.

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.

.

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

someone want to be nice?

Buy this for me?

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!

I know I know...

I can't help it.  It's my taste in men.  And it's bad.  But it's just so wonderful.

follow up

Don't you hate it when people squish your hope for a zombie filled apocalypse?

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.

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.

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.

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.    

problem.

I'm a nocturnal writer.  This is bad.

justification.

Theory classes in the Humanities are generally presented so as to find justification for why we bother postulating over dead philosophers, and to find justification for why we should receive money for doing such a thing.  It's not always easy to justify, and as much as I love philosophy and the Humanities, I don't always love all of the theory because... ummm.... IT'S HARD.  And not fun to read.  And translations into English strain out the witticisms that might have made it more fun to read.

At the risk of being late to my own party, I'm going to suggest that the sort of writing I love to read and do and be surrounded by and immersed in fills that gap.  Creative [literary] nonfiction seeks to answer the same questions: why am I here, why do we care, why do some mammals mate for life, why don't animals get divorced, why do we love contradictions and paradoxes (paradoxi?), why is Party in the USA so freaking catchy.

All can be explained and viewed and analyzed through the various lenses of Marx, Freud, Levinas, and Foucault.   But the fun of nonfiction done in this way isn't that they're trying to impress you with French terminology and arbitrary arguments for human sexuality.  Essays - the good ones, at least - are unassuming and straight-forward and possess just enough pretense to hook the intellectuals and just enough fluff to entertain the casual reader.  And even the fluff is witty and wonderful, a mark of even greater intellect.

I hope to be at that point someday.  The point where I can talk about something important and make it seem utterly useless, and where I can talk about something utterly useless and make it completely important.

well duh.

My good friend Liz (who is funny and witty and a fantastic writer, amongst other things) posted this on her facebook page, and I think it's completely true.

Broken hearts physically HURT.

goodbye.

I believe in the power of beautiful lyrics and beautiful melodies and beautiful chord progressions.

I believe in the power of raw silk.

I believe in the power of good friends.

I believe in the power of fabulous nail polish.

I believe in the power of a really wonderful answer to a heartfelt prayer.

I believe that organza fabric is ugly.

about face!

Tonight I received a creepy text asking where I was and if I was safe.  Don't worry.  I lied.

But it prompted me to go to the Deseret News site to see if someone was running crazy around Provo with explosive devices, and while I didn't see any of that, I did see some of this.

We all know how much I love kids, and I can promise you that I want to protect their innocence, innocence that is so fleeting thanks to the technology we're blessed and sometimes cursed to have.  But let me ask you this: why in the world are you letting your 5-year-old watch television you haven't pre-approved when it's past seven in the evening?  Once 8 o'clock hits, parents need to have better control of their TV's, because that's when primetime rules for sex, language, and violence come into effect.

Was the show she saw total trash?  I'm sure it was.  I never saw it.  I tend to avoid those low budget shows that are syndicated because no one company wants to claim them.  Obviously I don't want children exposed to indecent material, but it blows my mind that a TV exec would pretend that the fault was with indecency laws rather than his own inability to parent in his home.  He should know better... better than most because he's surrounded by it.

Finally, this article cites statistics of children who experience violence, harsh language, and sexually explicit content because of a television in the home.  What about those kids who experience all of that because their parents are inept and incapable?  Are there some individuals who don't care who they corrupt?  Yeah, probably.  But is the mass media all-consumed with ruining every kid's innocence?  I may be cynical, but I'm not that cynical.

Besides.

Go turn on a news channel.

Tell them to start regulating what they show 24/7.

Yeah, good luck with that.

you may say that I'm a dreamer

Love and marriage are pretty wonderful, and it's even more fun seeing it begin, evolve, and come to fruition, particularly when it involves amazing people.

Meet Ryan and Emily.

Ryan and I have been friends for a long time, and have shared many crazy adventures with our crazy friends involving mountains and camping and late night trips to grocery stores and quality movie nights.  Ryan met Emily, and Emily is crazy cool.  Not cool in the typical sort of way - cool in the "wow, I didn't realize how awesome it is to be friends with Ryan until I met you!" sort of way.

Just kidding.

Sort of.

No, really.  Ryan was there for me at a tough time in my life, and I'll be forever grateful to him for it.

Enter Emily.

Emily is further physical proof (to me) that God cares.  The more angsty I become, the more I realize how incredible my friends are.  They each possess unique gifts and abilities, gifts and abilities that they have nourished and developed in a way that it positively affects all those they interact with.  How lucky am I to receive that in my life?  She's the sort of person you can eat good food with, and go to the temple with, and study with, and cry with, and watch 3D movies with, and laugh with, and psychoanalyze yourself with (no really - she's getting her PhD).  It isn't hard to be happy for someone like her - in fact, it's downright inspirational to be on the periphery.

The best part of all of this is that they're getting married today.  I love life, and I love love, and I love that they're going to be living life together, loving each other.

whoopsie

spoke too soon.

Partnership has apparently fallen through.

But the other freaking awesome option is still available.

Stay tuned.

I ain't no hollaback girl.

Hanging with Mayo all weekend put my sleep schedule all off-kilter.  Totally worth it.

Some people like to wail at God every once in a while.  In LDS vernacular, we tend to refer to them as murmurers: Sariah, Laman, Lemuel, virtually anyone who wasn't Nephi or Isaiah. Yes, I murmur.  And  I whine.  And I shake my fist a little bit at the heavens when there are low points.

BUT.

I also acknowledge that God is awesome and takes care of me.   Does that cancel it out?  Do I need to stop wailing?  The Jews have an entire wall devoted to it - can't I just use this as my perennial wailing wall?  And can't I use it as my little blessing board?  [I used a literary device in the last two sentences - did you catch it?  I hope so, because it was accidental and I'm quite proud of my accidental alliteration (whoa there is it again)]

For example:

Life is super cool right now.  I could brag about all of these fun feelings I'm feeling, but I'm fairly certain that would only be further proof for those of you who think I'm bi-polar.  I guess I could put it in these terms: I will be dancing next year and he is AMAZING; it only took me like 27 times at a local to finally win one; all of my friends are finding eternal love and it's awesome; I'm not and I'm really okay with it (SERIOUS!  This is not a lie to try and trick God into sending Chase Crawford my way); my car is a beast and I love her for it; I have equally super cool friends who make my currently super cool life exponentially more super cool; my family is the bomb dot com; GOSSIP GIRL AND VAMPIRE DIARIES ARE COMING BACK.

Yes, I love two very juvenile shows, but the fashion on Gossip Girl has inspired the evening gown I want to make and the NY Times called Vampire Diaries one of the best shows of 2009.

The only downer on all of this happy-time is that it coincides with the start of spring.  I hate being that predictable.

the sky could be blue; could be grey. I don't mind.

Perspective is pretty awesome.  I'm not always good at having it, and I whine a lot, and I get caught up with natural disasters and tragedies and drama and my self-imposed pain (which reads like I cut myself - don't worry, I don't...).  Where was I?  Oh yeah.  Perspective.  Tonight was lovely.  Dinner with my second family was hysterical.  Talking with my best friend was perfect.  Spending time with another who is often far away was wonderful.

They remind me of how grand my life is, not because of winning or losing or anything that can be placed on a resume or bragged about to future employers, but because God is good and God has given me some remarkable individuals to learn from.

Nostalgia is good and nostalgia is bad.  I feel like I need to make a few apologies here.  I'm sorry that I have a difficult time being okay with things that are sad.  I'm sorry that I let them make me sad.  Thank you for bearing with me, for letting me cry, for helping me recover.

The greatest reminder I had tonight came from someone who I not only love, but someone who I also truly admire and respect.  He is one of the best persons I've been privileged to meet, and through some interesting circumstances, I am grateful to call him someone that I can always count on. 

Am I rambling?  It is almost three a.m.  Sorry about that, too.

This is another one of those all-encompassing essays where I postulate in generalities, but I do mean it sincerely.

Life is so hard.  So hard.  So so so so so hard.  People leave you.  They let you down.  They abandon you.  They fail you.  They are hurtful or ignorant or incapable of loving the way all humans deserve to be loved.  They make promises and break promises and avoid promises, forcing you to abandon ship and save yourself. 

But they also leave an impression and a mark that directs you elsewhere, either to a new destination or to new individuals.  I'm not going to pretend that happiness is all around and is easy to obtain if you just go find it.  Satan would have a futile existence if that were true.  Especially when we are so dependent upon other fallible human beings for that happiness.  So when God allows bad things to happen and when the person you love becomes complacent and when good people suffer, I'm okay if you aren't necessarily happy.  You are no less in my mostly unimportant eyes.  And don't directly quote him on this, but I think God's okay with that, too.

Because at some point you're going to sit in a car at 1 a.m. eating Del Taco, talking about regrets and decisions with a friend, and your mind is going to connect all of the dots.  You're going to feel paradoxical about everything that has happened.  At some point, you're going to be reminded that even if friendships or relationships or circumstances end, you are always worthwhile and you will always matter.  You might even be a teensy bit grateful because of who you were led to as a result of Situation A or Situation B.

How wonderful it is to move forward with that in mind.

Perspective.

I actually think it's a lot cooler than generalized happiness is because happiness can be naive or ignorant, but perspective provides meaning. 

.

Here's the thing.  As much as I want to whine and cry at 2:30 in the morning because sometimes people are MEAN and life is MEAN and wah wah wah...

At least my street is still intact and hasn't been destroyed by copious amounts of salt water.

I'm going to get back to this whole living dangerously thing. 

aewpoiruhdfsglbjkdfsioewaioweajknafejkfohifae

Whine.  Wine.  Winey whine whine wine.

I can't imbibe.  No use thinking about getting sloshed to fix it all.

I can't even complain, because the second I do, it's misinterpreted and apparently I'm possessive and insane and ridiculous and all of those words that made me absolutely CRAZY back in those days.

So I'm just going to sit here and fester and hope that it all works out in a way where I can just magically lose all emotional attachment. I mean, I have controlled all of my options and choices.  My destiny has been mine.  Others have affected it, and affected my choices, but dammit, I'm the one who has removed herself from situations, so why even pretend that there's still a war going on?

I'm not dumb enough to try and compete in something I'm not even eligible for or interested in.

The world is just really not okay right now, and I'm allowing myself to get caught up in the heartbreak of everything around me.  Booooooo.

I do believe now is the time for another private blog entry.