don't worry

i was walking to campus this morning and even though it was only 8:00 am (yes, i was slightly late to work...i know, i know!) my mind was already racing about life (natch). i feel like a transition point is quickly approaching in my life -- what do i do after graduation? where do i intern? when do i take the gre? do i take the gre? blah, blah, blah. you know, i was worrying about THAT stuff. as i was approaching the stairs of death, the thought suddenly entered my mind that i had spent plenty of time thinking about all of this stuff (and trust me--more than enough time), but how much time had i really spent praying -- and praying with faith? i remembered in that moment that there is someone out there who DOES know, and i wasn't paying enough attention. and then as i was still mulling over that light bulb moment, a deer streaked by at the top of the stairs. in my funny mind i thought, "wouldn't it be cool to get a sign and just know what to do with my life?" i guess somehow i tied a random deer to a heavenly sign. yeah. but as i was trudging up the stairs, my mind still racing about life -- and this time stressing because i obviously wasn't relying on the Lord enough -- i passed one of the columns, and in lime green chalk, it read:

don't worry. everything will be okay.

i couldn't help but smile. despite the fact that sometimes (okay fine -- all the time!) i just want to move to a beach and own a snow cone stand and have no other responsibilities but the five snow cones i sell in a day, i know everything will be okay in the end. although it would have been nice had someone wrote "grad school at psu" in big bright pink letters, or something else to that effect, i just have to remember that no matter what i do, every little thing is gonna be alright.

take it from here, bob:

yesterday evening my red headed friend and i decided to take a super fabulous jaunt on our town bikes to enjoy the threatening thunder/rain clouds. we rode from my house to utah lake, only getting caught in a torrential downpour once. the raindrops were as big as watermelons, so really that's all it took to soak us. but i didn't care. and neither did sophie. sometimes we're hard core like that. the path we took (some might call it the one less traveled by) welcomed us into various tunnels of trees, and swooped us along the bubbling brook. i became a poet just looking at it. at one point i thought we had been taken across seasons (an epic journey, indeed) when the ground was all of the sudden covered in white. coming to my senses, however, i quickly realized it was merely that cottony stuff from the trees attacking everything around it. but it was beautiful and fluffy. i wanted to jump in it. but i didn't. sophie and i kept going. we're hard core like that. when we finally reached utah lake, it was windy and my eyes kept blowing shut, but i could hold them open long enough to take this beautiful picture above. living so close to campus i sometimes forget how pretty provo really is. it's nice to get out every once in awhile and know that there is life outside the bubble. oh, and on the way back, after almost killing ourselves on the overpass (yes, we're hard core like that) we stopped at sammy's and got shakes and veggies burgers. seriously? seriously. such a good evening.

A packed campus | Universe.byu.edu

A packed campus | Universe.byu.edu

dear daily universe,

i would like to thank you for taking the inspiration for today's front page story from my widely-read, internationally published blog. some might call it a mere coincidence that just days before your article surfaced on office desks around campus, i wrote about this very subject. i, however, know better. i am in college. the only difference  between mine and yours is that you managed to put a positive spin on the story. it's okay. i understand how politically correct you have to be. efy and the church and your paycheck are all one and the same. really, it's okay. unfortunately, however, no matter how much i am flattered by your blatant plagiarism, i can't help but think in copyright terms. i do, after all, work in the byu copyright office. you see, when byu uses the material of an author, we first have to send them a letter requesting the permission. and then, if granted, we, the good people of intellectual property, usually end up paying a generous fee to the author for the rights to use it on a conditional bases. i bet you're sorry you messed with a copyright girl. i bet you had no idea i had a brain, did you? well, i don't wish to point fingers or accuse anyone of any wrong doing. i merely want my fame and fortune. please forward a $1200 payment to my office in the harold b. lee library. (and no, this is not the exact amount needed for a plane ticket to buenos aires).

thank you for your time. i don't read you often for, well, too many reasons to list here, but i appreciate your money.

sincerely,
jessica

(see "it's a beautiful day" on july 22 for my original post)

the smell of banana bread reminds me of...

tonight i made banana bread for the first time in awhile. i thought it had been a sufficient amount of time between now and the last time i went on a banana bread making rampage in the mission. unfortunately i was reminded of the last time i made it on my final night in southern argentina. we had made six or seven loaves to give to the members and i had the mala suerte (bad luck) of eating some bad meat earlier that afternoon. well what do you get when you eat bad meat? you get vomit. VOMIT. vomit is what you get. i was up all night. i have a visual of halfway digested cow intestines splattered on the bathroom floor and wall because the stomach spasms were so violent. and i just remember kneeling there, set back on my heels, and all of the sudden smelling the banana bread so strongly. i threw up the last of what was left in my battered stomach. since that night, i haven't been able to make banana bread without conjuring up the image of the splattered walls and floor and toilet seat in my mind. it kind of makes me nauseous just writing about it. gross. i'm going to stop now. anyone want some banana bread?

that one time when i almost died...a lot.

 it's 1:30 am on a friday night. do you know what your child is doing? if you are my mom, you knew i was with a group of boys scaling the peaks of the wasatch mountains with just a backpack and a whole lot of naivety. since i first laid eyes on the magnificent mess the locals simply refer to as timp, i knew i would one day be compelled to take it on. after five years, that opportunity finally arrived, and, as anyone near me that night can attest to, i was as giddy as a school girl on her first day of class (wait...i was never that type of school girl...). i made caramel popcorn, which turned out wonderfully (if you don't count the half that i burnt) and carefully mixed cheezits and dry roasted peanuts (heaven). i filled up my brand new camel back (note to self: next time rinse out the new plastic taste first or that's what you'll be drinking for the next 12 hours) and i met the expedition crew next door. we split up into cars and took off into the unknown. when we arrived at the trailhead (let's not talk about getting lost on the way), i was ecstatic to hear "BOOTY!" called out from the darkness. it was the voice of only one my most favorite men in the world, who happened to be with a handful of my other favorites. true friends don't let friends risk their lives alone. of course when they joined the group from my ward, they all made a point of calling me booty around those unaware of my true identity, trying to get people to a) look at my booty b) raise there eyebrows at an implied sketchy past or c) adopt it into their own vocabulary and make it a household name (se habla booty!). luckily, none of the above occurred, and i could look forward to the 7 1/2 mile climb in peace. but let's cut to the chase here. i almost died on so many different levels that night. first of all, i don't care how much you run at gold's gym, or how many spin classes you go to a week, if you hike timp, you WILL die. did i mention i went with boys who are professional mountaineers/world class marathoners? to say we booked it up there would be an understatement. you see, we were racing the sun in order to make it to the summit before sunrise. last time i checked, however, the speed of light is just slightly faster than my feet. only slightly. so by the time i reached the top, i had stopped breathing multiple times, and i'm sure i will never be normal (no comments please) again due to the thousands of brain cells lost to the lack of oxygen going into my ears. oh, wait. that's not how you breath. see? my brain cells USED to know how one's respiratory system functions. i'm a hopeless mess. but anyway, back to death. so morbid, i know. but so inevitable. and that night, it was inevitable time and time again. some might call me a cat. i just call myself buddhist. reincarnation, baby. but that's for a whole other blog post. i also almost died in multiple falls. now, i never fell completely down the mountain. if that were the case, not even reincarnation could have given me another chance. i don't care if it was even as as a pig. i would have been toast without butter. no, i only fell small, terrifying distances, instances in which my camera hit the ground and my hands scraped the shale to stop me from stumbling even farther down to the dismal darkness. at one point blood dripped from my palm onto my white shirt, reminding me of my vulnerability, but apparently not enough to connect with my rationality. as i trudged my way up the mountain in the pitch black, i scooted along narrow ledges of snow, grabbing on to rocks above me, some loose, some solid -- russian roulette at its best. as i got higher and higher, i literally got higher and felt myself being eaten up by the air around me. at times i would have to stop and bend over to regain my equilibrium so that i wouldn't sway just a little too far to the right and hurl myself off the cliff. and then then there was the time when all i ate was oatmeal because everyone loved my cheezits and caramel popcorn a little too much, and how since i didn't know how to gather my own food like my nomad ancestors, i basically reached the brink of death by starvation. luckily i had gum. at least i could swallow the calories. and finally, my bladder almost exploded, which very well would have ended my young and fruitful life right then and there. we had been hiking since 1:30 am and it was 10:00 am and i had been holding it in the entire time. but really, where does one go when she is with a group of guys and with very little brush around? those wildflowers just weren't tall enough. finally, being about ready to burst like a woman 9 months pregnant, i had to give in and trudge off the trail to seek coverage. in the process i almost died when spiky, probably poisonous plants attacked my arms and legs, almost knocking the pee right out of me. that would have been embarrassing. luckily i managed to find sufficient coverage and pop a squat. it was then, however, that i realized how beyond exhausted my legs were. i had to cut the pee short due to my shaky legs. one can only squat so long on jello legs. finally after what seemed like days in the movie A Far Off Place (timp was my kalahari desert) we made it to the bottom, disheveled, dirty, and hanging onto life by only the hoses that connected our gaping mouths to our camel backs. almost dying so many times can really ware a girl out! on the way home in the car, i slept. when i got home i slept from 12 to 7. and then i slept 10:30 to 7:30 am. i dreamt of timp. i dreamt of death. and i dreamt that i couldn't walk ever again. when i got up sunday morning, i realized that wasn't a dream. i may not have died that day, but i sure built up enough lactic acid to wish i had. i know i should feel lucky to be alive. i know colors should seem more vibrant and smells more poignant. but come on people. this isn't some movie we're talking about. no theatrics, please. it's 11:45 on a monday night. do you know what your child is doing? if you're my mom, you know i'm blogging about that one time i climbed timp, and those many times i almost died. don't worry mom. i may  not have all my brain cells anymore, but i'll be safe from now on. zion is next on the list, and i hear it is PERFECTLY safe....

The time has come the walrus said...

Out of all my years in school, all the years in English classes learning Shakespeare and Frost, Dickinson, and many others, the only poem I have ever been able to recall is a poem I learned in the third grade. In fact, I vividly remember learning it outside Mrs. Nolet's classroom. So I decided to look it up today. It turns out that the poem is a little longer than I imagined it. My pea-sized brain only managed to memorize but a stanza of an 18 stanza poem. Ha! So with great pride, I recite to you my poetry. It is quite symbolic given the fact that the time has come for me to leave work and move on to bigger and better things (like a nap). Here is the famous stanza:

"The time has come," the Walrus said,
"To talk of many things:
Of shoes--and ships--and sealing-wax--
Of cabbages--and kings--
And why the sea is boiling hot--
And whether pigs have wings."

The Walrus and the Carpenter by Lewis Carroll 

So on the note, the time has come, I say, to talk of of many things: Of naps, and sun, and lots of food, of reading my book, and eatING. And why Utah is so dang hot, and whether or not I will sing (my neighbors would be grateful if I didn't). Peace out. I'm on a three day weekend...suckahs.

It's a Beautiful Day

Robert Frost once said, "The brain is a wonderful organ; it starts working the moment you get up in the morning and does not stop until you get into the office." I'm in the office. I will admit, I don't think my brain, as wonderful and dynamic of an organ it might be, really ever realized its full potential when I rolled out of bed this morning and stumbled like a drunken rat to the bathroom. It's a miracle that I made it out the door, actually. There's something about an alarm clock that soothes me. Um, not good. But besides the fact the my hair looked like a lion's mane, and besides the fact that I woke up 30 minutes late (that therapeutic rhythm of BEEEEEP BEEEEEEP BEEEEEEP really does it for me), and besides the fact that I didn't shower (no comments please), I was able to appreciate the great morning. This morning as I walked to the library from the gracious heart of my roommate who drove me, I couldn't help but look around me and notice how there were no EFY kids, or kids from sports camps, or even anyone acting like they were 15. The sky was bright blue, the air was just a little cool, threatening a summer heat, and I even heard a bird sing. It made me remember how much I love mornings (and how much I dislike EFY kids.) Today will be a SPLENDID day.

Peace

Chaos

Disclaimer: I do not wish to generalize all EFY kids into one category. Just know that when I have to wait in line for a bathroom or get pelted by a Frisbee in the quad, I have issues. Other than that, they can mix and mingle and satisfy their raging adolescent hormones all they want.

The GRE stands for Grossly and Rabiddly Egregious (Yeah, I don't know what Egregious means, either).

I've been attempting to study for the GRE lately, but haven't had quite the success that I would have hoped for. In my perfect world I would have all 500 vocab flashcards memorized and be able to teach algebra to my 8th teacher Ms. Keiser. This,however, is merely a fuzzy dream, my friends. Instead, I feel the September "take date" creeping closer and closer, threatening to strangle me before I even lay eyes on it (although, I'm beginning to think death is not such a dismal alternative.) With that said, I would like to write a paragraph using my most recent group of vocab words I'm studying. I hope everyone can also incorperate them into their every day speech so that together we can form our own language no one else can understand. Ahem...

 Studies have shown that abstemious people live longer, but I love cereal too much to moderate my intake. That is why on Saturday morning the world gasped in utter shock when it witnessed my aberrant behavior.Yes, my friends. I ate an egg. Normally, being a creature of habit, I would expect such a bold move to draw in accolades from my many adoring fans who would see it as a step forward in an ever progressive world. Not this time, however. Despite the adroit nature with which I cooked the egg (scrambled with only two fingers, not five), I received a number of acerbic comments, some casting aspersions on my otherwise untarnished record. Those trained in law might call it slander. Others, finding themselves suddenly activists, launched a statewide campaign to abrogate the egg as a breakfast food, all-together. It can go unsaid that I was perplexed, if not horrified, by the violent outbursts and outrage at what seemed to be merely a minor deviation in just another normal day. I felt like I had no choice but to abjure the scrambled egg from my breakfast menu. Monday morning I called my agent and told him I needed to speak to the people. I hoped that a speech on Capital Hill, televised on C-SPAN and Disney, would abate the hateful vibes I felt from my fellow countrymen. My academic acumen, as well as my Navy Seal training (back in the day), allowed me to approach that microphone with confidence and with resolve. Upon reaching the pulpit and staring into the twenty cameras aimed directly at my face and the newly formed zit on my chin, however, I stopped. And I stood still. The speech I had prepared, the words of submission, words that might as well have been plastered across a white flag and waved to and fro from a ditch, suddenly hung heavily on my mouth. I stood in silence. When the thick silence reached the uncomfortable point, and my zit couldn't take any more attention, I snapped. Suddenly I began to flap my wings like a chicken and danced around, hopping on one foot. Without a single word, I was able to tell the world that if Jessica Thompson wanted to have an egg for breakfast, she would. Many great leaders have changed the world without ever having to say a word. The best leaders lead by example. I like to think that my chicken dance will go down in history. Or at least be incorporated into High School Musical 8.

Oh I love the GRE. And I had cereal for breakfast this morning.

Rock on, people

I just bought tickets to the Tim McGraw/ Lady Antebellum concert! I’m $50 poorer, but I justify it by telling myself that life is about experiences…right? I emailed my mom and said, “Mom, should I buy tickets to the Tim McGraw/Lady Antebellum concert? It’s $50.” And she replied, “Absolutely. I think Tim McGraw is Fine! Never heard of that “Lady” but she can’t be all bad if Tim will let her on the same stage as him.” So I bought the tickets.

I’m gonna live where the green grass grows. And apparently if Tim’s there, mom will, too.

 This recent purchase makes me reflect on the many concerts I have been to in my life, all marked in bold Sharpe pen on my list of life experiences, naturally:

My most recent concert deserves an entire blurb. Sir Paul McCartney, in the flesh. Yes, the Liverpool Legend, himself. It was by far the most amazing thing I’ve witnessed since I discovered multi-stacking cooling cookie racks. Fireworks and one classic after another. I saw so many dreams of 50 year olds in Beatles shirts come true that night. Paul, himself, is 67.  And he was a sweaty mess of a stud – with that long (definitely dyed but oh-so-natural looking) hair and his revolving guitar. I am in love with a 67 year old man, and his name is Paul. I mean, what is age, but a number? This concert made my life. Thanks Dad! And thank you, Paul.

Other concerts:

-The Fray/Jack’s Mannequin

-Bob Dylan

-Lonestar

-Alan Jackson

-Brooks and Dunn (twice)

-Shania Twain

-Leann Rimes

-The Dixie Chicks

-Randy Travis

-Howie Day/Missy Higgins

-Pink Martini

-HAPA

-Aaron Carter (not by choice)

-American Idol/Kelly Clarkson

- The Beach Boys (or what was left of them)

-The Moody Blue Brothers

-Sara Evans

-David Cook

-SHeDAISY

-Kenny Loggins

-Trace Adkins

-Diamond Rio

-Creedance Clearwater Revisited

-Heart

-REO Speedwagon
-Faith Hill

As I get grayer (no comments please), I will continue to add to this growing list. I'm already looking at tickets for Jack Johnson. If anyone would like to donate to the Make a Dream Come True Foundation (MDCTF) feel free. I bank at Cascade. Rock on, people. Rock on.

Crade Robber, Part II: The Call

My message light was blinking red when I went back to my bedroom. Knowing what was eminent, my heart kicked, suggesting an oncoming heart attack, I'm sure. My throat went a little dry, my hands clammy. I picked up my phone, which normally I think of as a blessing, but that day it was the bane of my existence, a mere tool for the murderous plots of the Matchmaker. I held down "1" for my voicemail - and waited. "New message, Saturday 10:56 P-M." Suddenly a man's voice filled my ear, and I found myself forced to finally face the reality. There WOULD be a date.

Tom seemed nice enough on the message - although anyone can come across as nice on a message. He was more than likely reading a script. He was smooth. His phone number showed up as New Mexico. Sister Jones had told me he was from around here. Was he a Russian spy? So many questions. So few answers. And so much suspicion. With little left to do but rip the band aid off the gaping wound, I hit the redial button and waited for what seemed like three lifetimes as the line rang. Finally a voice appeared. He had me nauseous at "Hello."

Despite the drama leading up to it, however, the phone conversation was relatively harmless. Usually that is how Satan works. He lures you in, line by line, until you can't escape. We chatted pleasantly enough about the weather. He was going to move his sister to Utah from Idaho that Memorial Day weekend. I'm sure "sister" was codeword for something much more dangerous and illegal. We talked about Sister Jones, and what a "sweet" woman she is. They had apparently known each other for years. I'm not surprised. That kind always sticks together. Like the mafia. I told him I had heard a rumor that he served in Argentina. He confirmed. I then asked which one. He replied that he served in the Buenos Aires North Mission. My eyebrows raised and my mind raced, trying to remember an Elder Smith* in flesh or in legacy. As hard as I tried, however, I couldn't pull anything. So I asked him when he served. "Oh," he replied. "I got back in 1993."

1993.

1993.

It didn't register then, that the date had nines instead of zeros in it. I was too caught up in trying not to vomit. Our conversation ended quickly, me having told him I was going home for the weekend and would be unavailable for awhile, and him telling me he would call me when I got back. I threw down my phone and walked out to meet my eagerly waiting roommates to give them the news. "It was," I choked out, "Tom." They squealed. And then I said nonchalantly enough, "Yeah, he said he was in my mission, but he got back in 1993." My roommates just stared at me, their jaws sliding down farther and farther, their eyes getting bigger and bigger. "What?" I asked. "Is something wrong?" And that's when it hit me like a ton of breaks - and I almost did vomit. 1993. 1993. 1993. I frantically grasped for any math skills left in my social science brain and did the terrifying calculations. If he left on his mission when he was 19, the youngest he could be was...My hand flew to my mouth in horror. He was 38 - at the very least. No, I thought. Impossible. I must have heard wrong on the phone. He must have said 2003 and I was so concentrated on holding my insides together that I just misheard. Yes, that must be it. 1993...

We decided we had to know ASAP. We are the Facebook generation, so naturally that was the first place my roommates and I looked, attempting to find a birthday, or at least some shred of evidence that would calm me down. Unfortunately his Facebook profile was private, so all we could see was his picture. He was situated between two Latins - and he looked quite young. A part me breathed a sigh of relief. The other part, however, still twisted in turmoil. The picture wasn't enough to cure my anxiety, so I whipped out all the stalker skills that I could muster, and we spent the next hour searching Google for any information we could find. Finally, our efforts paid off, and we found his high school alumni page. It read:

Tom Smith*:

• Graduated : 1989
• BS 1997, MS 2000 in Chemical Engineering, BYU
• Working on goal of being last member of Class of '89 to be married

It was the first line and the last that killed me. 1989. My worst fears were confirmed. And working on the goal of being the last member of the class to be married? Just great.

Despite being completely in shock at the idea that I was going to go on a date with a man only 6 years younger than my mother, a man who, given the right circumstances and lack of good judgment, could have been my very father, I couldn't help but chuckle at the Matchmaker's latest work...quite the masterpiece. It was going to be a long week waiting for that second phone call. Meanwhile, I thought I should go brush up on my knowledge of AARP. He was, after all, close to qualifying.

To be continued...