I know I don't know all of you personally. I know that some of you don't know me personally. I know that life is hard and we don't always know what is happening to those around us.
Today, readers, you are in my prayers. Today is a day that those I care for need some extra help, and thankfully God allows us to plead for one another, to support and to sustain when we have nothing left. I could single out those that I need to pray for, but I'm just going to say a few individual names, and then say a collective prayer for all of you. Because we have to be in this with each other if we have any hope of making it.
Love to all of you. Really.
I feel so zen.
Weird.
But good weird.
Thursday, April 21, 2011
Sunday, April 17, 2011
.
remember an unfailing, continual, ever-present source of peace and comfort is available to you. It is the certainty that your Father in Heaven loves you no matter what your circumstance, no matter what winds of trial, turmoil, or tribulation whirl about you. That certainty will never change.
--Elder Richard G. Scott
--Elder Richard G. Scott
Friday, April 15, 2011
someone want to be nice?
pretty please? I can give you a promo that will give you 20% off!
In other news, I'm almost done with finals, life is dreamy, food tastes good, pageant life rocks, and I'm going to Disneyworld!
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
You go BYU.
But I love my friend Lydia so much more. See, she's my old dance partner's wife and she's smart and she's beautiful and she's enormously curious about the world. Her desire to know about life and people is contagious, and she reminds me to always continue asking more questions. The Daily Universe opinion editor wrote a column on the great leggings debate, proving once again that BYU ignores serious problems in favor of ridiculous items that have very little effect on the general well-being of students seeking an education. Lydia responds here, and maybe I'm a little presumptuous, but I'm fairly sure she refers to me and my love for la-la-leggings.
I never wrote about this, but last fall I was turned away from the JFSB testing center for wearing leggings. Drew, Mandy, et. al: we can disagree on whether or not leggings are actually PANTS. No, of course they're not actually PANTS, but can some members of the female sex pull them off as appropriate leg-wear? I argue with a very resounding YES. I tend to choose love-it or hate-it fashion items (chocolate mousse on tinfoil dress, anyone?) because it's fun and I enjoy the statement that's made.
I'm going to go ahead and argue that with the appropriate body type, leggings work. This is not for everybody, obviously. When worn with a tunic you're probably okay even if you wouldn't ordinarily be comfortable with a t-shirt and leggings.
The leggings I wore to the testing center? I had a large tunic on over them, but I still got to argue with the poor 20-year-old girl about my inappropriate clothing. Do I care that people disagree with my fashion choice? Obviously not. Do I still wear leggings on campus? Definitely, just not in the JFSB testing center.
By the way - Lydia has it right. There's nothing in the honor code about leggings, probably because God is more concerned about individuals pursuing a higher degree of spirituality, and as long as you can wear garments appropriately***, I see no problem.
***I can promise you that you see my garments line more in jeans than in leggings.
I never wrote about this, but last fall I was turned away from the JFSB testing center for wearing leggings. Drew, Mandy, et. al: we can disagree on whether or not leggings are actually PANTS. No, of course they're not actually PANTS, but can some members of the female sex pull them off as appropriate leg-wear? I argue with a very resounding YES. I tend to choose love-it or hate-it fashion items (chocolate mousse on tinfoil dress, anyone?) because it's fun and I enjoy the statement that's made.
I'm going to go ahead and argue that with the appropriate body type, leggings work. This is not for everybody, obviously. When worn with a tunic you're probably okay even if you wouldn't ordinarily be comfortable with a t-shirt and leggings.
The leggings I wore to the testing center? I had a large tunic on over them, but I still got to argue with the poor 20-year-old girl about my inappropriate clothing. Do I care that people disagree with my fashion choice? Obviously not. Do I still wear leggings on campus? Definitely, just not in the JFSB testing center.
By the way - Lydia has it right. There's nothing in the honor code about leggings, probably because God is more concerned about individuals pursuing a higher degree of spirituality, and as long as you can wear garments appropriately***, I see no problem.
***I can promise you that you see my garments line more in jeans than in leggings.
an open letter to Mr. Ricky [Wishes-He-Were-O']Reilly
Here's the thing - I'm giving you exactly what you want: more press, even if I'm not exactly press just yet (yet, my friends, yet...). But how can I not say something? You just make it so easy. First off, let's start with my respect for you. You've made a career as an essayist. A sports essayist, no less. A sports essayist who doesn't actually play any sports (from what I can find on google - and no, little league doesn't count).
That's almost enough to make you my anti-hero, not because you're a really wonderful person who gives money to African kids (something I'm tempted to say you do to help your jackass image - it's okay, I'd probably do it, too if I had your PR people), but because I've always had this secret desire to be a sports commentator.
We're actually kind of similar, which gives me hope for my secret desire.
There are a few things standing in my way of being a sports blogger/commentator/essayist/photographer/girl-on-football-field-who-is-mostly-useless. I don't have a degree in communications. My writing degree comes from writing about pretty things and ugly things and dead things and existential things. You seem to have a degree, even if no one has any idea what it actually is.
Anyone who has seen me launch any sort of ball with either my hands or my feet or my head or my forearms or a pool stick can tell you that God did not give me the gift of sporty-coordination. Plainly: I SUCK. I love sports, and I would love to commentate, but my inexperience has always been a bit of a hindrance. However, you didn't play sports either. Maybe you dabbled in stuff in college, either club sports or the weekly pick-up game when you didn't have a date, but from what I can tell, your expertise in sports is from years and years of writing pretentiously about athlete's inadequacies in their personal lives.
Writing about celebrated individual's personal lives? I can totally do that. I tend to pick on people like Jessica Simpson or Miley Cyrus - the overhyped, untalented, grossly paid clowns who are almost as famous as God and even He's not sure why. Sure, it's mean. Maybe even a little unfair. It's not like I know what it's like to have a dad who has an unhealthy fascination with my double D's, or a dad who takes creepy photos with me, only to sell me out to Babs Walters. I should probably give them a little more growing room. But there again, you've proven that picking on doped up baseball players or has-been NBA stars makes for more page loads.
Obviously I'm not really a fan of you. You're a funny writer, but definitely not as funny as David Sedaris, who at least doesn't try to write about things in which he has no experience. It's not like you have poor syntax, or a bland voice, or even boring images that make us all snooze and force us to redirect ourselves to celebrity gossip. Unlike President Obama, you deserve your vaguely unprecedented awards. Ex-athletes do well in the commentating field, so your natural literary talents definitely give you an edge because for some reason we're paying attention to you and not the former pro-turned-analyst who actually knows what he's talking about.
Let's face it. You're a bitter attention whore who more than likely was always picked last in grade school. I get it. I can be a bitter attention whore who likes to complain about the many, numerous problems I face, like a night without Dr. Pepper or too many movies to choose from at Redbox. It's a hard world we live in, Mr. Reilly, especially when we're fighting to stay relevant.
You saw an open market, and you jumped up to it. Next time might I suggest you not do it in the immediate aftermath of a heartbreaking loss for a kid who was easily the strongest player of the season? Particularly when doing it in such a harsh way that prompts the unfortunate discovery that you actually have no credentials other than the ability to craft witty sentences (there are plenty of us out there, buddy). Certainly not when the NCAA championship outstanding player had only 16 points in his last game of the season, and certainly not when he couldn't manage a single 3-pointer.
Amidst all of this, I thank you. It's people like Rebecca Black who inspire the tone deaf to make youtube videos. It's people like Nic Cage who inspire the expressionless to search for historical treasure. It's people like you, Rick Reilly, who inspire the clueless to write sports blogs.
Oh wait, that is you.
That's almost enough to make you my anti-hero, not because you're a really wonderful person who gives money to African kids (something I'm tempted to say you do to help your jackass image - it's okay, I'd probably do it, too if I had your PR people), but because I've always had this secret desire to be a sports commentator.
We're actually kind of similar, which gives me hope for my secret desire.
There are a few things standing in my way of being a sports blogger/commentator/essayist/photographer/girl-on-football-field-who-is-mostly-useless. I don't have a degree in communications. My writing degree comes from writing about pretty things and ugly things and dead things and existential things. You seem to have a degree, even if no one has any idea what it actually is.
Anyone who has seen me launch any sort of ball with either my hands or my feet or my head or my forearms or a pool stick can tell you that God did not give me the gift of sporty-coordination. Plainly: I SUCK. I love sports, and I would love to commentate, but my inexperience has always been a bit of a hindrance. However, you didn't play sports either. Maybe you dabbled in stuff in college, either club sports or the weekly pick-up game when you didn't have a date, but from what I can tell, your expertise in sports is from years and years of writing pretentiously about athlete's inadequacies in their personal lives.
Writing about celebrated individual's personal lives? I can totally do that. I tend to pick on people like Jessica Simpson or Miley Cyrus - the overhyped, untalented, grossly paid clowns who are almost as famous as God and even He's not sure why. Sure, it's mean. Maybe even a little unfair. It's not like I know what it's like to have a dad who has an unhealthy fascination with my double D's, or a dad who takes creepy photos with me, only to sell me out to Babs Walters. I should probably give them a little more growing room. But there again, you've proven that picking on doped up baseball players or has-been NBA stars makes for more page loads.
Obviously I'm not really a fan of you. You're a funny writer, but definitely not as funny as David Sedaris, who at least doesn't try to write about things in which he has no experience. It's not like you have poor syntax, or a bland voice, or even boring images that make us all snooze and force us to redirect ourselves to celebrity gossip. Unlike President Obama, you deserve your vaguely unprecedented awards. Ex-athletes do well in the commentating field, so your natural literary talents definitely give you an edge because for some reason we're paying attention to you and not the former pro-turned-analyst who actually knows what he's talking about.
Let's face it. You're a bitter attention whore who more than likely was always picked last in grade school. I get it. I can be a bitter attention whore who likes to complain about the many, numerous problems I face, like a night without Dr. Pepper or too many movies to choose from at Redbox. It's a hard world we live in, Mr. Reilly, especially when we're fighting to stay relevant.
You saw an open market, and you jumped up to it. Next time might I suggest you not do it in the immediate aftermath of a heartbreaking loss for a kid who was easily the strongest player of the season? Particularly when doing it in such a harsh way that prompts the unfortunate discovery that you actually have no credentials other than the ability to craft witty sentences (there are plenty of us out there, buddy). Certainly not when the NCAA championship outstanding player had only 16 points in his last game of the season, and certainly not when he couldn't manage a single 3-pointer.
Amidst all of this, I thank you. It's people like Rebecca Black who inspire the tone deaf to make youtube videos. It's people like Nic Cage who inspire the expressionless to search for historical treasure. It's people like you, Rick Reilly, who inspire the clueless to write sports blogs.
Oh wait, that is you.
Friday, April 1, 2011
not a joke - promise!
Why am I awake?! I haven't properly slept in days, and yet I'm not tired. I totally lost my voice in the morning, only to get it back, only to lose it again (probably because after hearing the Grey's Anatomy musical episode, my vocal chords slit themselves).
But but but but but.
Forgive me. I'm having a moment. It's complete and total and utter and crazy WHOA elation and I can't get it out fast enough. This is the entry I'm going to come back to in a few months when I'm feeling downtrodden and beat, because right now, at 3 in the morning on April 1, I am not fooled at all. Right now, at 3 in the morning on April 1, I am entirely too happy.
I feel as though I've woken up. Like my mind has had a switch turned either on or off - I don't think it matters which one it is - and the happy, content, loved chemicals are floating through my body and pushing through my blood stream and making my fingers and elbows and ear lobes tingle.
But but but but but.
Lest you think I won the lottery or am caught up with all of my classes or snagged a boyfriend or found a pair of Louboutins underneath my pillow... None of this has happened! I have no money, school is going to kick my butt all the way until the third week of April, I actually am excited about how freaking awesome it is to be single right now, and the closest I'll get to some Louboutins is if I draw red marker underneath my heels.
But my best friend is getting married and it's conference weekend and I'm crazy excited for July 2 and my sister-in-law Mandy has really great hair and my little brother is adorable and my dad has the coolest house ever that I get to live in. My friends Ryan and Emily are all married and such and there's midget wrestling in Nephi on April 15 and my nails are this really fantastic coral/orange/tangerine color.
My fingers are seriously vibrating from the things I wish I could type but can't because my brain's just too slow for my soul.
I know I don't always name things specifically here on the internet for all to see, but I did tonight for my creative writing class which created one of the sweetest moments I've had thus far in my short career as a writer: for the first time I feel as though I've written something that means something to someone other than myself.
I remember the last time I felt this way. I was sitting in the library across from a dear person in my life. We were both sort of studying, but we were also shooting sly glances at each other while occasionally typing to each other on iChat. It's a pretty wonderful world we live in now, isn't it? Anyway, he did something stupid and I did something stupid and we laughed and typed and laughed again and gave each other silly stares and I was overwhelmed by the moment. It didn't matter all that much. It's not like he shared some huge revelation with me and it's not like I read something that would alter my life in that moment. But see, there was this song coming through my ear buds, and there were those glances, and there was the silly laughter in the back corner of the HBLL.
I've missed feeling that way. But I'm so glad that I found it back here all by myself, with a few nudges of encouragement from God and the people He's given me.
My friends, I'm sorry to brag, but I think I'm living in a dreamy existence.
But but but but but.
Forgive me. I'm having a moment. It's complete and total and utter and crazy WHOA elation and I can't get it out fast enough. This is the entry I'm going to come back to in a few months when I'm feeling downtrodden and beat, because right now, at 3 in the morning on April 1, I am not fooled at all. Right now, at 3 in the morning on April 1, I am entirely too happy.
I feel as though I've woken up. Like my mind has had a switch turned either on or off - I don't think it matters which one it is - and the happy, content, loved chemicals are floating through my body and pushing through my blood stream and making my fingers and elbows and ear lobes tingle.
But but but but but.
Lest you think I won the lottery or am caught up with all of my classes or snagged a boyfriend or found a pair of Louboutins underneath my pillow... None of this has happened! I have no money, school is going to kick my butt all the way until the third week of April, I actually am excited about how freaking awesome it is to be single right now, and the closest I'll get to some Louboutins is if I draw red marker underneath my heels.
But my best friend is getting married and it's conference weekend and I'm crazy excited for July 2 and my sister-in-law Mandy has really great hair and my little brother is adorable and my dad has the coolest house ever that I get to live in. My friends Ryan and Emily are all married and such and there's midget wrestling in Nephi on April 15 and my nails are this really fantastic coral/orange/tangerine color.
My fingers are seriously vibrating from the things I wish I could type but can't because my brain's just too slow for my soul.
I know I don't always name things specifically here on the internet for all to see, but I did tonight for my creative writing class which created one of the sweetest moments I've had thus far in my short career as a writer: for the first time I feel as though I've written something that means something to someone other than myself.
I remember the last time I felt this way. I was sitting in the library across from a dear person in my life. We were both sort of studying, but we were also shooting sly glances at each other while occasionally typing to each other on iChat. It's a pretty wonderful world we live in now, isn't it? Anyway, he did something stupid and I did something stupid and we laughed and typed and laughed again and gave each other silly stares and I was overwhelmed by the moment. It didn't matter all that much. It's not like he shared some huge revelation with me and it's not like I read something that would alter my life in that moment. But see, there was this song coming through my ear buds, and there were those glances, and there was the silly laughter in the back corner of the HBLL.
I've missed feeling that way. But I'm so glad that I found it back here all by myself, with a few nudges of encouragement from God and the people He's given me.
My friends, I'm sorry to brag, but I think I'm living in a dreamy existence.
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