Of all the dumb things to do...

***Hey, guys! I actually wrote this early early this morning, but for some reason blogger wouldn't let me upload the post. So I'm uploading it now. Hope it doesn't cause too much confusion!***

Today has been a stupid day. A very, very stupid day.

It all started with the fact that I (oh, so foolishly) stayed up until about 2am Thursday night (or rather Friday morning) because I knew I wouldn't have to work today. (Er, or I guess technically 'yesterday,' because now it's early Saturday morning.)

Anyway.

So, I slept in late (naturally) when I had intended to be up & about by 7am. (Oh, foolish, foolish me.) After kicking myself angrily out of bed at approximately 10:30am (ICK) I managed to mess around doing pretty much nothing for nearly an hour, after which I (finally) exercised & (at last) ate breakfast (which meal was consumed at about 12:30pm).

So, as you can see, I was off. Very much off today.

I meandered back into my room to kill time on the internet, maybe check a blog or two along with my email, and I got sucked into... Huh. I can't even remember now what I got sucked into, so I guess it doesn't really matter.

Then I realized that my back was stiff from the awkward way I'd been sitting with my laptop, so I laid down. On my bed. And also it was cold, so I kind of pulled my blanket up, and then... I woke up at 4pm to a phonecall from my boss asking if I could come in on Monday which, of course, I said 'yes' to, and then, being unspeakably disheartened that I couldn't have a 4-day weekend after all, I plummeted miserably back into the dark depths of unconciousness.

One of the appealing things about sleeping is that you forget for a time that you're you. I mean, sometimes I dream as if I were myself, but more often I take on some kind of different personna. I jump in & out of the heads of my dream 'characters' (I don't know what else to call them) so I could 'be' a guy or a girl or a kid or an alien, or just a 3rd party observer hovering somewhere near the action. Today when I dreamed, I was both myself and my sister and then later I was some sort of space-adventurer man (also sometimes a woman) who was concerned about the air being depleted from his/her spaceship. (I have no clue why gender seems to be such a fluid thing in these dreams.)

Coming to after dreaming like that can be a jarring experience; your contact with the real world begins again with the realization that you're really you, and that the world you're waking into is what reality really is, and that the places and events and people you've recently been experiencing are NOT real, however tangible they may have felt up until the point you opened your eyes.

And it was dark. And you knew that it couldn't possibly be any earlier in the day than 7:30, which is an unbelievably atrocious hour to wake up from a nap, and then you fumbled fearfully for your glasses after refusing to even try to find out what time it is because you knew you'd hate yourself when you did and OH...............................

It's 8:36.

And you have literally slept the entire day away.

Yes, that day: the day you had HUGE plans for, the day you were going to use to get everything done, the day you were going to get on the ball and finally take some steps to assure that you didn't spend the next 20 years of your life living as an appendage to your parents. That day.

Once, before my mission, I went through a period of time that was...just about the darkest time I've experienced. I was completely withdrawn from people; I failed classes, slept through church, never paid my rent on time, and was, in short, a miserable hulk of a human being. I couldn't face anything--I couldn't even face being myself anymore, so I slept. Sleep was a greater escape than even books could be, and I used that escape more and more as I became more and more disgusted with myself and more and more in despair of ever being able to break free of the downward cycle I was in. I've come to realize since then that this period marked an episode of some serious depression (although never fear--fortunately, I never really thought of suicide as any sort of option).

I think one of the reasons why I hate days like today is that I'm afraid it's a return to that dark period. I'm afraid I'm on the verge of swinging back down into depression. It's a place I haven't been, at least for any lengthy amount of time, since then, thank goodness, and I've always been afraid that somewhere in my brain is some balance that, if tipped the right way, could send me swirling downwards into that same place. Sleeping in excessive amounts (like I did today) seems to me to be a tip-off. I'm not sure if I get depressed because I have the unenviable capability of sleeping circles around everybody else, or if I sleep so long because I can't stand being around myself anymore, and my self-disgust is what leads to depression.

Uch. Guys, I'm so sorry this topic is heavier than usual. Please don't be afraid for me. I learned many, many things on my mission: one was the importance of not letting the past prevent you from taking action in the present, and another was to keep moving and keep working and keep getting up every morning and keep going out and doing things. One other advantage I have now is that I work full-time. While I sometimes took the unfortunate view that I didn't have to go to class and could therefore sleep through it, doing the same thing with a full-time job has never been an option. So. I'm not going to start sleeping through every day, lose my job, have my parents shaking their heads in flabbergasted despair, etc., etc.

I also don't live with someone who hates me, which, unfortunately, was also part of that really, really unpleasant time. Part of the reason I slept so much then was also to avoid her. And, while I may have the occasional spat with a family member, I'm really reasonably certain that they actually do love me.

In short, the danger I'm in now is just wasting time that I have available and feeling really bad about myself because of it. And the solution? I guess it comes back to those same mission lessons: repent of your mistakes and then let them go, and BLAST it all, GET OUT OF BED ON TIME! (Which also means that I probably ought to try to sleep soon so I can be up by 8am. Here's hoping!)

***(Edit: I actually got up about 8:30, which isn't bad considering I didn't go to sleep until after 3am this morning. I think I'm mostly normalized now. In more ways than one.)***

It's snowing pizzas!

For those of you who like the thought of whole wheat anything, and for those of you who have wondered all your lives what exactly an uncooked whole wheat pizza with mozzerella, Canadian bacon, tomatoes and assorted bell peppers (not to mention a sprinkling of Parmesan cheese) would look like, I have graciously uploaded the photo to the left. Mmm.

For those of you who have wondered what exactly a cooked version of the same pizza would look like, gaze on this little beaut:















Okay--so the lighting's weird. Okay, so the peppers are all kind of scattered haphazardly and okay, so not everyone likes Parmesan cheese.

But I will persist in believing that my pizza was delicious.


Oh, and while I'm on the subject, isn't October just a little bit early for snow? I mean, I thought El Nino was supposed to bring us a mild winter this time around, so how can it have snowed here already??? For evidence, brace yourself for yet another picture:

(My front lawn this early evening)

And this one (my strangely elongated hand holding a fistful of (very cold) snow...in, like, freaking OCTOBER):

Weeeelll, I guess that's enough pictures for today. I could show you a closeup of those gorgeous tomatoes on the pizza, and I could show you a picture of my tennis shoe (which I am now wearing instead of the flip-flops) crunching down the powdery white stuff, but I won't. Not unless you beg. Really hard.

Why Whole Wheat Flour is Super-Oopity-Duper

Ahem.

So when I say I'm going to post on my blog sometime later that day, what I really mean is that if I were a less flawed version of a human being, I would post later that day in accordance with my less-flawed and more-perfecto way of doing things. I would not delay something I said I would do; I would not gaze at my lappy with apathy and turn (yet again) to flipping the channels on the tv set, watching a steady stream of mundanity flow by.

I would post, by gum.

Alas. I am not as perfecto as I would wish.

So, in accordance with my rather more-flawed way of doing things, I am posting about whole wheat flour today, dutifully (nay--blissfully) ignoring the promise I made to talk about it, oh, um, three or so days ago.

...

...

...

So, that whole wheat flour, huh? Pretty nifty stuff!

Actually, I'm really rather excited about whole wheat flour at the moment. You see, I've sworn off (at least for the forseeable future) refined white flour & all the attendant easy-digestibleness thereof. So whole wheat flour has become my semi-staple, my way of eating lovely bready foods like...bread...and........dough. Actually, the only thing I've made so far with said whole wheat (hereafter referred to as "ww") flour is some (or is it 'was some') ww pizza dough, to which I added toppings like fistfuls of mozzerella, sliced tomatoes and (mmm) triangles of Canadian bacon. Yummy! (Is it just me, or is the word 'yummy' a trifle too...perky?)

I hope to soon go on (ooo...a split infinitive) to ww bread (in loaf format) and ww rolls, soon to be followed by ww chocolate chip cookies (sweetened with Splenda) and ww brownies and other delectable artificially sweetened bits of not-so-decadent-decadence.

And perhaps, perhaps in a very long while, I'll feel prepared to make and bake and eat a lovely, dark, whole wheat chocolate cake, that will be mine...all my own...in memory of that cake I never had.

Mmmmmmmmmm. How I long for that delicious whole wheat chocolate cake. And I won't share. No, not one bit.

Well, maybe just a little.

Argh! I will post!

For those of you who believed I was dead, fear not. I am yet alive.

In fact, I will do my best to post a little something this evening...Hm... I think it will be about whole wheat flour & all the joys associated with it.

Yes. Mmm...

So, like, later, yo.

Oh. Ouch.

I got hit really hard today. I mean really hard. Like a guy with brass knuckles kind of hard. My day had been...less than stellar already & I was feeling, erm...disappointed in myself (yet again) and I came home & checked out my mail, and lo & behold I got a bill for $2400. Yep.

Apparently a surgery bill I thought had been covered by insurance really wasn't, and now I have to dish out a little over $2000. (The insurance company was kind enough to furnish roughly $370.)

I seriously went through the stages of grief, as if that big ol' chunk of cash was some beloved relative who was quitting this sphere forever and whom I would never see again until the blessed eternal realm. I was shocked; I denied it, tried to prove the bill wrong; I realized it was really real and sat on my bed & bawled. I think I was angry in there too somewhere ($370??? COME ON!!!!) but I can't remember exactly when it hit.

Actually, I'm now a little ashamed about the way I reacted. I mean I sobbed. I haven't sobbed in a long, long, LONG time, and there I was, unable to draw in a single breath without it breaking up like a teenage rock band after high school. And really, when it comes down to it, it's only $2000. I can cover that. Granted, my savings account will take a serious blow; granted, I'll have to postpone some things that I wanted to do NOW because I simply don't have the cash I thought I did; granted, my plans are utterly and completely screwed up now...(Oh! THERE's that anger!) But I am glad that at least it wasn't some astronomical amount that I didn't have. I'm glad that I won't need to be like Fred Vincy in Middlemarch and foist out my debts on other people. At least my parents won't have to pay this. At least I won't be more of a burden to them than I already am. (Darn [mumble-mumble]-year-old living with her parents still...)

And, when this bill is paid, then I'll be square. I'll be completely free of debt & I'll feel all nice & liberated (even though I already felt liberated; I just didn't know I wasn't liberated at the time).

So, to all of you who thought that I was going to move on soon? Oh, no. I ain't. Not now. Nohow. No-can-do.

Blech. Sorry. That's even too bitter for me to swallow at the moment.

Does this hymn make me look hot?

Just as I was wrapping up my singing this evening for the folks at that one retirment home, (you know--the one where I thought I saw Donny Osmond), some folks from the next group arrived, just a bit early. In fact, I was just starting the introductory measures of "Be Still My Soul" when about 5 of them walked in and surreptitiously took seats in the back of the room to listen to my warbling.

While I was a little distracted (I always find it easier to just sing to the old folks rather than younger people) I still felt like the last hymn went off pretty well, which was fortunate since my voice, by that point in the evening, was pretty much shot.

I finished singing, gathered my various books from the piano & floor & started to make my way down the aisle to shake hands with the afore-mentioned (and very, very nice) old folks and thank them for taking the time to come & listen to my poor renditions of old familiar hymns. As the five members of the second group came forward to claim the piano, several of the people in the group (all males, I noted) nodded at, smiled or complimented me on my singing. One of the guys even grinned at me & said, "Great job!" (And he weren't bad lookin' neither.)

So, I have to inquire: does singing hymns make you seem hot? Does singing hymns well to old folks make you appealing to the opposite gender? Did those smiles and nods and little teeny itsy bitsy compliments mean that these young men somehow found me attractive???

Well, no.

Does it mean it gave me something to write about on my blog this evening? (And a super-duper post title?)

Heck, yes.

Blah.

No really, I mean it. Just: blah.

I must apologize to you all, because frankly, that funk that I mentioned earlier has come back. With a vengeance. And it's been hovering incessantly for the past week. Obviously impeding my ability to write complete sentences. Yerg.

And, to top it off, Cathy & Ed & Morgan have moved, darn it. And I hate goodbye-ing. You always feel like you should be saying something profound that you all will be able to treasure in your hearts for years to come, but what you actually end up doing is standing (or sitting) around stupidly for a couple of hours, helplessly trying to think of something wonderful & comforting & warming to say & failing utterly, and then leaving, only half-convinced that you're worth much of anything as a friend. Ugh.

So, Cathy, when you get a chance to peruse this blog again, I apologize. Mostly for being a little bit dumb & a lot self-centered &...not able to do the whole goodbye thing very well. Hwaet.

(Leave it to me to use an old Anglo-Saxon word improperly. It was just the first thing that came to mind, okay? Ptooey.)

Okay. So, I guess that's it. I'm just blue & have been for a while...I'm sure I'll snap out of it soon. Give me a good spiritual experience or 5 minutes doing something I really believe to be productive & I'll be back to me old chipper self. So I will. And I will be jocular & verbose instead of the taciturn wretch I've been for the past week. Yeppers. And I won't cry over accidentally dousing my dad with cold water. And I'll get out of bed ontime. And also there will be a little bluebird singing merrily on my right shoulder. And if it...does its business once in awhile on my tshirt, I'll only have myself to blame. My very, very happy self. Ick.

So if you ever start packing...

Okay--so my blue funk is gone at the moment, mostly because I'm just so darn tickled at a dream I had last night (or more accurately this morning).

Sometimes I have dreams that I'm moving; these dreams usually involve some sort of process of packing up all of my belongings & trying to get them over to some other place. (Which I guess is the essence of moving. Duh.)

Anyway--while these dreams obviously have distinct differences from each other, (like the one this morning had me moving from one room in a house into another room in the same house--the new room had a bathroom inside the bedroom & two bathtubs--I even asked one of my roommates why on earth they put two bathtubs in the same room...but anyway--), they always seem to have a single thing in common.

I pack up what I believe is all my stuff, and then I suddenly realize that--HOLY COW!--I've forgotten to pack up the stuff in my closet & all the stuff in my drawers, so I still have TONS of things to go through & try to get in boxes. (Usually this is also accompanied by a feeling of urgency, like I have to be out of the room in 10 minutes or something.)

Delightfully, the dream this morning contained the same familiar scenario. I still had all my clothing (and board games--who would dream about board games???) hanging up in the closet, and I noticed several boxes kind of lying around in a tumbled heap that I hadn't sorted through yet.

I woke up this morning & just had to laugh at myself, mostly because it's really kind of a silly thing to dream about.

However, I still haven't been able to figure out exactly what this dream means. Here's one theory though: I want to move on in my life, but I still have things that are holding me back. I want to ignore these things, but heck--I can't move on without my board games, can I??? So, I still have things to do before I can make a clean transition.

Hey! That actually doesn't sound so bad. Maybe the important thing about dream interpretation is not that you figure out exactly what your silly brain was trying to process, but that you discover something important about yourself that you need to address, whether it was what your subconscious was trying to tell you or not.

So, if you'll excuse me, I have a few boxes to pack up.

And also, here's a weird picture I made out of a closeup of a peach blossom (ooooh...neon....). Seemed kinda dream-like, so I thought I'd include it. Enjoy!

This must end

I have GOT to stop watching romantic comedies. I mean it--I absolutely HAVE to stop watching them. You see, watching them turns me into a sighing soggy mess. I feel all...oogey inside, and believe you me, I definitely do not need oogey in my life.

Aside from that, it was actually a pretty good day. Conference was lovely, of course. I thought Elder Wirthlin's talk was especially touching, and Elder Oaks's talk was, I think, the most geared towards what I needed to hear. I think I often fail to think of the Savior when I'm going through problems in my life, or when I face unhappiness or disappointment. I tend to wallow a bit in my own misery, or think bitter thoughts rather than turning to the Lord as I should. I hope to do a bit better than I have been doing, which I guess is one of the points of having General Conference every six months. We get a small dose of self-improvement (or rather improvement through the Lord) twice a year. Thank goodness for that.

I'm not sure what else to write about. I've been in a bit of a funk these past couple of days--work has been kind of stressful and I've got deadlines looming at me and making threatening gestures. I guess I'm just not feeling perky happy cheerful at the moment, but I guess that's okay too. After all, life isn't entirely spent in a state of euphoria. And, if we didn't have blue funks, would we even know what euphoria tasted like? I doubt it.

Yeah. So, while I'm rather disjointed & half in a weird state, I just wanted to say to you all that I'm alive and I'm okay. And really, when you look at it closely, that's not such a bad thing.

I want it! No, I don't!

Okay. There is a huge ol' half-consumed chocolate cake sitting on the counter, and I want it. I want it bad.

So, you have to help me to convince myself how much I do NOT want this chocolate cake, because seriously I have been working hard the last two weeks and I don't want to blow it on a delicious slice of melt-in-your-mouth gooey crumbly chocolatey (did I mention delicious)...cake...

Okay. So, I don't really want this cake, except I do, but I really don't. Instead, I will content myself with some cauliflower. Or some sauteed peppers. Or some...er....celery. Yeah. Yum.

Aaaaaahhhhhh..... (Erm, that's supposed to be a long sigh...)

Oh, help.

Hooray! 100 Posts!

A long time ago (aka a few months) I asked you people to tell me your two favorite ice cream flavors. My plan was to throw a giant virtual ice cream party (as a celebration for the 1000th hit on my blog) & invite you all to come along! Unfortunately, as soon as I started working on putting the party together, lots of things came up like surgery & the death of my grandmother, & it just didn't seem like the right time anymore. (Plus, the hits by that point had gone way past 1000.)

So, now in celebration of my 100th post (WAHOO!) I've put together this little ice cream social. I hope you enjoy it! (By the way--there are many, MANY more people I would have included, but I either A: Did not have a high-resolution picture of you, B: Had already put together an image & no longer had any room--rats, or C: Simply did not know who you are (although this really only applies to two people who posted once on my blog & have never returned). So, I apologize if you're not in the photo. Seriously, you should be! This 'should be in here but for above reasons I could not include you' list consists of Lindsay, Libby, Pat, Annie, & my two beloved sibs Debs & Joseph (who posted under the werid but cool screen name of 'Opario'). And, if I've forgotten to include you in THAT list, well....just blame my ultra tired brain.

So, here it is! Happy ice cream! Happy friends! Happy, happy 100 POSTS! (By the way, because not everyone responded to my pleas for favorite ice cream flavors, I had to guess on a couple of you, and I even made up some flavors. So, if you have no clue what your ice cream is supposed to be, just ask. I can hardly wait to tell you.)

(And also--I know, I really KNOW--some of those poses & colors & bits of clothing are really weird. And some of your proportions are all off. And yes, I know that the lighting on some of your heads is also weird. And no, I don't intend to go back & fix it all--I'm tired of looking at this thing. Haha!)

(And also, you'll want to click on this thing for a larger version. Lots of details, man.)

***Edit: Urg! Oh, for pity's sake! I can't seem to get the darn pic to open up in a new window when you click on it. Bleh. Looks like you'll have to just be content with a smaller version. *Goes away mumbling curse words to herself* ***

***Edit: Argh! I KNEW there was someone I was forgetting! And Megan! The list includes Megan too!***

I'm turning into that girl

I never thought I would ever, EVER be that girl. You know--the one who wears flip flops in 40 degree weather and, as a single concession to the cold, dons a thin long-sleeved sort of shirt instead of wearing a proper jacket.

Yeah. I'm that girl now. And I don't think it's a good thing.

For one thing, I was much colder yesterday than I've been in a long time. I was positively shivering! (Well, more like occasionally shaking my shoulders with exclamations of "Brrr!" and "Gosh, it's cold!" (Yes. I said 'gosh.' Just like someone from the 50s. So sue me.))

Plus, with the rather persistent rain yesterday, my feet (scantily shod in flip flops) got rather wet. And kind of muddy. Ew. Plus, I forgot an umbrella, so my carefully coiffed (yeah, right--more like hastily curled) hair fell flat virtually the moment I left my house.

All in all, I'm thinking of giving up flip flops & returning to my sneakers & socks routine, although doing so would constitute a concession I'm not sure I'm ready to make.

You see, I love fall. I really, really do. But, I don't like winter. I really, really don't. Or, at least I do like winter; I just don't like shoveling the driveway & scraping ice off of my car & falling knee deep in snow drifts on my way between my car & work. Blech. No, I don't like it.

And so I am using my own little passive agressive streak against the seasons. By wearing flip flops & too-thin tshirts (albeit longsleeved) I am making a statement, a statement that says "I am refusing to concede that winter & snow & shoveling are all on their way. I say more summer, or at least a longer autumn, by gum, by golly." (Yes, I say 'golly.' Just like someone from the 40s. So sue me.)

And the rest of you say, "That girl (yes, that one) is totally and incomprehensibly delusional."

Well, so be it. I am that girl. That very, very cold girl.

The look in her eyes

So I was going through some old pictures today, and I came across this little wallet-sized picture of myself in (what I believe was) my kindergarten year. (Wow. That is some dress I have on.)

I'm actually pretty tickled with it, because if you can tell, I still smile the same way now, often a little half-smile with a good measure of reserve behind it. What's most different about me now (well, aside from the size issue) is that this little girl's eyes are different than mine. Oh, they're still the same light brown, but the expression in them is different. Which, I guess is only to be expected.

This little girl has years ahead of her full of family reunions & beach trips & school reports & squabbles with siblings & getting in HUGE trouble with Mom & Dad. She's got years of beating herself up for not being pretty enough or smart enough or easy enough around other people. She has strikes for independence from her parents in her future & learning how to draw properly & discovering that her voice is a pretty good instrument & finally understanding that a mission really is one of the hardest experiences you can go through in your life, as well as one of the best. She'll have struggles with friends & with grades & have moments of sheer bliss and sheer longing and will read thousands & thousands of books, both good & bad.

But she hasn't gone through any of that yet. (Except maybe the squabbling with siblings part.) And when you look in her eyes, you can see that. There's an innocence that a lack of experience brings, & it's there. It's strange to realize that I once looked out of my eyes like that, that I once carried that expression. And, while it's true that there are some days I would love to have that expression back, still I think that the expression in my eyes now is, if less innocent, perhaps (I hope) just a bit more full of the wisdom that experience brings.

Okay--didn't somebody out there have something to say?

Hmmmmm????? Cathy???? Care to update everybody?

This is me, saying here's my little piece of framework...please feel free to post what's been going on with ya! (And PLEASE tell me how Ed's trip went! (Which I guess is one & the same thing...))

If Beth can cook...

So can you! (Oh, come on. You knew that was coming.)

Truth be told, I'm pleased as pickles with myself this evening. I'm trying to incorporate more vegetables into my diet, so I experimented tonight and produced some veeeeery tasty results. (Mmmm...delicious results...)

So, firstly I threw some sirloin-type steaks into the pan & started them a-cookin', then I tossed some olive oil into another pan, added garlic (and heat) and let that sit (but only briefly). Then, I added in orange & green peppers (which I had handily cut up beforehand) and let those sautee for a spell. (Mmm...delicious sauteeing...)

After the peppers had cooked for a bit (and also after having flipped the steaks a couple of times) I added in some diced tomatos & sprinkled in some basil & oregano. (Mmm...delicious sprinkling...)

I let everything cook a bit longer until the veggies were tender but still slightly firm & the steak was only slightly rare (which is the way I like it, okay people???). Then I sat down to eat, after sampling a pepper (or two) and giving a pepper to my mom to sample too. (Mmm...delicious moms...er...no, I mean: Mmmm....delicious samples...)

And I ATE it! I DID! And it was TASTY!

And I'm still smiling smugly at my sauteeing ability (even though it's hardly anything to crow about) and feeling vaguely empowered. Cooking will do that for you, you know. Ah, yes.

Now for the dishes. DARN.

P.S. I would have included a picture of my minor triumph, but unfortunately, as I mentioned before, it's been et.

All my fears incarnate

I'm done.

I just produced five paragraphs of nonsense that, when read by the admissions folks at various MLS programs, are supposed to produce a feeling of warm fuzziness, of desire to have me come and hang with them for awhile, a desire to have me give them money, (or rather to borrow a large sum of money which I will then give to them), a desire to let me sit in as faculty members lecture about how cool it is to be a librarian.

Except that I can't help feeling that those five paragraphs of nonsense are really that--nonsensical--and that I have a snowball's chance in Phoenix of making it into these schools.

Dang it.

So, I will save this little five paragraph essay of My Career Objectives and How I Really Really want you to let me into this program because I CAN become a good librarian, I CAN, and I WILL if you just give me a chance oh please oh please just let me in, please please, and then I will go back to it and (maybe) rip it apart and start over. Except that I'm really, really tired of thinking about this, and so I'm tempted to just tatter it. A little. And then...email it to everyone I can think of it so they can review it and tell me that it's mostly okay but this paragraph just needs a little bit of work and couldn't you use a different word here that doesn't rhyme with 'orange' and shouldn't you have capitalized the beginning of the sentence and I think maybe you have a snowball's chance in Seattle which is slightly better than its chance in Phoenix.

I'm just afraid that they'll say 'No,' y'know? I'm just sitting here wondering what I would do if this school that I feel drawn to does NOT feel drawn to me and I'm left to wander as a school-less librarian wannabe for the rest of my life. Not that there aren't other schools, and not that I'm unlikely to be accepted to ALL of them... It's just hard to face the possibility that you might not get what you really really want.

And I really really want this.

Really.

Cleaning out the junk

From where I sit perched on my bed (or rather slouched on my bed) the space to my left is remarkably clean & neat while the space to my right is cluttered & dusty.

I had the worthy goal today of doing a blitz on my room, leaving the whole thing sparkly clean & smelling faintly of pine sol, but I really only got to half of it. Well, actually, more like a quarter of it. But, because that quarter is currently looking so darn good, I'm not going to dwell to much on my failings. (The room is 1/4 clean, not 3/4 messy, after all.)

What always slows me down in the cleaning process is my tendency to pause over papers I'm going through. I almost never am able to grab a stack & then uncerimoniously dump it without first filing through each sheet to read what I've written there.

For instance, today I found several old letters from Cathy written within a year, I think, of when I moved from California. Holy schnikes, were we into Post Scripts! And, I could reiterate all the crushes she listed for my reading pleasure, but I will refrain. *Wink, wink!*

I also spent a lot of time going through my mission papers. I had notes saved from all my MTC classes & I still have every single letter anybody wrote to me on my mission. (They're still all hanging out in plastic bags. I'm going to put them all in a binder (or two) but for now, they'll languish in a bin under my bed until the next 3-day weekend.) I also went through binders full of stuff, papers talking about strategies to teach people I vaguely remember, and the precious written testimonies of the couple I helped teach in my second area who have (against all odds) remained strong in the faith.

I found pictures from high school and my freshman & sophmore years of college (in which I wore this really awful black cap a lot) and I couldn't help thinking that I've really done a poor job of keeping in contact with the people I knew then, and most of what was important to me during those days has faded into the back of my mind now.

It was kind of strange--I was remembering being someone that I just am not anymore, and it threw me off a little. I wondered if I had stayed true to myself, if I had changed and left the old me completely behind, or if I'd just made some improvements (and necessarily a few setbacks). I hope it's mostly the latter, although I felt a distinct feeling of disconnection from my previous self, almost as if I were reviewing the life of someone else entirely.

And, while I'm completely caught up in the hopes & fears of today, I wonder what the me of 10 or 15 years from now will think of the me today?

I hope she'll like me.

I hope I'll like her.

I want to be cool like that!

I've been clicking & clicking & clicking on the "Next Blog" link there at the top of the blogger pages, and I've noticed one very important thing:

All the cool blogs have a picture of Einstein.

Not wanting to be outdone, here you go:

So. Now I am a cool blogger too.

(And not at all influenced by a desire to conform to societal norms. Oh, no. Not me.)

All the things to love

I'm not sure why, but I think the most extraordinary part of a newborn is his or her fingernails. It always strikes me with wonder when I see them, and I'm not sure why they should be more amazing to me than their hair, eyes, cheeks or knees. But they are.

My nephew has fingernails. They're lovely. And so is he.

I'm an auntie! Again!

It's true! It's true! He's finally here! We've waited months & months and now he's finally finally out, here in the air with the rest of us.

My little sister's little baby was born this morning, probably while I was on the phone with that one customer with the broken ribbon container, weighing in at a hefty 8lbs, 11 oz. He's 21 inches long and apparently has a conical head at the moment which, considering his last 12 hours or so, is hardly surprising.

We're just about to go meet him, so I have to be brief...

But I'm happy. Really, really happy.

I love a car with character

Today, wonder of wonder, miracle of miracles, my windshield-wiper problem was fixed. For those of you familiar with my 'sweet ride' (a '96 Geo Prism I affectionately call "The Jade Bullet" or Jade for short) you know I've been dealing with this unfortunate issue for...well for years, actually. The wipers turned on just fine. They sprung into action with remarkable alacrity, beating back & forth in regular tempo, attuned to the very beating of my heart.

Ahem.

Alas, despite their evident usefulness and eagerness the wipers refused to turn off. It was like having a guest in the house whom you love dearly but who has stayed for weeks & weeks and has eaten all of your peanut butter. Yes. Indeed, it was like that. For behold, the wipers would wipe all of those pesky raindrops from the windshield (i.e. do their job) but then continued to wipe and wipe and wipe and wipe long after the last drop had disappeared from the glass, and the sound of rubber grating on dry windshield is not a pleasant noise, especially when extended for miles & miles & miles.

I'd have to turn the dang car OFF in order to get the stupid things to stop swiping, and even then if I turned the car off when the wipers were in any position but the just-barely-hit-the-bottom-of-their-sweep-and-were-immediately-about-to-start-upward-again position, the wipers would continue their inevitable course over the surface of my windshield when I turned the car on again.

It was fun.

Oh, wait. No it wasn't.

But it gave my car character. Oh, how it gave the car character. I could tell fond stories of having to pull off the freeway into an empty parking lot, turn off the car, restart it & pull back onto the freeway, only to have intermittent rain hit AGAIN less than 5 minutes later. And stop again after about a minute.

So today, when I climbed back into my car after (fiiiiinally) getting the wiper switch in the steering wheel replaced, I was glad. And thankful. And many other positive adjectives. I did feel a kind of wistfulness though, reflecting that the days of wiper woes were over, and gone forever were all of the stories I could have garnered if only I'd left the problem unresolved.

Fortunately, on the drive home, while the wipers worked spectacularly, I noticed that my car had suddenly developed another piece of character. The steering wheel is now 90 degrees to the right of where it's supposed to be. So, when I'm driving straight, instead of the wheel being at the 12 o'clock position, it serenely stays at the 3 o'clock position, obscuring my view of the spedometer ("What, officer? Was I really going 75 through that residential zone? I couldn't see my spedometer, you see...") and positioning the airbag so that if I get in a head-on car accident, I can reasonably be assured that my left arm will fare pretty well, and the rest of me will end up halfway inside my radio.

Huzzah.

So, I'll go back to the shop tomorrow, laugh a little at the antics of those silly mechanics, cry a little at the cruelty of the world, and strip yet another piece of character from my beloved Jade.

Poor Jade. I hope she knows I'll still love her all the same.

Whot, whot? Not again, surely?

Oh my goodness I just wasted an entire evening again by doing nothing more than checking my blog and watching a movie and half-composing soppy emails and checking out movie trailers and

Oh!

I also did some visiting teaching.

Phew! Not a total waste, then.

Thankagoodness.

What is it about frogs?

Oh! And I just remembered something else I wanted to post about.

My (very coolio) sister found the following image on the web, and promptly made it her msn messenger image type thing. (I don't really use msn messenger, so I'm not all that familiar with what that image type thing really is.)

Anyway--here 'tis!

(Thanks to Worth1000.com for this totally unauthorized use of this picture! By the way, scroll through the page to see other fabulous froggy pics.)

So, the really utterly coolio thing is that, along with the above image, my sister has included as her msn messenger tagline: "Some frogs just shouldn't be kissed."

Did I already say 'coolio?'

Oh. I did?

Well, it still is.

And lo, how the yellow moon...

Okay--due to inflammatory content, I'm determined to bury my previous post as quickly as possible.

Sorry, guys. I didn't realize it would generate such a vehement reaction. I thought it was kind of funny--sad & bitter but funny still, and I only really felt HALF serious about it--but...it really should be forgotten as quickly as possible, I believe.

So.

As I was driving home this evening, I kept glancing over at the thin crescent moon hovering near the western horizon. It's position this evening was such that it was pretty darn close to the ground before it finally disappeared behind some low promontory or other. I kept staring at it and wanting to write poetry, and I kept thinking of the phrase: "And lo, how the yellow moon..." But "how the yellow moon WHAT???" kept popping in right afterwards, rendering the phrase cheesy & ridiculous.

I don't actually write poetry that contains phrases like "And lo, how the yellow moon..." I just want to make that clear.

I do write poetry that strives to be more grandiose than it actually is, but I think for the most part I manage to rein it in. A little.

But still, the poetry-writing organ in me (is that the brain? or the heart? or (heaven forbid) the missing gallbladder?) longs to come up with flowery phrases and iambic metric schemes and non-cheesy rhymes (which I am absolutely NOT capable of producing) and thus generates phrases for me like "And lo, how the yellow moon..."

So, whether I'm talking about "And lo, how the yellow moon doth drift like a mostly-nibbled-away cheese wheel down to the brooding horizon," or "And lo, how the yellow moon lunges like a Tie Fighter ready to blast apart the numerous earth-dwellings of those feeble humans," or "And lo, how the yellow moon doth become more yellow and more moony as it creeps closer to the engulfing horizon which looms like a big...ocean...or something," still, I take great comfort in the fact that while I may write really awful poetry, there's NO WAY people are going to rip it out of that wall-safe I had installed and publish it and thus really humiliate me.

Yeah. That didn't even make any sense.

'K. Time to go.

Ugh. I'm a freaking DUMP TRUCK.

**Note: Okay, guys--I have changed my mind numerous times about whether or not I should post this. (I actually wrote this back on June 19th, but I've never actually put it up on the blog.) But, I feel like the writing t'aint bad, and the sentiments I express herein are valid, so I think it's time to get this up where the public can see it. I know this is bitter. I was in a bitter mood when my brain conceived this. BUT, read it anyway. I'm not bitter at the moment, so this post isn't currently painful--just interesting.**

******************************************

I've realized that I'll never be one of those "Lady in Red" type of girls. I'll never dance to a slow Frank Sinatra song and bedazzle my partner with my womanly wiles and charm. I'll never stun a man with my beauty as I stand in a meadow with my face turned slightly away from him, watching the sun go down.

No, no. I never will.

No man will ever write a song about me, explaining how he pined for years, and had his poor little heart torn in two when he watched me walk away beside another guy. I'll never have two men fight it out to the death over my honor. And, if I ever have the chance to try to slip my foot into a glass slipper, the only way I'm going to stick the sucker in there is by chopping off something. (Thank you, grisly Grimm brothers.)

You know, it's funny. Girls are funny, specifically. We watch romantic movies and read romantic novels and chat with each other exuberantly about how romantic our lives really should be...but aren't.

Even so, I have the vague suspicion that some girls out there really do play the romantic leads in their very own chick flicks. Luckies. They're the mustangs of the girl-world, the corvettes, the one thing a man desires above anything else in the world--the one thing he would give his whole heart to.

And me? I'm a dump truck. Useful in my own way, but hardly the thing to get someone's heart-rate up.

I was wrong. I was all wrong.

I (foolishly) watched Pride & Prejudice again this evening, but at least it helped me realize something very important. My previous post about Austen's leading men was completely off.

We don't fall in love with Mr. Darcy because he has fine manners or dresses well. It's not even really because he does really nice things for Elizabeth, (like save her sister from moral & social ruin), although that's certainly a symptom of the reason why we fall in love with him.

We fall in love with Darcy because he is completely in love himself with Elizabeth--helplessly so. And when, at the end, he declares that his feelings for her are unchanged, and can hardly draw breath for the intensity of his emotion, we melt.

I melt.

I melted.

Maybe that's all we want. The dancing and the elegant letter-writing and the clean handkerchiefs are all well and good, but what we really want, what we really need, is for someone to love us as thoroughly and helplessly as Mr. Darcy loved Elizabeth Bennett, for someone to look at us as he looked at her.

Oh, DARN it.

Of Haircuts and Happy Birthdays

I had a good day today.

Without going into too much detail, let's just say that I got a good haircut (my opinion of which is, of course, subject to my attempts to style it tomorrow morning...) and I got to buy books (two novels by Ursula LeGuin, plus Bleak House and Middlemarch) and eat LOTS of Italian-style food (mmm...delicious Italian-style food...) in which marinara sauce figured a prominent role.

However, there is one thing that would have made my birthday perfect: if my nephew had been born today. Now, he's got only a little over two hours to make the date, and I have a feeling he...well...he just won't make it. My poor younger sister has been longing for this baby to pop out for many days now and my nephew is just being stubborn. (Methinks he likes the womb.)

So, while it would have been cool to share a birthday with my sister's kid, still it'll be fun to just share August as a birthday month with him. You know, it's kind of funny--I arrived rather early into the world (I was actually born 19 days early, which means I was due on September...lemme think here...*counts days on her calendar*...September 12th) and this baby seems determined to stick it out in his mother's abdomen for as long as possible.

Okay--I'm exaggerating. The kid's actually not due until August 31st, but we're all still anxious to see him anyway, and find out whether he resembles my sister or her husband more and whether or not he'll be bald for the first year or so of his life, and whether he'll be a towhead like his parents. (Genetically speaking, it's pretty likely.)

Anyway--huh. Kind of diverged on my topic here. So, long & short of it: Good Birthday. Good Haircut. Gooooooood cake. Good night.

(Oh--and about Boston...I want to get out there more than ever, but I'm still uncertain about how I'd do it all, and I'm uncertain about the timing, and I'm REALLY uncertain about my own ability to handle a move like that. So. We'll see. Oh, and I just found out that some MSN study has found Boston to be one of the top 5 drunkest cities in the US. Go figure. But then, maybe I'd help even it out a little. You know--with my absolute non-drunkenness?)

It feels like a...

Yes.

I mean, that's what it feels like. It feels like a 'yes.' I've asked, and re-asked and then asked again just to be sure, and, while I'm not 100% positive a move to MA is imminent, still, the percentage is hovering in the high 90s.

I haven't told my parents yet, and I'm actually really nervous to talk to them about this. I'm not sure how they'll react and whether they'll trust my judgement or intuition or ability to interpret direction from the Spirit. I hope they will, but they may focus more on practical things like "How?" and "Why?" and "What the heck?!?"

I think I'm going to do some more research on this, and make a really viable plan. I will: plan out the trip that would take me & my stuff out there, find out how much this is likely to cost, and see if I can cover it using my savings (yeah--I'm pretty sure I'll be okay); find out what job options might be available in MA and how much they might pay and whether I'd be able to support myself out there using my, well, useless English degree; and I will look up apartment listings out there to, again, see if I can live somewhere under my own power or whether I should seek roomies.

I'm feeling kind of urgent about this. I tried to go to sleep last night after wrestling with the question and feeling a pretty strong (and fairly urgent) 'yes,' and I couldn't seem to drift off. I kept thinking about what I would do & when this was going to happen and just how gosh darned scared I'm feeling about the whole thing, and how in spite of that I really feel like I need to get out there soon.

It's weird. I don't know why I need to be there. Maybe it's just that kick out of the nest that I've needed for approximately the last two years. Maybe I'm supposed to help people out in MA. Maybe other people are supposed to help me. Maybe that's where I'll live for the rest of my life. Maybe I'll live out there for 6 months and come weeping home, trailing a cloud of debt and despair behind me (although I hope not). Or maybe it's just a multitude of reasons. Heck--it's LIFE for crying out loud! It's complicated!

But whatever the reasons, I'm beginning to realize that the answer is pretty clear.

And it's 'Yes.'

Spiritual nourishment in Primary? Who knew?!?

When I was called to be the secretary in our ward's primary presidency, I thought that it would be the end of spiritual nourishment as I knew it. I would step away from focusing on feeding my own spirit and try to feed the spirits of numerous (and easily distracted) small children. I was okay with the change, but I felt a little wistful about being away from Gospel Doctrine class and Relief Society. I just figured I would have to focus more on my own personal study. (Which...erm...I'm not actually very good at, really.)

BUT, I realized today that I have been totally wrong about Primary. (Huh. Do you capitalize 'Primary?') I actually get nourished a LOT while trying to nourish these young kids. I think my experience two weeks ago really proved it to me. It was my turn to do sharing time (I do 5th Sundays if we have 'em) and I had prepared a series of examples to teach the kids about how Heavenly Father hears & answers our prayers. I talked about Enos praying for his own forgiveness, then for his people, then for his enemies, and how each of his prayers were answered. Then I talked about Jonah, and his prayers from inside the belly of the whale (fish?) and how those prayers were answered.

It was really the third example that struck me as the most important though. I talked about Christ, and His prayer in the garden. He prayed that, if possible, the terrible burden of the atonement would be removed from Him, and I talked about a loving Heavenly Father who would have longed to answer that prayer affirmatively and say, "Okay. I won't make you go through this." Then I talked about how the next part of the Savior's prayer was vital--He said, "Nevertheless, not my will but thine be done."

I told the children that sometimes, we pray for things that we really, really want. Sometimes the prayers are answered in the way that we want them to be. In fact, I think that if it's at all possible (and right) for the Lord to arrange it for us, He will. But sometimes our prayers don't get answered the way we think they should be. People we love & pray for continue to be sick, or die, or aren't protected like we think they should have been. Maybe we don't get a really good grade on our math test. Maybe we spend years & years alone when we long & pray for marriage. (I know some of you are familiar with that one. Me too.)

I taught the kids that when our prayers don't seem to be answered, or when the answer is 'No,' it's because the Lord knows exactly what we need in our lives--he knows exactly what experiences we need to go through. And, as long as we trust in Him and accept His will rather than our own, we can be happy, and experience the things He wants us to experience. And eventually become the people He wants us to be.

Okay--so all of the above is really pretty simplistic (and maybe a little pedantic) but it was actually a good reminder for me. I was trying to teach the children the principles of faith & trust in the Lord, and in His will, but in the process, I was reminded to put my own faith & trust in Him, and to stop dwelling on the prayers I thought He wasn't answering.

Not that I've remembered since--I've done all sorts of things to mess up my perspective again, but doing things like talking to friends and heck--posting on this blog--have reminded me of the things I learned that day in Primary, and how I was able to come away spiritually strengthened.

I had the oddest thought...

So I was sitting at work yesterday, just kind of browsing around our website looking for errors in item descriptions or images (orders have been kinda slow lately) and I had the oddest thought.

I thought to myself, "Why don't I just move to Boston and work there, and maybe I'll get into that one school and maybe I won't, but at least I'll BE there."

So then I started thinking about this little proposition from my brain and I thought..."Wow! Maybe that could work!" And then I thought, "Nah--it's too crazy." And then I thought, "Yeah--crazy enough to work!" And then I thought, "Whoa! What a cliche!"

But actually, I kind of felt good about it then. Strangely. I don't know though--I'm not sure I've felt good about it since. So, I guess I'll be thinking about this some more. But who knows--maybe a change of location is closer than I thought! Or maybe not...

I guess I just want to get going, and I kind of feel like waiting another year (if I get accepted to the school I like it'll be next summer before I start) would just be too long, and that I need to get out there SOON. Like, this fall.

Very VERY odd feeling. And disturbing. For it would mean packing (which I hate) and driving (which I actually like) in my car (which is a little oldish) a long, long ways. And before that, I'd need to ask my aunt & uncle if I could (pleasepleaseplease) crash at their place for a few weeks while I sort myself out & find a job and then find an apartment with (pleasepleaseplease) other really nice girls who won't make fun of my new tshirts.

There would be other downsides as well: I would miss my brother's homecoming, which would mean I wouldn't see him until probably a good MANY moons after he returns to the states. I would also miss the ever ongoing growing-up years of my admittedly adorable nieces & nephews.

Good: I would be closer to all of you in the east.

Bad: I would be farther from all of you in the west.

Good: I would be in Massachusetts! (I mean, that in itself is just wicked cool.)

Bad: I would have to pay rent! (And THAT is wicked awful.)

Long and short (but mostly long) I just have no idea. It may just be one of those odd thoughts that pop in the head and then fizzle slowly out the ears without making any real indentation inside, or...I could be moving.

Arg! But WHO KNOWS?!?

Well, here it is again.

From where I sit in my room, feet pressed against the wall under the window while my laptop rests on the top of a cheapo folding table, I can see the nearly full moon rising over the black mountains. Last night I spent an hour at least just laying in the moonlight, (uncomfortably still in my church skirt), feeling the night breezes wrap around me, and feeling really rather sad, actually.

I seem to get this morose feeling rather more often than I should. I just spent some time reading my past blog entries and frankly I dwell too much on these peculiar moods that seem to strike me too often. I don't really consider myself to be a morose personality; I'm just a cheerful personality that feels morose frequently. Right?

So with the moon shining and my laptop glowing and my hair all in a frantic, tattered mess, and my pillows inviting me to thoroughly explore their topography, I find that I just don't have much to say this evening. Except that I need sleep. And that I also need to spend less time lounging in the moonlight dwelling on things that have gone wrong in my life, and more time doing things to make it right.

Which means putting down the blog.

Right now.

Put it down and just step away.

There's a girl.

Time for a little introspection

I just realized that I have a really boring blog.

I mean it.

My blog is really ineffably dull.

I realized this while I was reading someone else's blog, and hers was witty and intelligent & keen and many other synonomous adjectives that I am currently too dumb to think of. And also I end sentences with prepositions.

Aw, HECK. And shucks, and GOSH DARN IT! I'm tired of being dull and witless and lackluster and all that jazz (or rather lack of jazz). I want to be intelligent and read great literature and carry on pithy and startlingly observant conversations with other people who are just as fabulously brilliant as I am.

Unfortunately, I believe I lack the nack.

Alas.

The road goes ever on and on…

I always want to see what’s at the end of roads. Not that I believe that the end itself is going to be terribly interesting, (and those of you who have observed road endings are sure to concur), but because I believe that the getting to the end of the road will enable me to witness wonderful things while I'm getting there, to be in places I’ve never been before. And I LOVE that feeling.

Sometimes my life seems so stagnant. (Well, more often than not, actually.) I drive on the same road the same distance at the same speed the same times every day, and some days I just want to turn my wheels an unexpected direction and break, if only for a short time, into completely unknown territory.

I want to drive to the end of the road I discovered the other day on my lunch break. It went past a newish sort of church, and then just kept on going past fields & stables, silos & horses. I wondered if, when I reached the final foot of asphalt, I’d end up in a place I knew, or if I’d be faced with one of those yellow arrow signs giving me a sharp choice: left or right, neither way known, making the direction hard to choose. I would want to take both roads.

Maybe someday I’ll have the time (and the gas) I need to keep going. I could end up in Payson, or I could go all the way out to West Mountain (or beyond) without passing a single landmark I knew. I could keep going to the coast, and then head north into Canada, and then east through it, back down south into the US, tracing and backtracking and networking all the roads together until they sat like an enormous web of interlinked places in my head.

I wonder if I’d come away different, if part of myself would wear off along the pavement, or if the dust of the road would become an indelible part of my skin.

I think—I’m almost positive—that I’d discover that there are no real ends to the roads, only continual change and beginnings, and that in the end, the main thing I’d find would be me.

(Sorry—I know this undercuts everything, but doesn’t that last sentence sound like something out of a Disney movie? Hahaha! Oh, I can be dull. :^))

I really don't deserve this post

Okay, people—relationships are weird.

They just are, and the more I think about them, the weirder they get.

I've been thinking today about how maybe some people don't deserve the people that they're dating (or married to for that matter). (Don't worry—it’s no one you know.) And then I thought about what a ridiculous assumption that was.

You see, I don’t think anybody really deserves anybody else. I mean, we’re all such middling people anyway. Every person has really awful flaws that make him (or her) nearly impossible to live with and almost completely undeserving of marital bliss. And yet, nearly everyone also seems to have this amazing spark of brilliance that maybe starts to even render their flaws obsolete. And I'm not just talking about marriage here, people.

It’s about friendships too—any human relationship, really. It’s like what C. S. Lewis said. We are none of us insignificant beings. We’re all moving towards something unspeakably horrible or (more likely with you folks) something unspeakably glorious.

Maybe it’s the sum of two people together that begins the creation of something wondrous. Maybe in that relationship all those flaws are pulled out and exposed and anguished over, and eventually, eventually begin to erode. Maybe those sparks of brilliance get pulled out and exposed and eventually, eventually, grow brighter & brighter.

(And please do forgive all this cheesy language.)

And when we say that some girl just doesn’t deserve this really great guy, or that this guy just doesn’t deserve this really great girl, we may be saying something true. But in a way, it’s true every single time from both sides of every single relationship. We none of us deserve each other—we’re all stupid and blind and compassionate and dazzling—but we get each other anyway. And I, for one, am very grateful.

Time for a new post

The only problem is, I'm not sure what to write about.

You see, I've been spending the last couple of hours trying to work out exactly what admissions people at the graduate school of my choice want to see in that little essay you're supposed to write that describes exactly why you're the perfect candidate for their school and also makes them want to throw money in your general direction and also I should avoid run-on sentences.

So, as I'm sure you can guess, my brain (if removed from my skull and examined under a bright fluorescent light) currently resembles a kind of sticky paste made from approximately two cups of raisins that have gone through the blender at high speed, to which has been added three heaping tablespoons of honey. And also a quarter cup of milk. (Well, maybe not the milk.)

Man. It's a good thing my brain is fastened securely to the inside of my skull, otherwise the ants would be all over me! (ACK! ANTS!)

Where was I?

Oh, yes. A topic. Which I do not have.

Ummmm....Well, as it turns out, my day off has been cut short, (they're apparently very busy at my place of employment today), so I don't really have much more time to write stuff, seeing as how I've got to leave in, like 30 minutes. It's really pretty disappointing. I was going to write my essay & polish it & then proceed to bug the appropriate people to please, PLEASE write me letters of recommendation, but alas, I've only had time for a rough essay outline, which goes as follows:

Point one: Talk about how you were born with a book in your hand. It's not really true, but it'll get everybody at the admissions committee to have a good laugh, and hey--you can always use that.

Point two: Talk about recommending "Everybody Poops" to all of the children who came into the library. Seriously. Like, how you would run after them waving it frantically, screaming "You've GOT to read this book! It will CHANGE YOUR LIFE!!!" Yeah. That'll impress 'em.

Point three: Talk about how the school is PERFECT for you. It's far away from home, so your parents won't be able to keep bugging you about taking that pesky medication.

Point four: Talk about how you're PERFECT for the program. After all, you own a couple of books yourself, and you've even read some of 'em, so you should get along pretty darn well with all them booky people they have at that thar school of theirn. (And also write it in a weird western accent. That's SURE to get their attention.)

And that's about as far as I've gotten. The fine details of the essay may require some tweaking, but I think I've essentially got it. Yep. So, grad school--HERE I COME!

High Foreheads and Recording Contracts

Did you know that Norah Jones has a high forehead?

She does.

I wasn't really aware of this myself until I bought her CD Come Away With Me, (do you italicize names of CD albums???), which features several pics of said artist in which it becometh clear that her forehead beeth high.

Which got me thinking.

I too have been blessed with a high forehead (compliments of my dad, who has a forehead extending nearly to his neck--which I think is adorable, by the way). So, why can't I make a fabulous debut album and set up recording contracts with major record labels? You know? 'Cause really, I can't even imagine a better correlation than the one between high foreheads and recording contracts.

So. I will learn to croon, and play the piano properly while I croon, and I will make my sultry voice resonate in the midst of smoke-filled rooms. And then some punk kid with a tape recorder and a dream will hear me, and off we'll go to strike it big. And me with my high forehead, and the kid with his savvy technical know-how, we're gonna go all the way.

I can feel it.

Self-portraiture

Well, against my own better judgement, I am including in this post a pic of mein self. I did a wee little photo shoot using my wee little digital camera this afternoon. (Hoorah for Utah State Holidays! No work!)

Sooooo....yep. There's me. Actually, it's kind of weird sitting here typing a post whilst staring at mein self. It's actually kind of creepy, if you want to know the truth--kinda like--DUDE! Stop staring already!

Okay. So, now that you all know what I kind of look like right now, (I SWEAR--the only thing I Photoshopped (hehe--"Shoppe at your local Photoshoppe") was the brightness/contrast thingy), I guess I can go.

Yep.

Bye!

Poor men. They haven't got a chance.

On behalf of those of us (aka women) who are fond of Jane Austen and her film incarnations, I must break it to the rest of the world that, I'm sorry, you'll just never quite measure up.

You see, the Jane Austen men (at least the leading men) will always be universally charming, romantic, and impeccably dressed. And, while the rest of you (aka living & breathing men) certainly have powers of charm & romance, these powers seem to dissipate all too quickly. You sometimes blow your noses too loudly, or leave a bit of a mess around the toilet. In the world of romance, some of you may pursue too hard, and others (shockingly) never fall in love with the right person at all (i.e. the woman who wants you). In short, you're real--you have problems and issues just like us, and we can't have that, now can we?

Jane Austen men always properly dispose of their hankies. And, at the end, they always seem to screw up enough courage to tell the woman of their dreams that they are lost unless she saves them. How can you blame us then when about every five seconds there's a woman who sighs as the ending credits of Pride & Prejudice start scrolling down the screen, or as she sets down Persuasion after the long-awaited reunion of Anne and Captain Wentworth, or as she realizes while reading Sense and Sensibility just how much Colonel Brandon cares for Marianne, and that really he can make her much more happy than Willoughby ever could.

Alas, you real-life red-blooded men. Try as hard as you may, you can never quite measure up to those little expectations we generate for you. You can never truly be Mr. Darcy. It really isn't your fault, though. And eventually, we women will put down the book, or turn off the television, and come back to our senses...but perhaps never quite all the way. Be patient with us, will you? There's a dear.

So, what shall it be?

Oh, you guys. I'm so sorry I haven't posted in so long. I've been...not quite in the mood to post.

You see, posting takes a firm (maybe) grasp of something interesting to explore, a great deal of energy, and a tiny amount of oregano. (Although basil may be substituted in extreme circumstances.)

While my oregano supply is still running fairly high, my energy and topic levels have dipped significantly below where they need to be for a good, fiery, home-town cooked Lizardbreath post.

However, right now, I am feeling a slight increase in afore-mentioned levels, and I'm also feeling vaguely alone since my family has traipsed off to California without me. (Well, 'traipsed' is perhaps the wrong word. But it sure sounds good.) Please, don't feel indignant on my behalf. My grandmother is being interred in California, so they've gone down for the second funeral (the first was this past Monday, which was good & sad & wonderful & tearful, and no, I'm not really going to go into it more than that right now) & the burial, and just to be with family for a few days. I'm sad I'm not going, but with the recent surgery & with the already low number of personnel at work, I didn't quite feel that I should go.

So, I am even now perched on the bed, with my laptop secure on my...well, my lap...and I am currently wondering exactly what I should write about.

I could mention that I've become an Alton Brown groupie. I guess days on end of lying on the couch sipping liquids while watching Food Network has changed the chemical balance of my brain forever. Alas.

Or, I could talk about getting the 'steri-strips' peeled off of my belly by my surgeon and then going home and having the immediate desire to show my incisions to all my family members. But I resisted. (Well, except for that little exhibition for my sister. My oh my. She puts up with a lot from me. I guess I'm lucky.)

Or, I could talk about that Mr. Rogers thing I was going to talk about before, but didn't get a chance to...But that's kind of boring.

Truth is, kids, most of what I could talk about right now would be boring. I have a lot on my mind, and almost nothing at all in my head. Nonsensical? Naturally. But true.

But, I know that, when I do finally come up with a really great and entertaining topic, you'll all be there, ready & eager to read what I've written.

Until then, I'll just be here. With the Food Network. And my laptop. And my incisions. (Happy, happy incisions...)

The Nature of Life

Hi, guys.

Today is proof that life does not happen the way we expect. I thought that this evening I'd sit down to write a nice long post about Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood and other shows you might find at 4 o'clock in the morning, but I find that my topic has changed. Drastically.

This afternoon, I found out that my grandmother was fading fast, and likely to pass away sometime today. My mom went up to her apartment around 4pm to meet my dad there, and I waited until my little sister got home, and then took my younger sibs up to see her & the rest of the family, and to say our goodbyes.

As the evening progressed, and as we listened to my grandmother's rattled breathing become more & more shallow, everyone in the room, including my dad and two of his siblings, along with many of my grandmother's grand and great-grandchildren became solemn and reverent. It was strange, I think. There were so many people in the room, but everyone was so quiet. We would go half-hours at a time where the only sounds would be occasional sniffing, and the constant sound of my grandmother's labored breathing, which let us know that she was still with us.

I felt helpless and calm, and sad, mostly sad for my dad, his brother, and his sister (my aunt) who could not seem to stop crying. But I also felt that the space had become so sacred, and that is never, never an unhappy feeling. Holiness can be sad, but it isn't unhappy. Isn't that strange? It's sadness & happiness all at the same time.

I'm sorry--my writing is not going to be very good on this post--I'm just trying to get down some thoughts, here.

There was a baby there (my cousin's), and it was so strange to see the juxtaposition of a woman at the end of a very long life, and an infant less than 4 months old just at the beginning of hers. It was good to have a baby there--that reminder of the constant renewal of life was helpful for everyone in the room, I think. My younger sister is also expecting a baby, and I remember glancing over to her at one point, and another sister (the youngest) had her hand on the other's belly, feeling the baby kick.

My older sister brought her oldest child, my seven-year-old niece, who was very quiet & thoughtful. I was very happy that she was there. My mom had my niece on her lap at one point, and whispered to her, "It's not scary, is it. It's just reverent." (My niece nodded).

My mom was absolutely right. The feeling in the room was reverent. I think it was a mix of respect for my grandmother (who spent her life in the service of God--I've never known any human being as charitable as she was) and a knowledge of & faith in the reality of life after death, and that the arms of a loving Heavenly Father waited for her as she passed over.

My grandmother died this evening at about 11pm, surrounded by three generations of her descendants, and, I believe, my desceased grandfather, and the child they had who had died at a young age.

I'm so grateful that I was able to be there and experience the profound feeling of sacredness in the room. I'm so grateful that all of my siblings who could be there were there--I'm just sad that one of us had to be so far away.

Anyway--again, the writing is poor. It's now early in the morning on the 13th, so I guess I have some excuse. I just feel tired & heavy and sad & relieved. And, glad that I can write that & you guys will all understand.

Thanks. Until next time, then.

'Twas the Night Before Surgery

Well, my dear friends, tomorrow is the day. At 6am, I'll check myself into my local hospital, fork over $200 for a little down-payment on my deductible, and succumb to anesthesia & The Knife. (Or is it knives? I mean, how many little sharp instruments does a surgeon HAVE??? At least 14, I'll bet. Yeah. 14 sounds good.)

I'm nervous, guys.

I'm now ashamed to admit that I've always been ever-so-slightly scornful of people who are nervous about an upcoming surgery. (I mean--routine surgeries like having your gallbladder removed--not stuff like open heart surgery, or brain surgery, or toe surgery, or other serious stuff like that.) I'm glad that I'm having surgery myself now, so I know what it means to be nervous before going under, even knowing that things will likely be entirely okay. I mean, it's my BODY that they're going to be cutting into, y'know? That place where I live. I'll come awake missing a piece of me.

Plus, I will hurt.

Man, I'm such a baby.

Urgh! And this is so not the tone I intended to have in this post. You see, I've been thinking a bit about having surgery, and about finally being able to sympathize with people going through similar experiences, and I've realized that a lot of what we go through in life is geared to help us understand suffering that other people have to go through. Having this surgery will enable me to grasp, just a little bit what someone with a more serious surgery is going through. I'll be able to offer more sympathy, more real understanding to that person, because I'll have felt it myself, even if to a lesser degree.

I came into this world knowing so little, and I've spent the majority of my life thinking that I knew a great deal. So coming into these life experiences, I'm finally gaining just a small bit of knowledge, but these small bits are teaching me how much of life is still beyond my understanding, and I'm so grateful for that. Now, I hope, I should be a bit slower to make hasty judgements or assesments of people I don't know, and be a little more kind, have a little more empathy.

God teaches us so much through the experiences in our lives. I'm learning so much by living! And I still have so much living to do.

So, until I return a gallbladder-less self, I bid you all a (brief) farewell. And I really do love you, you know (no matter what we've been through in the past and perhaps because of all that we've been through). You're all wonderful.

Well, see you on the other side!

Holy Schnahoodles! Could it have been Donny?

Okay--as (I believe) pretty much all of you know, I go singing about twice a month to a (semi) local retirement home. In fact, most of you have been part of that singing group at one time or another! (Gosh, I miss those days.)

Well, this evening, I went as usual to my singing appointment, although I had to schedule it for the first rather than the second Sunday due to my imminent surgery. So, it was one of those solo times, where I did kind of a one-woman performance for everybody who would come in the room, sit down & listen to me. Most of the time it goes pretty smoothly, but upon occasion, I mess up on the piano or squeak pretty bad. Thank goodness the residents don't usually mind too much. They're so darn nice to me!

Anyway--to get to my point, about halfway through singing today, I got a bit of a better look at a visitor in the audience. I'd been aware of him the whole time, (I'm usually more comfortable when it's just residents), but I hadn't really gotten a good look at his face. But, as I was asking for requests & having a brief conversation with one of the residents, I glanced over and saw....

Donny Osmond?

Or, it very well could have been someone who just looked like him.

But, it might have been Donny Osmond! Weird. So, I proceeded to keep on singing (with the occasional squeak & rather more than occasional goof on the piano) and tried not to think about the fact that Donny Osmond (or someone who looked like him) was sitting there next to an elderly relative (his dad? grandad?) listening to said squeaks and fumbles.

But, it very well might not have been Donny. In fact, it probably wasn't. Hey, I also though I saw a three-legged horse on the way home! That is, until I got near enough to see that it was standing sturdily on four. Man. And I haven't even started the pain medication yet.

Oh, what I have to look forward to.

P.S. Donny, if you did listen to me sing, thanks for not laughing. I love singing to those residents, and it's something that makes me feel like I'm using my smallish talent in a useful way. I think I enjoy it as much as they do--probably more, in fact. Even with (or without) possible famous persons sitting in on my pitiful performance. *Smiles*

I needs your help

Okay, y'all. I wanted to keep this a secret, but I'm planning something extraordinary for the 1,000th hit to my blog. (Well, maybe 'extraordinary' is an overstatement, but still...)

AND, I need your help. Please post a comment to this entry to tell me what your two favorite ice cream flavors are. If you don't tell me, I'm going to have to guess, and I could very well get it wrong, which would be a TOTAL tragedy. So post a comment!

That is all.

(Hope your days are going well and all that.)

Watch out, world--I'm a fat girl in spandex.

So, I have a confession to make. The tshirts that I've been mentioning frequently on this blog were, in fact, fictional. At least, until now. You see, I didn't actually go shopping for tshirts, even though I suspected doing so could cure my abdominal symptoms. Call me a sucker for modern medicine...

However, to correct the situation, I went shopping last night and actually purchased the tshirts that, until now, existed solely in my imagination. And, I am in fact wearing one right now. A brown one. And, it's made of 95% cotton and 5% spandex. However, this makes me pose a few questions for the world in general.

You see, the world of plus-size clothing is...bizarre at best, littered with butterfly-embroidered horrors lunging out of discount racks in the unlit sections of big box stores. It can be a little bit of a nightmare. Clothing designers often seem to have the idea that plus-size means styles that haven't been popular since 1985, and even then they moved to the 50% off rack within 2 or 3 weeks. It means looking through mumus and farmer-plaids and finding nothing but a half-okay belt buckle for your troubles. It means weeks of shopping and finding maybe one usable piece of clothing. It means...

SPANDEX?

I went off looking for a tshirt. (Or rather several tshirts if possible.) So, knowing that my best chance of finding something usable would be Target which, surprisingly, often has almost fashionable clothing in the plus size section (although it's always uncomfortably close to the maternity section, so it's easy to get confused & wander over to a rack of clothing that looks promising but turns out to hold clothing designed for women with people inside of them). So, I grabbed a couple of tshirts that looked fairly okay, then meandered over to the fashionably decorative tanks which I would, of course, only wear under some sort of button-down thingy, and grabbed a couple of those as well, then proceeded to get my little '6' tag thingy and marched confidently off to the dressing room.

When I got there, to my surprise, I discovered that these tshirts were stretchy! They had the texture of cotton, but were, let us say, a little more clingy than usual. So, I turned & I peered, and, to my great astonishment, I actually liked the look, so I bought 4. In various colors.

What the HECK is wrong with me? Why would a person in my condition buy clothing that contains spandex??? And, more importantly, why would plus-size clothing designers, who are admittedly NOT generally in their right mind, design clothing that CONTAINS spandex? It was a conundrum not to be denied.

And yet, here I sit, having spent one of the most refreshing, cool sort of days I've had in weeks. With my sleeves at the slightly-longer-than-cap length, and the material of my tshirt nice and breatheable, I've passed an exceedingly pleasant day.

So, to all of those mockers and naysayers who claimed it couldn't be done, to all of those men passing by who blanch in horror, to all of those women whose toes curl in disgust, I say: pshaw! Tut Tut! Humbug! Balderdash! And, maybe even 'Filigree!'

For I am a free woman. A free fat woman. Wearing spandex.

Let's synchronize our watches

I'm terribly embarrassed to admit it, but it took me ages to learn what 'synchronize our watches' meant. I was such a lazy child--whenever I heard the phrase in a movie or on a tv show (I rarely heard it used in real life) I always wondered what it meant, and then promptly forgot to look it up as I was swept into the derring-do heroism of Mighty Mouse or the vaguely humorus but mostly silly 'Full House.'

But now I know that to synchronize your watches means to set them so that they all read exactly the same time at...er...exactly the same time. So, when my watch says 6:13pm, your watch will say 6:13pm too! (It's kind of like 'best friends' bracelets, but less cutesy.)

Synchronizing your watches means that you won't be waiting around 10 minutes for a friend whose watch is abominably slow. (Or, maybe your watch is fast. Who's to say?) It means that when I say, "Let's meet at 8:42am!" We'll bump into each other in front of that one family statue at exactly 8:42am, not one minute before or after. It means promptness, and certitude. And, like, not lackadaisicalness.

So, friends, let's synchronize our watches. On my mark, it will be exactly 22:15 (that's military hours, yo) on June 27th. And, I will be going in for surgery on Friday, July 7th at approximately 8ish. Maybe 9. Actually, I don't have any specific time, so I guess it's all moot anyway. But let's synchronize our watches anyway, just to be on the safe side. And to be, like, extremely cool.

Okay.....

Wait for it....................................................







Mark.

***Edit: Okay, so I just noticed that the time there, right below, in the green, says 8:55pm. I have no idea what's wrong with the Blogger computers, but seriously, that is soooooo not the right time. I mean, it's not even the right minute! It's the wrong minute AND the wrong hour! Now that's just DANG wrong! Y'hear?!? DAAAANG WRONG! Yeah. So, I'm not crazy. Nope.***

Okay--I'm going boy-short.

We just found out on Friday that we're probably going to have to reduce employee hours where I work, so they asked to see if we'd be willing to take one day a week off and just work 4 out of the 5 weekdays. While I was a bit concerned about my subsequent smaller income, I realized that having an extra day off work will provide some definite advantages.

I can go get my hair cut without having to take time off work. There's this lady in my ward who runs a salon in her basement, but I'm rarely able to get a cut from her because she doesn't work on the weekends. But now... *Rubs hands together gleefully*

So, I'm going to go boy-short. Well, maybe not quite that short, but I'm going to get it cut at least to my chinny-chin-chin, and perhaps have it shaped or something around my face. Yeah. Okay, so it's still in the 'vague idea' stage. But, having my hair well past my shoulders is starting to be nothing more than a nuisance. I never give myself enough time in the morning to style it properly, so it's always pulled back, and it keeps coming out of my elastic hairband like a medusa-head impression. Cute.

Going short is (I believe) the only viable way to solve this problem. Also, I will get highlights, which I've never done before. My hair has always been completely au naturale, but I think it's time to make some changes & get some blondish highlights in. Hey, I'm not talking anything garish, people! I just want a natural looking lightening or something going on on top. Maybe it'll help my blah-ish locks be not-so-blah, at least a little.

So, yes. boy-short hair, and...lemme think what else....OH! I will also go to movies. (Dollar-theatre movies, of course. Heck, I'm not made of money, especially with these reduced hours, yo.) And.... maybe I'll go and sketch those horses that I drive past every day on the way to work! And.... maybe I'll also um... get manicures and junk like that. Oh, wait...That costs money too.

Or, maybe I'll just sit at home all day on my day off and think up entries for my blog. Yeah. That's what I'll do. And you'll like it, by golly.

Blaaaaahch.

Urg. I feel sick. I just...though you all might want to know that, seeing as how you're the main receptacle for my hypochondriachism.

Blech. Bleaaaaachchchchchch..... Ick.

Ick.

Okay, I'm done. Bye!

Oooookay... Well, I guess surgery it is.

So, I guess I can stop taking ulcer medication. And those twenty new tshirts bulging out of my dresser won't do me a lick of good (although they will make me look trendy and fashionable). And I guess I can kiss that hot Tahitian man good-bye. (Oho. That phrase sounds kind of funny when paired with hot polynesian men.)

Ahem.

Anyway--to get to the point, (as I rarely do), the problem is in fact my gallbladder. In fact, just to be informative (and a little gross) here's a picture of one that I found while searching the web:

















(Many thanks to: http://health.allrefer.com/health/gallbladder-disease-gallbladder-anatomy.html)

And here it is in context (I always like to see my organs in context):

















(Aaaand many thanks to: http://www.njsurgery.com/html/Diseases/Anatomy%20Lessons.htm)

The gallbladder in the above pic is (obviously) that ugly green thingy next to all those ugly pinkish thingys. (I believe that is the medical terminology for them...)

So, I'll be meeting with a surgeon next Monday to discuss my surgery, which I ardently hope will be the laparoscopic method rather than the cut-you-open-like-a-dead-fish method.

Urg. I'm nervous, guys. I will admit to that. I've never undergone anything approaching major surgery, and while this isn't as major as they come, still, I do believe that I will be fully under anesthetic, and that I will need at least a week to recover. During which I will try on all of my new tshirts at least once.

So, if I start calling all of you to say that, no matter what we've gone through in the past, I'll always love you, and to request that you donate funds to a charitable organization in lieu of flowers, please don't be alarmed. It's just me being nervous. And, well, just a teensy bit scared.

I bet it's more fun when there's a baby inside.

Well, so I did it. I had my ultrasound. My first one, actually. In fact, the very nice doctor who did the ultrasound asked if I'd ever had one before. He also called me 'kid.' Pretty endearing stuff.

It really wasn't a bad experience, though. I mean, aside from getting over the weirdness of having someone tell me to lift my shirt up, (my apologies if this offends any of you gentle readers--I didn't lift it too far), and having a warmish gelatinous substance smeared all over my belly, and having a doctor rub around this...paddle thingy on me, and having me recoil from it--repeatedly--and after I held my breath so he could take a picture of a particular something-or-other the doctor several times saing to me, "Good!" as if I had just spelled 'loquacious' correctly at a spelling bee (which, by the way, I got right the first time when I double-checked the spelling on m-w.com), and actually making me feel pretty good about myself, because, by golly, I could hold my breath pretty well........

Where was I?

Oh, yes. It was pretty okay. Surreal, yes. Awkward? Well, sure. It's not every day you sit around while someone else cleans the gelatin stuff off of your stomach with a towel. At least, I HOPE that doesn't happen every day. To most people. (Actually, come to think of it, wouldn't it be worse to be the person doing the toweling? He probably does have to do it every day. Poor man.)

So, I guess what I'm saying is that...it was an experience. Definitely. And, I still don't know what's wrong with me. The doctor doing the ultrasound didn't say; he just said that my personal physician and I would have a chat & decide on what to do next. Which makes me think there may have been something there. But, he didn't seem too concerned. But that could just be his professional detachment speaking.

Faugh. In any case, I won't actually know the results until Tuesday or Wednesday next week. Which means, of course, that I'll be concentrating on producing as many possible gallbladder-or-maybe-gastric-ulcer-healing thoughts as possible. It's the Think System. I know it works on small-town bands, so surely, SURELY it will work on human organs. Right?

And I choose...door number three!

So, I went to the doctor today. He was nice, asked me questions which I tried hard to answer correctly and without lying, (lying being a very, very stupid thing to do with doctors), but even so, I'm still not sure what's wrong with me.

My doctor told me it was likely one of two things: I could have a gastric ulcer. Woohoo! I seriously have always been intrigued by gastric ulcers, ever since I found out they were primarily caused by a bacteria. And, like, NOT stress. Usually. I mean, I don't want you all to think that I'm completely stressed out, so I've got an ulcer. I mean, it's totally not true. No. I probably have one of those bacteria-caused ulcers. Or, I might not even have an ulcer at all. Come on, people. I could have......

Gallstones. Woohoo! I seriously (no, really) have always been intrigued by gallstones, ever since my mom had to have her gallbladder removed and was in serious and excruciating pain for about a month because for some reason they couldn't schedule her surgery any earlier than that. Yes. So, I too could face serious and excruciating pain. That is, if I have gallstones, and if they're serious enough to require surgery. Which would, truth be told, enable me to take a week or two off work, and spend a whole lot of time watching cheesy daytime television. But, as appealing as surgery sounds, I think I may even be hoping for a third option, a third cause of that really, really not-so-happy pain that has been plaguing me recently.

Yes. I am hoping that it's caused by, you guessed it, really, really old tshirts.

Although, I suppose you could claim that my tshirts aren't quite old enough for this rare malady (they being only about five years of age) and most physicians will tell you that the tshirts in question need to be at least eight years or older (said physicians being misled by a faulty study back in '89).

But even still, were it up to me, I would pick the tshirt option, the third door as it were. I mean, not only could I solve my abdominal problem by simply changing my clothing, I would have to buy NEW tshirts in order to really solve the problem, because really, you can't live without tshirts in the summer. Oh, I could buy a brown one, and a dark green one...maybe even a red one.

Or, maybe I will have that ultrasound tomorrow. Just to be on the safe side.

You can't run in flip-flops.

I finally discovered why everybody loves flip-flops so darn much, and it's definitely not the reasons I've thought all my life. You see, I suffered under the misapprehension that flip-flops were there to cool your feet, to provide a quick & easy way to attire yourself in a bare minimum of footware, and to, frankly, look cool.

Alas, I was wrong.

I discovered this today while running to my local Smith's store to buy lasagna and creamsicles (the lasagna for me, the creamsicles for my mom). I walked into the store, enjoying the rather new sensation of that flapping noise that inevitably accompanies flip-flop wearing. (You see, I only purchased said flip-flops on Saturday, so I'm still breaking them in. Hm. If you break in flip-flops...)

Anyway--so I was walking along, and I realized that, even if a monstrous great ant the size of a clydesdale had burst into the store at that very moment, I would have been unable to run away from it. I would have been forced, by my new-fangled flip-flops, to stroll along at a leisurely pace towards the frozen food section (necessarily screaming and waving my arms frantically the entire time) where I would grab a frozen turkey and knock the dang thing out cold.

And then, I realized that I LOVED flip-flops! I mean, even when your life is threatened by giant ants, or by frozen turkeys for that matter, you're literally forced to take the time to smell the roses. (Specifically those little dinky rose bouquets that Smith's sells for $12.99 each.)

Fortunately, since our lives are rarely threatened by such unlikely manifestations of the powers of evil, (and really, what can be more evil than a giant ant? Or a frozen turkey?), we can actually enjoy the sensation of having to slow down a little bit. Wearing flip-flops is summery not just because you HAVE to wear them or your feet will spontaneously combust from the heat of socks & sneakers in the summer sun, but because they make you take life easy, stroll instead of dash across the beach, saunter rather than sprint around the park. It's kind of nice to take things easy once in awhile, kind of nice to live in a summery style.

(But I'm keeping my sneakers around just in case that giant ant shows up. Seriously. I HATE those things.)

What is this funny feeling?

Well, I was getting all set to write a post about how I've started an online application for an MLS program--something about getting the ball rolling, and how good it felt to do so, and how much my brain feels like mush & utterly incapable of writing 2 coherent sentences together...

But I couldn't. Honestly, I'm just in one of those moods this evening.

You know, those kinds of moods that strike you at random times, with little warning, but that stick with you all day, or even several days. I'm feeling...a little sad, a little thoughtful, a little humorous, a little...(dare I say?) lonesome... But none of these feelings by themselves equal this emotion I'm experiencing right now. It's a strange emotion medley, a mixed up taste sensation for the brain & heart. It's funny--I mostly just feel like listening to vaguely somber music, and the crickets making a racket outside of my window. I want to lay on my bed in the dark and think about stars and hope and how many times I've wondered whether or not I'd ever find someone to be all my own.

It feels a little like loss, and a little like being tired, and a little like wanting to make changes. It also feels a little like I'll actually be able to make the changes. So it also feels a little happy, in a sad sort of way.

I guess it mostly feels like being human, and having the full range of conflicting all-at-once emotion that we seem to deal with constantly.

Hm. I keep trying to tie this up with something succinct and poignant, but nothing's coming to mind. I guess I'll just have to leave this one open-ended. And I guess that's like life anyway, right? Nothing's ever tied up neatly, packaged in shimmery wrapping paper with a card on top,(unless, of course, it's a wedding present), so certainly I shouldn't expect this blog to be. Should I?