An Unfortunate Toilet Tale

It was 5:00am and the world outside the small-town, deserted motel was silenced by the blanket of snow quickly covering its roads and mailboxes. Even the front desk man in his Boise State sweatshirt was nowhere to be found. Everyone and everything was sound asleep -- except for one person's busy bowels.

                                  *-----------------------------------------*

We had just driven for 7 hours through knuckle gripping snow and ice, eating nuts, raisins, and M&M's the entire way (probably 4,359 calories worth, give or take a calorie). When we finally saw the neon "Vacancy" light flashing below the rusty, soiled window pane, we both breathed a sigh of relief, knowing rest was finally awaiting us. After a much longer than necessary conversation with Boise State Man about football (seriously? at 4:30 in the morning?) we trudged our snow-covered suitcases to our room, eager to close our tired drivin' eyes and rest our weary war-torn bodies. By the time we had settled in, it was approaching the buttcrack of dawn, or rather, 5am, and I could see the end in sight. Suddenly, however, my co-pilot (who shall remain anonymous for reasons clearly apparent in just a second), announced that she was leaving the hotel room in search of a toothbrush. She had pawned hers off halfway between Twin Falls and Nampa to pay for the rest of our gas. While her sacrifice was much appreciated, the fact that she insisted on risking her life by going into the blizzard (and walking by Boise State Man again) was just a little on the clinically psychotic side, and I wondered if I should encourage her to start taking her medicine again (I now know, however, that she had pawned that off, too). When she grabbed me by the throat and threatened physical - and permanent - damage if I did not let her leave, I gave in, and climbed into bed, worrying the whole time that she would get picked up by a car full of less than wholesome individuals smoking a little somethin' something'. Despite her great potential for completely fitting in with that crowd, I prayed that she would resist any fruitful opportunities and return back to the motel.

Before leaving, she made a fleeting comment about needing to use the bathroom. Since I had already brushed my teeth (with my non-pawned toothbrush) and washed my face, I didn't care. I was already in bed, trying not to touch the soiled pillowcase and blanket. I must have dozed off, because it seemed like an eternity by the time she finally came out of the bathroom and left the hotel room. In my dream-like state, it seemed like it was a full 30 minutes before she actually headed out into the storm. And a dream I though it to be until a horrific smell and the presence of someone strange woke me in a sweaty, heart-thudding panic.

My first reaction was to glance at the clock -- 5:40am. My second reaction was to take a swing at the person standing over my bed. When I realized it was my anonymous co-pilot, I stopped flailing my arms and sat up, my nose wrinkling in disgust. "What is that SMELL?!" I asked her, trying to keep the nuts, raisins, and M&M's from spewing all over the already-soiled motel blankets. "What?" she replied innocently, a slight twitch in her left eye. It was only then that I heard a rush of chunky water coming from the bathroom, where I could see the light filtering out from beneath the closed door. With the sudden realization of who had last used the bathroom, with the thought of her history, and remembering what she had just spent the last seven hours eating, I leapt out of bed and rushed down the little hallway. I stopped dead cold, however, when my feet suddenly stepped on something mushy and wet. The sewage was seeping out of the cracks under the door and soaking into the carpet. "$@%%!&!" I exclaimed, holding my breath and trying not to think about what I had just put my foot in. Meanwhile, my co-pilot was shimmering into her warm pajamas and pulling back the covers to get into bed, her new toothbrush clutched lovingly (and crazily) to her chest. What the heck was she doing? We had an EMERGENCY on our hands. Taking one last deep breath without breathing in through my nose, I rolled up pant legs, said a word or two...and pushed open the door. Have you ever been to Niagara Falls? Well, I haven't, but after that night, I don't think I ever need to. We had a great water wonder of the world in our very own hotel room, as dirty, chunky water gushed out of the toilet bowl like Old Faithful. The smell was overwhelming. The sight was beyond description. The work of cleaning it up paralyzed me from moving. Where does one even start in a situation such as that? What do I use to do it with? The three white towels on the shower rack?? I couldn't do it. There was no way in Haites I could do it. Backing up, still not breathing, I turned off the light and closed the door, water sloshing onto the carpet and up around my ankles. I went back to the bedroom, clearly suffering from post-traumatic stress syndrome. I rolled my pant legs back down, wiped my feet off on the blanket, and climbed into bed. My anonymous co-pilot was already loudly snoring. I glared at her so fiercely that I'm sure she felt it burning into the back of her blonde, side-ponytailed head. Soon, however, I felt myself slipping away into dreamland, the smell of poopy water and the sound of the raging river drifting away, out through the rusty window and into the cold, snowy night.

At 10am, the sun peaking through the curtains and the birds chirping melodiously out the window, a knock came at our door. "HOUSEKEEPING!" the woman yelled with a slight indistinguishable accent. Crap. The events of earlier that morning came rushing back me and I leaped out of bed, trying to reach the door before she found herself knee-deep in brown murk. "No, gracias! Esta bien!" I yelled through the door, hoping that the indistinguishable accent was Spanish. She left without saying anything. I stood by the door in silence, assessing the monumental mess before my eyes. "WHAT'S THAT SMELL??" I heard my anonymous co-pilot groan from the warm covers of her bed. I trudged into the bedroom and looked at her, incredulity plastered across my face. "Seriously?" I asked "What is that SMELL?" "Yeah," she replied. "It smells like death." Her toothbrush was still clutched to her chest. "You are so full of it," I said to her in disgust. "Full of what?" she asked, with an innocent smile. "Full of WHAT?" I exclaimed, my voice raising to a higher pitch than Michael Jackson's early years. "I got my toothbrush," she replied, showing me the new Oral B, completely ignoring my sarcastic response of disbelief. "Come on," I sighed in surrender. "We need to get going." After changing our clothes and packing up our suitcases, we headed back out to the car. Nothing more was said about the bathroom. Nothing more was said about the geyser STILL erupting from the toilet, or the smell STILL asphyxiating every single person on that floor. We merely tipped our hats at the Boise State man and got into the car. On our way out we passed a dumpster and I made a point to throw away the nuts, raisins, and M&M's. Next stop was my house. And I did NOT need a clogged toilet at home.

Yes to Pee, No to Zzzzz!

Today I voice the opinion of many BYU students who find it rather unsettling that people, upon their own free will, choose to sleep in the bathrooms around campus. I realize that sleeping and peeing are two natural life occurrences, but that doesn't mean that we force them together like two very awkward individuals on a blind date. They're just better off living alone.

Yesterday I went in the bathroom on the fourth floor of the library, which houses the Asian material. Naturally, the bathroom is occupied by five or six Asian students sprawled out on the couches, eating their lunches, talking on their phones, or doing their makeup. I walk in with my bladder filled to the brim, and knowing I would be peeing for a lengthy amount of time, I was rather perturbed. No one wants others to have the tools and information necessary to gauge the size and weight of your internal organs. But alas, when one has to go, there is little choice. So I go in and self-consciously hover over the toilet, keenly aware of every drop that hits the toilet water. The only comfort I am able to muster up is that even though I may not speak their common language, we still allllll pee. I was reassured, at least for a moment.

Now, I only went pee. While I would never go #2 in a public restroom unless nature forced it upon me with unmerciful vengeance, some feel much more open about dropping off their kids at the swimming pool in such frequently visited places. And that's okay. Each to her own. But I'm not concerned about the doers. I'm concerned about the second hand stench and its effects on obviously uneducated victims. I'm quite convinced that it is not unlike second hand smoke. I can only imagine the fumes that one gets from her own bodily excrement when it exits the body. Are these people not aware of the risks? Should BYU not make it more of a public health concern on campus? I hate to be the bad guy here, but someone eventually had to pipe in and tell America that smoking is not healthy. And while I cannot stop pooping all together (no matter how much I would like to), the least I can do is warn others of its devastating effects.

Now let's keep in mind that this is not merely an Asian phenomenon on the fourth floor of the library. Sleeping and lounging about in the bathrooms unfortunately occurs in all areas of campus. Take the Clyde Building for example. Just the other day I went to use the bathroom there, did my business thinking no one else was joining me, when suddenly I heard a cough and noticed feet hanging off the end of a sofa tucked behind a wall by the sinks. The DANGERS people! Ignorance is BLIND!

But not only is it dangerous to sleep in the bacteria infested, toxic smelling, poopy toilet spray covered tiled bathroom, it's just downright disgusting -- and quite possibly could be evidence of mild brain damage (results from the latest study are still pending). Who in their right mind would CHOOSE to sleep in there? Sleep in the hallway by the trashcan! Sleep under the stairwell where the dust moths can eat at your clothes! Sleep at a table where thousands of people have farted and drooled! But for heavens sake, do not CHOOSE to sleep in an oversized outhouse!!! Apparently, however, despite the fact that many of these people are probably acing many of their college-level classes, they are unable to make such an intelligent use of their moral agency. That is why Big Brother must step in, and for their own sake, make it for them.

Dear BYU:

Please take the couches out of the bathrooms. They are a health hazard to all.

Sincerely,

Jessica

If we wash our hands with the sanitizer dispensers at every corner, let us not be content to allow bacterial spray to plaster our faces and enter our bodies as we sleep in the moist warm air of the restrooms. It's a little harder to wash with soap.

Please join with me in supporting this newly founded campaign:

Yes to Pee, No to Zzzzz!

(Donations can be made to Account #25468)

I am an Oregonian

Today begins the 7 day countdown until I am once again reunited with my beloved motherland -- Oregon. It is lean, it is green, but it is NOT mean -- it's about love and peace, hold the side of war. It's known for its hippies, for its marijuana, for its clean air, rain, and overall amazingness. For those of you who have never been there, my heart aches for you (as it beats to the drums of Bob Marley). Don't waste any more time. Get on your Birkenstocks, mid-calf socks, and cargo shorts, and go now. To help you understand me and my quirks better, as well as my love for Oregon and why I say you must go now, allow me to elaborate on the characteristics of a typical Oregonian.

•  You feel guilty throwing aluminum cans or paper in the trash.
•  You consider that if it has no snow or has not recently erupted, it is not a real mountain.
•  You know the difference between Chinook, Coho, and Sockeye salmon.
•  You know how to pronounce Sequim, Puyallup, Issaquah, Oregon, Yakima, and Willamette.
•  You consider swimming an indoor sport.
• You are not fazed by "Today's forecast: showers followed by rain," and "Tomorrow's forecast: rain followed by showers."
•  You have no concept of humidity without precipitation
•  You notice, "The mountain is out" when it is a pretty day and you can actually see it.
•  You put on your shorts when the temperature gets above 50, but still wear your hiking boots and parka.
• You switch to your sandals when it gets about 60, but keep the socks on.
• You think people who use umbrellas are either wimps or people from California
• You know all the important seasons: Almost Winter, Winter, Still Raining (Spring), Road Construction (Summer), Deer & Elk season (Fall).
• "Vacation" means going to Portland for the weekend.
• Your grandparents drive at 65 mph through a rain storm without flinching.
• You carry jumper cables in your pickup and your wife knows how to use them.
• You blame everything that's not right on ex-Californians.
• A tree or mudslide has ever damaged your house or car.
• You are sitting at a red light surrounded by Subaru Legacy Outbacks.
• Your children learned to walk in Birkenstocks.
• You used to live somewhere else but won't admit it publicly. 
• You know a bride & groom that registered at REI. 
• You'd be pissed if the store was out of your favorite brand of water. 
• Every day is casual Friday. 
• You know that Kindergarten Cop and The Goonies were filmed in Astoria and Cannon Beach, respectively.
• You take pride in Lewis and Clark and know who Sacagawea is.
• You love The Shins...because they live here.
• You love the Decemberists....because they are from here...and live here.
• You are the only person in the line at the grocery store who asks for paper, not plastic (because while paper "kills trees" it is recyclable, and plastic bags will sit in our landfills for the next millennium).
• You understand the joys of spandex as a layer under pants
• You are more concerned about packing a sweatshirt or a jacket when going to the beach than packing a bathing suit.
• You say "pop" instead of "soda."
• You know you're from Oregon when people call you a hippy and you just smile b/c you can't hear them over the grape-nuts.
• You've witnessed 300 nude bicyclists just cruising around downtown like its no big deal.
  
  The state motto is "Oregon: We Love Dreamers." I am an Oregonian and I am dreaming of rain and hippies. One week!

Tearing Down the Wall

I've had writer's block. Not unlike the Berlin Wall, it has kept me from expressing my truest opinions and my deepest feelings (not to mention my unadulterated loathing for toilet spray and bathroom doors that swing in instead of out, preventing quick escapes from the treacherous micro-bacteria ferociously attacking my body through any exposed body cavity). So today I've decided that it's time to take action, to be bold, to fight what has been holding me back for all of these....days. In the spirit of Ronald Reagan (you know, that movie star with that nice hair) I say, "Mr. Gorbachev--TEAR DOWN THIS WALL."

Blood, sweat, and a click of a mouse button later, and I'm back and freer than ever. I think I even feel a bead of sweat sliding down my brow from the arduous work (oh wait--that's blood from a zit. Whoops. Be right back...............)

Ok, now I'm back for reals this time (Fo' Reals!) and I just wanted to take a moment to express my true and undying love for pudding. I know, I know. I wish it was for a boy, too. But for now, pudding will have to do.

When asked what my favorite food is, I have often claimed pudding (no, not apples). I can't get enough of the texture -- the cold slime as it slides down my throat. Nothing beats mixing fat free JELLO instant pudding with cool whip and eating it with a rubber baby spoon.

That's really all I wanted to do today on this blog, to proclaim my feelings for something that has come to mean so much to me over the course of my life, and something I take entirely too much for granted. I give so much respect to the garden burger, while that jiggly goodness, which has been such a loyal friend in so many different stages of my life, sits on the shelf, unmade. It needs to move, it needs to be free. And it can't do it alone. I hope that when I have children that I don't focus on the healthy, solid ones and leave the jiggly ones in their rooms all day. That wouldn't be good.

Now don't you wish I still had writer's block?

December 4, 2010: Armageddon

When I was in Buenos Aires, we made weekly visits to an old gray haired, blue-eyed woman named Hermana Banegas. She had pointy spread out teeth and whenever we would greet her, she would be chewing food between them and then would kiss us on the cheek. I always cringed a little, but her big heart made it hard to be too disgusted. She called me "Mi muneca" or "my little doll." She always had the greatest stories -- most of them made up, I'm sure -- but nevertheless, we would sit there and act amazed, even after the fourth time hearing the same tall tale. There was one story, however, confirmed to be true by outside sources. Hermana Banegas is a gypsy. Her journey to becoming a gypsy is a little fuzzy these days, but I knew it involved her mother leaving her first husband, joining a band of gypsies, traveling with them, getting pregnant with one of them, and then I remember something about a magical mountain (LSD, maybe?). It was always an adventure meeting with her. One day in particular, however, stands out in mind.

It's not, after all, every day that you find out you're going to die.

For weeks she had been insisting on reading my palm. I resisted, for some reason thinking that that wouldn't be okay as a missionary. Finally, however, I broke down and stretched out my hand, which she took smiling. With a furrowed brow and her lip jutting out over her crooked, pointy teeth, she ran her finger across my palm. "Hmmmmm..." she murmerred. "What is it?" I asked. No answer. "Oh siiiiiiiiii....." she continued. "What?" I asked again. She began shaking her head, tsk tsking. "Hermana Banegas!" I said a little louder, thinking that her old ears were failing her. "Mi muneca," she finally replied. "You are going to die." Well, I was glad I hadn't payed her to do that, since, well, she's right. The weird part, though, was that she then said, "And I know when." Naturally, I exclaimed, "WHEN?!" to which she replied, "Ahhhh...this I cannot tell you." At that point I couldn't help but laugh. I mean, really, the situation was absurd, and I could still see food stuck in her gums between her teeth. I gave her a kiss goodbye on the cheek and we left her house. I hardly ever have reason to think about that palm reading, the day when Hermana Banegas predicted my death. -----That is, until now.

Yes, friends, I have signed up for the GRE. It has been payed for in blood and there is no turning back. I have been anything but motivated to study for it. I started back in June. I tried again in September. And with exactly one month to go before I meet my Maker, I have tried again. But this is how my study session went:

Goal: Study for one hour from the math section.
Objective: To do well on the GRE
Reality: ZZZZZZZZzzzzzzzzz

I spent the hour sleeping at my desk, my head back, drool running down my neck. I don't see how I will ever fit all the information I need to remember into my small brain. I can take a small section, work on it, and then be tested on it -- no problem. But the material is too much! (Not to mention that I loathe it -- unadulterated loathing, no less). This is why I am convinced that my end is quickly approaching. I will not survive the disaster. You have my testimony of that on this blog. To my friends and family who read this, I will begin willing things away, so be sure to put in your requests. It's on a first come, first serve basis.

 There may not be earthquakes, suns as black as sackcloth of hair, or moon like blood. The stars may not fall from heaven, the heaven may not depart as a scroll, moving the mountains and the island out of their places, and the rocks may not fall upon me. But by golly, "the great day of his wrath is come."

December 4, 2010: Armageddon.

Flashback!

I was glancing through some of my 2005 posts today and came across this particular one that I am am about to repost here. It's short (to give your tired, bloodshot eyes a rest since my last epistle) and to the point. I was reminded just how wise my family is, especially my grandma -- who sometimes I think is on crack. Welcome to my family. Enjoy your stay.

Say What? 

June 2005 

Everyone's families have sayings that are said over and over again throughout each family member's lifetime. Mine is no different. Here are a few sayings that I have heard more than once growing up.

1) "Is that a ditch you want to die in?" -Grandma
2) "Want in one hand, poop in the other, and see which hand gets full first." -Grandma
3) "That's funnier than a rubber crutch in a polio ward." -Grandma
4) "Life's not fair." -Dad
5) "Twinkies" (referring to two people who match clothes) - Mom
6) "Remember who you are and whose you are" -Mom and Grandma
7) "Loveyoubye" - Mandy, my aunt
8) "Shut the crap up." -Grandma (okay, so it is was only once. But still. It was hilarious.)
9) "Happy Holidays" - The whole family (it's basically like flipping someone off. It's a long story...)
10) "Never live below the road" -Grandma (We've never figured out why...)

Freedom

Freedom. Our forefathers sailed across the great foamy sea seeking it with big wigs, puffy trousers and all the hope in the world. The American revolutionists saw it in the "whites of their eyes." Susan B. Anthony saw it for the voice of women. In the 60's, long-haired hippies in tie dye saw it  as an escape from the iron fist, from all sobriety, and, well, from bras. Martin Luther King fought for it as a constitutional right for an oppressed people. Soldiers in the Middle East risk their lives to protect it. Freedom. It's a basic human right.

Naturally, that means we can rip our shirts off and run around half naked through the neighborhood.

It was October 18 and the occasion was my birthday. We try not to say the word "birthday" too many times because that implies that I did indeed did grow a year older. (And no, we don't mention the plethora of gray hairs protruding out of my bangs.) But don't worry. I am many years away from buying my first cat Fluffy and letting her put her cat dish on my table so I don't feel like I'm eating alone. In fact, I am far from it. This is my 24th year, and gosh darnit, I'm going to live it. Hit it Aretha:

Oh freedom (freedom), freedom (freedom), freedom, yeah freedom
Freedom (freedom), freedom (freedom), freedom, ooh freedom!!

My birth#*! had been relatively normal throughout the day. I was, after all, still 23 since I was born around 4 in the afternoon (shhhh...moment of silence at the strike of 4). I gave blood to help the bloodless, I worked, I went to class, I did homework. You know. Just a typical day in the life of someone who has no life (we'll save that for another day, though). Everything changed, however, when I left the library and stumbled upon two CRASEE girls in a white car blasting the classic "Just wanna stand there and watch me burn..." It was on repeat. When I got in my car, I was immediately handed a pink princess crown and asked if I was ready. Ha. I was born ready.

After a relatively calm dinner at Cafe Rio (there's always a calm before the storm), we went back to my apartment with "Dance, dance, dance, dance" still on repeat, and I was guided up the steps to my door and a darkened window. I wondered (please sense a twinge of sarcasm here), "What could possibly be about to happen?" I couldn't tell what my two crasee friends were planning with all their side glances and unfinished sentences. Shockingly enough, I opened up the door and was surprised to find half my FHE group in my living room with goofy grins on their faces. AND, some of my most favorite people in the world were scattered among those only there for the cake. I realized then just how amazing my friends are. We embraced. BFF's. Without going into too many details (since the point of this post is freedom, not funfetti) it was an amazing spectaular complete with a tie dye cake, peace, and love. "Don't you wish your friends were cool like mine? Don't ya? Don't ya?" After the last party patron trickled out our front door, not the least bit disastified with the rave they had just been privilaged to participate in, my crasee friends finally declared, "It's time."

When the European immigrants finally spotted the Statue of Liberty after a long and dreary journey across the Atlantic, they saw freedom, hope, and a better future. I put on two sports bras, my short shorts, pink striped socks, and saw my own bright and shiny (and breezy and balmy) future before me. Here's a question for the masses: Have you ever stripped down to your scevies and ran around like a banchi through a decently well lit residential area, where the porchlights acted as spotlights to the circus scene playing out before them? Oh, you haven't? Well, my young apprentice, my crasee friends would argue that you haven't lived, then. To live is to find freedom from the restrictive and oppressive nature of both clothing and the societal norms that imposes them upon us. To be free is to let everything hang out and jiggle and flap in the cool, night breeze. To be free is to realize that you have friends who endorse such radical behavior, and who instill in you a love and an appreciation for the liberal ways of life.

We formed a pretty good running team, the four of us, each with her own body type and not ashamed of anything (see Dove commercial). Liberation spread across our lips as we ran, not able to hold back the gleeful shrieks and deep breaths of relief (not unlike the feeling when you have to pee really bad, and you finally free your bladder from the hellish pressure -- pure relief). I felt like the BYU-Idaho student who transferred to Provo and could for the first time feel the crisp Mountain air through her toes because she was finally allowed to wear flip flops. Oh freedom.

I would like to dedicate this post to my most amazing and wonderful friends (the two of you who read this) and thank you for the examples that you are in my life. (Just don't tell my mom of your influencing ways, though........) But seriously, what's next?

Freedom is being 24 years old and loving every minute of it.

What's your major? Where are you from?

Another summer bites the dust. The air is just a little cooler. The campus is once again pulsating with students scurrying to and from classes, shattering the serentiy that only spring and summer terms could offer. I used to have my favorite bathroom stall, or my favorite spot on the grass -- and I was always able to claim them as my own. Now no one seems to care that those were clearly reserved for me. But despite the fact that September always sends a bittersweet current through my fading tanned body, I am so excited for a new school year -- and did I mention it's my last? Well, my last year as a undergrad, anyway. Can I get a happy dance? Anyone? Oh yes. But even more than the fact that I can see the light at the end of the tunnel, I love love love my classes. I realize now that everything that I picked out of my sociology classes to really love have to do with international developement. And now I get to study that all day every day. It's a good feeling to be sitting in class and think, "Man, I love this." Note: I did NOT have this feeling in Stats 221. I'm taking classes that draw me in from the moment I sit down and push me out of my seat at the end with all the hope in the world to make a difference. My roommates are amazing -- and hilarious. Well, the two descriptions normally go hand in hand. We are going to start a quote book -- the things that come out of their mouths! I love them.

So all in all, life is good right now! Can it really be the last year???

Now, I wanted to get the positive side off my chest before I briefly touched on one aspect that bugs me about the beginning of a new semester -- the get to know you conversations. Ward socials. "Hi, what's your name? What's your major? Where are you from? Oh really? What do you want to do with that?" Ok, so one or two or maybe even three people isn't too bad. But when you're visiting with enough people for long enough, you quickly find that it would be so much easier and so less painful to merely right out the answers on a business card and hand them out. Unless the strapping young fellow you're talking with has dreamy eyes and you want to look into them for as long as you can, of course. But other than that, it's really just tedious work that no one should be subjected to. But that's my only five cents I'm going to throw in about  that one -- because hey! Life is pretty darn good. If having to answer boring questions about myself is the biggest problem I have right now, I'll gladly accept it as my ball and chain.

Now this is the part where I promise to write more diligently on this blog. Unfortunately I've reached a point in my ripe old age where I just don't make promises anymore because I always seem to forget them. So the best I can say is -- I'll try! (:

Bones (not noses) to Pick

I'm normally a fairly easy going person - well, at least I tell myself that, anyway. Some of you might scoff at that statement. But lately, I've had a couple things of that have just bugged. And I have a bone to pick with them. Unfortunately, for the few who actually read my blog, you will be forced to read my ranting and raving. But don't worry. If at anytime you feel that any of this ranting and raving is directed at you, personally, it probably is. Haha. Kidding. Probably. (: Anyway, in no order of bone density, here are the bones I would like to pick:

1. Long hair at gyms - yesterday I came out of my spin class drenched with sweat and looking oh so pretty, when I saw a skinny, skinny (no, I'm not bitter) blonde with tight spandex, a tank top, and her long straight hair down to the middle of her back. When she walked she flipped it back with her hand (you know what I'm talking about) and of course the eyes of the guys lifting weights followed when she passed. Seriously? Now this is not the first time I've seen girls with long hair, compeltely done up, and their hair down while working out. If it were the only time, I would have chalked it up to being merely a freak incident. But no, I see it quite often at the gym. It's obvious why these girls are there. And you know, if they are there to pick up on guys, then by all means, it's their God-given right. And I have the right to blog about it. I know I am probably just jealous. If I wore my hair down, it would be a frizz ball within 0.7 seconds due to the buckets of sweat  I tend to excrete. Maybe next week I'll just have to try it, though. I'll practice the hair flip today at work. Oh wait. I wadded my hair up -- like every day.

2. Education Week - do you rememeber that post I wrote about how EFY kids just kind of got on my nerves? Well, welcome to the week when those EFY kids grow up and STILL serve as the bane of my existence. The campus has been invaded by old people who seek the thrill of reliving their university days (and granted, being spiritually instructed). At least EFY kids tended to walk in a line with leader, so that if needs be, I could dodge all of them with one single sidestep. Old people go wherever they darn please. Oh education week. Oh old people. How I love thee.

3. Bathroom doors that swing in, instead of out - I realize that this may seem like a funny bone to pick (haha...funny bone...). But seriously. I am disgusted by toilet spray. In high school I was editor of our school paper and as such, I basically wrote whatever I darn pleased. So one day I decided (being the germaphobe that I am) to do a undercover investigation of bathroom hygiene. For two hours I stood on the toilet seat of the handicap stall, documenting the number of pee-ers, and listening for how many washed their hands. Disgustingly, that number was about as low as the amount of food I have right now - which is saying something. In my research for the groundbreaking article, I managed to stumble upon toilet spray, and just how far it really goes. But anyway -- that's a whole other blog post, which I just may write. The bottom line is, I am disgusted by toilet water droplets going into my mouth, and a door swinging out would make my great escape that much quicker. Who cares about whacking the person outside in the face. She shouldn't be standing so close to my stall, anyway - weirdo.

And, well, that's enough bone picking for today. I try to maintain a positive perspective on life, and if I rant and rave too long, I start to see just how alone I am in being normal. Am I really the only normal person on this planet? Such a depressing thought. And don't try to tell me that if I'm the only  normal person, maybe I'm not so normal. Trust me. I've heard it all before. Save it for the whales.

Bone picking - done. Let's talk about rainbows and butterflies.

Haha -- I'm serious.

The other day a friend and I were walking down University when we spotted a sign for a charity concert at the end of August. It was going to attract big names - Third Eye Blind, Reliant K, etc. We got pretty excited about it. The next day he texted me with the details after having looked it up online, but said with hesitation, "The charity sounds kind of weird, though." In my head, I was thinking up all the "weird charity" possibilities. For example, I once heard that the Kentucky Humane Society teamed up with the ladies from Hooters reminding the good people of the state to spay and neuter their pets - Hooters for Neuters. When I asked him what the charity was, however, he replied, "A foundation to stop the child sex trade in Canada and in the US." Well, this wasn't weird at all. It is all too real. Our conversation continued:

Me: "Well that's a big problem right now, actually -- as crazy as it seems."
Friend: "I can't tell through text if you're joking or serious. Is it really a problem?"
Me: "Haha -- I'm serious."
Friend: "So when the use the word 'trade,' do they mean it like the slave trade? Are kids really taken, shipped, and sold as sex slaves, or is it talking about child pornography?"
Me: No. They trade children in prostitution, basically. And it's a big problem with women, too."
Friend: "So I'm still a little confused. Are the children and women captives, or is it their parents and husbands who are acting as pimps?"
Me: "Sometimes they're kidnapped and put into it. In the poorer countries, some families have sold their children to survive."
Friend: "That's terrible and so sad. :( I guess it's not surprising for a third world country, but I had no idea it existed in more developed places...What a world, what a world. How did you hear about this?"

It was in this text conversation, that I realized just how often world-scale atrocities like sex trafficking go unnoticed. I don't consider my friend ignorant. He just never knew. Once he did know, he saw the horror for what it was. For any kind of change to come about in a world so battered by violence, hatred, racism, poverty, and sex crimes, it has to start with awareness. In my Sociology of Modern Society class we talked at great length about the Rwanda genocide. At one point, a girl raised her hand and asked, "Why don't I remember this, while I can remember the OJ Simpson trial?" On June 12, 1994 Simpson's girlfriend and her friend Ronald Goldman were found dead outside Brown's condominium. On April 6, 1994, the mass murder of an estimated 800,000 Rwandans took place. The girl in my sociology class was right. Why don't I remember it?

We have to know what's going on. The world can't afford ignorance - too much is at stake. The Dali Lama once said, "Where ignorance is our master, there is no possibility for real peace." Knowledge is power - the power to change.

To be aware about human trafficking in the United States and abroad, check out the following links:

http://www.humantrafficking.org/

http://www.cnn.com/2009/OPINION/11/25/carr.human.trafficking/

http://www.acf.hhs.gov/trafficking/about/fact_sex.pdf

http://abcnews.go.com/Primetime/story?id=1596778&page=1

My Pie Shake Brings All the Boys to the Yard

I have found a new love, and just can't hide it anymore. I am in love with...Sammy's. It may strike you as a dog's name, or maybe even the name of a freckled-face 6 year old, but no. It's only the coolest little hole in the wall hamburger joint in downtown Provo (granted, there is maybe only one other downtown -- but that's beside the point). I'll be honest, I've only had their black bean garden burger, but I've SEEN the hamburgers and they look amazing. The attraction, however, is not necessarily in the meat or black beans. Their pie shakes are what bring all the crazies to the yard -- like me. Listen and drool: They will take a whole piece of pie and make a MILKSHAKE with it. I'm not joshing you. This is legit, ladies and gentlemen. Saturday night I had a Chocolate Oreo Cream Pie Shake and sweet potato fries. A-freaking-mazing. Their bathrooms may be wanting, but any true hole in the wall with a nice bathroom would not be a hole in the wall. It has to have character. Welcome to Sammy's.

 "I was 32 when I started cooking; up until then, I just ate."

Julia Child

 "Pobrecita," the old women said, shaking her head as she watched me iron her clothes. I was in Pacheco, just outside Buenos Aires, and I was ironing an old women's clothes for her as she sat in her rocking chair. Pobrecita is like saying "poor little thing." The old woman, living in a tiny two bedroom house with very little material things or any hope of ever having any, felt sorry for me -- because I was never going to get married. I may have had a roof over my head, a a college education, and an iPod waiting for me at home, but I didn't have the most important thing yet -- and apparently I never would. Ana, the old women, turned to my companion and said quietly (but obviously not quiet enough), "Ella nunca se va a casar." She is never going to get married. 

The sad part is, she was not the only old women to point this out. It was brought to my attention both in Buenos Aires, as well as in Tierra del Fuego -- an island at the bottom of the world. Even the penguins could see it. Ana saw my lack of potential in the way I ironed and folded her clothes. Adelina saw it in my awesome sewing skills (note the oozing sarcasm). And after getting a taste of my amazing cooking talent, Margarita declared the whole American female population incompetent and hopeless -- and of course, unsuitable for marriage. My Latin companions could always just whip up a tart, or pizza from scratch. I made toast -- and burnt it. To these women, women who probably began kneading dough before they could even reach the counter to do it, women who every day created a beautiful, LARGE meal from scratch for the entire family at lunch time, ironing, sewing, and cooking were what made a woman attractive as a potential wife. And all this time I thought my good looks and charm were going to win me my man! Now, while I don't worry about my lack of talent being a factor in my future (far in the future) marriage (I am, after all, a modern woman--burn the bras!), I can see how my kids might die of scurvy if all I feed them is burnt toast. Luckily, like Julia Child, it's never too late to learn! Up until now, I have just eaten. I'm 23. It's time I started cooking. 

I'm not quite sure how to go about accomplishing this new and grand aspiration. I almost feel that I should wait until I move into my new apartment -- my current apartment has already been through one fire. Ideally, I would make something once a week. Realistically, however, that may hurt my bank account given the fact that I currently eat only garden burgers and cereal every day. Well, I will think about it and get back to you (all three of you who read this blog). Maybe I can even blog about my adventures in cooking ala Julie style. Until then, I will continue on this dark and ever-so self-destructive path that can only lead to many, many, so many cats.

Buen Provecho!

Why I Love Country Concerts

On Friday I had the privilege of attending one of society's most regal social events -- a country music concert outside. Oh yeah. I can't help but love them -- everything about them speaks to my heart and stirs up my soul. Sure, it may smell like beer. And yes, you usually see something scarring. But really, summer wouldn't be summer without it. Let me present 15 reasons why I love country music concerts. And while some of these may sound sarcastic, I really do cherish them -- every one of them. I hope one day YOU can feel the same explicit joy. Ahem...

1. You feel the urge to count mullets and are never disappointed.
2. The amount of sunburnt flesh -- lots of it.
3. Beer bracelets
4. The bathroom weather being reminencent of summers in Buenos Aires (including smell).
5. The funny drunk lady who sways in unison to the music, her beer sloshing on her bare feet.
6. The couple in front of us getting it on. Ew.
7. The electric cigarette - seriously people.
8. The not so electric cigarette - complete with real smoke...in your face.
9. The roar of an evening crowd.
10. Tattoos, tattoos, and oh. Tattoos. 
11. The girl getting plastered during the opening act -- and then throwing up all over her friend's cowboy boots. Awesome.
12. The twang.
13. The soul.
14. The passion.
15. The music.

"Country Music: The Spirit of America."   

Alan Jackson

don't worry

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

don't worry. everything will be okay.

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

take it from here, bob:

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

A packed campus | Universe.byu.edu

A packed campus | Universe.byu.edu

dear daily universe,

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

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

sincerely,
jessica

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

the smell of banana bread reminds me of...

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

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

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

The time has come the walrus said...

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

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

The Walrus and the Carpenter by Lewis Carroll 

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

It's a Beautiful Day

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

Peace

Chaos

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