Friday, August 7, 2009

La Vie En Rose

As I keep getting older, I keep expecting the fun to drain out of my life. Sad mentality, but it's how I feel. And as this is my third year out of high school (where, as everyone who watches MTV knows, the end of your youth is had) I imagined that I would have to spend this summer in a suit and penny loafers doing adult things like taxes and Mavis Beacon.

But I was so happily wrong!

This summer has definitely been one worthy of looking back on. I've spent most of my time in a swimsuit or my chacos, I've made friends in small towns,
(Note the beautiful St. Bernard that was too gorgeous I had to pull my car over to make his acquaintance, and luckily it was captured on camera)

I made the rope swing in Mona my byatch (even though I incurred 3rd degree rope burns, massive bruises, smatterings of broken blood vessels and two lungfulls of pond water), I've danced my face off,

I've gone topless almost everyday, I've indulged in multiple Harry Potter Festivities,

I've crawled my way up to the top of a mountain, and I survived swine flu and being a gospel doctrine teacher (I don't know which one was harder on my system).

Most of this was made possible by the fact that I didn't have a job or school most of the summer, but I'm going to attribute most of the awesomeness to just the common euphoria of summer. I've been born and raised in Utah, home of the 2002 winter olympics, but I think I've come to the conclusion that winter isn't really for me. I'm sick of wrapping yourself up like you're last night's leftovers before you venture anywhere outdoors. And finding things to do that are inside unless you want to lose a favorite extremity.

I want to live in a place where shoes are only worn to church. Where no one cares about their hair because it's just going to get wet from beach/pool/lake/sweat. And the night air reaches the exact temperature of the outside layer of your skin so that you've reached a temperature homeostasis with the world.
An endless summer.
Because summer's too pleasant to be miserable, too hot to worry about anything, too warm to be in a hurry. Summer's like one of those friends who you love so much, and you know they love you too, but they never come around often enough. And where I live they only come around for three short, but glorious months. So please Summer, don't go now. Sit back down and have another otter pop with me. I'll even give you the pink one!

Sunday, June 14, 2009

Dear Blogosphere

Every time I miss an entry in my journal I feel like I have to apologize and give an explanation for why I deprived the inanimate pages of my journal with the intimate touch of my pen, (e.g. "I'm sorry I didn't write last night, Clueless was on tbs again last night, and even though it was 2am and I still had beaucoup de french homework and some facebooking to do, it was a small price to pay to the party gods...") and I feel similar remorse to the blogging world. And because there are about the same amount of people who read my blog as do my journal, plus or minus a few, (yes, this is a shoutout to my reader in Brisbane, Australia--thank you google analytics) this apology will be just as contrite and mildly repentant as the one my little journal gets every few weeks: Sorry.
But, let's talk about a little baby my lovely roommate Jordyn and I have concocted.
The World is Our Campus
Yes. It is a second blog.
Yes. I realize I can barely blog on the one.
No. You can't live another day without reading it.
We are not trying to be cynical. BYU is just too much of a goldmine for hilarious observations not to take advantage of it on the blogosphere. Anyone who's ever been to BYU at one point in their life, known anyone who's ever been to BYU at one point in their life, or just observed Mormons in their natural habitat can relate.
So please enjoy, and tell all your friends.

Friday, April 17, 2009

Boycott Finals

The end of April is upon us and tis the season where I start losing all will to succeed/pass/scrape by/live through finals. And with 19 credits I'm definitely feeling like this:

Except instead of that calculator (which I haven't used since my Sophomore year in High School--thank you English program) insert MLA handbook.

It's about this time when I start thinking about my other options in life. Ones that don't involve a 10 pg research paper on the parallels between the geology of the moors and the psychology of Catherine Earnshaw. And I don't know if its all the medieval literature talking, but joining a nunnery is starting to look pretty good.

Admittedly, my cross-stitching could use a little brushing up on, and I've never loved black and white on my complexion, but I think this could work. Plus, if it's anything like Sister Act I know I could handle it because I am GREAT at jump rope.

Or maybe I could just handle this slump BYU style and marry my way out of school. Although, there is that tiny problem of finding someone who would be at least acquiescent of this request. . . Well in 8th grade a homeless man outside of Albertson's said he would marry me, so maybe he's still up for the job? Here's an artist's depiction, if you go to a Provo Albertson's sometime, tell him his wife is looking for him.

Or maybe I could become another "gal in the workplace":
I mean, Rosie the Riveter is still a total hottie. Ok, you're right, I don't exactly know what riveting is, much less how it's done, but I'm pretty sure learning that isn't as hard as frantically catching up on all the Humanities reading I assured myself I would do before the final. But I don't think I would look quite as good in that bandana (I wonder what gang sports the red and white polka dots) and I know my hair would never do that awesome John Travolta loopdeloop at the top there.

But when it comes down to it, as much as I would love to do these things, I just really don't have the stones to go through with it. School is safe. It's all I know. I've been doing it for fourteen years now. I think I'm just going to call it a night and hope I wake up with a little more vigor and vim.

Wednesday, March 4, 2009

“Difficult Times Help Me Understand How Infinitely Beautiful Life Is, And That So Many Things Truly Don't Matter"

5 Years.

We've missed 5 of your Halloween soup parties. You used to be cooking and freezing, cooking and freezing for weeks to prepare for the pilgrimage of trick or treaters that made it to our steamy kitchen to warm their bodies with tomato-potato, cuban black bean, leek, chicken noodle, taco, lentil and corn chowder goodness. But even more, to warm their hearts with your unconditional love.

You've missed 1826 Diet Coke runs down to Crest's. I can't count on you pulling me into the Acura to escort you on your mid-afternoon aspartame rush. Before we'd even get down the hill someone would be calling your big black cell phone with a life crisis that only you could solve. You'd handle it with gentle compassion but make sure you were able to say hi to all the girls who worked the drive thru, whom you knew not only all their names, but about every tattoo, piercing, and when all their boyfriends got out of county. And you'd be sure to get in a joke about how I read the "beverages" sign as beaver-eggs and thought that beavers laid eggs from 1st-3rd grade, all while sipping on your Diet Coke and leaving dark lipstick all over the straw, and sitting in your heated seat--whether it was January or July.

We've missed 43832 of your around the house routines. In the morning hours you'd still be in bed, but insist that we come and say goodbye before we ate the cereal that Dad laid out for us and caught the bus/carpool. This was also the time that you'd give me the head-tilt-raised-eyebrows look that told me my clothes were too tight/short/low. The afternoon hours would always have you sitting in front of the fireplace reading your cases, and inevitably there was always a brightly colored scrunchie pulling your hair on the top of your head that made you look less like a judge for Workforce Services, and more like Stephanie from Full House. But the evening hours were the best because that's when we all got to eat the yummy food you would whip up in no time, and everyone else who craved your endless smile and caring wisdom would go away and we'd have you to ourselves. This was usually when you'd have to help me scramble to do a procrastinated homework project for Mrs. Busco, and not only would it be brilliant, but I'd have so much fun doing it because it would be with you.

But most of all, we've missed 157797166 of the little things that really made you our mom. We've missed the way you'd put your feet up on the dashboard every time dad was driving. We've missed it when you would drop a swear while crossing State Street on the way to dance and you'd always make sure to say "sorry my little darlings". We've missed the way you'd put lipstick on both lips at a time so the stick would get so deformed and eventually break in half. We've missed you frantically searching for your checkbook in the purse that carried every thing you would ever need, but most things that you wouldn't--like the Francs you've had since before France joined the EU. We've missed you dancing with dad in the kitchen to Andrea Boccelli, and loving Emma's detailed rants about middle school, and headbanging with Hannah to ZZ Top. But I've missed you Mom. I miss how you were the only one who knew what I was thinking when I wasn't saying. How you would always pull me onto your lap even though I've been 6 inches taller than you since 7th grade. How you were the only one who really listened for, and got all my jokes.

I miss you.

Can't wait to see you again Mommy.

Monday, February 9, 2009

Screw Punxsatawney Phil

So... It's winter.


And apparently it will be for an extra six weeks because of some East coast yuppie of a rodent. What kind of a holiday is Groundhog day anyway?

I watched this year's festivities, always eager to involve myself in another holiday hoping I can overeat and go shopping, and not only was I disappointed, but a little disturbed at the whole thing. Thousands of people come to watch these respectable grown men (I assume they were respectable because they were wearing top hats) pull this thing (what even is a groundhog? I think they're like ligers and don't exist anywhere except in trendy zoos) out of a box and stroke it like it is their firstborn child. Then they proceed to call this overgrown hamster all these grandiose names like "the seer of seers, prognosticators of ALL prognosticators". You're kidding, America. This is the best we've got? No wonder we can't figure out the economy crisis, or how to get our troops out of Iraq--our best man is in a cage in Pennsylvania. But in case you thought this was enough action for one year, there's more! The respectable top hats set Phil on a tree stub and hold him in place (from what I could see I don't even think he had legs to move on anyway) then all of them pull out instruments that I haven't seen since eighth grade Geometry and they start measuring the gerbil's hypoteneuse or something, but apparently that part is really important because right after that we get the big prognosis:


Thanks bud.
Now don't think I'm anti-seasons, I love the seasons. Winter is great when it is Christmas time and you don't really have to drive anywhere, you can just sit at home in your embarrassing socks and sip hot cocoa while watching old VHSes.
But then Christmas is over. And suddenly winter is miserable. You're stuck wearing practical shoes that make you feel like a school teacher from the early nineties. The nose is constantly precipitating and forces you to be a sniffer or a blower. Both are unattractive. Then your hands are so cold you feel like a villain from a Disney movie because you're always rubbing them up in the middle of your chest; you might as well be muttering "I'll get you my pretty!" That's a real friend winner.
I don't hate winter. It just doesn't make me quite as happy as summer.
So I've stopped recycling, I bathe in gasoline and key every hybrid car I see, just to do my part in speeding up this whole global warming thing.
Be the change you want to see in the world.

Sunday, January 25, 2009

Philosophy, Shmilosophy

So after spending about an hour trying to read Nicomachean Ethics of Aristotle (and by "trying" I mean staring at a lot of little black circles and lines while letting my mind formulate its own philosophical questions like: What color was my retainer in third grade? Do I eat enough fiber? If I learned the "Single Ladies" music video, would Beyonce be my best friend?) I've finally come to the conclusion that sometimes school is hard, just to be hard. I don't think my professors really believe that someone in the professional world will ask me how Aristotle cured Polio (I still haven't finished the reading), and I probably will never think about this text again once I take the test. 
With 19 credits and a huge tendency to procrastinate, I spend a fair amount of my time looking like this little girl. But at least I know I'm not the only one in the world. In one of my classes I was engaging in one of my favorite pastimes: Laptop Spying; when I stumbled across a real gem of a note-taker. This student provides full commentary to the boring bullet points our professor provides. Commentary like "I wonder if this guy in front of me knows how bad he's sweating" and "Never eat Taco Bell before another 3 hr evening class again" keeps going to class worthwhile. But the first thing that drew my prying eye to his MacBook screen was this:
I don't even know who Jeffrey (original spelling) Chaucer is, much less how the black plague influenced his ideas on the aristocracy!
Thank you. Thank you God for letting me know that not everyone at BYU was born writing thesis statements in MLA format while playing a piano concerto they wrote while they were helping the orphans in Somalia. There are some mortals out there. Even if we're too afraid to admit that we don't keep our Organic Chemistry textbook to use as reading material for that next plane ride we have to our prestigious internship in Washington DC to anyone but a Word document, it's OK. There are dozens of us, DOZENS!