Cradle Robber, Part I: The Trap

"I would love to give your number to a family friend of ours," Sister Jones*, our Bishop's wife, told me one Sunday in March, as she stopped me on my way out of Church. "I think you two could really hit it off." I just laughed a "Oh silly Sister Jones" laugh and mumbled something indistinguishable, something along the lines of "mm-hmm" jumbled together with a deep throat-clearing. And then I high-tailed it out of Sacrament Meeting. I knew how dangerous it was to be on Sister Jones' radar. I had seen her time and time again sitting with the ward menu-er-directory during Sacrament Meeting and making notes next to names, sometimes even drawing lines between smiling faces. Yes, she has taken on the responsibility of marrying off a hopeless group of singles. And when you see her, run. I just wasn't quick enough. Luckily, I was dating someone at the time, and nothing came of my close and almost deadly encounter with the Matchmaker. Life continued as normal (well, as normal as my life gets).

Fast forward two months. I was single, yet again, and actually enjoying it a little too much. Sister Jones and her ward directory and all-too observant eye were MIA for a good while. I got comfortable. I felt safe. And I realize now that I played my hand a little too sloppily. Any good CIA officer knows that the first rule of strategy is to never assume you are safe. You play stupid. You get careless. And ultimately, someone always gets hurt - or at least put in unnecessarily awkward situations.

It was a beautiful Saturday morning and as a ward we made the short journey to the Timpanogos temple. It was my first time, and I was in awe of its beauty. It is a gorgeous building. Unfortunately, I was so wrapped up in wonder that I failed to notice who I was standing next to in the lobby. Yes, that's right. Sister Jones, in the flesh. "I really want to set you up with our family friend," she said again, a repeat of our dangerous run-in two months prior. "Oh really?" was all I could reply. This time I couldn't just run out the door. I had to face her. "Yes," she replied. "He served in Buenos Aires, his name is Tom Smith* and his mom is amazing. She would make a GREAT mother-in-law." Seriously? It was all I could do to swallow the sarcastic flem quickly forming at the base of my throat. Luckily, all I mustered was, "Well, gee whiz! Why even date? Let's just get hitched!" She hardly flinched. Nothing fazes the Matchmaker. Like a light in a dark, underground tunnel, the temple patron asked for my temple recommend and I was allowed to continue forward, leaving Sister Jones trailing behind. And yes, how utterly naive of me to think I had yet again escaped. Robert Lynd, an Anglo-Irish journalist, once said, "The belief in the possibility of a short decisive war appears to be one of the most ancient and dangerous of human illusions." And apparently, all is fair in love and war.

Following what soon proved to be merely a short respite of peace, I was exiting the locker room only to find myself face to face with Her, yet again. I stopped, bracing myself for the inevitable. "I'm going to give him your number," she said, as a statement of fact, not a question requesting permission. What could I say to that? Well, I know what I wanted to say - or better yet, scream. NO! I could feel the fight or flight instinct kick in and more than anything I wanted to "flight." To fight an old woman in the temple would have only drawn lightening bolts from the gods. After what seemed like a lifetime of inner turmoil and battle (when really it couldn't have been more than five seconds) I let out a sigh of defeat, and allowed my mouth to form those two fateful letters - OK. Her smile lit up bigger than an older brother who had just successfully manipulated his younger sibling into submission. She twirled around on her heels and over her shoulder said in a much-too-cheery voice, "Be expecting a phone call!"

And just like that I was alone, alone with a sense of dread...and a name - Tom. The week seemed so long, stretched before me, the future so bleak. I left the temple sulking. Eventually shaking out of my dark and defeated stupor, however, I looked up into the glittery, blue afternoon sky. Suddenly I saw hope written in a wispy cloud over head. What, I asked myself, is the worst that could happen?

To be continued...

*Names changed to protect both the guilty and just another innocent Matchmaker victim.

Life Goals

Hi, it's me again. It is now 1:41 pm and I have successfully done nothing all day. I take that back--I filed for 1 minute and 20 seconds. I did, however, have a very amazing Facebook chat with one of the most incredible members I met in all of my mission -- Hermano Orellana in Ushuaia. Somehow he always knew exactly what I needed to hear when we went and ate lunch with him and his wife. We thought we were supposed to share with him, but he always shared so much more. One thing that I will never forget is that he told me that truly intelligent people don't talk about others because they don't have to. We only do that for lack of anything better to say. I try to remember that. But anyway, we had a nice little reunion and I was able to congratulate him on adopting three children. I couldn't be happier for him. Meanwhile, he brought up a soul-stirring question. He asked me: How are your goals in life going? It took me a little by surprise, and caused me to have to stop and think about that one. In light of that inquiry, I think I need to stop for a second (a pause in my ever-busy work day) and reflect.

 At the top of my life's bucket list (5 years in the making) is to take a picture of the Taj Majal at sunset.

This will happen, and when it does, it will be amazing. Meanwhile, I have little to show for this goal besides the desktop background of the Taj Majal at sunset mocking me every morning when I get to work. Hermano Orellana, I am slacking. And I am sorry. I must ask myself, "What am I doing today, to achieve this goal?" So I think I will go home and watch Slumdog Millionaire. And go to Bombay House. Man, I already feel closer to my goal.

I love goals. And Hermano Orellano.

Glee: It's What Brings Us Together

William Orville Douglas once posed the following question: "Why cannot we work at cooperative schemes and search for the common ground binding all mankind together?" And I answer back, "Welcome to Glee, Bill." Whether you are "just a small town girl, living in a lonely world," a "gold digger," a "single lady," "bootylicious," have a "bad reputation," or even if everything about you screams "Loser," you can find something to smile about, and more importantly, something to talk about, with Glee.

First of all, your knowledge increases exponentially with each episode, giving you the ability to better find common ground with the people of the world. For example, according to Sue Sylvester, the cheer leading coach in Glee, hot Cheetos have been proven to raise endorphins and make happy kids. And did you know that a gay terrorist went on to become the first gay president, Abraham Lincoln? And we learn from Glee, that when all else fails, ask "What would Madonna do?" The answer to that question would normally be: Date a younger man. So really, the possibilities are endless.

In my world recently, I have noticed how Glee has allowed me to talk with many different kinds of people. We may not be discussing how to save the world, or how to end poverty, but at least we're not talking about the weather awkwardly for five whole minutes! We do discuss the politics of each episode, however - "Was Jesse St. James just playing Rachel? Or did he really like her?" "Will Mr. Schuster and Emma get together despite the fact that she's just started dating a dentist (who will be played by John Stamos next season OMG --scream--)." So yes, they are very intelligent conversations, life-changing, in fact. And I love them.

Every Tuesday when I meet with my Sociology Professor/Research Mentor, we, along with two other research assistants, sit down and discuss social capital and juvenile delinquency for 20 minutes, and then as quickly as possible dive into a hard core analysis of Glee -- for the next 40 minutes.

My visiting teachers came over the other day. We have nothing in common. But we did find one thing to talk about. I bet you can guess what it was.

I rode with an almost stranger to a wedding on Friday. We belted out Glee music together. Bonding moment.

I went on a scenic drive on Sunday with a boy. With nothing else talk about but the trees and rocks, Glee saved me.

It has brought my roommates and I closer.

It has brought the world closer.

Glee. It's what brings us together.

Stay tuned for the Fall season.

Dammit Janet!

~a tribute~

 First of all, I only swear with the utmost sense of love and endearment towards Janet, sometimes referred to as Janet Jan when she's in Afghanistan -- or our apartment. I don't normally swear, but when I do, I somehow get this twisted sense of gratification from it. I think it comes from the fact that my mom never even let us say the word "butt" until we were in the sixth grade, when only then could we use it when referring to our own. But this post isn't about my disfuctionalities. It's about DJ - the one and only.

She walked into Reynolds 102 ten months ago. Kaylee and I had been in the apartment a week before she and her cousin MB arrived on the scene. My first memories of her actually started before I met her, however. My friend Angela had given me her name as my possible future roommate if I chose to live in Reynolds, so I of course stalked her on Facebook before making a final decision. When I saw she was from the Northwest and that she liked country music, I thought it could be a good thing. And then when I saw this picture

I knew she was super cool. It pretty much sealed the deal. And I was never sorry.

Since the day she moved in and I awkwardly passed them in the hall as they carried things in from their cars, I knew Janet and I would be grand friends. I've seen her in the worst of times, and in the best of times, and I've seen just how incredible of a person she really is. Despite what she may think, she has so much to offer, so much going for her. She is more than just a skinny person. She is, in fact, a woman of many talents. My weight gain over the year can attest to that. I don't think a Sunday went by that we weren't consuming one of her latest creations. And how cool is she to sit at our kitchen table and make her own dress?! I can't even sew a button. She is one of the funniest people I have ever met. And one of the most awkward, but that only adds to her funniness. She always listened to me. She was always there when I needed to talk about boy problems, or simply voice my worries about life. She understood me. And those people are hard to come by. I couldn't be happier for her and the decision that she has made about this next phase in her life. Sure, I'm a little biased, but Portland will be an amazing adventure. It will be scary. It will be hard. But it will be life-changing. I will miss her something terribly. I will miss belting out Miley songs with our incredible voices. I will miss talking about food and sometimes actually giving into our ridiculous cravings (MALT SHOP). I will miss telling her as she walks out the door to go to work, "Don't get attacked." I will my pool buddy. I will miss my bike buddy. I will miss my gym buddy. And can I just say how freaking awesome that music video was? I will miss her dance moves. But despite my selfish woes, I am so excited for what lies ahead for her. I hope she knows that. As my parting words, I would just like her to know that if I were a boy, even just for a day, I'd roll out of bed in the morning and throw on what I wanted and go. Wow. I'm so deep. She's going to miss that. Love you Janet! See you in Portland!

To Sit

It's raining outside. I can hear the drops drip off the gutter and into quickly forming pools of water. There's a slight chill to the summer air. Norah Jones is serenading me in the background as I lazily sit on the floor of my living room, taking indescribable bites of comfort. Grilled cheese. With each bite the cheddar oozes towards my bowl of tomato soup (made with half milk, half water, of course) and then strings itself from my mouth to the descending sandwich. It's slightly burnt, but that's to be expected. It's nothing a little scraping couldn't fix. I am alone. And I am content. I should be revising my paper, but I choose to bask in this moment, a moment so complete with peace. Sometimes I forget to just sit and listen to the world around me. Sometimes it's raining and I don't even notice, except for the worry of what it is going to do to my hair. Sometimes I realize I'm not even really thinking, but merely moving down a checklist. It's good to breathe once in awhile. But often times, one has to make breathing a conscious exercise. To sit is, for many, an art form. To sit at the end of land and gaze out at the open sea; to lay on the green grass and gaze up at the stars; to find oneself deep in the middle of the forest, all sound muffled by the trees; to sit on the river's edge, feet dangling in the cold mountain water as it rushes by; to rock in a chair on a porch, the sun setting over the fields in front of you; to sit on one's living room floor eating Grilled Cheese, listening to Norah Jones as the rain comes down outside your window. To sit. To be content. It's moments like these that, in the end, really matter. It's moments like these that, when all is said and done, make us who we are. I hope to have many more.

Moving On

 Well it's been two weeks since I posted last. Maybe part of the reason has to do with the fact that our apartment almost burnt down and someone was rushed to the burn unit in Salt Lake. Maybe. To be honest, I have thought about blogging many times, but each time I do, I feel like I would have to mention what happened, and that would force me to relive it. Not to mention the fact that I've had to tell the story a million different times already. The Fire sat like a huge boulder preventing any forward movement. But yet, I didn't want to climb it. So it's finally time to pass it and move on. I could sit here and write about how terrifying it was to see flames engulf half our kitchen. How terrifying it was to see the girl next to me fall to the floor, on fire. How horrifying it was to hear her screams -- they didn't stop. How loud the smoke alarm was. The panic in Lauren's voice as she called 911. The sirens. The raw fear. The adrenaline. The nausea. The guilt. I could write about all of that, but I choose to move on. I think all of us have chosen to move on. Even Alissa is in Colorado, moving on. Her hands might be bandaged and her legs might be scarred, but she's pushing forward. My burns are healing and drying up. Our apartment is repainted. The smoke smell is gone. Yes, it's time to move on.

The Road Not Taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth.

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same.

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

 Robert Frost

The other day I was walking to school like I always do (iPod on, phone in hand watching the time quickly approaching 8:00am, and bagel in my other hand, quickly disappearing). I make the walk from my apartment to work every morning almost without thought. It has become part of who I am, like sneezing when I have to get something out of my nose. Day after day after day I do the routine. Some call me a creature of habit. Wednesday, however, proved to be different. I was still chilling to Amos Lee, my phone still said I was late, and that Cinnomin Raisen bagel had never been better. What changed, however, was my path. I took the one less traveled by, and it  has made all the difference.

For some reason unknown to human kind, I decided to forgo the mountainous steps up to campus take a leisurely stroll through the duck pond. I was, after all, already late. What was an extra five minutes? I figured there was a path at the other side that would get me there just the same. So I started my nature walk, sauntering to and fro, when suddenly a  huddle of feather caught my eye. I turned to look, only to find a pile of ducklings! They were the most adorable thing  I had ever seen. My heart melted -- and then the mom started honking at me, or whatever sound it is that a hormonal, overprotective mother makes -- duck mother, that is. Nevertheless, I took that tender moment to pull out my phone and snap a picture so that I could remember the beautiful evidence of what the world has to offer. It sure beat staring at the huffing kid's butt going up the stairs in front of me. 

 I want a duck.

 

The Gypsy Cello Welcomes Me Home

As an encore to my entry about Elizabeth, I wanted to introduce the world to my favorite airport artist. Every time I have flown home for the last year, this musical genius has greeted me as I headed towards the baggage claim. His name is Adam Hurst and his sidekick is what he calls a gypsy cello. He created it. And he rules it. His eerie and mysterious music fills the airport terminal as people rush by to catch their flights. It's kind of surreal to stop and take in the music and almost see the hoards of people run in slow motion. The music slows the turn of the world to its rhythm. When I hear the strings of the Gypsy Cello, I know I've made it home. (After I use the bathrooms and remember I have two economically friendly flush options, that is). This is just reason 1,345 why I will live in Portland. Check him out below:

There is sand in the cello

There is so much talent in this world, and I have yet to discover but a grain of sand's worth. Tonight was one of those discoveries.

One month ago we got two special new members in our ward -- Elizabeth Willey--and her cello. This girl is amazing! She plays for the Orchestra at Temple Square. She is the most sought after cello player in Utah. She studied at USC. AND......she played on the soundtrack of "The Soloist" with Jamie Fox. Ironically, she's never even seen the movie, but I promised her that that will NOT do. The last time I was in a movie, I made it a point to see it. She agreed. We will have a screening of it soon.

Tonight Elizabeth had a house-warming party at her apartment, complete with a Sunday bar involving EVERY topping imaginable. Including gummy bears. It gave the cello a run for its money! Towards the end of our mixing and mingling, we began shouts of "CE-LLO! CE-LLO! CE-LLO!" forcing her to give in and open up her cello case in the corner. The first song that she played was this:



Later on she followed with No. 1 in G minor (do I sound like a classic snob? i try) and Phantom of the Opera. I think she even threw in a few chords from Star Wars...something about Yoda's theme. Towards the end the theme took a more spiritual turn and we completed the evening by listening to hymns played by her and her friend on the violin (also completely and utterly fantastic). Melissa, who is also in our ward, just happened to be there, well. She is headed to the Manhattan School of Music in September to sing her little heart out. She sang the third verse of "How Great Thou Art" and we all sang the first, second, and fourth with Liz and her friend accompanying us on the strings. I actually just mouthed the words afraid to mess up such an artistic masterpiece.

One more grain of sand discovered. And there are many oceans. I try to dig my sand grains up every once in awhile. Somehow, however, I end up just throwing the sand on top of myself and burying my body in the sand. You know that wet, heavy sand feeling? Yeah...I need a hobby.

My Thoughts Exactly

These are the things that have been on my mind lately. I know you've been dying to know:

1. Gosh, I sure appreciate that the bathroom stall doors on the sixth floor of library swing OUT inside of IN. That way I can make a quick escape from the germ-infested spray of the toilet.

2. Janet and I decided that guys always wait until after they have eaten our food before breaking up with girls. At least, that's what happened to us.

3. I heart hiking. I would marry it if it were a tall, dark and handsome hunk of a man.

4. Why do I keep having dreams about being in the military?

5. Wal-Mart is so much cheaper than Smith's that it blows my mind. I bought garden burgers for $3! Why would you go to Smith's, anyway, when they literally shoot and kill people there?

6. Whos Acura is parked in our parking lot with Oregon plates? He will soon find a friend in White Lightening.

7. My bishop claims that the UN needs to be done away with. Does it really?

8. Why is Dr. House being such a jerk? I need to finish the fifth season so that my roommates can talk about it in front of me. It's kind of inconvenient for them.

9. I ate El Salvadorian food -- all fried -- but it didn't hurt my stomach. What does this say about American food?

10. I like Miracle Whip...kind of a lot. Why?

A Life Worth Blogging About

I was blog-stalking earlier today (yeah, I know) and came across a person I knew growing up who always had a crazily adventurous life. In high school she interned at the White House, in college she went back to DC and to Jerusalem, she went on a mission to Japan, taught in Harlem, spent time in Mexico and in the Ukraine, and decided she wanted to learn Arabic so she went back to the Middle East and lived for a year. I remember people wondering if she was ever going to settle down and get married. I was happy to read that she just had her second little girl and is very happy. Proof that you can have it all.
I've been thinking a lot lately about marriage at BYU. I'm writing a persuasive paper for my English class on why BYU is not neccesarily the ideal place to get married. Basically, the bottom line that I'm arguing is that there are too many choices, which leads to no choice at all. But it got me thinking about marriage and age in general. There is so much cultural pressure to do it as soon as possible, especially here. If someone has been dating for three months, it's definitely appropriate to talk about when the wedding will be. It's easy to get caught up in the hysterics. Really, 78 percent of the entire BYU undergraduates are single. That is well over the majority. It's all just a perception - and a unncessarily evil one at that. I'll admit. I want to get married. I would love to start a family. But I want to be like my blog-stalked friend - to live the life that I've always dreamed of and to live it with someone who has dreamed it too.
I've recently been thinking a lot about the MPA program at Portland State. I've been reading up on it and plan to make a visit when I go home for Memorial Day Weekend. With an emphasis in global management and leadership, it sounds incredible. Right now, it feels like a really good decision. Of course, I don't commit to anything because things in my world are always changing. But I do know that I will graduate BYU not married, an applausable feat. But I know my future husband isn't here anyway. He's living under some bridge in downtown Portland. Haha. Just kidding Mom! Maybe.
I want a life worth blogging about.

New York, New York

My roommate and I went and saw "Remember Me" in the dollar theater (that's $2 now, thank you very much. Who do they think we are???) Let me just say that it was not the best movie to grace the sticky, cheap screen of that movie auditorium. It was slow, Robert Pattison plays the same sulky, melancholy, CRAZY, character he plays in Twilight. I had hopes that he would show me what he was really made of. But sadly, all I could think about was him sparkling. There were also some graphic sexuality, which caused the 80 year old couple sitting next to me to get up and walk out. I thought it was noble of them, but at the same, I wondered why at 80 years old they were even drawn to the particularly movie in the first place. It was clearly for a 75 and under crowd. And also, if I was 80 years old, that would mean my life was coming to a close. Would I really want to spend two hours of the precious time I had left on a craptastic movie in an even crappier theater? Heck no. I would be jumping out of a plane or on an African safari or at least rocking dangerously fast in my rocking chair. But anyway, this is all irrelevant to the theme of my post...the City. Yes, it is a word that at this very moment, requires a capital "C." Despite the bad acting and bad plot and bad music and bad words, the movie made me fall in love with NYC all over again. The first time I went, I knew I would be called back time, and time again. I told myself I would go to grad school there. I swore to myself that I would live there for at least one year. I ate the cheap hot dog from the vendor in Times Square. I hailed a taxi on Fifth Avenue. I was serenaded by a Cello player in Central Park. I survived the 5:00 subway (violated, but alive). A part of me changed that week in Manhattan, and I knew I would never be the same. Two years later I returned. It was still just as wonderful as I remembered it. I think it smelled a little worse. It could have been my shoes, but that's beside the point. I was reminded just how much I love it.

Since that last trip, I have forgotten the small and subtle change that took place within me. Leave it to a bad movie to remind me. The other day I was looking at Columbia University's social work program and the admission requirements. That would be amazing. And then I realized that I would have $80 thousand of debt and work for $10.00 hour when I graduated. You do the math. But still, the thought made me smile. I could ride the subway at 5:00 any time I wanted if I so desired. What a thrill.

In the words of the great Frank, "I want to be a part of it, New York, New York."

Until then, however, I will continue to dream. Portland isn't too bad, either. And it smells better. This could prove to be an acceptable substitute. Life. (sigh).

That's Awkward

Awkwardness. It's so...awkward.

I'll start off by saying just how much I love it. And just how easily I create it. Small talk, random passings by on campus, visiting teaching, etc. etc. etc.  The opportunities for awkwardness in a world with so much awkwardness potential are innumerable. Tonight was just yet another example.

As a RS presidency we had to go around to the houses in our ward and hunt down the new girls. A great opportunity for the big A, right? Yes, I know. I just experienced one full hour of awkward, silent moments with us three sitting on one couch and two, three, or four other girls sitting on the other. One full hour of accidently interrupting each other and then apologizing and then not knowing who should go ahead and say what she was going to say. One full hour of forgetting names five seconds after they told them to me. One full hour of walking in on girls with visiting boyfriends and knowing they didn't want us there. One full hour of "You are so pretty!" And then, "Oh my gosh, you are too!" And then the vicious compliment cycle continues until I cringe from the weight of the awkwardness. One girl actually ended up just basically turning around and walking into the living room from the entry way with a "Thanks for coming!" I think that was our cue to leave.

I know situations are only awkward if you make them, but I make them. So...........

Awkwardness. It's so....awkward.

My Theme Song

Smelling like shark bait -- ooh ha! ha!

I just got back from a shindig involving fried Nemo. And if there is anything in this world that I hate more than grating cheese, it's smelling like the food I just ate, or in this case, the food that was being eaten around me -- since I am pro-fish life and not death by pro fisherman. I'll admit, I'm not on PETA level...yet. My advocacy arises more from the sheer lack of stomach for it. But I might as well try to save a life along the way. If one more person in the world ate one less one fish, there would be one more fish in the great open sea, singing his tune of happiness instead of being canned tuna. And I would be one less girl smelling like shark bait -- ooh ha! ha! I just got out of a shower, however, and smell like Dove bodywash. Much more acceptable.

Despite my soapbox (see ranting platform above), I'm really glad I went to the little get together. My sociology friend just got back from a four month, somewhat shady, four month stint in Mexico teaching English and our other friend is back from Arizona for the weekend, where he is undergoing drug rehab. So we got to celebrate his six months of being clean with a little "under the sea" magic. It was great to be in a real house with a real family tonight. I think that was what I liked the most about it (along with being with great friends). It's been a hard day for some reason. I won't lie, this week has taken a lot out of me. Sometimes I have to battle with myself, and that requires so much energy -- fighting sadness, anxiety, homesickness, uncertainty, worry, etc, etc, etc. Today I called my mom without anything to say, but it was the only thing I could think of to do at the moment. I didn't even talk, really. I guess I have safety blankets. But don't worry! I'm a big girl (I went to the gym to work on that...) If you listened to Colbie's song below, it's got an emotional soul to it, but she says that she's FEARLESS. This is what I fight to instill in me. It's a choice. Do I have faith? Or do I fear? How many times in the mission did I have to choose? Oh, like every day. It's not a new experience. Nor will it ever be an old one. I have to have faith in my future and put fear aside. I wish people would fry up fear and put it in tacos instead of poor, innocent little fish. But not wanting to be Debbie Downer, life, despite obstacles that push us to grow, is pretty darn great. I mean, I wore my tie-dye shirt today. Can it really get any better than that? Albert Einstein once said, "Learn from yesterday, live for today, hope for tomorrow." I think I'll take that motto out for a spin.

I learned from yesterday I will NEVER be able to watch a movie past 10:00 pm without falling asleep. It has become muscle memory behavior.

I lived today by eating my weight's worth in beef. I will put this as something I learned from by this time tomorrow.

I hope for warm sunshine, a long walk, tacos, and strength tomorrow.

Sitting with my top button undone...

Here I sit. It's 10:26 pm on Thusrday night, and you can obviously see that by writing this blogpost I am at the library studying for my finals. Really. I'm in my office at work. My eyes are starting to blur. I hope what I am typing is coherent. I really should go home. Maybe I will when I'm done blogging--er I mean when I'm done studying. I just thought I should let the world know how incredibly unformfotable I am at this very moment in time thanks to a wide variety of greasy and sugary food I ingested today. And for anyone who knows me, they know that this was only asking for trouble. I'm wearing my skinny jeans, and right now they make feel anything but. I literally had to undo the top button to sit at my desk comfortably. Let me give you a vision of the food that is causing my bulgy, bloated belly to burst the buttons.
BIG bowl of Honey Bunches of Oats
Half of a king size Snickers
Big doughnut
Two pieces of pizza
Lunch at the Canon Center (for those not familiar with freshman life here, that would be code for "freshmancafeteriathatgivesyouthefreshman15." I had several plates.
Dinner at a pizza/pasta buffet, including dessert.

Seriously? This is sick. And that's exactly what I am right now. My stomach is a complete disaster. I can't even eat a hot pocket these days without having issues! Now that is sad.

Ok, well it is now 10:32 and I can barely read this post. Maybe I won't take the final like I had planned tomorrow. There's always Saturday! If I live to see the day...

Reason 146 Why I Will Never Marry

Well, let's face it. The whole ding dong world is getting married. Maybe I should feel some peer pressure. Maybe I should be jealous. Maybe I should even hate them and then throw myself at somebody, hoping the collision leads to marriage. But really, today reminded me of why I will never marry...

I do NOT want a bridal shower.

A girl in my sociology group started dating her fiance the same weekend that James and I went on our first date and they pretty much decided to tie the knot after a week. They're getting married right after school gets done. More power to them. But anyway, the point is that whenever you get married, apparently it is custom of the odd, ritualistic American women to throw themselves what they call "bridal shower." I think in the world they call this "bachelorette party," but I heard those usually involve more than the innocent can handle. Instead we sit around and eat mozzerella sticks, little smokies, pineapple, and drink water...with a lemon in it to add a kick. We eat and merrily sip our water as the bride-to-be one by one opens her gifts, anxious girlfriends awaiting a look of approval as she sees what is inside each one. Occasionally a rebel is invited to the party and brings something scandelous, to which the bride-to-be giggles in response, and which sets everyone off giggling, as well. And then you eat another mozzerla stick.

A bridal shower. Yes, I went to one tonight, and yes, it played out as expected. The only thing I wasn't expecting was the taquitos! Man...getting a little spicy there! To make a long story short, it was lovely and utterly awkward, and I left after paying my due respects. I left not dreaming of my own wedding extravaganza, but instead said to my friend who felt just as awkward, "Jess (because she has the coolest name, ever), if I ever have a bridal shower where I just invite people to come and watch me open presents, shoot me." And then we went home.

Bottom line. Just reason 146 Why I will never get married.

The Resurrection of Glee is HERE

It starts tonight! It starts tonight! It starts tonight!

sunday kind of love

there are just some songs that no matter how much you listen to them, you can't help but feel so completely and utterly full and content. sure sexy back had its moment. but i'm talking a song with substance, a song connected to life, a song that makes you throw your head back, close your eyes, and smile. I'm talking a song that takes you back to a place you've never been.

welcome etta james.



i want a sunday kind of love...