Freedom

Saved the best for last.

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.

Day 3

2 down.  3 to go.

Here's the sweater.

here's me going back to accounting.

toodles

Sweater Day 2

1 final down, 4 to go.

Here's what's next:

It really is a shame I'm studying in an area that is like ninety percent attractive man.

The full sweater effect.

I won't tell you how long it took to get that picture

*Close this eye.. no wait.. the other eye!  No wait tilt head the other way!  Shoot, it looks like I'm in pain.  Should I smile?  AGH that 's worse!  Delete!  Delete! Oh well."

Also if you think you just felt an earthquake -  you didn't.  It was just the sound of every stomach in a 500 foot radius of me, growling as they watch me finish off the most delicious philly cheese steak e'er.  (Thanks mom.)  *EARTHQUAKE CAUSED BY GROWLS OF STARVING COLLEGE STUDENTS*  Breaking news, you heard it here first.  Someone call Fox 13 and tell them to call off their yellow journali ahem.  Reporters.

I'd post a picture of it but then I remembered I'm viciously opposed to posting food pictures.  It's an ethical thing.  (See mom?  I do have some morals.  Damn morals.)  Also... I ate it. Please, you think it's going to last long enough for me to stop stuffing my face and take a picture?  Good.  And you probably don't want to see a picture of what a stomach looks like while it's digesting food.

Wait you do???

Perfect.

Anatomy is the best.

Homage to Finals Week

For your viewing pleasure.  A sweater a day everyday of finals.  The older/uglier/Christmas-yier the better.

Monday:

This gem was found in the closet of my great grandmother's house.  The house that my roommate Jordan has (endearingly I'm sure) entitled "DI: THE HOME"

The people in the study desks behind think I'm nuts for sure.

It has shoulderpads people.  Shoulder pads softer and pad-dier than any push-up bra you've ever owned.

Yes Ryan.  Even yours.

Just Another Day at the University of the BY

A conversation between me and a complete stranger.

(I'm walking out of the building behind her)

Her: *Pushing the door from the wrong side* "Oh shoot that's embarrassing!" *sideways glance at me*

Me: "Don't worry, it happens to the best of us"

(We continue to walk, coincidentally going in the same direction.  Which I guess means to some people that the tactful thing to do is carry on a conversation.)

Her: "So the review helped don't you think?  I was actually surprised at how much I remembered."

Me: "Well yeah I guess the integration of material helps because now instead of just memorizing random words there's some meaning behind them to make it easier to understand."

Her: "Yeah.  You know I don't really feel like throwing pots at your husband is a good idea though."

Me: "Wait what?"

Her: "You know, how they were saying in Cohash* culture it's like a sign of endearment to throw a pan at your husband?"

Me:  "I'm sorry, what review did you just get out of?"

Her: "Oh.... probably not the same one as you."

Me (delightedly trying not to bust up): "Yeah, I just came from Anatomy."

Her: "Oh mine was something something cultural science heritage something global crap."

Fine that last quote wasn't exact.  I don't remember what she said.  Mercifully at that point I was turning right and she was headed to the left.  So I could laugh all I wanted.  

Bless people.

*Also I have no idea what she said.  I was thinking about CoASH which is acetyl CoA from chemistry.  Probably that's not what she was talking about either.  Unless those enzymes have a violent domestic life we just haven't covered yet.

Weekend Words (It's Been Awhile)

The light comes gradually, much like the rising of the sun.  

You can discern the increase of light on the horizon but never all at once.  ...  

Sometimes receiving inspiration is like a foggy day.  

There's enough light that you can tell it's not darkness anymore.  

It's not night.  

But it's not brilliantly illuminated.  

You can see just enough to take a few steps ahead into the cloudiness.  ... 

There's enough to take just a few steps.

And then the light continues ... just far enough to press forward.

David A Bednar

Full video here

This inspiration, this light, that comes so gradually isn't only related to spiritual matters in the stereotype of things spiritual.  It's also related to taking a few more steps when I run.  

It's a few more minutes productively studying.  

It's the slow replacement of apathy with passion.  

It's a little more peace with myself - the way I look.  

It's a little bit better lesson plan.  

It's a few more confused minutes as I try to understand questions that seem to have no clear cut answers - but at least I'm looking, at least I'm thinking, at least I'm trying.  

And it's a few more pieces of understanding, of becoming, creating, developing. 

Sometimes it's not getting lost a second time on the way to work.  

And sometimes it's getting lost even worse than two weeks before, only this time having the courage to ask for help sooner.  

All I'm saying is I think there's hope that someday the willpower will come.  Someday I won't even need willpower because it will be second nature.  Someday the confidence will replace the fears and insecurities.  And maybe that someday is today.  Just a little.  Just a degree.  But today.

Missing You

Missing some one is a really a strange thing.  Like love, there are so many different kinds of longing, of missing.  There's the missing of the best friend, the days spent in near perpetual company, the pain of knowing that phone calls (even with the best of intentions) can't quite span the distance, not when compared to feeling of lying on the kitchen floor, completely spent from laughter or tears.

Then there's the missing of the him.  The "significant other."

I don't know where to separate the idea from the reality.  Do I miss kissing him or just kissing?  Do I miss his responses to even the most mundane details of my day or do I just miss telling someone, anyone, all of those things?  Like so many gray areas, it's probably a combination of both.  The actuality is impossibly tied to the dream, the fantasy.

Tangible or not, I know exactly what I do miss.  I miss how he answered the phone, groggy in the morning when I called too early and woke him up.  I miss the, "oh hey girl" and the "hi dude" and the myriad of mis-spelled texts.

And the hardest part is the suddenness of it all.  How do you go from complete confidence to ... nothing?    How do you just cut that part out of your life?  But then again, how do you not?  Because you can't just tell someone out of the blue, after weeks of silence; "hey I didn't realize the importance of you in my life,and this is me letting you know I miss and think about you sometimes and there's a little depression in my heart where the connection used to be.  Not a big hole or anything, but just a little valley, like a spoon is pressing on it.  Hey I just want you to know that even if I didn't love you wholly or dramatically like the stories, I might have loved you as much as I can love anyone right now."

You just can't.  Because all this missing isn't enough for me to go back.  I can't tell someone that they were important and amazing and I miss them, but not enough to actually do anything about it besides acknowledge the sadness of the absence.  That's even worse than complete silence.

So here you go void.  Here's my confession, my acknowledgment.  If you're wondering if he/she ever misses you, the answer is probably yes.  Yes but.  And I'm sorry, pointless as that may by.

I Eat This Crap Up

Accounting, while incredible painful, comes attached with two professors in possession of a wacky sense of humor.

Behold, an excerpt from one of my practice problems:

"Heber Smith, a college student in Utah, is investigating what he believes is a promising business opportunity.  His idea is to manufacture and sell plastic jello molds in the form of the Salt Lake Temple.  Heber has a tentative purchase commitment from a book and gift retail chain for 4,000 units over the first three months of initial operations."*

Plastic jello molds in the form of the Salt Lake Temple.**

Hold on.  Wait.  Just let me... one more time.

Plastic JELLO MOLDS SHAPED LIKE THE SALT LAKE TEMPLE.

YES.  SO MUCH YES.

Brilliant.

This is hysterical people.  I love crap like this.  Love it like a fat kid loves cake.  I love it when people have the that wry sense of humor and add it into small details of an otherwise normal or boring situation Bless you Norm Nemrow for being a wack job.  It's right up my alley.



*I just want you to know that I clicked back and forth between screens to type this up, it wouldn't let me copy and paste.  THAT'S how important I thought it was.

**Guess what you ALL are getting for Christmas??

Dearest of the Dear Papa Jim

This is, admittedly, a belated post.  Welcome to my life.  I also was late to my second day of work yesterday.  Late in a I'm-so-fetching-lost-that-the-road-just-came-to-a-dead-end-in-the-middle-of-a-swamp-in-the-middle-of-nowhere-sort-of-way.  So that I'm wishing my him a happy day (albeit late) in   a class that I was EARLY to and not in the middle of a swamp is kind of a big deal.  And also the dress I'm wearing is intentionally backwards, instead of being accidentally inside out.  Cheer for me guys.

Well Papa Jim.  He has been mentioned on here once or twice before.  Mostly because I give him all credit for any swearing tendencies I might have.  The d-a-m-n spelling trick, the occasional nice loud, "oh HELL"... all Jim.

Yeah he's the best.

But not just because he cracks me up with a good curse every now and again.

Papa Jim and I go waaaaaaaaaaaay back.  Like twenty years back.

I love this man.

I mean seriously, how could you not?

Exhibit A

















Just look at that bearded bespectacled wonderfulness.  I know I got my sense of (ahem *fantastic* ahem) style from him.  Literally.  I'm currently wearing one of his woolen vests.  I also have two pairs of his socks, one, two, THREE sweaters, and a pair of loafers.

Exhibit B


Don't we look alike?

Don't even waste your breath trying to tell me we don't.  Actually YES.  WE DO.  In seventh grade I went to my friend's house for her birthday party.  When my dad came to pick me up, her mom yelled downstairs, "Sierra your dad is here!  I didn't even have to ask who's dad it was because you two look SO much alike!!!"

Which really did wonders for a seventh grade girl's self esteem.

Exhibit C


This needs no caption.

I consider him one of my best friends.  He listens better than almost anyone I've ever met.  He doesn't say anything, he doesn't interrupt to offer advice while I'm talking, he just. Listens.  He lets me talk and talk and talk until I've almost figured it out.  As John Green put it, "that's who you really like, the people you can think in front of."  I feel completely safe thinking in front of him, without any worries that he'll judge me or think I'm stupid or shallow.  I can take out my brain, let it explode, ricochet off the walls and he won't say one word about the mess.  And then when I'm silent, he is too, not because he's unattached or uncaring, but because he's willing to wait, in case there's anything else I need to say.  There is so much beauty in a patient listener.

I've heard the old stereotype about parents trying to talk to their kids by sharing archaic un-relatable stories.  "WHEN I WAS YOUR AGE..."  But I love when my dad talks about his life.  It started out when my brother and I were kids, and he would have us in near hysterics over dinner, telling stories about his dog "Ginger the WonderDog"- whom, as I fondly recall, received that nickname because she was so fat, it was a wonder she could walk.  Often the dinner ended by me laughing so hard I spewed my milk.  Occasionally out of my nose.  What's that?  Why yes. I am a delightful dinner guest.  Please.  Invite me over.

As I grew older I still loved to listen to him talk about his life, because the stories changed from mere comic relief to stories about mistakes, lessons, important events, close friends and examples, and favorite memories.  I love it because they make him a person, not just an imposing authority figure, but someone I can really relate to.  And he was/is a cool person.  He was class officer, spent a month in Europe after his high school graduation, wore a white tux to prom: the pink boxers underneath are visible in some pictures, and wrestled through high school and college. I love it.  I love that he'll talk to me openly and honestly about his life.

More important than being my friend though, is being my father.  He spent many a day teaching me how to drive stick shift (whiplash, near death experiences, and all) and play backgammon (I've still never won a game.)  He cheers me on in every aspect of school.  He calls me out on my crap and loves me anyway.

Guys I could go on and on and on.

But I'll stick to three last points

1. He is so FRICKING passionate about what he does.  You ask him anything about grass, soil, plants, and his will light up and he'll say, "now listen.  this is so cool.  this is the name of the plant.  here's where it grows.  here are the conditions it needs."  and congratulations, you've just checked yourself into a solid half hour lecture about horticulture.  It's possible he know every single thing.  But he gets so. Excited.  I can't help but get excited too.  And he works hard at it.  He gets up at 4:30 every day to go to work, not because he's worried about money, but because he loves it.  I alway give the example of going back east and visiting the Smithsonian, and while we're standing outside the Cotton Pickin* SMITHSONIAN, my dad is going, "GUYS!  LOOK!  IT'S INDIAN BLUE-GRASS!"

2.  He is humble and service oriented.  This is the man that taught me that a prideful, powerful, and imposing "man" is not manly at all.  The most manly attribute I can think of that of a humble man.  The man who will get down, on his knees, to work on the ground, right along with his students; or choke up when talking about sacred things; or tell a funny joke about himself, without worrying what it may do for his image; this is a man.  He will help anyone because no one is "beneath" him, and he'll do it without the slightest thought of compensation.

3.  He is respectful and devoted.  I watched as my grandma, his mom, deteriorated further and further from Alzheimers, slowly forgetting my birthday and my name, and then his birthday, and finally his name.  But he never stopped calling her.  Every Sunday.  Even though she was on the other side of the country, and he would have to gently remind her, "mom this is your son Jim," he never stopped.  I will never forget that.  He loves my mom in the same way.  Doing his best to be aware of her needs, to help her out, to cheer her up.  He respects others, and I respect him.

I love you Papa Jim.

happy birthday damn it.











*another favorite papa jim-ism. right next to fetching, and "I'll beat you like a red-headed stepchild."





C-ROLL.  PLEASE DO NOT FEEL UNLOVED OR OF LESSER VALUE.  I PROMISE YOU WILL GET YOUR OWN WHOLE POST TOO.  I LOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOVE YOU

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.

All Things Pumpkin

You know what I love?  Pumpkin.  Everything pumpkin.  I started craving it at about 12:01 am October 1st and still haven't recovered.  I even planned an entire day around the purchase of a pumpkin cheesecake shake.  Which was well worth the time because it was quite possibly the most perfect shake I’ve ever had.  I’m serious.  I’m thinking back right now, reminiscing of my favorite moments of the semester and that’s the first thing that comes to mind.  And NOT because that was also trip that everyone took a bite a hamburger from the garbage can – although that moment holds a close second.  When I’m ninety years old and little snot nosed kids come to interview (and brighten the lonely lonely lives) of the elderly, I'm going to talk about that shake.  I’ll remember fondly until the drool floods out my dentures and there are a few more emotionally traumatized children in the world.

Clearly this set a high precedent for everything else pumpkin related, because while perfect in taste, it did nothing to satisfy my craving.  And this is where I’ll oh-so-kindly use years of experience and hard trials to bestow great wisdom upon you. 

A Guide to Surviving Pumpkin Related Foods

Sammy’s Pumpkin Cheesecake Shake?  Always good.

Pumpkin Chocolate Chip Bread, homemade?  Always.  Good.

Pumpkin Soup?  Pumpkin Bagel?  AWFUL.  DON'T DO IT.

This goes to show the depth of my craving.  Every food must now incorporate pumpkin.  Apparently my body wants to turn orange from all the beta-carotene I’m taking in.  Just in time for Halloween.  (What up Snooki costume?)  I don’t know what possessed me to make PUMPKIN SOUP, except that I had an extra can of pumpkin crap and a computer to research recipes and no time to grocery shop for real food.  Or maybe I had way too much time on my hands.  Either way, DON’T do it.  Even pinterest recipes might not be able to redeem that mess.

I may have deserved it, after all, the idea of it sounds kind of dumb from the start.  But don’t be seduced by the false wiles of the pumpkin bagel.  Sounds great in theory, right?  RIGHT.  At least, it did to me.  I’m telling you now it’s a letdown.  It’s a big fat piece-of-cardboard-disguised-by-smeared-chocolate-chips-and-orange-paint disappointment.

Life is so hard guys.

But now I’ve killed three posts with one:

-The gripe post

     -the food post (sorry there aren’t any picture of me posing adorably with delicious look eats)

      -The seasonal post?  Kinda?  Guys I love FALL! And the COLORS!  And my snuggly warm boots!

A good day’s work I’d say.  My clothes are right side out too.  Look out world!

When Things Get Busy

Sometimes, the only time I can make it to anatomy open lab is at seven.  And sometimes that means I get dressed in the dark because my roommate is still in bed - apparently grad students have the luxury of sleeping till noon?  Yeah I hate her.  And because turning on the light would probably zap my tired eyes into little raisins that get sucked back into my brain (Optic Nerve I), leaving me tragically blind and disgustingly eye-less.  Think the fates in Hercules.  So sometimes I don't realize my shirt is actually inside out until now.  Approximately 10 hours and 3 classes later.

Also.  This is not the first time.

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.

I Hope. I Hope. (Though I Never Grew a Foot or Two)

Just a small announcement.

Sike it's a HUGE announcement. 

 I'm going on a mission.  

I thought my whole life I'd go.  But then as I got old enough to actually think about submitting papers (that was pre-conference aahbviously) I started to really freak out and change my mind.  There was so much stuff that seemed to get in the way.  I wanted to be a camp counselor in the summer.  I'd just barely transferred schools - could I really leave again so soon?  I wanted to study abroad.  Did I really want to leave and come back at 23?  That's so old, and probably I'd be super awkward and UNMARRIED.  (I hate that that factored into my thinking but it did.)  So I've been trying to make this decision for a few months now.  Finally after a lot of committed serious prayers, I was sitting in accounting class (of all things) and I just knew.  Then I sent my mom this four word email:

Subject line: mission

Content: "i'm going.  I'm GOING!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" 

I'm over the moon about it.  If I could leave tomorrow I would.  Seriously.  I told my Bishop that when I met with him on Tuesday.  I seriously considered setting my availability for the day after finals and Lizzie's wedding.  But after some more prayer and a talk with Mama C-Roll (she's always right) I think I'm going to set my availability for after winter semester.  May 2.  Which means I won't be able to actually submit my papers and get my call until January (You can't submit until 120 days before your availability date).  Painful.  I just want to go.  Seven months seems too far away to bear.  It's funny how before I couldn't imagine taking that time out of my life, a mission just seemed logistically impossible.  But now I can't imagine not going.  I never looked back.  Every worry I had before just... fell away.  I'm still sad about things I'll miss, but I know that this is the right thing for me right now.  My only regret is that I didn't make the decision earlier.  

So that's that.  If you come to my farewell, brace yourself because you'll probably hear about this all over.  And I'll be making the joke about never growing a foot or two.  Do your best to forget about it ok?  Or just practice your pity laugh - and it better by realistic.  

I guess this means the DI is going to be receiving a lot of my not-exactly-sleazy-but-perhaps-a-touch-short shorts and skirts.  If you want anything you best come over and claim it now.

Bring on the ultra conservative clothes.  I'm ready.  

I'll go where you want me to go, Dear Lord.  

Doggy Paddle

Oh hello there.

Blogging tendencies have been a little bit lax of late, mostly because my brain (AHEM.  my cerebral hemispheres, frontal lobe, insula lobe occipital lobe etc..) is crammed so full with other thoughts.  There is SO MUCH to learn.  I used to write posts in my head for days, first of all because I'm straight up weird.  Seriously there's a little voice in the back of my mind that often narrates my life.  Have I mentioned this before?  Probably.  That little voice is unfortunately not very reliable for remembering important things.  But ask me to share a storybook style tale about the two seconds on campus where you recognized someone?  I'm your woman.  I'll have you reeling with plot twists and married with babies before you even finish asking.*

Second of all because did you know sarcasm is a LUXURY?  Seriously.  All this cleverness that is my wit does not come as naturally as you think.  I had the time to compose my thoughts into hysterical sentences as I walked between classes, those moments before I fell asleep.  I had days to compose posts in my brain.  Now those moments are filled with thoughts about concepts I'm learning, trying to remember things for tests, worries, and often just the bliss of nothingness. I steal times for little bits of nothingness every chance I get, trying to concentrate only on the gorgeousness of the world.

Maybe it's not just BYU.  Maybe it's because I'm a junior now and finished with most of my gen eds.  And I don't mean to complain, but dang this is hard.  I don't just have midterms, my class schedule balanced out so the test are spread out pretty consistently to every week or two.  And consistency is really not my strong point.  I'm more of a "lay it all in one big pile and I'll make one massive hurdle over it and then be done for a few months."  I have a LOT to learn.  A lot of habits to change.

But you know what?  Thank goodness.  Because even though I'm not acing my classes, I'm being pushed.  Like really shoved in the pool sink or swim sort of pushed.  I prefer that over treading water for the rest of my life.  I'd rather be the crap of the cream than the cream of the crap I guess.

That's not to say the days aren't without stress and tension and the occasional bubbling of ulcer beginnings.  So before I get overwhelmed with it all, I try to remember what I love this place.

Which I think I'll write about later because I'm really sick of this post.  It's been in my drafts box forever and now I kind of hate it.  But I'm going to publish it because I want to remember this feeling.  This time of just barely keeping my head above water, but loving it.  Really really loving it.

ttfn

*Do I make sense to anyone?  Anyone?  I tend to ramble I know.  And SOMEtimes I re-read and edit my crazy thought process for you to follow.  But only sometimes.

Details

By far the best thing about my house is the roof access.  We live in what we've so lovingly dubbed "the attic" because it's just that, the (very small) top floor of a house.  We don't actually have a dishwasher - besides Carla that is.  Which means air conditioning also would be a ridiculous expectation.

My room is at the end of the hall, as far away from the swamp cooler as physically possible.  I'm sure I won't mind come winter, but for now sometimes it's like living in a little sauna.  A messy, dry, sauna lacking the masseuse and warm towels.  Ok it's nothing like living in a sauna.  Never mind.

When it's just too dang hot at night and the open windows only let in the crazy* outside noises, I grab my sleeping bag.  And then I head to the bathroom, where the window to the roof is.  And I do this super classy routine where I stuff the sleeping bag outside and then climb on the toilet and do my best Lolo Jones imitation as I stick my leg through the window and awkwardly pull the rest of my body behind.  I'd be so good at hurdles you guys.

Hard surfaces used to be impossible for me to sleep on.  I never slept during sleepovers or campouts.  But for some reason, I can on this roof.  Although I do sleep in libraries too now.  Provo is doing some Weird things to me.  It's not even that picturesque, any bird song has been replaced by tires on gravel and slamming doors, and there's apartments all around me, but there's these little details that I love.
 I love the orange light from the street lamp that shines through the leaves of the tree next door.  I love pulling on a sweatshirt to sleep in and the morning air before the sun rises above the mountains.

I think I'll want to remember these nights.  I could so easily forget about those few weeks in the fall semester when it was nice enough to sleep outside and I had roof access.  They're simultaneously completely insignificant, and yet so overwhelmingly important.  Life - my very own life - is made in these details.



*oh so crazy Provo.  we are just wiiiii----iiild over here.

I've Become One of THOSE People.

You've seen them in the library, slumped against chairs.  You've seen them in the hallways, tucked into corners.  You've seen them sprawled on the grass, limp on desks, and even collapsed on the floor.  They are...
THE SLEEPING PEOPLE.

During freshman year, whilst I was attending my favorite University in Cedar City, my good friend Katie F went to BYU (good friends in the way that we went to the same school, and talked at least once and I always thought she was like the coolest person in the world and even though we never actually "hung out" ... ok spoke... outside of sitting in the same classroom I always wanted to be her friend so I'm gonna claim it ok?  Give me this one).

There she found that sleeping in public is apparently a societal norm.  I looked at her pictures and lauuuuughed at those poor hopeless bums.  I also swore that when I went to BYU I'd never be caught in such a pathetic situation.

It took me three days.

I can't help it.  I fight it, really I do.  But it's just so conVENient.  There's all these little couches in little nooks of the library where all you have to do to be comfortable is lean your head back... like so... and
BAM.  out.  Out like Papa Jim when he tried to read me bedtime stories.  I don't think he ever made it past page four.  I always thought it was so dang weird.  Who could really be that tired?  Who could actually have so FEW inhibitions that you could truly Sleep in Public??

Ah the blessings of anonymity and sleep deprivation.

My inhibition have flown out the window.  Out the window, to the car and are currently road-tripping to Canada.  AYE????

Buenos noches from the comfy library chair in the most hidden corner.  (I do have some pride.)  And I know I'm basically a celebrity to you but please... no pictures.

The Adventures of Billy. Part One.

So we meet again fair boy.

Let's start with an introduction about my accounting 200 class.  This is an auditorium sized room, filled to the brim with students.  Three hundred at least, honestly.  This is the girl that occasionally hides in the corner of the library during the ten minutes between classes because there's just so. many. people. Too many people crowding the halls and looking at me.  Stop that.  STOP IT!  So MUCH EYE CONTACT.  So. Much. Overwhelming.

yeah.

Now this class starts at 8:00 every Tuesday and Thursday morning, which is, you know, probably doable for well-coordinated motivated people.  Read: not me.  And on this particular Thursday we were assigned seats for group work.  Which meant that there really was no way I could rationalize not washing my hair (especially since it'd been a day.. or so...) and putting on mascara AT LEAST.*  We were supposed to look up the seating chart the night before and memorize it.   Riiiiiiiiight.  My teacher also warned us that being late was not recommended because you'd have to walk in front of all five million people and find your seat and make people move and interrupt the teacher...

heh heh heh.  See where I'm going with this?

I really probably could have made it.  But I also have this running schedule which is supposedly going to get me ready for a half marathon.  And I printed it off the internet so it must be trustworthy. RIGHT? Right.  And it called for me to go on a long** run that day.  And here's the thing.  When it comes to things like this I'm not flexible at all.  I'm brick.  I'm the BYU honor code and I WILL NOT DEVIATE.  I must go running every day my omnipotent schedule mandates and I Must go the Corresponding Distance and I MUST go in the MORNING.  Because if I go at night in this big scary city probably I'll become a headline in the news.

So I figured that all I had to do was get up at six, because hey, run for a 45 minutes, then have 45 minutes+ to get ready = GOLDEN.  Six rolled around.  Then 6:05, then 6:15.... because I kept rationalizing, "no way.  I can totes run it faster than 45 minutes.  I fantasized this as I laid completely stationary in my very comfortable sleeping bag.*** That's also when I think I won't check facebook that day, or will talk to that one boy in my chem class.  I'm such a liar in the morning.

By the time I got up, ran, got ready, and left for class, I was doing that awkward jog every other step zombie gallop all the way to class (the furthest building away as it turns out).  And after running my legs into little stumps (ahem.  little-ER) that morning I still had to make it up the seven flights of stairs that stand in the way of my classes.

The point is: if you happened to be walking on campus and saw a really sweaty girl in yellow pants, cradling her thighs and wheezing/speed-walking with an especially pained looking grimace on her face, it was definitely Billy.

It was also Billy who arrived late to class, dripping lotion-sweat and walking from the 38th row to the correct seat in the 7th row.  And then when that person had to get back up two minutes later to pick up the handout back on the 38th row?  Still Billy.  Poor thing.


*you're proud right mom?  the EFFORT i GO to.
**long for ME ooookay?  As in, more than three miles.  Shut up.
***Normal.  More about that later probably.

Rejection

Warning: my posts have become fetchin' long.  This brain just can't stop.  Probably if you only have a few minutes you shouldn't read this.  You'll best get the full hysterical effect if you're willing to devote some time to this bad boy.  No skimming.

I really debated about writing this, lest some of you start to think this is a boy blog.  Well here's what I say to that.  NEVER!  *gives sign to ward off the devil and spits.*   I mean really?  A blog all about boy drama?  Please bless.  No WAY.

But here's the thing.  It's just so dang funny.  To me anyway.  So if you don't laugh then probably there's something wrong with your sense of humor.  Mine's perfect.  Please try to change yourself into a perfect mold of me.  (That also means you'll probably gain a little poochiness around the abdominal area.  Apologies.)

So I decided to write about and share this.  It's the little moments I wanted to write about right?  The things that make an average life not-so-average.  I swear up and down and sideways and vertical and horizontal and SAGITTAL and CORONAL and TRANSVERSAL* that I'm not writing this to complain or get compliments or pity (oh gosh please no pity).  I just want to laugh about it.  Laugh laugh laugh.

Well I went out with this guy twice.  We'll call him ______ **insert Biblical reference here.  Once as a group date and then last weekend on a SINGLE date.  Apparently this is the one where decisions are MADE.  Such as: is this person who seemed normal around friends actually a complete weirdo?***  Such as: do I really want to continue to shell out mula and time and emotional strength to build any sort of relationship with this person?

We went on a bike ride - a tour of campus actually so I wouldn't keep getting completely lost and turned around.  Cute right?  And then we biked to a Peruvian restaurant where he proceeded to speak to the owner in Spanish.  (Swoon.  Well, mini swoon.  Like a sa-woon.)  The weather even co-operated.  It stopped raining just in time for us to go biking, rained while we were in the restaurant, and stopped again when we finished so we could bike home.  Doesn't that say FATE to you?

Overall it was fun.  He was kind of quiet - and so was I , but we talked enough and laughed and yeah.  No complaints.  He translated words into Spanish until I stumped him and then I made him do push-ups.  YOU GUYS.  I AM SUCH A FUN DATE.  Pay for me to eat (ahem: OUTeat you) and then I'll make you do push-ups.  WAY FUN.  But really.

Now when it comes to date drop off protocol, I have no idea what that even is.  Usually I manage a hug, drop my eyes (eye contact = so intimdating), and probably mumble something, IF I can get my brain to put together full sentences. I kind of waited for him to mention doing something again because I hate initiating it. I'm afraid of expressing unrequited interest (a valid fear as it turns out) and also of appearing too Forward.  It's like the cotton pickin' 1800's over here.

So I didn't say anything, he didn't say anything, and .. peace out.  What some of you may call a choke.  I resolved to try again thinking it was kind of my turn to initiate.  Sunday brought the perfect opportunity.    My roommates and I decided to try a cake recipe (soooooooooo domestic) which hey!  PERFECT excuse to hang out.  People like cake right?  I even texted him to make it more casual.  Totes cas. Not over-creepy I want to date you exclusively and get married and have your children clingy.  A few hours  later he responds "thanks for the invite but I have some ward stuff tonight."

...................

Ward stuff?  Ward. Stuff.  Stuff.

Well so much for that.  I mean I could rationalize and say, maybe it was a meeting with the bishop!  Maybe he's planning the meeting and has to run it!  But in all reality: it was an excuse.  Rejection.  Which really, just strikes me as funny. Funny because I so overanalyzed everything, constructed the invitation text three or four times at least, asked the opinions of all my roommates.  And THEN!  Ward stuff.  Hahahahahahaha.  Sheesh.  Well sir, if nothing else, you missed out on some dang good peach pudding lemon glazed cake.****

Well I've moved on.  C Roll shared this quote with me: "you're at the biggest grocery store in the world.  Get shopping."



*Currently eating sleeping and dreaming my anatomy class.  Can anyone tell?  Anyone?

**Ang, remember how you wanted to stay updated on that one guy?  This is your update.

***hahahaha yes.  The answer is YES.

****Yeah I totally just dropped that to impress you with my baking skills.  I could RUN pinterest.

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.

Meet Billy

Before I talk all about my first day of school - actually I probably won't do that at all because it'd be very long and only interesting to me - let me share this one story about the picture on my ID card.

Apologies to those who've heard this story before.  But when I find a funny story that people enjoy (or at least I think they enjoy it.. that's what the grimace means right?) I tell it several times because hey, I'm not that clever that often.  And true to my upbringing, if you have something good: WEAR IT OUT.  Those shoes can actually last two years longer than you think.  Just because they're five shades dingier (yet simultaneously five shades more faded) doesn't mean you can't still USE THEM.  What?  You have a new pair of shoes?  Great.  Those old shoes can become work shoes.  You already have a old pair of almost-but-not-quite-worn-to-dust work shoes?  Great!  You have a NEW pair of CUTER old work shoes!  Or better yet, move them into the little room that holds all the preparations for the last days when the earth blows up and all the shopping centers have burned in sinful materialistic flame.  Because then no one will care if I'm wearing that striped shirt that is "so adorable" but also makes me look like a lumpy dough bag.  Although if I did come down to me to repopulate and all I had were these storage clothes, the future generations would be screwed because any man, desperate or not would take one look and say, 'oh no dough bag'.  He may reconsider but probably not before he gets hit by an asteroid.

So dear readers, prepare to hear this story over and over and over again, every time we meet someone who hasn't heard it yet - and there are about 7 billion people in this world - until this story is memorized, can be recited backwards letter by letter, and is past the point of even the redeeming powers of duct tape.

I'll try not to drag it out, because really it could have started a year ago, when I took a math class so I could work at the Y.  I'm again taking this math class, because I went back to Cedar before it ended, taking an incomplete.  A process which in and of itself could out the Odyssey to shame.  Basically, I had to get a new ID card.  Ok.  Shouldn't be that hard right?  Riiiiiiiiiight.

And it begins.

The search for a new card led me to the library, where a very helpful sign said, "ID Cards" with an accompanying arrow.  Perfect.  So I followed the sign through the library, around a desk, around a corner, and to a door with another sign.  This one read, please go to the front desk to get your ID card.  Well ok then.  I retraced my steps.

"Hi I need to get a new ID card."

"Well what happened to your old one?"

Thinking that honesty would be the best policy and already expecting a charge anyway I answered, "Oh I lost it forever ago. It's been at least a year."

The man at the desk stared at me and said, "Well since you admitted you lost it that almost makes me want to charge you the fee for a new card.*"  And then he laughed awkwardly like that would diffuse the weirdness of his statement.  It didn't.

Knowing that class would be starting soon, I impatiently told him I didn't care about the charge but to just tell me where the heck to go.  He sent me out to another office, where I paid and they sent me back to socially awkward man so he could take my new ID photo.

Now really I should have just waited.  Waited for a different day when I hadn't come straight from swimming or at least for a day when I was wearing make up.  But since I'd already paid the d-a-m-n charge I followed the man back through the library, around the corner, and to the door that originally denied me access.  Here Mr. SA* kind of muttered, "there's a mirror if you want to fix your hair."  To which I replied, "what? Don't I look good?"  I think he still might be red.

I stood on the little x and started to smile because I was told the camera would click on 4.  It clicked on 2.  Apparently it was a new camera and no one knew how to work it.  Here's the result.

 

I know.  I know.  I could have retaken it but I was super late for class and really, it kind of captures my feelings about the whole adventure.

So meet (as my family calls it) Billy.  As in, Billy BYU.  My pained looking alter ego. Destined for all things awkward.  I'm sure he'll be in lots of stories this year.

Do you know how often I use my ID card?  For about everything.  I'm ashamed every time.  In fact, even having this up on the screen is scaring the other people in the library.  It's scaring me at least.  

School rocks.

*I asked him later what I could have said in order not to pay and he stammered out that sometimes if the card gets stolen they don't charge.  I think my card will be getting stolen VERY soon.