What's so funny about spam?

At work I check email a lot. And a lot of times the email I check is spam. Really, really spammy spam that tells me I have mortgages already approved just waiting for me in a dark alley, and the best ways to obtain male enhancement pills, and fabulous stock market gains in toenail clippings and petri dishes.

But my favorite spams are the ones where bits of text are pasted together into one long email, usually with a couple of attachments that I never, ever, ever open. Ever. (Seriously. I'm not stupid, people.)

I usually just trash them, but this one I just had to share:

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Of course there's more, but really: "'But near the swim carriage and horses?' said Franz???" Not to mention "'Bless extend paint below me!' exlaimed square Caderousse..."

Haha! Oh, haha! Yeah. Those spammers really kill me.

How sexy can a vampire be?

Very.

If I wrote a vampire novel (and I don't think I'm quite up to it) I would never, ever be able to write a vampire quite as sexy as Edward Cullen.

He's...he's very...um...like he's good at kissing & stuff.

In short, he is pretty much the perfect, ideal romantic lead. (Except for that whole vampire thing.)

And yet... And yet, I can't quite help feeling a little unsatisfied... Edward is romantic, protective, gorgeous, fast, strong, and pretty much the perfect man (except for that whole vampire thing), and maybe that's the problem.

Because honestly, despite his interest in classical music & his fantastic piano-playing ability, and despite the fact that he can read minds, (sorry for all the Twilight spoilers here...), he kind of strikes me as a little bland. (I mean--aside from that whole vampire thing.)

And speaking of that vampire thing, is that where all of the interest comes from? An otherwise uninterestingly fabulously handsome man becomes suddenly interesting because he could kill you and suck your blood instead of kiss you at any time?

I'm sorry, but I just need something more. Some sort of flaw. Like big ears, or...a little teeny obsessive compulsive disorder, or an unsightly mole on his chin, something to make a fellow more...well...human.

(Which is pretty much impossible because of the whole vampire thing.)

Alas.

Shall I a Lizzie be?

I think that when (and necessarily 'if') I get to grad school, I should adopt a new nickname. The lovely thing with a name like Elizabeth is that you have such a wide variety of nicknames to choose from.

For instance, I could be: Eliza, Liz, Lizzie, Elspeth, Bess, Bessie, Betty, Betsy, Bitsy (Bitsy???), and my personal favorite: Eli (which is what my younger sister called me when we roomed together for a summer at college--I called her Reba).

I'm leaning towards 'Lizzie.' It has such a light-hearted Jane Austenesque sort of feel, and I think I could pull it off. I wonder what I would be like as a Lizzie... I think I would have to dye my hair, or at least get some subtle highlights. I would also go way short. Like, boy-short. Which I've talked about doing before and didn't actually do. Also, I would have to wear bracelets. I don't know why--I would just have to.

Maybe being a Lizzie isn't such a great option.

Or I could be an Eliza. That would be nicely formal, indicitave of the suave, cool professional I hope to become. I could be Ms. Eliza and wear my spectacles at a dangerously jaunty angle and adopt a severe hairstyle and wear dark pantsuits. I think I would also need to wear long dangly earrings. I just have this feeling...

Okay, no Eliza.

Or Betsy! I could be a Betsy and wear my blondified hear in two pigtails and get red glasses and don crazy tunics with thick belts and have bright red lipstick and huge gold-chain necklaces and......

Betsy's out.

Then again, being Beth isn't so bad. It's well-worn but comfortable, kind of soft, a little boring, but warm. Definitely warm.

Yes. When in doubt, stick with an old favorite.

--Elizabethary

He cometh.

Remember this?

Well the 12 months are over. And the 12 months before that are over. Making 24 months in all.

And he cometh.

And we goeth to meet him.

Right now.

Yaaaaaaaaaaaaahoooooooooooooooo!

And on Sundays he directs ward choir

I am amazed at how little we can know the people with whom we interact on a regular basis.

I've known David Linn since he & his wife moved to our ward several years ago. I knew he was an artist, and felt some small gratification in the knowledge that I knew someone whose work had appeared in the Ensign and in church museums several times over the past few years.

Yesterday, he joked around with members of the choir as we gathered to rehearse and hash out a new piece we'll be performing in March. He suggested that we go to his website, where we could download audio files of the various parts to facilitate our learning of them.

So I did.

And this is what I found.

I've spent the past twenty minutes or so just browsing his work and reading his biography. I find it stunning--both the quality and depth of his artistry and the fact that I had no idea that this is what our ward choir director is, deep down in his soul where noone really sees. I suppose that, as an artist, he has a better chance of exposing his inmost parts than the rest of us do, but all of these painting suggest a depth that I had not suspected.

I still haven't listened to those music files. I think they'll have to wait until after I've perused the art a bit more.

Macabre

Front of card:

Interior of card:

Because working customer service in a scrapbook company does strange things to you. Very.

Embryonic Meanderings

I've wanted to be a writer for a long time, which is surprising when I remember it, since I went through such a long period of time when I thought that electrical engineering would be the way to go. (Hah!)

So I was looking through some old folders today and ran across this little gem, which, from the cursive handwriting, I would guess was composed sometime during my late elementary school years:

"Why do things always happen the way they do? Why is magic so rare nowadays? Why are there so many burglaries?"

Why are there so many burglaries indeed? This has been a lifelong question. And I still don't have an answer.

Of work and love lives

I love work conversations. I mean really, really love them. They're ways for co-workers to bond, breaking past the "Jill, would you mind faxing this for me," or "What's the status on our Chatterbox shipment?" and into the realm of actual friendship.

Of late, many of our work conversations have turned to the subject of love lives, specifically the love lives of the daughters of my co-workers. One in particular has been having a rough time; the fellow she's in love with rarely contacts her, but when he does, he makes everything entirely confusing.

So today, as she related the latest episode in her daughter's confusing & painful love life, my poor coworker was reduced to tears as she described the warring between her desire to encourage her daughter to be completely done with this guy and her desire to see the two resolve their issues and finally come together.

Alas. I sat there and listened and made small noises of sympathy and (I hope) consolation, all the while feeling lost and burdened myself. I felt so sad, as if I shared with this daughter that sense of endless waiting, painful anticipation burning and tingling at your fingertips like flesh that has stayed too long in one position. I felt sad too that I couldn't express how I felt. I'm not sure why I couldn't share it; it just didn't seem quite the appropriate place to do it. I didn't feel it would be appropriate to pipe up at the end of the conversation and say, "Wow. She has it rough. And gosh--I'm pretty lonely too."

So instead I turned back to my computer and sighed a lot and put my hand to my forehead and in all other ways convinced myself that I was acting a great drama with myself as a lead. But the sorrow was genuine. And pervasive and persistent and troubling.

Darn.

Bleak

I once sent myself a box of Conversation Hearts on Valentine's Day.

It wasn't so much that I wanted people to think I had a boyfriend. (Slim chance, that.) It was more that I liked Conversation Hearts and I wanted to eat some.

Now I'm ashamed.

Because I realize Conversation Hearts are pretty gross anyway.

Happy Valentine's Day.

I've done it.

I - erk - I've applied to grad school. I entered my card information for the non-refundable fee of $35 and I submitted it and I'm done and I've applied and I have actually...I did it.

Of course, this was just the first school of five, but it's the one I want the most. It's where I want to be. And if only, if only only they will accept me, I will feel warm all the way from my scalpity head to my dangling toes.

I may even regain feeling in my fingers which, from crossing them rather too enthusiastically, have lost some circulation, I fear.

What is this strange longing?

I love the music of Vaughan Williams. 'The Lark Ascending' is perhaps the first piece of classical music I ever loved and really recognized. I was passionate about it.

I have since listened to numerous pieces by the man I now consider my favorite composer, but I believe my favorite has become 'Fantasia on a Theme by Thomas Tallis.' (In this YouTube link, the end of the piece is cut off, but the music is still good.) I've put it on my CD player these past few mornings and have listened to it while getting ready for work, curling my hair and applying eyeshadow to the rising and falling of this music that winds through me like breathing.

Every time I hear this piece it fills me with a sense of nameless longing. I'm usually a bit somber after it, making the transition from Vaughan Williams to reading the funnies over breakfast a bit jarring. I rather wish I could keep the thing on repeat in my head all day, somehow keep that sense of yearning with me as I putter about with mundane tasks, mindless computer work and writing insipid emails.

And I wish, I really wish, that I could figure out just exactly what 'Fantasia on a Theme' is making me long for.

Why I should never take drugs. Ever.

Last night I dreamed that I saw this enormous spider-like creature that crawled up to my immobile hand and sunk its little pincer-mandibles into it.

Then (in the dream) someone explained to me that the spider-thing wasn't really real; I had taken this drug which caused me to hallucinate and see bits of rock (or maybe it was sponge-cake; the dream wasn't really clear on that) as these spider-like creatures. I was so relieved that I was just dealing with a rock.

And I vowed then and there never to take drugs again.

Yeah. Spiders. The new anti-drug.

Why Institute is Good and Speed Dating is Not

Do I really have to delineate this for you?

Institue: spiritual discussions led by a knowledgeable, worthy priesthood holder charged with the education and instruction of the area's young single adult population. A place in which to gather together to hear the word of God and the history of His church.

Speed Dating: meat market. Emphasis on first impressions and awkward five-minute conversations with members of the opposite gender. An unfortunate lean towards attraction based on superficial characteristics such as appearance.


Institute: great big thick textbooks. With lots of cool information about church history. Scriptures encouraged.

Speed Dating: no books, unless you bring one and place it on your desk as a kind of talisman, or as a way to say to that casual observer opposite you that you are a literary and intelligent person.


Institute: prayers, hymns and cool stories about temples.

Speed Dating: prayers for a quick end to your suffering, dirges, and perfect strangers inquiring about your temple-worthiness.


Really. Need I say more?

And can I start shaking now?

I wrote this today in the early afternoon. I think it's pretty self-explanatory:

I just finished asking the third and final person for a letter of recommendation. Each request was relatively easy, painless, even pleasant.

And my hands just won't stop shaking.

But despite my shaking hands, I'm glad--more so than I've been in a long time--to be taking steps forward after standing so long in a bog.

The thing which has filled my entire heart and soul with trepidation and hesitation and doubt for well over two years has all been resolved in an afternoon. I feel both elated and ashamed.

All things Bronte

Why are some people so cool?

So cool that they can write entire blogs about Charlotte Bronte and her works?

I'll just add one more name to that list of people I admire.

And also, has anyone here read Villette? If so, do you think I would like it?

Little Baby is Growing Up

I'm used to taking baby steps. Lots and lots (or perhaps not so many) little, teeny tiny itty bitty babyish steps. That are also small.

But today I took a BIG step. A really really BIG step.

And my legs are feeling more energetic than ever. In fact, as I returned to work after taking that BIG step, I felt like running. I wanted to dash the couple of hundred yards from my car to the employee entrance. I also felt like singing. And did. (Quietly.)

Guys, I am applying to grad school. I have my essay pretty much wrapped up, and one out of the three letters of recommendation already written. I just have to put together online applications, have my transcripts and GRE scores sent out and baby, I have got this thing in the bag.

Come fall, I am SO going to be taking BIG (not baby) steps onto some campus or other (virtual or otherwise) and learning the ins and outs of the appealing field of Library Science. (I rather feel that the words "Library Science" should be sitting on a pedestal surrounded by blinking Christmas lights, but I can't figure out how to do that on the blog.)

Wish me luck. And wish me brave. And wish me dilligent.

Cause I'll need all three to get this done.

And it is SO getting done.

Why I would like to blog, but I can't:

I'm just a little bit busy. I'm mostly busy trying to put together everything I need to bring with me tomorrow when I talk with a former boss about a letter of recommendation. I keep thinking I don't have all the forms I need, and I know--I just know--I'm going to forget the addressed, stamped envelopes. Darnit.

I'm also tired. It's after 10 and I have this goal of getting to bed by 10:30, but I almost never make it, mostly due to a desire to watch the Food Network and check my email and browse a bit on amusing websites, not to mention the three books that I am currently trying to read. Dangit.

Which brings me to the third reason: Jane Eyre is sitting next to me on my bed. And I need to read it. Like, now. So.

Righto. Tallyho. Farewell.

You ain't gettin' nothin' more outta me tonight.