For. Pity's Sake.

I went into Borders this morning to buy The Hiding Place. (I needed it for my book club.) So why did I feel it necessary to pick up a copy of War and Peace as well? (It's probably because I feel a need to read a Great Russian Novel before I die.)

I have a DISEASE.

A DISEASE, PEOPLE.

And also, reading course descriptions and misc new student info at that one school (the one where I'll be come fall) is very, very much fun.

Except it makes me want to be there NOW, as opposed to four months from now, which is the reality of it. Darn.

What to do...

I got a call from my boss this morning asking me to come in at 1pm rather than my usual 9:30am.

So my morning is completely and utterly free, which brings up the question: what on earth am I going to do with myself for the next few hours?

I could continue the monumental task of trying to organize my room, throwing bags and bags of old stuff away, or I could run out to a salon and get a spontaneous haircut, or I could go out and try to find a copy of a book I need to have read in two weeks, or...

Or I could sit on my bed and blog.

I think you're now aware of all the poor time choices I make.

Being Happy

I've spent some time today thinking about what it means to be happy, mostly because I spent a lot of the day feeling slightly miserable and sorry for myself. I even started ticking things off in my head, as if I were keeping a list:

Reasons to be unhappy:

• In 16 months I will be a 30-year-old spinster.
• I work in customer service.
• My hair is wacky.
• I feel like I'm coming down with a cold. Again.
• I have to do laundry today. And I'm coming down with a cold. Again.
• I'm a chicken.
• I do stuff wrong.

However, as I tallied my list, I realized that there were reasons to be happy that were in direct opposition to the list above.

Reasons to be happy:

• I woke up this morning to the sound of rain, which made me feel languid and peaceful.
• I exercised this morning. (Even though I'm coming down with a cold. Again.)
• Sunlight glowing through young green things is a lovely, lovely sight.
• I'm going to be in Boston this fall.
• I had marinara sauce tonight.
• I indexed two batches tonight.
• My mom likes me.
• I manage to do some stuff right.
• (Most important) God is there. And despite my stupidity and chickenness and despite the fact that I'm probably coming down with a cold, (again), He still loves me. Amazingly.

So. Does that make me an unhappy or happy person?

I think overall I'm happy. I allow myself to be unhappy too often, but I think that when it comes down to it, when I shuck all the outside garbage off, I'm happy.

I am.

That's kind of a cool thing.

I want to read everything.

I tried to clean my room today. In other words, I got out a couple of boxes of stuff that had been sitting around my room since I moved into my parents' house two and a half years ago and sorted through said stuff, mostly rolling my eyes at terrible (and sooo cheeeesy) poetry I had written and wondering why on earth I had kept a box of Easter-egg colors that I had never used.

Unfortunately, one thing I've discovered during all this sorting and throwing away is that I have too, too many books. I've now got at least a full shelf-worth that there just isn't room for, and which I have now stacked unbecomingly on the floor in front of my already bursting bookshelves.

Bother.

My problem is that I keep buying books. It's suddenly not enough for me just to be able to read them; I need to own them so that I can read them once and then years later pick them up again, brush off the inevitable accumulation of dust, and cozy on into the old familiar pages.

I want to read all the books I've bought that I haven't gotten to yet. And I want to read the books that I've read twenty times already but still just crave sometimes.

I need to go through my collection and weed, but I know that as soon as I get rid of my old French textbooks, I'll meet a French person who refuses to speak English to me, and then where will I be? Stuck without a reference. (Except for maybe Babel Fish.) And if I donate that novel I read once and (shockingly) hated, I'll realize ten years from now that it was full of pertinent little gems for my present life and if only I had kept it I would realize how humans look to arthropod-like aliens, (although I didn't actually dislike that one; I just never thought I'd read it again), or what to do when the Mafia controls pizza delivery.

So. I need to declutter. But before I declutter, I need to read. A great deal. But before I can read a great deal I need time. And time is something I just don't have.

So books will remain in stacks on my floor indefinitely.

Unless I invest in a new set of bookshelves...

Well, and so it is.

Sometimes you have to wipe up poop. Sometimes it's on the floor, sometimes it's just around the toilet seat. And sometimes it's on the bum of your autistic six-year-old nephew. And you just have to wipe it up. Because no one else is going to do it, certainly not your autistic nephew, who is trying to play with a green slinky while you're wiping up said poop.

Well, poop really isn't all that bad. After all, everyone poops. It's just kind of stinky and kind of squishy and unpleasant, and it gets on your hands when you try to wipe it off of your nephew's bum and/or legs (how it got on his legs I will never know, nor do I wish to), but it's natural stuff. It's not radioactive (usually) and the germs contained therein are usually easily washable with the proper application of soap and hot water.

And if you wipe up poop, it usually means that your mother, who is tired after having watched her grandchildren all day, does not have to do it.

Which means you will garner favorite child status very quickly indeed.

Extinction has robbed us of so much.

As some of you may be aware, my favorite animal is the relatively understudied and unappreciated Chalicothere. (Of course, part of the reason why it's understudied and unappreciated is that, simply, it doesn't exist anymore.)

I've often wondered what exactly it would be like to come upon one of these lovely lumbering beasts in some prehistoric forest, and, glancing at the claws it used to snag itself those tender little branches, I think I would have run rapidly in the opposite direction. Or maybe I would have played dead. And tried very hard not to look threatening. Or like a leaf.

But I still really, really like Chalicotheres. I'm not sure why; I think it has something to do with the fact that they walk on their knuckles. Or at least some do. Not all species. Um.

And also, I think it's pretty cool that their closest relative in the modern mammal world is the horse. Wow. Horses. They're like Chalicotheres without the claws. And also they eat grass, whereas Chalicotheres ate tender leaves. Leaves...yeah.

Okay. So sometimes when we love something, we can't explain exactly why; we just do, and so it is thusly forever and ever. And I think Chalicotheres are awesome and I really really wish they were still around and I think it is beyond awesome that I got to see the skeleton of one in the Field Museum in Chicago. (Please see the helpfully arrowed skeleton below.)

And here you can see the Chalicothere all afleshed. (In ink, I guess.) And again, I apologize for my unsteady blur-inducing hand.

But alas, after seeing the Chalicothere in the...not flesh, in the bone, I guess, I know even more fully that extinction has rid us of one of the planet's most brightly shining jewels. And that makes me feel really rather sad.

I sez stupid stuff.

For. Crying out loud.

I can sure say dumb stuff sometimes.

In fact, I frequently do.

In fact, I even said some dumb stuff today, and did some dumb things.

In fact, the dumb stuff I said and/or did was potentially hurtful, which is the worst kind of dumb stuff to say/do.

Ugh.

So.

If you are a person to which I have said/done something stupid (either recent or not so) please know that I regret saying/doing it possibly as much as or more than you regret hearing/observing it.

So, sorry. Essentially.

What every library should look like

While in downtown Chicago, a (very patient) friend and I happened upon the building that once was the Chicago Library. Once we actually got inside, we discovered that it had become the city's Cultural Center, and that it contained art galleries, little museum displays, and very very excellent architecture and mosaics.


I now believe that every library (or building that was once a library) should look like this:

And like this:

Not to mention this:

And also it should be full of excellent quotes laid out in mosaic tile like this one from Milton:

(Sorry that the above pic is both fuzzy and orangeish. Darn camera/darn shaky hands.)

In short, this building is absolutely perfect as a library. Except for the whole lack of books part. That was kind of disappointing.

Cough Drops: an Unexpected Ambrosia

So, I've only recently (i.e. within the past two days) finally weaned myself off of cough drops. Who knew those little lozenges could be so addictive?

It all started when I got sick. Then, I got a cough that followed said sickness which produced a state of affairs in my throat and lungs that prevented me from talking or singing or breathing longer than roughly 30 seconds without breaking into chest-cracking convulsory coughing fits.

Not fun stuff.

So, to prevent said coughing fits I began sucking upon large quantities of cough drops (sugar-free, of course). Within only a few days, I was a cough drop junkie. It was all I could do not to raid my parents' cash drawer in search of the funds to feed my habit.

I went one day last week without cough drops at all and managed to startle numerous people who would have spent an otherwise pleasantly sedate day staring at paintings and discussing brushstrokes with their erudite companions.

However, my lungs appear to be pretty much back to normal, and while my throat still feels rather dry, I think this is mainly due to my transition from Illinois humidity back to Utah lack-thereof.

So cough drops are dropped. Not quite cold turkey, but it's pretty close.

(There are times though when I still dream of that eucalyptus-laced goodness. Mmmm.)

My life in flops

I was going to write a post about cough drops. Really. But my heart just wasn't in it.

So I've decided to write about flip-flops instead, because that is obviously a much more serious subject.

So.

Flops are great. Grand, even. They keep one's feet cool and produce an appealing slapping noise when one walks. And, if one has an itch on one's foot, it is surprisingly easy for one to reach down and scratch one's heel or perhaps the space just above the large toe. Ahhh.

I am a flop fan. An advocator of flips.

I am a flip-flopping girl.

And.

And...

And I have officially run out of subject material for this post. More on cough drops tomorrow. Perhaps.

A Note of Explanation

Here's another vacation blog entry, except it doesn't really deal with my vacation at all. I just felt the need to explain, in some small way, my major obsession with Jane Eyre. Seriously. Read on.

Perhaps I had better explain something. I've talked enough about Jane Eyre (both the novel and the recent Masterpiece Theatre Production) to make anyone believe (with good reason) that I am obsessed.

Which, actually, I probably am. A little.

So, lest you all suffer under the misapprehension that I love the story because Toby Stephens plays Rochester in the film (although, admittedly, he does a delightful job) please know that I loved Jane Eyre long before I saw the most recent film adaptation of it.

I love Jane Eyre for the same reason I love (and have also obsessed over) the story of "Beauty and the Beast." (I'm talking about the original story here, not the well-known animated version.)

I love these stories because, in some ways, they are stories about me.

For most of my adult life, I have felt wretchedly ugly like the Beast, or at least unremarkable and plain like Jane. (And I know some of you will spring up and say, "But you're not ugly!" Thank you for that. But please realize that never prevented anyone from feeling ugly.) Being able to read about these two characters and seeing them gain first admiration then love from those they loved has always made me feel (rather foolishly) hopeful that someone will one day see something inside me worth loving.

Because, you know, my inner self is really very good-looking. She has dimples and awesome non-frizzy hair and wears contact lenses. She is also blessed with dainty ankles. (I've always longed for dainty ankles.) Oh, yes, and she has, like, NO high forehead. Her forehead is completely and wonderfully normal.

So. Yes. Someday someone will walk up to me and say, "Lizardbreath, I see the inner be-dimpled, be-normal-foreheaded you, and I just love that about you."

And then I will be as content as Jane with her Rochester (sans mad wife) or the Beast with his Beauty (apres transformation, unless of course you're a Rose Daughter fan).

Lizardbreath in flight

Because I am a blogger junkie, I wrote a few posts out by hand while on my recent trip. The first I wrote on the flight out to Chicago, during which I waxed exuberant about airplanes. I really don't know why. But here you go:

Airplanes are cool.

I wonder why we don't all go around talking about airplanes all the time.

I mean think about it--they're awesome!

You take this enormous tube of metal, add a couple of wings and some engines and suddenly the thing is airborne!

Extraordinary!

In all seriousness though, I love it all: the thrilling rush of takeoff, the moving up through and above clouds into the blue-black sky, the sea of white beneath you through which, sporadically, you see glimpses of the mysterious shape of the land beneath, then the stomach-dropping descent below cloudbanks and back onto the ground where, for a moment or a day or for the rest of your life, you see things just a little differently.

It makes me want to wax poetic, if only I could.

Greater minds than mine should write poetry about flying.

Vacationary

Vacations are wonderful.

And very very tiring.

And also very very wonderful.

And seriously tiring. (I'm talking tiring here, people.)

So.

It is both good to have gone and good to be home, mainly because being home means I am once more free to blog. So, sorry for my week-long leave of absence, folks. I've got writings that I noted down in my notebook while I was gone, but that'll have to wait for another day.

Because as I mentioned, vacations are tiring.

And wonderful.

Two things that are 100% Awesome

Firstly, I have become a subject of gossip in my ward.


I love it!


I've never been a subject of gossip before, and all of a sudden I hear that people are talking about me left & right! Hoorah! The other day, my sister told me that a group of Relief Society sisters sat around discussing ways to lose weight and used me as an example of someone who was making progress. Yay! Also, people keep coming up to me to express their congratulations on my acceptance to grad school. The only person in my ward I had told was my mom, who apparently helped get the rumor mill going. Thanks, Mom!


Secondly, if you go to this LiveJournal site, (Neon Dragon's), you will see this awesome picture here (plus another one of equal awesomeness):



Wow. What a great day.

Under Chobee's Protective Influence

Lest you think I am a cruel, cruel auntie, let me first of all inform you that I did not do this to my niece. She did it herself, before she fell asleep.

The reason she did it is simply this: Chobee is everyone's favorite terrycloth-covered, beanbagably-mushable, green little unidendifiable reptilian sort of action hero.

Yes, that's right. Action hero.

And, like Vin Diesel in The Pacifier (which I have never seen, and likely never will) he has moved on from being an actor who overthrows the powers of darkness (in Chobee's case said powers being embodied in the form of one unpronounceably Russian Dame) and then suddenly moves on to a fanbase of children.

It's quite a jump, really. The last time some of you saw Chobee, he was dashing out of trees and jumping down several stories to knock out Russian heads. (We won't mention the make-out scene here.)

And now, he is exerting his terrycloth protective influence over children. Specifically my niece. Who loves him dearly.

Alas. I could tell her now (but won't) that her heart will surely be broken. Chobee has never existed just for one girl, but for all.

(The little punk.)

The Power of Resistance

I saw something highly disturbing (and also elating) today.

I saw pictures of myself from several months to a year ago. And let me tell you, they were not pretty. Really.

Despite my frustration with how slowly the whole weight-loss thing is going, I can't deny that I've come a long, long way in 6 months. Actually, looking at myself in the mirror after looking at my past self (via the amazing invention of pixels, not time-travel, sillies), I couldn't help but wonder where on earth all that...all that Me has gone. For it hath. Several poundages of it.

Frankly, I feel amazed that the little things I do every day (i.e. the resisting of delicious-looking English goodies, donuts, cookies, chocolate cake, White Bread, not to mention the three to five days a week I manage to get roughly an hour of exercising) have made a great deal of what made up my body disappear.

I mean, it is gone. (Well, not all of it, of course. I'm still not halfway to my goal (I had a LOT to lose) but I hope to reach the halfway point this Monday.)

Anyway--my point is ('Is there ever a point in my meanderings,' she thought desparingly to herself) how really powerful resistance is.

Yes, the exercise has been important. It's half of the equation, or so I believe. (You nutritional scientists out there would be able to give me a better idea of the actual ratio.) But I believe that a huge amount of the weight I've lost is due simply to the consistent resistance of foods I knew would make me want to eat more (sweet stuff, mainly) and by so doing either stall or reverse this weight loss.

So I just haven't eaten anything like that. Since late last year (October, I think). I mean, nothing. I haven't cheated on this diet except for one day a few weeks after I started where...well, the situation would have been difficult if I hadn't participated in eating the foods prepared for me.

People around me (particularly at work) keep saying to me that they're stunned at my self-control. Truth be told, I'm actually stunned myself. I didn't think I had it in me, which brings me to my real honest-to-goodness point:

We're all capable of doing things like this. Those same co-workers who express amazement at my food-resisiting ability say that they're just not capable of doing the same. But they are!

Previous to my experience these past 6 months, I thought that I would never be able to handle something like this for this long. Heck, the exercise part again was nigh-to-impossible, as I have a serious love affair going on with my bed and I am loathe to leave it. Ever.

But, I give up both sweet foods & my precious, precious sleeps. Why? Because this goal of getting down to a normal weight is something I've made more important than either of those things I genuinely loved.

It actually makes me wonder what else I'd be capable of doing (really, what anybody would be capable of doing) if I were more willing to just say to myself, "Self, I am doing this and there just simply is no way that I am not doing it. Not doing it is just not an option."

I've discovered I'm capable of getting halfway to a normal BMI in 6 months. I'm also capable of making the seemingly impossible (for me) leap to applying for grad school. I've also learned I'm capable of being pretty good at name indexing. And heck, even if I never finished that darn novel, at least I wrote 50,000+ words of it. Even if it was no good. I still did it.

Now, if I can just overcome the whole pride thing, I think I'll be sitting pretty. Er. But not prettier than anybody else. Really.

New Motivations

I hate not exercising when I'm sick.

Of course, this is a new discovery, since I've never been a person who thought exercise was at all desirable in any form ever.

But now I am.

So.

Today, despite that cough that just WON'T go away, I got up early, laced on my tattered sneakers and exercised for the first time since getting sick on Saturday. And, I've kind of half regretted it, because the coughing has been worse today, and I've felt utterly junky tired, like an 'Oh, I think I'm getting sick' type of tired, except it turns into 'Wait, I've suddenly realized that I just was sick, therefore this must be me recovering from being sick' type of tired.

Unfortunately, going without exercising tomorrow is simply not an option, because I've been feeling blehFATblah again, and the only cure for that (over a period of months and months) is to jam as much as I can to excellent Coldplay tunes and climb up the hills in my hometown while trying not to pass out because the air is so thin. (Great fun, that, actually.)

Oh, and also I avoid sweet things as if they're snake venom, which is really difficult to do when someone brings delectable and delightful English treats to our Middlemarch book club (Oh, fie, fie! Why dost thou tempt me thus?) which I force myself to refrain from eating and yet cannot resist numerous backwards longing glances.

I will now comfort myself with yet another sugar-free cough drop.

Mmm! Black Cherry!

Because I won't have time to blog tomorrow

I might as well blog right now!

Except I don't really have anything to blog about.

Hoho! Except for an awesome story my sister told me this evening! She was teaching her kids about the allegory of the olive tree in Jacob 5, and asked her daughter (who is, I believe, 5 at the moment) what she could do to try to be a 'good fruit.'

My niece pondered for a little bit, then responded, "Um, we could not steal babies?"

Mweh? NOT STEAL BABIES?

Now, of course not-stealing-babies is very important in the process of becoming a 'good fruit.' But why my 5-year-old niece was thinking about stealing babies, I just couldn't guess. But I loved the story.

And now you can too!

And now I will go to bed because I have a lot of driving to do tomorrow and I'm still recovering from my weekend of fever-induced crazy dreams. Hurrah!

Bloody corpses and flying cars

Some highlights from the dream I woke up from this morning:

• Flying cars
• Flying people flying from the flying cars while wearing superhero suits
• A horribly bloody corpse
• Someone using said corpse to get stuff out of a vending machine without paying for it
• Looking over and seeing that the guy I was with had a huge number of tatooed female names on his exceedingly brawny arms
• Me putting parmesan cheese and salad into my hair because hey--that's just how I eat it, okay?

Random. And also weird (and somewhat disturbing). And so, so entertaining.

Toppled

Okay.

You know those days when you're going along, feeling pretty good about yourself, saying, "Yeah. I'm pretty much okay. I don't try to steal money from little old ladies and hello! I am SO rocking this whole customer service thing!"

And then something comes along and clubs you upside the head and you realize that you really, really, really stink.

REALLY BAD.

And as much as you try, there's no way you can blame it on someone else, because it really is seriously your fault. You dropped the ball and you were stupid and you just kind of want to curl yourself into your stomach and swallow yourself whole (which really is a pretty nonsensical thing to try anatomically).

Ugh. I HATE days like that.

Yesterday was one of those days.

And I'm slowly approaching normal again, but I just keep remembering that...really angry email...and I just kind of get this ringing in my ears and I zone out for a few minutes remembering how much I really, really am no good. No, no. No good at all.

Of course, the temple helped yesterday evening (which is where I had planned to go anyway before something blew up on me; lucky coincidence). My sense of self-worth is definitely several points higher than it would otherwise have been. And, I'm sure that by Monday most of this will be safely padded on the inside of my head so it's not sharp and painful anymore.

But darn it, WHY CAN'T I JUST DO THINGS RIGHT? And then I wouldn't have those days. Those awful, awful, really bad days.

Whimsical

Driving home from work the same way every day is boring.


So I try to mix it up a little now and then by taking some back roads. (Well. Actually, every road back to my place is a back road, I think.)


One of my favorite drives goes by some empty fields, and in one of those fields is this:

(Here's a closeup of the sign beneath "Save the Dragon"):

I'm not sure what it used to be before becoming a medieval reptilian monster, but now (with the loving addition of some green & white spray paint) it's become a monument to whimsy, just something fun that someone put together once for no reason at all.

I wish I made things like this more often.

Five stages of happiness

I've never realized this before, but the stages of happiness actually closely mirror the five stages of grief.

For instance, when I received a letter today saying that I'd been accepted to an MLS program at the school I like the best, my stages of happiness were as follows:

1. Denial - I couldn't believe they had accepted me. I had to double check my name at the top of the letter to be sure they'd sent it to the right person.
2. Painful feeling of happiness (Grief: Anger) - Okay. So maybe it wasn't painful happiness, but my cheeks started hurting with all the smiling I was doing. Ouch!
3. Bargaining - My parents reminded me that this college isn't the only fish in the sea of MLS programs (man that analogy doesn't work well here) and I immediately started formulating arguments that would mean I should go to this program despite its higher cost and despite its being so darn far away from family.
4. Euphoria (Grief: Depression) - Whoooo! Defninitely in this one now! I kind of half-jumped on my bed, a thing which a woman in her late 20's definitely should never do.
5. Acceptance - Not quite ready to do this yet, since I do realize that my parents' fish/sea argument does have some merit. However, my gut is crying out for this place. (Which actually sounds really weird. I'm glad you can't hear it. Ew.)

So.

I'm in.

I'M IN!

Just another reason why I am no earthly good:

I cannot play Brahms.

I have tried (for about 20 minutes sitting on a coffee table because our piano bench is currently in another room because we're painting the piano room, and yes I realize that 20 minutes isn't really that long) and I have discovered that I cannot do it.

There are too many notes.

And also sharps and flats, not to mention those dang naturals that creep in and throw me off.

Pshaw. I think I'll stick to hymns.

(Not really. I'm going to stick to this piece & seriously, seriously learn it. It may take several more 20-minute sessions at the coffee table, though.)

May I show you a beautiful man?

Oh. My gosh.

I just found an image on a Toby Stephens fansite. I can't seem to get it to show up in my post, so I'll link you there instead.

Here he is. (It's the large image on the right-hand side of the page.)

Ohmyheavens he's like a male embodiment of autumn and his...eyes...wow...the hair...um...

Phew. I can't really breathe here. Uh. Just give me a minute...

Today, while the wind was blowing

I felt like writing today. I'm not sure why; I think it had something to do with the smells coming off of the warming earth and the sight of the infant grass just raising itself into the lowering sunlight.

I wanted to write; I wanted to create; I wanted to be part of this burgeoning world that's just on the verge of becoming itself again.

And yet I didn't write today. I mean, aside from the writing I'm doing now.

I'm not sure why. I can only think that this is what most of the days of my life are made up of: this desire to grow and become and live fully at my potential, a desire slowly submerged in the mundane ways I spend my time.

I keep thinking that someday I'll get there; I'll be able to live fully at the height of my existence, but the hours spent reading books I have not written myself and the endless minutes spent in languorous perusal of websites and television shows all prove me wrong daily.

There is potential yet though, and I will meet it someday, but I grieve for all of this time that's slipping away unused.

Dreamy

All of my teeth fell out again last night. Or rather, early this morning, I think.

It was one of those times when they start coming out, and I can feel it, so (while sitting or standing in a large group of people) I mess around with my tongue trying to fit the detatched teeth back to where they belong in my gums, only to have more fall out from the movement.

At last, in despair, I go to the bathroom and let them all come out into my hands, where they sit, crumbled porcelain remnants of my molars, bicuspids and incisors. My incisors, the only ones still whole, I try to attach back onto my gums, gazing into a mirror as I carefully handle the small, translucent white teeth, placing them onto that smooth pink surface.

And of course, that's the moment the alarm goes off.

I've dreamed about losing my teeth before, but I don't know what it means this time.

The last time I dreamed it, my mom told me she thought it indicated a certain feeling of powerlessness. Something clicked in me when I heard the explanation; I felt an instant connection between the crumbling of my teeth and this feeling of helpless, flailing impotence I was experiencing in my life just then.

But now?

I don't feel powerless. I don't really feel anxious. Why on earth would I dream about losing all of my teeth?

And does the fact that the loss of my teeth made me look like Ruth Wilson (who plays Jane Eyre in the Masterpiece Theatre adaptation) have anything to do with anything?

Seriously. I'm open to explanations.

Living vicariously is great fun...until the DVD is over.

Having the new Masterpiece Theatre production of Jane Eyre on DVD is...well...'wonderful' is too mild a word.

I've watched it twice in the past 24 hours, and I've watched certain parts more than that.

And I love it.

Loveitloveitloveit.

But alas, the DVD comes to an end, and now here I am again, stuck in this life where I have my room to clean & laundry to do and no Mr. Rochester.

And so I guarantee that it won't be too long before I go and live Jane's life vicariously again. Not long at all.

Why books are like potato chips:

You can't have just one. Nossir, you can't.

For I tried.

I meandered over to Borders last night as part of a long list of errands I assigned myself, consisting mainly of things that I wanted to get but didn't really need. Typical.

I went to get a copy of Mitch Albom's For One More Day and ended up with a copy of The Time Traveler's Wife as well.

And it's because when I had the first book in hand, I couldn't conceive of just getting one. It was...impossible to wrap my mind around it, as though opportuntites to come to a bookstore were so rare that I couldn't pass up this opportunity to grab just one more book.

Nevermind that I already have shelf-fulls of books that I haven't read yet. Nevermind that I've already spent way too much money this week on non-essentials (like plane tickets & tickets to go see a local production of Hamlet (my absolutely favorite Shakespeare play) and, like, gasoline & stuff). Nevermind that those books will just sit on my shelf until I 'have time' (a non-existent yet hopeful-sounding imaginary future period of my life).

I bought them anyway.

And you know what? I still got a thrill from buying them. Yeah. Books just do that to me.

What's so funny about spam?

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

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

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

"I silver ramal say he is about burned a myth," replied Albert, "and neverh "I say, that when a crush metal dived thing fish completely surpassesmy crossly The supper choke unfasten consisted of a touch roast pheasantgarnished"Yes, your excellency."

"Bless extend paint below me!" exclaimed square Caderousse, "fiftythousand To be ridden kept in ugly strict built solitary suddenlyconfinement, and to coach pray Beneath these lines different smash waswritten in another hand: "

"No," music replied cautious the abb, cuddly "it was roll not of such a size"And argument stage what may a house myth force be?" inquiredPastrini. outstanding "Well, then, trick yesterday right let us sup."Franzrubbed his open rapidly eyes in thought name order to assure himself tcutwound "But near the swim carriage and horses?" said Franz.

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

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

How sexy can a vampire be?

Very.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Alas.

Shall I a Lizzie be?

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

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

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

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

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

Okay, no Eliza.

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

Betsy's out.

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

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

--Elizabethary

He cometh.

Remember this?

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

And he cometh.

And we goeth to meet him.

Right now.

Yaaaaaaaaaaaaahoooooooooooooooo!

And on Sundays he directs ward choir

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

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

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

So I did.

And this is what I found.

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

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

Macabre

Front of card:

Interior of card:

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

Embryonic Meanderings

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

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

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

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

Of work and love lives

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

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

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

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

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

Darn.

Bleak

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

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

Now I'm ashamed.

Because I realize Conversation Hearts are pretty gross anyway.

Happy Valentine's Day.

I've done it.

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

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

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

What is this strange longing?

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

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

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

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

Why I should never take drugs. Ever.

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

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

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

Yeah. Spiders. The new anti-drug.

Why Institute is Good and Speed Dating is Not

Do I really have to delineate this for you?

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

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


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

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


Institute: prayers, hymns and cool stories about temples.

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


Really. Need I say more?

And can I start shaking now?

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

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

And my hands just won't stop shaking.

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

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

All things Bronte

Why are some people so cool?

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

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

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

Little Baby is Growing Up

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And it is SO getting done.

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

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

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

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

Righto. Tallyho. Farewell.

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

More for the Misc Category

Going days and days without blogging = having way too many topics by the time I finally get back on track.

For instance:

The moon. I love it. I love it when it's a waxing gibbous form climbing halfway out of the east in the early evening. I love the way the top is sharply defined, curved, smooth as an eggshell, and the bottom is faded, mysterious, unknowable, blending into the darkening blue sky.

Also, seriously, what is up with that whole 'dumb guy voice?' I really, really dislike it when women talk of their husbands or other male acquaintances and quote them using this voice that sounds like a cross between a gorilla and a person who flips burgers for a living. (No offense meant to any burger flippers here. Erm.) They'll say in their normal, reasonable-sounding voice, "So, I said, 'Let's go see a movie tonight.' Then he said [enter gorilla], 'But I like football. And watching it. Grunt, grunt.'" Okay. So, not only does this demean the gorilla-husband, it demeans the person speaking! Why on earth did she marry the fellow if he's such a neanderthal?

And, oh, speaking of men? Yes. I am officially in love with Mr. Rochester.

Just so everyone knows.

Bring on the men 20 years older than I am. Seriously.

The blogs of cooldom

Have you ever noticed how much cooler (or is it 'more cool') a blog is when it's in French?

I have.

And yet, even with all the years taking French in high school and college, I can't really understand any of it.

The coolness is nonethless undiminished.

The problem of pontificating

I was about to write about how I stubbed my toe this evening (developing a rather nasty blood blister on my pinky toe), how I yelled indiscriminately for a minute then gingerly tried to apply pressure, and then how I was swept away by the philosophical consideration of why exactly we have pain, both physical and emotional. I was then about to expand upon and share my musings, dispersing my thoughts like alms to the needy and creating a self-image of smiling, superior, ace-bandage-wrapped benevolence.

I'm glad I didn't.

Because I have just realized that my pontifications (for such they would be) are nothing more than posturing; that I have no more understanding of pain than any other mortal creature.

However.

I do know this: pain happens. If you wonder why it happens, your best bet would not be to read about why it happens on Lizardbreath's blog. Your best bet may just be to read The Problem of Pain, by C. S. Lewis, of which I have just read a summary. (I've never read the book itself, much to my chagrin.)

Or, your best bet may be to reflect on the problem itself.

You see, in my own musings I thought of pain as a way to tell us something was wrong. If you stub your toe and have an unsightly blood blister, your body reacts by sending signals to your brain that something terribly untoward has happened in the region of your little toesies. These signals continue as long as the problem exists. Therefore, when the pain is gone, the problem is gone.

I thought to myself, Oh! This is comparable to spiritual pain! If we experience non-physical pain, it indicates that something is broken in our spiritual bodies; we've transgressed, either by commission or omission.

I thought that the key to such pain would be repentance; healing would only come through that process, and through the Atonement.

All of which is true.

But I failed to take into account that there are more causes of pain than sin and toe-stubbing; there are numerous things that happen that cause us pain. We could feel pain in sympathy for a loved one (for instance if a friend were to stub her little toe). We feel pain in response to death or grief or someone being cruel or life being unfair or when we're lonely or chemically depressed or...

Well, you know. You've all felt it, this non-physical, potent, un-caused-by-you type of pain.

Which is why C. S. Lewis's book is intriguing to me at the moment. It deals with the problem of why we undergo suffering if God is good and truly loves us. Because he is and does; it's just hard to remember that at times when your husband finds out he has cancer, or when you're in a job you dislike, or when you stub your little toe.

But remembering is crucial, because I'm convinced that, just as there are sources of relief for physical pain, God is the only real source of relief for the other suffering in our lives.

I just wish I could figure out how it all worked.

Fifty down, baby!

Every Monday morning at approximately 8am, I weigh myself to see exactly how this whole weightloss thing is going. (i.e. if the weight is still being lost. Waaaaay lost.)

And this morning, to mine joy, I discovered that I have hit the 50lb weight-loss mark. I am now exactly 50lbs lighter than I was when I started this whole rigamarolle, about four and a half months ago.

And lemme tell you; that is a LOT of months without any chocolate cake.

But it's worth it.

And you/I thought I could never do it

I am amazed at myself.

Today, with MUCH help from my patient mother, I did something I've never done before.

I sewed some bits of cloth into a recognizeable, useable shape! (As opposed to a small square of fabric covered in crooked lines.)

This past Christmas, our family put together several newborn kits for the Humanitarian Aid Center. Several of us (mostly my sisters and I) had the task of sewing up baby blankets to put in the kits. Unfortunately, this meant that I had to get near a sewing machine, a thing I generally avoid on principle.

However, today was the day to get it done, and after a little cajoling from my mom and after taking a few deep breaths, I followed my mother's careful instructions and produced this:





And here's how it looks inside the kit:


So, despite the fact that the corners are pudgy and the seams are crooked and one side is decidedly longer than the other, still, some baby somewhere in a country nearby (or far away) will be warm.

And that is a good thought indeed.

And because I don't want to always be looking for it,

here's a handprint I drew for sharing time in Primary.


I admit, to my shame, that I spent at least a half-hour searching the internet before I discovered that there just aren't any handprint outlines out there to be found. Then I realized how stupidly easy it was to draw my own.


But, for the lazy and the uninformed (people essentially like me) here is my very own handprint outline:

So why doesn't anyone set me up with her 40-year-old brother?

I love work conversations. No really--they're possibly the most entertaining part of being in the customer service realm.

Just yesterday, or maybe it was the day before, (it's hard to keep track of time in the customer service realm), a co-worker, who happens to be 27 and single, mentioned that her grandmother (just before passing away) had prayed that this co-worker of mine would find a nice man whose wife had died, leaving him two kids.

(Ew. Awkward sentence there.)

Anyway--another co-worker gasped and said, "That's my brother!"

So, everyone in the office immediately talked about strategies for getting this 27-year-old hooked up with my other co-worker's 39-year-old brother.

Okay. Now, as anyone who has read Jane Eyre knows, a gap of even as much as twenty years matters about as much as a spot of dust in your eye if the two people involved are kindred souls. However, for some reason, this 12-year gap made me grit my teeth a little (Is that why I woke up with a sore jaw the next morning?) and grimace behind the wall of my cubicle.

Then another co-worker piped in with information about her brother, who is divorced and is himself past 40. Amazingly, they both wanted to set this girl up with their brothers! Add this to the twice-divorced brother of yet another co-worker who had been deemed unworthy of my 27-year-old friend.

I began to wonder--what's wrong with me? Why doesn't anyone want to set me up with her 40-year-old brother?

Then I remembered. Of course! That's why! It's always why.

I had begged them not to set me up with anyone. Ever. In a million years.

I guess it's just easy to forget that when you're caught up with all the appealing brothers of your coworkers in the customer service realm.

You make me miss you through your friend-like wiles

Aararargh! Gosh darndit, peoples!

I miss you.

Especially you people who were here but now are not. I missed you all so much today that I drove by Cathy & Ed's old house and mourned over the camper that sits obesely in the driveway that once held the Jeep whose name I cannot at present recall. (My apologies, Jeep.)

I miss you so much that I find myself catching my breath at times when I remember you suddenly! Ah, bothersome friendships where people move and leave and start up elsewhere!

I should be doing the thing I normally do; I should be forgetting about you to the point that if any one of you were to reappear in my life I could spend an hour with you at most before getting excessively uncomfortable.

Unfortunately, this is not the case. I think if we were all to get together again, it would be Good Times. Great Times. Freaking ROCKING Times.

But we can't and we won't and I know it.

But that doesn't mean I have to like it.

An insatiable appetite

I've been going through my books for several hours, adding titles or ISBN numbers to Library Thing, a way to catalog your books online and, as you can see to the right, add a little display of random books from your library onto your blog. (All of these ideas were, naturally, stolen from my ideal blogger.)

Unfortunately, going through all of my books has reawakened a terrible appetite in me: I want to read every one of them.

Even if I had all the free time I could ask for between opening my eyes in the morning and slipping down between my blankets at night, I would never have enough time to read all the books I'd like to. But I don't have all that free time. I work about 40 hours a week, eat meals, spend about an hour a day exercising, watch empty TV shows, which makes my time boil down to approximately an hour of reading per day. This is the great tragedy in the lives of all bibiophiles--not necessarily that we only have an hour to read, but that the time we do have is always, inevitably too, too short, and there are always too many things to do besides read.

For instance: prepare a sharing time for tomorrow's Primary, compile some biographical information on Wallace Stegner (author of Angle of Repose) for my book club, mash my grad school application essay with a meat tenderizer, apologize to my sister for getting on her nerves, and attempt to explain to myself exactly why I keep buying scrapbook supplies I never use.

It's time to declutter my life. No more scrapbook supplies, no more grad school, no more interactions with family members, no more interactions with anybody. I'm taking a sabbatical month (maybe two) to catch up on all that reading I've been missing.

Do you think it will make me happier?

Life Lesson #1

Never, EVER have a 3-car-wide driveway attached to your house unless you also have a snowblower. Like, an industrial strength one.

Seriously people.

I'm cold and my back aches and my fingertips are still tingly. But other than that, it was actually a pretty good day.

And I've also discovered a trick to keep your face from freezing solid while you're shoveling snow: sing "My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean," and while your cold, back-aching, finger-tingling neighbors will stare at you in shock, your face won't shatter when you next try to speak.

Uh...Archaeology anyone?

Um. I just stumbled across this, and although I'm hesitant to chuckle at a fellow blogger... Still... Some obviously bad translations to English just have to be laughed at.

(I think my personal favorite is: "The conservators who tried to recover a statue of 1,900 years of Venus have put their heads along with the inspectors of the maintenance of the air line who scrutinize welds generally the autogenous and the repairs in the motors of jet for any crack." See the original here.)

*Laughs up pajama sleeve.*

Have I already found it?

Those of you who know me know how long I've been whining to myself about how hard it is to apply to grad school.

You have, in fact, thought to yourself many times, "What the heck! She's talking about it again! I swear--I wish she would just shut up about it already!"

(Yeesh, you guys are mean.)

I've struggled, asking myself if this is what I really want, wondered if my essay was good enough, deciding it wasn't, writing version after version of pathetic attempts to impress admissions boards, and finally today, I just felt sick of it.

Sick, I tell you.

So I decided to revisit my first essay, look it over, and see what needed improvement. And do you know what I found?

(No. Because I haven't told you yet. Hah, I say! Hah!)

Erm.

I found that the essay is pretty darn close to what I want it to be. It is, I imagine, how White Ninja feels in this comic:

(This image (click on it to get a better view) was stolen unceremoniously from White Ninja Comics. Never say I don't give credit.)

In short, I think I may be more ready to submit grad school applications than I thought I was. Except the problem is, I don't know how much more tweaking my essay needs. But I'll get it tweaked. And I'll tweak it good.

And then I'll just have to do that last official line-up for my letters of recommendation! Which should be easy, but I hate doing that too.

Aw, shoot.

Pajama Girl (Or 'Pyjama Girl' if you're British)

We are a family of many Christmas Traditions.


These include Putting Up Christmas Decorations While In a Tiff With Each Other, (which actually didn't happen this year, oddly enough...), Teasing Siblings Mercilessly About How Much They'll Like the Present I Bought Them (which only I practice, I believe), Getting Sick of Candy Neighbors Bring Over and Eating It Anyway, Trying to Watch the George C. Scott "A Christmas Carol" and Falling Asleep Halfway Through It and Then Waking Up to the Awful Screeches of the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come.


And oh. We have many more.


But we've never been one of those lucky pajama families, with that lucky pajama tradition. You know--the one where on Christmas Eve, everyone opens a present and it's a pair of new pajamas and you wear them to bed and you're all warm and snuggled in your spiffy PJs and you wake up on Christmas morning and are still wearing them as you open your presents.


And let me tell you--I've felt the lack of this holiday tradition.


Well, this year we didn't get pajamas on Christmas Eve, per usual.


But we did get PJs on Christmas morning! Hwowza! And here they are! (Er, well...here mine are. Everyone else's are not subject to photography. At least not while I am lazily sitting on the couch blogging.) (And no, I am not wearing them in this picture. I'm not quite that...shapeless. Not quite.)

In fact, I am wearing these spiffy and fuzzy and new PJs right this very moment. And you know--they're just as great as I've always dreamed.

So, how 'bout that cauliflower?

*Whack* Yeeeouch!

Yes, yes, but what about paper?

I wish I could say that I have a juicy journal.

As it is, my journal is currently dusty, dry, and about as unjuicy as a 3,000 year old corpse. (Well, the dusty part is quite literally true. The rest is understatement.)

My journal currently occupies a spot on the floor by my bed where it has lain unopened and un-writ-upon for quite some time. Months. Perhaps years, although I'm not entirely sure. Hmm. Actually, let me check when my last entry was....

(Ew! Dust!)

Yup. It's been a long time. Long time. Tuesday, July 5th, 2005. I am ashamed. And my last entry wasn't even an entry; it was me writing down a three-paragraph story excerpt I had thought up that day. I didn't even list what I had eaten for breakfast that morning! Now that's negligence, I tell you. And oh-my-heavens...my entry before that is just downright embarrassing.

Okay. Now I've remembered why I blog now instead of writing in my journal. Because a blog is public, and because I know you peoples read it, I try to avoid writing things that are too personal. Thus, when I read back through my entries, I'm not embarrassed. At least, not usually.

Unless I've written about cauliflower. Man, that's embarrassing.

Wait--I didn't? Oh.

Thank goodness. And please--slap me if I ever do.

Forget walking softly--somebody give me a stick.

As sprightly youngsters, my sisters and I, in rough and ready pairs or trios, would joust each other freely, using whatever straightish sort of twigs we could find. Stick-sword-fighting was one of our favorite pastimes, or at least it was mine. (I may be coloring their experiences with my own...)

Once, when I found a long thin metal rod, I thought my elevation to knighthood was assured; here was a real sword made of metal, not wood! I felt all-powerful and quickly defeated all twig-bearing opponents.

I've wondered at times, in the years since being that rather fierce five or six-year-old, where exactly all my courage and boldness boiled away to.

When I think of my personality now, I consider myself a shy person, prone to being rather withdrawn or even hesitant to interact with others. And yet, now I wonder whether shyness was something I was born with or if it was something I decided I was, and then became.

Would that five-year-old with mud on her shoes and hair wisping from a lopsided ponytail recognize the cautious creature she has become?

I think I need to find a stick one of these days and shake it a few times at the current dragons in my life. Maybe if I beat them about the head a bit they'll leave me alone. If I bruise them, perhaps they'll respect me. And if I leave them limping and fleeing away, maybe I'll find that I'm still courageous and bold after all.

Nah.

Get thee to the MOA

About a week ago on KBYU (a local PBS station) I saw a string of images set to a piece of music from Robert Cundick's The Redeemer. (This piece of music is perhaps one of the most beautiful things I've ever heard.) I discovered later that the images, all of which were depictions of Christ, came from the current exhibit at the BYU Museum of Art: Beholding Salvation. (For those of you who would like to see what I saw on KBYU, go here and download from Chapter 3.)

I need to get to the MOA.

This past Sunday (while singing with our ward choir) I broke down in tears during John Rutter's "Candlelight Carol," something which almost never happens. I'm usually way too absorbed with how my voice should sound and whether I got the note just right to even think about the meaning of what I'm singing. I leave that to the audience and usually miss out on what could otherwise be meaningful spiritual experiences. But this time, when we began singing, "Find Him at Bethlehem laid in a manger: Christ our Redeemer asleep in the hay," I couldn't go on. I barely hit one note in five, if that.

I finally remembered what Christ is to me, and my whole soul thrilled to the sweetness of Him.

So I think, sometime within these next few weeks, I need to take a trip to Provo and take a few moments to behold Salvation, and to see how others view Him as well. I think seeing Him may help me to see other things just a little more clearly.

And a very merry one at that

I'm afraid I'm a very negligent blogger. So, because I earlier failed to do so, and because most of you are still in time zones where it's still officially December 25th, I heartily wish you all a very Merry Christmas. I hope it was lovely and joy-filled for all of you.

And also because I've been awake since about 5:30 this morning, I think that's all I'll say. Merry Christmas, everyone.

And God bless us, every one.

So--wait--what's wrong with feet?

Okay, people. We are going to get at the root of something here. We're digging deep! We're dredging up stuff that has lain undredged for aeons!

I want to know exactly who decided that feet were ugly. I mean, was it during the Victorian era when pretty much everything below your neck was considered indecent? (And sometimes below your eyebrows?) Was it during the Roman Empire when that prevalent sandal-wearing caused unsightly calluses and really gross accumulation of gunk on said feet? Was it last Thursday when someone posted on her blog, "Ew! Feet are gross," a post which has more or less been altered by me in significant ways? (Inasmuch as no one ever posted it that I know of but I DO know a lot of people actually think this way and I really can't understand why?)

Yes.

I'm sure it's all three.

However, I find that I must take a different road. To me, feet are not ugly. To me, feet are quite nice little things, actually. They arch so agreeably in that inside space between the pad and the heel; they have such interesting ligaments on top; they're tough and leathery on the bottom and smooth and delicate above. And heck--don't even get me started about how much I love toes. (Yay! Toes are great!)

So to all of you people out there who think that our legs would do much better with just a stump at the end, or for all of those out there who insist that feet must be covered up every waking minute lest we all become flooded with inappropriate thoughts about each other, and to those nay-sayers who say, "Nay, feet! Nay!" I say:

"Walk on, feet. Be proud in your feetitude. Be bold, be step-worthy, and above all, be bare."

In everything I don't say is where I live my life

I've been thinking today about the creation of things, how the act of creating moves something from one of hundreds of thousands (or millions) of possibilities into the one thing that is. When I post here, I usually come with some idea of what I want to talk about, whether it be nephews or books or getting stuck in the snow. I taste sentences in my head like someone at an ice cream counter, sampling this flavor or that before I find one that sticks.

Then, when I sit down to write it, it shapes itself into something entirely different, going from chocolate to strawberry to oreo mint, when I had originally intended something more like peanut butter cup.

So even when I intend to write about something, I often end up with something completely different.

And then there are the things that get left out because I don't want to write about them, things like staring into the mirror for fifteen minutes trying to penetrate my own mind on the double fronts of the exterior and interior barriers I've put up against myself, trying to see past my own eyes and find out at last what this creature whose reflection I see is really capable of becoming. Or when I go through days when every song I hear, every line I hear from the television, every comment someone makes reminds me of things that I lack, of traits I wish I had, of people I miss, of things I want in my life but simply don't have.

Sometimes I don't want to tell you about these times, I believe because they make me feel too sad.

But there are so many things that I would tell you, but I can't, because by the time I finally get around to typing my post, the idea is gone, or changed into something unrecognizable. Or because this blog is public, I don't want to really bare my soul too much; instead I'll leave it safely ensconced somewhere behind my breastbone, thank-you-very-much, from which, in the privacy of my room, I may take it out and pat it a few times just to remind myself it's there.

Even now, this post isn't anything I thought it would be. But it is what it is. It's moved into the realm of being rather than just the realm of what might be.

Just know that, when I write about being miffed at choir practice or the joy of having loose and baggy jeans, there's an entire life's worth of unwritten experiences that I have every day but will not or cannot share. (Not that you need to know precicely how my toothpaste tasted, of course--I'm not talking about minutae.) I guess what I'm saying is, please remember that, although a blog is formatted in such a way to give you snippets of my life, it's only the very skin of the thing, never getting beyond the epidermis. But I've got a whole lot of flesh left under that.

As have you.

So come on. Tell me how you're doing. (And in case you were wondering, yes, that meant you.)

Because nephews are, of all things, most wonderful:

I give you this:



Not to mention this:

(Aw. Cute little socks on cute little feet and you'll probably slap me if I use the phrase "cute little" once more.) Hahaha! Please, do forgive a besotted auntie.

I just had to share. (I guess this counts as a shameless plug for someone else's kid. Where's my pride, man?)

What is like falling in love

I've remembered what this was now.

It's music.

Like the music I heard last night, some pieces ethereal and some rousing and energetic. It felt very much like falling in love, that sensation that flares in your chest and rushes out to your shoulders and down to our feet, making you want to race something and strain your legs against the earth, but also to stand unmoving on the crest of a hill while the wind blows through you.

Saying that it was lovely stuff would be true but not accurate. But I can't really think of anything better to say.

For those of you still in Utah (darn few of you), if you have the chance to attend the MoTab Christmas concert with Sissel (who, by the way, has convinced me that I really can become an instant fan of a Norwegian Singing Sensation who, despite an admittedly odd haircut, has one of the loveliest voices I've heard in ages) then you will love it. Period.

If you don't have a chance to attend, at least tune in to the weekly MoTab Sunday morning broadcast at 9:30am (Mountain Time) on KSL for a brief taste of it.

You know. If you feel like it.

And also...

I know, I really do know it's creepy that I read the blogs of people I don't know, but you people have seriously got to see this.

Despite its irreverence, it tickled my insides until they shouted at me to stop.

Hurrah.

Oh, yes. This is why I dislike winter...

Today was the first snow-shoveling day of the year, at least for me. Right after Family Home Evening, we noticed that our dear ol' dad had gone out to shovel the driveway. Now, my dad is completely capable of clearing the entire thing by himself, but because we love him and we don't want him to have a heart attack alone in the snow, my two younger sibs and I went out to help him clean up the durn thing.

Unfortunately, this morning as we all left for work or school or Walmart, each of our cars left a trail of packed snow behind us that absolutely refused to be parted from the driveway this evening. And also the snow was a bit wet. And heavy.

All of this helped me to remember this evening just why I dislike winter. It's not so much the cold, nor the fear of slipping and breaking my tibia (or worse, my clavicle) while shuffling around the church parking lot in shoes that have NO traction whatsoever, nor is it the gloom that descends on our poor minds every time the clouds lower, nor is it the cold. (I already mentioned that? Oh. Well. It counts twice.)

It's shoveling. Particularly when it's snowing at the same time, and by the time you've finally gotten three quarters of the way down the driveway, that first quarter already has another inch on it.

Blech.

Fortunately, that was not the case this evening. It wasn't snowing, and while it was cold, it wasn't frigid, and while the snow was packed and a bit heavy, it was mostly frozen so it wasn't too bad, and we just kind of skimmed over the top of the car tracks, and also there were four people shoveling so it didn't take too long, and also we got some hot chocolate (mine artificially sweetened) at the end of it.

But it was kind of like seeing a preview for a movie you didn't want to see, but you knew for the sake of societal pressure you would see anyway. No. No, that comparison doesn't work at all.

It was more like smelling something foul that you hadn't yet come across but you knew was just around the bend and you were about to run smack dab into it. With your bare foot. Weeeelll...better, but still...

It was like...

It was like...

Yo. It was sooooo like shoveling a driveway full of snow, knowing that winter has only just started and you have at least another thirty or forty days where you'll have to shovel this gunk (and a lot more days where you'll have to LOOK at the gunk) before you finally start seeing green on the trees again.

Yeah. That's totally what it was like. Yaaaaay winter.

A Slightly Irregular Wish List

For all of you out there who are thinking about buying me a smashingly wonderful Christmas gift, (i.e. none of you), I have finally found a gift for me, one that I will love and cherish and adore for the rest of me days.

Now I know that the spirit of Christmas is all about giving, and believe me, I would never have risked my flesh and unbroken bones in the mass of shoppers on Black Friday (i.e. the day after Thanksgiving) to find those few perfect gifts that also happened to be on sale if I weren't interested in giving, giving, giving away just like the Little Stream.

But, because I've had trouble thinking of exactly what I wanted to receive, (I usually just buy stuff I want...when I have enough money...), I thought I would make it easier for any of you. Who happen to want to give me stuff. Um.

In any case, while I was working in the Juvenile section of the HBLL at BYU, I ran across an old picture book called The Slightly Irregular Fire Engine. The pictures are basically cutouts of Victorian-era engravings, and the story is a hodgepodge of strange events and bizarre characters, including a pirate who has knitted his own beard. I was wowed. I wanted one for myself. (The book, not the beard-knitting pirate, although that would be cool too...)

However, when I went to try to find the book, I discovered to my everlasting dismay that it was out of print.

Alackaday!

And yet what were my triumphant rejoicings when today I received an email update about news in the Juvenile Lit publishing industry and found that The Slightly Irregular Fire Engine has been reissued! (They were great indeed. Er...my rejoicings, that is.) And I looked! And it was there! On Amazon!

So, for those of you who are just racking your brains (ouch!) trying to figure out exactly what to get lil' ol' me for Christmas, here's your hint, your one major hint.

Except...if more than one of you intends to get this for me, I would have several copies of The Slightly Irregular Fire Engine. And then I would have to donate copies to local elementary schools and literacy programs in South America, and the poor children would be very confused about the strange disjointed tale and would probably end up working in some terrible industry, like fast food, because they were so disturbed by it.

So maybe I should just buy this for myself. Yes. Yes. Just nevermind this whole blog post.

Please.

Here's a tip--don't shock yourself.

My workplace is saturated with static electricity. It lives in the carpets; it lurks in doorknobs and in the metal corners of cubicles; it leaps from its hidey-holes in light-switches. And if you're unlucky enough to brush your unhappily conductive flesh against any one of these things, you're liable to get a nasty jolt.

So, I've taken to grounding myself at every opportunity. When I walk back to the copier, I brush my knuckles against the frame of the cubicle behind me, touch the metal bookcase midway down the room and tap my fingers against the light-switches next to the copier so that when I put that piece of paper face-down on the glass, I don't get a heart-stopping wallop to my electrical system. (Those are unpleasant.)

However, despite my best efforts, I still sometimes get a good shock. Like today.

Today, as usual, I hit the back of my hand against the light-switch to disperse the electrical charge I'd built up during the past twenty or so steps. Unfortunately, the charge was so great that when I grounded myself the shock was even worse than usual. A couple of minutes later, the back of my hand started to itch, so I scratched it without really looking at it. When I finally glanced over, there was a little welt that looked like a mosquito bite smack dab in the center of my hand.

I was horrified (HORRIFIED, I tell you!) to realize that the welt must have come from the shock I got at the light-switch. ('Cause mosquitos are dead, man. Dead.)

"Holy Canoli!" I shouted (not really)! "That shock of static electricity totally burned me and raised a welt on my skin! Yowza!"

Actually, I just looked at the welt and thought of what a great blog-post that would be. (I just wished I had a camera at the time.)

And really, don't you agree?

And I don't even miss the other chin.

Today was weigh-in day. I approached the scale with trepidation but left it with...er...jollity.

For behold, I have at last reached MY FIRST MINI GOAL! And I won't tell you what the goal was (because it's too embarrassing) but I will tell you that this morning I was 5 lbs UNDER it.

And I didst rejoiceth greatly much. And lots of it, too. Tied up with ribbons. With complimentary pink bunny slippers. And... (what on earth am I talking about???) This makes 37.5 lbs in total, and I find that I'm definitely liking the feel of my now-baggy jeans.

To illustrate my (slightly less large-o) self, here's a pic I took on Saturday. It's blurry, but I think it captures, um, the green of my shirt pretty well. Oh, and did I mention that I finally got that haircut? This past summer?

And here's another pic. Because I think it's funny.

See how wrinkled and studious-looking my forehead is? Yeah. We're talking serious thought processes going on here, including but not limited to: ponderings upon cheese, why "House Hunters" on HGTV is good television even though it seems completely boring, and also thinking that what I had for lunch might actually be an interesting blog post after all.

It was chicken. Mmm.

How, oh how did she get my life?

I've been blog cruising; you know--looking for stuff to read on a Sunday night, browsing around the internet because the only alternative is going to bed muy early and also turning on my nifty space-heater so my toes aren't freezing all night.

And (thanks to Lindsay's awesome links) I happened across the blog of a girl who is living the life that I want.

I wonder if you guys have ever had that experience before, where you open up a newspaper and there, in the local section, is the gal (or guy) who, from their naturally curly hair to their husband (or wife) named Stan (or Jill) is exactly who you want to be.

Well, this girl is it for me. She just got back from getting a degree in Library Science from a university in England, (HELLLOOOOO! COOL!), just got a job as a bona fide librarian, just went on an awesome blind date with a guy who, get this, wrote her a thank-you note for a great date!

Holy---

I just want to go over to her blog, plunk down at her feet and say, "Teach me, oh great one! I will be your willing pupil if only, only you will tell me how to get my hair to curl naturally like that, and how to be a librarian, and also how to get neat guys to write thank-you notes to me."

But I'm too embarrassed to do it. Because I'm living the life that no one really wants. And I'm actually just a little bit ashamed, because by heck and by golly it's my own gosh-darned fault that I'm where I am today. So I'll just keep on lurking and read about her being productive and wonderful and helpful in her librarian position and also having a really great time dating thank-you-note boys.

Urg. *Twitch.* And off I go to customer service tomorrow. Woooo.

Yeah. Bed sounds like a really good thing right now.