Four

3 down.  Dos mas.

My arms aren't actually long enough to click the photo button AND get my sweater in AND my face.  Also did you know that opening the camera folder comes with instructions?
1. Tilt the camera down
2. Gaze up into the lens
I followed them exactly.  That's clearly why I look so good.  It's all about the right angle.

 Shout out to Papa Jim from whence this sweater came.

An Open Letter to the Guy from Accounting Lab

Dear Sir.

This is not a post about how attractive* you are.  (You are.  But probably so is your wife.)  This is also not a post about how great your style is.  (It's great.  But probably so is your wife's.)  What this is, is a chance for me to say thank you.  And to explain to you the depth of my gratitude, something I couldn't have adequately expressed at the moment.  Because if I'd tried to, I might have actually started to cry right there in the lab which would've been real awkward for everyone and not at all helpful in articulating how I felt.

You see, I walked into the lab that morning feeling like I was completely and utterly drowning, trying to keep track of T-Accounts, debiting, crediting, bad debt, and I didn't understand any of it.  I couldn't even memorize things because just looking at the words, so foreign and unintelligible, overwhelmed me and then they blurred and disappeared.

And then you took the time to write down the formulas on the board and explain them clearly (even though you'd just finished doing the same thing for some others) and finally I understood.  It clicked.  The problems made perfect sense and I could work them all out.  You went back to studying in your corner and I went back to studying in mine and that was that.  I said thank you, but really how can you sincerely thank someone from the bottom of your heart in such a casual setting like that?  Unless you noticed the desperation leaving my eyes, there just wasn't a way.

So thank you.  Thank you thank you thank you.



*Sorry Dalt.  You're way cuter of course.

The Good

Look at that.  Three posts in the SAME. WEEK.

Are you suprised?  You shouldn't be.  I promised I would write.  And now that I'm at BYU my promises are soooo much more meaningful.  Like Karl G. and the Honor Code, I'm bound by my word of honor. Draw a line in the sand!  I shall die in this blogging circle with mine honor intact!  Read that with chariots of fire playing in the background.  Way inspirational.

Filthy honor code.

In order to write this much, it means that I'm putting off other things.  Like schoolwork.  Which you know is probably not that important anyway.  Except when I fail my classes and can't get into my program and have to drop out because school is too expensive it's going to be YOUR basement I'm living in.  Yeah I'm talking to you Marleen.  I hope that with all your urging for me to write more you factored in the possibility of having a hobo trying to sneak into your basement, filching bits of your food, and scaring your children.  It'll be so much fun.  You can make sure I have fresh cardboard every week and in return I'll write clever clever things.

But on to the good.  With all the tests and scheduling problems and unhelpful advisors I've gotta remember the good.

The size. I thought living at this huge school with all these people would kill me.  Except for the few time I did hide in the library shelves to avoid crowds though, I was wrong.  I love the anonymity.  Yesterday I watched a guy walk across campus with a legit boombox on his shoulder.  Didn't even phase anyone.

The resources.  Last year to study for biology I, ok Slamdon had to buy a recording device to record lectures so we could review them over and over.  This year, my anatomy teacher records his lecture on his own and puts it online where I can listen to it any time.  On top of that there's about 800 TA's that hold lecture reviews several times every week.  Last year in my science lab I went once a week for two hours and then didn't return until the next week.  This year in lab, there's a two hour lecture and a possibility of four hours of open lab offered from as early as 7:00 am until 11:00 pm.  There's an accounting lab, a chemistry tutoring center, which I've basically set up camp in.

The people I'm living with.  I explain the difference it makes to live with girls that I actually know and like.  They're so dang cool.  Here's something that'll really blow your mind.  They actually cook.  Like prepare meals for themselves.  Like human beings.  This instead of buying $40 of groceries and then leaving them in the back of the fridge to rot and eating fast food instead.  Weird right?  They make homemade applesauce, they train for half marathons, play the violin in a band, edit applications for grad school.  They also dog pile on the top of the bunk bed while I'm trying to sleep.

Wait I'm making it sound like I live in some superhuman sorority house.  It's really not like that.  They've only thrown bologna at me while I sing Celine Dion ONCE.

There's just a million little things.  It's the walk to school.  It's the prayer before anatomy class - not nearly as pod people as I thought it would be.  It's the extended library hours, the international cinema, the window conversations with the neighbors next door.  It's being able to give my dad a heart attack by jumping out at him when I see him on campus.

I just love it here.  I love life.

Day Four

This much I will say:

Never EVER assume you know your way around campus.


Not even if you've been to the building several times before.  Not even if you worked on campus all summer.  Not even if you've been to camps there almost every year.

Just don't do it.

Especially before your first class taught by the head of the department.

I make the best first impressions.

Think you know the way?  Stop that.  Stop that right now.  You have no idea.

Never.

E'er.





I love it here.

Just A Little Gish In A Big Pond

(I've been waiting for months to use that one.  Brilliant eh?)

So here goes.  It's my final night at home and where am I?  In my bed of course.  With ice cream melting and First Aid Kit playing and it turns out I'm a lot more of a home body than even I realized.

Tomorrow I'll move into the top floor of a house, converted into the tiniest independent "apartment" I've ever seen.  Seriously.  If my cousin Dara* who lived in downtown Manhattan ever saw this place even HE would curl up and die.  And this is the guy who paid like 50,000 buckaroos for a half bedroom apartment.  In the words of my dear roommate: "it looks like an abandoned nuclear warfare zone.  But it has potential."  Well that's ok then.

I tried to move in today but guess what?  There are girls still LIVING there.  Which means, first of all, that the $25 cleaning fee I paid up front is not being used to clean the practically decaying carpet (held together only by the dead skin cells of twenty bajillion footsteps I'm sure) and is instead probably supporting the landlady's I don't know, diet coke addiction.  (Provo gets pretty cray cray.)  It also means that I'm expected to move on a SUNDAY.  Sin.  siiiiiiiiiiiiiiiinnnnn!  What an ox in the mire situation.  I may have to start counting my steps.  How could you BYU?

In the occasion that I survive the nuclear warfare zone and my lungs don't immediately turn black and flee from my body I'll start classes on Monday.  I'm terrified.  The idea of walking into a building I don't know, into a classroom I don't know, full of people I've never seen before in my life throws me back into the anxiety I used to feel (okay STILL feel) walking down the halls of high school.

I KNEW good ol' suh.  I would recognize faces in ever class, in every hall, in every study room.  And even if I wasn't friends with them, there was a lot of comfort in the familiarity.  I knew SUU.  I knew all of my nutrition professors, was friends with those crazy charismatic fun kids in leadership spots.  So comfortable.  So easy.  Which is exactly why I'm transferring of course.  Time for me to step out of my comfort zone.  Time to grow.  To better myself in a way I don't think I could have accessed at suh.

But the terror remains.  Let me give you a little demonstration ok?  SUU's graduating class last year: 1700.  BYU's graduating class: 6800.  More than three times bigger.  oooohh-KAY.  No BiG dEaL.**  I'm starting all over.  New track for classes.  New program to apply to.  I know.  I know.  I'll be fine.  I really do know this deep down.  It's what keeping me from crumbling and living in the basement for the rest of my life.  I'll be ok.  Good.  Great even.  But it doesn't make me any less nervous in the awkward about to move and restart interim.

So come Monday***.  It's going to be just a little gish in a big pond.  Swim little fishy.  Swim your frickin' heart out.



*Google him.  He only is the number #1 analyzer (read RICH) in the beverage industry.  It's fine.  I rock at Jenga.  We're totally related.

** very Very VERY big deal.

***I'll be blogging a LOT more than in the summer.  I seem to blog best when I'm putting off homework out of pure obstinacy.  Which I'm sure you'll be grateful to hear.  Tell me you're grateful.  I get so dang vain about this blog.  Telling me you like it strokes my ego like you wouldn't believe.   (I'm talking to you lil catie poo meyer.  Makes my day every time.  Seriously.  I'm pretty much your loyal blogging servant over here.)

I'm home.  Back to the place where my roommates don't play Celtic Women in the morning, followed by death metal.  That place where 2 a.m. is a time to sleep, not bake brownies and invite friends over.

I woke up at one o'clock. PM.  A full twelve hours of sleep.  This may have been because my Dad listened to 1776 the entire drive home, slipping me into a time delayed coma that hit at midnight. Or maybe I finally maxed out on my sleep debt and the collectors came.  With high interest rates and bats and tylenol pm.

I drove out of Cedar City yesterday around six.  I could think of all the reasons why I should be sad.  I could think of all the reasons why I should be excited.  But really, I didn't feel much of anything.  I'd said my goodbyes, breathed in the campus as I walked to my last classes, mentally memorized the neighborhood as I ran late at night to give myself a break from studying.  I even teared up a little bit as I wrote about some people who I made good friendships with, who I won't see anymore.  I won't miss them in the aching everyday feeling that lingers.  I'll miss them when I see them again, and think about all the new memories I haven't been a part of.

But as I closed the trunk for the final time and looked around, I knew it was time to move on.  I'm ready.  It's very matter of fact really.  My two years are over, it's time for summer, and then for transferring.  Maybe it'll hit me later, maybe it already did.  Either way, there are no tears.  Just a soft thoughtful feeling of what I could cry about,.  It's nice to know there are things I could cry about, that I experienced some really good times.  I feel prepared.  I learned not to fear the ladies in the front office - something that's terrified me for as long as I can remember.  I asked a question during my biology final, actually raised my hand for clarification, something I've never done before because I didn't want the surrounding attention.  It's a ridiculous notion, that people around me would notice I had a question and think ... well who know what I was afraid of them thinking, but I was.  My worst fear came true, I planned a program for residents and no one came.  And I was fine.  This year I re-learned (finally) how to really study.  Too many easy general ed classes can ruin even the best of habits learned from Mr. Felt.  But now I remember.  I remember and I'm ready to do it again, for many many classes.

I've said a lot of thank you's over the past few weeks.  Thank you's, and I'll miss you's, and recognized a lot of important relationships.  There's a lot more to dwell on, plenty more I learned.  But right now, it's summer.  I'm home and I have to mow the lawn before my dad gets back from the market.  I just have one more thing to say.

Goodbye SUU.

My Muffin Top is All That

Oh Ry Guy.

What is the story of Ryan?  Well I'm not exactly sure.  In the same stake pretty much our whole lives.  Went to the same Jr. High (I thought his name was Brian for months) and High School.  And then the same college.  Ryan you creep.  Get your own life.

Joke.

We were always in the same friend group but it wasn't until the last few years that I actually got to know him.  He looks hella intimidating. 

The turning point might have been when a bunch of us planned to cook a Sunday dinner, now that we were far away from our doting, meal providing parents.  Ry guy was pretty much the only other one to contribute a meal plan, cooking skill, and the thought to help clean up.  I thought, "wow Ryan is like a complete person that can function on his own.  Self-sufficiency.  Weird."  This was the dinner when I called my parents and apologized for every single time I turned up my nose at a meal or left without at least putting away my dishes.  Karma has a sick sense of humor.  Um.. sorry again parentals.

So we ate real food together.  And a lot of junk food.  We share this disease - ihateeveryoneitis - and the only treatment was withdrawing from the world inhabited by complete idiots and watching 30 Rock while ingesting large amounts of junk.  Basically we were real big snots.  But everyone else really was stupid so it was ok.  We took many trips to the DI because few other people seemed to appreciate the beauty of already worn clothes.  And then we laughed at the people who actually wore new clothes with name brands.  Weirdos. 

We took many* a trip to St. George to sell plasma and sometimes just to get the heck out.  I followed him to the gym (where he works out obsessively) where he taught me the importance of using the shoulder machine.

"But Ryan I don't want to."
"Do it Gish.  It'll make you look like Michelle Obama."

Let's see.. there's the gym, the food, the clothes, the plasma.  AH.  I also need to somehow incorporate the volunteering with children, the music, and the writing.  Oh look.  I just did.  My apologies, it's just that that the little part of me, you know, the one the dictates my ability to coherently write descriptions and transitions that aren't crap took my last two finals and then curled up on the couch where I've been sleeping and died.

Sooo anyway.  Ryan is a real good writer.  And he tries to make his school work real good and not just slide by.  Once he made me go to the park with him in the middle of the night so I could take pictures of him all dead like with syrup (blood) on his face.  It was negative two degrees and he still took off his shirt for the integrity of the photo.  Dedicated, this boy is.  And he took these real cool pictures:

Ryan kind of does everything.  I think that's the draw.  He's interested in life, in everything, in learning, trying new things, going on adventures.  It's the best.  (This may be why he's changed his major what... four times?)

My ability to write in full sentences is continuing to slip.  Ry Guy.  You are fantastic.  I hope you escape this tiny town one day.  If not, I'll probably come visit you as an old man and remind you what a "downtown" looks like.  One with more than one street. 




*Many?  Did say many?  Mom I mean one.  Really..

Research Project

This week's adventure:

Undergraduate research project.

The other researchers and I have met every week since the beginning of the semester, trying to plan and get ready for this bad boy. On Monday we finally started the actual research portion.

The project consists of taking waist circumference measurements, body fat percentages, and blood glucose levels.

Each of these tests have a lot of moments that are (to borrow a popular blogging trend) awkward and awesome.*

In order to fully understand the experience, let's pretend you're volunteering and take a virtual tour shall we?

Ahem.

"Hello there! No this isn't the (much more popular/better advertised) fraternity blood drive. This is a research project. Would you like to participate?"

"Great! Go ahead and start over by the curtain, they'll give you some forms and a survey."

Test 1: Waist Circumference.

"Ok! Hi. Will you please find the very top of your hips and place your thumbs on that spot? No. Not there. On your side. No. Never mind. Excuse me while I place my hands on your waist until I find them. If you have a lot of girth it'll take some maneuvering. If you don't, it might still take some time as I enjoy your washboard abs. A rarity. Stop giggling. Great! Now I'm just going to measure this... What's that? You'd like to lift up your shirt for a more accurate measurement? Sure. Yup. Go right ahead. All right! You can move on to the next station."

Test 2: Body Fat Percentage

"Well, to begin, will you please remove your right shoe and sock? You're wearing tights? There's a bathroom around the corner... if you wouldn't mind. Wonderful! Now lay down with your head here and feet there. Spread your arms about 8 inches from your waist, your legs about 12 inches apart. Farther. Farther. (To self, REALLY?) There you go! Just hold still while I attach these electrodes to your (hairy. bony. occasionally smelly. oh gag me.) feet and hands. Perfect, I'm going to run the machine now, just hold still. No, it's not a high enough electrical current to shock you. Courtesy chuckle. Because I've only heard that joke 259 times before. Very clever sir.** You're all done! Put your shoe, and sock, back on and go around the curtain for your next test.

Test 3:

"Hi, come on and sit down! Right or left hand? Yes just a small poke. Very small. Several people say they didn't even feel anything. One boy screamed. No come back! I was kidding. Really. He just did that to scare people. He said it actually felt like a vacation in Bermuda. Clean off your middle OR ring finger with this alcohol wipe. And then let it air dry, don't touch it or blow on it. (Usually said while person is in the middle of blowing.) Oh boy your hands are very cold. I'm just going to rub your finger a little to get your circulation going. We call it milking the finger. So you know, if this nutrition major thing doesn't work out for me I can always be a farmer!*** (Receive blank stare.) I hope this isn't weird for you, because I looooooooove giving hand massages to strangers. I'll try not to make eye contact with you while doing so. Ready? Just a small poke now... There we go! Cue one of three responses;

1. Upon seeing blood bubble up - Wonderful! Oh you are a great bleeder! (Every participant's dream, I'm sure.)

2. Upon seeing blood come out and not bubble but spread all over the finger - Oh. Wow. Ok. Umm that's really weird. What the heck is wrong with you? What do I do with this? (Inspires confidence every time.)

3. Upon seeing such a tiny amount of blood that not even Edward would be turned on - Hmm. Just hold on while I continue to squeeze your finger. And squeeze. And rub. And squeeze. Are you sure you even have blood?

Phew. Now that I have enough, I'm just going to put it into this contraption that mixes it with a solution and I'll deposit it into the test machine. Here's a cotton ball for your wound. Apply pressure. Would you like a band-aid? No they're just plain.**** Now we wait for five minutes while the test runs. Have you finished your survey? You have? Well then, we get to make awkward chit chat while you wait, isn't that lovely? Bonus points if you're my ex-boyfriend. You know, the one that I just kind of stopped talking to. Sooooooo. How have you been since I last saw you? (Three months ago) You miss me? Yeah, me neither. Alrighty then!

Here are your results. It looks like your number falls in the non-diabetic range. Congratulations! Thanks for coming in! Tell your friends!

So yes. Many an awkward moment. But the awesome part is, I really loved it. I loved talking to people, teaching them a little bit about the tests, about nutrition, and even taking the tests. I may be a little bit excited about my future, can you believe it? Very awesome indeed.

*Yes, yes I am stealing a popular blogging phrase in a blatant attempt to boost my numbers.
**Sir. So a different gender than the aforementioned person who took off tights. Thank goodness.
***I never actually made that joke (out loud). Even I have a lame-ness limit.
****Seriously the most frequently asked question. The next day I brought super hero band aids and was the most popular person person. Fetchin' college students.