Lebanon – as in the town, not the country

Disclaimer: This is NOT New York City

This last weekend we went where the grass really does grow greener. Home home on the range! Where the deer and the antelope and the med students play. We flew into Portland on Friday morning and I couldn’t help but drool over the mountains smothered in green trees. When we landed at PDX, one of my most favorite people in the world was there to greet us in all her glory – my grandma, Christmas country music blaring from her SUV. There’s no place like home…

I surprised Tyler for his December birthday with tickets to the Body World exhibit at OMSI (Oregon Museum of Science and Industry) and we spent three hours of the afternoon pouring over dissected bodies (some skateboarding, others pondering…you know, everyday activities for dead people) and individually dissected body parts, including a black lung and gallstones. Yum! Each display had a description and Tyler loved explaining beyond the provided information. Because it was his birthday present, I let him. He was like a little boy in a candy shop! Towards the end he had to sit on a bench. At first I thought he was tired, but then sitting next to him, he explained that he was afraid he was going too quickly through the exhibit and had gotten in a “finish mode,” in which his main motivation was to get through it. He wanted to bask in the glory of the dead bodies. Again, it was his birthday…

That evening we indulged in Five Guys (and enlarged our behinds) and then prepared for the next day’s interview…

The rooster crowing at 5:30am startled us to awakenness (oh wait, that was Grandpa’s snoring) and we headed down I-5 towards Lebanon – as in the town, not the country. My mom and Bryce were in the front seat. Bryce was playing Colbie Caillat’s “I Do” over and over again. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that if he really listened to the lyrics, he would vomit in little-boy disgust. After the 25^th time of hearing those peppy acoustics blasting from the front seat, we got off the freeway and entered Oregon, pre-Industrial Revolution. We saw cows, and sheep, and I think there might have been a barn (so progressive). Driving through the farm fields in a Toyota Camry could not have been any more different from taking the bus to Harlem. I’m not sure at what point we entered Lebanon – as in the town, not the country – because the cows all looked alike.  Nevertheless, my trusty GPS Judy guided us to the medical school, which appeared through the thick Oregonian fog like an oasis in a forsaken desert. There was a waterfall greeting our entrance, and the school stood large and in new, red brick – a far cry from the rundown New York school in the heart of Harlem. We dropped Tyler off at school, and then waited the day out in anxiousness, hoping that everything would go well.

To make a short story even shorter, his interview went amazingly well, he discovered that 15 out of the 107 current class are LDS, and that people at the school root for three teams – OSU, UO, and BYU. Imagine that! In the middle of nowhere, there are MORMONS! A pleasant surprise indeed. Tyler loved the school facilities, and everyone there was very welcoming and excited about the school. We’ll hear back from them January 1!

I’ll admit…despite the school being in an extremely rural location, I couldn’t help but think about how nice it was to be near family once again (and I’ll also admit that living next door to cows would be nothing new to me. Moooooo! And Tyler would love that, I am positive). But who knows! (The story of our lives.)

Stay tuned for news from Lebanon – as in the town, not the country.

The New York Times (Earley Edition) Part III

Ok I admit it. We actually slept in on a trip to New York City. During my first two times to the Big Apple, this would have been an atrocity! We had things to do and people to see! But I guess the combination of Tyler and I was too weak to resist the human need to sleep. We had planned to pass by Central Park that morning, but decided to forgo it, deciding that it was, after all, mostly grass. And it was too cold to roll around in it. So we got up, greeted the slew of Indian people working at the small motel, checked out, and headed to the Brooklyn Bridge. It was a GORGEOUS day out – cold, but beautiful. As we walked across the bridge, we could see the Statue of Liberty out in the harbor, and we got a magnificent view of the lower Manhattan skyline. 

We took our sweet time walking the bridge, and finally arrived to the borough of Brooklyn. Believe it or not, this was my first time actually in Brooklyn, and I was ecstatic. Immediately upon entering the Borough, I felt like I could breathe a little bit easier, not having an armpit right in front of my nostrils. 

We walked around downtown a little bit, Tyler drew on a piece of living art, and we began the search for Grimaldi’s Pizza, rumored to be the best around, and located almost under the bridge. Well, naturally we got lost, but with help my trusty GPS Judy, we made it, tired and extra hungry.

The place was packed, as is every popular New York eatery, so we had to wait in a line outdoors, but the place was a movin’ and shakin’ and it really didn’t take us that long to be seated. Granted, we had to share a four person table with two young Asian girls, but that’s part of the experience, right? Elbow to elbow, baby. The pizza was huge (and fantastic) and we devoured the whole thing, along with Olde Brooklyn root beer in glass bottles (love). Pictures of famous people graced the walls of the establishment, and one could tell the locals from the tourists in the way they ate their pizza. Tyler, being Italian and all, knew the correct way, bless his heart. I hate looking like a tourist.

After lunch we had some time to spare so we walked just down the street to the Brooklyn Bridge Park where the Manhattan skyline was spread out before us across the water. The park was quiet, the sun was brightly shining, the water was blue, and I thought, “Finally. This is the New York I could live in.” I can see now why Francie, in a Tree Grows in Brooklyn, talked so highly of the place where she grew up. It really is magical.

Snapping back to reality, we had to make our way back to the subway,

 and rode it up to Harlem, where we caught the bus back to the cardboard box. On the subway, Tyler mentioned that this could be the last time we ride it. I couldn’t decide how I felt about that comment. I thought maybe I needed to get out of the situation and then do some reflection on our visit. After making it to La Guardia Airport, our flight was delayed, so I had plenty of time to think. We both liked it. Looking at it through non-tourist eyes, it appealed to me a little less than times past, though. I would definitely want to live farther from the Manhattan crowds. New York, however, would be a grand adventure.

After a long trek back to Salt Lake City (more delays and a missed connection flight in Denver) we arrived to our humble abode at about 1:30am, exhausted. The trip, at that point, seemed like a blur. Luckily we have pictures to remind us of that one time we ate Al Sharpton and Barack Obama, or of our near death experience. And thankfully we have this (very) lengthy blog so we never forget the joys of the Big Apple.

Stay tuned for updates regarding Touro NY!

The New York Times (Earley Edition) Part II

I felt like I had been hit by an MTA bus. It was 5:30am in NYC (3:30 Utah time—yet again) and I was feeling the late bed time the night before (or was it that bar we hit up?) Nevertheless, we got ourselves up, ironed, and made the bus, headed back to Harlem. After dropping the little boy off at school at 7:45 (I think I was more anxious and nervous than he was and he was the one blindly heading to into the firing squad!), I put on my rap music (yes. I. did.) and set off on my independent walking tour of Harlem and the Bronx. Like a little lost puppy, I meandered up and down residential streets placed between bustling main streets. The whole world was out and about walking their kids to the rundown public elementary schools I saw, causing me to wonder what it’s like growing up in Harlem. The churches in Harlem were incredible in their gothic architecture (I’m converting). 

Malcolm X Blvd Church

Anddddd I felt extremely out of place, feeling like I stuck out like a sore thumb in my pea coat and pale skin. Nevertheless, I tried to look like I knew exactly where I was going the whole time as I bounced up and down to Black Eyed Peas. Eventually I found a grocery store, one of my adventure’s goals, and explored inside, noting the much higher prices ($7.60 for a box of Honey Bunches of Oats, $4.00 for a gallon of milk, $8.00 for ice cream??). I also spotted the Harlem LDS church, which among the warn-out buildings and dark grey sidewalks, stood out like a sore red thumb. I tried the doors, but they were locked, leaving me in my sins on Malcolm X Boulevard.

The LDS Church in Harlem

After having sufficiently conquered Harlem and the lower Bronx, I set out on the subway to find Fordham University, as well as a huge outdoor holiday market at Union Square. Unfortunately I started on the wrong subway and spent much of my adventure time underground trying to recuperate my sanity. I did, however, surface (not unlike a gopher) a few times, having given up on my ability to read maps, and was determined to find my way by foot, no matter how long those blasted Manhattan blocks might be. After many blocks, my legs felt otherwise, and I would sink down into the darkness, once again, trying to follow the light to the end of the tunnel. To make a (very) long story short, I did not make it to Fordham, but I did finally arrive to Union Square! Like a long lost traveler stranded in the Serengeti dessert, the smell of hot apple cider and every other Christmas smell imaginable (minus certain inevitables following a filling holiday meal) greeted me much in the same way that the smell of a baking chocolate cake meets the nostrils of a chubby little boy. I walked around for a bit. I watched the dogs scanter about in their 4x4 feet dog run (is this humane?), made a purchase, and then eventually realized that I could no longer feel my fingers, and decided to return to Harlem. At 2:15 Tyler got out of his interview, very happy with how it went, and we spent the subway ride to Battery Park (where you can see the Statue of Liberty) analyzing and rehashing his interview. He’s a smart one, that boy is!

At the Lady

The events following our short viewing of the Lady in the far distance included, but were not limited to, Wall Street (Zuccotti park, anyone?),

 the World Trade Center site, Little Italy dinner (where Tyler knew more Italian than the “Italian” waiter), 

Dinner in Little Italy

and then towards the end, our almost certain demise – Rockefeller Plaza…

We thought it was so perfect that they were lighting the Rockefeller Christmas tree exactly on the night we were going to be there. How festive, right? Yeah, if you call mob hysteria and certifiable spectators your idea of a holly jolly Christmas. Like cattle, we were herded up a side street, where we could only see a big screen showing what was going on just around the corner – a cruel taunting to one in love with Justin Beiber (I’m talking about the person next to me, come on guys!) We did not have even a little bit of holiday hope in our hearts of seeing the Christmas tree. People just kept crowding in on us, to the point that I could smell the man’s armpit in front of me because I was in his armpit. At that point, I could not even see the second-rate TV screen. Not wanting to imagine WWIII following the end of the program as 10,000 people all tried to leave at the same time, Tyler and I decided to head out early. Unfortunately, some others had the same idea, and we were forced to not only fight ongoing traffic, but also people pushing past us from behind. Eventually, we reached a human brick wall, the NYPD having stopped the migrating crowd in order to allow cross traffic to continue. Apparently, one man did not think this was ok, and he started pushing his way through the wall. What happened next is a blur, but we heard screams and all of the sudden people started pushing and shoving in a mob panic. Five NYPD officers rushed into the crowd. I was getting stomped on and was afraid I would die right then and there under some large, gum-stuck boot coming down onto my face. All the while the NYPD cops are yelling, “Calm down! Calm down!” I think one even patted Tyler’s shoulder (because he was out of control, let me tell ya!) Eventually, we made it out (alive) and hurried in the direction in which people were NOT.

After such a traumatic, near death experience, I needed cheesecake. So we got some at Grand Central and drowned our emotions in sugar and fat. 

At Junior's eating cheesecake!

After that, the blubber on my behind said to walk, and walk we did. In search of Washington Square Park, I think we covered almost all of the East side of Manhattan. Somehow we waltzed right into it, however, as a trumpet player announced out entrance (true story…sort of. ) It was beautiful and well worth it!

 By that time, I could hardly walk anymore, but out of need for survival, we made the trek back to the subway, and then to the bus, and then to the cardboard box.

The length of this blog post is to inspire real life feelings of fatigue and exasperation.  You’re welcome.

The New York Times (Earley Edition) Part I

Tyler and I woke up Tuesday morning and thought, "Let's go to New York!" And so we did. Ok, so this is a lie. But we really did wake up Tuesday morning (at 3am) and think about going to NYC (because we were). So really, that's not a lie at all. (Sidenote: My grandma would always ask me if I knew where liars go. She would reply before I could anwer: BOLIVIA. Naturally.) We woke up well before any human being should (or insect, bird, reptile, or mammal for that matter), and began gathering up last minute things before Tyler's parents picked us up (bless their souls). And then we headed to the Big Apple!

The flight was uneventful. I ended up sitting next to a lady from New Mexico who gave me an appointment card for a DO doctor in update New York, just in case Tyler ever ran across his name while at medical school. For some reason, Tyler and I have never flown together without leaving with a business card of the person next to us. We just have those faces, I guess. Naturally. When we arrived at La Guardia airport (Tyler having nearly peed his pants for reals on the bridge to the airline gate), the New York humidity hit us hard, and we were suprised to find it 60 degrees --- and pouring down rain. Terrific! But were not about to let any weather slow us down. Oregon blood running thick through my veins, and by marriage, his, we called the airport Comfort Inn and they came and picked us up. Bless their souls. Our hotel room was no bigger than the size of a large cardboard box, but it was a bed and a toilet, and that's all one can ask for. After getting a map of the subways, having asked the Indian man at the front desk at least eleven times to repeat to us where the bus stop was in his thick accent, we jumped on the M60. Destination: Harlem. The plan was to figure out how to get to the med school, and meanwhile hunt down the Chicken and Waffle House we found on Yelp (highly rated, might I add.) The bus was a straight hour shot to the school, but the only problems were a) We had never ridden it yet, b) we couldn't see any of the street signs in the dark, and c) we couldn't understand what in Haites name the bus driver was mumbling into the speaker every time he announced a stop. With the help of my trusty phone GPS, Judy, however, we managed to realize when we made it to Harlem. Actually, I take that back. I think we realized it when the bus flooded with more black people than BYU has ever seen at once. We were, to say the least, the minority.

Welcome to Harlem, yo.

We made it to the school just fine (and very white) and walked around the area, trying to keep my umbrella from flying inside out due to the NYC hurricane that had decided to grace the island with its blustery presence. The theme of our three days could have been Wrong Way Wonders, because Harlem provided us with the first time of many of walking many, many blocks trying to find a restaurant, only to find it was the opposite side. Wrong turn. Wrong way wonder. We ate at a fun place, Amy Ruth's, famous for their Fried chicken and waffles. Tyler ordered the Reverand Al Sharpton. I can't say it was my favorite. Just a big hunk of fried chicken on a plain waffle. Maybe I'm not Harlem enough.

The Rev. Al Sharpton at Amy Ruth's

I ordered the Barack Obama -- bbq chicken, baked macaroni and cheese, and mashed potatoes. AND they even brought us out cornbread to start the meal. MmmmmMmm. Finger-lickin' good, my friends. After sufficiently clogging our arteries leaving little hope of surviving past the ages of 35 and 34, respectively, we waddled out into the hurricane again, this time, with little chance of blowing away in the wind. That's one point for Obama. We managed to find our way to a nearby subway, which we could only hope would take us to our desired destination of Times Square. This was not, however, before we saw a prostitute and her John being arrested by the NYPD. I heart NY.

Times Square was awesome, and continues to be the reason none of the the third world countries have electricity. We snapped some pictures, and even saw a man in in a cow-print speedo and rainboots, dancing. Priceless. Tyler thought of joining him, but then was beat to it by another adoring fan. I told Tyler he can take his own show on the road to Salt Lake. Tyler loved Times Square, and said if we live in NYC, he doesn't think he would ever get tired of it. I told him he may change his mind after the twelfth or thirteenth time, when the speedo man is still there.

Later, when our Times Square fix was satisfied, we hunted down another subway and managed to get on the correct one, that would connect us to our bus. This success merely gave us a false sense of accomplishment and security, and predicted nothing of the coming two days in terms of navigation. At least, that night, we made it to our cardboard box alive and well.

Prostitutes, hurricanes, and Al Sharpton aside, it was a beautiful beginning to an even more beautiful three-day New York life.

Wisdom from Betty Smith

About three weeks ago I finally finished what has come to be by far one of my favorite books (thank you, Bucket). I loved A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. I discovered raw wisdom in it. I felt fulfilled reading it. I cried during it. I laughed a few times out loud. And the morning after I finished reading, I couldn’t wait to read some excerpts to Tyler. And so I woke him up to the blinding light of the bedside lamp and told him to listen. He did. With his eyes closed. 

One of the parts I read to eyes-closed Tyler came after the book finished. The publisher included a short piece, also by Betty Smith, entitled “Fall in Love with Life.” It originally appeared in This Week Magazine. I’m going to copy it word for word in here, because I think it is so applicable to our current stage in life, ours personally, and then to many of our friends’.  No matter how much we plan, life often times has a mind of its own, but despite everything not working out how we thought it would, it can still be so fulfilling…

“As a listening child, I often heard older people say: ‘Oh the plans I made!’ And ‘What dreams I had!’ And the inevitable: ‘If only I had my life to live over…’ I reasoned that these men and women had missed the fullness of life somehow.

But I wasn’t going to miss it, I decided at the age of fourteen. I planned. In a slightly used copy book, I made a full list of what I wanted from life. I vowed to attain those things, one by one.

The plans never worked out. Most of my adult life, I had to work to support myself and others. A lot of the fullness of life was expended in the competitive business world. But I was young and optimistic. This is only for the time being, I said. Someday it will all come out the way I want it.

But the years went by and then I was middle-aged and alone. My children had left to make their own full life somewhere. I, too, began to think: ‘If only I had my life to live over again…’

One rainy night, I went down to the drugstore to get a paperback to read myself to sleep on. I picked up an Emile Zola book and stood there holding it, waiting to remember something I had read long ago. Then it came to me: Zola had said: ‘To have a child, to plan a tree, to write a book.’ That, he said, was a full life!

A great stillness grew about me as I realized I’d had a child…I’d planted a tree…in fact, I’d even written a book, though when Zola said ‘book’ I am sure he meant it as a symbol for any constructive job, honestly done.

And so, according to the tenets of a great man, I had a full life. My children had given me a quiet, never ending ecstasy all the years of their growing up. A little thrown-away sapling that I’d planted twenty-five years ago is now a shade. My children and later their children played under it and, God willing, there will be great-grandchildren playing under it, too. And I was even able to make a book out of all my hopes and fears and dreams.

No one of these things had been set down in the notebook, because they were part of me – things I took for granted. For instance: When I was first aware that I would be a woman, I knew I’d have children. When I wept childish tears as they cut down the only tree in our tenement yard, I knew I would plant a tree everywhere I lived. And when at the age of eight, I got my first ‘A’ on a school composition, I knew I would write a book some day.

I came to a clear conclusion, and it is a universal one: To live, to struggle, to be in love with life – in love with all life holds, joyful or sorrowful—is fulfillment. The fullness of life is open to all of us.”

Bendiciones = Blessings

There is so much to be thankful for. On the last day of my mission, I sat at a baptism in Tierra del Fuego, the wind howling outside, but the inside of the little church so warm and bright. The baptismal room was full of people I had to come to know, respect, and love. They had changed me for the better -- and they were the ones that thought I had served them! My two friends, Jorge and Maria, had just made a covenant with God that would ultimately allow their family to be together forever. They had taken a long journey to get to this day, but they arrived, and their tears could not be stopped. As they got up after their baptism to share their testimonies with the group gathered, I was blown away by the powerfulness of their conversion -- their faith moved me. I sat there in my chair, with my smelly boots, worn tights, and frizzy hair, listening with a heart so full it could've burst with a pin prick. When their testimonies came to a close, we began to sing the closing hymn: Because I Have Been Given Much. I think my heart did burst, then. Tears streamed down my face as we sang the selfless anthem in the language in which, I myself, had been converted...

Tue me has dado muchas bendiciones, Dios
por eso quiero dar tambien, segun Tu voz.
A mi hermano a tendere, su gran dolor mitigare;
a mi projimo mi amor dare.

Because I have been given much, I too must give.
Because of they great bounty, Lord each day I live.
I shall divide my gifts from thee with every brother that I see;
who has the need of help, from me.

Tonight, as the Thanksgiving holiday comes to a close, I can't help but think about how the Lord has continued to bless me since this day, and really, over the course of my life. In the hustle and bustle, and minor annoyances and inconveniences, it's easy to forget to look. When I stop and see, there are so many:


An amazing husband who I don't tell nearly enough how thankful I am to have him in my life. As cheesy as it sounds, he completes me, and my love and admiration for him just grows greater every day. And I wear him out by having him do stuff for me all the time, and he never once has complained.

A loving and supportive family (no matter how dysfunctional we may sometimes be!)

A loving and supportive "in-law" family who is always there when we need them in Utah...like when our car breaks or I lock myself in the parking garage. 

Amazing and loyal friends who I just love to death and who I know are always there for me.

Getting to speak Spanish every day.

Working in my dream field of work right out of school.

Having a roof over my head and warm blankets.

Having food on the table every day.

My mission -- it changed my life.

The Gospel.

Grandparents who gave me a car. I would still be riding Sophie in the ghettos of SLC.

Hot water.

Books and literacy.

My good health.

Challenges and obstacles (in retrospect, of course).

The Scriptures and personal revelation.

People who stand up for what they believe.


Truth.

Culture.

Diversity.

Education.


Opportunity.

Love.

Happy Thanksgiving, and may we continue in the spirit all throughout the year.

Reason #2 Why I Love My Clients

They Ask Me to be the Godmother of Their Children

I have a Peruvian client who is a single father of one. His son did not originally come with him to the U.S. when he came to work, but now, thanks to federal legislation that allows victims of human trafficking to apply for family derivative visas and bring their immediate family members into the United States, he will once again be reunited with his son, hopefully sometime around February.

The other day I was driving this client around to various places, and when we finished, I took him to the bus stop so that he could return home. As we pulled up to the bus stop, he began saying how much he appreciated my help, how much it meant to him (sentiments that always make responding awkward, since this is, after all, my job). He began saying how excited he is that his son is coming and that when he gets here, he is going to introduce him to me. I responded that I was excited to meet him, and we continued speaking a little longer in that tapered way two people do when one is halfway out the door and leaving. Suddenly, at the point in which he normally would have bid me farewell, he said suddenly, “And I would like you to be his godmother.” Still in my “saying goodbye” mode, in which at that point I’m only partially engaged in the conversation, I say, “Great, yeah. No problem. “(Keep in mind that sometimes in a foreign language, things of monumental circumstances thrown casually into a dying conversation may take an extra second to register.) Wait. WHAT? “Did you say, Madrina (godmother)?” I asked, not sure if I heard him right. He nodded his head vigorously. “Si, si,” he replied. He thanked me for being so willing to be the godmother (I agreed in clouded understanding) and then went off to board the bus. I couldn’t help but start laughing as I pulled out of the parking lot. Me…a GODMOTHER!

When I got home I had to look up the meaning, because really, the only type of godmother I was familiar with had a wand and magical powers. And while I don’t deny toting a wand around with me now and then, I certainly was no fairy.

According to Wikipedia, a godmother is a female godparent in the Christian tradition. I might sponsor the child’s baptism, or may even be arranged to be legal guardian of a child should untimely demise be met by the parents. If I were a drinker (and sometimes I aspire to be), I would be a cocktail made with Italian Amaretto liqueur and vodka. When Tyler got home I asked him if he was ready to have a child. His eyes bugged out and the implications of this question. I quickly added, not wanting to promote the spreading of rumors, that the child would be Peruvian. Looking back, I suppose this could have promoted even more scandalous rumors, but at the moment, it seemed like the best explanation. Tyler decided he was ready to be the father of someone else’s Peruvian child. We both thought that it was the best solution, given the fact that the child would be out of diapers and would no longer throw up all over the place. Why didn’t I think of being a godmother before?

Fairy Godmothers: Reason #2 why I love my clients.

Germ-a-Phobe

Tyler and I have discovered a gem. While we promised ourselves we would never become one of "those" newly married couples who spend their evenings watching movies and TV series on DVD, I'm afraid, to an extent, we have. Luckily we're too shrewd with our money to subscribe to Netflix or the likes thereof and become entirely hermetic, but we have resorted ourselves to our newly found love, a love that will most certainly give our our first born a run for his/her money. Yes, we have unearthed a $2 movie theater in Sugar House. Last week we went and saw Mighty Macs (one I personally found inspiring and empowering for women athletes, while Tyler found the basketball coach's style a little far-fetched). And this week, we decided to go and partake of an experience that would force us to never, for the rest of our little lives, leave the confines of our home again.

Contagion.

I suppose this movie did what it was supposed to if I felt compelled to clean out Wal-Mart's current supply of waterless hand-sanitizer afterwards. In a nutshell, it was about a disease, not that much different from the bird flu, that runs rampant on the earth and (SPOILER ALERT) kills at least 2.7 million people before a vaccine is eventually discovered. Meanwhile, the whole country is in uproar as cities are quarantined, grocery stores are looted, pharmacies trashed, and ultimately homes broken into and people shot for their food. The scariest thing of this movie was not the somewhat graphic deaths, or the sometimes eerie music. It was the fact that it could actually HAPPEN. Did I mention I hate movies like that??

Anyway, Matt Damon looked like an old fart, Gwyneth Paltrow was barely in it, Jude Law had cracked and crooked teeth totally defeating any purpose of watching a movie with him in it, and Tyler and I decided we are moving to the mountains where we will build up an arsenal of food storage and ammo.

If in the future this, or something similar, should occur, the select few who frequent this blog will be invited to our housewarming party in the hills. Please bring your own lysol wipes. And no breathing allowed.

Temple Square Friday

After having a long love affair with the couch, I decided it was time to move it, move it. So when Tyler got home, we ate dinner, bundled up, and drove to Temple Square to take a stroll. In times of stress or worry, Temple Square is almost like a sanctuary. Once I stepped foot onto the grounds, I felt like I could breath just a little easier...

A New Approach

I've been thinking a lot about posterity lately. No, I'm not pregnant, nor will I be tomorrow. But should I have children one day in the future, I think I would like them to know who I was -- my quirks, my insanity, my nerdiness, my -- fill in the blank. Unfortuantely, I do not keep a journal. I think I have a dozen or so quarter-filled diaries stashed away in a box somewhere in the shop at my house in Oregon. I can, however, at least commit to a blog. My roommate from this summer has turned her blog into several books, which I think is awesome, so instead of making my entries each so separate and article-like, I'm going to try to keep more of a daily/weekly blog with both stories and happenings. Maybe my mom will actually read, then! (Just kidding, mom!) The only problem I foresee with this plan is that, well, my life is somewhat boring right now. I take comfort in the fact, however, that maybe Paris Hilton thought her life was boring before she began documenting it on the Simple Life. On second thought....So despite the lack of material, I am determined to document! I am a visual person, and will try to incorporate pictures, as well. Maybe I want a camera for Christmas.......hmmmmmmmm.....Maybe I should get a computer that works first......

So to start off my very first post of a new and revolutionary era, I'll tell you right now that it is 1:30 pm on a Friday and I am sitting on my butt on our plastic couch still in my red, flannel Christmas pajamas. I woke up at 7am -- and have been here ever since. I managed to eat a bowl of cheerios, and I talked with my mom on the phone. I think I even peed three times since 7. Welcome to the start of a vibrant and riveting blog, PEOPLE! Until next time...

Reason #1 Why I Love My Clients

They tell me I’m fat.

 When I was in Argentina, I had to grow thick skin. Towards the end of my first six months in Buenos Aires, before heading to Southern Argentina, I admit that I had put on some weight. We ate more than anyone should ever humanly digest and our area was as flat as Texas on a good day. We walked, but apparently we did not ever walk enough to counterbalance the greasy everything coated in mayonnaise that we put into our mouths. As I was saying goodbye to people, preparing for the journey south, three different households commented to me, “Hermana! You’ve been eating goooooooooood!” I hate you, I thought, in a very Christlike way, of course. In Southern Argentina, I lost weight because of a city built on a mountain, and apparently appeared thinner than in my pictures from before the mission, because my weight, again, became dinner conversation, this time for the better, at least. I remember one particular comment being, “Hermana! Who ate you?”

Hopefully this gives you an idea of Latin culture in general. They are just blunter, and less reserved! I was never more aware of my weight and my zits and my flaws as I was there, when sometimes random strangers would point them out to me. (Case in point: I was sitting in church one Sunday and an old lady whom I didn’t know very well leans over and said, “I have a cream for that,” referring to the zits on my face.) Like I said, I had to grow thick skin! Well, apparently that wears off…

Within the last three weeks, I have had two separate clients comment on my weight. The first client, a Cuban professor refugee whom I hadn’t seen since March, saw me and exclaimed, “Ai, Yessica! You look more round!” Huh? “It’s because you’re married, isn’t it?” At first I was confused when she said I looked “rounder.” Did she think I was pregnant? Did she think I was swollen? And then she followed up with, “You always eat more when you’re married!” I was taken aback by her comment, and quickly realized that the thick skin I had had to build up had dissolved over the last two and a half years. OUCH.  I will admit; it kind of shook me up a little bit, not being used to people telling me straight up about my weight. I just sort of shrugged off her comment, I’m sure with a red face.

Two weeks later, if I at all thought it might have just been one crazy person’s perception of me, a Mexican client brought it up, as well! I went to her house, and I had only seen her about a month before (when I was married already…). The instant I walk into her house she says loudly, “Wow! You look different!” “I do?” I replied, again being naïve and not realizing what was coming. “Yeah,” she replied. “You look more ‘gordita’.” (Meaning fatter). “It must be because you’re married!” Grrrrrrrrr. This time, I felt my little angry inner voice flair up, not having the name of Jesus Christ plastered across my chest to keep me in check. All I said, however, was “Oh.” And gave her the money I brought for her. I had definitely shed that skin on my last Argentine taxi ride to the Buenos Aires airport.

First of all, I will admit that when I gain weight, you see it first in my face, as evident in mission pictures following addictive episodes of buying bakery bread by the kilo. So if I have gained weight, you see it easily.  Second, I will confess, I haven’t been as diligent in my gym workouts as I was this summer. And third, I will concede that being married and eating with another person every night has expanded my menu to more than just garden burgers and squash. BUT, I can still fit into my clothes the same, and my mom says that’s all that matters.

Nevertheless, I will be in a spin class today at the gym, killing myself for an hour, hoping that in doing so, I will in turn, not kill my clients. Reason number one why I love them.

Feline AIDS: The Beginning of an Epidemic

In memory of a Cat-Lover-holic, who still remains very much with us.

When the Black Plague first struck Europe, very few recognized its potential as an epidemic.  Eventually, however, after the disease had wiped out almost 60 percent of Europe’s entire population, no one could deny its deathly existence. I compare the Black Plague to Feline immunodeficiency virus (FIV), a lentivirus that affects domesticated housecats worldwide and is the causative agent of feline AIDS. I supposed the only difference between the two horrific, debilitating diseases is that Feline AIDS only affects about 2.5 percent of all house cats. Oh, and it’s a cat disease.

So why write about such a topic on a blog normally dedicated to selfish worries and whimsical dreams? Well, when Occupy Wall-Street is over, when Gadhafi is dead (oh wait), and when North Dakota decides that paying strippers $2000/night is ludicrous (true story), CNN will need material, and when my blog is discovered, and subsequently goes syndicated, you’ll say you knew me when. With that said, let me tell you why you should love your cat just a little more today, why you should squeeze him just a little tighter, and why you should never let a morning go by where you don’t give him a kiss on his furry cheek.

FIV was first discovered in 1986 by smart people at the UC Davis School of Veterinary Medicine (yes, I have a peep there. Her name is Jill). It was discovered among a colony (that was the name of a market down the street from my childhood home) of cats that had a high prevalence of “opportunistic infections and degenerative conditions” (cite Wikipedia because those words are definitely too big to pass as my own.)

The disease is primarily spread through deep bite wounds and scratches, where the infected cat’s saliva enters the other cat’s bloodstream. The other night I heard a cat fight outside my window and my first thought was, “Feline AIDS.” I mourned.

If you suspect that your cat or a cat you love has the disease, tests can be performed at your local veterinarian’s office with results in minutes, allowing for quick consultation. Early detection helps maintain the cat’s health and prevents spreading infection to other cats. Like a gleam of light in an otherwise dark and dreary rainstorm, infected cats, with proper care, can live long and healthy lives.

For more information, please see my blog post on CNN…when they get around to putting it up, of course.

Eating Bacon

I went to the DMV this morning with a client. And like every DMV in this country, we had to sit, our extremely high number in hand, and wait to be called by a very disinterested DMV employee. As my client and I were sitting there, my eyes couldn't help but observe the interesting array of people there. There was the single mom with her belly hanging over her much too tight pair of jeans, strangling her screaming, dirty child into silence, following a very LOUD yelling episode by the child. There was the old lady reading her book in front of us, barely being able to see the words and therefore reading with the book smashed up against her nose. There was the gangster sitting to our right, who I don't even know why bothers to wear pants at all. And I can't forget the Asian couple to our left. Now THEY were crazy. But despite the wide array of DMV patrons this morning, I just cannot let go of two men I noticed today (and not because they looked like Ryan Reynolds.) No. In fact just the opposite. If the DMV were a zoo, these men would be the pigs. Please allow me to elaborate.

There was a group of men sitting diagonal from us. They were loud and boisterous. They all knew each other, each waiting for their license to drive a truck. And behind this loud group, sat a quieter man. Suddenly, a girl's number got called, and she casually got up from her seat and had to walk in front of this group of men to get to her counter. One man in the group, a blond bozo, stares at her from the moment she gets up. I continue to observe, knowing what was coming. As the girl walked past, he continued to follow her, and as she walked behind him, he even turned around to keep staring. As he did so, his eyes met the eyes of the big, braided man sitting behind him, who just happened to be doing the same thing. They both burst into laughter and started throwing around derogatory comments and references. I. Was. Disgusted. And so, I took a picture of this newly formed friendship. Pigs together in the trough.

Yes, this is them. We do not blur out the faces of the guilty.

Maybe I'm too caught up in my job working with survivors of sex trafficking, but these attitudes that some men openly have about women -- objectifying them and turning them into mere things to look at, or even worse, contributes to, and ultimately allows, more serious, dangerous, deathly epidemics to occur and continue. Human trafficking is merely one example. One could throw in domestic violence, child abuse, rape, sexual harassment in the workplace, and so on.

There are many good people out there in the world fighting the injustice, fighting the perverted perspectives and the twisted images of reality. Unfortunately, unless society brings about a cultural shift in how women are viewed, I'm scared to think that the efforts by the few will be in vain. And unfortunately, there are men in positions of political power, who do not help the situation, but actually contribute to it. Albert Einstein once said, "“The significant problems we have cannot be solved at the same level of thinking with which we created them.” Thus, it will take fresh voices, new courage, and baby fresh boldness to begin a movement that is not only needed, but is imperative to the health of the world. As women die in hoards around the world from lack of basic maternal health care, from war, from lack of education, and from slavery, there's no question about what needs to happen.

When life gives you a pig, make BACON.

Editor's Note: I love my husband for giving real men a good name. He eats the bacon with me.

The Pact

Today Ty-Baby and I took a walk around Liberty Park. The leaves are just starting to change, and the air is just that much more crisp. I LOVE IT. As we walked, I couldn't help but feel heavy. See, I have this problem. I think too much. I think too much about what I'm not doing now, or what I am doing wrong. I think too much about the future, and how it's going to be -- or not be. I worry. I anxiety-ize. For some weird reason, I have this sense of urgency -- a feeling that tells me that life is too short, that time is quickly passing me by, and that I need to make every second count. Thus, when I find myself just sitting, doing nothing, the anxiety sets in. Or if a day goes by that, in my opinion, nothing was accomplished in, I feel that urge again. Go ahead. Just say it. I know you're thinking it. Take. A. Chill. Pill. I'm trying, ok!?!

Anyway, I was feeling this a little as we were walking through the park, but nevertheless, I couldn't help but be taken in by the tall, shady trees, the green grass, and the orange and yellow leaves scattered around. The sight made me think of Portland. And I loved it even more. In the midst of these tall trees and Northwest-esque beauty, there sat a stone table and benches. I told Tyler we should go and sit at it, thinking we needed to take this all in. We sat down and studied the inappropriate drawings on the table, trying not too read too much into them, and then started talking about our future. I pointed out that I'd like to return to this exact table and play chess on it one day. Tyler said he would rather play Boggle. But whatever. The rollerbladers and the men in short shorts continued to go past us. We talked about life. To be or not to be. You know. And then I decided it was time. While we have talked about what we want to do with our lives many times, I have also noticed how many times I say I'm going to go on a diet, binge the night before as a "Last Supper," and then spot that tub of German Chocolate ice cream in the freezer, ending all good intentions ever conjured up in my willing, but weak mind. No, "to talk" was not going to work this time. I told Tyler, "Ty-baby cakes. Honey sweet muffin. My vida. My amor. We need to make a pact." "What kind of pact?" he asked, hoping to high heavens it wasn't going to have anything to do with him sporting a pink tutu or letting me put mascara on him...again. "We need to promise each other," I replied, with all the seriousness of a black bean, "that we will make something of our lives. That we will do something of significance. That we won't be content to just sit back and watch life pass us by." I paused for dramatic effect, studying his facial response. After what seemed like hours of suspense, he smiled, took my hand, and said, "Ok!" And there you have it. OK people! Just as we made our pact, shaking on it like two corporate excutives having just signed a $845 billion deal with the intent of obliterating the livelihoods of the entire 99% of the U.S. population, we saw a metaphor for our life promise to one another....

One grey shitzu was tied to a brown shitzu and they were without an owner, walking freely on the sidewalk, only tied to one another. When one would start wandering off the paved path, probably to pee on a tree, the other would stop, and tug it back to the sidewalk, setting it on the correct course, once again. The moral of the story is, when Tyler goes off of the sidewalk to pee on a tree, I will pull him back in, and we will continue on our journey of life, trying to make a difference in a world that makes us feel so inadequate and small. With blood promises made (ok, so we didn't cut our palms and press them together like I wanted to...Tyler said that's how people get AIDS), we get ready to take on another week of school, of work, and of learning to be husband and wife. Meanwhile, those shitzus continue to walk around the park, fighting each other for the right to pee. And just as long as they don't ****zu in the park, life is good...

Nine Lives

Ok ok ok. You can all stop bugging me about never writing on my blog. I'm doing it!! I realize that I have been hot and cold with this old thing since I started it in 2005...six years ago. BUT! I believe in second, third, fourth, fifth, and twentieth chances. And cats have nine lives right? Meow. I'm going to try to be much better about writing. Maybe this will help me feel a little better connected to the world. Being out of school, out of a student ward, drastically cutting down on the number of roommates I have (two if you count the road bike parked in our living room), and seeing my friends either keep on trucking in Provo or move to bigger and better places, has made me feel slightly isolated from the life I once knew. Graduation and marriage are two of life's most pivotal milestones, and I hit 'em up-style in the same year. Let's not mention that I also moved to the big city, and started a new job. Change is gonna come. So as I sit in our new apartment near beautiful Liberty Park, I also contemplate how to continue forward in this "new life," while also not putting aside those things that made me who I was becoming. While I yearn for that comfortable feeling, I am also uncomfortable if I start to feel it. While routine makes me feel safe, I hunger for spontaneity. And now I have a sidekick with whom I can live life to the fullest. We may be out of our minds crazy with "must-dos" tasks -- his homework, medschool applications (yes, I do help with the essays!), work, paying the bills, cleaning the house, doing the laundry, buying the groceries, blah blah blah vomit -- but our goal is to find joy and that "full" feeling every day -- an evening at the Presbyterian church downtown listening to interfaith choirs, pizza at the Pie, a walk around the park at dusk, a baptism, a scary movie, taking a stroll around Temple Square at night hand in hand. Yes, change will come -- change will ALWAYS come. But we can find joy in the journey. To my friends, you may have abandoned me for more exciting things than an old married woman (don't worry, I don't judge), but I love you regardless. Come visit me. To my family, you can rest now that I've found Jesus. God bless. To my husband, I'm sorry for the hair that is constantly covering our tile floors. Welcome to life with a girl.

If I don't continue to consistently write on this darn blog, feel free to flog me. In public. Maybe in the Taco Time parking lot, because I'm hungry.

Peace.

Guest Blogging Post

I know what you've all been dying to know for the last 6 months...Who was the unsuspecting date of the legendary padded shoe outing? You guessed it-I'm the man. Now, months later, I'm unsure whether to burn or enshrine those shoes for accompanying us our first date. I mean, maybe they have special powers that brought us together.

On the other hand, maybe it was the "accidental" (we'll call it that, anyway) lip to ear contact while whispering before the show that began the chain of events. One thing is for sure, any shrine with those legendary flats would

have to be in a vacuum-sealed container.


Before stepping off of memory lane, let's make a quick stop near the beginning, just for perspective: 

The day: 26 August 2010. 
The location: Just outside the apartments of girls that recently moved in. 
Setting: Just after sunset. I was passing out new ward member information sheets and trying to retain a name or two along the way.

As we went from one apartment to the next, I was thinking that I wouldn't remember a single person. Approaching the next door, a walking box was coming the other direction. A hand emerged from behind the cardboard and pulled open the door. We followed the box into her apartment and offered a hand. The beautiful face that emerged, quickly changed my mind and memory capacity.We went out to the car and helped move a couple of extra boxes into the apartment. Because of the Argentine pictures, my buddy began rambling off in Spanish, questioning where she had served, etc. I offered a few forgettable followup questions, and bid farewell, knowing it wouldn't be our last meeting. Nearly 10 months later, we're engaged to be married just one day shy of a year from our first introduction.

Love you Jess!

-Tyler

A Woman's Work is Never Done...

I would like to begin this blog post with three apologies, two disclaimers, and one confession. First, I am sorry (to the three people who read this) for not writing for so long. Each time I began a post, I fell asleep. It just  may be the onset of narcolepsy, but the doctors can't be sure. They said it's either that or high cholesterol. Second, I am sorry for always talking about my gastrointestinal issues throughout this blog since the dawn of time. At least my blog will not be debated on CNN as embellished or fraudulent a la Mortenson. And third, I am writing this entry at 1am -- a) you will see many misspelled words and horrific grammar b) i may just be a little too sarcastic given the hour and c) I'm sorry dewey and ty-face...you WILL have to deal with me on the 'morrow. Next, I just want to say that anything I write tonight in no way reflects my true feelings normally held during the day time, for what I think at night may be the raw truth, but it does not always demonstrate appropriate truth -- if such a thing exists. Second if you choose never to read my blog again, this disclaimer serves as my liability protection should a lawsuit ever be taken up. And finally, my confession is that I am in a lot of womanly pain right now, so should a curse word slip, it's with all the justification in the world. Amen and God bless. Ding ding.

So, to take you away from myself, I want to focus on my work -- and, of course, MYSELF at work! I am a Trafficking Case Manager. Yes, the name itself suggests I manage a human trafficking ring in close conjunction with the Mexican drug cartel. Unfortunately, there are no drugs involved save it be the fake beach sand/dust sitting on my desk in a mock beach scene, appearing to have the ability to be sniffed should the need ever arise. I have yet to be desperate enough, but never say never. Can I just say I love my job? I come home EXAUSTED, but it's only because people got help that day. Sure, weird things happen. After all, "I'm weird!" And sure, smells happen, and naked people in the bathroom, and random bursts of curse words in a foreign language. Sure it's the Tower of Babel in the flesh. But you know what? There is never a dull moment as a Trafficking Case Manager (drugs not included). Let me tell you just why I am so enamored.

(Not in any order of significance -- heaven's no)

1. I get to periodically visit the two most forlorn places in the state of Utah, and quite possibly in the world -- Delta and Beaver Utah. Welcome to the hairy armpit of Earth. I traveled a total of 5 1/2 hours in the car the other day, and the most excitement I had in my travels did not involve anything inappropriate or dangerous, or even cows! I drove by Beaver High School, and their sign declared bright and blue: "Home of Champions." My heart swelled with pride. I am a Beaver Believer. In Beaver, though, I spent 1 1/2 hours with a client from Thailand, speaking through a translator on my cell phone. Now if that isn't a standing ovation to technology, I don't know what is. And can I get a whoop whoop for the flashlight app on my cell phone? Man life is good.

2. I get to answer phone calls and not know what the H-E-double hockey sticks the other person is saying. The other day one of my Thai clients called and started talking to me in Thai. I told him I didn't understand, but he kept talking to me in Thai. Pretty soon I had resorted to only making pensive noises as I figured out what to do, "Hmmmmm...." "Ummmmmmmm" and then I finally just started laughing. When I came to my senses I jumped on Google Translate and quickly typed in something to translate to Thai. Unfortunately, when I hit the button, what appeared before me was complete rubbish leaving my mouth, leaving both the client and myself just that much more on the same page.

3. I get to practice my Spanish with my Spanish-speaking clients, and sometimes they remind me that I often speak like crap. Just yesterday I helped a woman from Cuba and I asked her, "Are you paying for any muletas?" She looked at me blankly. "Muletas," I repeated, gesturing with my hands as if she should know what I was talking about. I wanted to say "police ticket" or "multa." Instead I was asking the perfectly healthy woman if she was paying for her crutches. And then sitting next to me, the Ethiopian case worker is cracking me up, saying, "Como e---stas."

4. The halls sometimes smell so bad, and the building is not air conditioning, perpetuating the intensity of the odor caused by people from a melting pot of cultures who cook at home and bring the lingering aroma of every food imaginable to the office. My office is one of the few sanctuaries, thanks to Bath and Body Works lotion frequently applied, even when moisture is already seeping out of my skin. It's all for the smell. Besides, trafficking clients don't smell, because they are MY clients, and they are perfect.

5. I love hearing down the hall the group renditions of English words as the ESL classes repeat in unison, "Hello. My name is lasjdflaskdjf;lsadkfj" ---as everyone says their name at once. Sometimes I am startled while absorbed in my computer work. My first inclination is to run away from the cult and warn the others not to drink the Kool-Aid. But then I gain my bearings and continue my drug trading with my cartel buddies.

6. Our fridge has the strangest food in it. I'm curious as to what 79% of it is. One day I shall seek enlightenment from those wiser than myself.

7. The month of June is Refugee Month! That's much better than the Administrative Assistant day I had at my old job. What did I get then? Not even a pat on the back. Administrative Assistant is just another word for underpaid, unrecognized slave labor. And that's the federal definition.

8. I get to take people shopping at Walmart when I don't speak their language and do lots of pointing. It's quite the aerobic workout and it does wonders for my flabby triceps. I just wish the people in the store wouldn't stare so much when I try to act out that they need to buy toilet paper. Come on! It's a universal sign!

9. I'm great friends and coworkers with people from the following countries: Burma, Sudan, Somalia, Ethiopia, Rwanda, the DR Congo, Armenia, Iran, Mexico, Russia, and Massachusetts. And I speak fluently to every one in their native tongue. It's tough, but someone's gotta do it.

10. And one last reason I love my job so much is that every time I check off something on the "To-do" list, it means that someone was successfully helped with something. And that's a good feeling, knowing that the sore back, bummed knee from falling on the stairs, pounding headache, smelly armpits from sweating so much, and smelly feet for forgetting to line my smelly shoes aren't all for nothing and really matter in the big, great world.

Well, my eyes are drooping, and I'm just proud of myself for having written this much. I'll try to write more frequently so my epistles aren't ever considered for inductions into the Library of Congress' "boring and unnecessarily long official records" section.


Amen to all of the above and Happy Holidays.

The Hate Edition

It was August 2005 and we were driving through Provo Canyon, my grandma, mom, Bryce and I admiring the beauty of what was now to be my home. It was a little on the brown side, but whatev. It was our second day in Provo following a long 15 hour drive from Oregon, and little Bryce was but a mere lad at almost four years old. It's safe to say that a four year old can only take so much of riding in a car. As we passed by the serene cascades of Bridal Vail Falls, and the towering mountain landscapes, my little brother, frustrated and fed up with life and the world, began his hate edition: "I hate this car! I hate  Utah! I hate this shirt! I hate driving! I hate seatbelts! I hate..." and the list went on as his face got progressively redder. Finally, in one final jab at the world, mustering up all the gumption he could, he yelled, "AND I EVEN HATE THE CHRISTMAS TREE!" It was August. His hatred ran just that deep. I will never forget this revealing episode, and to this day, use his concluding and finalizing phrase to describe my own feelings of hatred towards life.

With that said, you should know that today was such a Christmas Tree Day, and while I fully promote peace, love, and compassion, sometimes it just feels good to HATE. So to indulge myself just a little, in attempts to  feel better at 12:30 am, here is my very own Hate Edition.

I hate...

car windows that break during a rainstorm. cracked windshields. gas prices. clients who go to the wrong up-chuck-a-rama. bollywood. leaving hummus at work and being forced to eat an apple for dinner. being poor. tuition prices. messy rooms. dirty dishes. bike locks that don't work. watching my bank account dwindle. feeling out of shape. accutane. wax strips. missing friends. fakeness. folding laundry. dirty sheets. hairy legs. smelly feet. skin falling off of my face. being given more than 20 hours of work in a 20 hour work week. human trafficking. running out of cereal when my car is in the shop and my bike lock won't open. being tired. pressure. finding a place to live in the fall. rain in may. slow drivers. bored cops. road construction. pot holes. feeling discontent. hair in the shower after someone shaves. toothpaste on the outside of the tube. strained Achilles tendon. buying hummus that tastes like grass. wishing i could smoke grass. just kidding. missing my family. not being able to read very well. having to wait so long to get my glasses. watching my laptop die a slow and painful death. craving curry but not giving into the temptation. dreaming of far off places and not being able to go right now. long lines in the "speedy checkout". student loans. poop times three....and I EVEN HATE THE CHRISTMAS TREE!

There. Now that I have vented of a handful of the hated things in my life right now, I feel somewhat more loving and giving and kind. Happy holidays, everyone. Happy holidays.

Rise and Shout

Rise and Shout, Jessica is out,
of her undergraduate career.
She can't believe it's come to an end,
Has it really been six years?

No, six years does not mean I'm stupid,
It merely means that I'm slow.
I was off doing who knows what for 18 months,
Eating cow stomach and blood. Soooooo....

But the time finally came,
After years of stress, grief and strife.
To say goodbye to Cosmo,
And begin a future, oh so bright (I need shadesssssssssss).


As I burst out of the testing center,
the darkness that had enshrouded me for so long,
(The hives, the tears, the bagels, and the swears),
evaporated like milk, making me want to sing this song:

"My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard,
And they're like
It's better than yours,
Dam* right it's better than yours,
I can teach you,
But I have to charge"

If my mom were to ask about the song,
I'd simply provide her this interpretation:
"I have gained all of this secular wisdom,
And now I can tutor others" - EXCLAMATION!

The world will be a better place,
Because BYU taught me to shake.
I shook off that stupid B in New Testament,
And I shook my head when SPSS would break.

I shook it at the stake dance,
But then shook my fist when he got too close.
I shook my foot after walking up all those stairs,
And I shook my head at the sleepers in the bathroom -- Gross.

I can still see the images of sweaters, lipstick, Habermaus, and Robbie,
They will forever be ingrained in my heart.
And let's not forget graduation day itself,
When B, from three seats over, let a huge -- she's so smart!

I will miss BYU and the bubble it gave me.
I will miss the L&T wraps.
I will the editorials in the Daily Universe,
I will even miss Cecil - such a fine chap!

I will miss many lives lost in the Soc Lab,
I will miss many explosions from the vending machine hot pocket.
I will miss lighting creamer on fire,
And watching oil explode like a rocket (in my kitchen).

I will miss walking to class in the rain,
The wind always blowing at an angle.
I will miss meeting new and interesting people,
Many of whom I wanted to strangle.

I will miss the protests of three people,
I will miss the mullets trying to be cool.
I will miss the tights that are like pants,
I will miss a place where dating rules.

I will miss ward prayer and break the fast,
I will miss intermural sports.
I will miss testimony meetings where people line up,
I will miss when activities are planned to "court."

I will miss my roommates, whom I love so much.
I will miss our bad words and jokes.
I will miss our prayers of laughter and poop.
I will miss the random pinches and pokes.

I will miss everyone whom I've ever met,
Including the weird and the strange.
Life at BYU was never dull!
And no, it shall never be the same.

Boston boasts a grand repertoire
Of things to do and people to see.
But I could go on for days on end.
But I won't, for I have to pee.

So long BYU, may you rise and shout,
Always a standard to the nations.
When Jimmer gets drafted to the Utah Jazz,
I'll remember my college convocation.

Amen and halleluluha,
May all your dreams come true.
And may you always have a spot in your heart,
For WHITE, SILVER, GOLD and BLUE.

Monday's Golden Treasures

Today has been a fairly normal day...nothing really monumental, or even blogworthy for that matter. There were, however, just a few things I would like to bring up:

First, you might recall my blog post about people sleeping in the bathroom. Many of my friends and fellow bloggers share the same feeling. Well, this afternoon I braved the Wasatch wind and walked to the ASB to turn in the last document for my BYU Grad application (drum roll please) and naturally had to use the restroom. I roamed, somewhat aimlessly, around the rarely visited halls of the Administrative building, until I came upon one. When I opened the door, I was immediately greeted by a girl sleeping on a coach. And not only was she sleeping, but she was in full on "I'm in bed" mode. Her shoes were strewn across the room, the lights were out, and she was covered with a blanket (I can only hope that blanket is not stored in that bathroom. The thought makes me shudder). But don't for one second think that I am about to complain yet again about another bathroom sleeper. Oh no. Today is a day for JOY, people! In the ASB on this last day in January, I found what appears to be a happy medium to a rather disturbing public health issue. Let the sickos sleep in the bathroom, but put a door between them and the toilet spray. It is, to say the least, revolutionary. Naturally this brilliant idea would develop in the building that houses the big dawgs. While I might disagree with certain aspects of bureaucracy, this time they did good. We can be friends (but not with the girl sleeping in the building -- because from the looks of her an hour and half a go, she's probably still there.)

Second, I walked up the stairs to the LRC in the Library today and witnessed a sight I would have rather not have had to be subjected to: A large boy in a bright red shirt was sitting at his table picking his nose. Let me rephrase that: DIGGING in his nose. I'm not sure how deep his nostrils go --he could just have stubby fingers -- but he was going at it. And I was disgusted. There are certain things one should do in the privacy of their own bathroom, where tissue is readily available. For all I know, he probably wiped it under the table. Again, I shudder.

So really, in a otherwise mundane day, I have been able to extract little golden treasures -- just like the golden treasures under the table.

I love Mondays.