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.

Yes, this is actually receiving a grade.

The Internet Says So!

            Zombies really exist [see title].  In the Caribbean.  This Harvard ethnobotonist guy Wade Davis found some sort of magical formula that, when in contact with an open wound, would place a living individual into an entranced state.  A state where the individual believed himself to be dead.  There’s also something about a Pufferfish that I’m fairly certain renders the entire case study mildly improbable.  But.  There are real life zombies. 

            This is not good news for me.  Probably not good news for any of us, really.  A zombie is not like Hogwarts, where its existence makes the world more lovely and bright and even delicious.  All of the zombies I’ve encountered smell like my brother Scott’s bedroom did when he was in high school.  They’re the only shade of grey that is hideous.  Sometimes they look like the scorned lover Billy from Hocus Pocus and sometimes they look like a vampire-zombie hybrid, all covered in slimy green and red goo (assumedly human goo), and tattered clothing with really perfect oval holes.  I’m on the run at least once a month in my sleep, so I’ve become pretty well acquainted with their dull fashion choices.

            Did you know that there’s a book called The Zombie Survival Guide?  And did you know that it was a New York Times bestseller?  Because zombies are real.  I haven’t read it yet (sorry Max Brooks), but I probably should – just in case God decides that the whole flood thing is too predictable and chooses to let some neurotoxin turn us all into decaying man-eaters (not to be confused with real life man-eaters; those exist, too, primarily on BYU campus).  There are probably some helpful hints, like how to run from the zombie, and how to figure out if it’s the Danny Boyle kind or if it’s the George Romero kind.  The chapter about hiding is the most appealing to me because I tend to get shin splints and I’d rather not have to run for my life.  I think it’d be easier if I could set up shop in preparation, seal myself within the walls, and wait for everyone on the outside to starve while I feast on Dr. Pepper, Skittles, and Twinkies.   

            A good hideout requires a few things, just based on the various movies I’ve seen: a toilet, a hidden or sealed entrance, water, and snacks.  I Am Legend, 30 Days of Night, 28 Days Later, and Dawn of the Dead give us such necessary items.  However, those people clearly weren’t prepared (except Will Smith, but he had a better outlook after Men in Black).  They were not good boy scouts.  This not-boy scout would include a really good mattress, Settlers of Catan, and the complete works of Ernest Hemingway, because if you’re going to be in solitude, you might as well have a really great internal voice to listen to.  Music and computers and the Internet and some way to keep my Dr. Pepper nicely chilled would all be appreciated, but I’m not going to push my luck. 

            There’s a place I have in mind.  The toilet isn’t in the sealed portion, but it is right outside, so maybe I could find a loophole.  It’s a nice space to hide away in and you’d never know it was there, which years of zombie dreams have taught me is imperative.  I’d tell you the location but if you turn into a zombie, I don’t want you to be able to find me.  This raises the question of how well zombies think, and if you maintain your intelligence after exposed to whatever it is that makes you walk either abnormally slow or abnormally fast (does this have something to do with how politically polarized we are as living humans?).  Zombies are enough to worry about, but a zombie who can navigate my computer files to infiltrate my hiding spot is a bit of a downer.

            Being a zombie must be frustrating.  Of all of the mythical, supernatural creatures you could be, I think zombie is at the bottom of the pile.  They’re not very attractive, sort of stupid, and don’t seem to have very good motor skills.  Can they even communicate beyond the dull roar?  I’d jump to be a vampire if it meant an eternity of snarky exchanges with Damon from The Vampire Diaries, and aliens definitely strike me as Apple users.  Even werewolves have that walking space heater thing going for them, chilling with Kris Kringle in shorts, shirts always optional.  Vampires fulfill our lustful fantasies and zombies remind us that we’ve all become so dependent on technology we’re going to crumble the day the Internet kill-button is pushed.  Who wants to watch a love story between two ugly monsters?  Isn’t that how the CW network justifies all of their casting choices?

            When they appear (and my dreams have sort of convinced me that they just might), I hope I don’t have to resort to drinking Coca-Cola because I’ve run out of Dr. Pepper.  And I hope they are drawn to Twilight fans first.    

The Edible Qualifier

          There are certain defining features that signify my being a female member of the human race.  Anatomy aside (the aside being that I’m as flat as God made me), I fit into a few stereotypes for being womanly: I love babies, I love Gilmore Girls, and I love wearing five-inch heels in various patent hues.  There are other things that clarify one’s femininity, such as the ability to cook or the ability to host parties or the ability to decorate well.  True to Gulbrandsen form, I was born into a family of all men, and a mother who didn’t possess any of these feminine traits, thereby creating a situational paradigm in which balloons and cheese make a sweet shindig.

            My best friend Whitney?  She gets it.  She knows which blogs are chic to follow and which will just sway with the trends.  She has impeccable taste in color combinations and textures and shapes and decorative odds-and-ends [hey, look at that, I made a rhyme – must be all of that poetry].  I have really great taste in shoes (in my veiled humility, of course), but I have a tendency to have bare walls – and while her book-adorned shelves are supplemented by beautiful, artistic knick-knacks, mine house dusty books jammed into whatever space I can find.  So when our friend Emily needed a bridal shower, it made sense that Whitney would plan, cook, decorate, and generally do all of the things that are noticed and congratulated on by the guests, and I would… well… clean.  Oh.  And drag lots of songs into an iTunes playlist entitled Emily’s Shower.  At least I’m aware of what goods I bring to the table.

            Being a woman is frightening, not because I have to grow a zygote in my body and then push said zygote-turned-fetus-turned-alienesque-baby out of my body, but because everyone expects women to be born with this gene that automatically allows for great hostess skills.  When you’re in my home, you can be guaranteed to always have your cup filled with whichever beverage I purchased from the grocery store, and your plate filled with take-out pizza.  But I consistently feel less feminine and womanly because I can’t concoct tasty homemade Root Beer, served alongside delicious baked-chicken-whatever.  Even in adolescence I felt my inadequacy.  Everyone knows that the best way to stalk boys who have no idea you exist is to bake them cookies.  I did this.  I left them cookies.  I’m assuming that they ignored me not because of my shiny braces or bad, platinum blonde hair, but because the cookies probably tasted like salty dirt.

            LDS and Utah culture have an extra-fine standard to live up to, so imagine my horror when Whitney reminded me that she would be on top of a mountain in South America during the shower preparations and event.  Enter: the crock-pot.

            I have a religious belief and testimony of the power of a crock-pot.  It made a massive lump of pork taste like Café Rio pork (kind of).  Add some ingredients for a dressing made in a blender (which I originally tried to create in a mixer – so not the same effect).  Throw lots of rice and water in a cooker with about seven fistfuls of cilantro and some squirts of fresh lime juice.  Place all of this over a tortilla you pretended you made (when really you just bought some uncooked ones at Costco).

            Voila!

            A meal.  Seriously.  Everyone loved it (or they’re especially good at lying to my face).  And Emily kept my secret in not knowing what it meant to “mince” garlic.

            I’m going to choose to ignore the fact that Emily took care of all of the decorations and brought all of the tasty treats and made the delicious, non-alcoholic Mint Mojitos.  We can pretend that it wasn’t Whitney’s mom who made the Good Water (pineapple juice, lemons, limes, and a lot of pebble ice).  Let’s forget that I made about ten extra cups of rice that no one will ever eat.

            My transition to being a woman has begun.  Next stop: China Painting.

files and folders.

Thank you for your words of encouragement, your text messages, your facebook messages, your phone calls.  I'm sorry I published that emotional drama.  I usually try to reign those things in.

Of course, as is life, things became much worse.  And they might continue on that path.

But my friend Travis gave me a few boxes to help lighten the load I carry in my purse.  Hopefully I can learn to use them.

Thank you Whitney, and Mandy, and Emily, and Travis, and Kelsey.  But especially thank you Whitney for being my pillar at five in the morning when I need to shake and convulse.

**********

Showing up at the temple at 6:30 in the morning is so unlike me.  There are too many questions that I can't answer right now, but I'm grateful that God felt it appropriate for me to enter that beautiful place and feel an hour of peace.  The second I took a look at my phone, the chaos returned, but instead of hiding in my bed, I managed to file the frustration into a box for a little while.

And I thought what I was dealing with in October was hard.

God's smart, in case you didn't know it. 

Things are probably going to get worse.  And I need to stop trying to date jocks because you may like the fact that I can talk to you about philosophy and politics and China, but I'm pretty sure you can't handle it, either.  And I love you, Dad.  A lot.

Killing time before the temple opens.

This is one of those nights where crying doesn't solve the problem.  This is also one of those nights where I sit and I think, "really, God?  Really?!"

I'm not a perfect person, and I've made a lot of mistakes, and I feel like I've said this a MILLION times and I will keep saying it because it's true.

But right now?  At this time in my life?  I am doing the right things.  I've not said this bluntly, but here it is: I received my endowment a few weeks ago, not because I'm getting married, and not because I'm going on a mission, but because it was time.

And since that decision was made?



angst angst angst.



I read my scriptures.  I am consistently asking God to feel worthwhile.  I tell myself over, and over, and over that I just need to have faith, that I just need to fight through this.  That this will pass.

A friend suggested service, so I've been spending time that I don't have with people and organizations who need help.

I'm trying to develop thick skin, trying to learn how to deal with people who knowingly, and even unknowingly, say destructive things.  But I'm only human.

Many of us feel alone as we attempt to overcome life’s small frustrations and major disappointments. Of course, most of us can say that we know God loves his children. We can bear testimony to the principles of the gospel and the inspiration of our leaders. Yet it seems most difficult to feel that the Lord loves us personally and profoundly and that he acts upon that love to bless us, even in the seemingly insignificant details of our lives.

--Jeffrey  C. Jacob

I'm trying.  I really am.  I'm trying to have faith.  I'm trying to hang in there.  I'm trying to be there for my family and my friends and my dance partner and my teachers and myself and my nieces and my brothers and the people I don't even know.

I need it to be 7 a.m. so I can be inside the Provo temple, away from all of this.

creative [literary] vomit.

Right now, I should be going through the world's most complicated study guide (Intro to Islam, test #2 aka Recognize Every Single Mosque That Has Been Built and Say Why Anyone Cares), and instead I'm agreeing with Phillip Lopate.  Let's change it from creative nonfiction to literary nonfiction, mmmkay?  He is also validating me.

I’m arguing more for reflective nonfiction where thinking and the play of consciousness is the main actor.

Bless you, Mr. Lopate.

I feel old and extremely unaccomplished.  I feel old and bored and boring and old and single.  I feel old and single and too self-aware and old and still in school and SINGLE.  I also feel inadequate.  Sure, I'm doing better than those kids who can't go to college or who can't read.  At least I don't have a communicable disease.  At least I'm not Lindsey Lohan.  You might understand the feeling, though.  The feeling that comes with being 23 and single and still working on an undergrad and the oh-my-gosh-I-have-so-much-potential-there-are-so-many-things-I-want-to-do-and-can-do-what-the-hell-am-I-going-to-do-money-school-family-job-cheese.

Roughly like that, right?

There are people who read this blog and I'm sorely tempted to name them.  People who are currently living what I would consider to be a dreamy existence.  Of course, we all know that's not possible, because everyone deals with their fair share of blah blah blah.  But just once I'd like to say, *coughKatieAPulsiphercough* I hate you a little right now.

This is also about the time that I smack myself.  What am I doing?  What do I want to be doing?  What do I even care about?  How do I synthesize all of my passions into a pretty little box that can be categorized in a three-word statement?  Why haven't I learned this yet?  Why did I stay the same exact weight for four months, trying EVERYTHING, only to gain three pounds in two days?

This is what I like to call a rut.  Not a depressive rut - I've dealt with plenty of those.  An existential rut?  Maybe - although, I don't need you to send me any videos of where I'm from and where I'm going and God's eternal plan of happiness.  A karmic rut?  Most certainly.  Boo Karma.  I'm willing to buy that I deserve this on some level.

Perhaps the correct word is boredom.  Being bored isn't fun.  Being bored and allowing yourself to stay bored?  That's just stupid.

That is also me.

Why am I stupid?  Well, let's look at the things I'm currently most passionate about:

*Writing essays
*Commentating on politics, philosophy, religion, and any other issue that causes lots of war.
*Becoming Miss Nevada
*Babies
*Chuck Bass
*Black Swan

School is good, and school is wonderful, but as of right now, the only classes that are helping me move forward in my passions are my creative writing class and my Islamic class (although apparently everything I'm being taught is WRONG).  Most of my time is devoted to school: going, not going, thinking about going, deciding to stay in bed, dragging myself out of bed, driving, studying at school, studying at home, thinking in the car about school, dreaming about school (including a series of dreams about Mrs. Abbott, a teacher from high school - I'd really love to stop having those).

I'm not very content with my life (shocker).  I've been in a rut.  I've been okay with boredom.

I vowed to be okay with not being perfect, not be okay with being a slug who eats lots of Rhodes bake-at-home rolls (Neil votes ice cream; I vote rolls).

So how can I work toward my passions?

Well, I do love babies, but I also love holding a temple recommend and I'd rather have them after I'm married.  Whining about my singleness isn't very helpful, and I'm pretty sure God is doing it on purpose, so I'm going to try to be zen about all of this and just let the Universe figure it all out (note: this is a lie).

I love Chuck Bass, but he's not real.  So that's a stupid passion.

I also love Black Swan, and I don't care if it's weird (and also not real) - I will accept my connection to Portman's character.  Thank goodness for the soundtrack and for Tchaikovsky and for lesbians and for Oscar DVD screeners.

Becoming Miss Nevada requires becoming Miss Something-or-Other in between.  No practicing can occur right now because I have to grow my nails out for Nationals, but March 18th?  Nails are getting cut and lots of piano playing will happen.  Tune back in sometime around the beginning of April to see if this is even going to happen.

This takes me to the two things that probably make me happiest (besides making out and babies; baby making will probably be included in this one day): I love writing essays and I love stating my opinion.  But why don't I read essays?  How do I not subscribe to The New Yorker?  How do I not own Lopate's numerous volumes?  How can I call myself a student and disciple of creative [literary] nonfiction if I don't actually read any?

So I'm making an addendum to my new year's vow.

I will read a nonfiction piece every day.  I will also read The Economist because I'm really bad with economic issues.  I will act like I actually want to pursue a career in TV/Radio by actually e-mailing a certain Mr. Hannity.  I will be okay with the fact that I like personal essays.  Lopate wants us to write nonfiction in a more reflective way, not just painting a picture of someone who did something interesting, but painting a picture of someone who thinks things that are interesting.

I will become someone who thinks interesting things.

Maybe I will become someone who thinks mostly-interesting things.

But dammit!  I will get out of this rut!

Rah rah go team.

Cue Divo's Whip It.

I'm pretty sure my character is a girl.

whatever makes you happy.

Fiction sucks.  Nonfiction is sooooooo much better.  And I am a bundle of many, many emotions.

One would assume that the writing process would benefit from my bi-polar mood.

One would assume that.

But one would also assume other things about me, and well... those things don't actually happen because I'm just not what I could be.

I blame this on all of the music I've been using to force some sort of inspired work.  Uninspired.  And depressing.  Crap.

in need of some zen.

A tool is making me mad.  It's on facebook.  Of course.  Can I PLEASE not take my work home with me?

In better news, I had to write a fiction scene (aka not real aka something I suck at) for my creative writing class, and at the end my teacher called me out for totally being an essayist.  It's true.  I cheated.  After tomorrow night at 7 p.m., my life will be virtually complete (a couple of notable exceptions there, but I'm working on it).

So I give you Leah's Pet Shark.  Oh, and the photo that inspired it.

I’m in charge of watching Leah today.  It’s not my actual job.  I don’t make any money.  I’m not going to get any references out of it.  There won’t be any real benefit to doing this.  But it’s my job, regardless.  Leah’s two, maybe three, and she has this crazy blonde hair – crazy not because it’s long, but because it looks like the perfect straw color.  It’s short, and if you didn’t know better, you’d probably think she was a boy, but then she smiles her fang-like grin that lights her face in that girl sort of way.  She’s so tiny.  I really have no way to decipher just how old she is from her size.  She’s tall, but she’s skinny, and her features are as delicate as they were when she was born.  Well.  Maybe her head’s a little smaller.  This family has big heads.  But she’s old enough to swim and she’s young enough to swim during the day in early September when everyone else is in school. 

            The phrase Indian Summer seems so racist, I hesitate saying it out loud, but I think that’s what you would call today’s weather.  Warm enough to swim at that point in the calendar year when the pool water should be unbearably cold.  So baby Leah (because how could I see her as anything else) runs into the house, throws on her frilly, pink bikini (because that’s the right sort of image to give her at this age), and grabs her blue and pink flotation device.  Leah has a big sister, Hannah, and Hannah is a wuss.  Leah is therefore a wuss.  Hannah’s scared of her own shadow, which leaves Leah scared of Hannah’s shadow, and her own. 

            If only she could carry her flotation device with her everywhere. 

            There’s nothing else for me to do but sit at the side of the pool and watch her float around in the clear, saline solution water.  Sometimes she steps up to the side of the pool, prepared to leap in.  Sometimes she wades in through the stairs.  Today must be a bold day because she jumps and creates almost no splash at all as she lands in the three feet of water, hindered by that flotation.  She fights against the water, moving centimeters at a time as she paddles along in that little circular floatie.  I’m not a photographer, and I don’t take great videos, but I love pointing my point-and-shoot at her, capturing her babble.  Something about a shark?  She and a shark are becoming friends?  Oh, the pool cleaner is the shark.  Yes, that makes sense.  Leah goes close to the shark and splashes some water in its general direction, and then quickly turns around to swim back.  “Quickly” being a loose interpretation.  But this must be a senior citizen of a shark because she paddles along and along and finally, after days of paddling, comes to the side of the pool I’m sitting upon and yells loud enough for my camera, “I made it!”

            When I ask her about the shark, she says that the shark reassured her he wouldn’t eat her, and she makes her way back out to the middle of the pool to rendezvous with her new shark friend.  She had given me an indication that she might physically assault the shark on this trip, and I see her foot move all blurry-like through the water.  On her return trip, she takes her sweet time and I discover that in exchange for her poking him (“I’ma poke him!”), he’ll just sit down there at the bottom of the pool sucking up leaves and water bugs, enduring her poking.  What a good shark for Leah to play with.  Then she pushes off the side and shows me her new trick, which involves almost floating on her back – that floatie gets in the way.  And as she floats there, her arms outstretched behind her head, her feet almost breaking the surface of the water, I capture a photo of her blissful moment in that September sunshine, and I capture a glimpse of what I used to feel like.    

Final week!

Pushing through - and I'm actually staying above water.  Fantastic.  So I thought I'd post some photos/videos from the November comp.  We placed fourth (and just a few marks shy of third!) and were really pleased with how it all came together.  If we're friends on facebook (which I imagine most of us are), you've already seen the dresses.  If you're a ballroom person, you already know all about them. But for my pageant friends, just to give some perspective, I've never spent this much money on a pageant gown, nor this much time.  These gowns are why I'll not have any new things for pageants... totally worth it!

Finally, I present the dresses designed by Jamie Gines of J.Nico.  She is so extraordinarily talented and I'm so grateful to have been a part of her team for this competition.  Each of her dresses were fashion forward in their respective style, but they also complimented the dancer in her body, her appearance, and her dancing.  I wanted a classic look with modern accents, and I wanted designs and colors that are unique and difficult to pull off (coming from the girl who always uses brown evening gowns).  This is where pageants and ballroom go perfectly hand-in-hand together!

dress. J.Nico
jewelry. J.Nico 
hair. Jamie Gines
makeup. Jen Gulbrandsen 

Finally, Andrew's wife Lydia videotaped it for us, and then they put them up on youtube.  You can see all of the dances, but if you only have a little bit of time, watch the Foxtrot from the semi (green dress) and the Tango from the final (sequin dress).

living, somehow.

Last week was stressful and hectic and wonderful and exhausting.  But again - wonderful.  I managed to pull through something really frustrating while staying focused on the competition.  We did well and we enjoyed dancing, but there's a lot of work still to be done.  This week is catch-up week: school, life, friends, mostly just school.

But good things are happening, and fighting isn't as difficult as it was a couple of weeks ago.  Besides, I get to be with some of my favorite people in the happiest place on earth for three entire days.  What could be better?

It helps take the sting away from those you trust letting you down - thank goodness for sweet nieces who remind me to be better.

I'm counting my blessings.

In my Theory and Criticism class, we are each in charge of class discussion for one class period.  I heard Nietzsche and raised my hand as fast as I could.  Then I discovered that it was an article: Foucault on Nietzsche.

Here's the thing.

Friedrich and I are pals.  He's the reason I stuck with the Humanities major and he was also my first "rebellious" literature (oh to be ignorant again).  He's hard, but I get him.  In that way Rachmaninoff is hard - it takes some work, and sometimes it hurts a little bit, and I may have to change up some of the fingering because my hands are smaller, but in the end.... I get it.

Michele on the other hand?

Yeah, not so much.  I've decided that part of being smart is knowing which philosopher you get, sticking with that one, and avoiding the philosopher who makes your head spin.
The other one to join that club recently?  Freud.  I'm sorry - I thought I knew what The Uncanny was and then suddenly, NOPE I'M DUMB.

Anyway, the point is this.  My teacher decided that instead of the Foucault article, we were going to read another Nietzsche piece.  YEEEESSSSSSS.

I'm so going to find a way to get Nietzsche baptized in the next life.

be impressed.

Whitney and I are studying.  While watching Gilmore Girls.  It's pretty awesome.

you go Christóbal Colón

You know what brings the greatest enjoyment in reading Chris Columbo's letters in their original language?

I *finally* have ammunition in arguments about his intentions and "divinity".

"donde yo fallé muy muchas islas pobladas con gente sin número; y d'ellas todas he tomado posesión por Sus Atezas con pregón y vandera real estendida, y no me fué contradicho.  Yo entendía harto de otros Indios, que ya tenía tomados, como continuamente esta tierra era isla"

Jerk.

{also, it's all in the vos which is AWESOME}

Dear BYU Housing

I'm really glad that you chose to deny my housing waiver.  After all, my living situation is dangerous to a BYU student.  Living with an active LDS family who regularly has family prayer and scripture study that I participate in is no atmosphere for a BYU student; we're supposed to pretend to do it with roommates who hate us.  Also, the house has thin walls, so you can always hear when people have company - imagine the noise!  No one can ever get to sleep early if there are boys in the house - you always hear them!  Besides, the father is a landlord and has had BYU housing before.  He's already used to enforcing the honor code...he's sick of doing it!  Finally, I'm glad you're recognizing my frustration with former housing situations.  You're just being a messenger of God, aren't you?  Forcing me to overcome a weakness and make it a strength.  Thank you so much!  I am sooooo lucky to have an extra set of parental guidance and advice.  You're also trying to help me overcome that other pesky little thing that's been bothering me, aren't you?  What do you do when a kid is scared of war?  Send him to the front lines!  Your mantra, right?  Thank you, oh so much.

Love,

Me

p.s. I'm not moving.

my new title.

Humanities TA Goddess.

I got it!!!

the long haul.

I've written down all of my graduation deadlines, figured out my schedule for my final two semesters at BYU, and downloaded the application from Sarah Lawrence.  Yay?

YAY!

yep. I'm eating cheesecake for breakfast.

It's April 30th and it's snowing outside.

I think I'm allowed to sit in bed and watch Arrested Development with Whitney because the world is now upside down.

second hand embarrassment.

Last winter semester I was enrolled in an LDS Marriage and Family course.  I'm not really sure why I took it, but I ended up really enjoying the teacher and the way he presented the material (it was also weird to see him on TV during general conference because he's now a part of the SS General Presidency).  However, there is one negative aspect to the class that kept me from liking the class itself.

I don't know her name, but I know her voice, the way she says things, the slow speed at which she stutters, and her constant need to sound more important and knowledgeable with the most obvious of statements.  From the first day of class, from the first time she was called upon, I despised her.  But far worse than the annoyance I felt every time she opened her mouth was my extreme need to be anywhere else, anywhere not within listening distance.  I'd flush red, would start typing away on my computer in an attempt to distract my ears and mind, and would fidget in my seat, desperate for her to just stop talking.

It got to the point that most of us in the class would actually audibly groan whenever he called on her (why he continued to do so baffled me constantly), and every once in a while she would say something so utterly ridiculous that some guy, fed up with her pointless statements, would counter her supposed doctrinal knowledge.  I'm fairly certain she lies about things, that she's one of those individuals who will stretch truth, even make up things, in order to have something to say.

It irritates me.  And I'm a mean person.  But I just can't take it.

I'd actually forgotten about this girl, until someone in my class this morning reminded me of her - constantly talking, saying silly things, going on for minutes at a time, restating our professor's opinion (albeit not as well), making the rest of us hate her for the two and a half hours we have to hear her preach her life opinions.

And then I realized something.

It's HER.

*headdesk*

this is fun to see.