Somewhere Between Fate and Chance

Two Dozen

2012-01-16T22:38:00.000-07:00

In case you are wondering

I am not dead.

Nor am I sleeping.

I'm just busy. And I like it.

I like having stuff to do. Stuff like

work

reap

organize

plan

motivate

invest

teach

learn

watch

listen

pray

prepare

forgive

improve

change my mind

taste

enjoy

respect

grow

recycle

love

get over it

stand for something

breathe

This is what twenty-four year-olds do

....or at least this 24-year-old.

Because I am, in fact, 24.

Gravity and Secrets

2011-11-23T00:00:00.000-07:00

Perhaps the oldest debate is the existence of God. Does God exist, or not? Does religion matter in that, or not? What is the nature of God, if He exists?

I doubt that any contribution would make a serious impact on this forever-long debate: I can't prove God exists, I can't prove God doesn't exist. With those wise words, you could print this and add it to your bookshelf right next to Friedrich Nietzsche.

(That was sarcasm.)

Straight up, I believe in God.
I'm religious.
I'm Christian.
I'm a Mormon.
I'm biased on the subject.

I'm not an idiot, I don't believe in some hypothetical religion because I was spoon-fed through a funnel until I was chalk-full of rote answers and robotic prayers. I believe because I didn't believe and had to figure it out because for some reason, this question can shake people. Blind faith has its moments, but a lot of times it is balderdash.

I can't see gravity. I have no idea what causes it, but a quick Google search yielded this result:

All the effects of special relativity, such as the slowing down of clocks and the shrinking of rods follow from the above. In fact, it is often better to think of some things, such as electromagnetic fields as being four-dimensional objects. However, the important thing to remember for the moment, is: when you move through space you are compelled to move through time but, when you move through time (which of course you are always doing) you do not have to move through space.

So, what does this have to do with gravity? It is quite simple! When a mass is present in the above space-time it distorts it so that whilst it remains true that travelling through space causes you to travel through time, travelling through time now causes you to move (accelerate) through space. In other words just by existing, you are compelled to move through space - this is gravity.

Really? You expect me to believe that? This sounds ridiculous. Yeah, I didn't study this a lot and the source might be unreliable, and maybe Einstein is wrong or only partially correct, and the picture doesn't really explain why people are pulled toward the center of the earth instead of to the poles, and shouldn't that mean that Eskimos and polar bears would be sucked into space, and is this time stuff just clock error, but my point is this: it doesn't matter. Gravity could be made by a monkey running on a treadmill in the center of the universe and it wouldn't matter. I know gravity exists because I feel it.

I feel it when I'm walking up the stairs in the dark and think there's a step when there's not. I feel gravity when I ride a roller coaster and feel like I left my stomach at the top. I feel it when my necklace rests on my chest instead of floating in front of me, when the sheets stay on top of me so I am warm while I sleep, and when I drop my toast butter-side down. We can't see gravity, but we see its effects.

I believe in God because I feel it and I see its effects. Yes, religious people of all faiths suffer from cancer and heartbreaks and broken shoe laces. Yes, all people -religious or not, atheist or pagan - have successes and good relationships and have a fulfilling life. But you cannot shake me from knowing I have felt God. I've felt Him when I've been angry, sad, depressed, embarrassed, ashamed, and happy.

For some reason, believers in God think that the non-believers are less happy. This, of course, lends the correlating belief that believers are more happy. I believe - and I don't think there is a very good way to scientifically measure this - that a Catholic whose child just got killed by a drunk driver feels every bit of sorrow and grief as an atheist would. An atheist who just had the best first date can come home just as giddy and and as happy as a Protestant. But I'm here to tell you I've felt gravity when I've flown and when I've fallen. Joy and despair have nothing to do with it, for I have felt God at all ends. I've felt Him when I've been angry, sad, depressed, scared, embarrassed, lonely, betrayed, ashamed, and happy. But God feels different because....I guess because it just feels....deeper. Like those emotions are only the outside and at the core of who I am, I am much braver and mightier than I seem on the outside. Deeper because I know my purpose and see the big picture. Deep like I know a secret.

Ooo! I like the way that sounds!

Yeah, that's it: a secret. (Knowing a secret and keeping a secret are two very different things, by the way.) Secrets like when your parents tell you that you'll be getting a brother or sister, but that you're not allowed to tell anyone yet. Sort of like hiding in a closet in a dark house because in about fourteen seconds you and the others are going to pop out of hiding and yell "SURPRISE" and sing happy birthday and royally surprise the socks right off of that birthday girl. Secrets like knowing that your roommate's boyfriend is going to propose tomorrow and you have a key task of making sure she arrives at the location on time and you are so excited for her but have to pretend like you don't know a thing so you don't spoil her own excitement.

Knowing God is like knowing a secret: knowing that in just a little while it will all come together and all the details will be understood. Knowing secrets is good like that.

Please Dispose of All Wrapping Thoughtfully

2011-11-07T17:08:00.000-07:00

Brendon, bless his heart, has won my heart with Tim Tams.

Tim Tams, for those poor souls who have not experienced the joy of a Tim Tam, are cookies (or biscuits, depending on where you are from). They come in packages like this:

They look like this:

Tim Tams are delicious in and of themselves, but what makes these cookies extraordinary is the Tim Tam SLAM! A Tim Tam Slam is the closest thing to feeling high you can get without actually huffing or injecting yourself. But if they had a Tim Tam Slam drug in needle form, I might consider taking up the habit.

Direction to Making Your Own Addicting Tim Tam Slam

1. Buy a package of Tim Tams. (America has only recently started selling them. Look near the Pepperidge Farm section.) They are not cheap, but they are worth it.

2. Make a glass of hot chocolate.

3. Take a cookie and bite two opposing corners.

4. Using the cookie as a straw, slurp some hot chocolate.

5. PAY ATTENTION! The second your tongue feels liquid, take two or three more slurps and then shove the cookie in your mouth! The hot chocolate melts the cookie from the inside out. If you slurp too long your cookie will dissinigrate and that is always tragic. Slamming is not something you should do if you are busy with a heated discussion or simultaneously keeping an eye on the broiler. This requires all of your attention so you do not loose your cookie to the watery grave of hot chocolate.

6. Repeat steps 1-5 with additional cookies until you feel sick, are out of cookies, or feel too high to continue.

7. Drink the rest of your hot chocolate.

8. Clean up the evidence.

Brendon, that dear lad who won my heart with Tim Tams, left me with a package of said biscuit when he left the country for home in Australia. Just the other day I finished that package. Having had reached a state of utter euphoria, I completed step 7 and was about to do step 8 when I read the package. On the underside there was this logo:

along with a plea in all-caps, so as to exude the most importance: "PLEASE DISPOSE OF ALL WRAPPING THOUGHTFULLY"

The logo along with a plea in all-caps so as to exude the most importance

PLEASE DISPOSE OF ALL WRAPPING THOUGHTFULLY

Thoughtfully. Thoughtfully. THOUGHTfully. ThoughtFULLY. Thoughtfully. Thoughtfully.

My last post was about showing our thanks by giving. I've been thinking about all the things we can give: stuff, time, notes. Perhaps one of the greatest things we can give someone is a place in our hearts and in our minds; to think of them, to thoughtfully let our memories and gratitude for shared experiences twirl around our daily doings.

"Remember the Lord thy God." No matter what religion you practice, there is a fairly uniform belief that we cannot repay deity. The most we can do is try to take on godlike attributes and to turn our hearts and minds to God. After the gift of life and the atonement, how do you repay God? You just always remember him. (For you Mormon kids out there, what is prayed each week with the sacrament?...that we may always remember him!)

I see people after death reaps the soul of a loved one. It is difficult to grieve in such circumstances, but one way people cope is to acknowledge that you can still keep a loved one alive in your thoughts. It is one thing when someone has died and no longer calls you on your birthday or fills the elevator with a soft scent of perfume. It is an entirely different death when you no longer remember that deceased friend: when the smell of lavender no longer reminds you of grandma's bathroom, when you shred the memory of seeing a buddy's cold body in a casket, or when you stop writing a friend's birthday on the calendar.

Ceasing to be in thoughts, one ceases to be.

Today I made an effort to think of people whenever I threw a wrapper in the trash. I turned a mundane task into a deeply thoughtful form of reverence. I thought of what a spitfire Grandma Walter was and how she so loved pretty things, her house full of porcelain figurines and tassels. I pictured Grandpa Walter wiggling his ears while saying the alphabet backwards and us grand kids laughing while futilely trying to wiggle our own ears. I laughed about the dumb things I did in college with my incredible roommates like settle arguements with "nose goes" and handstand contests. When I threw away the post-it note that had long since lost its stick, I remembered high school and my favorite teacher calling for papers to be turned into the box. She would purposefully slow her pace while procrastinating students scribbled a last sentence or two and dove over desks to get it in on time.

I remembered people both living and dead to keep them living. At least living in me.

Last week my former roommate brought me frosted sugar cookies. It has been a while since I have seen her. I hate sugar cookies.

But I don't care about the cookies! She could have brought me a used toilet full of liver and onions and I would have been just as happy as if she had given me a cheesecake and a new car. I don't care about what she gifts me!

... I care that she was thinking of me.

Keep people alive by keeping them in your thoughts. Let people know you're thinking of them.

Isn't that the Point?

2011-11-01T21:38:00.000-06:00

One of the reasons I love the holiday season is because it is a synopsis of the human process. Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas come with the respective reminders of greed, gratitude, and giving. In three short months we learn valuable lessons in getting all you can, being happy with what you got, and gifting to those who don't got what you got.

Halloween is a time we can pretend we aren't who we are. We get to reward all the nights we've envied others' lifestyles and wished we were them. We can pretend to be the superhero, ballerina, political figure, or crazy scientist we've always dreamt we were, but never became. We can gluttonously collect candy and throw big parties so lots of people can pretend they're something they're not together. November follows and always spurs conversations of "what are you thankful for?" December becomes a time to make lists of what could possibly make someone else smile when wrapping paper is ripped away and your gift is revealed.

I'm just that kind of person: the kind that gets involved with the holiday spirit to the same extent Sarah Palin gets involved with the Tea Party or Budweiser gets involved with the Super Bowl. I start counting down for Christmas in September. I plan my Halloween costumes a month or year in advance. My brothers and sister, also holiday enthusiasts, abide by a lofty moral code of conduct when it comes to trick-or-treating. There are a lot of people who will tell you that my devout support of Halloween means I like to worship the dead or speak with spirits. But that's not it. I love Halloween because instead of being judged by how thin or beautiful you are, you are judged by ingenuity and wit. We compliment people who have innovative costumes, who are dressed as a pun or cliche. I'm one to believe that when you create something, you come closer to God. Creating a costume - either by sewing, assembling, or accessorizing - is a form of God's powers of creation.

Aaaaaaand Halloween is the one day every year you can dress up with your underwear on the outside, knock on a door, demand candy, and actually end up with a booty load of candy instead of a ride in a police car.

Last year was the first Halloween of my life I didn't go trick-or-treating.

I was 22.

This year my dad had a brilliant idea. Beyond brilliant, some would say. I had just gotten home from a Friday night costume party. I had removed my wig and sat down to unload all the stories about the day. With my face still pained with a classic clown smile and blue eyebrows, my father started showing me the elements to his costume. "Here's my mohawk. I bought a soul-patch to go with my blag mohawk. I'm going to roll a pack of cigarettes up my sleeve...And I think we should go treat-or-tricking. It's the opposite of trick-or-treating. You give candy instead of collecting candy."

What a novel idea. Giving. Giving in a season of greed and gluttony. I am a little ashamed we hadn't thought of this before.

We dressed up on Halloween night: a recent college graduate as a clown and her over-the-hill-plus-a-decade daddy as a biker. We took a bag of candy, and handed out chocolate bars at houses instead of collecting.

We made so many people smile, especially the parents without costume who dutifully chug along house to house to supervise adorable princesses and vampires for the holiday spirit. Those parents don't make so much in candy revenue. I'm glad we were able to spread some of the Halloween cheer.

Isn't my dad cool?

So this Halloween was about giving.

We once had one of the Ashtons come speak to one of my nonprofit organization classes in college. The Ashtons are a filthy rich and well-known family and happen to be unashamedly generous with their money. Their name is on many a bench and building in the state of Utah. Each year they give grant after to grant to nonprofit organizations. They are most known for Thanksgiving Point, which is a puge entertainment, education, and recreation zone. (puge = pretty + huge) This place has magnificent gardens, invites schools to visit their farm country, keeps their dinosaur museum well maintained, shows current films at the theater, and teaches classes on baking and glass art.

The speaker mentioned that most people think the name "Thanksgiving Point" is because it is located at the point of the mount (a consistent landmark in approximating distances for anyone who travels between Utah and Salt Lake counties) and speculate that the Ashtons love the Thanksgiving holiday.

"So...isn't that why you named it Thanksgiving Point?" a classmate asked, confused at what else could possibly be an explanation for such a name.

"No," the speaker responded, "It's because we show our thanks by giving. And that's the point."

It is now officially the month of November: the month of Thanksgiving. To celebrate Thanksgiving throughout the month, I'm aiming to get into the Christmas spirit and show my thanks by giving.

Isn't that the point?

Electronic Voice Phenomenon (EVP)

2011-10-25T11:28:00.002-06:00

Yesterday my blonde and very-well traveled/history channel addict co-worker walked into work at 6:18 AM and the first thing she says, "I have a special treat today. We're going to listen to some EVPs." She also mentioned something about watching a documentary on Incan mummies.

Me: Oh cool! (Pretending like I know what that means.)

Other co-worker: Uh...what is that?

Well-traveled co-worker: It stands for Electronic Voice Phenomenon. It's when there are voices out there, but only electronic devices can pick it up.

Wikipedia has this to say about EVPs:

Electronic voice phenomena (EVP) are electronically generated noises that resemble speech, but are not the result of intentional voice recordings or renderings. Common sources of EVP include static, stray radio transmissions, and background noise. Interest in the subject normally surrounds claims that EVP are of paranormal origin,^[1] though there are natural explanations such as apophenia (finding significance in insignificant phenomena), auditorypareidolia (interpreting random sounds as voices in their own language), equipment artifacts, or simple hoaxes which are offered to explain them. Recordings of EVP are often created from background sound by increasing the gain (i.e. sensitivity) of the recording equipment.^[2]

This guy has this to say:

I watched this video of a girl who has a tape recorder and is asking questions as if she was interview ghosts. "Who are you? What do you want?" stuff like that. The video has her interviewing the empty room, then she plays back the tape and hears nothing and obviously feels like a loser for having had failed. She then turns up the volume and plays it again and sure enough, you can hear a low rumble that wasn't there before. She freaks out and runs out of the room so the last few seconds of recording are the jumbled shots from holding a camera while running away.

I wish I could find that movie again.

Rather than post EVP movies, I'll let you google your own. If you're looking for some added excitement, search for some in your home state.

This really isn't so much about EVPs as it is about ghosts.
This is quality.

If you're not trick-or-treating this Halloween, try interviewing a ghost, hanging out at abandoned buildings or graveyards, and decide if you believe in ghosts.

Fan-freaking-tastic

2011-10-11T22:58:00.000-06:00

During my high school years - years plagued with little sleep and many activities - I learned that when someone asks me, "How's it going?" they don't really want to hear me complain, "I'm tired." Then I'd follow up with some explanation as to why I was so tired: "I was up til eleven last night (hahaha...remember those days when 11pm was late?) and I woke up at 5 to do my explications. And I've got symphony tonight so I won't be to bed again until late."

What was the point of that? Complaining, I mean. To make me look tough?

Fail.

No one wants to hear that. Ya know how I know? Because whenever a classmate would tell me how tired they are or list a myriad of obligations that impede upon sleeping time, I would stop listening, roll my eyes, and wish they were a little more positive about life.

Thus I decided to respond to inquiries of my day with how I think life really is: awesomely fabulous. (Or some other word shot up with enthusiasm.) Life really is terrific. We don't need to dwell on the rough patches. "Don't confuse local cloud coverage with global darkness." That and responding with bottled enthusiasm usually cheers up the grocer or banker or fellow student casually asking about my day.

Like today when a girl returned my call and offered the customary greeting with asking me, "How are you?" to which I responded,
"So fan-freaking-tastic......squared!!!!!!!!!" <--notice the excessive amount of exclamation

I lied.

Girl on the phone: "Wow! That's awesome! I wish my day were that good."
Little did she know that approximately two seconds prior to her call, tears were running into my ears and my hand was not doing a decent job sponging it up.

It's been rough. I've cried more over the past month than I've cried in the past four years. I might be able to blame it on hormones, but I don't think so. I have been, and still am, dissecting emotions in hopes to get to the bottom of this.

Oh. *realization* This is what it feels like to be broken-hearted.
This sick feeling with the bitter taste in my mouth is what it is to feel nervous.
When my tongue is pressed against the roof of my mouth and my front teeth it means I am holding back.

I've examined what it feels like to feel hopeless, useless, and utterly ugly. I've felt alone and lonely (they are two separate feelings). I've felt stuck, stagnant, afraid, distanced, impatient, fatigued, powerless, un-cool, anxious, betrayed, forgotten, replaced, insignificant, boring, and even embarrassed.

And recently I've learned what it feels like to feel all those things at the same time: culminating in a few nights of seizure-like crying, burying my face in hummus, ice cream, and grilled cheese sandwiches (though not all at the same time). I've let my bed sheets slowly peel off the bed (including the fitted sheet, and that's just plain uncomfortable). The dirty clothes have advanced across floor and conquered my room the same way Australia conquers the middle-east in a game of Risk. I've been gaining weight and losing sleep. I seem to have forgotten that I can instigate activities with the contacts in my phone instead of waiting around like a loser for someone to invite me to something. I've become more self-absorbed than the typical teenager. I can't decide what I want.

It's not quite depression, but I can kinda see it from here.

I'm wondering where on earth this all came from. WHAT THE FREAK? I am not usually one to cry. I typically have a zest for life and feel on top of the world and have an abundance of friends. How long has all of this been building up? It's like I'm suddenly in a big ol' whole and I think I can get myself out but I'm still trying to figure out how the heck I wound up down here.

But...yeah...I'm just fan-freaking-tastic.

...squared.

Social (Networking) Anxiety

2011-10-06T13:45:00.012-06:00

Maybe one day

I'll click through others' Facebook pictures without feeling ugly

or boring
or defective.

Maybe one day

I'll read others' blogs without comparing the

number of their followers

to the number which follow mine.

Maybe one day

I won't check my email an un-exaggerated seven times (or more) a day,

starved for attention, or -at least-

won't make up some correlation between my inbox and the people whom I can depend upon.

Maybe one day I'll be able to say

Until then,

I will keep seeing

the beauty

don't

have.

Using a Business Card and a Motorola Flip-Phone

2011-10-05T00:55:00.001-06:00

I was a big girl today and called the dental office to make an appointment.

To have a tooth cavity filled.

I've never had a cavity before, let alone gotten one filled.

and I'm scared.

Once Again, Passed Up a Perfect Opportunity

2011-09-16T03:05:00.000-06:00

While I was biking around town today I ended at the stoplight next to a truck towing a RV. A bumper sticker on the RV told me to thank a veteran if I enjoyed my freedom.

My greatest regret of the day, of the past few years, really, is that I didn't tap on the old man's window, wait for him to roll it down, and say, "I enjoy my freedoms. Thank you."

Instead I kept to my own, trying to avoid looking at the truck or the RV or the old man inside by staring at the stoplight.

It was not the first time I have had at an opportunity and -failing to list any reason against it, only coming up with reasons to support it- passed it up.

If My Hands Were Spiders, I Could Take Them Off and Put Them on My Mother's Bed

2011-09-14T19:25:00.000-06:00

"Fall in love with the world and take notes." -Lance Larsen said this while giving a speech called Coaxing the Muse: Thoughts on the Creative Process.

Stop looking at this post and start listening to it. You can download it for free here.

You'll be a better blogger for it.

Fit for Adventure

2011-09-02T00:39:00.000-06:00

I joined the league of extraordinary outdoor enthusiasts. You know them as Chaco wearers. I've purchased a lot of things in my life but none of them have ever felt quite like this. After work today I put on my Chacos so I could walk to the shuttle bus for the Storytelling Festival and by the time I had gotten two steps into the driveway (my first official steps since the purchase) I felt a kindred connection with my fellow Chaco-wearers. I know what you wear doesn't indicate how cool you are, but my cool status definitely went up four notches today. Today, with my green (garden) Z2 Vibram Unaweep size 8 Chacos that came in a brown made-from-recycled-material box with the slogan "Fit for Adventure" simply bannered on the front, I became more of the person I am: a recreation graduate with sandals -a more important symbol of success than a diploma- as proof.

I got to the shuttle bus for the Storytelling Festival and ended sitting next to a man probably in his late fifties with a balding top, grey hair, and blue button up shirt. He looked like a high school teacher who had just finished grading a few tests. Biology, probably. He has lived in the are for the past 25 years and no, this is not his first Storytelling Festival experience, but it has definitely been a while. I replied with a whimsical "I'm a dedicated goer...for the past three years anyway," in just the tone you would expect from a Chaco wearer: rustic location, recycled/eco-friendly fixtures, perky-"have a nice stay, what a pleasure to meet you" desk service, and guided spelunking departing every half-hour, and napkin poetry readings on Wednesdays. (As I am now a Chaco-wearer, I better get used to sounding like a hole-in-the-wall backpacking hostel.)

The man asked me, "Are you a storyteller?"

I turned my head from him, looked out the window to the seasonal vegetable stand on the street corner, and turned back to his bespectacled eyes. "Yes. Aren't we all storytellers."

He sort of muttered a reply and nodded while shrugging his shoulders.

"If you keep a journal, you're a storyteller," I said.

Yesterday, in the juvenile detention center where I work, we had the Young Women volunteer group come in. This consists of a few middle-aged ladies who come in once a week to meet with the juveniles and have some activity. Sometimes they do Zumba or have activities related to job skills like negotiation and interviewing. Once we had lessons in make-up. Yesterday we had an activity for journal writing. The volunteer leading this activity was a decade and a half younger than the average for the leaders. She brought her collection of journals spanning from the time she was eight years old to the time she was in college. She read a few entries and the girls on the unit ate it all up. It made me wish - as diligent as I am about journal writing now - that I had been a dedicated writer in elementary school because the things you care about at that age are comical years later.

The volunteers handed a journal to each girl, let them decorate it, and then had a journal writing activity. It consisted of the volunteer saying the beginning of a sentence and the girls completing the sentence in their journals. I played as well.

If I could eat anything right now, it would be.....a fruit smoothie with a heavy raspberry overtone.
If I could be anywhere right now I'd be.....at my family reunion spot, East Canyon, in the swimming pool and getting pruney.
When I was younger I used to love....Mother Theresa and dolphins.
Someone I love very much is......out of reach.
Today, I feel........productive.
People would describe me as........loud.
I think I'm good at .........teaching, connecting with youth
One day I would like to.....Bike Canada to Mexico. It will happen. Mark my words.
In ten years, I hope that I am.....still connected to my inner-self and not think I'm cooler than I am.
My dream is to one day........

I left that last one blank. I think the struggle was to narrow it down to a singular dream. I have a lot of dreams. Many are already accomplished, most require power beyond my own or money more than is wise to spend at the moment. The running theme I find in all my dream-listing casual conversations is that I just want adventures. I want to have adventures that are hard. I want adventures that are funny. I want adventures that are memorable. I want stories; like the stories retold in Kid History films that are just good stories to tell (albeit more adorable when told by children under seven.) I want to have crazy adventures so I can tell stories about them later or so that other people tell stories about them when they gather at the dinner table. "You just won't believe what I saw today. I was in the elevator when there were two hooligans on pogo sticks..." I love being the topic of table conversations.

I started writing this post with the intent to make some point about how you have to have adventures to tell great stories. But after the first day of this year's Timpanogos Storytelling Festival I already know that's not true in the least. Stories weave throughout the mundane and idle events of our lives and - because they are woven over time - are more than any novel you could ever create.

We were all too afraid to pick up the cat. So we carried her on the couch cushion like a thrown.
We had the perfect couch. One day it was gone and replaced by a new couch. I led my siblings in the boycott against that new couch. That was twelve years ago. We siblings still sit on the floor.
That green, transformer box in the backyard.
In the winters my brother would turn off the heater and crack his window open because he likes it cold. His room was a steady fifty-five degrees Fahrenheit. He just about died when the season turned to summer.
Grandpa always wore his cowboy boots. He could be lounging in the house wearing sweats or going to church in a suit. But he always had cowboy boots on. Those boots aren't really known for good traction.
We made forts in the family room and constructed them out of every available towel and blanket in the house.
My uncle tried his hand at beekeeping.

Some stories have no ending or moral. Some aren't even that funny and especially not to people outside the family. Others are a sort of motif: making appearances at family gatherings and always received with chuckles.

When I look at my life in terms of stories, foiled plots, and character development, I realize just how much my life is already is an adventure. I don't need adventures to be a storyteller. I have adventures because I am a storyteller.

Work, work, work, work....

2011-08-29T13:55:00.000-06:00

I'm working a shift at work right now. And by work I mean the jail for juveniles. While the other girls are going to classes I get to sit here and keep tabs on the two girls who are having sick days.

This means I'm getting paid to

eat lunch
play guitar
look up guitar tabs
answer the phone occasionally
slide toilet paper under the door when requested
research cruise jobs
read emails from my missionary brothers
read work emails
check on the girls in 10-minute increments
blog

I love my job. But between you and me, I like it more when I feel like I'm actually working.

Dilladoop

2011-08-24T23:41:00.000-06:00

The summers of my jovial childhood can be boiled down to reenacting Power Rangers, bike-riding, and -between the slip n' slides, backyard pools, swimming lessons, and jumping on the neighbor's tramp with the sprinkler underneath - spending 70% of the day in my dilladoop. Dilladoop, by the way, is the term my best friend growing up designated for "swimming suit". I still use the term fifteen years later so I guess you could say that it stuck.

Today I had a kickback to those days. I got dressed in my swimsuit and pedaled over to the recreation center only to find it was closed for maintenance. I tried another pool, which was also closed, so I pedaled home.There wasn't a single soul out on the street. It made me miss those days when the boys in the neighborhood would play street hockey with the occasional shout of, "CAR!" which was really shorthand for, "Get out of the road before we get smushed by that oncoming vehicle." Sometimes, if it was Brother Cottam driving a semi, everyone would pump their fisted hands hoping to get a honk in return.

I parked my bike in the garage and started checking off items on the To-Do list: laundry, vacuum, dust.

Still wearing my dilladoop hours later, I stepped outside to shake the dust cloth when a sly smile crept from the left corner of my mouth. Deserted street. Summer day. Nostalgic overload. I hustled over to the hose, screwed on the sprinkler head, placed it adjacent to the cherry tree stump, cranked the water to full blast, and ran around in the droplets like I was seven again. The coldness of the water shortened my breath but didn't stop me from cartwheeling in and out or blocking the water flow with my foot and then shrieking again when I let the sprinkler free. Loose grass stuck to my wet feet and kept on me until dried. The hose sputtered whenever it got kinked and released. Shadows of flying birds dove across the lawn. I was chuckling and dripping wet when I galloped to the driveway because the only thing better than running through the sprinklers is lying on the warm pavement after. It smelled just like it always has and does and always will: petrichor. I just love the smell of petrichor.

No matter how old or young you are, the body print produced while doing this is never an accurate impression of the maker. This particular body print had a small head, twig arms, and was wearing a skirt. I do not match that description unless my mirror has been lying to me. I can't help but make the connection that my childhood memories are a body print of the actual events: I created those memories just as I created the body print, and perhaps my memories are just as misleading as those prints.

Like Power Rangers. I watch TV these days and think, "Television was so much better when I was a kid. The quality has really gone down since then." So today I revisited my favorite show growing up fully expecting Power Rangers to live up to my memory of Emmy-worthy entertainment. Let's see...how can I put this gently....

It was bad.

Don't get me wrong, I still enjoyed every minute of it. The overly dorky punk kids who always try to cause problems, the V-neck tank tops, the color-coded crayon wardrobe, the horrible "monsters" Rita comes up with that are in the most unconvincing costumes, and I haven't quite figured out how to put into words exactly what is going on with the special effects. I think it's a cross between a sneezing lightning bolt and a Superhero comic strip with an onomatopoeia zooming around. Oh how I miss the '90s. I wouldn't say memories fade, but we tend to paint over the ugly parts, cling to the good parts, and sell the whole thing for more than it was worth. Or at least I do, anyway. But I'll argue til the day I die that my memory package has been properly appraised and the value thereof and time have a positive relationship, not a depreciating negative relationship.

And if you just want to jump to the best part, the classic morphing part, click here.

So here's a blogging toast to the summers of our youth. Here's to neighborhoods, catching bugs, playing house, naming bikes, pretending to be older than we were, making clubs and secret handshakes, the plots of land that used to be, the sprinklers, Saturday morning cartoons, night games, library books written in rhyme, and dreaming about running away to live like the Boxcar children. May our nostalgic memories always live in our minds as the way summers should be and may we do our best to provide that for future generations. Every kid deserves a childhood like mine.

Now if you would excuse me, I need to go do somersaults down the hall.

The Slight Chance the Chicken Was On Its Way to a Gig

2011-08-16T21:47:00.002-06:00

I am an impulse buyer. I personally find this comical as I am such a tightwad that I refuse to buy breakfast cereal because it costs to much to buy cereal AND milk. But today my impulse buys included strawberry popsicles, ciabatta bread, 50 matchboxes (it was only $1.29!) and a ticket to the Rejoice show at BYU for Education Week.

I am the youngest person in sight in the crowd, with the exception of that one boy in T-shirts and jeans reading a novel. Just yesterday I was setting off fumes accrewed from four days of not showereing. I am now showered, wearing a pale- yellow skirt and blue top. And earrings. It is important to dress up for dates.

The day before, backpacking in the Uintahs

Date Night (with myself)

Work it!

(Just for the record, wrote in my notebook at the concert, came home and took these pictures when I was typing up my notes...just in case anyone is confused with the odd use of tenses.)

The stage looks great with flickering candles and an abstract sheet placed at the back of the stage for projecting movies. Most of the audience is taking off glasses or putting them on to read the program.

I bought my ticket online at 5:12pm for the show that started at 7:00pm and it's fun to compare my knowledge of which seats were available then to who now sits next to me now.

The pianist has papers infront of him, but not sheet music. Words. I can't tell exactly what, but I'm guessing it is the set list. I can't tell from here

The violinist, April Moriarty, comes out to start. Her wardrobe reminds me of the woman in relief society who lives an "the other side of the canal" life. Her top and skirt are sparkly like she is trying to off-set her forming wrinkles around her eyes, smile, and hands. People walk by carrying purses large enough to carry as much as my book bag The violinist steps to the microphone and explains that the title of this concert is Rejoice. "Be of good cheer for I have overcome the world"

She, the violinist, and the pianist are clearly married and clearly not married to each other. I've always wondered how it is for married people to work together in such a secluded and intimate setting such as a performer/pianist relationship.

Some of this is like watching Celine Dion do Karaoke: good, but you feel a little insulted and taken advantage of, like you're not really getting the true experience you paid for. That bald man sang that song from Walk to Remember (which is Nicholas Dee Perucca's favorite chick flick) and he sounded fantastic, but he sang along with a track and I kept thinking, "Really? I did not just pay $12 to see some bald man sing with a CD player." A girl with a truly lovely voice and a red summer dress and heels sang "Keeper of the Flame". Wow. I know this song from Girls Camp. But this Jessie Funk lady did a much better job than any conglomeration of hyper girls campers I've ever heard.

After spending the day looking at others' facebook pictures and wishing I were skinnier or more talented or more involved or more adventurous or more photogenic or more able to afford playing hard to get, I needed this. I needed to just pause and appreciate the beauty around me instead of comparing myself or wishing that I were "there" instead of "here". I needed to indulge in a night of selfless music: music by musicians who point it all to El Senor. I needed to be surrounded by cute old people who have wrinkles and bills and have had their share of problem-children and deaths yet can still be smiling at a concert. I needed to be reminded that nothing is permanent and everything is beautiful.

This girl, Cherie Call, sang this song called "Photographs". She explained that her grandmother just died last month and she would have been 95 on September 1st. She had 14 children, 96 grand-children, 206 great grandchildren (woah!) and already 40 great-great-grandchildren. She played this song while having a slide show (which I managed to steal off of YouTube and place it below). Her grandmother was never rich, but she had what all rich people hope for: to be surrounded by people who adore you.

Traveling preacher
Living off the land
Just take a picture and hold your place in time
Her card was full but she still gave him a chance
The rest of the world could fade away, but they smile for the camera anyway
Memories look best in black and white

This song was worth $12. Admittedly it choked me a bit, mostly out of guilt and fear of my grandparents passing away without me getting to know them and their stories. Maybe I'll write a song for my grandparents about my grandparents.

Taylor would have been impressed with the sound quality here.
April Meservy took the piano and gave the short explanation of her song Marks of My Path: "It's really exciting when God speaks to us through nature." Having spent four summers living underneath pine trees and aspens, I understand this. All the way home I was singing "I want to be soft like leaves" with strong piano chords playing in my head.

Sam Payne "Love Love"
Francis Thompson wrote a poem called "The Hound of Heaven" in which the hound is Christ and the man keeps running from this hound his whole life, but in the last few lines it reads:

All which I took from thee I did but take,

Not for thy harms,

But just that thou might'st seek it in My arms.

All which thy child's mistake

Fancies as lost, I have stored for thee at home:

Rise, clasp My hand, and come!'

It is a song about coming to Christ. Sam sounds a lot like Elton John with a soul swayin' and it makes you feel American and Christian.

Banjo Jokes
Q: What's the difference between a dead chicken in the road and a dead banjo player?
A: The slight chance the chicken was on its way to a gig.

Taliban has 100 banjo players held hostage will be releasing one every hour until their demands are met. Hahahaha

Sam Payne sang a song about Jacob and Esau, twins who left on bad terms. But Jacob came back decades later to visit his brother and was so worried that he sent servants and gifts a head of him and then hid his favorite wife in a safe place...he other three right in front, and went to visit his brother. But for some reason not explained Esau dropped it all and Isaac was able to meet his grandkids before he died.

Give said the little stream= best EVER

The banjo player, Ryan Tilby, took the stage and sat on his chair. He put his banjo down, picked up a guitar and said, "In a world of gigs, this one is (paused to find the right word) weird. It's a good kind of weird because we're all LDS artists but here we get to share the music that means the most with the people that understand it best. And I'm going to share that in the voice I have come, which comes in a case."

He then played THE most astounding instrumental version of "I Stand All Amazed" and even without the words it means something to me because I know the words and I understand the words. You know, I enjoy camp, I enjoy working with the people at camp, But there is a substantial part of me that is cut off from them, that part that means the most because they don't understand it. It is so nice to be here with the people who understand it the most. It's nice to be back in Provo where I can talk about that great talk in Sacrament Meeting or how funny fresh RMs are or what happened while I was praying the other day.

There are the readers of this blog who will understand and appreciate this song. There are the readers who will click play and think, "That was nice." And there are those who will see the pictures of Christ, assume this to be one of THOSE religious songs that are cheesy and thus proceed to roll their eyes and find another blog to stalk. But the beauty of it is that whether you believe it or not, whether you care or not, whether your a sinner or a saint or a Nun or a Muslim, Christ cared for you enough to die for you. And that is
wonderful
to
me.

I'm Gonna Live a Crazy Dream

2011-06-04T00:37:00.000-06:00

I took myself out on a date tonight. I like to do that occasionally. Tonight's adventure was to the rooftop concert series in Provo Town Square. I stood next to the side railing and soaked it all up. Gosh almighty. I love live music. I love people-watching and the view from the rooftop. I loved the blue and purple lights. (My brother would have loved analyzing the lights and tech stuff.) I loved Mindy Gledhill in her blue lace tights and mustard yellow dress and her Regina-Spektor-esk voice. Meaghan Smith looked like Dorothy ran away from Oz, traded those pigtails for some soft curls, tailored her dress into a skirt with a fatty old red belt worn well above the hips, and traded her blouse for a white shirt from Target. I thought this was rather fitting as she started her set list with "If You Only Had a Heart", which was a sultry, soothing version of what the Tin Man sings.

The mountains faded into the sunset while the Cheshire cat smiled above the Marriott hotel behind me. The stage was decorated with about nine different globes.

I love going to free music concerts with a folk-y feel because I feel like the artists often put my jumbled thoughts and feelings into coherent sentences and frame them with quarter notes and put them on display on the mantle. I was looking at all these globes on the stage and thought, "That's a rather odd choice for decor at a concert. I wonder what connection the globes have." And no sooner had I been thinking that when Mindy started singing this song:

My friend Eric was kind enough to invite me to sit with his group of friends, though I made sure Eric knew I was on a date with myself. (I take those pretty seriously and I wasn't sure how I felt about cheating on myself.) But I was grateful to have a place to sit so I could use my knee as support when I scribbled notes on the back of a Mad Dog Cycles receipt I found in my bag: notes like how the 40-year old balding red-head was singing along with all the songs and on the older couple sitting in front of me with their NorthFace jackets and his graying hair. I also took notes on the lyrics that stuck out to me and for your convenience I've linked them to the songs they were in.

I'm gonna live a crazy dream.
A little girl with great big plans. (Though lately I feel more like a big girl with little plans)
When you reach for the stars don't forget who you are.
What's the use of fixin' if it'll only break again.

Of course the most pertinent point of all this stuff is the blog title: I'm Gonna Live a Crazy Dream.

My crazy dream: Bike from Canada to Mexico along the Pacific Coast.

This didn't happen this year but golly it was close. This year I even had people and a specified dates, but then people dropped out. But mark my words: I'm gonna live a crazy dream. I just purchased my touring bike and put a kickstand on it. As my friend Corrin Liston said, "All you need is a kickstand and a dream." Well honey, I've got both.

Because I, like Peter Pan, love adventure.

2011-05-25T16:51:00.000-06:00

I have suffered from Peter Pan syndrome most of my life. I've been terrified of growing up because I, like Peter Pan, love adventure.

I was wrought with tears in the months preceding high school graduation. I thought I was abandoning my childhood, forced to become an adult, and clueless about my future. Five years later I am a college graduate. I am still every bit as clueless about my future, perhaps even more so. But now I'm okay with that because growing up is an adventure and I, like Peter Pan, love adventure.

I'm excited to have my own insurance, to do house repairs, and to juggle various responsibilities. Medical bills? Bring it on. IRS audits? Foreclosure? Bite me. Sometimes life will kick my butt, but I always come out a winner. So take THAT you surprise car problems, you stubborn grass stains, and you procrastination! I AM SPARTA! You may spit in my eye but I'll take hold of you the same way I snatch up my little cousin, hold him by his feet, upside-down, suspended over the pool and liable to let go at any moment. You will not win.

Here's to growing up and growing old, Peter Pan. Here's to closed windows and pirates, to mermaids and poison. Here's to the subtle love story amid the miracle of flight and to the teddy bear and the umbrella. Here's to adventure, Peter Pan, and to all the stories with it.

Lucubration

2011-04-22T03:15:00.055-06:00

It is 2:22 AM and -even though I was tired five hours ago and my eyes are drooping - I can't sleep. Typically this combination of being wide-eyed yet utterly exhausted means I need to write. So here I am, a little more than three hours before I need to get up and get ready for graduation and clacking away at my keyboard while my roommate tosses over in her deep sleep. I am so jealous of her right now.

My mind has been zooming around going nowhere in my head, much like Sonic the Hedgehog trapped in a gerbil wheel. I've been thinking a lot about my college career and all the goals I had set for my senior year. Most of my goals went unaccomplished: taking ice skating, learning trombone, going canyoneering, reading the Book of Mormon in three different languages. And that's kinda bumming me out. I feel like I have some unfinished business and like there will always be a part of me lingering around campus and wandering around the familiar classrooms until I can officially cross those things off my list and head off on my way.

Another part of me is terribly proud of what I have done. I have had adventures. I have taken tap, clogging, Irish dancing, anatomy, a slew of inspiring courses that altered my life or stretched my mind, kicked butt in an intramural soccer team, seen many a wonderful art piece, taken a study abroad to New Zealand, and just today I managed to explore the top of the bell tower.

Another part of me is staring at the graduation gown hanging from the door and wondering if this is all real and what does it mean and just what exactly am I supposed to do now. This is actually the part that is causing me the most grief. I haven't really been worried about my post-graduation life plans but I've been worried that I wasn't worried. Well today a switch flipped and I got worried. I suddenly feel a lack of direction. I feel like Captain Jack Sparrow in Pirates of the Caribbean when his compass is all skiwampus and he has no clue where he's going or not. Yup. Perfect analogy for my feelings at this very moment.

When I let these thoughts run too long I end up thinking about tomorrow.We'll be going out to lunch tomorrow and my brothers won't be there. Everyone will ask me what my post-graduation plans are and I'll tell them of grand adventures I have planned (more or less) and then everyone will give me flack about not being married (as if every BYU student needs to be wearing a wedding ring before ever wearing a cap and gown) EVEN THOUGH the majority of people I know graduate single and even live to tell the tale. Yeah, I'll get married and I'll even be happy when I do. I just don't see why everyone needs to get their panties in a wad. I wonder: what do normal folks get harassed about after getting married and having kids? And I'll probably be annoyed with the long wait we'll have before we can eat and I'll wish that we had just gotten subs and met at the house or done something cool and recreational just to prove that I learned something from all my recreation management classes.

I'm thinking about showering now so I don't have to before graduation. Here's to writing papers in the middle of the night EVEN THOUGH classes are over, finals are finished, and graduation is around the bend.

–noun

laborious work, study, thought, etc., especially at night.

the result of such activity, as a learned speech ordissertation.

Often, lucubrations. any literary effort, especially of apretentious or solemn nature.

Origin:
1585–95; < Latin lūcubrātiōn- (stem of lūcubrātiō ) night-work.See lucubrate,

This lazy butt is GRADUATING

2011-04-16T12:36:00.001-06:00

My friend Julie (who is definitely one of the top two writers I follow) has a quote on her blog from A Tree Grows In Brooklyn that says

“Dear God, let me be something every minute of every hour of my life. Let me be
gay; let me be sad. Let me be cold; let me be warm. Let me be hungry...have too
much to eat. Let me be ragged or well dressed. Let me be sincere -- be
deceitful. Let me be truthful; let me be a liar. Let me be honorable and let me
sin. Only let me be something every blessed minute. And when I sleep, let me
dream all the time so that not one little piece of living is ever lost.”

I've been letting a lot of little pieces of living slip between forever and a jelly bean. I used to be so passionate about life and filled with the craziest ideas and experiments: like living in my van for a week or meeting a new person every day for a year. Recently, however, I've been couching. Couching is a lot like hanging out. It consists of a handful of people gathering, claiming a seat, and enjoying each other's company for a while. I don't realize it while I am couching, but as sure as I am sitting there, my ambitions slip between the couch cusions.

But don't you fret. Graduation is just around the corner and I am excited for life post-school. I'm going to fill my time with:

sewing my t-shirt blanket
watching documentaries
hacking away at my reading list I've compiled over the years
car shopping/buying
blogging
biking
museum hopping
supporting my family members in politics, school, and housework
garden
painting
trips to Borders and the library
practicing violin, guitar, and trumpet
recording more for my C.D. (check out some of the songs here. It's called "I got this guitar for free, you got this CD for $3)
making music videos
working at the juvenile delinquent center (I love it there)
planning for camp
learning how to deliver a baby (just in case my camp director delivers while we're at camp)
getting CPR and first aid certified

Speaking of graduation, here are some more pictures I had taken for some graduation announcements.

Me working it at the Wash Hut.

This one is my favorite:

Trapeze Artist

2011-04-01T17:55:00.001-06:00

My most recent attempt at being a trapeze artist had me jumping from a ledge 20 feet in the air and launching to grab a tennis ball suspended in mid-air. And yes, I was doing this for a class, if you're wondering.I'm wearing basketball shorts and striped thermals from New Zealand (the best things to wear at a ropes course). My class cheered for me because I had the best lift off: I made some strange pouncing cougar sound.

Only moments before, I received help putting the harness on because I wasn't fast enough alone. Every kiss may begin with Kay, but every awkward moment begins with a harness. Thanks guys. A real big thanks.

My intramural soccer team "Gryffindor" got our first win of the season when the other team forfeited the game because they didn't check-in on time. Notice how we are not sweaty and how we are very enthusiastic. (I'm the one taking the picture, which is why I am not in it.)

Well, that other team complained (because they really were there on time but just hadn't checked in) so we ended up playing them anyway. I took a pretty sweet topple when this gargantuan man ran me over. We ended up winning the game, but it was definitely close. So we won fair and square. Notice how we are sweaty and fatigued. (I'm the one in the orange bandanna.)

While we were waiting for our game to start I spotted this guy. (The one my roommate is pointing to.) I recognized him from this movie that my friend and team captain Eric Layland made. (Eric is one of the coolest people I've ever known.) Sarah and I were both incredibly starstruck and decided to snap a creepy picture with this music video icon. It's not a very good picture as far as quality goes but boy howdy! It sure means more to me.

GO GO GRYFFINDOR!

As if that weren't enough excitement, last weekend also consisted of my ward party at Nickelcade...which is now Nickelcity. I got 220 tickets but gave them to my roommates because I had to leave early. By the end of the night my roommates had obtained well over 900 tickets and decided to get me and Brenna a surprise.

That's right. They traded their tickets for two umbrella hats to give to me and Brenna. Be jealous.

(We're doing Sarah's default pose: thumbs up, open mouth)

And then there was the New Zealand reunion. I am obsessed with these people. Absolutely obsessed. That's why I take it upon myself to plan a little reunion every semester or so. My favorite part about the New Zealand crew is watching how we grow. No, not everyone was able to make it; plenty are in other states or had other engagements. But look how many spouses and babies came that we didn't have three years ago!

And below is what happened when Ramsay decided to push the rest of us over. I think the picture looks a little posed but I assure you that it didn't take much once Ramsay pushed for everyone to flop over like dominoes. (Thanks to Scott for being the camera guy. Sorry you weren't in the pictures!)

Sock Puppet Barf

2011-03-19T18:37:00.001-06:00

These three beautiful creations are my first three attempts at knitting. The washcloth that looks like a stingray (top left) was stitched in two years ago in Heber, Utah, at a family reunion while under the direction of my angel grandmother who patiently taught and re-taught me how to work the needles and supplied me with a starter kit she packaged herself: a few skeins of yarn, three sets of needles, printed instructions, scissors, one crochet hook, all encased in very old-lady-looking straw bag that I still tote around.

"Your stitches are too tight," she would say while lifting her head to better use her bifocals and see my work. And too tight my stitches most definitely were! My thumbs had permanent dents in them from trying to argue the loops off one needle and on to the other. It's a miracle I can still play video games. Gratefully, practice improves performance and the second washcloth doesn't look so much like a sting ray and just a small cafoodle (this is a word I made up to mean a mistake resulting in ugly-hood sock-puppet barf). My third washcloth (bottom) looks like a pretty peaches-n-cream square (after you tug at it for a bit).

Knitting is something to do while couching. Couching is the productive idleness; it consists of people gathering, sitting, and chatting all the while doing nothing productive. Some argue that couching is a way to build friendships, but really it's not. Relationships are not built by couching; they're built through overcoming hardships, experiencing new things, and doing something. BUT sometimes couching is just something to do because no one wants to spend money, it's too late to go anywhere, or we all just feel too lazy. Knitting makes me feel like I'm being productive even while I'm couching. And heaven knows I've been couching a lot. At the rate I'm couching I will probably make a few more washcloths before graduation. Maybe I'll send them out with my graduation announcements. Look for yours in the mail.

Second Star to the Right

2011-03-18T16:35:00.008-06:00

I spent this morning trying to bring my virtual life up to speed with my real life by uploading piles of pictures to facebook and transferring information from USB to hard drive. The good news is that now that I have a camera and a delightfully fast and new computer (twelve times better than my sluggish drugery that is formerly known as laptop), I will hopefully be blogging more frequently about stuff that will make you wish you too had my life. (Isn't that the point of a blog?...Okay, you're right. It's to share creative writing. But still, isn't braggins a bonus of blogging?)

So just in case you aren't my friend on facebook, here are a few pictures.

I threw myself a Peter Pan birthday party. I told everyone to come in costume (that's why there are pirates and Indians hanging around). These were the top three best costumes, which was meansured by the applause-o-meter. My roommate is Peter Pan's shadow, I am the second star to the right, and Amy is an incredible crocodile.

The winners were awarded a vase full of ornaments.

As I am a recreation management major, I take parties seriously. We had a coloring contest; pin the feather on Peter Pan's hat; an Ultimate Rock, Paper, Scisors contest; brownies and icecream at exactly 10:17PM (that's the time I was born, and you best believe I had everyone set an alarm on their phone and sing to me at that time); and a few dozen rounds of my favorite game Statues. This is how this game works.

1. The people are gathered and standing

2. The person who is "it" flips the light out and says, "I want to see a statue of...." and then inserts something crazy and creative like "the last corn flake in the bowl" or "a balloon floating away" or "a monkey falling out of the ceiling rafters and stapled to a popsicle"

3. Pause

4. "It" turns the light on and judges everyone's statues.

It's ALWAYS a winner. Just look at how much fun we're having.

I can only imagine how this looks from across the strett: lights going on and off and each time people are looking exponentially more ridiculous.

This is how I do my studying.

Be jealous.

This is what I do on Fridays when I don't have class. I go to the aquarium in Sandy and help with their fundraising efforts. Sometimes I write grants. Sometimes I brainstorm ideas for a brick campaign. Sometimes I make balloon animal penguins.

So my life really isn't as lame and empty as my blog might make it sound. So there.

Was and Now Stickers

2011-03-16T13:23:00.001-06:00

An orange sticker displayed
On the black turtleneck
says “Was and Now”, you see,
It’s a price-cut effect.
You might see it, perhaps,
When a weekly sale draws:
T’was more than it is
Now less than it was.

The old letters I keep
In my gloves-and-scarves drawer.
Embody a longing
For what we had before.
But time spent apart is
A price-slashing device.
Our love now reduced
To be clearance price.

Just last night I re-read
That last-received letter
(the one with the pirate
Ship drawn in the header.)
Just like the turtlenecks
In a secondhand store,
It’s less than it was,
Once worth a lot more.

Da Hood

2011-03-14T16:08:00.003-06:00

My new favorite hobby is researching gangs. After this post, you too might find yourself addicted to deciphering taggings, spotting tatoos, and shopping at Gen X.

Gangs are all about RESPECT and they are actually very well organized. Let's start with the Surenos. This is basicallly Spanish for "South siders" The Surenos are rivals with the Nortenos. The Surenos are part of the Mexican Mafia. The number 13 is used to represent Surenos because they are part of the Mexican Mafia, and the 13th letter in the alphabet is M.

When I say that gangs are well organized, I mean that the little Surenos branches (like ABG, 38th Street, CAM) pay a sort of tithing up to the big dogs, all the way up to the Mexican Mafia itself.

Surenos gang members wear the color blue and dis on the Nortenos anyway they can, but mostly by getting rid of the letter N. For example, if I saw a note written like this, I would know it is written by someone from Surenos: "Today in Spaxish class my friexds were laughing at the kid sittixg ix froxt of me."
Notice how the the letter N is eliminated.

The Nortenos wear red and are often represented by the number 14 (because N is the 14th letter in the alphabet). Look at this graffiti below.

The numbers 541 most likely mean that this gang is in Oregon. I know because 541 is an Oregon area code. (Gangs often identify themselves by area code. Sometimes they'll get 801 tatoos.)

You can tell this is Norteno graffiti because 1) the big letter N, 2) it's in red, 3) the letter S has been disrespected by putting a slash through it, 4) the huelga bird is also a Nortenos symbol, and 5) the X4 means 14. It combines the Roman Numberal X with the Arabic 4, totalling 14 and meaning the letter N.

See? Wasn't that fun?

THe Bloods are rivals with the Crips.

I know this is Blood graffiti because 1) it's in red, and 2) CK stands for Crip Killer. As the Bloods and Crips are rivals, that's a pretty good indicator. Blood members will cross out the letter C in their writings. Kearns Town Bloods is a prominent Blood gang in Utah.

Since CK stands for "Crip Killer", Crips will not put "ck" in their writings. So, for example, they will spell things differently, like "Welcome bacc" and they'll replace any CK with a CC. Crips use the color blue, favor the left side, and do the C-walk...which, I think, is spelling out "Crips" with your feet.

The final gang that we'll discuss here is Straight Edge. This is an interesting gang to me because they don't do drugs or drink alcohol. They pride themselves on being pure like that. The most violent Straight Edge gang is in SLC. Because Straight Edge members don't do drugs, they think everyone else should be the same way. So you might find graffiti like, "XXX kill your local drug dealer" or they will find some drunk guy at a park and beat him up. Their symbol is XXX or sXe (Straight Edge with an X in the middle) or just an X.

The letter X is used to symbolize Straight Edge because sometimes kids would go to see bands play in bars but they were under the drinking age, so an X was put on their hands to notify staff to avoid giving them alcohol. The X thus symbolizes their abstinence from alcohol and drugs. Straight Edge is an extremist gang and doesn't really have a set rival.

Now, knowing what you know about gangs, go check out your local Gen X clothing store. Look for hats with 801 or red or blue clothing. It's totally a gang store.

Other stuff to google:
Juggalos (they are freaky clowns who will show up to a gun fight with a hatchet)
TOP (Tiny Oriental Posse)

Prison Prayers

2011-02-28T23:49:00.001-07:00

Today at work I had the opportunity to play lead counselor in the unit because the other staff with me - although definitely more trained than I- usually works in a different part of the facility doing entirely different tasks. Thus today I got to call the shots and decide when to put the girls in their rooms and how picky to be with the rules. (Don't worry. I won't let this power go to my head.) As is typical for a Saturday at the juvenile detention center, we had breakfast, deep-cleaned the rooms, had lunch, went to gym, and rotated through showers while the Bible Study volunteer talked with three girls.

Just in case the reader is unaware, I am a devoted member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, more commonly known as LDS or Mormon. The Bible Study volunteers are from the Center Point church. I like it when the Bible Study volunteers come. It gives me an opportunity to see how other religions worship the same God. Many youth at the detention center have yet to learn that joy of learning of other beliefs and make hasty assumptions about whether they will or won't participate in Bible Study. Like today.

Me: Who wants to go to Bible Study?

Loud Girl: I don't know. I'm LDS.

Quiet Girl: Yes! I do.

Majority of other girls: Not me. I'd rather read.

Bible Study started with a warm welcome from the volunteer woman. She strikes me as the type of person who goes skiing regularly and works as a receptionist in a fancy doctor's office or at a day spa. Her brown hair goes no longer than just below her chin. She was wearing dangling, flashy earrings. She started introducing herself and asking for the girls' names sitting with her. Today's focus was on liking and loving, the difference, and that God has both likes us and loves us.I noticed the runt girl of today's litter. After watching her shoot hoops today for gym I'm convinced she has a phobia of balls. Her little blond head kept turning from side to side like she wanted to say something but was too scared to open her mouth. She was standing just outside the circle of couches which were arranged for Bible Study. I asked, "do you want to join them?"

Runt Girl: I'm not Mormon. (It's like these kids think that the only church in Utah Vally is a Mormon church.)

Me: That doesn't matter. You can join them anyway. It's not a Mormon meeting.

Having received the go-ahead, Runt Girl promptly stepped into the couch circle, picked up a NIV Bible, and sat next to Quiet Girl.

The volunteer had Runt Girl introduce herself and then asked the question, "What is the difference between liking someone and loving someone?"

I didn't hear the answers, but the question caused me to ponder and make a quick mental list of those I love and those I like and those I love because I don't like...you know, that whole Christlike love versus that YourmybestfriendandIknoweverythingaboutyou love. After making that mental list in my head I tuned back into the Bible group and I'm glad that I did because of what I witnessed.

Bible Study Volunteer: God loves us and he likes us. He likes me on my good days and on my bad days.

Loud Girl: God loves everyone.

The runt of this week's group was sitting in the small circle of Bible Study with her back to me. I keyed into the fact that she was crying based on the reactions of those around her. The Quiet girl obviously became uneasy and made an effort to avoid contact with the crying eyes.

Volunteer: I know. Sometimes thinking about how much God loves me makes me cry, too.

Runt: My babysitter died and I can't get it off my mind. *sniff* Sometimes I just think about it.

Loud Girl: It's okay. God usually gives us trials so we can learn from them.

Quiet Girl: Yeah. It usually makes us better people.

And here's the part that blew me away:

Loud Girl: If you want, in the mornings... or right before bed... I can pray with you.

Runt Girl: Okay *sniff sniff*

Volunteer: We can pray right now...[waits for everyone to assume the reverent prayer position] God, you love us so much. We are the apple of your eye. You like us even in our mistakes and our wrong-doings. We are so grateful and mindful of that love and hope that we can always remember of your love. And this we pray. Amen.

The real point of this story is not the prayer that was offered, though I was taken aback at how it sounded: a bit like a sermon in and of itself, yet incredibly raw and honest. Often I feel like prayers in the Mormon bubble are crafted to sound intelligent and wordy, while this prayer was colloquial. (When was the last time you thought, "I am the apple of God's eye" or uttered it in a prayer?) But I digress. The real point is the sheer Christlike love shared between Loud Girl and Runt Girl, two girls under the age of 15 who are in a juvenile delinquent center most likely because of assault or drug use.

Extra Points

2011-02-21T07:00:00.003-07:00

This story is 100% true. This is not a dramatization, but an account of real-life events that happened to real people. Any resemblance to any persons living or dead is completely intentional because this is a TRUE STORY.

I was at Subway the other day with my friend Brenna. I was getting an Italian BMT on Italian herbs and cheese bread with provolone, toasted, (just in case you were wondering) and just as I started telling the worker that I wanted lettuce, tomato, lots of tomato, pickles, olives, some green peppers, some banana peppers, mustard, olive oil and vinegar...

the man in front of me turns around and says - and we're talking a direct quote, here - "Hey, do you want some extra points on your point card?"

Of course I said yes.
My current Subway points total is 155, which will get me two FREE foot-longs...and half of a cookie.

I Heard the Birds

2011-02-18T13:51:00.003-07:00

I took the other day to deviate from my usual school-to-home route and meandered around a few houses tucked away in the creases of the city. While rediscovering the world around me I heard a sound I haven't heard for months: birds. Giggling, merry, perky birds.

Yesterday and today have been considerably colder than that perky day, and the window report threatens cold weather and a sunless haze for the weekend. Yet I can't shake the blink of hope I had the other day that spring is in the air. "I heard the birds the other day" is the spring time equivalent of "I heard the Bells on Christmas Day." I feel like the birds chirping in the trees not only embodied the green lawns (not white) and the warm(er) weather from Wednesday but also embody how I feel: content,vibrant,creative and well-worth my own investment. A sense of faith, and determination has surfaced with a healthy ray of ambition. Greatness is mine! Graduation draws nearer every day and, while I have no solid career plans, I do have options and right now I'm okay with that.

"And that's what we do when we're 23" -Amber Rubarth

2011-01-15T15:32:00.006-07:00

Soooooooooooo my little blogging world.

Today just HAPPENS to be my birthday. Yes. You read that right. It's my BIRTHDAY! And that means that I'll have more facebook posts today than the rest of the year combined and I get credit for keeping myself alive for yet another year. Go me! And in 4.38 years I'll be able to celebrate that I've been alive for 10,000 days. (Three years ago I was riding the luge or zorbing in New Zealand).

I'm throwing myself a Peter Pan party tonight. I told people to come dressed as a pirate or an Indian or a lost boy or something. I think I'll be going as the second star to the right. (Ain't I witty?) I love parties...particularly when people come to worship me.

The answer to the question you're thinking is:
I am 23. And I love it because this song means so much more to me. It's "23" by Amber Rubarth. (I'm writing this in the library and I don't have headphones, so I haven't actually previewed this movie, but from what I can tell, there quite a bit of dialogue prior to the song.)

BUT WAIT! THERE'S MORE!
Christmas was fantastic. I got a knife block and I put it to use daily. My favorite is the cheese knife which, at first, I wondered how it is different than any other knife, but now I use it all the time...although I still have no clue whether it is actually any better for cutting cheese.

My last semester of school (or so I think) has begun. I'm taking swimming and anatomy for kicks and giggles. I feel rejuvenated and excited to learn and I love living in a college town where I can mingle with different kinds of people. My life rocks. My family rocks. My friends all rock. School rocks. Work rocks. Everything rocks.

Condoleezza Rice came to speak to my school the other day. I think she is awesome. She's charismatic, intelligent, and plays piano. I liked her line "what once seemed impossible in retrospect seems only inevitable." It shocked me into realizing that the small acts we do today grow over time. Duh. I already knew that...but I just hadn't known that, if you know what I mean.

I have new roommates (I'll talk about them some other day...because today is MY day because it's MY birthday). My brothers and best friend will soon be leaving the MTC (not to be confused with MTV) and will be rocking South America.

Aaaaaaaand I'm off to go be part of a Divine Comedy music video in the testing center.

TEACH YOUR CHILD TO READ IN 100 EASY LESSONS

2010-12-02T17:39:00.010-07:00

I spent hours at my mother's side suffereing through each painstaking lesson of vowels and consonants and heaven knows what else. This book is the the earliest book to ever appear in my life.

I can read today because my mother spent so many hours when I was a child with her finger running along the bottom of sentences so that I could follow along.

Let's take a moment to appreciate reading.

Combining text messages, emails, facebook status updates, menus, signs, mapquest instructions, the rolling news update on the bottom of the CNN channel, song lyrics, blogposts, and let's not to fail to mention newspapers and books; YOU have probably read just as much as Shakespeare did. And you are probably capable of reading all of Shakespeare's work. (That's kind of a big deal.)

I remember one particular afternoon when I was at my mothers side reading a book I had brought home for school for homework. It was just a dinky "See Spot Run" type of book and I remember looking at the letters:

Although I was a good reader for my age, I didn't recognize this word. I sounded out each letter with my finger under each letter.

That's about when my mother turned to me and said, "It's 'glad'. You should know your own name. You should know who you are."

For whatever reason "glad" didn't register as "Glad". (I think something had to do with the way I always write my "a"s like an O with a stick, not that funny typed "a".)

But my mother had a good point: "You should know who you are." I am fortunate to know who I am. I am Marcindra LaPriel Glad. I have a knack for connecting to people and appreciating new things. I love orange juice. Sometimes I need a kick in the pants (metaphorically.) I walk by faith, run with ideas, and stand by my values. I always have a joke up my sleeve and I never, never, ever "boo" the other team or the referees.

And...

I can read.

My Toes are Dictionaries

2010-11-13T09:54:00.000-07:00

My creative writing class is now studying poetry. While I have never hated poetry I have also never appreciated poetry until this class: particularly, not until I watched these videos from this class.

Watch these videos

William Shatner reads Sarah Palin Twitter poetry (This one is just plain funny.)

Lance Larsen - “Some Minutes”

Billy Collins - "January In Paris", "Forgetfulness" and "Ballistics"

Maurice Kilwein Guevara -“Doña Josefina Counsels Doña Concepción Before Entering Sears”

Naomi Shihab Nye-"One Boy Told Me"

Uruguay, Paraguay, Argentina, New Zealand, and Me

2010-11-12T10:13:00.005-07:00

Right now it is 10:13AM on a Friday and I have a long list of homework to complete by today. What I should be doing right now is tackling some Two-Sample t Tests of Significance or writing a prevention plan for a risk management assessment. Instead, I am sitting at a campus computer with my statistics notes pushed to the side next to my blue Nalgene water-bottle and I am blogging.

My twin brothers will be leaving on Wednesday. They are both serving missions for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. They will spend the next two years wearing suits and nametags and speaking Spanish and preaching the gospel. One will be in Argentina and the other twin will be in Paraguay.
On the same day next week my best friend Katie Jo will also leave to serve a mission. She will spend the next eighteen months wearing a skirt and a nametag and speaking Spanish and preaching the gospel. She will be in Uruguay.

Let it be known that I support missionaries and I support missions. I do not, however, like the fact that my best friend and my brothers are leaving the same day and that I can't spend time with all three of them simultaneously.

I have a New Zealand reunion tomorrow. I love my friends from New Zealand. They're the first solid group of friends I've ever had. I love everything about New Zealand because it was the best time in my life. Ever. And that's a fact. (You can read about all my adventures on my New Zealand Blog) Katie Jo, whom I met because of New Zealand, just informed me she will not be attending because she has family events. I also have family over for my brothers' farewell but I wanted to go to the reunion to see Katie Jo because I won't be able to see Katie Jo's farewell on Sunday. But Katie Jo won't be at the reunion because she'll be with her family and I'm thinking I should also be with my family but at the same time I have to go to the party because I planned the darn thing and there's a part of me that is grasping at my New Zealand friendships the same way I try to catch the words that have already leapt out of my mouth. How am I going to see Katie Jo again? Should I go to the party? Should I stay at home to be with my family even though I'm not going to get my brothers to myself because all the aunts and uncles of other people will be running around rampant? GAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!

This Christmas is going to suck. Christmas morning will be sad and empty. Katie Jo has been my confidant over the past few years and soon I will be left standing on the curb, metaphorically. I don't get attached to a lot of people because I know people come and go. But when I do get attached, it's brutally hard when I have no choice but to let them go. A lot of these emotions I am dealing with are similar to what I was feeling when I wrote I Call Shotgun! Sometimes people just float away.

...And don't say, "snakes"

2010-11-08T22:46:00.001-07:00

Sometimes I sit in class and all I can think about is this movie.

Seinfeld History Lesson

On a Scale of Zero to Five

2010-10-15T10:24:00.003-06:00

Over the summer I made a few trips to the hospital with one camper or another who had fallen off a horse and broken a bone. The nurse always whips out a laminated paper with a few cartoon faces expressing different levels of pain and asks the camper to express how he or she is feeling.

This scale isn't really conducive to what I'm feeling right now so I pulled up this chart:
I went over the chart three times looking for the word "uneasy" but it didn't show. I scanned the chart again, this time focusing on the faces rather than the words.

There it is. The second up from the bottom on the left-most side.

I saw the face and knew that was how I felt. When my eyes dropped to read the word below it I understood more of myself: Lost.

Being lost is a funny feeling because I know where I am and I have my bearings so I don't feel like I should be lost but somehow I still am. It's the kind of lost when you're in the car with your GPS and you know you could get anywhere if you could just give the darn thing some solid coordinates. Right now all I'm able to offer my GPS is:

Let's wander to the west for a while and see what strikes our fancy.
Why don't we just wait until someone gives us a good idea?
We could hitchhike.
I don't want to drive. I want to bike.

I keep coming up with all the other options rather than a destination.

How long can I just go with the flow until I establish a plan?

The Watermelon Tactic

2010-10-08T19:25:00.004-06:00

It had been sitting on my apartment table for a week and a half and not one of my roommates had touched. Thus I voted myself to be the first to cut the watermelon in half and take a ring from the middle. I plopped the piece on my plate and took it outside to the scrumping couch and started to fork-out all the seeds. I had scraped out about eleven seeds and moved them to the side of my plate and was pursuing three more when I realized that I was being ridiculous and downright dumb. Have I always eaten watermelon this way? Have I always scraped out the seeds with my fork?

Screw the seeds.

I changed my tactic. I started to eat watermelon the same way I eat seedless watermelon: taking bites. I started to eat watermelon the same way everybody eats watermelon: taking a bite and then sifting the seeds out.

I would never call myself a perfectionist but I always try to fork out the seeds of my life before biting. I rummage through all the details before commitment. I might actually be afraid of commitment. Or maybe I'm afraid of non-commitment. Either way I think too much before I act. Schedules. Dating. Graduation. Job hunting. I analyze my options before biting.

I'm hereby committing myself to try this new tactic in life: the watermelon tactic. It involves me acting on impulse and then sifting through the details.

I'll let you know when I take my first bite.

Disconnect

2010-10-07T11:12:00.007-06:00

I set aside these two hours in between classes for homework. Yet here I am blogging. Because I just got out of creative writing and I feel guilty: guilty of not writing everyday, guilty of not writing what I feel, guilty of writing contingent upon my audience.

That's the worst way to write. Worrying about what you're writing, I mean. Honesty is the best policy in clergy interviews and writing. In all other areas honesty is just a good policy.

So here I am trying again to strip away the layers and get straight to it, whatever "it" is. I find that the longer it is between writings the more layers I have to strip, the more I have to chisel through the corrosion and rust and grime. Writing keeps me true.

While waiting in line for food the other day my friend asked me about my love life. I answered her honestly but it was her prying questions that made me realize how dishonest I've been. Not that I've been lying to myself. I just haven't acknowledged the truths.

So here it is.

Once upon a time I wrote a missionary who came back and was a typical returned missionary. He was scared of a relationship so he dumped me even though we weren't together. I cried that day. I don't think I cried because he dumped me. I think I cried because it was a bad day. Two people shoved me out of their lives in one day and I was not ready for it. One friend had chosen to replace me with some newer friends and then Boy dumped me. I hate feeling replaced. I hate getting shoved.

I got over it. I moved on...mostly. Except that I just needed a bit more defined closure. So after a few months this boy and I had a little chat and expressed that things were awkward because we hadn't really addressed the elephant. So we addressed the elephant, gave him a name, and stated that we were friends. The end.

Until this semester. Boy contacted me and said he has spent the better part of a year coming to his senses and realizes that he gave up a great thing (me). Never in my fantasies of chick-flicks have I ever imagined anyone crawling back, asking for forgiveness, asking for a second chance from me.

We met for lunch. I told him that I was over him but I'm interested in building a friendship and seeing where it goes.

That was probably a month ago. I haven't talked to him since. I keep telling myself that the ball is in his court if he wants to play. I don't really want to play. I have roommates and school and work and between the three I stay pretty busy. If the ball is in my court I don't care. I'll just drop my racket and find something else to do. I don't want to be bothered with the responsibility of holding up my end of any relationship. But now there is a very small part of me that says I have some sort of obligation to give him a call and work towards friendship. The other part of me says that if you feel obligated to form a friendship then it's not true friendship and it can't be anything more.

Then there is the boy that I love. Prior to this love I have only ever had crushes and professed to love them. This, however, is real love. I know because it blindsided me on some idle Tuesday. I was sitting in the camp office petting a dog when I glanced out the door to see him and that's when I realized it. Oops. I most certainly was not planning on that. What's a girl to do?

I have never had this kind of relationship with anybody else: he knows me better than I know myself. We share the same wavelength. I'm comfortable with him. We're so opposite we balance each other out. I've never been able to ACTUALLY and successfully picture raising a family with anyone until he came along. And now I'm in deep because I love him more than I've ever loved any boy but he's on the other side of the globe. But that's not the biggest problem. The biggest problem is that I am devoutly Christian and he is devoutly atheist. When I picture my future family I see my family going to church together and praying together and having candid conversations about God. Thus is the problem. I want him but I won't have him. And that's the worst kind of love: self-conflicted.

And so now I wonder what I'm supposed to do. I don't want one boy and I won't have the other though I wish every day that I would. Right now I wish that love were a feeling slaked by an online purchase or a night of binging ice cream. I wish that I could love the boy who loves me and I wish I could have him without feeling compromised.

Right now I wish that I didn't have homework and I didn't have to find someone to cover my shifts. Right now I wish I could write for uninterrupted hours. I wish that I had packed a lunch. I wish that people would do what I wanted them to do. I wish that I had earned thirty stickers and were enjoying the purchased infomercial item. I wish I were in a dark closet granting me permission to shed a few tears and wail just because I feel like that would be the prime outlet for my emotions at this time.

I wish that I could sever that part of my brain that turns on when the teacher's voice drones or the lights go dim or I pull my blanket up to my neck: the part of my brain that thinks about life and the future and the past and the disconnect of where I am to where I want to be.

I'm Graduating!...sometime

2010-09-30T14:41:00.002-06:00

My final semesters at BYU are coming to an end and I am scuttling to find the best classes and shove them in the pockets of my schedule because I am devastated to think that soon I will not be in a classroom. I love school. I don't particularly enjoy homework but I love the pursuit of being well-rounded.

I just realized that I don't need to take a few classes that I thought I needed. (That is a great feeling!) I really only need to take about two more classes that will double count for both my major and my minor. Then there are a few classes that I want to take just because they are fantastic classes. I may or may not end up graduating sooner than I thought.

I NEED you to comment about the best classes you have taken at BYU. What was the most interesting? The most fun? What changed your life the most? If you are already graduated, what do you wish you had learned? Economics? Accounting?

Amused by a Moving Target

2010-09-23T12:05:00.007-06:00

I just walked out of a lecture/concert by Brenn Hill. He's a cowboy singing cowboy songs. I went to this lecture/concert out of duty for my Creative Writing class (where we actually have done more reading than we have writing. Hopefully this will soon change.) I forgot how much I'm captivated by free, live music. Brenn was telling the audience about how he just wanted to be a cowboy and he made a career out of it and he loves music and he loves his family and his son had a brain tumor but now he's okay and how we are all going to encounter a lot of opposition in life. "They'll tell you that you need to compromise yourself or change to meet the idea of the masses. You should know it doesn't matter what anyone tells you. If you have desire and you sacrifice and do the work and have conviction for personal values they you will be successful."

That was good for me to hear. Especially today when I'm wondering what I'm going to do when I graduate and how long I want to have seasonal, eccentric jobs and when I want to commit to a stable career. But then he said something that pricked me a bit. "Hopefully your muse is a moving target."
The word "muse", just like "facebook" or "google" or "lick", can be both a verb and a noun. As a verb it means to ponder silently about something. As a noun:

–noun

1. Classical Mythology .

a. any of a number of sister goddesses, originally given as Aoede (song), Melete (meditation), and Mneme (memory), but latterly and more commonly as the nine daughters of Zeus and Mnemosyne who presided over various arts: Calliope (epic poetry), Clio (history), Erato (lyric poetry), Euterpe (music), Melpomene (tragedy), Polyhymnia (religious music), Terpsichore (dance), Thalia (comedy), and Urania (astronomy); identified by the Romans with the Camenae.

b. any goddess presiding over a particular art.

2. ( sometimes lowercase ) the goddess or the power regarded as inspiring a poet, artist, thinker, or the like.

3. ( lowercase ) the genius or powers characteristic of a poet.

Origin:
1350–1400; ME Muse < MF < L Mūsa < Gk Moûsa

So a muse could be anything that amuses your creative self.

a muse
amuse

I can't help but muse on how the two are connected.

"Hopefully your muse is a moving target."

What is my muse? Do I have more than one? Is it moving? How fast? Will I ever hit the target? Should I ever hit the target, or should it be one of those life-long pursuits? What's my mom's muse?

Do muses have deadlines?

Hoy es jueves. Dos de Septiembre.

2010-09-02T11:06:00.004-06:00

It's day four of classes. I'm taking 18 credits. My classes include:

statistics
legal aspects and liabilities
recreation facility planning
Old Testament
Spanish (I've become quite obsessed with speaking the limited amount of Spanish I know)
creative writing (I'm excited to have an excuse to spend time writing every day. It's nice to have excuses to do pleasurable things out of academic necessity.)

I've spent more time in the library during the first week than I have in any given previous semester. For the first time in about two years I have classes on Friday. I'm not in over my head, but it's right at my head. I'm going to be a busy, busy girl.

My apartment consists of one special education major who is engaged and will be getting married mid-December; one costume design major, and (including myself) four recreation majors. One of those recreation majors will be doing her internship next semester and will move out. Another one of those recreation majors is my best friend actually already graduated and will be moving out at the end of October to go serve an LDS mission. (My other best friend just got back from her mission.) If you haven't been interpreting this information, this means that there are currently six of us but by the end of December there will only be three of us. This makes me sad.

My twin brothers just got their mission calls. One will go to Paraguay and the other to Argentina. They will leave the same time my roommate/best friend does. My younger sister-the baby of the family-will be 16 years old by Monday. She will be a dater. I can tell.

I am still in school. I've been in college since 2006. I am 22 and 7/12. I am growing up. I have long since accepted that I am growing up AND growing old. They are two entirely different things and I am doing both. It is entirely a different ball game to accept that my family is also growing up and growing old. Pookie? Old enough to date? This simply cannot be. My brothers? Wearing suits and name tags?

I'd never thought I'd see the day.

As you might have guessed, I'm in the wilderness.

2010-08-23T21:47:00.006-06:00

As you might have guessed, I'm in the wilderness.
Cell reception just ain't here but don't worry and don't fear
I'll call you back when I can and adventures we can plan
In the meantime leave your number; I'll call you back sometime this summer.

Perhaps you have heard this on my phone sometime during the past ten weeks as it has been my voicemail. If you haven't, call by Friday because I am about to update my voicemail so as to reflect my actual currant position.

I am well aware of my absence in the blogging world during the past three months. I have had reason to write, but never the time. And they've been good reasons, too. Reasons like:

My car VanGo abruptly coming to a halt, never to run again...yet somehow mysteriously worked it's way uphill across the street.
My father selling my car for a mere $100.
The entire camp having gas because the chef puts a fair amount of fart-causing spice in EVERYTHING.
Subtle inside jokes that circle around the staff the same way spam works it's way to every email address.
Knowing the gas station employee from my 8th grade orchestra class.
The entire camp hiding one of my very good friends from me for a good three hours only to reveal that he will be spending the duration of the season working at the camp.
The relationships I've formed, the growth I've gained, and the fun I've had.

Meh. All that shall not make it to this blog. It will stay in my journal for my future posterity to enjoy. Tough noogies: that's not you. You won't ever know those stories in detail.

Suck it up, princess.

Now I'm back in the "real world" (whatever that means) and getting ready for school. I think I've adjusted rather well. I've jumped right back into picking up shifts at work. My text-message alert of Power Rangers continually reminds me what cell-service means. I shower every day (mostly), and bask in the glory of Kentucky Bluegrass and carpet.

Moral of the story: I'm ba-aack!

Roar for Orem High

2010-05-31T10:02:00.005-06:00

My high school will be but a pewter pile tomorrow.
No more Cross-Hall.
No more D-Hall.

I won't be able to walk my grandchildren through the halls of my high school and tell stories of Mr. Downs running with stick in tow, ready to clobber the students riding Rusty the Rhino. Likewise, the stories of crazy Ms. Bestor or Ms. Stanton (the woman who has become a second mother to me) or when the orchestra pit threw bananas on stage during "Seven Brides for Seven Brothers", all those stories will lose a tether linking them to reality.

But then I realized something: my mother never took me on a tour of her high school. Nor did my grandmother. Or, if they did, I don't remember anything.

I'm predicting that when I am an old fart and do have scores of grandchildren that I won't take them on a tour of my past. They probably wouldn't care much if I did.

Yes, a part of me feels like we're killing 50+ years of students and teachers and lunch ladies and stereotypes of bimbo-cheerleaders and stuck-up jocks and misunderstood gothics. You can tell that everybody else feels the same way because locker doors are missing and planks of wood from the stage have been ripped up: all recently removed by decades worth of students who all returned to their hormonal teenage roots to retrieve a piece of the building as a memento of "the good ol' days". I myself walked away with four cinder blocks. My brother has locker number 2009, which is also the same year he graduated. Yes, part of me feels like my past is being murdered.

But the more dominant part of me, the part that remembers high school as lonely and stressful and dramatic, the part that knows that I am more myself now then I ever was in high school, THAT part of me is at peace to see the building crumble.

I learned from the film Avatar that "we are all living on borrowed time and eventually we have to give it back." Orem High has reached that point. The building will die and decay. A new, young body will be birthed -- not quite replacing but perhaps superseding the "old" Orem High.

But the Spirit of Orem High will live on. Just as the Spirits of the pioneers, pilgrims, and prophets are with us, so is the Tiger Spirit.

GO OHS!

I Have a B.S. in Nursing

2010-05-12T16:12:00.004-06:00

As you may or may not know, I will be spending my summer in the wilderness working for a camp. I did the same thing last summer. I know this year will be great because it is going to be better than last year and last year was stupendous. I will be the Program Director, which was also my job last year.

Usually my duties include
driving the bus endearingly named Big John
driving the van endearingly named The Van
planning theme weeks

(Rogue Spies and Private Eyes week. Secret Agents vs. Ninjas)

and generally making camp...well...interesting.

On this particular day last year I was at the check-in table when my boss informs me that Jay and Sean are both sick.

--------------------------------------------
*Welcome to "Logistics of Camp" with Marcie*

We have 11 cabins at camp. Cabin 1 through Cabin 6 are girl cabins. Cabin 7 through Cabin 11 are boy cabins. In each cabin there are two counselors and a maximum of ten campers. Jay and Sean are both assigned to Cabin 8. If Jay is at home with a parasite and Sean is in the Health Center with a bad cold, fatigue, and a cough, who is the adult supervision in Cabin 8?

Answer: No one

...yet.

--------------------------------------------

This is Andrew.

Andrew is a nursing student at BYU and was the health supervisor for camp last year. This means that while at camp he gives out medication during meals and at night when campers need their pills and checks the heartbeat of stuffed animals. This also means that he gets to sleep in the Health Center where he has immediate access to a toilet, shower, fridge, microwave, and a toaster oven -a far better accommodation than any cabin on site. This also means that if anyone ever gets hurt or needs to see the doctor, Andrew is the go-to guy. But let's be honest, here. Campers seldom need medical attention more than a band-aid so between giving out drugs, Andrew goes to archery or makes origami frogs or pretends to be James Bond or a Tiki Man or a cowboy. Really, Andrew has the best job in the entire camp. He never has to work.

So, if you need a male counselor for Cabin 8 when you are suddenly short-staffed, who do you use?

Answer: Well duh. The health supervisor, Andrew

You are probably asking yourself, "If the health supervisor became a counselor, who became the health supervisor?"

Answer: Yours truly.

When my boss notified me that I would be the health supervisor for the week I was so excited. I get to stay in the health center with my own bathroom (!!!!!) and suspected I would have loads of free time because half the time Andrew is down at archery anyway.

Boy was I wrong.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~``

*Welcome to "A Week in the Life of Camp Nurse" with Marcie*

Sunday night I came in to the health center to find a girl with a fever of 104. I thought to myself, "I'm pretty sure that when your fever hits 106, you're dead. This can't be good." So I put her in a cold shower in hopes to lower her temperature. I heard the water turn off and then I heard some splattering and some moaning.

Just my luck. She did the technicolor-yawn all over the bathtub.
Hot dogs. There is not a doubt in my mind she had eaten hot dogs.
With a lot of ketchup. Blech!

We sent her home that night.

Monday: The parents called us and told us that they took the girl to the doctor and she had swine flu.
Dang.
Consequently I bleached the entire camp.

Then there was a camper with a pesky cough/cold and since a similar pesky cough/cold has been swiping out counselors I took him to the clinic down in Kamas. On a happier note, Sean felt better so he became went to Cabin 8 but we decided to keep Andrew there as well so kids could "have some stability" or something like that.

Tuesday: I woke up to a counselor slamming my door open (can you slam a door open?) and yelling, "Marcie! Wake up! I'm coughing up blood!"

In my groggy state all I could think was, "I don't think I have a pill for that. Hmm...This can't be good. Let's go find Andrew." So we hunted down the legitimate camp nurse in Cabin 8 (who-true to nurse stereotype-came out in his scrubs) and he said it was nothing serious but we should make an appointment in Kamas.

But it was too early to call the clinic because they weren't open for another hour. So between the counselor coughing up blood and me calling the clinic I got a few other things to deal with...

A) This girl walks in with a stomachache and after prodding she tells me that she hasn't gone poo for three days. I tell her I don't have any laxatives but I'll get some for her later.
B) This boy (we'll call him Josh) came in with a bummed-out knee. I was out of ace bandages so I had to wrap it with a roll of gauze.

c) Josh's buddy Bobby said that he was experiencing some abdominal pain. He could only get to sleep when he was in the fetal position and the pain was pretty concentrated right here *points to right abdomen, about an inch below rib cage.*

So I radioed Andrew.

"Marcie to Andrew."
"This is Andrew. Go ahead."
"Where's your appendix located?"
"Lower right abdomen."
"What if it's the upper right abdomen?"
"Well if it's his appendix and you poke it, it will hurt more when you release."

So I poked it and Bobby said it hurt more when I let go. To make a long entry about six paragraphs shorter, I took the kid to the clinic, his dad picked him up, it turns out his mom is an internalist, she confirmed he had appendicitis and he got his appendix taken out that day.

The counselor who was coughing up blood got a prescription along with another counselor who was having some trouble breathing. I got some narcotics because I have bronchitis. (Don't worry, I asked if I could still drive Big John while on narcotics and the doctor said it was perfectly fine.)

Just when I thought that nothing else could possibly happen this week I came back to camp and this girl complained that a bug was in her ear.

"I was at archery and there was buzzing around my head and then there was buzzing in my head," she said.

I used Andrew's nifty ear-looker-inner-tool. Sure enough. She has a bug in her ear. We tried to flush it out with water and alcohol. It killed the bug but it was still in her ear. We didn't want to try and get it out ourselves because that could go terribly wrong. The clinic was closed by then and I wasn't about to take her to the ER for that...so we just let her go to bed with a dead bug in her ear.
Wednesday: Every Wednesday we split up the camp by age group and send them on hikes.

Before the hike: a counselor (Nick) came in with a slight fever, a cough, and a pain in his lung/rib. So we quarantined him. The constipated girl from yesterday came in and said she felt nauseous and had diarrhea. I told her that she SHOULD have diarrhea and then I gave her a pepto.

She barfed up pink stuff ten minutes later.

During the hike: Nick went to the doctor. He has pneumonia and will be out for the rest of the summer. Then a counselor radioed the camp director to tell her that Otis (the camp director's dog) had just been hit by a car. So the director left to save the dog and take him to the vet and then it occurred to me that I was acting Program Director, Health Supervisor, and Camp Director. That means I was the acting ENTIRE ADMINISTRATION STAFF.

Does that sound like a good idea to you???

Didn't think so.

After the hike: Jonah comes in with sunpoisoning/heat exhaustion. Guess what cabin he's in.

If you guessed Cabin 3, you're WRONG. The correct answer is Cabin 8.

After I babied Jonah all day with ice pack on, ice pack off, socks on, blanket on, blanket off, ice pack on, socks off, ice pack off, we decided that we couldn't stabilize his temperature so we sent him home with his parents.

You know that girl with swine flu who went home on the first day? Well she has a brother at camp: Jason.

In Cabin 8.

So we decided to check his temperature just in case.

Well that "just in case" turned out to be a good idea. His fever was 103 so we had his parents pick him up.
Thursday: This kid comes in with an ear ache first thing in the morning. But don't you worry, he was NOT from Cabin 8. He's from cabin 7. After 12 hours of him complaining of this, we sent him home with his parents.

Friday: Another male counselor got sick and somehow I drew the short stick and had to fill in for him, too. So I had the privileged of being a cabin counselor in addition playing nurse and still trying to make camp a Disneyland experience for everyone who didn't know what medical mayhem was happening behind the scenes. I was feeling pretty schizophrenic by the end of the day.

I think I went through enough that week to have been through all the hazing hoops of being a nurse.

You could say that I have a B.S. in nursing.

(B.S.....if you know what I mean.)

And you want to know the BEST part? The next week Andrew was back to being nurse and he was back to doing origami and pretending to be James Bond. I don't think he ever did clean up barf the whole summer.

I did it twice in one week.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Epilogue:

Andrew and I are still fantastic friends. He teaches me nursing words like "spondylolisthesis" and "esopha pharyngoscopy".

It's too bad he won't be at camp this year. Bad things happen when Andrew isn't the health supervisor.

Green Transformer Box

2010-05-11T12:30:00.007-06:00

Lauren and I used to stand on the green box and pet the horses. It put us at just the right height to stroke the long faces of the chestnut horses. In the fall my mother would have my brothers and I collect the wormed apples from our delightfully climbable apple tree and toss them to the horses. My brothers and I would stand on the green box to toss the apples over. The green box was "Safe" in tag games and the table for imaginary games of House.

That horse pasture is now the location for a cul-de-sac of eight houses. The sandbox has been turned into a vegetable garden. Both peach trees have died and been chopped down and added to the firewood pile. A white, solid, vinyl fences have replaced the slotted wooden fence that so easily gave slivers. The slide of the swing set fell off. After a few gymnastic routines with neighborhood kids the poles of the swing-set moved out of place. Screws came out of the teeter-totter and have been carried off by ants. Now, if aliens invaded and took a gander at the backyard, they would never know that a blue swing set once entertained flocks of children here.

The summer pool has come and gone and come and gone and been patched up and stored in the garage and come and gone and been hauled to the dump. The suffocated grass under the pool died, and that circle of lawn became naked dirt and, over time, the grass has grown and seeded and spread and grown until that naked patch of dirt filled in with grass to blend with the rest of the yard.

The deck has been built and stained and worn by the weather and stained again. The umbrella on the deck table has been damaged by the wind and tossed out with the pogo-stick, sandbox toys, pool cover, and all those wormed apples that can no longer be thrown to the horses.

The apple tree has been trimmed. The workers chopped off my favorite branch: the branch in the perfect location for throwing things at the brothers below and blocking their weapons. I am still mad about losing that branch. One summer we had a tree house built in that tree. It's been a long time since any of us have been up there for a picnic. The trunk of the tree and the biggest branches are now plagued with a dark sign of death. The tree is sick. In a short time that tree will go the way of all the earth.

The two redwood picnic tables have dwindled to the one picnic table and that picnic table faced the fire yesterday leaving us with no picnic tables.

Then there is the green transformer box. It has always been in the same south-west corner of my backyard. Stable. Reliable. Green. Warm. Constant. From the anchor of the green box I have watched my backyard go through the seasons of my childhood and now it is stuck in a bleak winter; a tundra never to again see the elementary-aged children kicking soccer balls at the fence or making a river run through the sand-town. The green box will be the longest-lasting memento of my childhood outside: a government-owned, green, metallic box.

But you know what? I would trade that box for my peach trees or my rickety old fence any day. I would rather have a pasture of horses or that one branch of the apple tree-ESPECIALLY that one branch of the apple tree- than have a green box. But I'll take it. Every day I drift a little bit further from childhood and I'll take any anchor I can find.

Suburbia

2010-05-07T15:35:00.006-06:00

I went to the Museum of Art today. Alone. Julia Cameron calls these kinds of outings Artist Dates. I call this one Being StoodUp. It's okay. He forgot and was doing something with his family. Actually, I'm glad he didn't become because then I was free to wander the museum at my own pace. Museums are harder to enjoy in groups.

This is one piece I saw today. Lesbia Weeping Over a Sparrow by Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadema. I read that title and thought, "Who the heck is Lesbia? and why does she have a dead sparrow?"

So I came home and I Googled it.

This painting is inspired by the poem "Lesbia's Sparrow" by Gaius Valerius Catullus.

All you Loves and Cupids cry
and all you men of feeling
my girl’s sparrow is dead,
my girl’s beloved sparrow.
She loved him more than herself.
He was sweeter than honey, and he
knew her, as she knows her mother.
He never flew out of her lap,
but, hopping about here and there,
just chirped to his lady, alone.
Now he is flying the dark
no one ever returns from.
Evil to you, evil Shades
of Orcus, destroyers of beauty.
You have stolen the beautiful sparrow from me.
Oh sad day! Oh poor little sparrow!
Because of you my sweet girl’s eyes
are red with weeping, and swollen

Catullus was a Roman poet who lived between 84 BC and 54 BC. He was in love with a woman named Clodia Metelli, who is "Lesbia" in his literature. Look up those people on Wikipedia. Because I don't want to spend much more time on it. I want to focus on the Suburbia exibit by Bill Owens.

My favorite visual art is photography. I decided that today. The whole exhibit is full of photographs from the 70's in the suburbs. But more than the pictures I think I loved the quotes from the subjects. The quote with this one said something along the lines of "Our house is built with the living room in
the back, so in the evenings we sit out front
of the garage and watch the traffic go by."

Photographs of people mowing the lawn or painting door frames or cleaning the bathroom came with paragraphs of them saying, "This is my greatest asset so I am taking care of it."

"I put it off until I can't stand it any longer. Cleaning the bathroom is the worst."

"The best part of having a home is having a yard to care for." "We've been married for two months and all of our belongings are in this room."

I LOVE the retro outfits and the glasses pinched at the end. For some reason it reminds me of peacock feathers. Tupperware parties. Couches that I swear are replicas of the ones at my grandmother's house. Wooden panels for walls. I love these glimpses at history.

You can get a slide show of some of Bill Owen's work here. Click on the Gallery and you can even read the great quotes. Of course, this doesn't cover all of Owen's work so you should really go to the BYU Museum of Art.

Meanwhile, I am going to contemplate how great life is in the suburbs and take a moment to appreciate having neighbors and being blessed with a garden and a lawn even if those blessings come with an expectation of labor.

Bound to Crumble

2010-05-06T10:04:00.005-06:00

I can hear the water running down the pipes in this old basement. It's kind of gross if you think about it long enough. That very same water used to me Viking sweat or dinosaur urine. Yuck.

I feel like I have had a lot to write about during the past few days but I have put off writing about it so long that the initial inspiration has long since worn off and I find myself struggling to write about anything at all. Serves me write. When you get an inkling to write you should NEVER suppress it. Starting now I will always have a pen on me and a little notebook.

I went to my old high school's dance company concert this week. Every time I go back to my high school I remind myself that it might just be the last time I see that building. They are set to tear it down in the next few months.

A part of me feels victimized by this: sad that my future children and grandchildren will never walk Cross Hall or see Ms. Bestor's room. All my stories about chickens in the skybrary or Mr. Downs chasing after kids who try to ride his iron rhinoceros named Rusty will never have a foundation. The building will melt away and over time my stories will lose flavor, leaving just the amorphous outline of a life long past. It's kind of funny how high school is such a defining time. I only spent three years of my life in that building but those were three years of a significant caliber.

There is another part of me that is content to see the building crumble. I have come a long way since high school but when I spend time with my high school friends I find myself regressing. Perhaps with the building gone I will be able to officially close that novel of my life, pack my bags and move east, and begin the next volume on new page. Yes, a new page. A page so virgin and untouched that I have to write my own page numbers and publication information. I wonder how trapped I really am by my past and how much of it I just make out in my mind.

The dancers did a find job. By no means was it "So You Think You Can Dance" but this group of people has learned to use the God-given body in a way I never mastered. They prance and leap and jump and shimmy and at times they seem to challenge gravity to a duel. There was one girl on stage who used to be good friends with my younger sister. We'll call her Annie. Annie used to come over to my house every day to play with my sister. She would accidentally leave jackets and barrettes and toys around our house and we would gather all Annie's belongings and put them in a pile for her to pick up when she next visited on the morrow. That was the Young Annie: pig tails, forgetful, and energetic. Now, on a stage illuminated with vibrant reds and soft blues and adorned in dancer shorts and a long flannel shirt, Annie is flexible and graceful and slender and skillful. She folds easily into the man's arms and he then lifts her into the air. She spins in the air on the release and, like a cat, softly lands on her feet ready for the next leap.

I look at this woman and remember how I used to babysit her. Now in her presence I feel old and fat and ugly. It is a harsh realization that one day I too will crumble like Orem High.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

One of the songs the team danced to was this medley. I like it. I wouldn't have ever figured out that combination.

25 Non-profit Organizations Worth Noting

2010-04-20T11:00:00.002-06:00

This post has been moved to my list blog.

"Somewhere we lost about 385 laughs"

2010-04-17T16:48:00.002-06:00

Dr. Gary Palmer is most enthusiastic man.

Ever.

He typically interrupts his own classes for riotous applause. Every class period is a flow experience. I have never been bored in class or wished that I was in bed or doing something else or something more productive.

I want to be like Dr. Palmer. I would love to just bask in the glory but they're forcing the old man to retire.

On the last day of class Dr. Palmer told us that "children laugh about 400 times a day. Adults only laugh about 15 times a day. Somewhere we lost about 385 laughs."

Fourth grade. That's when I started losing my laughs. Between September 1997 and May 1998 I managed to fall in love with Tyler Bulloch. I was so in love that I would get to class early so I could swap our chairs so that I could sit in the same chair that Tyler once sat in. Maybe if I sat in his chair we would be connected through some magical connection of love and he would love me too. Maybe.

This is the same year I realized that there were popular kids and that I was not one of them. Megan McAllister had a Pocahontas bra. She showed it to me after we had walked home together. I did not have a Pocahontas bra. Not that either of us had any reason to wear any bra, but still... Megan McAllister was popular. I was not. Maybe her popularity had something to do with that bra. Maybe.

Laughing gradually faded out of my life for a while. Faded like an old T-shirt that still has some image printed but you have to stare at it for a bit to determine what it is. Laughter was still there but not as bold as it once was.

Thank heavens I figured out that life is not about Pocahontas bras or tricking boys into loving you or being the smartest or the fastest or the skinniest or the oldest or the kid with a Ding Dong and a crust-less PBJ for lunch. No, life is so much more. I am so much more. I am more than my soar throat or my hairy arms or my worn out sneakers. My chubby fingers do not add or detract from my ability to be happy nor do my incredibly attractive ankles add or detract from my ability to seek knowledge, be a good friend, or meticulously replace the toilet paper roll. No. I am SO MUCH MORE than what you see.

Knowing that I am so much more enables me to laugh a little more and maybe now I am only missing about 130 laughs. Maybe.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
This is Linda Hill. She started Somuchmore. It's a company that makes humorous t-shirts for cancer survivors. I have got to admit, they are pretty freaking hilarious t-shirts. Phases like, “I lost my colon but I’m still full of crap…” How do you not love that?
Check out the site: somuchmoreonline.com.

Good people deserve to be learned of. Take time to learn about Linda Hill in this video below. (Maybe one day I'll discover how to make this video not hang over my right scroll bar like that. Maybe.)

Check out the organization on facebook and read this quote below because it will change the way you think:

"Linda has had Hodgkin’s Disease (lymphoma cancer), thyroid cancer, and breast cancer. She’s undergone chemotherapy, radiation, and hormone treatments. Her spleen, thyroid and both breasts have been removed. Most recently, her colon was removed in a pre-emptive strike against colon cancer. Trust me… she is all too aware that cancer is not funny.

But this is not about Linda. This is about feeling confident and strong, happy and full of life, despite the scars cancer leaves behind. This is about attitude. This is about fighting the fight… but with spirit!

When we think of people we love, we talk of their sense of humor, their kindness, their talents, and countless other qualities. Never do we describe someone as whether they have their breasts or not.

Your breasts do not make you outgoing and fun. Bone marrow does not make you love to bake, dance, or play sports. Your colon does not give you your love for family and friends. And it is not your thyroid that gives you faith in God

Cancer does not define us. We are so much more."

The Blue Bookcase

2010-04-16T15:24:00.003-06:00

I would never in a million years

consider myself to be well-read.

I would like to be...

...but I am not.

My friends, on the other hand, are incredibly well-read. They have read the classics and books I've never heard of and they all have the ability to intelligently contribute to a discussion comparing and contrasting various authors. All these well-read friends have launched a new blog called The Blue Bookcase.

This blog has free book giveaways!!

And, if you like reading, you can get ideas of new books to read.
And, if you don't like reading, you can read the summary and pretend like you read it and impress your well-read friends. (That's how I got invited to be a reviewer on this blog. My friends think I'm well-read. *snicker snicker snicker*)

If you follow The Blue Bookcase I will promise to make another review contribution by the end of this month. (I only make promises if I know I can keep them)

If you get five friends to publicly follow this blog (Somewhere Between Fate and Chance) I will give you a cookie.

Earth Month

2010-04-15T12:04:00.002-06:00

I'm only part hippie..but I am still a hippie. So I celebrate Earth Day. Only for me it's more like Earth Month.

I love recycling and being GREEN.

Here are a few ways you can do something good this month

1) You know those shoes that are so worn out and useless that you can't even give them to a foreign country? Well give them to Nike and they will turn your SHOES into BASKETBALL COURTS. Check out this video. It will rock your socks off...I mean, your shoes.

Nike Reuse-A-Shoe drop-off locations are found at all U.S. Nike stores.
Here's where to go:
Nike Factory Store
6699 N LANDMARK DR. STE A-100
PARK CITY, UT 84060 US
435.649.7442

2) Salt Lake City Bicycle Collective.
They have some "Do it Yourselfer" nights where they TEACH you how to fix your own bike.

Monday, Apr. 19, 2010 5:30pm
Volunteer Only Shop Hours

Tuesday, Apr. 20, 2010 5:30pm
Do-It-Yourselfer Night

Wednesday, Apr. 21, 2010 5:30pm
Do-It-Yourselfer Night

You can drop off a bike or any bike parts for them to use. They also offer a bike valet parking service. If you don't have a lock or just don't trust the streets the SLC Bicycle Collective with watch your bike for you!

3) Plant a garden

4) Recycle

5) Phones 4 Charity
Donate an old phone. They recycle it or reprogram it so someone can use it to call 911 at least. This is brilliant! They don't even ask for money! SEND YOUR OLD PHONE HERE!

6) Bring your own bag to the store.

7) Don't put things down your disposal.
All that crud is going to have to be siphoned out. You might as well put it in the garbage can so it can go straight to the dump, where it will end up anyway. Or better yet, start a compost pile. (I started one behind my apartment. Shh. Don't tell management.)

8) Pick
up
rubbish
when you see it on the streets.
Then either put it in a trash can or recycle it. MOST THINGS YOU FIND CAN BE RECYCLED. If you don't have recycling service bring it to me or take it to one. A lot of recycling plants offer money for cans and such. There are a few on Geneva Road. Google them.

4:12PM today

2010-04-10T20:11:00.002-06:00

4:12pm today
I wished I were
Fierce and fearsome.
With long, venomous teeth.
Growling.

Foaming mouth.
To scare roommates.
Couch-kifing
Television-addicted
Lights-turned-on
Apathetic-recycler
Take-food-without-asking
Snooty-toned
Couch-kifing
Don't-care-what-story-you-have
Throw-papers-away-without-asking
Coupon-snatching
Stink-up-the-room
Poor-decision-making
Invitation-rejecting
"Shhh because I'm boring"
Couch-kifing
Anti-April Fool-plotting
Non-cohesive
roommates.

I pay the same rent.
If I want to plop myself on the couch
I darn well can.
You, my lady, can do your project and watch your show
on the other couch.

We have more than one, you know.

Besides, I'm only here for thirty more minutes and then
I'll be in better, more welcoming company.

But I'll go in my room and sulk there for thirty minutes because
I am not
Fierce and fearsome.
I have no
Long, venomous teeth.
No
Growling.

No
Foaming mouth.

Maybe if you saw what a beast I am inside,
You would be scared,
Would tiptoe away
If you knew at any moment I was liable to rise
And eat you.

Frost Shadow

2010-04-07T15:41:00.003-06:00

1. Do Morning Pages every morning
2. Take myself on Artist Dates
3. Go on walks

These are three (3)* activities to increase creativity per Julia Cameron's book The Sound of Paper. Julia Cameron is a brilliant writer, for those of you who don't know. Clearly, if you are reading this blog, you do not know for if you did know you would be reading her material rather than this blog. Anyhoo, the woman knows a thing or two about creative writing and I intend to learn from her.

*Why do people always follow a spelled-out number with the digits? It's silly.

1) So, following Julia's advice I have begun Morning Pages. "Morning Pages" means that first thing in the morning (well, after I go peepee) I write three pages by hand. Vent, plan, praise, demand, reprimand, schedule, personify, edify, whatever. I just write. Ms. Stanton would be so proud of me.

2) An Artist Date is "a once-weekly, festive, solo expedition to explore something that interests you. The Artist Date need not be overtly "artistic"-- think mischief more than mastery." This means exploring museums, underground tunnels, new hobbies, or musical events. I would call this type of thing an adventure but Artist Dates are different because it is a SOLO activity.

I have yet to go on an Artist Date this week.

3) Instead of biking to school this week I have taken my feet to the pavement. Yesterday the world was dripping and the ground could no longer take it in. It reminded me of when my dad dared me to put my lips to the hose and drink so fast no water would come out. I did well for a while but soon I could no longer take the water and it dribbled out of the corners of my mouth. Thus was the ground. Puddles emerged in the crevasse between sidewalk slabs and along the foundations of houses. The brush on the hill near the duck pond seemed to be perking up its ears to the changing seasons.

Today was a different day. White clouds, not the gray dark ones. No rain. Sun. Still chilly. No puddles. Just the lingering wet cement. Shadows alertly guarding the life of frost, leaving snowy white patches as the silhouettes of houses and trees and as the sun rose higher and the shadow waned the frost disappeared without a trace. This is spring: part green, part white; part summer, part winter; part recovering slumber, part waking excitement.

That Poor Child!

2010-04-02T15:45:00.003-06:00

I chuckled when I saw this.

What do you suppose is worse: a child thinking Santa died or a child never believing in Santa?

Informed Citizen

2010-04-01T10:25:00.000-06:00

Eight dollars a month.

A measly twenty-five cents a day is all I have to pay to get a beautifully folded, expertly creased, ink scented, rubber band-bounded package of knowledge and joy delivered right to my doorstep.

I love.

I adore it.

I love licking my finger, extending my arms and turning the page to to the wold events section more awkwardly than I would ever turn the pages of a check book or those little annoying sticky calendars you get from the car shop, seeing the black residue on my finger, and reading the paper.

A few weeks ago there was an article that caught my attention about a jogger who got hit by a plane.

Rather than reiterate or paraphrase, here is a portion of the article:

Beach Jogger Killed by Plane Likely Never Heard It
By RUSS BYNUM and DORIE TURNER Associated Press Writers
HILTON HEAD ISLAND, S.C. March 17, 2010 (AP)

The kit-built single-engine plane was gliding quietly as it came down for
an emergency landing on a beach. Pharmaceutical salesman Robert Gary Jones, listening to his iPod while jogging, likely never saw or heard it before the aircraft hit him from behind Monday evening and killed him.

"There's no noise," said aviation expert Mary Schiavo, a former
inspector general for the National Transportation Safety Board. "So the jogger, with his ear buds in, and the plane without an engine, you're basically a stealth aircraft. Who would expect to look up?"

The 38-year-old Jones, whose mother said he was serious about nutrition
and exercise, especially jogging, was on a business trip to Hilton Head for GlaxoSmithKline. He was looking forward to getting home to the northern Atlanta suburb of Woodstock, Ga., for his daughter's third birthday Wednesday, Pauline Jones said.

Some people die in incredibly intriguing ways: never expecting it and perhaps never feeling it.

What does dying feel like?

Nice Head Area

2010-03-13T15:05:00.004-07:00

Don't tell anyone but I came here to the library an hour ago to "be productive", whatever that means, and have enjoyed immersing myself in nostalgia while I went through all of my facebook pictures.

All of them.

I invite you to do the same so you too can appreciate the many adventures I've enjoyed and become incredibly jealous of my awesome life and proceed to tell me how awesome my life is because MY LIFE IS AWESOME! I have been many an awesome place, with many an awesome people, and have many an awesome picture.

Like today for example. Today has been an awesome day because the green carpet from the 70's in my apartment is clean, every porcelain fixture in the apartment is white instead of yellow or gray, and the front room no longer smells like fish.

I hate the smell of fish.

In addition to my apartment being entirely clean (the one and only advantage of having cleaning checks), the clouds are dripping with liquid evidence of spring, AND I am wearing a headband.
Wearing a headband has suddenly become a big deal. For me, I mean. It started exactly a month ago from yesterday when my ward had a whopper of a formal dance. I shocked the world when I showed up in a bright highlighter-pink DRESS (double shock) with white gloves and a tiara (which I was awarded in high school after being on Homecoming royalty...which was another shock to the world), AND my face was plastered with make-up. And honey, I mean plastered.

My date showed up with pink hair, a pink tie, a pink belt, and nerdy glasses. That, my boys, is a good man.

As you can clearly see for yourself, I was looking hott (with two T's, just like high school). And that is when the trouble began. Gosh. You spend one day looking girly and suddenly the entire complex and beyond is intrigued.

Nick told me I was looking hot. Tamatha told me I was beautiful. Becca, Amy, Neeley, Shannon, Gertrude, Rumplestilksin, and Oprah Winfrey all asked me if they could borrow my tiara. I was not expecting it to be such an obvious object of affection. Ben Schilaty in the ward told me that I looked great and that I should look girly more often so as to shock people even more with my personality.

What the heck is THAT supposed to mean?

A week later during an FHE excursion to Inn N' Out Ben informed my carload that the way you get a man is to do the elbow-touching thing, invite guys to things, and it doesn't hurt to look good. This turned into a conversation about what is girly and what is not. I regret to inform you that no clear rubric was formed.

Since this day every time I see Ben I promptly ask him if I look girly. I'm half joking but Ben always answers honestly. On one particular day I was wearing a headband that I borrowed from my roommate. Ben said, "Marcie, your head area is looking very nice today. Headbands definitely work for you. You should invest in some."

An hour later Ben and I were at a party for a mutual friend and I was wearing a hat. I was getting along quite well with a boy whom I found absolutely hilarious when Ben started giving me plays from the sideline. He kept sweeping his hand over his head, signalling for me to remove my hat and reveal my beautifully headband-adorned head. The headband, by the way, was actually not on my head at all. I had left it at home. It was getting uncomfortable.

I called Ben out on this and suddenly the entire room was involved in the headband conversation and the hostess was wildly searching for a substitute headband for me to use so the world could see how girly I looked with a black, wide headband. She found one. I put it on. This action was met with applause.

I went shopping this week and saw a headband and bought it. It's not a big one. It's a little wavy one that sends prongs into my hair. But still, it's a headband and it's on my head and whenever Ben sees me wearing it he says, "Marcie, your head area is looking very nice today."

What Ben doesn't know is how useful headbands are. There are many things you can do with headbands. If you don't believe me, just check out my blog of lists here.

Missed Investment

2010-03-08T15:38:00.003-07:00

It occurred to me last night that I do not have any great grandparents.

They have all died.

When did that happen?

I think about it and realize that it has been this way for two years.

I'm a little behind. I can't believe I didn't realize this until last night.

Why didn't I take the time to hear their stories? Why didn't I ask them about the invention of computers or airplanes or if they remember sonograms?

Will I make the same mistake and then realize my grandparents and parents and siblings have all died?

I frequently remind myself that I invest in people, memories, and experiences.

Is it possible I'm investing in the wrong people? or just the right people at the wrong time? If I invest in my grandparents, will the return on my investment be greater than or less than the return from investing in people my age?

Rewind. Be kind.

2010-02-08T14:27:00.000-07:00

This belt buckle is for Mike Snyder.

HAPPINESSISNOWHERE.

2010-02-05T14:29:00.000-07:00

HAPPINESSISNOWHERE.

What does the above smushed word say?

Did you read this as "happiness is no where" or "happiness is now here"?

Latitude and Light

2010-02-05T11:42:00.000-07:00

Thursday I spent my evening with the sailing club. Never mind that I’m not a member of the sailing club nor have I ever been sailing. So I was kicking it with Skipper Steve and all of his old sailing buddies from the Sailing Association of Utah, which is hilarious in and of itself. We all met in the Erying Science Center planetarium because where else would you expect to find the sailing club? Actually everybody was learning about celestial navigation.

There’s actually more to celestial navigation than I thought. You point one had at the horizon and the other on the north star and you take that degree and from that you can get your latitude. So if I wanted to get to Hawaii I would sail south until this degree my latitude was 21 then I’d turn right and keep going until I hit a beach. Easy, right? Well except I have to be able to see the horizon and the north star at the same time. If you wait until it’s dark and you can’t see the horizon then you’re kinda screwed. So your best bet is twilight. The time for a navigator is short. You have to know where the horizon is because even a few degrees of error in calculation can land you in a completely different continent. So right at twilight you should make the calculations. So to make corrections in navigation, sailors will drop whatever they are doing so they can employ the horizon because they know time is short. It is so important to make use of that light, where heaven meets earth. They will make calculations, adjust course, and sail on.

In a deeply literal way, the temple is the horizon. This is where earth meets heaven. Behind the sacred walls ordinances are performed that transcend centuries of time and galaxies of space. Here, families are sealed for the eternities, eternal covenants are made, and a baptism that takes place in a pool of water held by oxen passes through the thin veil and thereby reaches our forefathers.

Now listen with your spiritual ears: So to make corrections in navigation, sailors will drop whatever they are doing so they can employ the horizon because they know time is short. It is so important to make use of that light, where heaven meets earth. They will make calculations, adjust course, and sail on.

I’ve divided my content into 4 sections

1. Drop Everything for the Horizon.
2. Calculations
3. Adjust course
4. Sail on

1) Drop Everything!
When I think of temples I quite honestly think of sacrifices. If I were still living the mosaic law today I would take MY lamb or goat, not someone else’s lamb, to the temple, dedicate the lamb to God through the laying on of hands, carry out the sacrifice, have the priest collect the blood, after draining the blood I would burn the animal on the alter, after the fat burns off and the priest got his piece, I would proceed to eat the rest of the flesh as the sacrificial meal and share it with my household or my roommates.

Christ was the last blood sacrifice. In Aramaic. Talya=lamb and male child, kind of how the word kid can mean a baby goat or a human child Lamb of God was the same as saying Son of God. Since then we have ceased blood sacrifices and instead partake of the Christ’s blood with the sacrament.

Now, sacrifices at the temple mean something else. I go to the temple on MY time, time without blemish, dedicate it to the Lord, carry out the sacrifice, and share my experience.

I’m from Utah. I had never seen a good sunrise until I was 20 and was in New Zeland because for the first time there weren’t mountains in the way of the horizon. It was also in New Zealand that I first experienced not having the luxury of going to the temple on any whim. So it was in New Zealand that I first truly learned how valuable the horizon is.

I came back to Utah and was so excited to go to the temple. And I was good. I was a once-a-weeker. Then one week, about two months ago, I decided I was going to be super awesome and go to the temple every day. So I did. And at the end of that week I decided that I didn’t feel any different. I wasn’t getting any extra personal revelation so I just kind of stopped going to the temple for two months. I finally went this week to the temple, party because I’m giving this talk and partly because my roommates invited me. I have been in a lot of situations lately where I can tell the spirit is not there and let me tell you, the temple DOES feel different. It’s amazing.

NEWSFLASH: You’re in a Mormon bubble. Sometimes, nestled between majestic mountains and a kazillion other Mormons, it is too easy to forget how valuable the horizon is. Sometimes the reality of how fortunate we are to have temples eludes us. Here we are with 7, soon to be 8, “horizons” within an hour’s drive and too many of us don’t even strive to see the sunset while those that do attend the temple forget how spectacular the temple is. I was one of those people. I really had to reactivate myself even though I told myself I wasn’t inactive. All this time here in Utah has let me forget how valuable the horizon is.

Don’t let this be you. Mountains may block the horizon, but mountains are often temples in and of themselves.

2) Calculations.

I’ve done my own calculations.

4-fold mission of the church:
Proclaim the gospel, redeem the dead, perfect the saints, and help the needy.
One fourth of the work we do as a church is temple specific.

There are currently approximately 15 million Mormons. This is half the population of California. The world population is about 6.5 Billion. This is the same as having 21 United States of Americas.

There are 30 times as many people buried in the earth than there are living on it. That’s the same as 641 United States making 195 trillion.

To visualize 195 trillion think of this:
The earth has a surface area of 510 million square kilometers. That is the same as 1,673,228,346,456.64 square feet. So if you took the earth and put grid lines on to mark every square foot, right on top of the ocean, in the desert, on the north pole, and everywhere, you would have to stack 116 people in each square foot to make that 195 trillion population of the earth.

Now, with the world gridded and stacked up 116 people high, our ward takes up only 2 tiles in the hallway. My home ward of 400 people occupies about 5 tiles. My home stake would be the size of one wheelchair-accessible bathroom, and the entire Mormon population INCLUDING the pioneers and other deceased Mormons, would not even occupy Rhode Island.

As a religion that believes baptism is critical for salvation, we still have 49 states, 11 countries, 4 continents, and seven seas to baptize.

But don’t get discouraged! A lot of temple work has already been done. I’m sure at least Main has been baptized. Every little bit helps. I alone have done enough baptisms for the dead to fill 4 squares. If every week for the remainder of the year just 15 people from our ward make it to the temple for baptisms, our ward will have baptized an entire stake. If every BYU ward did the same thing, by the end of the year there would be enough to fill every bathroom on campus.

The point of all is this:
Consider keeping a tally mark in your journal of the number of baptisms you do. Maybe include the temple with your visiting or home teaching .
Write down memorable experiences.

3) Make adjustments
With the celestial kingdom as our destination, we can apply the concepts of celestial navigation if we employ the horizon (temple) and focus on the ever constant Christ as our polar star.

As we use the temple and Christ to calculate the points of improvement in our lives we can make adjustments. If you aren’t temple worthy, see the Bishop and get temple worthy. If you are worthy and don’t have a recommend, get a recommend. If you have a recommend, go regularly. If you go regularly, get more out of your temple experience.

4) Sail on
I KNOW that sailing can be rough. The mast breaks, the sails tear, and pirates unfairly take. I know sometimes you have shipmates you don’t get along with. I know it’s easier to talk about celestial navigation than it is to live by it. I KNOW that sometimes the sky is cloudy and you sail in darkness and seemingly without direction. I also know that even when you do see the horizon and see the north star that the voyage can still be dangerous. But I KNOW that the sun always rises and that the Son has risen. But just as President Benson Promised in 1987,” I promise you that, with increased attendance in the temples of our God, you shall receive increased personal revelation to bless your life as you bless those who have died”

This week take on the sailor challenge and promise to increase your temple work.

Computer Cookies

2010-02-01T14:21:00.003-07:00

Fortune cookies. Flash drives. Duh.

What They Deserve

2010-01-26T12:19:00.012-07:00

I've been gnawing on this for weeks. I have opened, saved, titled, renamed, reopened, stared at, deleted sections of, and pondered this post a handful of times over the past few weeks. I've debated between making this post short and focus on one point and making this post tediously long and stringing several related elements. This is the final product.

What They Deserve
By Marcindra

I recently took a job working at a prison for delinquent youth. It is a total lockdown facility. My co-workers are typically tough and gruff men. The inmates/residents/youth wear matching blue scrubs and follow a stringent set of rules delineating where they are allowed to sit, when they are allowed to speak, at whom they are allowed to look, and which questions are forbidden to ask.

These kids are usually in because of drugs or graffiti or sometimes truancy. Some for violence. They are in because their neighbors, family, teachers, classmates, and the general voting and tax-paying population of Utah has deemed them dangerous and thus unfit for society. So the state locks them up and takes them away until the youth is no longer seen as a threat. The difference between a state penitentiary and a juvenile detention center is that we are still raising kids. So we actually treat the kids pretty well. They have school on site, are fed good food, have access to movies and books and ping pong. Now I know the difference between having stuff and having freedom.

The kids here have daily access to a slew of fun things we could never afford to have in my home. But they don't have freedom. That luxury of choosing is gone. The luxury of being trusted is gone. They are not allowed to have a roll of toilet paper because it could be used as a weapon. The girls there don't get to shave their armpits because razors are dangerous. They can't have guitar picks or pens or anything in their pockets because there is that slim chance that some punk kind might use it to inflict pain on another kid, me, my coworkers, or himself.

Did you hear that? THEY HAVE TO BE ISSUED TOILET PAPER!

For my first week I worked only in the Control Room. I was in charge of opening/closing doors for staff and making sure inmates/residents/youth don't escape. During visiting hours I have parents sign in and make sure no one exceeds their allotted vising time. The visiting rooms are also on lockdown. They are small. Each room has a few plastic chairs that remind me of the Strawberry Shortcake plastic chairs I used to have around my toy kitchen. The front of the rooms are made of windows so that I can see everything that goes on in the room. It is interesting to watch parents and ecclesiastical leaders interact with these kids: kids who have clearly sinned in one way or another. One visit will stick out in my mind.

This boy Billy (name has been changed) is a sex offender. His dad comes to visit him every week. His mother never comes. On this particular day the mom shocked everybody when she came with her husband for visiting hours. It was interesting to see this interaction. She refused to look at him. Her eyes were staring at a particular spot of carpet. Her facial expression was a cross between wanting to vomit and wanting to punch a wall and cry. I just felt awkward watching that. It's like when you're in a grocery store and the couple behind you in line is having a terribly open and loud argument and part of you wants to shrink into your own shoes and you just want to tell them to shut up or offer a solution...but mostly you just feel awkward. That's how it felt to watch this mom.

I understand how disgusted and disappointed and despicable she could be feeling. Her son is a sex offender, for crying out loud. Gross. Ew. Nasty. I totally and completely understand her sour face. But at the same time I wanted to shout at her and tell her to wipe that lemon off her face, put on a gentle smile, and just give the boy a hug because now-perhaps more than ever-this kid needs love.

And that's when I caught a sliver of a glimpse at unconditional love.

That was a week after Thanksgiving and since then I've been gnawing on love and what it is and what it's not and who deserves it and who decides who deserves it and basically pushing aside any other blog topic. Unconditional love means SHOWING love no matter what. Whether your son is a Nobel Peace Prize recipient or a janitor or a murderer...well....how about I just give you this quote from Jack H. Goaslind's article in the May 1981 edition of the Ensign entitled "Reach Out to Our Father's Children".

A good friend shared this story about how she learned the deeper meaning of love. Their family has always been active in the Church, trying their best to live the commandments. They were shocked and disappointed, however, when their daughter became engaged to a nonmember. The next day the mother was telling a good friend about her feelings. She knew her daughter’s fiancee was a fine young man, but she felt angry, hurt, betrayed, and numb and did not want to give her daughter a wedding or even see her. She said that the Lord must have guided her to talk to her friend because she received this reply:

“What kind of a mother are you that you only love her when she does what you want her to do? That is selfish, self-centered, qualified love. It’s easy to love our children when they are good; but when they make mistakes, they need our love even more. We should love and care for them no matter what they do. It doesn’t mean we condone or approve of the errors, but we help, not condemn; love, not hate; forgive, not judge. We build them up rather than tear them down; we lead them, not desert them. We love when they are the most unlovable, and if you can’t or won’t do that, you are a poor mother.”

When I am the most bitter and critical, when I am the most dishonest and hurtful, when I break promises and silently curse my life or curse God or complain, when I yell and scream at my family so hard that my throat hurts, when I gluttonously take more than my fair share, when I skip scripture study or laugh at a racial joke GOD STILL LOVES ME.

And THAT is pretty cool.

When Brenda Spencer shot kindergartners, when Hitler sent Jews to Auswitch, when Janet Jackson had a "wardrobe malfunction" and exposed herself to half the world, when the KKK left lynched black bodies, when Tiger Woods ignored that he had a wife, when that Powell guy murdered his own wife, GOD STILL LOVED THEM. God loves even the most despised and rejected of all men.

That is what blows my mind about unconditional love. It's easy to love good people unconditionally. It's easy to love people who are beautiful and smart and cheerful. It's not so easy to love filth unconditionally. It's not easy to love lepers or sinners or snotty celebrities or annoying roommates or the pimply-faced teenager taking your fast food order yet God does.
God gives them the love they deserve because love is always and deserved.

Driving in Snow for Dummies

2009-12-30T14:29:00.002-07:00

I am a Utah native. My body make is 30% snow. This lends me the rare and coveted ability to drive in snow. I am now willing to share my secrets. Please use the following advice and information to your advantage.

Properly scrape your windshield and windows before leaving.
Slow down! It is expected to go 5-10mph below the speed limit.
Leave a RIDICULOUS amount of space between you and the car in front of you. You never know when you or they will slide.
Use caution when turning. That is when you are most likely to slide.
Lines no longer exist. You have to use your imagination to make lanes. Follow the car in front of you.
Often residential streets only get plowed going one direction. This means roads often become single-laned but still need to facilitated two-way traffic.
Turn into the skid. This one is tricky because when your car is going left and you want to go right, you instinctively want to jerk your car right. FIGHT THE INSTINCT and turn your wheel left. This will give you control and then you may proceed to go right.
Plan extra time for travel.
Better safe than sorry.
Always pack a coat and gloves.

Man Hug

2009-12-08T21:24:00.005-07:00

Right now I just want a man hug.

From a big man

A Tongan, perhaps.

Squeeze out all my mundane problems with

An embrace

Encased in a

Button-up shirt,

Sleeves rolled up to the elbow.

I want all the bothers to

Disappear behind the

Chest pillowing my head.

Maybe,

Just maybe,

I'll find money in my pockets

Room in my schedule

Friends in my kitchen

Orange juice in my fridge

After a man hug.

Library Chairs Don't Help

2009-11-30T21:23:00.002-07:00

No Shhh Zone at the library,
Two weeks until finals,
And I just want to write

Not one minuscule prompt is floating around in that gray matter between my fears....that was a typo. I meant to say, "between my EARS". But I kind of like the depth the typo lends to my post so I'll leave it for now. At the moment I have no inspiration to draw upon or central force driving me to write. I just know I want to write. I want to write something amazing, something that will immediately shoot my Follower count to the mid 60s, land me an evening with Oprah, and end world hunger. I want to write something to make you shiver or cry or laugh. But I've got nothing. All I've got is an unsatisfying red hoodie and that, my friends, hardly qualifies as a winner.

Fooey.

Utterly stumped. If this is what a writer's block is I don't like it. No sonnet. No monologue. No story. UGH! Why can't I write something perfect? Like the way a day dream feel or the way the opening credits to a movie fit so nicely with the ambiance of the film. If I were Stephanie Jones I could turn this sorry writing itch into something memorable-memorable in a good way. But I'm not Stephanie Jones. I'm not Becca Jo or Zeus or Erica. I'm Marcindra. At the moment I'm a very blank Marcindra, but a Marcindra all the same. Perhaps I should lower my standards for a while and aim, not for perfection, but just aim for content. Maybe I could just write something bad and be happy. Maybe instead of writing for my Followers I could write for myself and just allow my Followers to read it.

Actually, I think that is why I originally started this blog: for me.

I take off my unsatisfying red hoodie, put on the beanie with the mismatched button, and consider going back to the basics: me.

I feel like I've been forgetting why I have been doing the things I am doing. I am going to school for MY enrichment. Not to prove to my parents that I am a success or set the standard for my siblings or to kill time while "waiting" for the "right man"....whatever that means. I have this blog for MY enjoyment. Not to say what I think will bring the most comments. I play music because I want to. I go to sleep for MY body. I ride my bike because I like to. I wear hats because I find them comfy.

Since when did I start giving me up?

Recreation. Re-Creation.

2009-11-24T21:44:00.002-07:00

I am a recreation management major. People occasionally scoff at that and wonder what recreation majors do and furthermore question the importance of recreation. Well let me tell you.

1) You are recreation.

YOU are defined by what you do for recreation. Whether you ski, dance, fiddle, paint, write, drive around in circles, skateboard, play video games, go on picnics, or stalk good-looking men on facebook YOU swallow up that role and define yourself by that role. We define ourselves by our roles, not by our characteristics. That's why you say, "I am a dancer" not "I am big-nosed" Recreation, then, becomes your identity and thus becomes you.
Recreation is you. That is what I study.

2) Recreation is therapeutic.

For Chris Jacobs his therapy is painting even though he can't hold a brush. For me, it's music. For Rick Hoyt of my previous post, he can't swim or bike or run on his own. His father gives that to him. He said, "Dad, when I'm running my disability disappears." Of course Rick isn't technically running, his dad is. But that doesn't matter. If Rick has to go through life with people treating him like he's a brick wall and if he can feel "normal", welcomed, or-dare I say-accepted because someone took him outside and did all the pedalling for him, then I say there is a bit more good in the world.

*side note: Rick graduated from high school and college. When he types he has to use his head to have the mouse scroll to select a single letter. Writing papers probably takes him seventeen times longer. He earned every second of that degree.

3) Recreation is inspiring.

You got chills at the symphony. You cried at the Storytelling Festival. You were glued to the lonely eyes of the painting of the woman in the basement of the library. You remember when you saw Michael Phelps win eight gold medals. You saw Nadia Comaneci land the perfect 10. You remember when all the speed skaters got in a crash and the winner was the Australian who was so far behind everybody that he missed the crash completely and coasted to the finish line. You remember watching Michelle Kwan lose the gold again and again but you always kept cheering for her. You remember the "miracle on ice" when the US hockey team shocked everybody when they won the gold.

We are all held captive by the determination, haunting beauty, and the reality recreation offers us.

I Don't Have a Clever Title

2009-11-21T12:27:00.003-07:00

Hypothetically speaking, if I got hit by a car while riding my bike and suffered a traumatic brain injury leaving me in a wheelchair with no control of the left side of my body, my head always flopping to one side, and my speach slowed and slurred would you...

still read my blog?
say hi to me when we crossed paths?
avoid spending long intervals of time with me because conversations would be awkward?
come to the parties I throw?
ask me about my day and wait for an answer?
offer me a slice of pizza?
invite me to basketball games?
go out of your way to make sure I feel included?
help me with mundane tasks even though I can manage on my own?
talk about violin/guitar (even though I could no longer play them)?
cater to my needs?
baby me?
let me do things by myself?
dance with me?
set me up on dates with people you know?
offer to write my paper for me because it's too hard for me to do it?

I think we like to believe that we'd still be friends, but I honestly think that if it came down to it and I really was "confined" to a wheelchair with few social skills all my friends would gradually slink away from me.

You included.

Like I've said before, my Accessible Recreation class is the most eye-opening class I am taking. I am continually surprised to discover that "those people" still think and have functioning minds. For some reason when I see someone drooling or hanging their head to one side I automatically assume them to be stupid.

That's not very Christ-like.

Oops.

Most people with disabilities have functioning minds but we don't treat them like that.

Watch this movie made by someone with autism. It starts out a little obnoxious but I think you, too, will find that maybe that righteous life you lead is a bit more judgemental than you thought.

So this holiday season when the world is pining for good will towards man, consider having a good heart-to-heart (NOT a pity-chat) with someone who you find repulsive, ignorant, stupid, ugly, or "different".

"When I'm Running, My Disability Disappears"

2009-11-17T20:53:00.006-07:00

Accessible Recreation is my most eye-opening class, by far.

Let me give you just a taste.

Today my professor started class by showing this youtube clip.

If you are just scrolling down, you have sinned. You need to watch this movie. Preferably in a dark room when you can give this all your attention.

After watching this film my teacher began a discussion, "You can give that dad a lot of reasons not to tow his son in a raft for two miles but he doesn't want to hear that. No. This is not about competition. This doesn't make me want to be a professional athlete. It makes me want to find someone to serve. This means I can do the things in my life that seam insurmountable."

Wow.

And then he showed us this clip of the same father/son (Dick/Rick) team

This is not the first time I have heard of Team Hoyt as I am sure this is not news for you. But in terms of what I am learning in this class...well....it struck a jangled chord within me. It halted my normal thinking and made me stop and look around.

There is always more I could be doing.

Caption?

2009-11-12T23:44:00.003-07:00

In case you can't tell, this poor guy is lugging around his front bumper in his back seat. I thought it was so funny it merited a picture and a post.

Please post a humorous caption to correspond with this picture.

AND if you happen to visit my apartment sometime soon, please comment on my white and shiny kitchen sink. Cleaning checks are this weekend and I scrubbed that puppy until I managed to release its inner beauty. As scripted as your comment will be, it will make me feel validated.

Sesame Street's 40th Anniversary

2009-11-04T23:49:00.001-07:00

Today has been such a fantastical day I am just BURSTING at the seams to tell EVERYBODY that my life rocks.

1. I woke up well-rested and went to campus early to study for my midterm with Aaron Shaw. Did we study? Yes...but not a lot. We spent a good amount of time reminiscing about those good ol' days when Aaron and I were neighbors and used to do crazy things like do front handsprings in Blockbuster and eat the entire wheel of BubbleTape and play in our band The Quartet That Is a Trio (which was actually only a duo).

2. Usually I go from my finance class to my New Testament class but it just so happens that my NT professor is in Germany today begging for a manuscript so class was cancelled today. Chaching!

3. Seeing that I had so much time on my hands I decided to make me some dinner in a pumpkin. So I made a quick little jont to Smiths and got my yogurt and my GrapeNuts and my milk and my rice and then I saw something I couldn't believe:

Tim Tams.

In the United States.

I just about broke down in tears of joy right there in the middle of the store. I stood there dumbstruck and just...just...just...just...kept trying to comprehend the sight before me. Then quite abruptly I snatched a package, frolicked to the checkout station, and ripped open the package as soon as I could, and proceeded to enjoy the long-awaited piece of heaven in a box. I ate two in the car, then offered one to a passerby who was there when I got out of my car at the carpark at my complex, and then ate two more in the form of a Tim Tam Slam when I got inside.

I knew this day just went from really good to being super fantastical, extra terrifical.

4. I shared Tim Tam Slams with some roommates and my brothers. Sharing makes me happy.

5. It is my friend Cameron's birthday tomorrow and blah blah blah. One thing led to another and I talked with Tyler who also went to New Zealand. Blah blah blah. Tyler is coming down on Friday and I am SUPER-DEE-DUPER excited because he gives the best hugs of anyone in the entire world.

6. I went to guitar class. That in and of itself deserves applause. I also discovered that Tawney from my high school is in that class. Who knew?

7. I got to spend time with my prized violin student who also went to New Zealand.

8. My evening grant writing class was awesome. The boy behind me brought me a newspaper clipping from almost a weekago about orphanages that he thought I would be interested in. How thoughtful! But don't read too much into it. He's married.

Also in the class I became a better friend to Becca. Her cousins went to my high school.

9. I remembered that I have TRICK-OR-TREATING BOOTY and consequently enjoyed a few mini chocolate bars.

10. The Concord #5 fellas dropped by for seemingly no reason than to give us a few laughs as they played the "see how close we can let the match burn to our fingers" game.

11. Kirsten (another loved New Zealander) stopped by to catch up. You know you have a true friend when you can comfortably jump right into conversation and not have to play around with surface questions.

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Billy Joel is Always Right

2009-10-31T04:14:00.004-06:00

My fantastic friend Jessica called me with an invitation to go to the Utah Symphony for FREE with her. As we all know, I love New Zealand people, I love live music, and I love FREE things so how could I say no? (Don't worry, I was feeling quite a bit better than yesterday...though I am regretting that tortellini. Bad choice!)

And so we started our voyage to Salt Lake for the performance at Abravenal Hall.

I adore the symphony. I love everything about it. I love how the audience consists of mostly senior citizens and when I lean forward in my chair I can smell the perfume of the ladies sitting infront of me. I love watching the page-turning techniques of seasoned musicians. I love the glossy programs with informative program notes. I love closing my eyes occasionally and breathing in sound. I love the rolling timpani, the sassy woodwinds, and the lazy tuba. I love watching the violins and violas move there bows in unison while the cellos and basses effortlessly glide their hands up and down the ebony. I love the golden balcony. I love the chandeliers. I love seeing people adorned with pearls and dresses and peacock feathers all in the name of culture. I love the precise pizzacato. I get goosebumps when I hear the oboe play the tuning note and the entire symphony follows suite.

I love when the movement comes to a gentle end and the conductor keeps his arms at his side, signalling to the orchestra and audience to sit still for a moment and let the lofty music gently float its way down. I love chuckling to myself that the conductor is dancing on stage. I love criticizing the performance and saying, "I'm certainly glad I never had him as a conductor. He was so involved with the music he was dancing more than he was keeping beat. If I were in that orchestra I would have ignored the conductor completely and just watched the section leader like a hawk."

It makes me sound musically informed.

I also love the way the conductor doesn't conduct because he is too busy dancing because the conductor is the only one in that room who is socially accepted to outwardly display how the music makes him feel. Lucky dog.

And that, perhaps, is the most beautiful part of the symphony: the feelings the music conjurs up. I too, like the conductor, get lost in the passing of the melody and drift into my own little world.

It occurs to me that this is quite a dull post because I am not doing an adequate job of making the reader understand or feel what I want them to feel. I think it's because it is so terribly difficult to write about music. Billy Joel said it like this:

Oh, it doesn't matter what they say in the papers'
Cause it's always been the same old scene.
There's a new band in town
But you can't get the sound from a story in a magazine...
Aimed at your average teen

Translation:
As effective as words are, they will never, ever, pass as music.

So I give up.

I won't even try to tell you how the cellos stole the melody from the french horns and the french horns allied with the violas to get it back all while the violins played monkey-in-the middle with the percussion while the harp dabbled some ostenato and the tuba sat on the sidelines. No. There's a reason radio announcers don't give you the play-by-play for songs. They just play the song.

Tchaikovsky Symphony #6 "Pathetique" : movement #3
Moscow Philharmonic Orchestra, Arkady Leytush, Tchaikovsky Concert Hall, Moscow, live performance, November,5,2003

Blech

2009-10-29T10:26:00.002-06:00

I woke up around 6 this morning WITHOUT the aid of my alarm clock.

Why?

Because my tummy hurt and the inside of my cheeks were sweaty.

And then I threw up for the first time since 8th grade.

Blech.

And now I'm in bed, at my apartment, and I'm not going to any of my classes or making a Halloween costume or eating. I can't really even think straight. Lame-o!

I guess there is one good thing about being sick: You know how you just get caught up in the world and you start to believe the world won't properly function unless you're there? Well being sick forces me to stay home and realize that the world does, in fact, go on without me running the show.

I once read that if you ever want to know how important you are put your hand in a bucket of water, pull it out, and see the impression you've made. You can always be replaced but you've got to do your best while you've got the job.

Blessing in Disguise #26: Expiration Dates

2009-10-24T18:21:00.004-06:00

Friday, October 9, 2009

The other night I was reading my friend Eric's blog entry about another blog entry about flossing, or rather about not flossing. Read it right now. It will make you a better person. And it will make you do some healthy pondering: healthy pondering like I've been doing lately. Pondering that was fortified this morning because I just found out that the reason BYU’s flag is at half mast is because Thomas Nielsen, a boy I’ve gone to school with since elementary school, has passed away. After seven years the leukemia just got to him, I suppose. And that’s what I’ve been thinking about since 9:23 this morning: what I would do if I knew I only had four weeks to live.

This question, by the way, is far different than "What would I do if I had four weeks to live?" The answer to that is that I would probably do the exact same things I am doing know. But the question, "What would I do if I knew I only had four weeks to live?" Now, that is a weighted question.

I like the way Anna Nalick said that "life is an hourglass glued to the table." I listen to that and I can picture all my minutes, moments, and memories slipping through that tiny passageway and landing in a heap at the bottom of the lower glass compartment where they stay forever. It's not necessarily pleasant but it is an eye-opener.

If somehow I became aware that my one-time-use hourglass had but four weeks left, I would wake up early to watch all twenty-eight sunrises and I would make it a point to watch each sunset from a rooftop or mountaintop or a porch swing and I would linger there until the twilight had tranquilized all the birds and awoken every star. I would drastically change my day-to-day tasks and make sure each moment of my day was filled with something. Anna Quindlen (one of my favorite authors) says that the knowledge of our own mortality is one of God's greatest gifts to mankind. I think I agree with it because I KNOW that there are too many things I do because I live on the assumption that if I eat my fruits and veggies I will outlive dirt.

It's just like when you buy milk at the store. You know that, according to the expiration date, you have but a few weeks to use all the milk before it goes bad and thus goes to waste. But if milk didn't have that date printed on the jug you would never know that the milk was going to expire and you wouldn't know to use it all within that time frame and then you'd find yourself with a heck of a lot of sour milk.

Wasted milk.

Life is like that jug of milk and my concern is that I will expire before I even knew it and there will be a half-jug of sour milk; wasted milk; wasted life; wasted potential.

If I knew my expiration date I would probably stop dinking around on facebook and spend more time sending handwritten thank you letters or surprise door visits. I would take care to preserve my journals and make sure they were fireproof and earthquake proof and people-who-don't-appreciate-it proof. I'd make a time capsule and put it in that secret place I found a few weeks ago near that mailbox. In all honesty, I would probably try a little too hard to find a way for my life to linger a little longer than it actually will.

I would probably chew slower to enjoy taste. I would take static away from conversations with my parents and ask them the questions I’ve never had the guts to ask because I was afraid of how I would react if we ever went deep enough to discuss anything deep; questions like, “How did you know you were in love?” or “Why did you divorce your first spouse?” and "What do you wish you had done differently when raising me?"

I would stop being afraid of tears.

I might stop being a procrastinator or at least be more picky about which things to procrastinate.

I would jump on my bed, sleep in the tree house, and collect potato bugs. I would visit the most inspirational people in my life and tell them that-even though they have probably forgotten my name and face-they said things to me and made me feel things that I still remember and commonly reference in sacrament meeting talks and blogposts and nostalgic moments. I would probably still wear bandannas and hats everyday (even though my parents detest that) and I would practice with my sister because I know she would love that.

I would laugh harder and more often and even in places where people might look at me funny like the bank and library. I'd cut screens out of my life and stick to the good ol' bonding activities: talking over lunch, doing something hard, and telling secrets. I would hug people and try to remember how they smelled when I first met them. I would sneak into someone's house and do the dishes.

I would pull a Tom Sawyer/Huckleberry Finn and hop on a train or float down a river just to see where it goes. Experiences like that are so much more penetrating than looking at a map. I would leave my cell phone at home and take only what I could carry in my sack. I think it's a shame that society reprimands those people who can just pack up and leave without a thought. Planning has its merits but spontaneous adventure often provides the best experiences. Experiences, Memories, and People. Those would be my primary investments.

I would probably quit jumping through academic hoops and if it was 3am without a car in sight, I wouldn't think twice about running that red light.

I would fill more of my life with music. I would probably have a radio in every room and I would listen to jazz while I drank orange juice and listen to folk when I was doing the dishes. (Actually, maybe I would stop doing the dishes and just reuse the same pot.)I would listen to the way the symphony rises and falls and rises again. Perhaps I would throw in a few more opportunities for me to listen to my ears ring with silence. Then I would listen to that ever persistent cricket chirp and appreciate those few plants that remain green well into the first weeks of winter. Nature can teach us so much of human nature.

Then I would put the entire bottle of Hershey's syrup in the jug, shake it up, and gulp: having made life a bit sweeter and enjoyed the last drop.

I ask myself, "Why don't I already do these things?"

It's because, unfortunately, living often clutters out life.

And that's why you and I fill out bubbles on scantrons with a carefully selected No. 2 pencil and we stay at home on Saturday nights doing the mundane tasks we neglected to do during the week. The burden of living tomorrow is carried by our life today.

I Call Shotgun!

2009-10-14T23:43:00.003-06:00

This little boy was throwing a tantrum in the store the other day because his helium balloon slipped out of his little hand and floated to the ceiling where it brushes against the fluorescent lights. His mom wasn't about to buy him another one and just told him, "I told you we should have tied it to your wrist." And the boy left in tears that he couldn't have his balloon. Sure, the balloon will come back down in a few days but by then the child won't be in the store and the two will most likely never be reunited.

That's how friendship has always felt for me. I feel like I make friends but then they escape from my grasp and they keep flying further and further until they are out of reach. I find too many of my balloons have landed among the rafters, metaphorically speaking, and I can't seem to get them back into my little hand. One by one my friends stop spending time with me and instead devote all their time to sometimes school or sometimes work or most times boys. I lose a lot of friends to boys. (Boys are friend snatchers. On a related note, my friend was telling me that his class recently studied the emotional instability the elderly experience when all their friends start dying. Let's be honest, college is exactly like that only for us we feel emotionally instable when all of our friends start getting married. Behold the ironies of life. Marriage equals death. Engagement equals death. Dating equals death. But I can't hate men for stealing my friends because someday it will happen to me and I'll be the friend not returning calls and erasing appointments with old friends from calendars and I'll be the dead friend.)

I saw one of these ceiling friends in the hall the other day. We exchanged pleasantries and then she literally ran to the door with her backpack awkwardly jolting around while I stood fixed in the middle of the hall watching her run away from me. She was just in a hurry and by no means was she actually "running away from me" like the way a fly would flee the swatter. Regardless, it made me feel incredibly lonely.

But not the kind of "I don't know anyone" kind of lonely. It was the "I know a lot of people but I can't seem to stay close to anybody" kind of lonely. It's the same kind of lonely that has daunted my entire life history (a whopping 21 and 3/4 years).

It's life trends like this that make me want to label all people fickle. Most likely you, the reader, fit into this category and you haven't even realized it. Don't feel bad about it. I'm in the backseat of your life and maybe I'm not even in your vehicle. Someone or something else is sitting in the front seat and might stay there for a few more road trips. Don't worry about me. I'll just hang out on the curb until someone offers to pick me up then and I'll call shotgun and get tenure and then there will be no way to get rid of me, ever, and I'll be the copilot instead of the stewardess and I'll share stories and inside jokes with the driver and even when we stop at a gas station and get out for a walk to stretch our legs I'll still come back to being in the front seat, being the main person, and being the one to keep the driver awake while we drive under caliginous lights, being the navigator with the map who gets to put her feet on the dashboard and get the proof of insurance out of the glovebox in the event of getting pulled over; and the worry of being replaced or let go or shifted to the back won't ever even cross my mind and then I'll always have my balloon in my hand and....won't that rock?

I don't want to be in the back seat for a lot of people. I just want to be shotgun for just one person. I want to get the top spot for the highest score for the video game and stay there, holding ultimate domination over any other contester. I don't want to be the Puff the Magic Dragon that Jackie Draper forgets. I don't want to be the Woody that gets replaced by Buzz Lightyear. I don't want to be limited to four-year terms or asked to leave the company. I want to be the big kahuna EVERYDAY, ALL THE TIME, ALWAYS for just one person.

I want to be the number one time commitment.

Charlie

2009-10-07T17:33:00.006-06:00

The other day I was walking through the bookstore on campus when my eye caught a particular rack of hats.

Winter hats.

The kind with ear flaps and braids.

And a pom pom on top.

My eyes bulged and my arms sprung out and led me to the rack where I crouched down to get a better look at the particular hat on that particular rack. This hat had been haunting my dreams every winter season when I rode my bike to class and murmured obscenities because my ears were so dang cold. But no longer would I have to fantasize about a fictitious hat. Indeed it was real.

I picked up the hat and fell in love. No--better. I stuck out my hand and this hat just hopped off the rack and into my possession. It had chosen me.

And that's when I named it Charlie.

I walked over to the counter with a girly grin on my face and gave the hat to the cashier. I happened to know this cashier from my good ol' glory days of high school. He looked at the hat, looked at me, and then said rather matter-of-factly, "This looks like a Marcie Glad hat."

I put Charlie on my head and I haven't taken it off since. I luh-hove this hat!

Charlie and I are looking forward to eternity together. There is no official marriage but we'd welcome your gifts anyway!

Somewhere Between Fate and Chance

Two Dozen

Gravity and Secrets

Please Dispose of All Wrapping Thoughtfully

Isn't that the Point?

Electronic Voice Phenomenon (EVP)

Fan-freaking-tastic

Social (Networking) Anxiety

Using a Business Card and a Motorola Flip-Phone

Once Again, Passed Up a Perfect Opportunity

If My Hands Were Spiders, I Could Take Them Off and Put Them on My Mother's Bed

Fit for Adventure

Work, work, work, work....

Dilladoop

The Slight Chance the Chicken Was On Its Way to a Gig

I'm Gonna Live a Crazy Dream

Because I, like Peter Pan, love adventure.

Lucubration

lu·cu·bra·tion

This lazy butt is GRADUATING

Trapeze Artist

Sock Puppet Barf

Second Star to the Right

Was and Now Stickers

Da Hood

Prison Prayers

Extra Points

I Heard the Birds

"And that's what we do when we're 23" -Amber Rubarth

TEACH YOUR CHILD TO READ IN 100 EASY LESSONS

My Toes are Dictionaries

Naomi Shihab Nye-"One Boy Told Me"

Uruguay, Paraguay, Argentina, New Zealand, and Me

...And don't say, "snakes"

On a Scale of Zero to Five

The Watermelon Tactic

Disconnect

I'm Graduating!...sometime

Amused by a Moving Target

Muse[myooz]

Hoy es jueves. Dos de Septiembre.

As you might have guessed, I'm in the wilderness.

Roar for Orem High

I Have a B.S. in Nursing

Green Transformer Box

Suburbia

Bound to Crumble

25 Non-profit Organizations Worth Noting

"Somewhere we lost about 385 laughs"

The Blue Bookcase

Earth Month

4:12PM today

Frost Shadow

That Poor Child!

Informed Citizen

Nice Head Area

Missed Investment

Rewind. Be kind.

HAPPINESSISNOWHERE.

Latitude and Light

Computer Cookies

What They Deserve

Driving in Snow for Dummies

Man Hug

Library Chairs Don't Help

Recreation. Re-Creation.

I Don't Have a Clever Title

"When I'm Running, My Disability Disappears"

Caption?

Sesame Street's 40th Anniversary

Billy Joel is Always Right

Blech

Blessing in Disguise #26: Expiration Dates

I Call Shotgun!

Charlie