Life Or Something Like It

TMI 2 Soon?

2012-01-25T06:13:00.000-08:00

Ever since I got married I have found myself sharing little snippets of privy information to anybody that will listen, even though they should probably should be kept private.

Like, for instance, the guy bagging our groceries probably doesn't want to know that the Fiber One cereal we bought is now indispensable because it keeps me doing the deed regularly, though still not when I'm on vacation. Or in a public place. I've even turned into that girl who doesn't mind changing into or out of her swimsuit when she's in the RB locker room. Just as long as no one makes eye contact. I think it's due to the fact that the majority of my conversations are with Jason so I just assume that if Jason wants to hear it, everyone does.

All that being said, I'm about to share something with you that I never thought I would an hour ago. I give full disclosure that you might never look at me the same again.

***

Early this morning I had that kind of awakening start where your eyes pop open and nothing else on you moves, your head is completely awake but your body is still kind of asleep. Usually this happens when I remember things I have to do in the day. Not good kind of things like "Oh it's Christmas morning!" but the kind of things like "That project I have known about for months but I have done zero work on is due today!" Waking up like this is usually the start to a frantic morning running on adrenaline and morning breath, but was probably the only reason I passed fourth grade. There's a really good story there, but I'll save it for a later date.

Anyway, this morning's early wake up call wasn't due to a forgotten assignment, and it definitely wasn't due to presents waiting under a tree, I thought I was peeing.

My eyes popped open and I thought to myself, "am I peeing?" and then I told myself, "no, you can't be peeing, you're not on the toilet." Instead of having a shoulder angel and a shoulder devil, my subconscious is made up of a worrier who likes everything perfect and thinks it's the end of the world if it's not, and the other half has the general disposition of someone who has smoked the ganja root (that's a real thing, right?) all their life and doesn't get worked up about anything. It's kind of like the mayor from the Nightmare Before Christmas.

Fortunately, my scary frown face was the own who won the rest of my body over and I quickly sprung out of bed to find out that, sure enough, I was peeing. Real pee. In my bed. At 22.8 years old. With the man I'm most sexually attracted to lying next to me.

So I run to the bathroom to try to get some of that real pee actually in the toilet, you know, where it's supposed to go. But then I'm sitting on the toilet and I start to actually process what happened. It went a little something like this: "I have pee underwear around my ankles, I have pee on my legs, I have pee on the bed, there's pee everywhere, the pee will never stop, I'm a pee girl, all I do is pee..." That's about when I let out a sound somewhere in between a moan and a dry sob which caused Jason to say, "Alex...?"

Up until Jason spoke words, I kind of thought that I would be able to clean up this whole mess and wake up beside him like the full grown adult that I was last night. But as soon as I realized that he was awake I knew that I would have to face this catastrophe head on. That's when I started to fall apart.

I don't think it was so much that I was embarrassed of wetting the bed, obviously I'm putting all this information on the old world wide interweb, (bet you wished I was protesting SOPA now) I think it was more the fact that I have always prided myself on having an ironclad bladder. When I was little, I was potty-trained so fast my parents actually thought I was autistic (there were other reasons too...). And, besides one incident at a haunted house in middle school, I really have no memory of having accidents down there.

Until now. So I started to freak out. Telling Jason he couldn't come in the bathroom, jumping in the shower, yelling about how disgusting I am, frantically scrubbing any surface, telling Jason he'll never love me again, practically sobbing that I would be afraid to ever go to sleep ever again, you get the picture.

Throughout it all, Jason was a champ and was trying to console me with his saged wisdom from his bedwetting past. You see, Jason was on the other spectrum of bladder control that I was, and he was unfortunate enough to wet the bed well past when it was adorable. So he had years of experience to know how to handle the situation. I, on the other hand, was still an emotional wreck who thought her body was falling apart.

Even though there were some tears and Jason had to tell me almost every good thought he's ever had about me, I did end up getting back in bed and letting him spoon me, despite my many warnings that I may lose all control and pee on him. I have no idea why I wet the bed. Maybe because I was really cold when I was falling asleep, or because I was super tired, but the lesson I've learned is that sometimes you have to do really gross things in order to find out how much the people around you truly care about you.

Sexy Cougar Kittens

2012-01-10T07:29:00.000-08:00

Believe it or not, my new enthusiasm for eating better (aka less) and working out more was not really prompted by the guilty resolutions made on the first, nor was it from the fact that being married just for 6 months has already started to make me soft, it was Planet Earth.

Because I work from home, it's easy to get distracted as I madly type away each day. So I keep Planet Earth running in the background so that I don't get too stir crazy, even though it means that I have to hide behind my laptop anytime a predator actually catches its prey. The only exceptions are the dolphins. I always root for them.

But watching about all these animals who don't eat for months at a time because they're hibernating and such made me realize that typing for 8 hours a day while lounging in my blankets is probably not too different from the hibernation of the Polar bears in their ice cave, (we rarely turn our heat on) yet I feel the need to eat 3-5 meals a day.

Since any of my plans to eat less usually involve me yelling at myself like Liz Lemon before she goes to a party where she doesn't know a lot of people, I decided to up the ante on how often I drag myself out of our house. Or even out of the TV room. So I signed myself up for this triathlon.

This is how I found myself at the BYU gym in the Smith Fieldhouse.

As soon as I walked in I couldn't believe how out of place I felt. Not because some of the machines absolutely mystify me, (I have a rule that if I can't figure them out by walking by them then they're not worth my time) but because the whole situation felt like a middle school dance.

All the girls seemed to be clumped together and trying to look cooler than they actually felt, and the boys were kind of wandering around hoping that they weren't the shortest ones there.

I was trying to do everything I could to make sure people could see my ring, not because I was worried anyone would be picking up on me, (if you saw how much my entire head sweats when I work out then you would know that I wasn't worried about that) but for the same reason I wanted to wear my 2002 EFY shirt or get my degree tattooed on my forehead: to show people I'm old!

Listening to the girls on the ellipticals to my left recap their first semester of freshman year just made me so happy to be done with that phase of my life. Don't get me wrong--I LOVED freshman year. Probably too much. I met three of my best friends that year (one of them I now share my bed with), I never cared about when I went to sleep, classes were more about meeting people than learning things, and don't even get me started on the glories of Dining Plus, but all good things must come to an end.

And as the girls next to me were constantly looking over their shoulder to make sure guys noticed how well their Nikes matched their gym shorts I just wanted to lean over and tell them that they were both getting sweaty butt cracks.

But it wasn't just the girls either, there were guys there in Sperrys and V-necks with more mousse in their hair than I've cumulatively used in my lifetime. And if they weren't hipster boys on the treadmill they were muscle-men that looked around the entire gym after finishing a set as if expecting a round of applause.

I suppose this phase of life is just like anything else that comes and goes; as soon as you're not wearing butterfly clips and jeans with holes in them you start wondering why you ever did in the first place. Can't wait for 5 years from now when I think I'm an idiot for ever writing this post.

Are You There Blogger? It's Me, Alex...

2012-01-07T17:00:00.000-08:00

Usually, when I don't blog for almost a year, I start the rebirth post with a sappy "Forgive me blogger for I have sinned, it has been yada yada days since my last post..." type of apology to the anonymous blogging world and, of course, an iron-clad promise that I'll do better next time.

But I decided I'm not going to do that today. Instead, I'm going to start with a silent pat on my own back and a "you're welcome" to absolutely no one in particular.

Although I'm not going to apologize, I do feel like I have to do somewhat of a recap of the last... 8 months? that I've been ignoring this blog. Plus, I just did my annual camera to computer picture upload so I've suddenly got all these memories that I have to archive.

P.S. these will not be done in chronological order because I'm not a machine.

I made one of the most platypus-like faces known to mankind. Oh, I also ran a marathon.

We watched the most epic, and last, installment of the Harry Potter movies. Stay tuned for when Jordyn Canady and I remake the whole series into movies that actually do the books justice!

I went on a honeymoon! Of which this is one of the only pictures. Since I can't fully document it I'll just say, it was beautiful, we got tan and ate a lot of beans.


Our honeymoon tour spanned from Provo to Phoenix to Mazatlan to Portland to Island Park to Provo and since Jason's mom was nice enough to load us up with a ton of house stuffs, we had a most epic Budget truck ride from Portland on. Jason is pictured because he did most of the driving.

We celebrated my third favorite holiday with a totally legit pumpkin carving fest. Thanks to some overachiever on pinterest, we even carved SANDVIK in the back of it.


We were murderers!!! Well we went to a murder mystery party anyway. My character was this awesome heiress who was also a bootleg driver who knew how to handle a Tommy-gun. Jason was a sexy gambler who ran the bootlegging business. Needless to say, our characters also had a steamy romance.

We got a Kinect and Jason got a little too competitive and completely smashed the light fixture. With his head. So we spent one of our first nights in our new house cleaning up glass off the carpet and out of Jason's flesh.

Oh, and I got married to my favorite person.

Which is most likely the best thing that's ever happened to me.

Confessions From The Bathroom

2011-05-06T12:16:00.000-07:00

Today during my brief break of my "Romantic Transport" class--which is really more about opium than literature, I went to the little stairwell of the JFSB where the cell-phone addicts gather like smokers in a glass cage that gets some service--fully expecting my phone to be flooded with loving texts. You can imagine my surprise* when all I got was the stupid Skweez--which wasn't even good. So, since I had no epistolary texts to reply to, I decided to kill some time and have a nice, relaxing trip to the bathroom (I'm not one to take recreational bathroom breaks, if I need to go to the loo it's because I mean business, so it was nice to relax). When I got there though, I was not presented the tranquil serenity I thought I would find, but instead I found myself faced with a moral qualm delineating my duties to mankind.

What happened, you may ask? Well, right as I entered the bathroom I noticed all the stalls were probably occupied, (I'm gathering that from the fact that all the stall doors were pretty closed and I wasn't going to be one of those people that try to punch open all of those doors that just might not have a half-naked body behind them) so I just settled in my hip and tried to inconspicuously check out my outfit in the mirror (verdict: should have gone with the other flats). Then, and this is where the stress starts, three stall doors open all at once.

Usually when you're waiting for an open toilet there's a system: you know there's going to be a wait if multiple women are standing without facing each other or speaking, (chatty waiters are either just in the bathroom to take in the scenery, or clearly not in as big of a rush as you are) you take your place in the group of waiters and you silently memorize everyone's face so that no one who has come in after you will try to elbow their way in front of you, (and you try to guess who has been waiting the longest and who needs to go the worst) then as people trickle out of the stalls you wait for the natural course of events to take place until everyone has gotten in and you are at the front of the hierarchy waiting for your one toiletmate to come out and you take their place on the other side of those stall doors.

This turn of events, however, goes against the system. Instead of the regular bathroom osmosis choosing for me which stall I was to do my bidness in, I had to use my own brain, and more importantly, heart to choose for myself. using some rapid-fire thought processes I immediately ruled out the first person that came out because she came out of the very first stall and I usually don't like to go to the very first stall because I feel like it's the one most used. And used by people who don't think about the fact that it's probably the one most used and thus aren't as savvy with public restroom germ etiquette. Then I ruled out the second one because she was kind of lingering in front of the stall door and I didn't exactly want to do-si-do my way into the privy.

Now, having ruled out the first two my choice should have been easy and sequential, right? Wrong! In my previous calculations I had failed to consider that there could have been a wildcard behind door number three, but in the process of walking toward the third and last stall I got pretty up-close and personal with the girl coming out of it and what I saw did not exactly appetize my bladder.

She was sweating! Not just like "oh, I was outside and straining to pick a blossom and I might have produced a bead of perspiration" but like hardcore sweating. I'm talking about dribbly forehead with the foggy upper-lip kind of sweat. Now, before you start thinking that I'm some kind of purist who can't handle a little bit of sweat, just know that at this point I was still willing to cut her a little slack. I mean, she probably took the stairs behind the RB that feel like you're ascending from the darkest circle of hell, and it's barely spring--no one's bodies are really used to the sun being out for more than six seconds at a time. Oh yeah, I'd cut her all that slack in the world! I mean I would probably squat over the seat, but I'd still pee in the same vicinity she did. It wasn't until I got closer to the stall that I realized why she had been sweating.

That. stall. stunk. so. bad. The smell was so pungent it was almost like I could chew it. Horrible. That girl had to have been doing some serious work. Stopping in my tracks, I knew I had a decision to make. I knew I wasn't going in there, but I wanted to go about it as gracefully as possible, seeing as all three bathroom contestants were now just barely starting to wash their hands. But, as happens in so many moments of mental duress, my mind went completely blank. Maybe it had to reboot itself after that horrible stench or something I don't know, but the point is that I had no idea what to do. So what did I do?

Walked right out of there. Yep. I did. I'm sorry if I made all of them self-conscious that none of them are suitable for public bathroom patronage, but I just couldn't figure out a better way to do it. I guess I can rule out solving the conflict in the Middle East as a possible career path.

*Ok, you're right, I wasn't extremely surprised.

Seven Years Now...

2011-03-04T08:59:00.000-08:00

Seven years is a long time by anyone's standards.

Seven years was a long time for Brad Pitt when he was stuck in Tibet. I don't remember anything about that movie except Brad had some gnarly beard action going on and that Tibet isn't exactly a dream vacation destination pour moi.

Seven years is also long enough to terrify a child into never swallowing her Juicy Fruit again, by telling her she'll eventually have a stomach full of old gum. (Just to update you Grandma Brown, I've now thrown that scare-tactic to the wind and will swallow my gum just about whenever a trash can is too far away for my lazy legs.)

Thanks to an exceptional fifth grade teacher, I also know that seven years was a really long time to have a war with the French and Indians. Especially if your mother country's full of total softcheeks and they and will make you do all the grunt work. No wonder we won the Revolution.

I also know that seven years was a long time to have anorexic cows in Moses' day, and that it's a long time to have bad luck for after your ugly face shatters the mirror.

But how long has seven years been to me?

Mom, if I could show you how long seven years has felt for me, I would have a beard down to my ankles and an intestinal track so chock-full of bubblicious that the double rainbow guy would have something else to scream about.

It's been so long since I've had someone that I could always count on to be interested in every stupid, little thing I'm doing. To be rooting for me no matter what the odds. To be so blind with a mother's love that she can tell me I'm the best at everything and lacking in nothing without crossing any fingers or knocking on any wood.

The world's a scary place without a mom, whether you're 14 or 21. Seven years is a really long time, I've now lived a third of my life without you, and I know I've learned so much, but sometimes I wish I could just get a break from all this learning. Call a timeout with the Big Guy. Maybe I could get a two-sided conversation for once. Your part of the conversation was always more interesting anyway. But I know it will probably be a whole lot longer than seven years before I get that, so until then, I'll just have to live it up so we'll have plenty of good things to talk about.

Why I Know I'm Going Crazy:

2010-09-10T14:52:00.000-07:00

Today the walk home from campus was great. Temperature was just perfect, it's a Friday and the weekend can officially start, I could smell the hints of fall in the air (or maybe that was just Brick Oven...) nothing could stop the day from satisfactioning me.

Or so I thought...

Just when I'm at my peak of enjoyment I realize there's some crazy person walking right behind me even though there's a whole open world within which they don't have to invade my personal space! Now I'm a bit unnerved by this stranger gettin all up in my back bumper, but I know I've been in the same position where two people's paths sort of converge and you're suddenly walking almost arm in arm with a complete stranger. So I try to distance myself by picking up my pace, and what do you know, I hear this person's footsteps match exactly my cadence so they're still right on my tail!

So then I'm all, "K, Alexandra (my inner monologue is always very formal and uses my full name), this person's obviously in a hurry, you need to outsmart them by sloooowing down." Perfect, can do! It's already hard to text and walk at the same time, much less do it all at a faster pace, so I gear down to an absolute crawl and can anyone guess? The person slowed down to an identical crawl, steps matching mine to the very beat.

Well now this stranger's outsmarted even my inner monologue, and I have no idea how to get them off my back. After emitting a few audible huffs I finally make this huge dramatic gesture by stepping all the way off the sidewalk as well as turning to face the perpetrator (kind of like a glisse-half-pirouhette if you will) and what do I see?!!!

(picture added solely for dramatic effect)

Nothing!

There was not a soul there. This whole scenario was all in my head.

So now I'm freaking out and imagining me like Bruce Willis in the Six Sense, and wondering which of my friends are going to believe me when I tell them I have a connection with the "other side," and then I realize my backpack's unzipped. Unzipped so far that every time I take a step the contents slosh back and forth to make it sound like a step on the sidewalk right behind me.

BYU's Too Awesome

2010-09-02T17:20:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I think I'm just too lucky to be able to go to BYU. The cup of hilarious BYU students just runneth over. One little instance of hilarity was revealed to me today when I was introduced to a man in my 322 class named Stetson. Then I was surprised to see the same young man in my 325 class. But, now here's the twist, he introduced himself as Drake!

Now I know what you're all thinking: we're at an accredited University where people are mature enough not to need pseudonyms--he's probably just another white guy (they all look alike). But he's not! And I can prove it.

Reasons why I know he's the same guy:

He's got a ton of visible moles, and I'm very sure the constellations match up.

Same wedding ring (first thing I noticed because Stetson/Drake is about as hot as male editing minors get)

He lays down the same genre of "witty" teacher/student comments.

Then laughs too loudly at all his own "jokes."

He also sits in the most uncool seat in the room in both classes. The one that's closest to the teacher's podium.

But even if it is two different people, this Drake/Stetson situation has reminded me how awesome it is to be in college and get a fresh start with new and different people all the time. Every semester you get new classes, new wards where you can be a new you! Why shouldn't you be able to be a Stetson on MWF and Drake on TTh? And maybe I'll even hit up my American Lit class with what I like to call a British accent?

I Swam Today Where Jesus Walked

2010-03-29T23:49:00.000-07:00

Last week we spent eleven days living on a kibbutz on the shores of the Sea of Galilee (so when I say "I swam today where Jesus walked" I use the word "today" very loosely), and it may have been my favorite thing we've done. So far.

Some days we'd go on day trips to places like Capernaum, Nazareth or the Mount of Transfiguration. Other days we'd have New Testament class on the beach; studying the words of our Savior while looking out over the land He loved. But on one of the days we had day trips, we went to the Mount of Beatitudes where the lovely Franciscans have, in typical Roman Catholic fashion, built a beautiful church, while maintaining the pastoral theme with breathtaking, tropical gardens.

After having a lesson about the sermon Jesus gave on this mountain, we were given about an hour for personal study within the garden that overlooks the brilliant blue of the Galilee. During this time I found a little stair that was billowed by some particularly ravishing hibiscuses, and instead of feasting on more of Christ's work that was written down, I just leaned back into the flowers and absorbed all of Christ's physical work in our beautiful world.

Whether I was looking at the bougainvilaeas moseying along the filigreed fence, or at the meticulously placed basalt stones that lined the the multitudes of pansies, whose bright faces translate cheerfulness wherever you are, you could tell that an incredible amount of work has gone into keeping this garden as beautiful as it is. These Franciscan friars have left behind secular lives, most of them very successful lives, and have now taken on humble vows of poverty to devote their services to God. One man in particular had been an international accountant, working mainly in Geneva, he was (and is) fluent in 8 different languages and had amassed millions of dollars in wealth, which he wholeheartedly gave away to do whatever menial task the Lord required of him.

As I was thinking about the selfless service these friars perform to maintain this beautiful garden, I realized how similar their sacrifice is to the role our Redeemer plays. Just like this beautiful garden was started from rocky soil covered in weeds, so are our souls less than desirable real estate. But Christ, as our loving older Brother, acts as a perfect gardener, willing to trim all our hedges, and tend to every dying flower, if we but open our gates to let Him in.

Somewhere Over the Rainbow, You're Watching Me

2010-03-04T08:38:00.000-08:00

The last time I saw you was on a Wednesday night six years ago and we were just talking on your bed, about me of course, like we had done so many times before, and I couldn't imagine that we wouldn't do so many times again.

The last time I saw you I was a freshman in high school who only cared about which American Eagle shirt she was going to wear to the stake dance, and whether it would be more awesome to drive or to date when she turned sixteen.

The last time I saw you I wanted to be a veterinarian, with my instinctive and fierce love for all animals. You only fanned the flame by giving me all the James Herriot books, countless beanie babies (still have them) and even my own dog when I made my own collar and asked to eat my meals on the floor and on all fours.

But that was the last time I saw you.

The last time you saw me was at my high school graduation, and I'm sure you were rolling your eyes at all the speakers who were assuring the whole class of 07 that they were going to be world leaders--even the guy picking his nose and wiping it under the seat.

The last time you saw me I was unashamedly licking tzahi sauce from my kebab in Budapest, and walking barefoot on Viennese cobblestones. Even though I kind of hope you weren't, I'm sure you saw me at the discotheque in Prague, or bawling at the Holocaust museum in Berlin. But I know you saw me smelling the blossoms down the Champs Elysees, and gorging myself on baguettes and any fromage that came my way. I bet you smiled as I stopped dead in my tracks in front of la tour eiffel, because you know better than anyone the charm de paris.

The last time you saw me was as the sun was rising on Mount Sinai where you whispered in my ear where my life was supposed to go next. Giving me that extra little push I need so often so that I can fully dive into the Lord's plan for me.

People say that you've passed away, but that doesn't make any sense to me. You've gone away with me! You're there in all my most passionate moments, where I love everyone and everything in this beautiful world God created for us. You're there in all my quietest moments when I can't imagine being any less adequate for this hard world God makes us go through. But I know you're there, because even if I can't see you or feel you, I know you love me because you'd never want to miss a second of my life!

I love you mom, and I'll see you later!

Pray For The Peace Of Jerusalem

2010-01-18T05:33:00.000-08:00

Pictures! I hope everyone enjoys this visual stimulus brought to you by the wireless at Hebrew University (the internet at our center is a little too junior to be able to withstand pictures being uploaded).This is the view from the center on our first free day. As you can see, I was pretty excited to have been out on the town.

This is me showing the Dome of the Rock like it's something you can win on Price Is Right.

At the Ethiopian Church where a man of the cloth came up to me, kissed both of my cheeks, hugged me, and then proceeds to spray my entire body (including both of the cameras in my hands) with this Oriental perfume.

This last week we were able to go to the Western Wall for the ushering in of Shabbat (after sundown, which is strictly contraband under regular circumstances) and it was tov to the max! The whole place was packed with old Jewish women who looked like they stepped out of a European cafe in the 50's, even older men who covered their bald spots with kippas, packs of Hebrew school students with scriptures that opened the wrong way, and (my personal favorite) hordes of Israeli soldiers much too beautiful to be enlisted.

From the Ultra-Orthodox Jews down to the observant gentiles, we all had our own way of communicating with God. After standing in front of the wall and just absorbing all the reverence from the wide spectrum of worship, I finally wrote down my prayer and as I pressed it between the prayers of hundreds of others from all over the world I felt so spiritually connected with this little world full of people looking for something to make them happy. Awesome.

Holy Moly, Holy Land!

2010-01-08T10:14:00.000-08:00

Forgive me Blogger for I have sinned. It has been four months since my last post and I come to you with a spirit of contrition, ready to repent. Because now, more than ever, I have something to blog about.

J.E.R.U.S.A.L.E.M.

Why haven't we met before? For me and Jerusalem, it was love at first sight. Like Romeo and Juliet, Cleopatra and Mark Antony, Bread and Cheese--we were meant to be together! As I stepped off the plane in Tel Aviv, I felt something special about this place. Then when I watched all the old Jewish men in the arrivals gate tenderly embrace and kiss eachother's cheek with their earlocks bobbing around, I knew it was true.
I know that the religious significance of this place has caused thousands of years of war and countless lives shed, but how many people in this world are willing to die for their religion? Most people in our world go to church because it's something to do on an Easter Sunday, or because their parents did it, but they don't feel strongly enough about their convictions they'd lay their mortal lives on the line to protect it.
I'm not trying to endorse self-inflicted martyrdom, but there's something about the devotion of the people here that is so thick you can almost breathe their piety. It's like the severe reverence of the city makes it even more animated. Just walking outside I can tell my body loves this city. Whether it's smelling so deeply the incense-spice-hookah-tea filled air until you feel like you're actually using your skin to absorb the scents through osmosis, or letting the beautiful Arabic call to prayer song echo deep in your soul as it radiates throughout the city.
My spirit loves this city. I have never felt more at one with the Lord as well as the world than when I was kneeling to kiss the monument of His tomb with a creaky and old Greek Orthodox woman one on side of me, and a large and powerful Nigerian man on the other side of me. All brought together by the love of our Savior.
My only hope is that I can remember forever that what happened here changed the world, and I know it has the power to change me.

La Vie En Rose

2009-08-07T16:58:00.000-07:00

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!

Dear Blogosphere

2009-06-14T21:40:00.000-07:00

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.

Boycott Finals

2009-04-17T00:07:00.000-07:00

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.

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

2009-03-04T12:18:00.000-08:00

5 Years.

1826		Days.
43832		Hours.
2629952		Minutes.

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.

Screw Punxsatawney Phil

2009-02-09T22:12:00.000-08:00

So... It's winter.

STILL.

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:

MORE WINTER

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.

Philosophy, Shmilosophy

2009-01-25T20:09:00.000-08:00

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:

WHY AM I HERE???!

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!

I'm Home! Now What...

2008-12-28T21:30:00.000-08:00

My country tis of thee,
Land where the water's free,
Of thee I sing.
Land where the dollar's used
Brits' slang won't me confuse
Back to plain old BYU
Let freedom ring.

I know you've heard the rumors, and they are true.
I am home.
[insert elated cheering here]
Christmas and New Years have been great, I've had some big activities like eating, watching my favorite TV shows, (DogTown, Extreme Makeover: Home Edition, America's Next Top Model etc.) eating some more, snowboarding, (too bad my little sister's already better than me) a little more eating, coming to the realization of how out of shape I truly am at good old Gold's Gym, and of course, eating still more. It's been kind of lazy. But I do start the real world of BYU in about 10 hours, and seeing how I haven't been to a real college class in... well, longer than it's been since Paris Hilton had her last DUI that's for sure, it might be a little bit of a culture shock.
Although I am looking forward to having a little structure in my life and having more to do than just eat and entertain myself during the day, it's going to be a bit difficult to step back into the competitive world of Cougars. To combat this anxiety, I decided to make some New Years resolutions. 4 days late.

1. Stop procrastinating. As you can see my New Years resolutions done on the fourth of January is a telltale sign of what a big part of my life this is.
2. Get a job. This is probably going to mean a lot less America's Next Top Model.
3. Stop wasting so much time. This is definitely going to mean a lot less America's Next Top Model.
4. Make friends in ALL my classes. I'm starting to think that this post displays my social skills as somewhat under par, but really I'm a pretty friendly person. Mostly. There's just something about being in class that shuts me down. But not this year.
5. KEEP THESE RESOLUTIONS!

Yes. I realize the last one is kind of covered in the fact that the aboves are "resolutions" and not just some happy thoughts on life, but I thought if I typed it out it might help me realize it. That's why it's in all caps too. I once heard that if you typed something in all caps then it is the online equivalent of yelling. So forgive me for raising my voice. I'm just excited to start school.

I'm Leaving On A Jet Plane

2008-12-14T17:10:00.000-08:00

3 Hours.

That's all I have left of my London paradise.

I know I'm greedy by thinking that I deserve even one more day of this fabulous life, but how can I help it?

I'm convinced that no one had a better Study Abroad than London Fall 08. And I have the scientific evidence to back it up.

Not only have I had an aMAZing time here, but I have learned a lot. (Imagine that, learning on a study abroad?)

I've learned:

When they say there are going to be slight delays on the Circle Line, do NOT get on the train unless you never want to get to your final destination.

A sunny, blue sky do not mean that you won't come home looking like you just swam the English Channel.

Just because we walk everywhere and climb four flights of stairs to get to our room doesn't mean I deserve a magnum, Hummingbird's cupcake, Ben's Cookies, and possibly another Magnum. Every day.

The word cheers, when said with a British accent, can mean: please, thank you, you're welcome, hello, goodbye, pass the salt, shaken not stirred. . . and anything else a Brit needs to say.

But the most important things I've learned have been from the people I've spent these glorious months with. I wish I could name everything from every single person, but I don't think I could manage it in the three hours before my flight leaves. But to everyone of you--you touched my life. Thank you for being the type of girls that make me want to be a better person. I know I came to London for a reason, and it was to meet every one of you. You all deserve medals for putting up with me for four months. And the rest of your lives, because you're not getting rid of me!

Nothing but love.

Once Upon A December

2008-12-05T12:55:00.000-08:00

I can't believe it is already December.

I have seen that month looming at the end of the calendar, but I don't think I ever really thought that it would have the bones to actually appear.

But it did.

Which means the lovely segment of my life that consists of reading the London Paper everyday, and eating West African food on the way home from the National Gallery must soon come to a close.

But let's not talk about that right now.

Let's talk about how everything in London is still amazing and I couldn't be happier to be here!

Thanksgiving was awesome, and we totally schooled London on what it's like to be a grateful American. We went to a synagogue in the morning. Which is a tradition in my family. Yeah you're right, it's not. But it was cool to hear a lot about Judaism, because all I really knew was based on my knowledge of Adam Sandler songs. Then we hit up some high tea at the Kensington Palace Orangerie, which was dreadfully good. The tea was herbal, of course, but it was so yummy! I may not have converted to Judaism, but I think I have converted to the tea-drinking way. By the way I take my tea with two lumps. And then some. After tea we had a bit of a photo shoot where the thanksgiving spirit descended as a pigeon onto Jordyn and Rebbie's heads.

The reaction was heightened by Jordyn's already nervous disposition, but as you can see Sara wasn't shaken at all, and the fuss only caused me to blink. Which I'm proud of.

Here's a closer view, courtesy of Jordyn's blog:

I hope this brings you as much joy as it brought Jordyn anguish.

After gorging ourselves on the Centre's version of Thanksgiving, (which was spot on, except there were no orange rolls (Thomases) or rowdy expletives (Browns) which made me sad, on both parts) we decided that in the grand tradition of the post-Thanksgiving movie-going we would go see a musical.

Lion King.

Blew my mind. I knew I would love it though, it's got animals, and music, and is backed up by Disney. It couldn't go wrong.

Au Revoir Paris

2008-11-21T14:31:00.000-08:00

Although I'm so sad to see this beautiful city go, I say goodbye with bittersweet breath. After a delightful last day of Sacre Coeur, catacombs, faire de magasins and one last crepe avec jambon, oignons, fromage, pomme de terre et salade, we headed toward the train station. That's where it all went bad. Running all the way across Paris to get that delectable crepe, pushed the time limit and left Rebbie, Jordyn and me running through the Gare du Nord to pick up our luggage and run madly around the terminal looking for our train. It was at Passport control that I realized I didn't have just that.

My Passport.

It was in the bag which my lovely roommate Lauren had so kindly picked up for me because we were late. I frantically tried to tell my friends where my passport could be in the bag as they were going through border patrol and onto the train which was holding my bag where my passport was nestled safely between my well-worn keds and fake Juicy Couture perfume. Mind you, our train is supposed to leave in mere minutes. As my friends tore through my dirty socks and cardigans, I sat in limbo between customs and passport control with tears running down my American face which chocked up my few French words about how I need to go to England. During this whole mess I'm trying not to look at my watch as much as possible but I can't help but notice that my train is leaving very, very soon (forgive the lack of particulars, my watch doesn't have numbers on its face) and I am still an American who needs to go to England but is stuck in France.

Just as I'm imagining myself going back to the hotel we just checked out of, with my metro card that just expired and find the American Embassy where I can wait in line for a week and get a new passport; a few security personnel approach me and start asking me all these questions in French, English and probably a little Spanish, with which all I could reply with was "J'ai perdu mon passport et j'ai besoin d'aller au l'Angleterre!" Finally, one of them asks me my name and I respond with Je m'appelle Alexandra Thomas (thanks Ann!) and he hands me the most beautiful little blue book I've ever seen: my PASSPORT! Now with tears of joy I run like Pocahontas when she dances with the colors of the wind through security and relax. A little bit like my friend Anna.

Apart from the stress at the end there, there were definitely some fabulous times to be had in the city of love.

A little photo session on the top of the Eiffel Tower at dusk

As beautiful as that was, I don't think it topped the absolutely divinely inspired Greek crepe (I know right?) we had on La Rue Mouffetard. TOO good. This is the one that almost got me stranded in France.

As you can see by my face it was totally worth it.

Paris Holds The Key To My Heart!

2008-11-16T14:44:00.000-08:00

Bonjour mes amis!

I thought that I might do my whole blog en Francais, and then I remembered that thanks to 5 years of French all I know how to say is that I like ice cream and that I'm 14 years old.

So that will come in handy if I meet a pedophile.

Despite my limited language skills, I am tres excite! (Use your decoding skills to decipher that). I can't wait to go stay in a hotel where I don't have to run madly down the hall to find a very dirty community bathroom that I share with an interesting cocktail of European youth.

Or have the assurance that I won't be fed sausage, ham, baked beans, soup and toast for breakfast.

But the best thing about the delicieux food, and the beautiful city filled with beautiful people is that they all come with the Euro! This blessed form of currency doesn't make the dollar look quite as ridiculous as the pound does and maybe I'll feel like my country has more to back up my little George Washington than Monopoly money.

Coming Of Age In London

2008-11-11T16:10:00.000-08:00

Seeing as my dear friend Jordyn is about to turn twenty and leave the safety of her teen years to enter into true adulthood, I have been thinking a lot about the future. And I don't really like it. It scares me to be as old as I am. I don't like that I can remember things that were ten years ago, and I don't like that kids who I baby-sat are getting their licenses, but I especially don't like that in a few months' time I will no longer be a teenager and I'll end up being one of those people that tell you that they were once your age not too long ago, and then the recipient of the lecture just rolls their eyes as I fix my dentures and pull up my panty hose.

But instead of lamenting my fear of growing up, I decided to take affirmative action with where my life is headed, so I'm devoting this post to a list of things I'd like to do before I'd die.

Please note that this list is provisional, and subject to change.

1. Be in a Britney Spears music video. (I know everyone says she's past her glory, but the classics never die)

2. Raise a lion cub (I might settle with just petting one, after I thought about how big lion poop probably is) so I can have a "Christian the lion" experience. If you haven't seen this on youtube, I highly recommend it. It changed my life.

3. Make a fat-free croissant and fat-free bacon. Or just live long enough to see it done.

4. Find evidence of a mysterious phenomenon (i.e. Bigfoot, Lochness monster, UFO etc.) and be published in the National Enquirer.

5. Eat at Beto's (your finest 24 hr. burrito supplier) and not regret it. Just once!

6. Make an ice sculpture like Bill Murray in Groundhog Day.

7. Become cultured enough that I no longer am entertained by low-budget and low IQ reality TV shows. They get me every time.

8. Come to be unashamed that I really love baked beans, carrot cake and corn bread.

9. Perfect the Angelina Jolie Sexy Scowl.

10. Yield more raw power than Oprah herself.

I know those are some pretty lofty goals, but at least I have 6 months before I really have to start thinking about them.

I wish I could say the same for Jordyn.

My Claim To Fame

2008-11-09T15:07:00.000-08:00

I know guys. I know. You're all insanely jealous of me right now, right? For all of those who, for some reason, can't tell; this is a picture of Leonardo DiCaprio. You see the pink blur? He is two blurs to the left from that. Beautiful.

Ok, in my defense there were adoring fans all around and since I was clearly the muscles of the situation I was the one hoisting the little girl on top of my shoulders. Thus the horrible picture.

But who else can say they have an unrecognizable picture of the back of some semi-washed up teen heartthrob's head?

Yeah, I'm pretty lucky.

I really did get to see him though, and it was quite grand. Right when I looked into his blue eyes I knew that even though I was squished into the arm pit of some full grown man who kept yelling "Leo" at the top of his lungs approximately every seven seconds (he must have been pretty close to Leonardo because he was comfortable enough to call him Leo), Leonardo saw me and knew that we would be fast friends. I am expecting a call anytime soon and he'll invite me to drink cocoa with Gisele and him.

I wonder what I'll wear...

Remember, Remember The Fifth Of November

2008-11-05T12:13:00.000-08:00

Can I just start out this post with a few kudos to our new President elect? Just in case Barack stumbles across my blog in his spare time I'd like to let him know he's done fine. This election has been filled with almost every emotion available to humans; on both sides (even though Cindy McCain's face is not capable of anything but that smile-like grimace). I know my political experience is nothing, seeing as I've only known Bushes and Clintons in the White House, but this election was pretty exciting. Apart from re-defining the lines of race and gender, the election had some pretty impressive merchandise.

My favorite is this Obama-ka.

Not only is this a great day for America, but it is a great day for the world. Because it is the day David B Thomas was born.

My dad.

Whether it's helping me do my Beaver County report in roughly the time it took to make my cinnamon toast before the bus came, because I had neglected to tell him anything about the report until an hour before it was due. And it still turned out awesome. Fully equipped with a pin-the-tail-on-the-beaver game and partly factual information from the one and only brochure Beaver County has.

Or driving me all the way back down the canyon to get a coat from grandma's house when my seventh grade vanity prohibited me from wearing his oversized olive green sweater and I had forgotten my own coat. Even though he was so mad at me he wouldn't speak the whole way down, we still made up over the obligatory, raspberry-filled powdered donuts from the gas station.

Or when he sacrificed the lawn, and the wood floors, and the carpets, and the garage door, and almost everything else below knee level in the house all just to give me what I wanted even more than a little sister: a puppy. When I made myself a collar and a tail and pretended to be a dog myself, he didn't see it as creepy like everyone else, but he saw it as an endearing cry for the dog I so sorely needed.

I know it's hard for my dad to be the only sane one in the midst of three very different girls, and a lot of times what we mean gets lost in what we say, but the best way to say I love you, is by not saying anything at all.

When I ran the jeep into a car in our driveway on New Year's Eve and instead of yelling at me you just laughed and helped me out of the driveway so I could go to my party.

That told me you love me.

When I hit my middle school crisis, and was positive no one understood what it meant to be a 13 year old at Farrer Middle School, you listened to all my woes, and even made a packet of all my talents, complete with pictures and diagrams, when I didn't think I was good at anything (which I still have today).

That told me you love me.

Especially when I'm five thousand miles away and I'm too busy having the time of my life, and get stressed about all the little things I was supposed to do before I left (like planning a return ticket for the right day) and you swoop in on your white horse and take care of everything.

That told me you love me.

Here's to another amazing year with an amazing dad.

I'm in Love, I'm in Love and I Don't Care Who Knows It!

2008-10-22T07:40:00.000-07:00

Sometimes when I've just had a grueling day of seeing priceless works of art at the National Gallery, or am forced to go to the Royal Opera House to see Swan Lake for my Humanities class I just have to sit back and take some time for myself.

That's when I go to hummingbird.

This place is a dream come true. I have yet to eat one that hasn't completely rocked my world and given me an out of body experience. Let me just give you a preview of some of my faves: the Pina Colada one takes frosting to the next level with a soft coconut flavor, then has a sweet and slightly citrusy cake, and when you think they've done it all, you hit the real pineapple chunks at the bottom. Another highlight is the Lemon Curd, despite the word curd, nothing is curdish about it. The lemon frosting on top tastes like how clouds look when you fly over them at sunset, and then the cake below it offsets the tart frosting with sweet and somehow salty blend that rivals even kettle corn. Oh yeah, then there's a Nutella flavor. It would be unholy for me to cheapen this with words.

It is so fabulous it even makes you throw inhibitions and societal norms to the wind. On one of our recent excursions we paid the extra 45p so we could eat in and sit on one of their cute velvet stools soaking in the posh ambience. After standing awkwardly in the small shop that was full of customers that were just as happy as we were, we managed to get a little table from a nice couple that graciously gave up their coveted seats. After we had all devoured our own little baked dreams we couldn't help but joke about how funny it would be if we ate the rest of the cake the lady before us left behind. After a few awkward smiles and some shifty eyes, we all swallowed our pride and picked our forks right back up. We started at the edge with the frosting, the side that hadn't been touched by a stranger's fork, but things quickly progressed until we had eaten every last bite. Every one. Like a homeless person.

It may not have been my proudest moment, but I don't regret it for one second.

Fleeting Fall

2008-10-19T15:19:00.001-07:00

Fall is here! And in honor of this beautiful season I have changed my page. Again. Now hopefully it looks a little less like seventh grader's myspace page and a little more like the blog of a gentlewoman and a scholar. I don't know how classy online profiling can be though... you can't help but feel that you're doing something creepy.

The changing seasons are always enjoyable for me. Seeing the season change on a completely different continent is especially enjoyable because it is actually quite similar to little Provo. The sweet smell of half rotten leaves coupled with the crackling of dried ones under foot still make me want to wrap up in a scarf and sip some apple cider. Even if the British put corn in their tomato sauce, wear a little less deodorant, and make the quest for an ice-cold Dr. Pepper like the search for the holy grail, we still share the same small world.

Going from one season to another always reminds me of the inconstancy of life. Just as all the seasons come and go, so will everything; good and bad. Which is important for me to remember while I'm on this never-going-to-happen-again trip. When I catch myself worrying about not studying enough or eating too many magnums (if you're not familiar with these divinely inspired ice cream bars I will pray for your soul. They taste like rainbows and laughter dipped in God's special stash of chocolate then frozen and sold at your local Tesco) that my few jeans I brought here will finally give up on me, I just have to remember that Fall will be over soon and I'll be back in Provo again waiting for the next great thing to come along.

Underground Rap

2008-10-13T03:39:00.000-07:00

I think my entries have been a little flat, hopefully this little ditty about the London pub-trans will spice things up a bit.

This one is done to the musical score of Eazy E.

If that means anything to anyone.

Cruisin down Bayswater to my tube, yo.

Flash them the pass, walk through the do'

Sniffing up the urine and the B.O.

Waitin for the lift to come to my flo'

Chick gets on the mic and says "next lift"

and I smile a bit cause it smells like... poo

Elevator comes and we all pile in

Next thing I know I'm spooning an Asian

Of course it's awkward silence, but it's all cool though

I brought my Sudoku from my Lite Metro

The doors open and the wind's all up in my grill

Tears are blowin down my face it's so hard homie ya feel?

Barely make the train--Mind The Gap!

There never is a seat, man that's whack.

Holding to the bar like it's the iron rod

Staring at some strangers while listening to my Pod

Britney Spears comes on the phones and I can't help but nod,

I'm dancin to the beat even if I'm not usin my bod

Queensway, Lancaster, Marble Arch and Bond,

To say we're flying by, ain't too wrong.

The lights are flickering, but man I ain't scurred

I own this city now, London ya heard?

They's people all around, one's got a nasty cough

Then I holla to my peeps, "Dis where we gettin off".

Priceless Trip to the North

2008-10-11T03:06:00.000-07:00

I'm sure you've all noticed the facelift I've given my blog, although it's not exactly what I'd always dreamed my blog would look like, it's all my poor technical skills can manage.

As I write this post, I am once again tucked safely back on the third floor of 27 Palace Court. We just returned from the wild North yesterday, and while I had an absolutely fabulous time, it is nice to be able to be back in London and not be "coach sick" every other hour. Before we headed up North I had pretty much no idea what we were in for. Luckily I trust my professors enough to know that it would be well worth my time. This week's activities started out with a sobering visit to Quarry Bank Mill, a busy cotton mill during the industrial age. While I've been on this trip we've dropped in on mansion after mansion and almost every palace, but we've not seen much of how the majority of the population lived. Quarry Bank Mill was definitely an eye-opening experience. There are times I've wondered, as I've been here, why any of our ancestors would have wanted to leave this beautiful island, but after seeing the conditions of this huge textile mill, what with their 15-18 hour days, 2 meals, cotton filled lungs, body deformities from child labor and such meager pay that you have no other choice, it's a wonder why anyone stayed! This trip was by no means a downer though, we visited happy places like the cavern in Liverpool where the Beatles first performed, or the cottage in Ambleside where Beatrix Potter lived. We ended trip on almost the polar end of how we started it though; at Chatsworth.

We got scolded in perfect British form for taking this picture.

This "house" was like taking Buckingham Palace, mixing it with the Louvre, throw a few rolling dales in and then you have Chatsworth manor. The opulence of this place really just hit me like a punch to the face. When you go to a palace you expect to be bombarded with gold gilt and glittering crystals, but when you go to someone's home (who still lives there today) the whole palatial thing kind of catches

you off guard. As our guide was telling us about the 150 kilo solid silver chandelier, and the 15000 paintings, most by big names like Leonardo, Raphael, Michelangelo (not the turtles) someone in our group couldn't help but ask the question that was pressing all of our minds; how much? Of course he had to say that they were all priceless, but a very very conservative estimate was about 7 billion pounds. In paintings. Alone. All for this old couple with bad teeth. Maybe it was just because we had driven in the bus for about 3 hrs and my stomach had nothing but bad hostel food, but hearing that really just made me sick. All of that stuff, while beautiful, is really just stuff. We say it is priceless, but it is really just worthless. I had never realized how much it doesn't matter, than when I was surrounded by so much of it. The fact that I was surrounded by so many people that make life matter helped my perspective as well. It's so easy to get drawn into the material side of life, but it's so easy to forget it too. Whenever you laugh until you cry, or cry until you laugh you're a part of what really counts. My life may never be documented in a museum, or people won't travel thousands of miles to take a picture with a bronze effigy of me, but I can still appreciate a good laugh with a good friend.

Don't take things for Janet

2008-10-01T12:57:00.000-07:00

Let me just preface this entry by explaining the title. My lovely friend told me a charming little story about her thinking the common phrase "take things for granted" was actually "take things for Janet" which happened to be the name of her older sister. It sounds like a cute juvenile story until you find out that she misunderstood this term until late into her teen years. Why I chose this as my title shall (hopefully) be clear to you at the end of this blog.
We visited Oxford today and thought it would be absolutely charming to go punting down this river and ogle the "fit gents on the football pitch". So we paid our deposit and got ready for a romantic getaway with four girls. Little did I know that balancing on the back of a very long boat with an even longer and heavier pole would not be the best plan. The happy and confident me above is pictured just after our very experienced guide pushed us off into the unknown and let me man the boat myself.
This lovely picture of me was taken only seconds after my happy pole got stuck in three feet of mud and in my attempts to pull it out, I wound up deeper in the mud than the pole. Amid frantic moans (I wasn't even coherent enough to think of obscenities) I made it to the river bank. Even closer to the "fit gents on the football pitch". Luckily the wind was blowing at roughly the speed of sound and the 60 degree weather went from crisp to frigid almost immediately. Luckily, I had friends there to help me laugh while I was pulling pond scum out of my hair, but it wasn't too long before we not-so-gracefully gave up. I braved the water again and we tied the boat up to a dock nearby and just headed back to the boat rental place on foot. After unceremoniously climbing three or more fences we got ourselves completely trapped on an island with no way across except to climb this bridge (that was not high enough for this to be a stunt equal of Jason Bourne, but high enough to rack up European medical costs should we have been unsuccessful). My friend Brooke and I got up pretty easily (despite the fact that the crotch on my soggy pants was about to my knees) but another one of our friends does not sit well with heights and she found herself halfway up (and halfway down), luckily for us (and the crowd we had gathered) she was coherent enough to spit out a few obscenities which only made the situation better. Then as she was hugging the side of the bridge with my hand firmly in her armpit and Brooke's leg under her elbow, this man that looked something like a Greek god mixed with a Calvin Klein model came and told us that there was a foot-bridge nearby.
Having crossed the bridge we made it down to the boat-rental and received quizzical (an understatement) looks from the men who were expecting us to come in from the river on their boat. We told them (in very animated terms) what happened and where the boat was and they were kind enough to jog down there and get it and not charge us an extra pence. Too kind.
We then had just enough time to hit up a souvenir store and buy me some matching Oxford sweats and big-T shirt (I looked like an Oxford crazed women's basketball player) before we had to be at Christ's Church for Evensong.

As soon as we got to Christ's Church we were regaling our friends with our epic story and didn't notice that half of our quite large company had already entered the courtyard to the Church. We hurried around the corner and walked into this beautiful sight:

Naturally we knew we had to bust out the camera and capture this priceless moment. What we didn't know was that this was strictly against the rules. We didn't know it until this very large man was yelling at us to get out. At first he didn't even tell us why to get out, just that we had to. Then when we found out that it was because we weren't supposed to have taken pictures we immediately explained that we had no idea, we were profusely sorry and we would delete the pictures. He told us that he had told our group (which we weren't with at the time) and we deliberately disobeyed him, and he didn't want us to delete our pictures because he wanted us to show everyone at home what cost us our ticket to see Evensong at Oxford. Power trip? We tried every trick in the book for him to let us back in (i.e. pointing out that there were no signs forbidding photography, we were out of earshot when he told our group, even our professor came back and tried to reason with him), all of which he either ignored or came back with his favorite phrase "that's your problem". When I had reached the point of exasperation, I finally tried to tell him that we were from a Christian college and just really wanted to attend evensong and I believe my exact words were "worship the Lord" (I was going for sympathy. OK, guilt). He then told us that Christians don't break rules, but after a little more pressure, he cracked and let us through. While running across the courtyard to catch the doors to the service before they closed I was thinking thoughts that definitely weren't worthy of worshiping the Lord. Although we got seats that made me feel like Rosa Parks, it didn't take long for me to calm down. In fact, as soon as they started singing the Lord's prayer I couldn't help but get teary eyed. Then when my friend whispered at how amazed she was that you could feel the spirit so strong in a place that is so different from our church, I couldn't hold back any longer. I started bawling. Not the single graceful tear down the cheek. The real deal. We're talking huge mascara-running tears, runny nose and catching breath. Normally this isn't my emotional expression of choice, but I just received such a strong testimony that the people who made all these sacrifices to build that church and many, many others did it for the same reason we make sacrifices for Jesus today. Although they didn't know about Joseph Smith or baptisms for the dead, they knew that there is an eternal God who loves them. I've always known that God is an eternal God but I've never felt it before now.
So I'm sitting in a pile of liquid emotions and I can't help but reflect upon the day. Although I could easily have interpreted it as a pretty crappy day what with me having to walk through upscale Oxford as a muddy mess, dropping 25 pounds (roughly $400 dollars with the current exchange rate) on a very touristy getup, almost crying because of a mean man with a vengeance, definitely crying an obscene amount in a chapel filled with stoic Brits... but this day couldn't have been more opposite. I found that I have made absolutely fabulous friends here who can make even the worst situation a hilarious adventure (or at worst a charming anecdote), nobody will ever doubt whether I have been to Oxford with all the merchandise I loaded up on, and I had a very necessary spiritual awakening. It's vital to appreciate things for what they are and not what you would have them be, and I'm no longer going to "take things for Janet".

Anglos And Their Animals

2008-09-22T11:05:00.001-07:00

Finally, a country that gets me! This is a monument dedicated to all the animals that have died along British soldiers in the past because "they had no choice". Now I don't feel quite as alone for being the only one who is more sorry for the hero's horse than the actual hero when the cannon finally falls the two. Not only do the Brits love their beasts of burden, but they are quite fond of their canine friends as well. I love running through Hyde Park in the morning, not only because it helps me justify all the delicious waffles and gelato and hob nobs and various cadbury products, but because of all the prancing beautiful dogs (even the dogs in London dress better than I do). It's like a potpourri of world-class dog breeds. I never thought anything could satisfy me more than a Saturday afternoon broadcast of a dog show, (dog shows: one of my many guilty pleasures) but this meets all those expectations and more. Not only do the English love their dogs, but they love the people that love their dogs. Americans, I think, can be a bit snooty when it comes to their furry, four-legged friends. The more we love them, the more we treat them like humans (yes, myself included) which is not good for the dog or the human (believe me, I've been ridiculed on more than one occasion for attempting a web-camming session with my puppy I left overseas). The British, on the other hand, while still loving their dogs as much as their children (or more, these dogs really are beautiful) are able to remember that they still must be treated like dogs to be happiest. Instead of dressing them up like puppy-prostitutes, they let them run wildly through the parks (leash laws are more of a guideline) chasing after the frolicking European squirrels, which are never out of sight (or sniff).

The English Riviera

2008-09-20T15:14:00.000-07:00

When I think of glistening turquoise water with emerald hills that blend into perfect sandy beaches I generally don't think of England. Somehow our professors managed to find this gem of a contradiction though. Granted the water temperature was just a notch above "organ failure" and it was filled with half-naked Brits before noon (think lots and lots of sun-shy skin and very little amounts of spandex), but it was an absolutely fabulous experience. After spending all day at various breath-taking sights we found shelter at a YMCA in a neighborhood called Alexandra. Naturally it was everything I could have imagined and more. I finally got a taste of what real British food is. We were served noodles (covered in salt and pepper of course) with a sort of sauce that consisted of hamburger meat, stewed tomatoes, corn, peas, green beans and all other canned vegetables available to the cook. Topped with a cheese and an option of ketchup (which I graciously declined). Because I couldn't decide whether it was pasta or stew we called it pewt. And it will forever hold a soft spot in my heart.

Thames Fest! Woot Woot

2008-09-16T05:17:00.000-07:00

Every event I go to here is just better than the last I don't know what to do with myself! But I've realized that my last few posts have looked rather dull without pictures, but since I'm rather awful with taking photographs, I found this one on the internet. So it's not authentic at all. It's not even a good picture. But Emma, since you're the only one who reads my blog I'll put up some pizzaz for you.

Although I couldn't capture the essence of Thames fest in picture form, that's not to say I didn't have a good time. Quite opposite in fact, we were packed from shoulder to shoulder with half drunk Europeans from various origins, most of which weren't wearing as much deodorant as they should, and I couldn't have been happier. As we walked down the row of booths that were selling mind-blowing jewelry, cutest wool pea coats (which were sadly highly out of my price range), and everything antique from first edition books to Kama Sutra talismans. Don't forget all the best food from all around the world like Morocco, Caribbean, Greece, Thailand and even somewhere as foreign as Louisiana. Top it off with some street performers like a dancing Mona Lisa (don't worry the frame was securely fastened around her painted head) or a magician with just one eye and you cannot fail!

Of course my favorite part of it was the food, after much deliberation I decided on Moroccan food. It was a very good choice. Not only did I get some fabulous food, but the ethnic wonder behind the counter (he was probably 30 years my senior) asked if I would be his wife. So that was cool.

Ah, The Power of Cheese

2008-09-11T09:55:00.000-07:00

I am officially a resident of London now. I am unpacked (which generally consisted of dumping m extremely large suitcase into a disappointingly small drawer. I actually defied the laws of motion and space). I've already proved everyone wrong that said London didn't have any good food. I got this sandwich called the Mature Cheddar Pret Pickle. So good. There was just bread, lettuce, cheese and this mince meat/relish pickle spread but the bread was whole wheat and scrumptious, and the pickle spread added enough foreignness to give it an identity. But the cheese. Oh my gosh the cheese! It made me want to break all the American cheese-makers' knee caps for not bringing this cheese to America. You and I both know I love my country as much as anyone, and better than most, but cheese is one area where I have to shake my head in shame. I am very disappointed that we haven't mastered dairy products yet. We can spot weapons of mass destruction from outer space, but we can't make a good cheese to save our lives. It's the only thing holding us back. Just to let you know my goal is to master the art of fermented dairy products. Ask not what your country can do for you, but what you can do for your country.

The Plane

2008-09-06T05:20:00.000-07:00

As fun as everyone knows international travel to be, I think I had it pretty easy. Despite the fact that I only ended up sleeping about 2 hours before catching the plane at the departure time of the "butt-crack of dawn". I was in such a tired stupor when we set off from Utah I could have been strip searched and I wouldn't have known the difference. Our first layover was in Minneapolis. Yay. Had we been there one day earlier we could have witnessed a little of the Republican National Convention on our layover. And you thought layovers couldn't get any worse. Our layover actually ended up being just long enough for us to work up a hearty sweat running down through the entire airport (and most of Minnesota for that matter) trying to make up for a delay brought to you by the savvy team of motivated personnel at Northwest Airlines.
After our close shave in Minneapolis, we touched down for a decent two hour layover in Detroit, where we indulged in Quizno's (where one sandwich cost a whole month's salary) and dancing on the express tram. Luckily on the long trip I sat by the nicest southern man I think I could, or ever will, meet. He is here on business with two equally hospitable southern belles. I wish I were the kind of person that looks like I would like to chat it up with my neighbor in 34 G, but I had to settle with eavesdropping. I think the fact that the first think I did after sitting down was was slather my hands with hand sanitizer and pop two Tylenol PM's. Generally not the tells of a real people person.