Forgive me, Mother.

Mom, I know you will cringe at this post. I know you will hate it and shiver and that it will be horrible. And I am very, very sorry. Know that I feel your pain.

I went into the kitchen this afternoon to get a glass of water and found a fat little brown mouse crouched on the mat in front of our sink. I was startled (and disgusted) and became very surprised when the rodent didn't move when I approached and told it (very firmly, I might add) to scurry, dang it! (It was so that I could forget it was there for a little while and then later bring up the subject with my roommate to see if she had any leftover traps from our last mousy escapade, if you must know.)

But the mouse didn't scurry when I told it to. Perhaps it didn't speak English. Or perhaps...it was DEATHLY ILL??? Because it didn't even run away when I tried moving one corner of above-mentioned kitchen mat, I decided that I would try to scoop it up with an empty pizza box. (I had pizza last night, people. We don't leave pizza boxes around for days, or anything. Yeesh.) At that, it seemed to object, and scurried (at last) in the crack next to the oven.

Okay, I thought to myself. Now I will try to get a trap at some point so we can catch this furry marauder.

So I went to my room to read a little and shudder. Later, I came back into the kitchen, and the mouse was once again on the mat. What the heck?!? I thought to myself. I tried again unsuccessfully with the pizza box, but this time I noticed that the mouse was walking oddly, and kept swaying as if it were drunk. Had it gotten into my roommate's wine?

When I came back into the kitchen again, after having left said pizza box open on the floor in the (stupid) hope that it would crawl in and stay in while I surreptitiously shut the lid on it, I found the mouse lying prone on the floor, little paws stuck to the side, tail laid out along the tile like a fallen streamer. Oh, heck. Let me be realistic. It looked like a dead worm attached to an even deader mouse.

I looked closely at the mouse. It was not breathing. So, choking back my gag reflex, I used one of the ubiquitous Bed, Bath & Beyond coupons we get in the mail, and scooped it into the pizza box. I noticed that rigor mortis had already set in, since the thing didn't bend at all when I was doing said scooping. I took the whole ensemble down the stairs to the dumpster, all the while wondering what the thing had died from and, more importantly, whether the disease was likely to kill me too.

Things like, you know, bubonic or pneumonic plague (except that I'm not sure if mice died from that? or even carried it? was it just rats? and did just the infected humans die?) or, I don't know, some sort of feverish horribleness that spreads via seeing weird drunken-seeming mice weave around your kitchen mat.

So, if I start developing flu-like symptoms or buboes in the next few days, just drop me off at the local emergency room, warn them that the next pandemic (and possibly the end of the world) is now at hand, and oh--would someone be kind enough to take notes for me in class on Tuesday? I'm not sure I'm going to make it.

You always knew you wanted to float in a library

So, you know how I sometimes like to just embed a YouTube video rather than actually writing something myself?

Well...

I'm doing it again.

The lip movements aren't really synced so much, but it's from the 80s. And it takes place in a library. And there's a chimp wearing a Red Sox shirt. Is that enough awesomeness to make it all okay? Why, yes. Yes it is.

(P.S. Fair warning: There is one little swears. It's relatively mild, but it's there. Just so you know.)

Um, hey. So...it's been awhile.

Oh, you know. I've just been keeping myself busy with this and that and the other thing (although, if I'm going to be honest, I have to admit that the other thing is really what's been taking up the bulk of my time).

Yeah, I know you've been wondering why I haven't called lately, why all those texts stay unanswered in my inbox, why all those posts you've made to my Facebook wall have gotten no response, why I never even acknowledged that time you threw the brick through my window. (You know--the one with the ultimatum wrapped around it, secured with a piece of fraying twine?)

And believe me--I kind of feel like a jerk about it all. I sit in my room or on the couch and just think of all the great times we used to have and how bad I feel about the way I never seem to keep in touch with people and how I wish I had the time and energy to call people and chat it up or send an awesome lengthy email or, say, post to my blog for instance. Maybe.

And then I sigh and get back to working on assignments I've procrastinated until the day before that end up taking about 10 hours more than what I expected and I cut felt for a flannelboard story until my hands ache and I curse the dull scissors that I need to replace but I haven't really got the money and why the heck would I want to buy another pair of scissors when I'm most likely going to be moving sometime in the next seven or eight months and that'd be just one more thing to pack and I really kind of hope I pass all my classes this semester so I can graduate and get a real job so I don't turn into one of those over-30 folks who live in their parents' basements and make my family ashamed to be seen with me in public.

So, I'm sorry. I'm sorry because I know how it looks to you, and I just wanted to let you know that there are good reasons why I'm turning into an unresponsive hulk of Lizardbreath.

Thanks for being there, though. Thanks for understanding. Thanks for still liking me despite it all.

--Your loving Lizardbreath McGee

P.S. Oh, yeah. And you owe me 300 bucks for that shattered window.

P.P.S. Realistic (i.e. factual and uninflated) depiction of my sleeping schedule over the past few days:

Awake: Thursday morning at 6am until Friday morning at 3:30am
Asleep: Friday morning at 3:30am until Friday morning at 7:00am
Awake: Friday morning at 7:00am until Friday afternoon at 3:30pm
Asleep: Friday afternoon at 3:30pm until early Saturday morning at 12:30am
Awake: Early Saturday morning at 12:30am until slightly later Saturday morning at 4:00am
Asleep: Slightly later Saturday morning at 4:00am until Saturday morning at 6:10am
Awake: Saturday morning at 6:10am until BLOGPOSTTIME. Whenever that is. (i.e. NOW.)

I am trying to resist taking a nap. Please, please send good wakey-wakey vibes my way.

Homework is EATING ME ALIVE!!!

It's true. Homework is engulfing me from the ground up; my toes and Achilles tendons have been nibbled away, my calves chewed upon, and now it's turning a hungry, baleful eye on my kneecaps.

Gross, homework! Keep away! I hate things that eat people! (Like mosquitoes, tapeworms, etc.)

Perhaps I shall conquer it with my vorpal sword. Or my stare of death. Or my.

Or my diligence, hard work and sacrifice.

But whatever the solution, I cannot conquer it by blogging.

So, away I must. (Go, that is. Away I must go. Silly sentence structure, that.)

Farewell. Until I emerge on the other side of this gruesome conflict, in which more shall be injured than paper and...laptop keys?

I. Make. No. Sense.

But I love making it nonetheless.

All Wet

The streets are rivers, the dips in the sidewalk are lakes, and even moving through the air is like trying to breathe while standing under Niagra Falls.

Ah, autumn. Be less beautiful, or be less brief. Or something.

P.S. Sorry I haven't been posting much. I've been both busy and a little...distant. Even while feeling like I'm missing people more than ever. I have no promises or anything (like posting more, for instance), but I just wanted to let you know. I'll post when I can.

A little, tiny review.

The best of Robin McKinley’s books pour into the reader a sense of unfolding mysteries, like the lingering taste of some unknowable sweetness on the tongue, or the languid unfurling of the dense petals at the heart of a rose. Slowly, slowly the bud opens, revealing the glorious, beautiful design of the whole.

Chalice is one of these books.

Read it. If you possibly can.

(Oh, and also, check out Johnathan Strange & Mr. Norrell. Seriously. Do it now.)

Where my musical tastes are leading me:

So, I've been getting more and more into the whole folk music/acoustic/'whatever the heck I feel like listening to' scene.

This means that lately I've been favoring my two Pandora stations that play music resembling that of Jose Gonzales or Ingrid Michaelson. (Have I mentioned lately that I love Pandora? Dude. I love Pandora.)

And now, as part of a semi-delayed parental/self birthday gift I ordered for myself from the online bookstore that is swallowing the world, I have gotten Ingrid Michaelson's Girls and Boys CD. And I am listening to it. Yea, even now.

You know how when you get a CD you listen to it and kind of earmark your favorite songs, feeling glad that you got maybe 7 really excellent songs out of the 12 on the CD, or feeling disappointed that you really do only like the 2 songs you'd previously heard on the radio and that the rest of the CD is good for nothing but making the CD look appropriately sparkly on bright sunny mornings?

Well, listening to Girls and Boys is like listening to a CD full of favorites. Seriously. Awesome. Lyrical and thoughtful. (And it's particularly nice that her voice has roughly the same range as mine, so I can sing along and almost think I sound good doing so. Also, her songs are hecka-fun to harmonize with.)

I would write more, but I'll sound too much like a fangirl. Also, I want to listen to music. And this writing thing is totally distracting me, yo.

This is me.

Read here.

Goes so well with the previous post, doesn't it?

Incomprehensible

I think sometimes that I am not a very understanding person.

I mean, I try to be understanding. And really, I can understand things like people feeling sad or lonely, or feeling frustrated with traffic or with crowded subway trains, or how it feels when the hot weather finally breaks and you get one perfect day.

I can understand that.

But I have a hard time understanding other things. Things like, for instance, why some people don't care for books. This one has me flummoxed. Well, granted, I can understand that if someone has a reading problem like dyslexia or similar somethings, reading would not be a pleasant experience exactly. (But hey--books on tape are always a fantastic option! Braille! Etc.!)

But people who don't find themselves thinking about characters while they're walking around on the sidewalk? Who don't automatically reach for some tattered paperback or thick-and-heavy leather-bound classic edition or yeesh--even a magazine or something, whenever they have a spare minute or ten? Who don't relish that mingle of climax, loss, and joy, a joy with a flavor unlike anything else--like something unbearably delicious that dissolves almost as soon as you taste it, as if to linger any longer on your tongue would cause you to spin into giddy delirium--that comes when you read the last sentence of an excellent book, close it, rub the cover a little and smiling, sigh to yourself?

I sometimes fear that I can have nothing to share with such people.

I'm sure there would be some things we could agree on, that it's easier to see when there is sufficient light, that couches are generally preferable to stone benches, that blankets are good when it is cold, but there would always be this deep inner part of me that would remain untouched, bewildered, uncomprehending.

So, I'm afraid my sympathetic powers are limited. I may never fully understand another human being unless they're somewhat bookish, like me.

Because, my dears, I am incontrovertibly and deliriously and giddily bookish. And I revel in it.

Why, oh why don't all people long to be librarians?

Candy for the masses

"It has come to my attention," she wrote, each finger tap punching briskly into the keyboard, "that there are some among my readers who wish for a more regular update of the events of my life."

She paused, hands poised over her computer, ready to pounce on them like so many warrior-like worms (she wondered for a moment--could worms be warrior like? She imagined earthworms clad in helmets and shaking spears with their back ends and smiled to herself) while she cocked her head and ruminated on the events of the day. Was there anything worthy to report?

Let's see, she thought to herself, hot oatmeal for dinner, a long nap this afternoon which I decidedly should not have taken, conversation with Mom prior to nap, class this morning...beautiful fall-ish day?

"It was a beautiful day today," she continued, allowing her warrior-worms to jump into the fray. "It was just on the chilly side of cool, which made my walk home that much more pleasant. But the weather is boring to talk about, and I suppose all of you are looking for something more...meaty."

I suppose I could finish my account of the marmot affair. She shuddered. No. Perhaps not yet. More recovery was necessary, she supposed, before she could bring herself to conclude the terrible tale.

"Alas; that's pretty much all I have to tell," she continued. "School's fine, work's fine, all systems normal. Even my toenails are doing pretty well, I guess. At least they're growing like crazy. Maybe a trim is in order."

She blushed a little and decided to erase the bit about the toenails. No one needed to hear about that.

Meaning to hit the backspace button, she accidentally (and unaccountably, because the two actions are pretty much completely dissimilar) hit the 'Publish Post' button instead. So the bit with the toenails was up there for all the internet to see. Chagrined, she decided to simply call it a post and withdraw.

For the time being.

In Chicago, Chicago

I've only got a moment or two before I dash off to catch my plane to the windy city, so I thought I'd post briefly before I go.

So....

*Awkward silence*

I guess that's it. See y'all on the other side!

To Do List

I've decided to put together a list of 30 things to do before I turn 30.

However, as my birthday is now in four days, I've decided to make this list as easy as possible.

1. Breathe
2. Eat breakfast
3. Trim nails
4. Put on makeup
5. Brush hair at least five times
6. Jump up and down for one minute
7. Purse lips
8. Look thoughtful
9. Watch a movie I haven't seen before
10. Wiggle toes
11. Blink
12. Sniff
13. Roll eyes
14. Bite the end of a pen while pondering the meaning of the universe and/or wondering what to have for dinner
15. Read online comics
16. Tap foot at least twice
17. Shake head with gentle humor at life's ridiculousness
18. Read other people's blogs
19. Blog at least once
20. Check email DAILY
21. Frown upon injustice
22. Flex calf muscles
23. Wonder if String Theory is the theory of the universe
24. Move at least one piece of furniture
25. Smile at a stranger on the street
26. Run when stranger turns out to be a mugger
27. File things
28. Draw a doodle
29. Stay hydrated
30. Subtly remind folks that my 30th birthday is on Sunday [Check]
    

One of my favorite commercials EVER.

Some of you may remember this:

I don't want to be bitter.

I realize that the last post is kind of bitter. Perhaps rather more bitter than I intended while writing it.

And I don't want to be bitter. I really don't. I want to be happy and have other people be happy to be around me and I don't want to get fed up with people. Really and truly.

Merhm.

Oh, well. I guess I'm just trying to figure out things by writing about them. And sometimes the writing is coherent and clear, and sometimes it's full of bitter ramblings. But maybe eventually I'll come to a better understanding. In the end.

So, why does this bother me so much?

Our lesson in Relief Society today was titled: "Establishing the Cause of Zion." Which, as interesting as it was, is important to this discussion only in a peripheral manner.

One of the sisters in my ward today had several family members who attended church with her, including her mom, and a couple of her sisters (at least one of whom is married).

You may think these two things may have nothing to do with each other, but they are, in fact, quite thoroughly connected. You see, during the course of the lesson, the teacher asked the class what we can do to help establish Zion. In response, this married sister talked about how she tried to help establish a Zion home with her children and husband, (which was all well and good), and then proceeded to gesture to her single sister (the sister in my ward) and said, "And, you know, even my sister [Gertrude] can establish Zion in her own home."

I felt my hackles raise, but it took me a bit of thinking to figure out why I was bothered so much by her comment. I kept asking myself, "Why is this hurtful?"

It was the 'even' that got me, I think. The 'even' implied superiority, as if she were saying that her own life was more valuable than the life of a single, that our lives were less meaningful, less important, and would never be as important until we were married and had children. As we are now, we could only achieve an 'even.'

I may be stating this too strongly. In fact, I'm quite certain I am; I seriously doubt that this sister had any idea that her comment could be taken in such a way. I am equally certain that she loves her single sister dearly and would never intentionally hurt her. And it's always, always too easy to judge from the outside. I also think that as singles, we can sometimes be hypersensitive to singlehood slights, eagerly taking offense where none was meant.

However, I really worry that there is an undercurrent in some of the thinking that goes on in the church, among both married and single members, that lends a subtle factual base to singles' defensiveness, and marrieds' (as perceived by the singles) smug superiority.

Maybe it's just that we're taught (at least as women; I kind of believe the men don't get this drummed into them) that being a spouse and parent really is the most important thing you can do with your life. The problem is that we all want to feel our lives our valuable, not just those who are lucky enough to have miraculously found someone with whom to reproduce. We all want to believe that we're making contributions, that we're not just treading water, or hanging out, or merely marking time until our Big Break. And for those of us who are single, (and I would guess for married, parent-ified folks too), we worry all the time that what we're doing just isn't important enough, that we'll be forgotten, that we're missing out on what our life calling is supposed to be.

And I ache for us.

And I don't have any kind of solution, either. I'm not sure if we could fix this by giving talks in church that read: "Every member is valuable. Singles, your lives are important. Married folks, your lives are important. And kids? Well, you can be important as long as you clean your rooms." Or maybe we should speak up when we hear comments that seem to invoke levels of worth. Or maybe we should just plunge our fists into our own hearts, root out the prejudice and fear, and drag them out into the open air to blow away, dissolved by their own insubstantiality.

Announcing his candidacy

Okay, so the aforementioned nephew video (linked again for your convenience) inspired me to create the following image:


He has my vote. And Hyrum's. How 'bout yours?

Panic attacks, inexplicable rashes and other disturbing events

So, the title of the post preeeety much says it all.

Had kind of a panic attack a week and a half ago on Sunday. Never had one before, so it was kind of weird. And disturbing.

Then, the past few days I've had this craaazy rash that pops up, makes me itch like mad, then goes away within a few hours. Could it be eczema? Could it be an alien species about to burst through my skin? Will we ever know for sure?

So many questions. And so few cookies.

And the Olympics are unexpectedly cool. But I can't watch 'em 'cause I have to go to work in the morning.

Eh. Sorry I don't have much to write. I've been having a hard time motivating myself to do much of anything lately. But I'm hoping I'll improve. Oddly enough, being in school will likely make me want to work on all sorts of stuff, like blogging, writing stories, making little villages out of toothpicks and rubber cement. Stuff like that. But I won't have time, of course.

Oh, well. I guess life is just like that. Now isn't that profound?

P.S. I really, really, really love this video of my nephew(s).

Fine, but you're paying for the goldfishes.

Have you ever done a random Google search with weird phrases in quotation marks?

No?

Oh.

Well, I have.

And I just tried: "Fine, but you're paying for the goldfishes," and guess what! Nothing came up!

But now it will.

Oh, yes.

To make things interesting, let's try coming up with a story that ends with that sentence. On your mark, get set, be creative!

Misery is utterly irrational.

Guys, I've been thinking a lot about it, and my last post was kind of out of line.

The truth is, there are plenty of things more horrifying than missing a flight: things like being in a car accident, having your identity stolen, being trampled to death by a herd of rhinos. (Do rhinos come in herds? Or are they solitary animals...?) You know. Things like that.

In short, I've been feeling pretty guilty about the whole thing. And this guilt was intensified while I was shelving today and came across the book: The Children We Remember, basically a brief and simple photo essay of Jewish children during the Holocaust. I felt a thrill of horror and grief reading it, and I realized that nothing I go through is bad. Not really. Nothing, nothing like that.

So I think I'm going to try complaining just a little less. And maybe talking about lovely things just a little more. Like books. And the wondrous medley of colors that blue and white and green make together. And what fun it is to make rocket ships out of construction paper.

And just how utterly, utterly confusing string theory can be. And also how darn interesting it can be to read about it.

That is all.

Alexander's day had nothing on this.

So you've probably all read the story. And you know of course I'm exaggerating.

But I must say that very few things are as horrifyingly, stomach-churningly, teeth-grinding-down-into-tiny-nubsingly awful as realizing that you're not going to make your flight. Or rather, the feeling that maybe, if that train would just come now and if the hordes of people in between you and the door would just somehow vanish, and if you maybe could manage NOT to get on the wrong shuttle bus to the terminal, that you might just maybe make your flight, if you run very fast. Possibly faster than a photon. Which, you suddenly realize (because you've been reading The Elegant Universe, of course, and are thus familiar with Einstein's Theory of Relativity) is wholly and completly impossible.

And also, the train doesn't come, and the hordes of people are horribly present, and you do in fact manage to get on the wrong shuttle bus, and you finally realize (as you make your way from the wrong terminal to the right one) that it's just time to give up. To give in. To get a different flight (paying lots of money for the privilege, of course).

Lots of people miss flights every day. Airlines deal with it. People deal with it. And in just a couple of hours, the feeling of angry, gut-clenching, bone-warping impotence begin to fade.

But when you're in the moment, checking your watch every two minutes, trying to figure out if you'll maybe, maybe make it, and feeling your toes start to curl into your ankles from the stress, it's kind of hard to think that Alexander could have had it any worse.

P.S. I feel I should add, just for clarity's sake, that it was not my flight that we were missing this afternoon--it was my parents' flight. I was just along to help with the luggage. And generally impede our progress. (My fault on the wrong bus to the terminal.)

P.P.S. They're even now en route. They're fine. Just so you know.