My brother has decided he has ADHD.
I'm not sure where this came from. I mean, it's not like he spent his childhood tying blankets around his neck and zooming through the house singing his own theme music or anything.
Oh wait...
Anyway, a year or two ago, one of his best buddies at work got diagnosed with ADHD and got on some medication for it. Clarke bowed to the peer pressure, and he wanted to be ADHD too! I remember him driving me down the street (pretty sure he was picking me up so I could babysit his kid... so he could go with his wife on a - squirrel!) and he told me about taking an "ADHD survey." He answered them all correctly! Wow! He passed the survey! Now he's got a big blue ribbon declaring himself to have a personality disorder that usually gives small children an excuse to make shameless fun of their teachers and disrupt class and get away with it.
And then we wonder why this disorder has appeal?
Anyway, this Christmas, Clarke and my mom were discussing how impossible it was to sit still during church, and now my mom has ADHD too!
I was feeling a little left out. I mean, nobody ever diagnosed ME with ADHD. Why do Clarke and my mom get to have it and I don't?
So, tonight we were doing a big puzzle. It's kind of a Christmas/New Year's tradition in our family to get a puzzle with about 137,000 pieces, and have all of us crowd around a table that only fits half of the people whose hands are going into the puzzle pieces. We then argue over who gets to do the edge pieces, and eventually settle into all of us doing edges, and then each taking a specific part of the puzzle. We do not, under any circumstances, encroach onto each other's territory, or we might face such horrible comments as, "Hey... where did my duck's butt go?"
Clarke decided he didn't want to take part in the puzzle. He's too ADHD for that. Instead he read us Canada's summary of US Politics 2011.
I was focusing on the flowers, and after attaching my glob of pieces to the edges, I decided I needed a break. I got up, announced, "Alright, I'm taking a break." And then, just because part of me kinda wanted to be ADHD too, I added, "My attention span just went, 'zzzzzzzp!'"
Clarke perked up and said, "That's why I don't like puzzles! Because as soon as I sit down my attention span goes, 'zzzzzzzp!'"
Grmf mrmp bgrmp. <- (grumble noise). I suddenly wanted to stop and say, "Yeah, well, I trained myself to be able to sit through puzzles, because my natural attention span is really small."
Honestly, I've been doing puzzles since I was a kid, and I've always loved it. And who says not liking jigsaw puzzles is a sign of ADHD anyway?
So, I very maturely ignored his obvious attempt to assert himself as being more ADHD than me, and went into the kitchen for a snack. I cut the banana bread, started looking for the butter, and went, "Ooh! I could blog!"
So I sat down and started writing this, leaving my banana bread somewhere in the kitchen... I don't really know where.
But, of course, Clarke had to come in and read me a picture book about a malfunctioning robot who says, "Beep bop!" And he read the story at about 1,000 mph while wearing giant, plastic safety goggles.
Alright. I give up. Clarke, you can be the ADHD one. I know you probably didn't realize it was a competition, but I'll just sit here and eat my banana bread (thanks for buttering it for me!) while you read Dr. Seuss to the rest of the family.
Hey look, I finished the post. In one sitting. I guess... **sigh** ... that I'm not ADHD after all.
Sunday, December 25, 2011
Friday, December 23, 2011
It has begun...
01:13 MST.
I am under attack.
I write from the haven of "blogspot.com," because my base at facebook is undergoing an onslaught of birthday wishes.
The attack began at 00:27 MST. The first birthday wish was launched by "Chris" from Canada, making it an international affair. Since then, a few more shots have been fired, and I anticipate many more to come. My wall is sturdy, but I shudder to think of how much it will come under.
As the attack continues into the night, and on through the day, I will hold as strong a stand as I can, taking such defensive measures as "cake" and "presents."
If I do not survive, tell them I fought with honor, dignity and courage.
Thank you.
I am under attack.
I write from the haven of "blogspot.com," because my base at facebook is undergoing an onslaught of birthday wishes.
The attack began at 00:27 MST. The first birthday wish was launched by "Chris" from Canada, making it an international affair. Since then, a few more shots have been fired, and I anticipate many more to come. My wall is sturdy, but I shudder to think of how much it will come under.
As the attack continues into the night, and on through the day, I will hold as strong a stand as I can, taking such defensive measures as "cake" and "presents."
If I do not survive, tell them I fought with honor, dignity and courage.
Thank you.
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
Beautify that, jerk.
So, I was in my room, clearing clutter off my dresser and otherwise attempting to make my room as shiny as I'd like my entire apartment, and there were people in the front room. Sometimes our front room has people in it. It's a very "front room" thing to do. Anyway, one of them asked my roommate why she dressed up for work when she did an after hours janitorial job. She replied she might still run into someone.
The person who had asked then announced, "Thank you! Oh, thank you!"
I wasn't out there to raise an eyebrow and wonder what was so glorious about whatever she said, but everybody else did it for me... judging by the awkward 2 seconds of silence, followed by this person's emphatic explanation.
"Well, women are things of beauty. They're here on the earth to beautify and give variety to it. So it bothers me to NO END when women think they shouldn't put makeup on and dress up to go somewhere."
...
...
*blinkblink*
...
...
What did he just say?
Now, annoying as that comment was, it probably wouldn't have been quite so bad, except that I was fresh out of the shower, no makeup whatsoever, wearing a fluffy mumu of a sweater, and fully intending to go buy paper towels dressed just as I was. I really saw no point in putting makeup on for a 30 second run to the store, just to take it off again 5 minutes later when I went to bed. But apparently, this was a horrible affront to my purpose on this earth as a woman.
The rant started to build. I was going out there to tell him what was what. Something to the effect of women are NOT here to beautify the earth - they're here to live lives and have experiences and learn lessons, etc., and it's none of his freaking business if a girl decides to wear makeup or not, so what right does he have to get bothered if some girl is putting an ugly mark on his perfectly pretty world by not getting dolled up for him, and why does beauty have to be judged by makeup anyway? Why don't GUYS have to slather foundation on their faces and cover up any blemishes to be considered good looking?
And then I took a deeeep breath.
And realized I didn't actually want to say all that. I'm not very eloquent when angry, and a scathing rant would accomplish nothing. If I were to have any impact whatsoever, my only option was to throw something at his face.
Like a shoe. Or my cell phone. Or a cheese grater.
Among the clutter on my desk was this weighted, Styrofoam airplane I got for Christmas that comes with a rubber band launcher (which I launched into somebody's head and got nearly blinded by at that lovely Christmas party). It seemed to jump off the desk at me, crying, "I'm here! Pick me up and shoot me at that guy's head!"
I grabbed the plane, loaded it onto the launcher, and darted out to the front room.
And there he was. The "women should wear lots of makeup and do their hair just perfect wherever they are so I won't have to deal with looking at ugly women" jerk who needed to get the shallow stick out of his shallow butt.
Only he was surrounded by 3 people who hadn't done anything to earn my wrath. One friend, the one sitting nearest to my target, saw the loaded plane launcher, and his eyes became roughly the size of cantaloup. "Please don't shoot that at me," he implored.
I didn't trust my aim. The misogynist was too well protected. I would not put innocents in danger for his crimes.
With a flash of warning in my eyes, I slipped away, back into my room.
He might have escaped this time - the coward hiding behind people I actually like - but be warned, shallow butt-face. I have a projectile plane just waiting for your next idiotic comment.
The person who had asked then announced, "Thank you! Oh, thank you!"
I wasn't out there to raise an eyebrow and wonder what was so glorious about whatever she said, but everybody else did it for me... judging by the awkward 2 seconds of silence, followed by this person's emphatic explanation.
"Well, women are things of beauty. They're here on the earth to beautify and give variety to it. So it bothers me to NO END when women think they shouldn't put makeup on and dress up to go somewhere."
...
...
*blinkblink*
...
...
What did he just say?
Now, annoying as that comment was, it probably wouldn't have been quite so bad, except that I was fresh out of the shower, no makeup whatsoever, wearing a fluffy mumu of a sweater, and fully intending to go buy paper towels dressed just as I was. I really saw no point in putting makeup on for a 30 second run to the store, just to take it off again 5 minutes later when I went to bed. But apparently, this was a horrible affront to my purpose on this earth as a woman.
The rant started to build. I was going out there to tell him what was what. Something to the effect of women are NOT here to beautify the earth - they're here to live lives and have experiences and learn lessons, etc., and it's none of his freaking business if a girl decides to wear makeup or not, so what right does he have to get bothered if some girl is putting an ugly mark on his perfectly pretty world by not getting dolled up for him, and why does beauty have to be judged by makeup anyway? Why don't GUYS have to slather foundation on their faces and cover up any blemishes to be considered good looking?
And then I took a deeeep breath.
And realized I didn't actually want to say all that. I'm not very eloquent when angry, and a scathing rant would accomplish nothing. If I were to have any impact whatsoever, my only option was to throw something at his face.
Like a shoe. Or my cell phone. Or a cheese grater.
Among the clutter on my desk was this weighted, Styrofoam airplane I got for Christmas that comes with a rubber band launcher (which I launched into somebody's head and got nearly blinded by at that lovely Christmas party). It seemed to jump off the desk at me, crying, "I'm here! Pick me up and shoot me at that guy's head!"
I grabbed the plane, loaded it onto the launcher, and darted out to the front room.
And there he was. The "women should wear lots of makeup and do their hair just perfect wherever they are so I won't have to deal with looking at ugly women" jerk who needed to get the shallow stick out of his shallow butt.
Only he was surrounded by 3 people who hadn't done anything to earn my wrath. One friend, the one sitting nearest to my target, saw the loaded plane launcher, and his eyes became roughly the size of cantaloup. "Please don't shoot that at me," he implored.
I didn't trust my aim. The misogynist was too well protected. I would not put innocents in danger for his crimes.
With a flash of warning in my eyes, I slipped away, back into my room.
He might have escaped this time - the coward hiding behind people I actually like - but be warned, shallow butt-face. I have a projectile plane just waiting for your next idiotic comment.
Thursday, December 15, 2011
The Good News!
Following up that last post, guess what I'm doing with my life???!!!
So, I'm graduating in one semester.
I'm also about to start editing the third novel for my "client" (who is published, so nyah to my pessimistic side).
I'm also attempting to write another book - currently in outlining phase.
I have a rough draft that just needs a little more editing before I can send it out to the first wave of test readers. *insert pessimistic self* You know you're not actually going to work on that one for a while, since you're starting another one.
I got my photography published.
I'm getting involved in other book-publishing-related ventures, and learning a lot while walking with my mom through the publication process of her books.
So, depressing though numbers may be, though I'm not where I thought I would be, I'm on my way.
I just need to do the math a bit better and figure out that starting college late + time it takes to graduate = I'm gonna be older than I expected when I start my life.
So, I'm graduating in one semester.
I'm also about to start editing the third novel for my "client" (who is published, so nyah to my pessimistic side).
I'm also attempting to write another book - currently in outlining phase.
I have a rough draft that just needs a little more editing before I can send it out to the first wave of test readers. *insert pessimistic self* You know you're not actually going to work on that one for a while, since you're starting another one.
Yeah, well at least I am starting another one, while you're just sitting on your butt whining about how you're 26 and not going anywhere.
I got my photography published.
I'm getting involved in other book-publishing-related ventures, and learning a lot while walking with my mom through the publication process of her books.
So, depressing though numbers may be, though I'm not where I thought I would be, I'm on my way.
I just need to do the math a bit better and figure out that starting college late + time it takes to graduate = I'm gonna be older than I expected when I start my life.
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Six is a big number!
If you're talking about number of orangutans in tutus that were hired to do a pole dance at your birthday celebration, that is.
Twenty-six is a very small number.
But only if you're talking about the number of times you've heard that Taio Cruz Dynamite song in the last six months. Really... when will that song DIE???
Twenty six is weird. It's bigger than 25. It's closer to 30 than 20.
Whatever happened to 23? I liked 23. It's my favorite number.
As you can tell, I have a mild crisis. Actually, it's not a crisis anymore. It's calmed into an attempt to reassess and figure out if I'm the about-to-be-26-year-old that I always wanted to be.
At first glance, I'm gonna go with no. When I was like 15, I figured that in 10 years I'd be married, have 3 kids (I was gonna get married super young, and then have twins, okay?), have graduated college, have published 5 books, and have figured out how to read minds, fly, time travel, and belly dance.
Now, ignoring my 15 year old "life plan," let's go with my "I'm going off to school now!" life plan. I never really paid attention to numbers. For some reason, I never calculated how old I'd be when I graduated. The number "26" never occurred to me. I was 21 when I started school. I figured it would take me 5 years. Maybe I should have taken more math, because last time I checked, 21 + 5 does, in fact, equal 26. Still, I never thought I'd ever be 26 and not graduated.
On the other hand, if I wasn't dragging out this last year with all the snails I have in me (seriously... 6.5 credits spread out over 3 semesters) I'd probably be graduating... well... like now. Whatever. I'm taking a scuba diving class. Bet you can't beat that.
Anyway, I think the main issues are that I don't have my own family and I'm not published. Those were always my two life goals. I'm still single, living in a cramped, barely-off-campus apartment, working in a call center (a very nice call center, but a "would you like fries/noni extra with that?" customer service, no education required job nonetheless), dreaming of reaching those goals... and I'm at an age I never thought this phase of my life would see. 26 was always "what's next." Somehow I got to now without accomplishing what I thought I would.
Wow... depressing, isn't it?
If you're talking about number of orangutans in tutus that were hired to do a pole dance at your birthday celebration, that is.
Twenty-six is a very small number.
But only if you're talking about the number of times you've heard that Taio Cruz Dynamite song in the last six months. Really... when will that song DIE???
Twenty six is weird. It's bigger than 25. It's closer to 30 than 20.
Whatever happened to 23? I liked 23. It's my favorite number.
As you can tell, I have a mild crisis. Actually, it's not a crisis anymore. It's calmed into an attempt to reassess and figure out if I'm the about-to-be-26-year-old that I always wanted to be.
At first glance, I'm gonna go with no. When I was like 15, I figured that in 10 years I'd be married, have 3 kids (I was gonna get married super young, and then have twins, okay?), have graduated college, have published 5 books, and have figured out how to read minds, fly, time travel, and belly dance.
Now, ignoring my 15 year old "life plan," let's go with my "I'm going off to school now!" life plan. I never really paid attention to numbers. For some reason, I never calculated how old I'd be when I graduated. The number "26" never occurred to me. I was 21 when I started school. I figured it would take me 5 years. Maybe I should have taken more math, because last time I checked, 21 + 5 does, in fact, equal 26. Still, I never thought I'd ever be 26 and not graduated.
On the other hand, if I wasn't dragging out this last year with all the snails I have in me (seriously... 6.5 credits spread out over 3 semesters) I'd probably be graduating... well... like now. Whatever. I'm taking a scuba diving class. Bet you can't beat that.
Anyway, I think the main issues are that I don't have my own family and I'm not published. Those were always my two life goals. I'm still single, living in a cramped, barely-off-campus apartment, working in a call center (a very nice call center, but a "would you like fries/noni extra with that?" customer service, no education required job nonetheless), dreaming of reaching those goals... and I'm at an age I never thought this phase of my life would see. 26 was always "what's next." Somehow I got to now without accomplishing what I thought I would.
Wow... depressing, isn't it?
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
I don't wanna, and other whiney-butt musings on the value of this mortal life. Also known as, I should be doing my homework right now.
No, seriously. I don't wanna.
Which brings up the deep, philosophical question: WHY??? Why don't I wanna?
Why? Well, because I DON'T CARE!!!
I mean, I already wrote this paper. Granted, it was just a rough draft, but the fun part is done. Know what I have to do now? Well... first item of business is to entirely remove my "voice" from the paper. Apparently my teacher thinks it's too colloquial. And, being that it's a work of academic interest, I am not allowed to show any remote shred of personality. My teacher was very nice about it, though, and went through my paper, deleting my personality for me. Now my paper is happily in his monotonous voice. I just have to transfer his corrections to my document.
After that, I have to rewrite my introduction. As my teacher put it, "It's a fine introduction as it is, but everybody should rewrite theirs after they've finished their paper. Introductions always need improvement, so I want you to change it."
Thank you?
I also need to make my bibliography in line with Kate Turabian's massive style guide, because the Chicago Manual of Style apparently wasn't good enough for historians.
And then, the part I really don't want to do - add in a blip of something that I don't really care about to prove that I did research and "improved my paper" after turning in the rough draft.
And, the absolute worst part of all... I have to **gasp!** quit whining about working on my paper and work on my paper!!!
Which brings up the deep, philosophical question: WHY??? Why don't I wanna?
Why? Well, because I DON'T CARE!!!
I mean, I already wrote this paper. Granted, it was just a rough draft, but the fun part is done. Know what I have to do now? Well... first item of business is to entirely remove my "voice" from the paper. Apparently my teacher thinks it's too colloquial. And, being that it's a work of academic interest, I am not allowed to show any remote shred of personality. My teacher was very nice about it, though, and went through my paper, deleting my personality for me. Now my paper is happily in his monotonous voice. I just have to transfer his corrections to my document.
After that, I have to rewrite my introduction. As my teacher put it, "It's a fine introduction as it is, but everybody should rewrite theirs after they've finished their paper. Introductions always need improvement, so I want you to change it."
Thank you?
I also need to make my bibliography in line with Kate Turabian's massive style guide, because the Chicago Manual of Style apparently wasn't good enough for historians.
And then, the part I really don't want to do - add in a blip of something that I don't really care about to prove that I did research and "improved my paper" after turning in the rough draft.
And, the absolute worst part of all... I have to **gasp!** quit whining about working on my paper and work on my paper!!!
Sunday, December 4, 2011
Aftermath
Sometimes, I feel all emo and melodramatic, because I know the truth is that it feels good to cry. If it's not letting it go, at least it's processing.
I wonder when I'll be able to let go. Maybe when it's gone? It's very persistent in its way of clinging to my life. I should have let it go a very, very long time ago, but I haven't. I don't want to, and I won't. I like it.
At least, I like not being without it.
And more than that, I can't stop wishing it will come back. And not just return, but change from what it was into everything that I actually need it to be.
And sometimes, I just really, really, really need to be held.
There. Do I win emo points?
I wonder when I'll be able to let go. Maybe when it's gone? It's very persistent in its way of clinging to my life. I should have let it go a very, very long time ago, but I haven't. I don't want to, and I won't. I like it.
At least, I like not being without it.
And more than that, I can't stop wishing it will come back. And not just return, but change from what it was into everything that I actually need it to be.
And sometimes, I just really, really, really need to be held.
There. Do I win emo points?
Friday, December 2, 2011
Tik Tok
Right now I'm sitting on the couch, shamelessly burning time until my work party happens. I really could get up and do something, but then I wouldn't be burning time.
Wouldn't it be nice if burnt time actually burned? Then I wouldn't be cold. And we could roast marshmallows.
Wouldn't it be nice if burnt time actually burned? Then I wouldn't be cold. And we could roast marshmallows.
Monday, November 21, 2011
Dear Madam, I have a word or two for you.
I'm sorry to undermine the false sense of power with which you are attempting to lord over me, threatening to stop buying from us and report me to the owner of the company, but I'm afraid the customer is not always right. When is there such a case is this?
Well, right now.
We're not going to refund your shipping because our policy - of which you have been well informed, several times - clearly states that when a product is returned, we will refund the item price, minus the shipping. We already did you a favor by covering the return shipping and having UPS go pick up the product from you.
As for your severe papaya allergy, let me be perfectly clear: OUR PRODUCT DOES NOT HAVE PAPAYA IN IT! We could not have lied to you about the contents of the beverage, because there is NO PAPAYA in that product, or ANY of our products, ever since the papaya soap was discontinued A YEAR AGO. And yes, the ingredients are listed right there on the side of the box. Go get yourself some glasses if you can't see them.
Look, between the returns, the disputed payments on the products you still have, and the measly ten dollars an hour I'm being paid to attempt to reason with you, you're actually costing us more money than you're bringing in.
Do you know what that means?
Bite me.
**siiiiigh** I wish I had the moxy to actually say that on the phone.
Well, right now.
We're not going to refund your shipping because our policy - of which you have been well informed, several times - clearly states that when a product is returned, we will refund the item price, minus the shipping. We already did you a favor by covering the return shipping and having UPS go pick up the product from you.
As for your severe papaya allergy, let me be perfectly clear: OUR PRODUCT DOES NOT HAVE PAPAYA IN IT! We could not have lied to you about the contents of the beverage, because there is NO PAPAYA in that product, or ANY of our products, ever since the papaya soap was discontinued A YEAR AGO. And yes, the ingredients are listed right there on the side of the box. Go get yourself some glasses if you can't see them.
Look, between the returns, the disputed payments on the products you still have, and the measly ten dollars an hour I'm being paid to attempt to reason with you, you're actually costing us more money than you're bringing in.
Do you know what that means?
Bite me.
**siiiiigh** I wish I had the moxy to actually say that on the phone.
Saturday, November 19, 2011
Shady Shawn, Victor Viagra, Ungrateful Ugbert and Clara Colonoscopy, Meet Stanley Stoner.
Today I met god. He lives in New York. I called him from work to tell him we weren't able to process his order, because his credit card declined.
Pretty sure he was high.
"The memories," he said in his slow, slurred speech. "You can't even know the things I remember. The things I've done."
"Um... oh?" I responded as visions of serial killers and/or vampires flashed through my mind. I double checked his location - New York was pretty far away, but I'd still better not give him a reason to take a sudden interest in Utah.
"What would you think," he asked, his voice holding a hint of plea, "if I was the only man on earth? The only one. What would you think?"
Gulp. "Um, well, I think that would be very interesting."
"Interesting," he responded. It sounded like he was caressing the word, turning it around and around in his hands. "I like how you said that. Interesting."
This was about the point where I considered saying, "What? I'm sorry, what was that? I can't hear you. I think your phone is-" *hang up* But, he continued.
"Do you know about King Tut?"
This was weird, but definitely less creepy. "King Tut? Yeah, of course!"
"King Tut was small and frail. Tut was actually a girl disguised as a boy."
"Wow... that's cool." I jumped onto google to see what snopes had to say about that one. Nothing. I couldn't find anything of the sort.
"You know the pyramid of Giza?"
"Yep. I know that one too."
"That's mine."
Heh... yeah. I must truly be in the presence of - or at least on the phone with - someone great. Good think he's a fairly safe 3,000 miles away.
I made sure I had a pleasant smile in my voice, to possibly conceal any hint of irony. "The whole pyramid! Wow. How does that work?"
"I know. It sounds ludicrous, right? But you have to accept who I am. Don't ever lie to me, because I will know immediately. I am the man. You have to accept that. I'm not getting older. I will be young for eternity. I am all-powerful."
**blinkblink**
"Wow."
"I have to find the right woman. I have to choose a girl very, very carefully, and I need to stay out of the spotlight. Do you know Kim Kardashian?"
"Yeeeeaaaaahhhhh..."
"I would never choose Kim Kardashian. She's a fool's choice. A woman who gets married to another man, in the spotlight. No. She's not right for me. Do you know Brad Pitt?"
"Ummmm..."
"Remember when all the women said he was the sexiest man alive? That's me."
"Wow."
"I need you to call me back. Later today, in the afternoon. Can you call me?"
The correct answer would be, "I'm sorry, Sir, but my shift is over, and as soon as I finish here, I'm going to the Northern Mariana Islands. Also, it's my last day. I got a new job plucking geese for head dresses to be worn at the next Ascot races."
What I found myself saying was, "Oh, sure. Of course. Whatever you want."
Could it be he really is all-powerful?
Oh dear...
Pretty sure he was high.
"The memories," he said in his slow, slurred speech. "You can't even know the things I remember. The things I've done."
"Um... oh?" I responded as visions of serial killers and/or vampires flashed through my mind. I double checked his location - New York was pretty far away, but I'd still better not give him a reason to take a sudden interest in Utah.
"What would you think," he asked, his voice holding a hint of plea, "if I was the only man on earth? The only one. What would you think?"
Gulp. "Um, well, I think that would be very interesting."
"Interesting," he responded. It sounded like he was caressing the word, turning it around and around in his hands. "I like how you said that. Interesting."
This was about the point where I considered saying, "What? I'm sorry, what was that? I can't hear you. I think your phone is-" *hang up* But, he continued.
"Do you know about King Tut?"
This was weird, but definitely less creepy. "King Tut? Yeah, of course!"
"King Tut was small and frail. Tut was actually a girl disguised as a boy."
"Wow... that's cool." I jumped onto google to see what snopes had to say about that one. Nothing. I couldn't find anything of the sort.
"You know the pyramid of Giza?"
"Yep. I know that one too."
"That's mine."
Heh... yeah. I must truly be in the presence of - or at least on the phone with - someone great. Good think he's a fairly safe 3,000 miles away.
I made sure I had a pleasant smile in my voice, to possibly conceal any hint of irony. "The whole pyramid! Wow. How does that work?"
"I know. It sounds ludicrous, right? But you have to accept who I am. Don't ever lie to me, because I will know immediately. I am the man. You have to accept that. I'm not getting older. I will be young for eternity. I am all-powerful."
**blinkblink**
"Wow."
"I have to find the right woman. I have to choose a girl very, very carefully, and I need to stay out of the spotlight. Do you know Kim Kardashian?"
"Yeeeeaaaaahhhhh..."
"I would never choose Kim Kardashian. She's a fool's choice. A woman who gets married to another man, in the spotlight. No. She's not right for me. Do you know Brad Pitt?"
"Ummmm..."
"Remember when all the women said he was the sexiest man alive? That's me."
"Wow."
"I need you to call me back. Later today, in the afternoon. Can you call me?"
The correct answer would be, "I'm sorry, Sir, but my shift is over, and as soon as I finish here, I'm going to the Northern Mariana Islands. Also, it's my last day. I got a new job plucking geese for head dresses to be worn at the next Ascot races."
What I found myself saying was, "Oh, sure. Of course. Whatever you want."
Could it be he really is all-powerful?
Oh dear...
Sunday, November 6, 2011
What happens when a wizard gives me the ability to time travel... part 1.
Last night I was having a conversation with my good old friend, Kunkee. We talked about a lot of stuff, including the Persian Empire. He's been studying this a lot, thanks to his Civ class, and it really struck me how very little we know. Sure, we have historical records, and some archaeological stuff, but really, how much do we actually know about that 2500 year old civilization?
Which, of course, leads to the question: how much will the world know about our civilization in another 2500 years? We discussed it a little bit, and I brought up the point that everything in this world is digital. Kunkee added that not only is information all digital, but most of our civilization is very transient. Glass and steel skyscrapers don't last like brick and stone, and wood doesn't last at all. Heck, a couple years ago we had to replace the siding on the house I grew up in because it was rotting away, and we built that house when I was nine! I've driven by so many barns built 100 years ago, and there's not much left - covered in vines with trees growing through the roof, falling boards, only the bare frame of a building. Can you imagine what will be left of our world in a thousand years? Two thousand?
My main concern is the digitization, though. I mean, how long can it last? The information is stored on hard drives, which, honestly, I'm lucky if I can get a jump drive to survive 5 years. Hard copies of things are becoming more and more rare. Who sends snail mail anymore? Newspapers still exist but they're becoming less used and will probably give way to online news in a very short time. And don't even get me started on ebooks.
So, with that question burning in my mind, I feigned exhaustion, kicked Kunkee out, and slipped into my room to perform some simple magic. A few years ago, I came across a wizard. He was a nut. That's the thing about magic. If you're not careful with it, you might accidentally transform yourself into something you don't want to be - in his case, a cashew.
Now, being a cashew, he really couldn't do anything about it. He still had his mind intact (his form of transformation allowed for that, though don't ask me how, because I still can't figure out where he put his mind when he was shaped like a crescent rat turd), so he was able to cast simple spells. Anything more complicated than manipulating the elements generally called for a potion or at the very least a staff to channel the magic, so he was very much stuck.
To make a long story short (so we can get on to the longer story), I discovered him and didn't eat him, because I loathe nuts with a burning passion, and through a series of really scary moments where he tried manipulating the elements to tell me he wasn't actually a nut (don't even get me started on the time he created a tornado in the toilet), I discovered his wizardness and was able to use his potion brewing manual to turn him back into a human.
He offered me my choice of his amulets as a thank you for preventing him from being roasted, salted and stuck in a jar (if that had happened his only defense would have been to spell the jar's lid so not even Tarzan could pry it off). I had a rough time choosing between flight and time travel, but finally settled on the latter so that I could go visit a seven year old Clarke and try to convince him he was actually a Tanzanian peasant that got misplaced by his mother, carried off by a man-eating tanager, rescued by monkeys in Brazil, kidnapped from the monkeys by American poachers, and sold on the black market, where he was bought by our parents who thought he was a doll and bought him as a toy for me to play with, which makes me their favorite, so nyah. Unfortunately, when I tried to tell him all of that, he explained that was impossible, because tanagers are from the thraupidae family, which is far too small to carry off a baby, and even though they are an omnivorous species, their meat eating tendencies do not extend past insects.
Anyway, back to the original story, the wizard gave me the time travel amulet, and I now visit him around the holidays, where we sing Christmas carols, drink spiced cider and eat enchanted fudge.
So, last night, I decided to use my time travel amulet to answer my own question. How much would mankind of the future know about our civilization?
I clutched the amulet to my chest, and decided on a date. I decided to make it in spring so that if something went wrong and I had to stay for a couple months or so, I wouldn't have to deal with winter. One never knows what they'll find in the future. With the date chosen, I repeated it over and over in my mind.
April 25 (not too hot, not too cold - all you'll need is a light jacket!), 4512. April 25, 4512. April 25, 4512. April...
As the world melted around me, I realized I had forgotten that's it's impossible to know whether or not the space you are occupying is going to be occupied by something else in 2500.5 years.
That's why traveling to the future is almost never a good idea.
To be continued...
Which, of course, leads to the question: how much will the world know about our civilization in another 2500 years? We discussed it a little bit, and I brought up the point that everything in this world is digital. Kunkee added that not only is information all digital, but most of our civilization is very transient. Glass and steel skyscrapers don't last like brick and stone, and wood doesn't last at all. Heck, a couple years ago we had to replace the siding on the house I grew up in because it was rotting away, and we built that house when I was nine! I've driven by so many barns built 100 years ago, and there's not much left - covered in vines with trees growing through the roof, falling boards, only the bare frame of a building. Can you imagine what will be left of our world in a thousand years? Two thousand?
My main concern is the digitization, though. I mean, how long can it last? The information is stored on hard drives, which, honestly, I'm lucky if I can get a jump drive to survive 5 years. Hard copies of things are becoming more and more rare. Who sends snail mail anymore? Newspapers still exist but they're becoming less used and will probably give way to online news in a very short time. And don't even get me started on ebooks.
So, with that question burning in my mind, I feigned exhaustion, kicked Kunkee out, and slipped into my room to perform some simple magic. A few years ago, I came across a wizard. He was a nut. That's the thing about magic. If you're not careful with it, you might accidentally transform yourself into something you don't want to be - in his case, a cashew.
Now, being a cashew, he really couldn't do anything about it. He still had his mind intact (his form of transformation allowed for that, though don't ask me how, because I still can't figure out where he put his mind when he was shaped like a crescent rat turd), so he was able to cast simple spells. Anything more complicated than manipulating the elements generally called for a potion or at the very least a staff to channel the magic, so he was very much stuck.
To make a long story short (so we can get on to the longer story), I discovered him and didn't eat him, because I loathe nuts with a burning passion, and through a series of really scary moments where he tried manipulating the elements to tell me he wasn't actually a nut (don't even get me started on the time he created a tornado in the toilet), I discovered his wizardness and was able to use his potion brewing manual to turn him back into a human.
He offered me my choice of his amulets as a thank you for preventing him from being roasted, salted and stuck in a jar (if that had happened his only defense would have been to spell the jar's lid so not even Tarzan could pry it off). I had a rough time choosing between flight and time travel, but finally settled on the latter so that I could go visit a seven year old Clarke and try to convince him he was actually a Tanzanian peasant that got misplaced by his mother, carried off by a man-eating tanager, rescued by monkeys in Brazil, kidnapped from the monkeys by American poachers, and sold on the black market, where he was bought by our parents who thought he was a doll and bought him as a toy for me to play with, which makes me their favorite, so nyah. Unfortunately, when I tried to tell him all of that, he explained that was impossible, because tanagers are from the thraupidae family, which is far too small to carry off a baby, and even though they are an omnivorous species, their meat eating tendencies do not extend past insects.
Anyway, back to the original story, the wizard gave me the time travel amulet, and I now visit him around the holidays, where we sing Christmas carols, drink spiced cider and eat enchanted fudge.
So, last night, I decided to use my time travel amulet to answer my own question. How much would mankind of the future know about our civilization?
I clutched the amulet to my chest, and decided on a date. I decided to make it in spring so that if something went wrong and I had to stay for a couple months or so, I wouldn't have to deal with winter. One never knows what they'll find in the future. With the date chosen, I repeated it over and over in my mind.
April 25 (not too hot, not too cold - all you'll need is a light jacket!), 4512. April 25, 4512. April 25, 4512. April...
As the world melted around me, I realized I had forgotten that's it's impossible to know whether or not the space you are occupying is going to be occupied by something else in 2500.5 years.
That's why traveling to the future is almost never a good idea.
To be continued...
Thursday, November 3, 2011
Status on Research Paper for Capstone Class
Choose topic: Check!
Preliminary research: Check!
Come up with thesis: Check!
In depth research: Ooooooh, shoot. My thesis holds absolutely no water at all. In fact, I not only didn't know enough about the topic, I didn't know enough about the time period for my conclusions to make any sense whatsoever.
Which puts us right back at step two. I have a topic. That's it. No thesis, no research, no idea of what the heck to write about.
20 pages due in 5 days, and I'm starting from scratch.
Once upon a time there was a piece of toast. It looked just like me. I am toast. The end.
Preliminary research: Check!
Come up with thesis: Check!
In depth research: Ooooooh, shoot. My thesis holds absolutely no water at all. In fact, I not only didn't know enough about the topic, I didn't know enough about the time period for my conclusions to make any sense whatsoever.
Which puts us right back at step two. I have a topic. That's it. No thesis, no research, no idea of what the heck to write about.
20 pages due in 5 days, and I'm starting from scratch.
Once upon a time there was a piece of toast. It looked just like me. I am toast. The end.
Sunday, October 23, 2011
Cleanliness is next to Godliness... and might be God's way of answering prayers.
So, having not been to my own ward for a while, I'm a little backed up on tithing. I have 2 paychecks and a photography job (grrr... I've got a rant and a half about that one) that haven't had tithing paid yet. This morning I went to grab my checkbook, knowing I was a little low on checks, and found that my checkbook was actually out of checks. Never fear, I have more in a box... somewhere... and that box is probably in another box of random stuff I never use... somewhere... oh man.
So, I began searching. First I checked my desk. Nope. Then I checked my cubbies. Nope. Then I checked the boxes under my bed. Nope. Then I checked my closet, and all the shelves in my closet. Nope, nope. I sighed, absolutely resigned that I was going to have to dig through the storage closet, find my 2 storage bins that Stephanie "organized" to the back and bottom of everything, and get them out of there. So, I started digging. I dug and dug and dug until I was roughly underneath Saskatchewan. Finally, I found my bins. I opened the first one: a couple boxes for electronic stuff and a tea set I "won" at work (and by "won" I mean last year they were trying to clear out their inventory before taxes and gave away all sorts of stuff they'd never sell). No checks. In the second bin was my old backpack, a volleyball, a broken CD player, and some other odds and ends. My jiujitsu gi was in there too. No checks.
That's where the problem started. I had officially checked EVERYWHERE that it could possibly be. The only other place in the apartment that houses stuff I own is the bathroom, and I'm not going to put checks in the bathroom. I even just reorganized my bookcase this morning. Nothing!
I had this thought - You know, I should make a list of all my stuff I hardly ever use and where I put it, so that when I do finally need it, I won't have completely lost it. But, I'll never make that list. If I make a list to keep me from losing my stuff, I will inevitably lose the list.
So, I decided to eat breakfast. I know, super resourceful, aren't I? While praying over my food, I threw in a, "And please help me to find my box of checks... you know, so I can pay tithing."
Sometimes I wonder if the little thoughts we have while praying, that are not a part of our "official" prayer, get sent up to heaven as well. Like, "I'm going through this trouble so I can obey You, Lord, so a little help would be nice." I wouldn't actually say it in a prayer, because it's a little disrespectful, and I pay tithing for more reasons than just obedience, so I'm not actually that whiny about it, but the thought did drift across my mind while praying...
Anyway, I digress. So, I ate my breakfast, put my cereal and milk away, then went to wash my bowl and spoon. While washing my bowl and spoon, I noticed the sink was pretty full, including cookie sheets, bowls, and my crystal glasses, which had been put to grand use at a sleepover where we ate Oreos and cheesecake cupcakes and drank Martinelli's sparkling apple-grape cider from my martini glasses. I decided to do the dishes so I could put my glasses away before they broke. Then I decided not to, because I only had so much time to search for my checks before church, and the dishes could wait until after church. Then that little voice in the back of my head... which really isn't a voice... it's more like a decision I didn't make myself... said I should just get the work done while I was thinking about it and get my glasses put away.
So, I scrubbed the cookie sheet and put the silverware in the rack (handles down... Stephanie would be so proud of me) and loaded bowls and tupperware and whatever else into the dishwasher, then gently hand washed my crystal glasses. When the glasses were clean, I took them into my room, got a chair to make myself tall enough to reach where my glasses go, and put them on the top shelf of that bookshelf that's over my window.
Turns out I never thought to look on those shelves above my window. As I put the glasses away, I realized that off to the left side was a stack of papers - stuff like phone bills, bank statements, Stadium Terrace rule book, etc. - and on top of the papers? A box of checks!
I climbed off the chair and just laughed. Thank you, Lord! Answer to my prayer? Do the dishes.
So, that's my spiritual thought for this lovely Sunday. God answers prayers, and doing the dishes is a good thing. The end.
So, I began searching. First I checked my desk. Nope. Then I checked my cubbies. Nope. Then I checked the boxes under my bed. Nope. Then I checked my closet, and all the shelves in my closet. Nope, nope. I sighed, absolutely resigned that I was going to have to dig through the storage closet, find my 2 storage bins that Stephanie "organized" to the back and bottom of everything, and get them out of there. So, I started digging. I dug and dug and dug until I was roughly underneath Saskatchewan. Finally, I found my bins. I opened the first one: a couple boxes for electronic stuff and a tea set I "won" at work (and by "won" I mean last year they were trying to clear out their inventory before taxes and gave away all sorts of stuff they'd never sell). No checks. In the second bin was my old backpack, a volleyball, a broken CD player, and some other odds and ends. My jiujitsu gi was in there too. No checks.
That's where the problem started. I had officially checked EVERYWHERE that it could possibly be. The only other place in the apartment that houses stuff I own is the bathroom, and I'm not going to put checks in the bathroom. I even just reorganized my bookcase this morning. Nothing!
I had this thought - You know, I should make a list of all my stuff I hardly ever use and where I put it, so that when I do finally need it, I won't have completely lost it. But, I'll never make that list. If I make a list to keep me from losing my stuff, I will inevitably lose the list.
So, I decided to eat breakfast. I know, super resourceful, aren't I? While praying over my food, I threw in a, "And please help me to find my box of checks... you know, so I can pay tithing."
Sometimes I wonder if the little thoughts we have while praying, that are not a part of our "official" prayer, get sent up to heaven as well. Like, "I'm going through this trouble so I can obey You, Lord, so a little help would be nice." I wouldn't actually say it in a prayer, because it's a little disrespectful, and I pay tithing for more reasons than just obedience, so I'm not actually that whiny about it, but the thought did drift across my mind while praying...
Anyway, I digress. So, I ate my breakfast, put my cereal and milk away, then went to wash my bowl and spoon. While washing my bowl and spoon, I noticed the sink was pretty full, including cookie sheets, bowls, and my crystal glasses, which had been put to grand use at a sleepover where we ate Oreos and cheesecake cupcakes and drank Martinelli's sparkling apple-grape cider from my martini glasses. I decided to do the dishes so I could put my glasses away before they broke. Then I decided not to, because I only had so much time to search for my checks before church, and the dishes could wait until after church. Then that little voice in the back of my head... which really isn't a voice... it's more like a decision I didn't make myself... said I should just get the work done while I was thinking about it and get my glasses put away.
So, I scrubbed the cookie sheet and put the silverware in the rack (handles down... Stephanie would be so proud of me) and loaded bowls and tupperware and whatever else into the dishwasher, then gently hand washed my crystal glasses. When the glasses were clean, I took them into my room, got a chair to make myself tall enough to reach where my glasses go, and put them on the top shelf of that bookshelf that's over my window.
Turns out I never thought to look on those shelves above my window. As I put the glasses away, I realized that off to the left side was a stack of papers - stuff like phone bills, bank statements, Stadium Terrace rule book, etc. - and on top of the papers? A box of checks!
I climbed off the chair and just laughed. Thank you, Lord! Answer to my prayer? Do the dishes.
So, that's my spiritual thought for this lovely Sunday. God answers prayers, and doing the dishes is a good thing. The end.
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Why Savannah did the dishes.
My apartment is a wreck. It kinda reminds me of when I was a kid, how I couldn't keep my room clean.
Well... I still can't keep my room clean.
But this isn't about my room! I mean, at least when the clutter and debris get out of hand it really bothers me and I clean it. That's a vast improvement from the room I cleaned semi-annually as a teenager... the room that caused my mom to say, "Hey, let's finish the basement so Savannah's room can be two floors below mine and I won't have to wear a hazmat suit to walk through my house!"
Anyway, remember what I said about out-of-hand debris bothering me? Well...
IT'S BOTHERING ME!!!
Unfortunately, my room is the least of it (especially now that I've cleaned it). See, one roommate had a huge project that took up residence in the front room, and another roommate has her school stuff in the front room, and one roommate has all her school/work/life stuff in the front room, and there is a bunch of unclaimed mail that hasn't been removed from the table yet, somebody unloaded the contents of the storage closet into the front room, and somebody decided to move all the flower vases onto the table but not put flowers in them, and the pitchers that were in the way of the vases made it onto the table too, and the dishwasher exploded and flooded the kitchen and the carpet in the front room so the padding under the carpet has been removed and the carpet is all pulled up, there is shredded padding all over the house, the dishes have been piling in the sink and on the counters and table and stove top, and the whole place is in desperate need of a solid vacuuming.... but it's kinda hard to vacuum when so much clutter is in the way. With all the stuff on the table, there's no where to sit when I eat, and with all the stuff on the couches, there's no where to sit period.
Basically, if my 13 year old self saw the level of bothered I'm getting over this, she'd look at the path she had carved in the clutter on her floor, shrug her shoulders and say, "Huh. Weird."
And that is why I did the dishes.
Well... I still can't keep my room clean.
But this isn't about my room! I mean, at least when the clutter and debris get out of hand it really bothers me and I clean it. That's a vast improvement from the room I cleaned semi-annually as a teenager... the room that caused my mom to say, "Hey, let's finish the basement so Savannah's room can be two floors below mine and I won't have to wear a hazmat suit to walk through my house!"
Anyway, remember what I said about out-of-hand debris bothering me? Well...
IT'S BOTHERING ME!!!
Unfortunately, my room is the least of it (especially now that I've cleaned it). See, one roommate had a huge project that took up residence in the front room, and another roommate has her school stuff in the front room, and one roommate has all her school/work/life stuff in the front room, and there is a bunch of unclaimed mail that hasn't been removed from the table yet, somebody unloaded the contents of the storage closet into the front room, and somebody decided to move all the flower vases onto the table but not put flowers in them, and the pitchers that were in the way of the vases made it onto the table too, and the dishwasher exploded and flooded the kitchen and the carpet in the front room so the padding under the carpet has been removed and the carpet is all pulled up, there is shredded padding all over the house, the dishes have been piling in the sink and on the counters and table and stove top, and the whole place is in desperate need of a solid vacuuming.... but it's kinda hard to vacuum when so much clutter is in the way. With all the stuff on the table, there's no where to sit when I eat, and with all the stuff on the couches, there's no where to sit period.
Basically, if my 13 year old self saw the level of bothered I'm getting over this, she'd look at the path she had carved in the clutter on her floor, shrug her shoulders and say, "Huh. Weird."
And that is why I did the dishes.
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Once upon a pasta
So, the servers crashed at work today. It wasn't just any server. It was the server that allowed us to charge credit cards, which meant that for half of my shift I sat there taking orders by hand. It was nightmarish, but then something started to happen. The call center swirled around me, and I suddenly realized I was dressed in a skirt, puffy sleeves, Victorian boots and those poofy pants things girls wore under their dresses, and my headset had turned into a tin can. The tin can was attached to a string, and it ran through a hedge, and was attached to another tin can, which a customer was speaking into, telling me their order.
Then the hedge swirled. I started to wonder what had been in the chicken leg I ate for lunch. Maybe the chicken was a 'shroom addict before it got its head whapped off and its legs dipped in Barbecue sauce.
Anyway, when the technology continued to decrease, until I was dressed like a nun, dipping my feather in ink and scratching the order onto a piece of parchment. Then the parchment disappeared and turned into a rock... and I lost ALL my work!
GRRR! I should have waited for the technological digression to stop before attempting to record the order. Anyway, at that point, I had two rocks, and I attempted to bang the order into the bigger rock. The customer was grunting at me and pointing. I think it had something to do with the wooly mammoth fur I was wearing.
Then I realized.
The customer was ordering a rock.
I stopped chiseling. I gave the customer the rock. He gave me a tuna fish as payment.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is what happens when the servers crash at work. Be grateful for technology, for someday it might leave you.
Then the hedge swirled. I started to wonder what had been in the chicken leg I ate for lunch. Maybe the chicken was a 'shroom addict before it got its head whapped off and its legs dipped in Barbecue sauce.
Anyway, when the technology continued to decrease, until I was dressed like a nun, dipping my feather in ink and scratching the order onto a piece of parchment. Then the parchment disappeared and turned into a rock... and I lost ALL my work!
GRRR! I should have waited for the technological digression to stop before attempting to record the order. Anyway, at that point, I had two rocks, and I attempted to bang the order into the bigger rock. The customer was grunting at me and pointing. I think it had something to do with the wooly mammoth fur I was wearing.
Then I realized.
The customer was ordering a rock.
I stopped chiseling. I gave the customer the rock. He gave me a tuna fish as payment.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is what happens when the servers crash at work. Be grateful for technology, for someday it might leave you.
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
Cars and problems and all sorts of whining and stuff
So, I'm kind of an idiot. I mean, I love myself and I have lots of confidence, so don't go worrying about my self esteem or anything, but really... I'm kind of an idiot.
I'm also idealistic and demanding, and dramatically chicken and really good at running from things that scare me or make me think I'm gonna get my heart stomped on.
And then, when all is said and done, I just wish I knew how to make it better.
I'm also idealistic and demanding, and dramatically chicken and really good at running from things that scare me or make me think I'm gonna get my heart stomped on.
And then, when all is said and done, I just wish I knew how to make it better.
Saturday, October 1, 2011
The Historian
I've known for a very long time (like, since I was 13... I can pinpoint the moment exactly) that someday in the future I would be neck deep in the history of my family, researching it, discovering the people, and chronicling their lives. I've dabbled in it a little - hearing stories from my mom, and occasionally my grandma, going on vacation to Colorado where my great-great grandfather was a doctor in a mining town, or visiting the cemetery just north of my home where my great-great-great-and-everything-else aunts and uncles and grandparents and cousins and all sorts of relatives are buried.
I've never really known when this was going to happen. I remember once, I helped my mom in her family research, looking for names of our family who settled on the east coast back in... 1600's? Maybe it was 1700's. Something like that. She discovered Jane of Nanjemy, and I found Elizabeth Jones. It was SO exciting, and I had a wonderful feeling. It was this overwhelming feeling of "right."
But, it only came once. I didn't really go back - just helped her once, and then did temple work for the people we found. I've wanted to do it more, but never really had the time... or felt like it was time. I've always sort of felt there were other, more relevant to here and now things I should be doing.
I took a class on family history about a year ago. Yep, leave it to BYU to have a class devoted 100% to family history, that is completely devoid of anything else related to the study of history. This class isn't a part of the history department. It's religion.
Which basically means that while choosing classes not related to my history major, I chose a class related to my history major.
Anyway, when I took that class, I wondered if it was time to make my family's history a focus in my life. My intuitive answer? Nope. Not yet. I kinda felt like the class, while it presented a lot of useful information that would help me in the future (assuming I could remember it), but it wasn't particularly relevant to my present life.
Well, at least my present life if you were reading this about a year ago.
Flashing forward to the real present.
Today is General Conference. I'm glad - I could use a solid dose of spirituality right now, and there have been a lot of really good talks. One of the talks, by David Bednar, was on family history. He talked about finding our family, and using the church website to get started, and doing temple work for them. It was all pretty interesting.
The mostly interesting part, however, was the feeling I got. It was exactly the same as all those years ago (I think it was about 6 years ago), when I was researching with my mom. It was an overwhelming feeling of "right."
I think it's time to get started.
The best place to start is with what I already know - my own life's history. It's where my story starts, and when I'm writing things I already know, I can learn and figure out what I'm doing. I can also write about my immediate family, and then closely extended family. When I have that chronicled, I can move to great-grandparents, and then farther up, so on and so forth.
But, where do I put all this research? It's gotta be digital so it's searchable, and it's gotta be in a format I can enjoy working with. But, it's also gotta be something I can print out and have a hard copy of.
So, I recently discovered that blogger will publish your blog posts into a book. I love blogging. It just made using the Internet to chronicle life and family history plausible. Hopefully they'll keep offering that service for as long as I'm using it.
Anyway, I'm thinking about starting a new blog where I write my life's stories. It wouldn't be a public blog - I'd have to approve readers first. I'd include stories from my memories, and things from family members. For example, last time I was at home I stayed up until about 2 in the morning (after thinking I was going to bed at about 9) talking to my dad, hearing the history of the computer and the Internet from his own experiences. It was SUPER fascinating! His playing with computers in high school, college where data was transferred with punch cards! Yeah, that one blew my mind. There wasn't a cable or anything. You programmed things into a punch card. I spent the whole time wishing I had a recorder or something to get all those memories down, so I could write it all out into a permanent form. Maybe I can get him to email me the story or something.
Anyway, stories like that are bits and pieces of the history of our world, from the lens of actual people who are living in this world. I want to write them down. Then I want to research other family members, and hopefully find their stories. I want to keep going back and back and back until I find as many stories from as many different time periods as I can.
Now... where to begin...
I've never really known when this was going to happen. I remember once, I helped my mom in her family research, looking for names of our family who settled on the east coast back in... 1600's? Maybe it was 1700's. Something like that. She discovered Jane of Nanjemy, and I found Elizabeth Jones. It was SO exciting, and I had a wonderful feeling. It was this overwhelming feeling of "right."
But, it only came once. I didn't really go back - just helped her once, and then did temple work for the people we found. I've wanted to do it more, but never really had the time... or felt like it was time. I've always sort of felt there were other, more relevant to here and now things I should be doing.
I took a class on family history about a year ago. Yep, leave it to BYU to have a class devoted 100% to family history, that is completely devoid of anything else related to the study of history. This class isn't a part of the history department. It's religion.
Which basically means that while choosing classes not related to my history major, I chose a class related to my history major.
Anyway, when I took that class, I wondered if it was time to make my family's history a focus in my life. My intuitive answer? Nope. Not yet. I kinda felt like the class, while it presented a lot of useful information that would help me in the future (assuming I could remember it), but it wasn't particularly relevant to my present life.
Well, at least my present life if you were reading this about a year ago.
Flashing forward to the real present.
Today is General Conference. I'm glad - I could use a solid dose of spirituality right now, and there have been a lot of really good talks. One of the talks, by David Bednar, was on family history. He talked about finding our family, and using the church website to get started, and doing temple work for them. It was all pretty interesting.
The mostly interesting part, however, was the feeling I got. It was exactly the same as all those years ago (I think it was about 6 years ago), when I was researching with my mom. It was an overwhelming feeling of "right."
I think it's time to get started.
The best place to start is with what I already know - my own life's history. It's where my story starts, and when I'm writing things I already know, I can learn and figure out what I'm doing. I can also write about my immediate family, and then closely extended family. When I have that chronicled, I can move to great-grandparents, and then farther up, so on and so forth.
But, where do I put all this research? It's gotta be digital so it's searchable, and it's gotta be in a format I can enjoy working with. But, it's also gotta be something I can print out and have a hard copy of.
So, I recently discovered that blogger will publish your blog posts into a book. I love blogging. It just made using the Internet to chronicle life and family history plausible. Hopefully they'll keep offering that service for as long as I'm using it.
Anyway, I'm thinking about starting a new blog where I write my life's stories. It wouldn't be a public blog - I'd have to approve readers first. I'd include stories from my memories, and things from family members. For example, last time I was at home I stayed up until about 2 in the morning (after thinking I was going to bed at about 9) talking to my dad, hearing the history of the computer and the Internet from his own experiences. It was SUPER fascinating! His playing with computers in high school, college where data was transferred with punch cards! Yeah, that one blew my mind. There wasn't a cable or anything. You programmed things into a punch card. I spent the whole time wishing I had a recorder or something to get all those memories down, so I could write it all out into a permanent form. Maybe I can get him to email me the story or something.
Anyway, stories like that are bits and pieces of the history of our world, from the lens of actual people who are living in this world. I want to write them down. Then I want to research other family members, and hopefully find their stories. I want to keep going back and back and back until I find as many stories from as many different time periods as I can.
Now... where to begin...
Sunday, September 25, 2011
Dear shoulder, what did I ever do to you???
Oh, that's right. I took you tubing and dislocated you again. Alright, I'm sorry. I'll be more careful in the future... probably... as long as a fun tubing activity doesn't come up again. Can you please let me get to sleep now??? If I can't sleep, I'm going to write boring stuff on my blog and annoy people on facebook. You don't want that, do you?
Maybe I'll just go eat a cookie.
Love,
Me.
Maybe I'll just go eat a cookie.
Love,
Me.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
Muah ha ha ha.
Sometimes I appall myself with how evil I am. Really, I'm scared of myself right now. I'm afraid to go to bed, for fear that I might be hiding in the closet. I'm in my worst nightmares, and my subconscious suppresses memories of me.
What if I do go to bed, and I find myself hiding under my bed??? Or worse, what if I find myself in my bed??? Morning can't come soon enough!
Actually, morning is coming far too soon, which is a huge part of the problem. Why am I even awake right now? I've got class. Go to bed, me. Sheesh.
What if I do go to bed, and I find myself hiding under my bed??? Or worse, what if I find myself in my bed??? Morning can't come soon enough!
Actually, morning is coming far too soon, which is a huge part of the problem. Why am I even awake right now? I've got class. Go to bed, me. Sheesh.
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
My High Falutin Discourse on American Culture
Sometimes Americans will encounter somebody who isn't American. This usually comes as quite the shock, since most Americans tend to think that the world is of the homogenous culture typically presented on TV, where you learn England is a drastically different world because they call the toilet a "loo."
Today I was reading about folklore, and how the common savage was quite in vogue during the late 18th and early 19th centuries. It intrigued me how the high society of different countries reacted to the Enlightenment. Some of them, like the high society of England and France, embraced the pique of civilization more fully than others. Those others, like the high society of Germany and Spain, called it elitist and stripped naked to sing "primitive" songs and dance around camp fires just outside their homemade grass and dung huts... while the common folk stared and wondered what the heck they thought they were accomplishing.
Now, of course, France and England had their fair share of common folklore that was popular at this time period. Germany and Spain also had Enlightenment speakers. But, England had a lot more of Adam Smith than Goethe, and Germany vice versa. As I read the article, it was interesting to see how the different values of different cultures were reflected in the writings they focused on... on which they focused. Excuse my grammar.
It makes me think about American culture, and how our American values are reflected in our own "folk lore."
Take, for example, a classic folk tale.
Cinderella.
Dear Disney, you're really doing another-other Cinderella story? Because the classic cartoon, and then a modern day rendition with Hillary Duff weren't enough? You mean that Cinderella-teaches-a-pop-star-how-to-dance movie didn't do it? Another one besides all those? And it's not just Disney, either. Ever After, Slipper and the Rose, CinderElmo (???), Cinderfella, and some would argue Ella Enchanted (though I kinda disagree... about the only similarity is the evil step family formula) are all either deliberately Cinderella or based off that one key element of Cinderella: a peasant girl defies those who say she can't to become a princess.
I think it's that key element - a peasant becoming a princess - that gives Cinderella such appeal in American life. It's a HUGE part of our culture. Rags to riches. You can start with nothing, and defeat all the odds to end up with everything. All you need is faith, determination, super cute shoes, and a godmother who can turn unwanted family members into squid.
There's a bit of the American revolutionary spirit in it as well. Cinderella's society always says servants can't marry princes. (Ever After: "First you're engaged, now you're a servant???" Hillary Duff version: the school "dork" (who happens to have super blonde hair, a cute figure, and looks about as dorky as... well... Hillary Duff) falls for the star quarterback. The Selena Gomez dance version: normal person falls for a pop star. Etc.) But, they always fight for what they want anyway, despite what social expectations say, and show society that society is WRONG.
Because all men are created equal (and women... and children... and apparently tuna too, thanks to PETA). That's a Thomas Jefferson... well, would have been a Thomas Jefferson quote without all the addenda... which is the plural of addendum, for those (like me) who think/thought the plural of addendum was addendums.
Wow... tangent.
Anyway, that all men are created equal thing is another principle of the Cinderella story that echoes with Americans.
So, why not Snow White?
Well, as we've just seen, it's because of the messages contained in the stories, and how they reverberate through American culture. Cinderella, though not American in origin, has a lot of American messages. Snow White? Well, I'm pretty sure the message in that is that if you are a single girl and you go to live with seven creepy short guys, you can expect to do their laundry.
That and the whiter your skin, the more likely you are to have your mirror send a crazy witch after you.
Sleeping beauty? Pretty sure Rip Van Winkle is the closest thing to a non-Disney cartoon version of that story we have, and Rip Van Winkle was about the changes that took place in America in such a short amount of time, not about princes fighting dragons and rescuing helpless damsels.
Rapunzel? I've seen 1 of those that wasn't Disney. It emphasizes the purely American principle that blonde is better.
Little Red Riding Hood? Now this is one we see a lot. Perhaps, if this blog post wasn't already long enough to rival the article that inspired it, we would look at the principles contained in that story. Don't talk to strangers, grandmas and granddaughters like to share cookies (awwwww!), and if you get eaten by a wolf, be sure to have a woodcutter whack him with an axe. I'm sure, if I didn't need to get back to my homework, I'd find many much more deeper stuff than that.
And, speaking of that homework, I just found out that the discovery of common popular culture had political implications in Serbia too.
I wonder if Cinderella wears Serbian shoes...
Today I was reading about folklore, and how the common savage was quite in vogue during the late 18th and early 19th centuries. It intrigued me how the high society of different countries reacted to the Enlightenment. Some of them, like the high society of England and France, embraced the pique of civilization more fully than others. Those others, like the high society of Germany and Spain, called it elitist and stripped naked to sing "primitive" songs and dance around camp fires just outside their homemade grass and dung huts... while the common folk stared and wondered what the heck they thought they were accomplishing.
Now, of course, France and England had their fair share of common folklore that was popular at this time period. Germany and Spain also had Enlightenment speakers. But, England had a lot more of Adam Smith than Goethe, and Germany vice versa. As I read the article, it was interesting to see how the different values of different cultures were reflected in the writings they focused on... on which they focused. Excuse my grammar.
It makes me think about American culture, and how our American values are reflected in our own "folk lore."
Take, for example, a classic folk tale.
Cinderella.
Dear Disney, you're really doing another-other Cinderella story? Because the classic cartoon, and then a modern day rendition with Hillary Duff weren't enough? You mean that Cinderella-teaches-a-pop-star-how-to-dance movie didn't do it? Another one besides all those? And it's not just Disney, either. Ever After, Slipper and the Rose, CinderElmo (???), Cinderfella, and some would argue Ella Enchanted (though I kinda disagree... about the only similarity is the evil step family formula) are all either deliberately Cinderella or based off that one key element of Cinderella: a peasant girl defies those who say she can't to become a princess.
I think it's that key element - a peasant becoming a princess - that gives Cinderella such appeal in American life. It's a HUGE part of our culture. Rags to riches. You can start with nothing, and defeat all the odds to end up with everything. All you need is faith, determination, super cute shoes, and a godmother who can turn unwanted family members into squid.
There's a bit of the American revolutionary spirit in it as well. Cinderella's society always says servants can't marry princes. (Ever After: "First you're engaged, now you're a servant???" Hillary Duff version: the school "dork" (who happens to have super blonde hair, a cute figure, and looks about as dorky as... well... Hillary Duff) falls for the star quarterback. The Selena Gomez dance version: normal person falls for a pop star. Etc.) But, they always fight for what they want anyway, despite what social expectations say, and show society that society is WRONG.
Because all men are created equal (and women... and children... and apparently tuna too, thanks to PETA). That's a Thomas Jefferson... well, would have been a Thomas Jefferson quote without all the addenda... which is the plural of addendum, for those (like me) who think/thought the plural of addendum was addendums.
Wow... tangent.
Anyway, that all men are created equal thing is another principle of the Cinderella story that echoes with Americans.
So, why not Snow White?
Well, as we've just seen, it's because of the messages contained in the stories, and how they reverberate through American culture. Cinderella, though not American in origin, has a lot of American messages. Snow White? Well, I'm pretty sure the message in that is that if you are a single girl and you go to live with seven creepy short guys, you can expect to do their laundry.
That and the whiter your skin, the more likely you are to have your mirror send a crazy witch after you.
Sleeping beauty? Pretty sure Rip Van Winkle is the closest thing to a non-Disney cartoon version of that story we have, and Rip Van Winkle was about the changes that took place in America in such a short amount of time, not about princes fighting dragons and rescuing helpless damsels.
Rapunzel? I've seen 1 of those that wasn't Disney. It emphasizes the purely American principle that blonde is better.
Little Red Riding Hood? Now this is one we see a lot. Perhaps, if this blog post wasn't already long enough to rival the article that inspired it, we would look at the principles contained in that story. Don't talk to strangers, grandmas and granddaughters like to share cookies (awwwww!), and if you get eaten by a wolf, be sure to have a woodcutter whack him with an axe. I'm sure, if I didn't need to get back to my homework, I'd find many much more deeper stuff than that.
And, speaking of that homework, I just found out that the discovery of common popular culture had political implications in Serbia too.
I wonder if Cinderella wears Serbian shoes...
Character Limits Stunt My Creativity
Why must my maintenance request only be 300 characters or less? Seriously! My maintenance requests have personality! They can't be contained in 300 characters.
I mean come on. When your toilet breaks, you can't just say, "Toilet broke. Come fix." You have to make sure certain standards are met.
First and foremost, you must specify that there are to be NO plumber's cracks. None. Zilch. Nada. Sorry, Mr. Plumber, I don't care how sexy you think your smelly crack is, we don't need to be seein' that here.
Also, the seriousness of the situation needs to be portrayed by the maintenance request. I recommend treating it as though you are in the middle of hostile warfare, and don't ask for maintenance. Ask for "reinforcements." Present your toilet as a viscious revolutionary that needs to be suppressed.
In case the maintenance man is feeling the urge to dawdle, you also must include a description of the consequences if your request is not granted in a timely manner:
"Dear Apartment Manager,
My toilet is broken. I was going to use the sink, but I really don't want to have that in my apartment. Therefore, I'm left with no choice but to go use the washing machines in the laundry room. That's as close to a flusher as we've got. However, seeing as it costs a minimum of 2 1/2 dollars for ONE load of laundry, I can't afford to sacrifice any of my precious quarters, so I'll just leave it there until you come flush it.
Love,
Me."
All of this is crucially important information for the maintenance man and/or apartment manager, but there's that 300 character limit! Why? Are they trying to limit themselves? What do they hope to gain by suppressing our ability to describe the problem?
Clearly, plausible deniability.
I mean come on. When your toilet breaks, you can't just say, "Toilet broke. Come fix." You have to make sure certain standards are met.
First and foremost, you must specify that there are to be NO plumber's cracks. None. Zilch. Nada. Sorry, Mr. Plumber, I don't care how sexy you think your smelly crack is, we don't need to be seein' that here.
Also, the seriousness of the situation needs to be portrayed by the maintenance request. I recommend treating it as though you are in the middle of hostile warfare, and don't ask for maintenance. Ask for "reinforcements." Present your toilet as a viscious revolutionary that needs to be suppressed.
In case the maintenance man is feeling the urge to dawdle, you also must include a description of the consequences if your request is not granted in a timely manner:
"Dear Apartment Manager,
My toilet is broken. I was going to use the sink, but I really don't want to have that in my apartment. Therefore, I'm left with no choice but to go use the washing machines in the laundry room. That's as close to a flusher as we've got. However, seeing as it costs a minimum of 2 1/2 dollars for ONE load of laundry, I can't afford to sacrifice any of my precious quarters, so I'll just leave it there until you come flush it.
Love,
Me."
All of this is crucially important information for the maintenance man and/or apartment manager, but there's that 300 character limit! Why? Are they trying to limit themselves? What do they hope to gain by suppressing our ability to describe the problem?
Clearly, plausible deniability.
Monday, September 5, 2011
Big piece, Little piece, Side piece, Middle piece, Playing on a fiddle piece, and other forms of eating cake.
This week my first niece, Sophie, turns that glorious age when you are no longer allowed to ride an airplane for free! To celebrate the occasion, my entire family gathered to Nana and Papa's house to spend Labor Day weekend eating hotdogs, hamburgers, potato salad and enough ice cream cake to make frosting stream from our ears, and then fly us back home before Sophie's birthday (and 200 more dollars of airfare) actually happens.
It's been amazing.
When I first came off the plane, I was excited to see my mom's reaction to my hair. It's no longer blonde, and is now dark red instead. I did that on Tuesday, and exerted great effort to not tell her I'd changed it so that when I came off the plane, she could be extremely shocked.
The plane landed. I sent a text letting my mom know that after LOTS of delays, I was finally there. After sending the text I giggled to myself that she had no idea what color my hair was, and maybe, if I didn't make eye contact right away, she wouldn't even see me until I was up close!
My mom opened her phone. She read the text, then turned to Kamaron. "So, do you think her hair will be red or black?"
Apparently my unpredictability is horribly predictable.
Anyway, Sophie's actual birthday was great! Barry and Jessie came over bearing a tray of the most blob-like cookies I have ever beheld. They looked like plastic, toy cookies that had liquified, with a smooth center and rippled edges. I laughed at Barry's mad cookie making skills... and then I took a bite. I have to say, for massive, squished together cookies with hills and ripples through them, those were sure purty dang good.
Sophie loved her presents, and is now the proud owner of an entire library of chewable books (ie, books her 4 1/2 month old sister can chew on without destroying), as well as a weaponized doll stroller, that has already left bruises on my legs, as well as Papa's. This is to go with her weaponized wooden snail that, when swung in a circle, gathers roughly the force of Thor's hammer before impact against her target's shins.
Today is my last day here, and we're spending it working. It's the kind of work I've missed desperately while sitting in my cubicle, staring out the window, answering phones and trying to convince customers that noni is an acquired taste and therefore doesn't taste like rotten fish bile after you get used to it.
We're out in the orchard, pruning trees. It's so much fun to have almost every member of my family out there (Barry and Jessie are unfortunately absent), talking, laughing and ripping the life out of small branches that, after sitting in the sun to dry, will be burned to a crisp in a giant bonfire.
The best part is working with my family. The best part after that is the set of memories. I'm remembering all the times we got together to clean up after a storm, or to weed the garden, buck hay bales, or haul a year's supply of chicken feed. I'm out there, in the cool breeze of a Missouri September, clipping twigs, hauling branches, and clotheslining myself on a low-hanging peach limb.
And when all is said and done, it's been an awesome vacation, and Sophie is still the cutest two year old who throws a fit, smacks my face and tells me "NO! STOP!" if I try to sing in her presence.
It's been amazing.
When I first came off the plane, I was excited to see my mom's reaction to my hair. It's no longer blonde, and is now dark red instead. I did that on Tuesday, and exerted great effort to not tell her I'd changed it so that when I came off the plane, she could be extremely shocked.
The plane landed. I sent a text letting my mom know that after LOTS of delays, I was finally there. After sending the text I giggled to myself that she had no idea what color my hair was, and maybe, if I didn't make eye contact right away, she wouldn't even see me until I was up close!
My mom opened her phone. She read the text, then turned to Kamaron. "So, do you think her hair will be red or black?"
Apparently my unpredictability is horribly predictable.
Anyway, Sophie's actual birthday was great! Barry and Jessie came over bearing a tray of the most blob-like cookies I have ever beheld. They looked like plastic, toy cookies that had liquified, with a smooth center and rippled edges. I laughed at Barry's mad cookie making skills... and then I took a bite. I have to say, for massive, squished together cookies with hills and ripples through them, those were sure purty dang good.
Sophie loved her presents, and is now the proud owner of an entire library of chewable books (ie, books her 4 1/2 month old sister can chew on without destroying), as well as a weaponized doll stroller, that has already left bruises on my legs, as well as Papa's. This is to go with her weaponized wooden snail that, when swung in a circle, gathers roughly the force of Thor's hammer before impact against her target's shins.
Today is my last day here, and we're spending it working. It's the kind of work I've missed desperately while sitting in my cubicle, staring out the window, answering phones and trying to convince customers that noni is an acquired taste and therefore doesn't taste like rotten fish bile after you get used to it.
We're out in the orchard, pruning trees. It's so much fun to have almost every member of my family out there (Barry and Jessie are unfortunately absent), talking, laughing and ripping the life out of small branches that, after sitting in the sun to dry, will be burned to a crisp in a giant bonfire.
The best part is working with my family. The best part after that is the set of memories. I'm remembering all the times we got together to clean up after a storm, or to weed the garden, buck hay bales, or haul a year's supply of chicken feed. I'm out there, in the cool breeze of a Missouri September, clipping twigs, hauling branches, and clotheslining myself on a low-hanging peach limb.
And when all is said and done, it's been an awesome vacation, and Sophie is still the cutest two year old who throws a fit, smacks my face and tells me "NO! STOP!" if I try to sing in her presence.
Friday, September 2, 2011
Zeus is a jerk.
The sun was shining - beating down on me, actually. The a/c in my car had officially frozen me into a lumpy ice sculpture, so I turned it off, and instantaneously began to melt, dripping salty sweat all over my car. I turned it back on to the lowest setting and refroze. So I turned it to blow somewhere other than my face and spontaneously combusted.
When it comes to a/c, there is no middle ground.
If getting to my destination were any less important, I might have just given up. I had been in the car for 45 minutes. I had traveled 4 miles.
I suddenly began to miss the days of speedy travel by covered wagon.
Pity I had to get to the airport. I had a flight at 5:10 to catch. I even took a half day off work so I'd have time to get to the airport, park my car, check my bag, get through security, and get to the gate on time.
So, I made it onto the freeway (eventually) and got to the airport.
Pretty sure the covered wagon would have been faster.
While sitting in the sun-encased terminal, waiting for boarding to begin, the ticket taker person got on the radio. "Ladies and Gentleman on board flight [insert random number here], headed to Denver, unfortunately we can't take off yet. There's a thunderstorm in Denver, and no flights are landing or taking off until the storm passes. We are checking your connecting flights to see if any of you will have trouble making them."
Thunder storm? Really? I always kinda wanted to fly through one... except for the getting fried to a crisp part. But the clouds are so pretty and they look so exciting!
But alas, that will not be happening.
We all settled down to wait for the all clear from Denver.
5:10... can't board yet. We were supposed to be taking off. 5:30... Nope. No updates from Denver yet. 5:45... still no idea. 5:55... Guess what! We'll be taking off the ground at 6:15!!! Yay!!!
6:15... "Ladies and Gentlemen, we will now begin the boarding process."
Anyway, to make a long story not as long as it could be, we made it. I'm in Denver now.
There's another thunderstorm. We were supposed to leave an hour and 15 minutes ago.
Then they updated things and we were supposed to be boarding right now.
The plane hasn't even landed yet.
Dear Zeus/Thor/whatever other gods of thunder there are out there,
You stink.
Love,
Me.
When it comes to a/c, there is no middle ground.
If getting to my destination were any less important, I might have just given up. I had been in the car for 45 minutes. I had traveled 4 miles.
I suddenly began to miss the days of speedy travel by covered wagon.
Pity I had to get to the airport. I had a flight at 5:10 to catch. I even took a half day off work so I'd have time to get to the airport, park my car, check my bag, get through security, and get to the gate on time.
So, I made it onto the freeway (eventually) and got to the airport.
Pretty sure the covered wagon would have been faster.
While sitting in the sun-encased terminal, waiting for boarding to begin, the ticket taker person got on the radio. "Ladies and Gentleman on board flight [insert random number here], headed to Denver, unfortunately we can't take off yet. There's a thunderstorm in Denver, and no flights are landing or taking off until the storm passes. We are checking your connecting flights to see if any of you will have trouble making them."
Thunder storm? Really? I always kinda wanted to fly through one... except for the getting fried to a crisp part. But the clouds are so pretty and they look so exciting!
But alas, that will not be happening.
We all settled down to wait for the all clear from Denver.
5:10... can't board yet. We were supposed to be taking off. 5:30... Nope. No updates from Denver yet. 5:45... still no idea. 5:55... Guess what! We'll be taking off the ground at 6:15!!! Yay!!!
6:15... "Ladies and Gentlemen, we will now begin the boarding process."
Anyway, to make a long story not as long as it could be, we made it. I'm in Denver now.
There's another thunderstorm. We were supposed to leave an hour and 15 minutes ago.
Then they updated things and we were supposed to be boarding right now.
The plane hasn't even landed yet.
Dear Zeus/Thor/whatever other gods of thunder there are out there,
You stink.
Love,
Me.
Sunday, August 21, 2011
Things I won't actually say to his face, and since I'm pretty sure he doesn't read my blog and I'm not mentioning his name anyway I can say whatever I want, right?
Dear you,
You're a flake. This is why I didn't want to date you.
Thanks for the reminder. I almost forgot while you were making me laugh.
Love,
Me.
You're a flake. This is why I didn't want to date you.
Thanks for the reminder. I almost forgot while you were making me laugh.
Love,
Me.
Saturday, July 23, 2011
Random thought of the day:
If consciousness comes in a stream, what does unconsciousness come in?
Obviously, a box. With a Priority Mail sticker on the side. It's that important.
Obviously, a box. With a Priority Mail sticker on the side. It's that important.
Friday, July 22, 2011
Dear Cody, I'm afraid there is another.
The first time I got a crush on someone in a movie, I was five. His name was Cody, and he hailed from The Rescuers Down Under. He had something I truly wanted - needed - as a five year old: A giant eagle that you can ride. Yes, my girl's heart went aflutter every time I watched that movie. Actually, now that I think about it, I probably had a bigger crush on the eagle than on Cody.
Next in my line of fiction crushes was, yes, Simba! I was nine. The Lion King was, in my eyes, the best movie to grace the silver screen. Simba was, without a doubt, the greatest character ever invented. Royalty. Tragic childhood. Learns to face his destiny, save his people, and has an AWESOME slow motion fight scene. Yeah, it was epic. Then, the cherry on the girlie cake. I found out that the voice of Simba was done by Jonathan Taylor Thomas, whom my best friend was madly in love with! Clearly, it was destiny.
Ah, but destiny only lasted as long as it took me to discover the Tarzan books. Tarzan and I had a rocky relationship. He wasn't really my type, but his books got me through an atrocious literature class in the 6th grade. Rather than read about racial violence, hatred and intolerance, I'd simply slip my little paperback novel into the cover of the "high art" we were supposed to be inflicting on ourselves and get lost in tales of adventure, battles with lions, and rescuing poor, helpless Jane from both man and monkey. Then I'd turn to that same best friend who had once been so in love with J.T.T. (that was SO two years ago. She had graduated to a Leonardo Dicaprio phase) and ask her to sum up the racial stuff so I could pass the test.
Then began my Star Wars phase. Pretty sure I sorted through crushes on just about all of them. For lack of something better to do, I even decided I had a crush on Luke... sort of. I tried. Sorry, Luke, but I really did try.
One day, my best friend (different one, actually) was reading a goofy story I'd written about my current movie obsession, and made a suggestion.
"You're really good," she praised (quite generously, I might add. I went back and read the story later. Heh. That was VERY generous of her). "Why don't you write a story with your OWN characters?"
What a bonnie and novel idea! My next character crush took a while to form. Since he existed only in my head (and in the stuff I wrote) he sorted through different forms and occupations. When I was 14 he was a musician (famous, of course), and then he was really smart, and then he wasn't so smart but was really sweet, and really it just depended on the story.
Then, just when I thought I was done getting crushes on fictional characters, Narnia came out. I just about wilted over Peter. Now, on that one, I'll admit it was 100% his looks. Blonde hair, baby face... yeah. I was helpless... and kinda hopeless too.
For the record, while I did really like reading Twilight, I never had a crush on Edward. I always thought his character was emotionally abusive and pretty much a jerk. Yeah, that's right Edward lovers. I said it. For the same reason, I detest Bruno Mars. Thhhpppp.
*ahem*
Anyway, I'm pretty sure Peter from Narnia was the last one. Thor, Flynn Rider, and the guy from I Am Number Four were definitely close calls, but I haven't had a real fictional crush since Narnia guy.
Oh wait.
Until tonight.
Yep, Captain America. Midnight showing. I walked out of there feeling giddy, giggly, and desperate to get home so I could look up the trailers, tv spots and whatever else I could find. It was amazing! That whole movie was just plain awesome, and I haven't seen a character as cool as Captain America in a looong time. Courage, goodness and blonde hair. Yes, he had a stupid costume with goofy, little wings on his helmet (honestly, the comic book designers didn't give the filmmakers much to work with), but how can you hate on a guy whose weapon of choice is a shield?
So, what can we learn from all of this?
Not much, really.
Next in my line of fiction crushes was, yes, Simba! I was nine. The Lion King was, in my eyes, the best movie to grace the silver screen. Simba was, without a doubt, the greatest character ever invented. Royalty. Tragic childhood. Learns to face his destiny, save his people, and has an AWESOME slow motion fight scene. Yeah, it was epic. Then, the cherry on the girlie cake. I found out that the voice of Simba was done by Jonathan Taylor Thomas, whom my best friend was madly in love with! Clearly, it was destiny.
Ah, but destiny only lasted as long as it took me to discover the Tarzan books. Tarzan and I had a rocky relationship. He wasn't really my type, but his books got me through an atrocious literature class in the 6th grade. Rather than read about racial violence, hatred and intolerance, I'd simply slip my little paperback novel into the cover of the "high art" we were supposed to be inflicting on ourselves and get lost in tales of adventure, battles with lions, and rescuing poor, helpless Jane from both man and monkey. Then I'd turn to that same best friend who had once been so in love with J.T.T. (that was SO two years ago. She had graduated to a Leonardo Dicaprio phase) and ask her to sum up the racial stuff so I could pass the test.
Then began my Star Wars phase. Pretty sure I sorted through crushes on just about all of them. For lack of something better to do, I even decided I had a crush on Luke... sort of. I tried. Sorry, Luke, but I really did try.
One day, my best friend (different one, actually) was reading a goofy story I'd written about my current movie obsession, and made a suggestion.
"You're really good," she praised (quite generously, I might add. I went back and read the story later. Heh. That was VERY generous of her). "Why don't you write a story with your OWN characters?"
What a bonnie and novel idea! My next character crush took a while to form. Since he existed only in my head (and in the stuff I wrote) he sorted through different forms and occupations. When I was 14 he was a musician (famous, of course), and then he was really smart, and then he wasn't so smart but was really sweet, and really it just depended on the story.
Then, just when I thought I was done getting crushes on fictional characters, Narnia came out. I just about wilted over Peter. Now, on that one, I'll admit it was 100% his looks. Blonde hair, baby face... yeah. I was helpless... and kinda hopeless too.
For the record, while I did really like reading Twilight, I never had a crush on Edward. I always thought his character was emotionally abusive and pretty much a jerk. Yeah, that's right Edward lovers. I said it. For the same reason, I detest Bruno Mars. Thhhpppp.
*ahem*
Anyway, I'm pretty sure Peter from Narnia was the last one. Thor, Flynn Rider, and the guy from I Am Number Four were definitely close calls, but I haven't had a real fictional crush since Narnia guy.
Oh wait.
Until tonight.
Yep, Captain America. Midnight showing. I walked out of there feeling giddy, giggly, and desperate to get home so I could look up the trailers, tv spots and whatever else I could find. It was amazing! That whole movie was just plain awesome, and I haven't seen a character as cool as Captain America in a looong time. Courage, goodness and blonde hair. Yes, he had a stupid costume with goofy, little wings on his helmet (honestly, the comic book designers didn't give the filmmakers much to work with), but how can you hate on a guy whose weapon of choice is a shield?
So, what can we learn from all of this?
Not much, really.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Let the Flames Begin.
There's a lighter in my hand.
I flick it a couple times, watching the spark... the flame. I passed a fallen gas truck a while ago. I don't know what happened exactly, but it was leaking a steady stream of fluid in the general direction of the ocean. I was almost tempted to find some way the bring that much fuel for my purposes. While the thought is amusing in a macabre sort of way, I know better than to entertain destruction of that magnitude. I probably wouldn't survive the blast.
The bridge where I stand hangs between two cliffs - the mainland and the island. The waters between are treacherous. The bridge is the only way from here to there, and I could cross if I wanted to. It's a rickety, dangerous thing - ropes and wooden planks. It's not like the planks are rotten or anything - no, they're all in quite good condition. But, somehow, some of them just aren't tied down. Maybe they were just never put right in the first place, or maybe someone pulled them up and didn't bother to fix it all the way. I'll never know.
I sit at the edge of the bridge, looking at the other gorgeous side. Warm, sunny, white sands. There's a little shack there with boogie boards, swim wear and even a plastic shovel and bucket shaped like a sand castle's turrets. I'd had a fun visit.
Fun, yes. But the island only had one coconut tree, and the sandwich I brought only lasted so long. I'd had to cross that awful bridge to get back. I remember the fun times, and it is tempting. But no, I'm not stupid enough to cross that bridge again, no matter how fun it was on the other side.
I flick the lighter, running it along one of the boards. The wood is surprisingly dry, and ignites quickly. I watch the flame spread, consuming the first board. It's nearly to the ropes now.
A spray shoots up as a wave crashes against the cliff beneath. It drenches the board, putting out the flame. The bridge is still in tact. It's crossable, and the barren island looks so warm and inviting.
The ropes are still dry. I could still burn it down if I really, honestly wanted to.
I flick the lighter. The flame dances in front of my face. It's a little flame, but all it would take is one quick brush against the brittle strands of those dry ropes.
I flick it a couple times, watching the spark... the flame. I passed a fallen gas truck a while ago. I don't know what happened exactly, but it was leaking a steady stream of fluid in the general direction of the ocean. I was almost tempted to find some way the bring that much fuel for my purposes. While the thought is amusing in a macabre sort of way, I know better than to entertain destruction of that magnitude. I probably wouldn't survive the blast.
The bridge where I stand hangs between two cliffs - the mainland and the island. The waters between are treacherous. The bridge is the only way from here to there, and I could cross if I wanted to. It's a rickety, dangerous thing - ropes and wooden planks. It's not like the planks are rotten or anything - no, they're all in quite good condition. But, somehow, some of them just aren't tied down. Maybe they were just never put right in the first place, or maybe someone pulled them up and didn't bother to fix it all the way. I'll never know.
I sit at the edge of the bridge, looking at the other gorgeous side. Warm, sunny, white sands. There's a little shack there with boogie boards, swim wear and even a plastic shovel and bucket shaped like a sand castle's turrets. I'd had a fun visit.
Fun, yes. But the island only had one coconut tree, and the sandwich I brought only lasted so long. I'd had to cross that awful bridge to get back. I remember the fun times, and it is tempting. But no, I'm not stupid enough to cross that bridge again, no matter how fun it was on the other side.
I flick the lighter, running it along one of the boards. The wood is surprisingly dry, and ignites quickly. I watch the flame spread, consuming the first board. It's nearly to the ropes now.
A spray shoots up as a wave crashes against the cliff beneath. It drenches the board, putting out the flame. The bridge is still in tact. It's crossable, and the barren island looks so warm and inviting.
The ropes are still dry. I could still burn it down if I really, honestly wanted to.
I flick the lighter. The flame dances in front of my face. It's a little flame, but all it would take is one quick brush against the brittle strands of those dry ropes.
Friday, July 15, 2011
Registration craze!
Yesterday I registered for Netflix. Hulu was being dumb, so I stamped my foot and turned my back on my fickle friend (fickle FORMER friend... who will here on be referred to as FFF... kinda like the KKK, only not racist) and went to the comforting arms of Netflix. Netflix was kind to me, and offered me a free trial. Then I stayed up until 2 in the morning watching the Office until I was about ready to chuck my computer into the swimming pool, because Michael Scott is the most asinine character ever to last more than one season on a show.
Tonight I decided I was going to waste time and watch something on Netflix. Then I decided that was a TERRIBLE use of my time and I should do something productive. So I did my bi-weekly budget assessment to figure out if I could afford changing my transmission fluid. Thanks to a bonus I got this pay period, not only could I change my fluid, but I can FINALLY afford my independent study class that I need to graduate!!!
So, I spent $460 on a math class.
Now I'm broke again.
And I have to do math.
Was that really a better use of my time?
Tonight I decided I was going to waste time and watch something on Netflix. Then I decided that was a TERRIBLE use of my time and I should do something productive. So I did my bi-weekly budget assessment to figure out if I could afford changing my transmission fluid. Thanks to a bonus I got this pay period, not only could I change my fluid, but I can FINALLY afford my independent study class that I need to graduate!!!
So, I spent $460 on a math class.
Now I'm broke again.
And I have to do math.
Was that really a better use of my time?
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
I am in Vegas
That's right, suckers! I'm in VEGAS!!!
Where are YOU right now? Provo, Utah? How lame is that!
I'm sitting here in a black, leather chair, surrounded by slot machines, with a bar/spa combo about 15 feet away to my right. Yes, it's a bar/spa COMBO. As in, you can get hammered on martinis while somebody massages your feet.
There are a couple hundred people, just in the same room that I am in. They're coming and going at an alarming rate, as though sitting still is a sheer impossibility in such a place is this.
Every now and then the floor will rumble from the deep bass sounds coming through the walls.
Doesn't Sin City sound exciting?!
Well, in case my reader is feeling lame at the boringness of their life while I'm in Vegas, allow me to shed some more light on the situation.
That deep bass sound? It comes from the rumbling of airplanes taking off. People are coming and going because that's what they do in airports. Yep. I'm in an airport. My back is sore from the 3 hour flight, my hair makes me want to sing If I Only Had a Brain, I'm wearing a psychedelic pink shirt, hiking shorts and heels, and I have another hour and twenty minutes of this layover before I get another hour of flight. Oh, and I'm pretty sure that bar/spa combo is portable.
I entertained myself for a while by standing behind people on the slot machines, watching them lose money.
Vegas is the only airport I've ever seen with slot machines.
You know, if you hit the wrong button while typing, Vegas becomes Vegan. Just something to consider.
One hour and thirteen minutes left.
I think I'm gonna go get some sort of dessert... because I'm in a desert... and when you are in a desert, the only thing to do is add an extra "s" to the middle of it and turn it into dessert.
Ha. Ha. Ha. I just saw a girl with one converse on. It was a high top. The other foot had one of those cast/boot things on it. That's a REALLY high top.
I think this airport blocks facebook. It's a pity, because I really want to spam people. You people should realize how lucky you are.
Yes, I think I'll get dessert now.
**Later**
It staggers the mind that in the city known best for sin and decadence, one would be utterly unable to find a decent piece of pie. I had to settle for frozen yogurt.
In other ways, however, sin and decadence did not disappoint. While struggling with 2 bags in one hand and a cup of frozen yogurt in the other, I dropped my suitcase on the floor. The gentleman who was passing by stopped to give me a look that clearly said, "Get that piece of **** out of my way, you little ****." As I was sitting up from getting said dropped suitcase, I caught a dude staring down the front of my shirt.
Well, time to board. Oh, Utah. How I miss you...
Where are YOU right now? Provo, Utah? How lame is that!
I'm sitting here in a black, leather chair, surrounded by slot machines, with a bar/spa combo about 15 feet away to my right. Yes, it's a bar/spa COMBO. As in, you can get hammered on martinis while somebody massages your feet.
There are a couple hundred people, just in the same room that I am in. They're coming and going at an alarming rate, as though sitting still is a sheer impossibility in such a place is this.
Every now and then the floor will rumble from the deep bass sounds coming through the walls.
Doesn't Sin City sound exciting?!
Well, in case my reader is feeling lame at the boringness of their life while I'm in Vegas, allow me to shed some more light on the situation.
That deep bass sound? It comes from the rumbling of airplanes taking off. People are coming and going because that's what they do in airports. Yep. I'm in an airport. My back is sore from the 3 hour flight, my hair makes me want to sing If I Only Had a Brain, I'm wearing a psychedelic pink shirt, hiking shorts and heels, and I have another hour and twenty minutes of this layover before I get another hour of flight. Oh, and I'm pretty sure that bar/spa combo is portable.
I entertained myself for a while by standing behind people on the slot machines, watching them lose money.
Vegas is the only airport I've ever seen with slot machines.
You know, if you hit the wrong button while typing, Vegas becomes Vegan. Just something to consider.
One hour and thirteen minutes left.
I think I'm gonna go get some sort of dessert... because I'm in a desert... and when you are in a desert, the only thing to do is add an extra "s" to the middle of it and turn it into dessert.
Ha. Ha. Ha. I just saw a girl with one converse on. It was a high top. The other foot had one of those cast/boot things on it. That's a REALLY high top.
I think this airport blocks facebook. It's a pity, because I really want to spam people. You people should realize how lucky you are.
Yes, I think I'll get dessert now.
**Later**
It staggers the mind that in the city known best for sin and decadence, one would be utterly unable to find a decent piece of pie. I had to settle for frozen yogurt.
In other ways, however, sin and decadence did not disappoint. While struggling with 2 bags in one hand and a cup of frozen yogurt in the other, I dropped my suitcase on the floor. The gentleman who was passing by stopped to give me a look that clearly said, "Get that piece of **** out of my way, you little ****." As I was sitting up from getting said dropped suitcase, I caught a dude staring down the front of my shirt.
Well, time to board. Oh, Utah. How I miss you...
Saturday, July 2, 2011
Pain is fun.
I have a hole in my foot.
Thanks, Clarke.
I have a hole in my calf.
Thanks, Barry.
I have a blister on my hand.
That would be my fault. I was holding the Roman Candle a little to close to the exploding end while I was lighting it.
Heh. Oops.
At least the holes in my body will regenerate. Unlike Jessie's shirt. There's no fixin' that black-edged hole... or the scorch mark on her shoulder. Or the scorch marks on Kamaron (pretty sure I'm responsible for one or two of those... and Dad can claim any scorch marks on the jeans pockets).
*Sigh*
I've missed our Roman Candle battles. This one involved more Candles than ever before, and consequently more injuries to self and wardrobe.
Yeah. It was epic.
Thanks, Clarke.
I have a hole in my calf.
Thanks, Barry.
I have a blister on my hand.
That would be my fault. I was holding the Roman Candle a little to close to the exploding end while I was lighting it.
Heh. Oops.
At least the holes in my body will regenerate. Unlike Jessie's shirt. There's no fixin' that black-edged hole... or the scorch mark on her shoulder. Or the scorch marks on Kamaron (pretty sure I'm responsible for one or two of those... and Dad can claim any scorch marks on the jeans pockets).
*Sigh*
I've missed our Roman Candle battles. This one involved more Candles than ever before, and consequently more injuries to self and wardrobe.
Yeah. It was epic.
Monday, June 13, 2011
Life is a potato on the submarine of Mt. Everest.
Today my little brother was having trouble with his lit homework. He was supposed to find 3 metaphors in Percy Byyshtfgjyst Shelley's poem, Ode to the West Wind, which anyone who has read the poem will know, is not actually written in English.
Being the exceptionally helpful big sister that I am, I decided to send him some examples of metaphors to whet his brain. Unfortunately, metaphors are not, and never were, my strong point. In fact, I'm quite dismal at them. There was one time a friend of mine talked about how love was like leaves in the autumn, and every word that came out of his mouth was pure and tender poetry. I envied his ability to think in metaphors. For after that moment, I determined that MY love life was a ... um... a... an... well... um... it's a... *20 minutes later* ... well, a something that was really cool that I'd think of later when I was feeling more inspired.
But, today I was feeling slightly more inspired, so I sent Kamaron some of my metaphors. He wrote me back and told me they were actually similes. Whatever. Just delete the word "like" and it becomes a metaphor so HA!
Now that I have been so inspired, I'd like to make a list of some of the more brilliant metaphors (and similes!) I have come up with throughout my life.
*Defining a romantic relationship is like farting: You know when you need to do it, you can sure feel it, and the longer you wait the more the pressure builds. When you finally get everything out, it is SUCH a relief.
*Studying philosophy is leaning your head gently against a brick wall, then running full speed, dragging your face along.
*Perfect pickup-line metaphor: "Thou art like unto a patch of moss! Soft to the touch and vibrantly colorful. There never was such a pleasant plant to feel against the skin of my feet." Yep. That'll get her every time.
*Election years are like a broken-window convention for nine year olds.
*A simile is the valley girl of metaphors.
*Calculus is a pooping goose: over my head.
*My dating history is a blind narcissist in a house of mirrors.
*Looking for the meaning of metaphors is like trying to reach that booger at the back of your nose. The deeper you dig, the more likely you are to make your face bleed.
Being the exceptionally helpful big sister that I am, I decided to send him some examples of metaphors to whet his brain. Unfortunately, metaphors are not, and never were, my strong point. In fact, I'm quite dismal at them. There was one time a friend of mine talked about how love was like leaves in the autumn, and every word that came out of his mouth was pure and tender poetry. I envied his ability to think in metaphors. For after that moment, I determined that MY love life was a ... um... a... an... well... um... it's a... *20 minutes later* ... well, a something that was really cool that I'd think of later when I was feeling more inspired.
But, today I was feeling slightly more inspired, so I sent Kamaron some of my metaphors. He wrote me back and told me they were actually similes. Whatever. Just delete the word "like" and it becomes a metaphor so HA!
Now that I have been so inspired, I'd like to make a list of some of the more brilliant metaphors (and similes!) I have come up with throughout my life.
*Defining a romantic relationship is like farting: You know when you need to do it, you can sure feel it, and the longer you wait the more the pressure builds. When you finally get everything out, it is SUCH a relief.
*Studying philosophy is leaning your head gently against a brick wall, then running full speed, dragging your face along.
*Perfect pickup-line metaphor: "Thou art like unto a patch of moss! Soft to the touch and vibrantly colorful. There never was such a pleasant plant to feel against the skin of my feet." Yep. That'll get her every time.
*Election years are like a broken-window convention for nine year olds.
*A simile is the valley girl of metaphors.
*Calculus is a pooping goose: over my head.
*My dating history is a blind narcissist in a house of mirrors.
*Looking for the meaning of metaphors is like trying to reach that booger at the back of your nose. The deeper you dig, the more likely you are to make your face bleed.
Sunday, June 12, 2011
What an epic night...
Every now and then I like to blog about my subconscious's latest escapades while I sleep. This last one was too weird not to record somewhere.
So, last night I was wandering around the church building where I attended church from the ages 9-18... or 19. Can't remember how old I was. Anyway, it was night, and totally dark, and there were these "demons" running around that actually looked like the creatures from the movie Bridge to Terabithia, and were really gross. I discovered that you could slay the demons by getting them wet or burning them, so I went looking for them to try to rid the world of them.
That part was quite creepy. There was this woman with demons in her minivan, and she looked like she was purely enjoying having them around.
Then I ran into one of the guys I work with. I told him, "Man! What's with all these demons?" And he was like, "I know, right?" And we talked about it for a bit. Then he walked away, stopped, turned around and said, "By the way..." and morphed into a demon right there. I was like, "Ooooooh, shoot..."
Then I was upstairs on some balcony thing that doesn't exist in real life, and there were demons all over the place with Harry Potter wands. I whipped out my own wand and tried to cast some spells! Unfortunately, I could only remember like 2 of them, and they weren't working very well. But, never fear! My wand had a button on it that shot water! So, I walked around shooting water on people who were actually demons.
I passed the guy I worked with again. I said, "Sorry, Tyler," and blasted his face with water. As he was shriveling up he said, "That's okay. I deserve it."
And yes, I felt kinda bad for killing him. And then all the demons started running away, and I noticed there were two that looked like Michael Jackson.
Then, everything was suddenly daytime! This guy came in and chewed me out for killing the demons, because apparently when you kill them the way I'd been killing them, they reproduce... like Hydra... but not exactly like hydra because they only triple instead of septipling (yes, that's a word. I just added it to my personal dictionary. Eat that, Scrabble). You can only defeat demons using karate.
We knew there was a war coming! It was going to be bad! But then the ninja turtles came running in, complete with slow motion and cheesy music, led by that rat thing that trains them. Except, these were "ninja turtle baby" plush toys, and there were only three of them. But that's okay. Baby ninja turtles grow up into BIG ninja turtle plush toys.
And that was the end of my dream.
But wait! That was only my FIRST dream!
The second dream was a little shorter. You know how in Monty Python and the Holy Grail, there's that black night that won't let anybody pass? Well, in my dream, there was a bleach-blond beach bum guy who wouldn't let anybody pass this little shack on the road unless they fought and defeated him first.
Person after person got their butt kicked. We all agreed he was a real jerk. Finally, I stepped up to the challenge.
I stuffed him in one of those gallon and a quart ice cream buckets and started banging him against the windows, being sure to shatter the windows of his shack while I was at it.
With every bang, I yelled at him.
"WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE - bang! - BLOCKING PEOPLE'S PATHS - bang! - LIKE THAT? WHAT GIVE YOU - bang! - THE RIGHT TO BE SUCH - bang! - A - bang! - JERK - bang! - TO EVERYBODY YOU MEET?"
etc. etc. etc.
As I was thwacking him against the windows, I had this random, mildly sexist thought that only a woman would chew him out while beating him up.
Then, I flung him out the window and into the tops of the trees. The bucket fell down, followed by a shower of cuts of meat.
I realized I'd killed him.
Oops.
My little brother looked through one of the shack windows and said, "You'll be getting an invoice for that."
A fax machine in the corner beeped and printed out an invoice that said, "You have purchased one beach bum. Would you like to return this product?"
You think?
And that was that dream.
It's not just my conscious self. Even my subconscious is weird.
So, last night I was wandering around the church building where I attended church from the ages 9-18... or 19. Can't remember how old I was. Anyway, it was night, and totally dark, and there were these "demons" running around that actually looked like the creatures from the movie Bridge to Terabithia, and were really gross. I discovered that you could slay the demons by getting them wet or burning them, so I went looking for them to try to rid the world of them.
That part was quite creepy. There was this woman with demons in her minivan, and she looked like she was purely enjoying having them around.
Then I ran into one of the guys I work with. I told him, "Man! What's with all these demons?" And he was like, "I know, right?" And we talked about it for a bit. Then he walked away, stopped, turned around and said, "By the way..." and morphed into a demon right there. I was like, "Ooooooh, shoot..."
Then I was upstairs on some balcony thing that doesn't exist in real life, and there were demons all over the place with Harry Potter wands. I whipped out my own wand and tried to cast some spells! Unfortunately, I could only remember like 2 of them, and they weren't working very well. But, never fear! My wand had a button on it that shot water! So, I walked around shooting water on people who were actually demons.
I passed the guy I worked with again. I said, "Sorry, Tyler," and blasted his face with water. As he was shriveling up he said, "That's okay. I deserve it."
And yes, I felt kinda bad for killing him. And then all the demons started running away, and I noticed there were two that looked like Michael Jackson.
Then, everything was suddenly daytime! This guy came in and chewed me out for killing the demons, because apparently when you kill them the way I'd been killing them, they reproduce... like Hydra... but not exactly like hydra because they only triple instead of septipling (yes, that's a word. I just added it to my personal dictionary. Eat that, Scrabble). You can only defeat demons using karate.
We knew there was a war coming! It was going to be bad! But then the ninja turtles came running in, complete with slow motion and cheesy music, led by that rat thing that trains them. Except, these were "ninja turtle baby" plush toys, and there were only three of them. But that's okay. Baby ninja turtles grow up into BIG ninja turtle plush toys.
And that was the end of my dream.
But wait! That was only my FIRST dream!
The second dream was a little shorter. You know how in Monty Python and the Holy Grail, there's that black night that won't let anybody pass? Well, in my dream, there was a bleach-blond beach bum guy who wouldn't let anybody pass this little shack on the road unless they fought and defeated him first.
Person after person got their butt kicked. We all agreed he was a real jerk. Finally, I stepped up to the challenge.
I stuffed him in one of those gallon and a quart ice cream buckets and started banging him against the windows, being sure to shatter the windows of his shack while I was at it.
With every bang, I yelled at him.
"WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE - bang! - BLOCKING PEOPLE'S PATHS - bang! - LIKE THAT? WHAT GIVE YOU - bang! - THE RIGHT TO BE SUCH - bang! - A - bang! - JERK - bang! - TO EVERYBODY YOU MEET?"
etc. etc. etc.
As I was thwacking him against the windows, I had this random, mildly sexist thought that only a woman would chew him out while beating him up.
Then, I flung him out the window and into the tops of the trees. The bucket fell down, followed by a shower of cuts of meat.
I realized I'd killed him.
Oops.
My little brother looked through one of the shack windows and said, "You'll be getting an invoice for that."
A fax machine in the corner beeped and printed out an invoice that said, "You have purchased one beach bum. Would you like to return this product?"
You think?
And that was that dream.
It's not just my conscious self. Even my subconscious is weird.
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
Apparently I'm melting.
Picture a desert. Can you see it? What does it look like?
Now picture a cube. Now a ladder. Now a horse. Now a storm. Now a flower.
This is a game I'd seen before, but not recently enough to remember what was coming when my roommate sprung it on me. I knew the horse meant something... subconscious maybe? Nah... that wasn't it... something.
So I played the game, faithfully drawing out the scene in an old notebook. The cube was an ice cube melting in the fervent heat of the desert sun. But, there was a ladder there to shade it and slow the melting process. The horse was lucky it was melting, because it was a very thirsty equine, and the cube gave it some moisture to lick up. I actually had several ideas about what to do with the horse. Everything from a paint to a spotted-butt appaloosa, to the bay Arabian I had as a little kid that was my noble steed in all of my daydreams. I finally settled on the childhood horse. Oh, and the storm? Everyone was grateful for that dust-devil spittin' storm that'd bring some blessed moisture to the desert. It was juuuust startin' to block out that scorching beasty the sun. The flower was especially thrilled about the storm, and to make sure that was clear, I drew a wide-eyed, toothy grin on the top of that prickly pear blossom's face.
Then came the interpretation. The cube is... <drum roll>... ME! Yep. Apparently I'm cold and icy. Oh, and I'm melting.
But, never fear, the ladder which is... <other drum roll>... my friends(!) are there to slow that process.
Then there's the horse. Um... not sure how I feel about the long-tongued noble steed who was getting some licky-licky ice cube action. This is apparently my lover.
At least I don't have a lover in the traditional sense of the word. Perhaps this is how I would treat a lover if I had one.
I'll stop there and hope you don't have too active of an imagination filling in those blanks.
It means I'll make sure that if I get him a drink, it'll have ice cubes in it! Sheesh! Get your mind out of the gutter!
*ahem*
Anyway, the storm means trials. Apparently trials are a blessed relief. I love trials! I can never get enough! Why, I'm purely melting from the heat of easy life. How can I handle...
I should probably stop. I firmly believe God has a sense of humor, and I also have seen enough irony in my life to believe that Murphy's Law is scientific fact. I don't need my facetiousness transformed into reality. Nuh uh.
And the flower is my children. They love trials too, because it brings them life. Maybe that's what my picture was saying! I will gladly endure the pain of childbirth to bring happy life to my future children.
This flawless interpretation of my desert/cube/ladder/horse/storm/flower scene is brought to you by the Japanese art of Kokology.
Now picture a cube. Now a ladder. Now a horse. Now a storm. Now a flower.
This is a game I'd seen before, but not recently enough to remember what was coming when my roommate sprung it on me. I knew the horse meant something... subconscious maybe? Nah... that wasn't it... something.
So I played the game, faithfully drawing out the scene in an old notebook. The cube was an ice cube melting in the fervent heat of the desert sun. But, there was a ladder there to shade it and slow the melting process. The horse was lucky it was melting, because it was a very thirsty equine, and the cube gave it some moisture to lick up. I actually had several ideas about what to do with the horse. Everything from a paint to a spotted-butt appaloosa, to the bay Arabian I had as a little kid that was my noble steed in all of my daydreams. I finally settled on the childhood horse. Oh, and the storm? Everyone was grateful for that dust-devil spittin' storm that'd bring some blessed moisture to the desert. It was juuuust startin' to block out that scorching beasty the sun. The flower was especially thrilled about the storm, and to make sure that was clear, I drew a wide-eyed, toothy grin on the top of that prickly pear blossom's face.
Then came the interpretation. The cube is... <drum roll>... ME! Yep. Apparently I'm cold and icy. Oh, and I'm melting.
But, never fear, the ladder which is... <other drum roll>... my friends(!) are there to slow that process.
Then there's the horse. Um... not sure how I feel about the long-tongued noble steed who was getting some licky-licky ice cube action. This is apparently my lover.
At least I don't have a lover in the traditional sense of the word. Perhaps this is how I would treat a lover if I had one.
I'll stop there and hope you don't have too active of an imagination filling in those blanks.
It means I'll make sure that if I get him a drink, it'll have ice cubes in it! Sheesh! Get your mind out of the gutter!
*ahem*
Anyway, the storm means trials. Apparently trials are a blessed relief. I love trials! I can never get enough! Why, I'm purely melting from the heat of easy life. How can I handle...
I should probably stop. I firmly believe God has a sense of humor, and I also have seen enough irony in my life to believe that Murphy's Law is scientific fact. I don't need my facetiousness transformed into reality. Nuh uh.
And the flower is my children. They love trials too, because it brings them life. Maybe that's what my picture was saying! I will gladly endure the pain of childbirth to bring happy life to my future children.
This flawless interpretation of my desert/cube/ladder/horse/storm/flower scene is brought to you by the Japanese art of Kokology.
Sunday, June 5, 2011
My bi-polar germs
Dear Bacteria,
Or perhaps you are a virus. I would like to recommend you receive professional help for your personality disorder. I tell you this today, because it seems you are in a manic phase, and I don't want to spring it on you while you're depressed.
Now, I understand that you may think you are perfectly fine. "I don't need help!" you may say. But, let's look at the facts, shall we?
Thursday and Friday you were quite chipper. I could feel you inside me all day, and by Friday night, I was pretty sure you were having the party of the decade.
Then came Saturday. You poor germs. I hardly felt you at all. You must have been so depressed while I went to the movies and played games with my friends. It was like you had completely disappeared.
Then we have today. You're certainly in an upswing, and have been getting more and more excited all day! Right now it's the party of the century in my lungs.
All this manic-depressive behavior is quite unsettling to me. So, I'd like you to meet a friend of mine. This friend has a PhD in psychology, and many years' experience as a therapist for germs. Germs, meet Dr. Mucinex. Dr. Mucinex, meet germs.
Sincerely,
Your Host.
P.S. Go die in a hole.
Or perhaps you are a virus. I would like to recommend you receive professional help for your personality disorder. I tell you this today, because it seems you are in a manic phase, and I don't want to spring it on you while you're depressed.
Now, I understand that you may think you are perfectly fine. "I don't need help!" you may say. But, let's look at the facts, shall we?
Thursday and Friday you were quite chipper. I could feel you inside me all day, and by Friday night, I was pretty sure you were having the party of the decade.
Then came Saturday. You poor germs. I hardly felt you at all. You must have been so depressed while I went to the movies and played games with my friends. It was like you had completely disappeared.
Then we have today. You're certainly in an upswing, and have been getting more and more excited all day! Right now it's the party of the century in my lungs.
All this manic-depressive behavior is quite unsettling to me. So, I'd like you to meet a friend of mine. This friend has a PhD in psychology, and many years' experience as a therapist for germs. Germs, meet Dr. Mucinex. Dr. Mucinex, meet germs.
Sincerely,
Your Host.
P.S. Go die in a hole.
Saturday, June 4, 2011
Is it selling out?
So, apparently you can earn some extra cash by putting ads on your blog. I don't know how much extra cash, or how it works, because I haven't tried it yet.
However, with tuition coming up, normal bills, a brand new AAA bill I haven't paid yet, and a scammer on Amazon.com that took $80 from me (never fear, Amazon paid it back... in a credit that I can only use on Amazon, and therefore I'm still without $80 or my product), the thought of having a few extra dollars floating around is quite appealing.
But, here's the question. Is it a bad thing to put ads on a blog when you're not actually interested in advertising anything? I mean, isn't that like commercialism taking over our lives or something like that? Is commercialism taking over our lives really a bad thing? Hmmm...
Ooh! Or maybe I'll start a new blog where I write fictional stories, and therefore have the right to "sell" my product by putting ads up on the site.
Either way, at least I have Ad Blocker Plus! ^_^
However, with tuition coming up, normal bills, a brand new AAA bill I haven't paid yet, and a scammer on Amazon.com that took $80 from me (never fear, Amazon paid it back... in a credit that I can only use on Amazon, and therefore I'm still without $80 or my product), the thought of having a few extra dollars floating around is quite appealing.
But, here's the question. Is it a bad thing to put ads on a blog when you're not actually interested in advertising anything? I mean, isn't that like commercialism taking over our lives or something like that? Is commercialism taking over our lives really a bad thing? Hmmm...
Ooh! Or maybe I'll start a new blog where I write fictional stories, and therefore have the right to "sell" my product by putting ads up on the site.
Either way, at least I have Ad Blocker Plus! ^_^
Friday, June 3, 2011
I'm fine, I guess
You know how people always ask how you're doing whenever they see you? You know how the default reaction is to say, "I'm good, how are you?" whether you really are good or not? Then they say, "I'm good," and you both go on your merry way, with the customary greeting done and therefore nothing further is to be said.
Well, a while ago I decided this was lying, and I would actually think about how I was doing before I answered. I could say anything from great to good to fine to alright to "OH MY GOSH I HATE MY LIFE TODAY! My car broke down, I got in a slap fight with a tree, and I have an ingrown nose hair!" Then I would be honest.
But, what about those days when you are clearly not great, good, fine or even alright (eg, your throat is so swollen you can't drink any more than a tiny trickle of water at a time, which just happens to be a symptom of RABIES), but you're not really in the mood to explain why you are "not doing so well" when somebody asks. I mean, when someone asks "how are you," and you say, "bad," they're pretty much obligated to ask why. Only an absolute jerk would be so insensitive as to simply conclude the conversation there... or someone on conversation autopilot, at which point they'll probably say, "That's good," and go back to listening to their rockin' rendition of the fifth movement of Hector Berlioz' "Fantastic Symphony."
Anyway, since most people are not absolute jerks or on conversation autopilot, if you don't want to explain why you are not okay, you must simply lie. Or, if that's not an option, you must convince yourself that you are indeed fine, and answer, "Fine."
So, since I have the above mentioned throat condition (which could also be a symptom of mumps, thyroid cancer, Sjogren's syndrome, goiter, epiglottitis, dermatomyositis, bleeding esophageal varices, stroke, panic attack, or a swallowed object) I'm clearly not fine. However, when asked by a passing person how I was, I really didn't want to tell them I'm a step away from rabies, so I simply decided I was fine.
And here are the reasons why I am fine:
*I can still eek a slow stream of water down my throat.
*I am not bleeding from my ears.
*I don't ACTUALLY have rabies.
*My hair is not on fire.
*All of my limbs are facing the right direction.
*I got a couple thousand words added to my book, and therefore have the ability to be productive when I am sick.
*I have 10 fingers and 10 toes, all of which function as they should.
*I have ice cream in my freezer.
*I do not have to perform the funky chicken to the theme song from Dances with Wolves.
*That one song about "flyyyyyy oh oh here we go" is no longer stuck in my head (Okay, it is now. Nevermind about that).
*I don't have to drive a lawnmower to work every day.
*I am not a zombie, vampire, werewolf, mermaid or fairy... though the fairy might be cool as long as I was bigger than a Polly Pocket.
*I don't have three broken wrists.
*I don't have three wrists.
*I am not bald.
*I can spend the last of the day curled up in my p.j.'s, caressing a mug of whatever beverage I choose, and watching a cheesy paranormal love story.
So, all in all, I really am fine.
Well, a while ago I decided this was lying, and I would actually think about how I was doing before I answered. I could say anything from great to good to fine to alright to "OH MY GOSH I HATE MY LIFE TODAY! My car broke down, I got in a slap fight with a tree, and I have an ingrown nose hair!" Then I would be honest.
But, what about those days when you are clearly not great, good, fine or even alright (eg, your throat is so swollen you can't drink any more than a tiny trickle of water at a time, which just happens to be a symptom of RABIES), but you're not really in the mood to explain why you are "not doing so well" when somebody asks. I mean, when someone asks "how are you," and you say, "bad," they're pretty much obligated to ask why. Only an absolute jerk would be so insensitive as to simply conclude the conversation there... or someone on conversation autopilot, at which point they'll probably say, "That's good," and go back to listening to their rockin' rendition of the fifth movement of Hector Berlioz' "Fantastic Symphony."
Anyway, since most people are not absolute jerks or on conversation autopilot, if you don't want to explain why you are not okay, you must simply lie. Or, if that's not an option, you must convince yourself that you are indeed fine, and answer, "Fine."
So, since I have the above mentioned throat condition (which could also be a symptom of mumps, thyroid cancer, Sjogren's syndrome, goiter, epiglottitis, dermatomyositis, bleeding esophageal varices, stroke, panic attack, or a swallowed object) I'm clearly not fine. However, when asked by a passing person how I was, I really didn't want to tell them I'm a step away from rabies, so I simply decided I was fine.
And here are the reasons why I am fine:
*I can still eek a slow stream of water down my throat.
*I am not bleeding from my ears.
*I don't ACTUALLY have rabies.
*My hair is not on fire.
*All of my limbs are facing the right direction.
*I got a couple thousand words added to my book, and therefore have the ability to be productive when I am sick.
*I have 10 fingers and 10 toes, all of which function as they should.
*I have ice cream in my freezer.
*I do not have to perform the funky chicken to the theme song from Dances with Wolves.
*That one song about "flyyyyyy oh oh here we go" is no longer stuck in my head (Okay, it is now. Nevermind about that).
*I don't have to drive a lawnmower to work every day.
*I am not a zombie, vampire, werewolf, mermaid or fairy... though the fairy might be cool as long as I was bigger than a Polly Pocket.
*I don't have three broken wrists.
*I don't have three wrists.
*I am not bald.
*I can spend the last of the day curled up in my p.j.'s, caressing a mug of whatever beverage I choose, and watching a cheesy paranormal love story.
So, all in all, I really am fine.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Dear Subconscious, You're a jerk.
So, one guy kissed me, then got distracted by another girl, then turned into my ex boyfriend, right as a chorus of sitcom people in the background yell out, "Ooooh! Burn!"
Then I woke up and said, "What the heck?"
Sometimes I wonder if my subconscious thinks it's funny.
Then I woke up and said, "What the heck?"
Sometimes I wonder if my subconscious thinks it's funny.
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Alright, Elantra. I'm sorry I complained about you.
My car has issues. The radiator leaks coolant, the parking brake doesn't work, the windshield has a growing crack, and the child lock of the rear passenger door is permanently on. That last one gave my car the name Nemo, in honor of its gimpy fin. It was made in 2002, and therefore really isn't that old, but old enough to start having problems, and cost me an occasional arm, leg, or spleen in repairs.
After today I can look at Nemo and cry with delight, "Oh, you are SUCH a nice car!"
So, last night I promised I'd take my little brother to work in the morning, then made sure to stay up so late that I'd be woken right out of stage 3 of non REM sleep at 7:30, and therefore be completely nonfunctional for him for at least 10 minutes. After a brief hand & foot massage that got the blood flowing, I was up and moving, and headed out to my old car - the Intrepid.
I skipped lightly toward my old wheels, quite happy with the prospect of driving her again. I remembered that feeling of power that the 6 cylinder, 3.5 liter engine gave when I just barely tapped the gas pedal, and the way it rocketed off while passing tractors on the road. I couldn't wait to get back in and drive her again!
I opened the door... well... tried. The lock on the driver's side is broken and didn't unlock automatically like I expected it to. Never fear, I just needed to turn the key the right way and ta da! I was in.
I sat down, and the seat back took a dive. Oh yeah. Forgot about that. Barry ghetto-rigged it with a welder to keep it upright once, but that has since broken, and now it's held up by a bucket... a bucket that has been very successfully squished over the last 3 years while I was away and that really does nothing for the seat back now.
That's okay! Who needs seat backs, right? They're just a simple matter of convenience.
"Be careful with the transmission," Kamaron warned. "It's really slow."
"Probably just needs a tune up," I answered, remembering back to the $100.12 I'd spent on a transmission tune up 5 years ago.
I shifted into reverse. KUCHUNK! "Wow. Yeah, this thing needs some help."
We took the back roads to Kamaron's work. I thoroughly enjoyed the drive through trees and hills and over streams, with a billowing cloud of dust flying out behind us. There was one point we passed a guy jogging on the road. I felt a little bad about engulfing him in gravel road dust, which inevitably sticks to sweaty bodies, but there really wasn't much to be done about that. Right as we passed him, the radio magically turned itself on.
"Oh yeah," Kamaron said as I looked down at the station in confusion. "It does that."
Oh... that's new.
Shortly after that I noticed how warm I was getting, and realized something else I'd forgotten: even though the fan in my car had been turned off by my sweltering father, the heater was still permanently on, and was slowly roasting us all. Lucky for us, today it was cool enough to roll down the windows and be perfectly fine... except for the cloud of dust that wooshed through the car, of course.
Then we turned a corner, driving through a bit of mud while we were at it.
Now, typically, when you drive through mud on a gravel road, the gravel sticks to the tires, then flings itself off, making a loud, rapid-fire thck-thck-thck-thck noise that sounds like your tires decided to engage in hostile warfare with the possums running across the road. This was no exception... only it was louder than usual. Then gravel started flying up in front of the car and pinging the windshield.
I slowed down and the gravel lost enough force that it stopped smacking the glass, "Ummmm... Kam?"
"Did you drive through mud?" he asked, looking as confused as I was.
"Yeah..."
The noise didn't stop.
I pulled the car off to the side. There was no way something wasn't wrong with it. I got out, and walked to the front of the vehicle.
"Ha! Ha. Ha. Ha."
I waved at Kamaron to come see. He joined me and we both laughed. Apparently the front bumper is no longer being held by the bailing wire I installed after it fell off 2 summers ago.
We picked up the bumper and set it back in place, trusting in... well... nothing, really... to keep it attached to the car while we finished our drive.
By the time I got back home, I thought lovingly of my ugly, hatchback Elantra and it's working A/C, nice stereo, automatic locks and, well... intact body parts. Of my 3 cars (alright, the Camry - aka "The Asphyxiator" - wasn't technically mine, but I was the primary driver for a couple semesters), Nemo is, without a doubt, the best behaved car I've owned. Alright, so I just got a new battery and replaced a valve cover gasket, and I still need to spend another few hundred to fix the radiator, windshield and parking brake, but at least, when driving to Salt Lake, BYU campus, or any other location I may hope to attain, I can lean back against the seat and not be reclined in a sleeping position.
Dear Elantra, I'm sorry for the snide remarks. You are wonderful to me.
After today I can look at Nemo and cry with delight, "Oh, you are SUCH a nice car!"
So, last night I promised I'd take my little brother to work in the morning, then made sure to stay up so late that I'd be woken right out of stage 3 of non REM sleep at 7:30, and therefore be completely nonfunctional for him for at least 10 minutes. After a brief hand & foot massage that got the blood flowing, I was up and moving, and headed out to my old car - the Intrepid.
I skipped lightly toward my old wheels, quite happy with the prospect of driving her again. I remembered that feeling of power that the 6 cylinder, 3.5 liter engine gave when I just barely tapped the gas pedal, and the way it rocketed off while passing tractors on the road. I couldn't wait to get back in and drive her again!
I opened the door... well... tried. The lock on the driver's side is broken and didn't unlock automatically like I expected it to. Never fear, I just needed to turn the key the right way and ta da! I was in.
I sat down, and the seat back took a dive. Oh yeah. Forgot about that. Barry ghetto-rigged it with a welder to keep it upright once, but that has since broken, and now it's held up by a bucket... a bucket that has been very successfully squished over the last 3 years while I was away and that really does nothing for the seat back now.
That's okay! Who needs seat backs, right? They're just a simple matter of convenience.
"Be careful with the transmission," Kamaron warned. "It's really slow."
"Probably just needs a tune up," I answered, remembering back to the $100.12 I'd spent on a transmission tune up 5 years ago.
I shifted into reverse. KUCHUNK! "Wow. Yeah, this thing needs some help."
We took the back roads to Kamaron's work. I thoroughly enjoyed the drive through trees and hills and over streams, with a billowing cloud of dust flying out behind us. There was one point we passed a guy jogging on the road. I felt a little bad about engulfing him in gravel road dust, which inevitably sticks to sweaty bodies, but there really wasn't much to be done about that. Right as we passed him, the radio magically turned itself on.
"Oh yeah," Kamaron said as I looked down at the station in confusion. "It does that."
Oh... that's new.
Shortly after that I noticed how warm I was getting, and realized something else I'd forgotten: even though the fan in my car had been turned off by my sweltering father, the heater was still permanently on, and was slowly roasting us all. Lucky for us, today it was cool enough to roll down the windows and be perfectly fine... except for the cloud of dust that wooshed through the car, of course.
Then we turned a corner, driving through a bit of mud while we were at it.
Now, typically, when you drive through mud on a gravel road, the gravel sticks to the tires, then flings itself off, making a loud, rapid-fire thck-thck-thck-thck noise that sounds like your tires decided to engage in hostile warfare with the possums running across the road. This was no exception... only it was louder than usual. Then gravel started flying up in front of the car and pinging the windshield.
I slowed down and the gravel lost enough force that it stopped smacking the glass, "Ummmm... Kam?"
"Did you drive through mud?" he asked, looking as confused as I was.
"Yeah..."
The noise didn't stop.
I pulled the car off to the side. There was no way something wasn't wrong with it. I got out, and walked to the front of the vehicle.
"Ha! Ha. Ha. Ha."
I waved at Kamaron to come see. He joined me and we both laughed. Apparently the front bumper is no longer being held by the bailing wire I installed after it fell off 2 summers ago.
We picked up the bumper and set it back in place, trusting in... well... nothing, really... to keep it attached to the car while we finished our drive.
By the time I got back home, I thought lovingly of my ugly, hatchback Elantra and it's working A/C, nice stereo, automatic locks and, well... intact body parts. Of my 3 cars (alright, the Camry - aka "The Asphyxiator" - wasn't technically mine, but I was the primary driver for a couple semesters), Nemo is, without a doubt, the best behaved car I've owned. Alright, so I just got a new battery and replaced a valve cover gasket, and I still need to spend another few hundred to fix the radiator, windshield and parking brake, but at least, when driving to Salt Lake, BYU campus, or any other location I may hope to attain, I can lean back against the seat and not be reclined in a sleeping position.
Dear Elantra, I'm sorry for the snide remarks. You are wonderful to me.
Sunday, May 22, 2011
Pretty sure I'll always be a country girl.
Today I stepped out of my mom's truck after a 2 hour long flight from Salt Lake City to Kansas City. I stepped out onto the driveway of our 80 acre farm, and let me tell you what... it was PERFECT!
The weather was about 70 degrees, with humid air and a good breeze. That breeze blasted me with the scent of blossoms, grass and fresh dirt as my bare toes sunk into the soft, freshly rained on yard. It was incredible. I had actually forgotten what it smells like here.
After dropping off my bags, I picked up my little niece and took her out to the rope swing, where I spent a few minutes rocketing her in her little baby-swing between myself and my dad. After the novelty of flight had worn off a bit, we walked around the orchard. I had to step carefully that time - that grass is filled with sticks and even a few stray raspberry branches, and my callouses aren't what they used to be when I was a kid. Over by the cherries there was some wild spearmint growing, so Sophie and I picked some leaves to smell. Then I carried her to a little patch of weeds and showed her what poison ivy was, telling her not to touch it. She probably didn't really get it - poison ivy looks remarkably like clover when all you're doing is counting leaves - but it was still fun.
A little later, Barry came home. I haven't seen him in over 2 years! He took me out to the pasture and taught me how to shoot his rifle at an empty oil jug (which I hit at 75 yards away... not bad for a first time) until we got in trouble for spooking the horses. Then we sat in his room and talked for hours.
When evening came, we sat on the porch and watched the storm roll in. About the time the wind picked up it was sunset. Beneath the thick, grey clouds, there was a line of brilliant orange across the horizon, and a pinkish hue to the north. Around the barn and above our heads the clouds were roiling and spinning as lightning bolts shot sideways across the sky.
Now I'm sitting at home, having scriptures and prayer with my family while thunder rumbles in the background. I've spent the whole day basking in the memories, the smell of the farm, and the warm, humid air. When I'm in my little apartment in the middle of Provo, I know I miss home, but it's not until I come back and actually feel myself in it that I remember all those little details.
I love the country.
The weather was about 70 degrees, with humid air and a good breeze. That breeze blasted me with the scent of blossoms, grass and fresh dirt as my bare toes sunk into the soft, freshly rained on yard. It was incredible. I had actually forgotten what it smells like here.
After dropping off my bags, I picked up my little niece and took her out to the rope swing, where I spent a few minutes rocketing her in her little baby-swing between myself and my dad. After the novelty of flight had worn off a bit, we walked around the orchard. I had to step carefully that time - that grass is filled with sticks and even a few stray raspberry branches, and my callouses aren't what they used to be when I was a kid. Over by the cherries there was some wild spearmint growing, so Sophie and I picked some leaves to smell. Then I carried her to a little patch of weeds and showed her what poison ivy was, telling her not to touch it. She probably didn't really get it - poison ivy looks remarkably like clover when all you're doing is counting leaves - but it was still fun.
A little later, Barry came home. I haven't seen him in over 2 years! He took me out to the pasture and taught me how to shoot his rifle at an empty oil jug (which I hit at 75 yards away... not bad for a first time) until we got in trouble for spooking the horses. Then we sat in his room and talked for hours.
When evening came, we sat on the porch and watched the storm roll in. About the time the wind picked up it was sunset. Beneath the thick, grey clouds, there was a line of brilliant orange across the horizon, and a pinkish hue to the north. Around the barn and above our heads the clouds were roiling and spinning as lightning bolts shot sideways across the sky.
Now I'm sitting at home, having scriptures and prayer with my family while thunder rumbles in the background. I've spent the whole day basking in the memories, the smell of the farm, and the warm, humid air. When I'm in my little apartment in the middle of Provo, I know I miss home, but it's not until I come back and actually feel myself in it that I remember all those little details.
I love the country.
Saturday, May 21, 2011
Judgment Day is tomorrow! I'm totally cheating, Babel style.
That's right, tomorrow, May 21, 2011 is the rapture. It's true! I read it on the Internet.
This guy, Harold Camping, is prophesying that because Noah was 7,000 years ago, and because the age of churches came to a crashing end in the 80's, tomorrow is Judgment Day. Oh, and something about multiplying numbers and 17 representing heaven.
So, with unfallible proof such as that, here are some of the cheery predictions for tomorrow:
" On Judgment Day, May 21st, 2011... Earthquakes will ravage the whole world as the earth will no longer conceal its dead (Isaiah 26:21). People who died as saved individuals will experience the resurrection of their bodies and immediately leave this world to forever be with the Lord. Those who died unsaved will be raised up as well, but only to have their lifeless bodies scattered about the face of all the earth."
Yep! That's right. Read that last sentence there? Zombies. Tomorrow begins the zombie apocalypse.
But, I'm not concerned. No, when this happens at noon, I'm going to be up in the air! I'll be on an airplane heading home. So, you understand, when the rapture occurs, I'll already be half way there!
Just picture it. The pilot comes on right at noon: "Ladies and Gentlemen, it seems we're gaining a little bit of extra altitude here. Please fasten your seat belts. The flight attendants will be by with trash bags to collect any beverages containing alcohol or caffeine. In case of a fire evacuation, you will find a Bible beneath your seat. Please remove the Bible and rip out the book 'Song of Solomon,' then begin reciting psalms."
And for the rest of you who will endure 5 months of earthquake and zombie torment before you're all burned on October 21st, here is one bit of advice, told time and time again, but always worth repeating: Axes don't need reloading.
P.S. - I'm actually feeling mildly guilty for making fun of people's heart felt beliefs here, especially since they're remarkably similar to my own, with some crucial elements being dramatically off. So... sorry. You have full license to make fun of me if you want.
This guy, Harold Camping, is prophesying that because Noah was 7,000 years ago, and because the age of churches came to a crashing end in the 80's, tomorrow is Judgment Day. Oh, and something about multiplying numbers and 17 representing heaven.
So, with unfallible proof such as that, here are some of the cheery predictions for tomorrow:
" On Judgment Day, May 21st, 2011... Earthquakes will ravage the whole world as the earth will no longer conceal its dead (Isaiah 26:21). People who died as saved individuals will experience the resurrection of their bodies and immediately leave this world to forever be with the Lord. Those who died unsaved will be raised up as well, but only to have their lifeless bodies scattered about the face of all the earth."
Yep! That's right. Read that last sentence there? Zombies. Tomorrow begins the zombie apocalypse.
But, I'm not concerned. No, when this happens at noon, I'm going to be up in the air! I'll be on an airplane heading home. So, you understand, when the rapture occurs, I'll already be half way there!
Just picture it. The pilot comes on right at noon: "Ladies and Gentlemen, it seems we're gaining a little bit of extra altitude here. Please fasten your seat belts. The flight attendants will be by with trash bags to collect any beverages containing alcohol or caffeine. In case of a fire evacuation, you will find a Bible beneath your seat. Please remove the Bible and rip out the book 'Song of Solomon,' then begin reciting psalms."
And for the rest of you who will endure 5 months of earthquake and zombie torment before you're all burned on October 21st, here is one bit of advice, told time and time again, but always worth repeating: Axes don't need reloading.
P.S. - I'm actually feeling mildly guilty for making fun of people's heart felt beliefs here, especially since they're remarkably similar to my own, with some crucial elements being dramatically off. So... sorry. You have full license to make fun of me if you want.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Alright, alright! It's an update! You happy?
And now I have Michelle Branch's song, "Are You Happy Now?" stuck in my head. Why do I do this to myself?
At least, I will admit, it's some variety. I've had "Coming Home" by P Ditty and Dirty Money running through my head all day... annnnnnnddddd... there it is again. Nope. No more variety.
Anyway, today I got chastised for not updating my blog. Apparently I'm harder to stalk this way. So, I'm now updating for her sake. But, I already told her everything she's missed, so I really have nothing to say.
Which means I'm going to make stuff up.
I got a hair cut!!! I don't have any pictures yet, but here's the style I went for:
See? I even added more blonde! I've never loved my hair so much!
I also went on vacation. To the grand canyon. Then I decided that since I was seeing one of the wonders of the world, I might as well go see the other six. Unfortunately, I didn't know what the other six were, so I kinda made some up. I knew the Grand Canyon was one of the "Natural" wonders of the world, and they have some man made ones too, but, being the purist that I am, I must only see natural wonders. So, I visited Mt. Everest, the Great Wall of China, the Pyramids, the Galapagos Islands, The Panama Canal, the Acropolis, and Poland.
I also got married last night. I married a very hairy man that I was pretty sure was Santa Clause (I married him for the toys... and the elf-slaves), but shortly after the ceremony I realized it was a yeti. Oops.
And I learned how to polka.
Actually, I already knew how to polka.
The end.
At least, I will admit, it's some variety. I've had "Coming Home" by P Ditty and Dirty Money running through my head all day... annnnnnnddddd... there it is again. Nope. No more variety.
Anyway, today I got chastised for not updating my blog. Apparently I'm harder to stalk this way. So, I'm now updating for her sake. But, I already told her everything she's missed, so I really have nothing to say.
Which means I'm going to make stuff up.
I got a hair cut!!! I don't have any pictures yet, but here's the style I went for:
See? I even added more blonde! I've never loved my hair so much!I also went on vacation. To the grand canyon. Then I decided that since I was seeing one of the wonders of the world, I might as well go see the other six. Unfortunately, I didn't know what the other six were, so I kinda made some up. I knew the Grand Canyon was one of the "Natural" wonders of the world, and they have some man made ones too, but, being the purist that I am, I must only see natural wonders. So, I visited Mt. Everest, the Great Wall of China, the Pyramids, the Galapagos Islands, The Panama Canal, the Acropolis, and Poland.
I also got married last night. I married a very hairy man that I was pretty sure was Santa Clause (I married him for the toys... and the elf-slaves), but shortly after the ceremony I realized it was a yeti. Oops.
And I learned how to polka.
Actually, I already knew how to polka.
The end.
Monday, April 18, 2011
Really, subconscious. Was THAT necessary?
So, I had a dream last night. It was a bad dream. I woke up feeling mildly traumatized. Now I wonder, why nightmares??? Really? Why?
Now, granted, this one was productive. And by productive, I mean that when I woke up, I realized that some feelings that had been simmering under the surface were the result of someone who had hurt my feelings (who happens to have starred in this miserable dream), and I was able to identify and acknowledge that I felt that way. After my epiphany, I spent a good half hour of the morning crying to myself and envisioning the way I probably won't actually rake him over the coals for being so mean. So, way to go subconscious for helping me to realize that I have a right to feel the way I do.
But, what about all the other nightmares??? I mean, I can't tell you how many times as a little kid I made a beeline for my Mommy and Daddy's bed because the Big Bad Wolf was in my room, or there was a tyrannosaurus rex outside my bedroom window.... or I'd been kidnapped by McCleach from The Rescuers Down Under and my magic powers weren't working. Dang, I hated that dream...
Really, what's the point? I certainly had no grand epiphanies from nightmares as a wee li'l squirt, so why would my subconscious feel the need to inflict genuine terror on an innocent child?
So, for all the times I've fallen off a cliff, driven into a river, been stalked by a knife-wielding maniac, been stared at by the creepy girl from The Ring, had people completely ignore me while I screamed my lungs out, been caught in a tornado, been butt-naked at church, gotten chased by dinosaurs all over Jurassic Park, had Jurassic Park dinosaurs in my house, had my Jedi powers fail while facing Jurassic Park dinosaurs, and a plethora of other horrific non-real experiences, thank you subconscious. You are truly a sadistic entity.
Now, granted, this one was productive. And by productive, I mean that when I woke up, I realized that some feelings that had been simmering under the surface were the result of someone who had hurt my feelings (who happens to have starred in this miserable dream), and I was able to identify and acknowledge that I felt that way. After my epiphany, I spent a good half hour of the morning crying to myself and envisioning the way I probably won't actually rake him over the coals for being so mean. So, way to go subconscious for helping me to realize that I have a right to feel the way I do.
But, what about all the other nightmares??? I mean, I can't tell you how many times as a little kid I made a beeline for my Mommy and Daddy's bed because the Big Bad Wolf was in my room, or there was a tyrannosaurus rex outside my bedroom window.... or I'd been kidnapped by McCleach from The Rescuers Down Under and my magic powers weren't working. Dang, I hated that dream...
Really, what's the point? I certainly had no grand epiphanies from nightmares as a wee li'l squirt, so why would my subconscious feel the need to inflict genuine terror on an innocent child?
So, for all the times I've fallen off a cliff, driven into a river, been stalked by a knife-wielding maniac, been stared at by the creepy girl from The Ring, had people completely ignore me while I screamed my lungs out, been caught in a tornado, been butt-naked at church, gotten chased by dinosaurs all over Jurassic Park, had Jurassic Park dinosaurs in my house, had my Jedi powers fail while facing Jurassic Park dinosaurs, and a plethora of other horrific non-real experiences, thank you subconscious. You are truly a sadistic entity.
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