressed. I don't place blame with anyone but myself; I should've reached out and made friends, but I had forgotten how because of my comfort bubble that lasted for three years. Slowly, and one person at a time, I've been working my way out of it. I don't know if you're ever fully recovered, or if you're just in remission, but I feel good about my social life now, and have for awhile, really. But one person in particular that really helped me turn the corner was Marci, who I got to video chat with tonight (she's teaching high school in Hawaii now, how awesome is that?), who reminded me how good it feels to be around close friends.
Marci has one of the most appreciative laughs I've ever heard in my life. Being the attention hog that I am, I do just about anything I can to make Marci laugh. Thankfully, the first time we met (a GNO through work, because in BYU tech support, there was only five of us) I said enough humorous things to make Marci want to become friends with me. And to her credit, she didn't really put up with my anti-social-ness. I hemmed and hawed about invitations to parties and functions with her boisterous friends and she always called me out on it and I usually felt shamed enough (in a good way. If you've been there, you understand what I'm saying) to come and have a good time all the while. And when you're default is to shrink into a shell, those people who care enough about you to call you out on your bullcrap become invaluable.
At the same time, Marci is really understanding. I had retreated so far into my shell that I had forgotten how to come out of it at all, how to be vulnerable with anyone. I'm still working on that, but she helps. You think you're analytical and intelligent enough to figure everything out on your own, but when you have a caring and patient friend who is willing listen to your ramblings and also prompt you to think about things in a new way, that really puts what you're thinking about in perspective.
I'd be very surprised if there was anyone who knew Marci who didn't instantly trust her. She's loyal and loving and kind enough to reaffirm your positive qualities when you need to hear a good word or two. She's certainly a people person and anywhere we went while we pal'd around Provo livened up a little bit when she got there.
I'd been feeling pretty good today, and Marci was kind enough to fit me into her high rolling life in Hawaii to chat via webcam for a little bit tonight. So it surprised me when after the chat, I felt really good. I tried to think back, of anything that was particularly bad about my day but it was all fairly standard. The difference was just that Marci makes you feel better, even when you weren't feeling down. Marci makes you feel good about yourself, even when you were already feeling pretty okay. Part of that is her laugh, part of that is her own awesome sense of humor which makes me bust a gut every time we talk or chat online, but I think most of it is just because she's such a good person; it's impossible not to feel better around her. Nobody is always happy, and nobody is perfect, but she is always a great friend.
And really, one of her best gifts to me is giving me a reason to save up and visit Hawaii.
This however, has nothing to do with video games, but I really wanted to say it. For a few years, a few years ago, I didn't have many friends. Needless to say, I was pretty depressed. I don't place blame with anyone but myself; I should've reached out and made friends, but I had forgotten how because of my comfort bubble that lasted for three years. Slowly, and one person at a time, I've been working my way out of it. I don't know if you're ever fully recovered, or if you're just in remission, but I feel good about my social life now, and have for awhile, really. But one person in particular that really helped me turn the corner was Marci, who I got to video chat with tonight (she's teaching high school in Hawaii now, how awesome is that?), who reminded me how good it feels to be around close friends.
Marci has one of the most appreciative laughs I've ever heard in my life. Being the attention hog that I am, I do just about anything I can to make Marci laugh. Thankfully, the first time we met (a GNO through work, because in BYU tech support, there was only five of us) I said enough humorous things to make Marci want to become friends with me. And to her credit, she didn't really put up with my anti-social-ness. I hemmed and hawed about invitations to parties and functions with her boisterous friends and she always called me out on it and I usually felt shamed enough (in a good way. If you've been there, you understand what I'm saying) to come and have a good time all the while. And when you're default is to shrink into a shell, those people who care enough about you to call you out on your bullcrap become invaluable.
At the same time, Marci is really understanding. I had retreated so far into my shell that I had forgotten how to come out of it at all, how to be vulnerable with anyone. I'm still working on that, but she helps. You think you're analytical and intelligent enough to figure everything out on your own, but when you have a caring and patient friend who is willing listen to your ramblings and also prompt you to think about things in a new way, that really puts what you're thinking about in perspective.
I'd be very surprised if there was anyone who knew Marci who didn't instantly trust her. She's loyal and loving and kind enough to reaffirm your positive qualities when you need to hear a good word or two. She's certainly a people person and anywhere we went while we pal'd around Provo livened up a little bit when she got there.
I'd been feeling pretty good today, and Marci was kind enough to fit me into her high rolling life in Hawaii to chat via webcam for a little bit tonight. So it surprised me when after the chat, I felt really good. I tried to think back, of anything that was particularly bad about my day but it was all fairly standard. The difference was just that Marci makes you feel better, even when you weren't feeling down. Marci makes you feel good about yourself, even when you were already feeling pretty okay. Part of that is her laugh, part of that is her own awesome sense of humor which makes me bust a gut every time we talk or chat online, but I think most of it is just because she's such a good person; it's impossible not to feel better around her. Nobody is always happy, and nobody is perfect, but she is always a great friend.
And really, one of her best gifts to me is giving me a reason to save up and visit Hawaii.
Thursday, June 14, 2012
4 years 51 weeks
So it was the end before, but for real, guys - now it's the end. I just turned in my final paper and gave my final presentation in my final class of my college education. Naturally, I pulled an all-nighter to finish the paper and quipped on Facebook that my education would've felt wrong to end any other way. I left work a little early to make sure I had everything edited and could print out the paper on campus without feeling rushed which left me with about thirty minutes to kill before the final officially started. I sat in the shade of a tree in front of the Joseph Fielding Smith building and people watched as I slowly crunched what I hope is my last ever, vending machine delivered Lunchable.
I was torn between posting a Facebook status containing a link to a video with explicit lyrics that sums up how I feel about some aspects of academia, BYU administration, and some choice professors. Then I thought of just posting MoTab singing "Joy to the World" and letting my pure bliss override any bitterness I feel about certain aspects of my education. In the end, I chose neither, but will instead write this blog post.
Sitting in my class, I thought that I should call my mom when I leave and give her the official news - I am officially graduated. Then I thought about how happy she would be, and I almost started crying. Then I thought about how there was no question if I called my dad he would start crying (meaning I definitely would), so I couldn't call him either. I got the best possible scenario I suppose; I called my mom and left a voicemail. When I got back to my apartment, I checked the message my mom had left me while I was driving. She was very congratulatory and I immediately burst into tears.
I have done something that not everyone does. I have hated something about it for every four month chunk of time (also known as a semester) that I've had to do it, but I've done it. I have debt, I don't have a competitive GPA, but I did it. I got two hours of sleep last night (which is undoubtedly contributing to my current emotional imbalance) because of my own procrastination, but I finished eight pages about Jonathan Edwards's sermon "Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God," and I am done. Exactly 4 years and 51 weeks ago (exactly), I started this, and now I finished it.
Despite some of my frustration with the system, I had a handful of really amazing professors that planted seeds of loving knowledge and maybe graduate school (don't mention graduate school to me for at least a year, perhaps never). I made some pretty good school friends (read: people I will only stay in touch with via Facebook since we don't have classes together any more) that also helped me finish papers, study for tests, and pass classes. But really the only thing I could think about as I slowly walked from the classroom my final final was held in, was that never in a million years would I have finished my bachelor's degree without my mom and dad. Never. So for as much as I wished I could've finished this class last semester and saved some time and money, it's all rather fitting that I'm wrapping this up as an early Father's day gift. It would only be more perfect is Mother's day magically fell again this year, on June 16th, or something. What the heck, I'm just going to say it is.
Thanks, Mom and Dad.
I was torn between posting a Facebook status containing a link to a video with explicit lyrics that sums up how I feel about some aspects of academia, BYU administration, and some choice professors. Then I thought of just posting MoTab singing "Joy to the World" and letting my pure bliss override any bitterness I feel about certain aspects of my education. In the end, I chose neither, but will instead write this blog post.
Sitting in my class, I thought that I should call my mom when I leave and give her the official news - I am officially graduated. Then I thought about how happy she would be, and I almost started crying. Then I thought about how there was no question if I called my dad he would start crying (meaning I definitely would), so I couldn't call him either. I got the best possible scenario I suppose; I called my mom and left a voicemail. When I got back to my apartment, I checked the message my mom had left me while I was driving. She was very congratulatory and I immediately burst into tears.
I have done something that not everyone does. I have hated something about it for every four month chunk of time (also known as a semester) that I've had to do it, but I've done it. I have debt, I don't have a competitive GPA, but I did it. I got two hours of sleep last night (which is undoubtedly contributing to my current emotional imbalance) because of my own procrastination, but I finished eight pages about Jonathan Edwards's sermon "Sinners in the Hands of an Angry God," and I am done. Exactly 4 years and 51 weeks ago (exactly), I started this, and now I finished it.
Despite some of my frustration with the system, I had a handful of really amazing professors that planted seeds of loving knowledge and maybe graduate school (don't mention graduate school to me for at least a year, perhaps never). I made some pretty good school friends (read: people I will only stay in touch with via Facebook since we don't have classes together any more) that also helped me finish papers, study for tests, and pass classes. But really the only thing I could think about as I slowly walked from the classroom my final final was held in, was that never in a million years would I have finished my bachelor's degree without my mom and dad. Never. So for as much as I wished I could've finished this class last semester and saved some time and money, it's all rather fitting that I'm wrapping this up as an early Father's day gift. It would only be more perfect is Mother's day magically fell again this year, on June 16th, or something. What the heck, I'm just going to say it is.
Thanks, Mom and Dad.
Wednesday, May 16, 2012
The end of an era
I just took my Washington license plates off of my car, and put on my freshly minted Utah plates.
I finally bit the bullet this morning and registered my car in Utah. My brother is getting married on Saturday (blog post forthcoming about thoughts on the end of that era) and I'm driving north for the festivities. The registration for my car expired in June of 2011, but I've been driving under the assumption that it's more of a bother for Utah cops to stop an expired out-of-state driver than just letting me drive around illegally. And my assumption proved true: I never got pulled over for expired registration (or any other infraction for that matter). But I am 95% positive that Washington police officers won't feel the same way and the instant I enter Washington state I'll get pulled over. So I had to register my car in Utah this morning.
Why does this matter at all? It was a late-in-life discovery for me that people might not actually love the state or hometown they're from. Weird. The same realization hit me about people's names (I love my name, so it's weird when people wish they could be called something else). I am so obsessed with Washington, it gets annoying. Every time I see a car with a Washington license plate, I audibly say "Washington!" and passengers with me a lot wonder why I'm allowed to drive when I have Tourette's. I tell everyone who wonders where they should go on vacation to go to Washington, I ask everyone where they're from in case they're from Washington and then we can talk about it, and I always hoped to go back to Washington so I wouldn't have to change my license plates.
I'm staying in Utah because I got a full-time job in Utah.
I started an internship (previously mentioned here) last November, writing content for a tech company's website. It went really well. So well, they offered me a full-time job that began in April. I enjoy who I work with, and what I get to do, and the experience I'm gaining, but it means that I'm still here. In Provo. I do recognize the positives to that but the stigma surrounding graduates to who stay in Provo is an odd thing to navigate. People always assume it's your last resort and while that was the case with me, it wasn't necessarily a conscious last resort. I would be happy to live in Provo, or at least stay in Utah (I have some beef with Provo government, don't get me started) but because everyone assumes that's what no one wants to do, it's weird to move on.
I graduated from BYU . . . almost.
That's one of the great things about this job: I was offered a full-time position without the contingency that I actually need to graduate. I know what you're thinking, hold your horses. I will officially graduate in June, but I participated in the convocation ceremony in April. Family drove down, we also celebrated my birthday, we laughed and partied, and focused mainly on me so let me tell you: best. weekend. ever. But again, paired with the staying-in-Provo bit and the not-actually-graduating bit, it was an unsettling feeling. What am I doing? I have a job, I'm graduating, I'm staying in Provo. With students and the perceived population who aren't moving on (who all really have jobs but have become the underground of Provo because people assume they're not doing anything valuable). Utah county is a weird, but potentially wonderful place.
The real conundrum of that weekend was the quintessential crisis of "I'm no longer a student" paired with "I'm still a student for seven more weeks." I did start working full-time which helped really demarcate the student era of my life but unfortunately it also put my motivation in this last class to "Get a C-."
__
Even as I'm writing this my thoughts are becoming as jumbled as last month was for me. "Laurie, what's the point?" Great question. Everything is changing and it's making me nostalgic, not sad. I love working full-time because I love money, but I do hate the boredom. I love not being in class any more because I've always hated school, but I do hate not getting the opportunity to sit at the feet of some amazing professors I've had the privilege of knowing the past five years. I love how fresh and new my license plates looks because they're not filthy yet, but I hate that it has become one more piece of Washington that's slipped through the cracks of my life expanding into whatever it's going to become. This isn't really the end of an era; these are the ends of eras, and in the long run that's really okay.
I finally bit the bullet this morning and registered my car in Utah. My brother is getting married on Saturday (blog post forthcoming about thoughts on the end of that era) and I'm driving north for the festivities. The registration for my car expired in June of 2011, but I've been driving under the assumption that it's more of a bother for Utah cops to stop an expired out-of-state driver than just letting me drive around illegally. And my assumption proved true: I never got pulled over for expired registration (or any other infraction for that matter). But I am 95% positive that Washington police officers won't feel the same way and the instant I enter Washington state I'll get pulled over. So I had to register my car in Utah this morning.
Why does this matter at all? It was a late-in-life discovery for me that people might not actually love the state or hometown they're from. Weird. The same realization hit me about people's names (I love my name, so it's weird when people wish they could be called something else). I am so obsessed with Washington, it gets annoying. Every time I see a car with a Washington license plate, I audibly say "Washington!" and passengers with me a lot wonder why I'm allowed to drive when I have Tourette's. I tell everyone who wonders where they should go on vacation to go to Washington, I ask everyone where they're from in case they're from Washington and then we can talk about it, and I always hoped to go back to Washington so I wouldn't have to change my license plates.
I'm staying in Utah because I got a full-time job in Utah.
I started an internship (previously mentioned here) last November, writing content for a tech company's website. It went really well. So well, they offered me a full-time job that began in April. I enjoy who I work with, and what I get to do, and the experience I'm gaining, but it means that I'm still here. In Provo. I do recognize the positives to that but the stigma surrounding graduates to who stay in Provo is an odd thing to navigate. People always assume it's your last resort and while that was the case with me, it wasn't necessarily a conscious last resort. I would be happy to live in Provo, or at least stay in Utah (I have some beef with Provo government, don't get me started) but because everyone assumes that's what no one wants to do, it's weird to move on.
I graduated from BYU . . . almost.
That's one of the great things about this job: I was offered a full-time position without the contingency that I actually need to graduate. I know what you're thinking, hold your horses. I will officially graduate in June, but I participated in the convocation ceremony in April. Family drove down, we also celebrated my birthday, we laughed and partied, and focused mainly on me so let me tell you: best. weekend. ever. But again, paired with the staying-in-Provo bit and the not-actually-graduating bit, it was an unsettling feeling. What am I doing? I have a job, I'm graduating, I'm staying in Provo. With students and the perceived population who aren't moving on (who all really have jobs but have become the underground of Provo because people assume they're not doing anything valuable). Utah county is a weird, but potentially wonderful place.
The real conundrum of that weekend was the quintessential crisis of "I'm no longer a student" paired with "I'm still a student for seven more weeks." I did start working full-time which helped really demarcate the student era of my life but unfortunately it also put my motivation in this last class to "Get a C-."
__
Even as I'm writing this my thoughts are becoming as jumbled as last month was for me. "Laurie, what's the point?" Great question. Everything is changing and it's making me nostalgic, not sad. I love working full-time because I love money, but I do hate the boredom. I love not being in class any more because I've always hated school, but I do hate not getting the opportunity to sit at the feet of some amazing professors I've had the privilege of knowing the past five years. I love how fresh and new my license plates looks because they're not filthy yet, but I hate that it has become one more piece of Washington that's slipped through the cracks of my life expanding into whatever it's going to become. This isn't really the end of an era; these are the ends of eras, and in the long run that's really okay.
Monday, December 5, 2011
Christmas is here, bringing good cheer
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.
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.
Monday, October 17, 2011
What is success?
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.
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.
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
A letter to and from Brian Doyle
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.
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 . . .
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.
Friday, September 16, 2011
Of smells
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 I even picked up a pen, I find a kindred spirit as I read his essays. No one can commiserate 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. While Montaigne focused on the perfumed versus the natural, I can only think of the time and place and feeling associated with every smell my olfaction registers, regardless of the pleasure or displeasure of the fragrance.
When my nose runs away with my imagination, I pretend my acute sense of smell is strong enough for a diagnosis of hyperosmia. It must be unnatural that when that woman passes me on the street and I can detect her Estée Lauder perfume, I think of my mother and I am there, in her room at six years old. She is wearing a salmon jacket and putting on makeup. Her jewelry box is open on her dresser and next she will put on her earrings that look like long, green leaves that match her skirt. We are getting 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 will believe my self-diagnosis of a hyper smelling ability when I prove that I can smell the adolescent body spray on the teenager all the way across the room. I am walking down the halls of my high school, shy but pleased to be holding hands with someone. It is an aroma mixed with guilt, for dodging and sneaking and thinking that I am smarter than any adult in my life.
When my IV line is flushed with saline solution after my medical treatments and I taste it in my mouth and feel it in my eyes and smell it as though it were being spritzed in my face, then I think maybe I have a special sense of smell. And the whole hospital room is the same as my 17th spring, when I couldn’t speak or walk because I was tired and ill and something was wrong but no one knew what. The smells of disinfectant and bed pans and paper bed sheets remove me from the present and take me back a number of years in an instant, with one inhalation.
Perhaps my strongest piece of evidence is returning home, only once or twice a year. As I step into my parent’s home I smell something unidentifiable. It is the dog in the laundry room, it is the detergent in the dish washer, it is the freshly vacuumed carpet. It is my father’s aftershave and my mother’s casseroles and my stuffed dog that I slept with every night. It can’t even be categorized as a pleasant odor but it is pleasant in its associations. It is home and it is family and it is make-believe proof that I have hyperosmia, when I know that I don’t. I just happen to have an acute sense of smell.
Although Montaigne wrote over 400 years before I even picked up a pen, I find a kindred spirit as I read his essays. No one can commiserate 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. While Montaigne focused on the perfumed versus the natural, I can only think of the time and place and feeling associated with every smell my olfaction registers, regardless of the pleasure or displeasure of the fragrance.
When my nose runs away with my imagination, I pretend my acute sense of smell is strong enough for a diagnosis of hyperosmia. It must be unnatural that when that woman passes me on the street and I can detect her Estée Lauder perfume, I think of my mother and I am there, in her room at six years old. She is wearing a salmon jacket and putting on makeup. Her jewelry box is open on her dresser and next she will put on her earrings that look like long, green leaves that match her skirt. We are getting 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 will believe my self-diagnosis of a hyper smelling ability when I prove that I can smell the adolescent body spray on the teenager all the way across the room. I am walking down the halls of my high school, shy but pleased to be holding hands with someone. It is an aroma mixed with guilt, for dodging and sneaking and thinking that I am smarter than any adult in my life.
When my IV line is flushed with saline solution after my medical treatments and I taste it in my mouth and feel it in my eyes and smell it as though it were being spritzed in my face, then I think maybe I have a special sense of smell. And the whole hospital room is the same as my 17th spring, when I couldn’t speak or walk because I was tired and ill and something was wrong but no one knew what. The smells of disinfectant and bed pans and paper bed sheets remove me from the present and take me back a number of years in an instant, with one inhalation.
Perhaps my strongest piece of evidence is returning home, only once or twice a year. As I step into my parent’s home I smell something unidentifiable. It is the dog in the laundry room, it is the detergent in the dish washer, it is the freshly vacuumed carpet. It is my father’s aftershave and my mother’s casseroles and my stuffed dog that I slept with every night. It can’t even be categorized as a pleasant odor but it is pleasant in its associations. It is home and it is family and it is make-believe proof that I have hyperosmia, when I know that I don’t. I just happen to have an acute sense of smell.
Monday, July 25, 2011
On Harry Potter
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.
Thursday, June 30, 2011
Open Windows
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.
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.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Sister Kramer
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.
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.
Monday, May 16, 2011
Welcome back!
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 spring 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.
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 spring 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.
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
Writing in Books
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
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."
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.
Saturday, April 16, 2011
Suicide
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.
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