I Bei Momenti

The Rules

2012-01-26T10:37:00.000-08:00

I have a new roommate.
Sigh.
Yet another fine individual that will hopefully be temporary. She's 20. I know lots of 20 year olds, I even like lots of 20 year olds. But living with a 20 year old is a different skill than liking one. And living with a 20 year old while I am 35 is an even more particular skill. One that I do not have.
She talks about boys. Fine. I like boys. But she talks about boys ALL THE TIME. I like him, I don't like him, he likes me, he loves me, he wants to marry me, I don't want to marry him but I don't want him to date anyone else, he is so dumb, boys are so dumb, boys are sending mixed signals, his mom thinks I'm just playing with him, I am just playing with him, it goes on and on and on.

Sometimes she talks about work instead. My boss sucks, my co-workers suck, that lady was mean, I was mean, my boss won't let me watch movies, the mean lady reported me for being mean when all I was doing was being mean back to her...

I'm so tired.

I so look forward to a day when the question of "who I live with" will no longer be in constant transition. I don't care what makes it stop, I just don't want to have to switch roommates again. At least not after I trade out this one. And I'm certain she's temporary.

I was getting frustrated the other night. I went to bed as usual around 10 pm. She was in her room watching a movie. I turned off the lights in the house, locked the door and went to bed. I heard her get up and go to her car for something around 11. I was bugged when I woke up at 2 in the morning to notice that the hallway lights were on. She was clearly in bed asleep. I went to turn off the lights, and discovered that the bathroom lights were on too. And the living room. And the kitchen. And the door was left unlocked. Have you seen my house? Because guess what. THAT'S EVERY ROOM IN THE HOUSE. Except mine.

I have been known to leave a light on now and again. Particularly when I am home alone or scared for some silly reason. But every light? After I had already turned them off?

And leaving to door unlocked? It happens. But there have been a number of times in the last few weeks when I have come home and she is at work and the lights are on and the door is unlocked and its the middle of the day.

And I thought about telling her that there are some rules. Like turn off the lights and lock the door. But I don't want to be that roommate who makes all the rules and is a total nasty person. By the way. She moved in the first week of December and she hasn't done the dishes once. Not once.

Sigh.

SO.

I need to get the rules off my chest.

The rules of living with Nancy.
These have been developed over 85 roommates and 20 years.

If you think you could live like this, please by all means, APPLY!

1. Turn off the lights
2. Lock the doors
3. If you are throwing away fast food cups full of soda, dump the soda out before putting the cups in the trash.
4. If you are putting dishes in the sink, scrape the food/bones/napkin/etc off into the trash before dumping the dishes in the sink.
5. If you (or I) have a deadline, dishes in the sink are just fine.
6. If there are too many dishes to fit in the sink, they are top priority. Deadllines don't matter.
7. There is no purpose to making the bed. If I feel like it, it will happen. If you feel like making your bed, go for it.
8. I am obsessive about having a clean stovetop. Wipe spills, clean spots, and count on the fact that I will probably bleach it every day.
9. Don't touch my crepe pan. Don't use it, and if you do use it, don't wash it. I will take care of it. If you ruin it, I would greatly appreciate a replacement.
10. Karaoke is not for singing in tune. Neither is the shower.
11. Cereal can and will be eating at any time of day and out of any container available.
12. Cereal is sacred. I don't share it.
13. I'm happy to share baking ingredients. Except for chocolate chips.
14. I'm a bit like Sheldon (Big Bang Theory) I have a spot where I sit. If you sit there, I will feel very lost.
15. Chocolate Ice Cream is very messy. When I eat it, it will be on my face, my clothes, and probably onthe furniture. Deal with it.
16. Clothes go in your bedroom, not the bathroom, living room, kitchen, etc. If you are doing laundry, I get it. Once its clean and dry, get it off my couch/floor/etc.
17. Pay rent on time. I have a great relationship with my landlord. Don't mess with it.
18. I hate pizza boxes. If you seriously ordered a pizza and then didn't eat any of it, go ahead and put it in the fridge. If not, let's put the leftovers in bags/containers and throw away the box. Sooner rather than later.
19. Speaking of pizza boxes, they go in the recycling.
20. If the recylcing or trash is full, take it out. Don't add to the pile spilling over the top forcing me to dig through trash to find the edge of the liner, dump it all over the floor or myself.
21. Park respectfully. Don't block the sidewalk/walkways. And if you are going out of town for a while, don't take up the good spot.
22. The hours between midnight and 4 am are quiet time. Unless we are doing something ridiculous and silly together, you should be very respectful of quiet. Don't show up and start packing boxes at that time of night either. I'm only asking for four hours. That's not unreasonable.
23. No boys overnight. Duh.
24. Music is important to me. If you are listening to it without headphones, then I am listening to it too. Let's talk about that. I might veto some music. You are welcome to veto some of mine. I know my taste can be particular, I try to be flexible. Please offer me the same courtesy.
25. Sheryl Crow sucks. Her voice grates on my nerves like a motorcyclist hitting pavement at 75 miles per hour. Without a helmet. I veto her entirely and always.
26. You know the little plug-pull thingy that stops the bathtub faucet and turns on the shower? Please push it back down after you get out of the shower. This is a ridiculous pet-peeve of mine. I recognize it as ridiculous, and I still want you to push it back down.
27. Do not give me or ask for advice on marriage/boys/dating. Clearly my track record does not reveal skills that you want. And as far as your advice goes, I've probably heard it. I'm happy to discuss joys and pains, even as they relate to dating. But as soon as you say "what should I do?" or "you should..." I'm out. (This rule goes for friendships, aquaintances, family members, classmates, and perfect strangers as well.)

Now I know this nearly thirty items long. But I really don't see this as being unreasonable. There are a few absolutes. But overall, I'm a very nice person. Most of this should be logic to any grown up. Shouldn't it?

neither witty nor profound

2011-12-31T21:06:00.000-08:00

Its new years eve. I feel obligated to mention that because people like to make a big deal out of it. I've never really understood why. Because they are excited about their new calendar? Maybe last year they had cute puppies dressed like humans and this yeaar they are moving on to cats in awkward positions? Maybe last year's calendar had a lame picture for their birth month? I know its the first thing I check when I get a new calendar.

Sometimes I wonder if the hype about new years eve is related to an out with the old sort of attitude. You know how what happens in Vegas is suupposed to stay in Vegas? Maybe people are hoping that what happened in 2011 will stay in 2011. Of course, reality is that neither holds true, since whatever happened still happened regardless of where or when. So much for out with the old. And since you can't away with the past, the new isn't as shiny as everyone pretends it is.

Gosh this sounds depressing.
That's not my intent.
I just felt obligated to make mention of the timing and then defend myself for posting a blog instead of going to a party and kissing random strangers.

Reality is, I'm babysitting. Two little girls that I adore. They went to sleep as perfectly as they always do and I probably should be cleaning up their toys. But instead I'm taking advantage of the internet and the quiet.

Apparently I've taken 376 pictures in the last month. I'm downloading them to my computer now. I don't know yet how most of them turned out, I'll probably delete more than half, but I'm going to post a few here for fun. Let's do it by choosing some of my favorite numbers. I may or may not comment on them. Lets see what picture number 8 has to offer. (I like the number 8. It looks like infinity.)

That's nice. I like the exposure I used. If onlly I actually knew what the trick was. My only complaint is that its crooked.

On to 42. The answer to the question of life, the universe and everything is....

A very hogwarts chritmas! This is the set for the concerts we did this year. It was amazing. As you can see.

Alright, I'm at a bit of a loss for numbers, so lets go with the highest prime number I know off the top of my head, which is 97

It's a picture I took of the hubble feed at the clark planetarium, which was telling me amazing new wonderful things about galactic discoveries. My friend becky and I spend hours and hours at the planetarium. We watch the movies (educational and unintentionally hilarious) and we play with the toys... errr, experiements intended to educate children, and we laugh and laugh and laugh. There are very few people in this world who let you really let go and just be you.

alright, indulge me for a second while I post some photos I selected because they are awesome. We had the best, loudest, most fun table at the choir christmas dinner. mostly because of this person right here

I'm going to have to have her autograph it for me.

And the women in the picture with me. They make up the most amazing women I know and have ever had the pleasure of calling friends. I seriously can't tell you how very awesome each of them are.

I'm going to go with number 113 now. Because that's sort of my birthday. I believe this will launch us into the family portion of the month.

Ok, I fudged. When I saw which picture this was going to be, I selected the next one in line, but only because it was the exact same people and pose, just not blurry. This was probably my favorite picture of the whole lot.

What's that? I've posted a gazillion shots and we're not even halfway through? Whats half of 376? 188.

Christmas morning.

now. on to the christmas hymns. 210?

heh. match-y match-y!
I spent christmas at my sister's house, which meant I got to participate in the santa experince and then attend church in a tiny branch where one of the talks included the statement "I've decided I really don't prefer the christmas hymns in polka-style"

are you bored yet? we're nearing the end. the next 40 or so pictures were taken by my niece Katie. Which means they are all blurry, but she (being the darling only girl youngest of 7) managed to get smiles our of every person she captured. I could devote an entire blog post to a series of photos, all slightly blurred, but of every grown up in my family giving katie the exact same grin. Its pretty funny to look through. and right at the end there are no less than 10 shots of her cousin charlotte's cinderella doll.

here is 243.

now on to a nice bouncy sort of number. 275. (only 101 to go!)

can you see how she's showing you that she is "sooooo big!"?

ALright. I'm getting tired. let's wrap this up

Four in a row. I went to bemidji, minnesota. its far away and cold and its where the mississippi river starts. We tok small children swimming, we fed them chocolate, and I braved the cold for just long enough to get a very important picture.

See how I'm picking Babe the Big Blue Ox's nose?
Amy told me to.

The shacks on the frozen place are ice houses on the lake. I know lots of you may not have experienced this before, so I included it for your education. People build towns on the lakes in northern minnesota in the winter. in some places they even create roads using sand and stop signs. while there are no roads in this shot, my dad did say that he counted 48 ice houses. We only saw a couple trucks and vans out there on this day, but I'm sure that since it was the day after christmas, people were off doing some other important thing like buying AA batteries for sven and ole's toys or returning that sweater from cousin brita. I came back with a pretty strong accent.

Well that wraps up my photo review. There are lots of others worth sharing, but maybe some other time. or maybe not. school starts up again in 4 days.
:)

Happy new year!

Snappy!

2011-12-05T16:21:00.000-08:00

I went to denver... uhhh, a couple months ago. I went to visit my very awesome cousin and her adorable baby (who, incidentally, loved me.) and we made crafts and went to story time and in general did a nice little vacation-y weekend. We ate out (Q-doba, how I miss you) and we went shopping (a favorite past time) and we visited Snappy's Quilt Shop. Snappy is my Aunt Nancy. I like to imagine that I'll get to be like her when I grow up, because I'm named after her, and so its destiny. But I have a long way to go before I have her innate sense of fun and style. And now that I think about it, innate means that she was born with it and since it hasn't manifested itself in me yet, this may be a hopeless endeavor. But anyways.

She has recently opened a quilt shop. Where I browsed for hours and drooled over the fabrics and generally daydreamed about being sassy and fun.

And I left with the fabric and pattern to make myself a little bag. Which I made.

And I love it. See the cute newsprint-y fabric? and the stripes? and the blue, well, you don't see it at a glance because its all ruffled and girlish looking, but it actually has bugs on it.

I get lots of compliments on it, so I want to tell people it was really hard to make, but it wasn't.

And I figured since i have a few friends who spend some holidays in Denver, I should plug her shop here. She didn't ask me to, but I honestly think most of my friends would have a blast if they spent a few minutes there. If nothing else, so you can meet my Aunt Snappy and finally understand the level of cool I am aspiring to.

So next time you are in Denver, stop by Snappy Quilts (that's really what its called). Its not far from the temple, and I'm sure you can google it, since I don't know Denver well enough to give you directions, that would be much more effective.

Oh, and I'm sure I'll do a little more updating while I am avoiding finals and such. So don't give up on me.

The Disney Delusion

2011-10-17T10:13:00.000-07:00

To the well meaning people who keep trying to "console" me in my singleness:

Thanks but No Thanks.
*stepping up on my soapbox*

*wipes chocolate from face as an afterthought*

Now before you accuse me of destroying fantasy and fun, I love me some escape into Disney cartoons. I’d love to believe that every girl is a princess too. But my 2 favorites have no sleeping princesses. No blonds. No handsome princes either. Belle is a bookworm who fights her battles, and falls in love with a monster. She saves him just as much as he saves her. Same thing with the Princess and the Frog. Tianna is a waitress and chef who works for her dream. Neither Belle nor Tianna start out as princesses. Neither of them are given anything more than opportunity to prove themselves. They aren’t any more special than the next girl. No entitlement. But when they are faced with a foe, they step up. They make themselves more than princesses. And their male counterparts are no different. Not dreamy, no white horses, not even desirable. All they’ve got is a foe to be face, a battle to be fought. And they fight together, and they save each other. Now that’s a romance. And you aren’t left wondering how they are going to face future battles together.

What is this thing I call the Disney delusion? I’ll tell you. It starts with all those little girls dressing up as princesses. I’ve already said my piece regarding pre-made Disney store costumes and dying creativity, tons of little girls growing up believing in the most simpering and weak aspects of fairy tales. The parts where they dance with forest animals and sleep through pain and trauma until prince charming kisses them awake. And the movie ends with a wedding.

Yikes.

Do you really want any story to end with a wedding? It seems to me a wedding should be a beginning, not an ending.

And that’s not the worst of it. Because you see, the story doesn’t end. Stories never actually end. The movie ends. The book ends. But the story goes on and on. Whether the story is about a fictional princess or the 3 year old that has been taught to believe in it, the story keeps going. And there are grown women, lots of them running around believing the story, and believing that it ended with the kiss, and the wedding. This is evident in the sales of movie tickets and DVDs to the genre “romantic comedy”, better known as the “chick flick”. It is evident in the number of grown women obsessed with characters from youth literature, juvenile descriptions of a fantasy relationship with little to no depth of character or story line. It is evident in the TV shows that are popular. It is even evident in commercials! At every turn, I am being told what to expect out of life. Prince charming. Sweeping me off my feet. Whisking me away to live in some dream. The Brawny man! Cleaning my kitchen for me! Fighting my battles, defeating my foes, and oh if only I wear just enough makeup, the cutest figure hugging dress, and stand at my window and sing, he’ll come along!

I absolutely hate it when people tell me “don’t worry, there’s someone wonderful out there for you.” “One day when you least expect it…” “It only takes one guy to finally see…” Blah Blah Blah, platitudes. What makes you think I’m sitting in my tower waiting for someone to come along and fight my battles?

And those little girls hoping for prince charming become young women waiting for prince charming. And some of them are just pretty enough to get the fairy tale. And others are left bitterly waiting. You promised! You said if I waited at my window and sang, he would come on his white horse! You said if I say my prayers and read my scriptures, he would take me to the temple! You said if I majored in Early Childhood or Elementary Education, we’d have babies that never grew to teenagers!
And when the real battles came along, when the story continues and it turns out you don’t get to sleep through the rough parts, suddenly things are different. The dream becomes a nightmare. All you want to do is wake up!

Oh yes, there are casualties in the Disney Delusion.

Now, here’s something else to consider. There is another casualty in the Disney Delusion. Because while little girls and young women are running around waiting for their prince to come, there are young men who have been exposed to the same barrel of horse manure. They aren’t watching the same movies and buying the same costumes, they are dressing up as Iron Man and Spiderman instead. I submit though, that the only difference is the gender of the title character. The same story line applies. Pretty girl. Big bad guy. Man with unrealistic qualities fights battle. Girl with unrealistic waistline cowers in corner/is tied to nuclear bomb/doesn’t want to ruin her manicure. He triumphs, she kisses him. The end?

Same story. Different casualty. Because you see, while women are complaining that they are expected to be thin/blond/perfectly coiffed, they are expecting their men to be superheroes. Strong, silent, winning every battle, defeating the foes, building a castle, showing up on a white horse or fast car, sweeping off of feet.
Have you seen the CNN.com article about how men are getting less educated and spending all their time playing video games instead? Can you blame them? While girls are obsessing over body weight, because no one will ever sweep her off her feet if she weighs more than 105, boys are obsessing over saving the princess and fortifying the castle. And I can hardly blame them for escaping the ridiculous prince charming expectation by playing in a fantasy world where they get lots of lives. It may even be healthier than the way women escape the princess expectation with diet pills and plastic surgery.

And it gets even more complicated than that!

We’ve grown a society of people who think that the story ends with marriage. We live in a fantasy that teaches that “falling” is the only way to land in “love”. And if I don’t get that “falling” feeling, I must not be in love.

Well people, here’s the kicker for you. Love isn’t a falling thing. Love is a choice. It always has been. Since God created Adam and Eve and a tree in a garden, love has been a choice. The funny thing is, we call the fruit thing the “fall”. But no one tripped into the tree and landed with their face on an apple. Eve chose. Adam Chose. There was temptation. But the choice was only ever theirs. And what they chose was to work together, by the sweat of their brow.

And you know what, it makes sense. Because we are commanded to love. And we always have a choice as to whether or not we are going to follow the commandments. It follows then that we are never going to “stumble” into love. And if you are lucky enough to think that you have “fallen”, I would invite you to run with that, and see how long it takes for the falling feeling to go away, and you find yourself having to choose whether or not you are going to continue loving.

So. To the men who are sitting at home playing video games avoiding the expectations of all the Disney princess wanna-be’s: Quit living in the fantasy. I’m sorry the expectations are ridiculous. They are just as ridiculous for us girls as they are for you. Don’t place a Disney princess expectation on me and I won’t place the prince charming expectation on you. If you want a Snow White, you’d better go out and find yourself a white horse and maybe slay a dragon or two. But if you are looking at fighting some real battles, you’ll want something more than a princess by your side.

You have a choice.

And to the girls who are sitting at their windows, eating celery, painting their nails, and waiting for a man on a white horse to come over the horizon: Get down out of your tower. Slay a dragon or two of your own. You may find a few battle worn soldiers fighting by your side that are more real than any fantasy you could have while sleeping through the battle.

You have choices as well.

The real love story is in the battles fought together. The real love story doesn’t end with a wedding. The real love story doesn’t end. You get up every day and choose to love. And it doesn’t do anyone any good to love a fantasy. In just the same way that we have faith in things that are true, we love people that are real.

I love fairy tales. I love that the good prevails and dragons can be slain. I love romance. I love that even a scullery maid can find a castle and companionship. I love beautiful gowns and fairy godmothers and wishes and magic. They are all real. But I don't want to sit in a tower waiting for someone to come and do all the dragon slaying for me. So don't tell me to "just wait." those skinny princesses in their towers are missing out on years of adventures and fun sized candy bars.

*stepping down from my soapbox*

*and taking another fun-size candy bar*

Reprieve

2011-09-03T00:53:00.000-07:00

I am writing a 6 page paper on the cultural competancy (or lack thereof) in the DSM-IV-TR. I know, thrilling, right? You are all beggin' for a copy of it? No? OK. I won't post my drafts here. Especially since before I started writing my paper(s) over the past week, I decided to brush up on my APA format. Seeing as I have actually never been required to use APA (BYU Music department used Turabian) that was an excellent plan. My eyes were opened to a while new world of academic writing, the first of which was to refer you myself in the first person, that's right folks, I am to use "I" and "We" when writing academic papers. WHAT!!!!!!???? My 12th grade English teacher NEVER would allow this! Now, lest you think I'm completely insane, you should know that I always have used "I" and "we" when writing my papers. I've just always felt a deep sense of guilt... no, betrayal, or maybe just some sense of rebellion against the Ms. Hallan, Comstock, and Nordine that were my paper-writing educators in the formative years.

And that wasn't the most revealing or difficult habit to overcome! The APA guidelines also told me to avoid alliteration! Or rather, to avoid the use of poetic devices such as alliteration, rhyme schemes, and other flowery constructs. Seriously, these APA people couldn't even just have enough fun to say "Avoid alliteration". They had to actually do it.

SO along with adventures in APA (hey, this isn't an academic endeavor), there are discoveries and escapades waiting around every grad school corner. Here are some highlights. (Alliteration is Awesome!)

I am taking the bus to and from class, because its pretty direct, it forces me to stick to a schedule, and its free as a student. The other day, a 14 yr old spent his entire bus ride untangling a slinky. It was fascinating to watch for some reason. Maybe because my brain was so fried. It was a good slinky, the original metal kind, and it was a mess. I saw him working on it when I boarded the bus, and found myself glancing over to check on him occasionally. He was so careful about it, examining and pushing things through and around, working very hard to not bend it. By a few minutes in, I was hooked, watching without trying to hide it and rooting for him. I was pretty emotionally invested in the health of that slinky. What a relief that it was in normal functioning condition again by the time we disembarked. I would have probably stayed on the bus well past my stop in order to assure myself that the slinky would come out ok. And honestly, it was better than prime time television.

While waiting for said bus, I was innocently standing at the blue bus stop sign on highland in sugarhouse, when I noticed that traffic was backed up because a large SUV had just stopped right there by the bus stop sign. The lady in the car was frantically motioning, and it took me a moment to realize she was motioning to me. I waved, thinking maybe she thought I knew her, or maybe I did know her, but she still just continued to frantically wave her arms at me. I was concerned. I walked over to her car and asked if there was a problem. She practically yelled at me. "Would you just cross the street? I'm holding up traffic so you can go!"

"But I don't want to cross the street."

"Well then why are you just standing there at the curb?"

"I'm waiting for the bus."

At this point she made some sort of an explosive huffy disgusted sound that would be impossible to try and spell and laid into the gas pedal as if I weren't standing 8 inches from her car. I double checked. Yes, the signpost I had been leaning on had a large blue "Bus Stop" sign at the top of it. I'm sure it was kind of her to stop to let a pedestrian cross the street where there is no semblance of a crosswalk or intersection,I bet she was even trying to count it as her good deed for the day. But I still say she was the crazy one, not me.

Incidentally, the bus was stuck in the line-up of cars behind her.

Per my penultimate post about eating, I have rediscovered the joy of the peanut butter sandwich. And I offer many thanks for the feedback. (HaHA! did you catch that one? Feedback. :P) I am enjoying ham and cheese crepes and have a plan to begin experimenting with refried beans. I put veggies in my ramen and occasionally make potato dishes involving a jumbo sized container of rotisserie chicken spices. I have cut back significantly on my eating out. There is still some ground to cover there. But, you'll be happy to know that while I still haven't found a supplier willing to fund my ice cream habit (I'm looking at YOU, ColdStone), I have improved my own ice cream-making abilities and discovered that target's store brand, market pantry, has some wonderful chocolate chip cookie ice cream sandwiches.

Ahhh, the highlights. It feels good to write the real way for a few minutes before I return to this academic stuff. Thanks for indulging me, oh world of blogginess

Funerals: send flowers. Lots and lots of flowers.

2011-08-30T07:07:00.001-07:00

Lest you think this is a morbid topic, let me be clear, and more morbid. Yes, this is about my funeral.

My friend and voice teacher (she is eternally both) posted about her funeral on her blog and mentioned she wanted me to sing a particular song we worked on together. And I'm honored and a little nervous about that. Because really she should end up speaking and singing at my funeral. And that got me thinking a little more about my funeral. So, lest there be any confusion, let me tell you a bit about what I want. *

*I do reserve the right to change this over the years, but if anything should happen in the next little bit, here's a road map.

You know how some people and families will say "in lieu of sending flowers we ask that a donation be made to...."

Not on your life, buddy. Or mine. I want flowers. There has been a sad lack of flowers in my life, due to the fact that there are no males obligated to provide me with any, and the few times some well-intended singles ward has assigned the guys in the ward to bring flowers to the girls, somehow I always end up with a bag of flour. They think it's funny, so I laugh it off, but I'm telling you here, I want flowers. I don't care what kind, but the first person who thinks it's funny to show up with a 10lb paper sack of flour instead will probably experience me rising out of my coffin in zombie rage. I can laugh stuff off while I am socially obligated to think you are funny, but after I'm dead, all bets are off.

And speaking of my coffin, nothing fancy (it doesn't have to be, it will be covered in flowers), but also, I'd rather there not be a viewing. I've been to enough to know that an empty corpse is useless. There is no one there, they never even look like the person I knew and loved, and I'd rather not remember them that way. So I'd rather people not remember me that way either. Put my closed coffin, covered with flowers, in a room with pictures of the alive version of me. Play a mix of MoTab recordings and my solo stuff. And hand out M&M's. There should be a bowl in every table, one on the coffin, and the relief society should be picking them out of the chairs and floor when its all over. That's the alive Nancy that, if you choose to remember, you should keep in mind. And no lines. Chairs for sitting and chatting, but no lines of people waiting to stare at dead me or talk to my family. I hate standing awkwardly in lines waiting to stare at a dead person and awkwardly hug a family member while trying to come up with something comforting to say. Make some jokes, laugh at stupid things I've done, talk about what you are doing next week or where you are going on vacation next summer. Swear a little. And figure out how you and the other person knew me. I've always loved for my friends to meet each other. I think some of you would really get along well.

Now as far as services go... You should know that the Choir has a tradition of sending whoever is available to sing at the funerals of past members. We always get these little announcements and emails that say "the family has requested that choir members who are available come and sing ... Blah blah blah." I'm sure my mother would love that, and if she requests it, you are welcome to come. If that is the case, you get one song. Come Come Ye Saints. Sure its got that last verse about death, but it's really the third verse that I'm interested in. Because the third verse is about how I've lived. so don't cut that third verse, or once again, I'm coming out of the coffin and starting a zombie apocolypse. Put Jim on the organ, he knows how to pull out every stop and make that instrument sing, no timid little mourning stuff. I want some Mendelssohn and some anthems. And that one arrangement of his, page ten of volume three, he knows the one. Aaron can step in too, if they want to spell off. Also, Jeannine should sing and speak. She can choose which solo, really, but something along the lines of "Precious Lord Take My Hand" or "Weeping Mary" would be my preference. Powerful spirituals. And if that's not quite enough variety, I'd also like some children (nieces and nephews maybe?) to sing "I Wonder When He Comes Again" my family knows the arrangement. Although, if assembling a group of children to sing is too much, the Choir can also do Ryan Murphy's arrangement of the same piece.

That should about cover the music. As far as speakers go, I'm not sure I care that much. Between the music and Jeannine and Jim, you can pretty much figure out who I am and how I lived. I've got a TON of former roommates who could stand and tell you all sorts of escapades and adventures and hours of good times. But I'm not sure I want the speakers to be focused on that stuff. Laughter and fun, for sure, just not me. Throw the gospel stuff in there, but don't make it all sad and floating on a cloud playing the harp eternally. Eternity is about work, and I'll already be busy doing stuff, so if I take time out for my funeral, I want to learn something real about the work we are trying to do. Make it personal or make it general, i don't care, but talk about what we are trying to accomplish and how we are trying to accomplish it. Missionary work, temple work, family work, just keep some perspective.

And if you want to munch on M&M's during the service, please do.

Mormons know how to do a funeral luncheon, I'm not worried about that. Funeral potatoes and ham and that green bean casserole that my brother hates. But for dessert, there needs to be blueberry pie. And once again, the M&M thing. Amy knows, just like at grandpas funeral. Scattered on every table.

Finally, let's talk resting place. Mountains. I'm not kidding, if you try to bring me to Minnesota, that seals the deal on the zombie apocalypse. It's expensive anyways, and frankly I don't care if people come visit my grave or not. I wont be there. Pick a small town cemetery on a mountainside. Sure, Salem or Deweyville would work, but if not, something similar. I wont live in a small town, but I'll be dead in one. That symbolism is intended. My empty corpse won't mind the quiet long distance from shopping and the small town gossip.

And please, don't leave gross plastic flowers there. Live flowers only. And if you do get a chance to visit, I can not reiterate the point enough, I want flowers. Whatever kind you love, share them with me.

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A call for recipes

2011-08-05T15:27:00.001-07:00

You may or may not be aware that I'm returning to college in about 2 weeks. I'm returning to the whole super-duper-extra strength budget plan and buckling in for 3 years of taking the bus, mending my clothes, and dollar movie social gatherings. Woot. But the eating. Oh the eating. You see, between choir and work, the past year of my life has been spent in restaurants rather than the kitchen. And let's face it, it's actually more economical for one person to get their veggies from a $5 half salad at Zupa's than it is for them to dump $30 on fresh produce at the grocery store in order to make a salad only have most of the salad go to waste. And $1 fish taco night at Rubio's is ever my Tuesday night fare. But outside of the really great deals and charitable souls willing to buy my food for me, I'm going to have to give up the whoppers, Wendy's, and whims. And cafe rio. *sniff* oh cafe rio.

Plus. I've been eating school lunch for the past 3 years, and I won't have that anymore either. It wasn't great. But it was free.

So as I sit here polishing off the last of my chocolate ice cream, I ask you: what did you eat in college? Favorite, fast recipes for one singular sensational person, priced comparative to a package of ramen or box of Mac and cheese (the generic store brand).

Please. Help out the girl who just dumped $408.09 on 4 textbooks.

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Toronto

2011-06-28T15:11:00.001-07:00

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Niagara Falls

2011-06-28T12:42:00.001-07:00

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Chautauqua, New York

2011-06-28T12:36:00.001-07:00

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Upstate New York

2011-06-26T17:13:00.001-07:00

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DC and Philadelphia

2011-06-24T09:26:00.001-07:00

I didn't stow away!

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Washington, DC

2011-06-23T09:48:00.001-07:00

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Williamsburg

2011-06-21T19:06:00.001-07:00

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GBXXLzE0-rY&feature=youtube_gdata_player

First things first. If you haven't seen it, go watch it!

My friends are marching along with the drum corps. Fun!

Did someone say flashmob?

That's right, flash mob guy is my friend. I only hang with the coolest crowds.

Must. Eat. Sandwich. Reeeeach........

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Norfolk

2011-06-20T19:46:00.001-07:00

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Ben Titera

2011-06-20T19:39:00.001-07:00

Last night I was in the throes of tour prep, packing and organizing and re-packing and visiting with people, when I got word that my friend Ben died in an accident the night before. I was stunned. I really did stumble around for a bit, emotional shock and some stuttering and tears. Luckily no one was around to see how messed up I got over it. I was surprised at how messed up I got over it.

Ben and I hadn't seen each other in years. In fact, the last time I had a chance to see him it was just a few weeks after my grandfather passed away, so I couldn't take the time off work to go. And I was sad about that, but I figured we'd have another chance. We had years ahead of us. Right?

And we weren't even a little bit good at staying in touch. Our news of each other was gathered through friends who did stay in touch. He recently moved to Park City and connected with me on Facebook, and I was looking forward to find a chance to hang out with him again.

So why does it matter so much?how much of an emptiness can come from the loss of a friend you never see?

I guess you'd have to know Ben.

He was an elder in my mission. The district leader in a place called Torcy. He arrived there a month after I did, and I'm afraid my reputation of being the sister that "didn't take any crap" had preceded me. Bt this district was so accepting. And in walked elder Titera, whose reputation as the elder who gave out crap was well known and well earned. There was the potential for every conflict there. But he jumped right in and trusted me. He initiated a relationship of kindness and encouraged me to explore the more fun aspects of missionary work, all the while bearing a powerful testimony. He taught me that you don't have to be a stick in the mud in order to serve the Lord. And he taught me in a sweet and gentle way. Patiently. Which is a bit of a miracle in and of itself ,since while he was being kind and patient with me he was at the same time hog-tying his companions, stealing chickens from members, and being generally and totally disruptive to all the order I thought i was supposed to be maintaining. He was the elder who was the target of the great blueberry pie adventure, something that had him peeing blue for weeks to come. And i remember his shock at my being the person who delivered the blow, baked the pie and served it in the name of another elder's birthday. But I think that was also some evidence of his success at getting me to loosen up. You see, Ben's strength was teaching through love, and that love was expressed in a spirit of inclusion that reflected the very core of the gospel. He was the kind of guy I never would have hung out with or even approached in high school, but we grew to have a love and respect that I treasured for my entire mission. It made me feel better about myself to know that someone like Ben Titera loved me, and that I could love him back. He testified boldly to the world around him profound understanding of God's love for everyone. And he testified quietly to me that I was included. I think it was the first time in my life that I was included in something so amazing. It made all the difference, coming from a district where the sisters were regarded as second class citizens and the zone leader manifested time after time that he was less than trustworthy.

So I've carried his impact on my life with me every day since. It is one of the memories I rely on when depression or anxiety attempt to destroy the life I am trying to build.

Once, during our mission, he called me classy.

Once, after our mission, he called me beautiful.

I can't tell you how rare and precious even just those words have been to me.

This post is a mess. I am a mess. We are all the way on the other side of the nation, doing sound checks and preparing for a concert. And while we were rehearsing I heard words that I have sung a hundred times, renewed to me today in a perfect description of my lost friend.

Perhaps you think me wild,
Or simple as a child.
I am a child of glory.
I am born from above,
My soul is filled with love,
I love to tell the Story.

My soul now sits and sings,
And practices it's wings,
And contemplates the hour,
When the messenger shall say,
"Come quit this house of clay,
And with bright angels tower."

My soul doth long to go
Where I may fully know
The glory of my Savior
And as I pass along,
I'll sing the Christian song,
I'm going to live forever.

I can just picture my giant of a friend towering with the angels, laughing as he hog-ties a few, and singing along in his not-so-refined but always enthusiastic voice. I'm going to live forever.

He's the second from the left.

Dieu soit avec toi jusqu'au revoir, quand la mort, le deuille ne serents plus.
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So soon....

2011-06-12T04:58:00.001-07:00

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This update is for you Jim.

2011-06-04T11:15:00.000-07:00

Not that you need it.

In fact, everyone knows most of the stuff here. But whatever.

My friend Jim was making fun of me the other day because I haven't updated in 7 months. Its not a question of having things to say. Its not about having time. Its also not because I'm depressed or particularly happy or any of that stuff.

Its because I'm lazy.

I'm all for honesty. So you should know. My room is a mess. I cleaned out my car this morning. Its a beautiful day, and I'm sitting in a dark living room eating the peanut butter ripple out of a carton of Tillamook Chocolate Peanut Butter Ice Cream. But I went hiking with my friend Elisa earlier and will head out to mow my lawn in a little bit. I'll also do some laundry and clean the kitchen and do those normal Saturday things that aren't worth blogging about.

Life is normal.

Which is awesome.

Actually, boring Saturday chores aside life is better than normal. Much of that attitude is a result of the carton of Ice Cream keeping me company. Also its because in 2 weeks I will be leaving on my first big tour with the choir. That means a week and a half off work, staying in hotels, eating ridiculous amounts of food, and singing.

So maybe thats a little more glamorous than normal.

Oh yeah, and there's that whole grad school thing. Which starts in the fall. That kind of terrifies me more than excites me. But its something I've wanted and I've been working towards it for a long time. So here are the important points.
-I start August 24th
-No, I don't know how I'm paying yet. But I'm going, so stop asking.
-I'm hoping I can quit my [crap] job and focus on studying the first year. apparently that makes a big difference
-Its called "Master of Science in Counseling Psychology"
-I chose this program because they have an internship at the Pingree School , a center for autism studies.
-I did not get accepted to the U of U. Its probably best. I like this program better anyways
-The program I did get accepted to only accepts 15 people a year. So there, U.
-I had to take the GRE. I decided to apply last minute and therefore only had about 4 days warning to study before I dove in head first.
-I got a 1250. on the GRE. Without really studying. Yay me!
-Yes, I'll be able to diagnose your children with things if they actually have things that need diagnosing.
-sure, I'll give you a discount. After school is paid for. Which may take 20-30 years.

So there's that. Let's take inventory. Hiking. Choir. Time off. Grad School. Ice Cream. Friends that make fun of me a little for silly things. Saturday chores. Mountains.

I knew I'd be happy here.

So life is normal and good. And better than normal. Its part glamorous, part exactly what I want and part more than I thought possible. In fact, I'm still not sure its all possible. But I'm going to try anyways.

Conference weekend

2010-10-02T12:31:00.000-07:00

I used to have fun writing my conference weekend play by play and thoughts. That's changed a little, partly because, well, you can all pretty much see what I'm up to. Also because much of what is happening is too personal to go online, or its against the rules for me to post it. But I thought I'd highlight a few blog-appropriate points, just for fun.
~The lady in front of me taped the words to the opening hymn to the back of the woman in front of her. By the end of the session we had added the words "kick me" as well.
~President Holland's talk + Sour Apple Yoda fruit snacks = nourishing the whole soul
~Didn't you just love that arrangement of Tell me the Stories of Jesus? Not a dry eye during that 4th verse, "one of His heralds, yes I will sing Loudest Hosannas..."
~I still feel a little like a movie star. At the risk of sounding vain, my makeup looked pretty awesome today.
~Switching around parts all the time because I'm sitting in the soprano section so I have to look like a soprano is exhausting. It's not like before, when I learned both parts and sang them for a concert. I have to look like I am only singing one part for the TV cameras, meanwhile I have to actually sing a totally different part. Its the toughest brain puzzle I've ever been faced with. And I love it.
~I love love love watching the people around me pass around boxes of kleenex. Strong, smart, amazing women, feeling the same stuff I feel.
~We get to keep going! Tomorrow is another day!

Friday Fabulous?

2010-09-17T16:29:00.000-07:00

You know, just because I am incapable of maintaining a chipper schedule filled with artful alliterations and endearing eclectic amusements doesn't mean others shouldn't. As was stated in my very first paragraph, my inabilities to endure, engage, and otherwise exude on a consistent basis do not exclude others from the same responsibilities. The point was never that I didn't want to read your creations. It was that I didn't want to feel the pressure to contribute my own. It wasn't that there is something wrong with one legitimate literary device or another. It was that despite all of the wonderful things in my life, sometimes I'm just plain grumpy. And I suppose if I didn't make that clear, and somehow sent a different message, then I should clarify, correct, and concede. I love having friends. And whether I hear from you by blog post or by internet social network or by wearing too much blue eyeshadow at the state fair, you make my life a better place to be. Even when I'm grumpy. And also, it was that I have more friends than Angelina Jolie. Which makes me better than her, I'm sure of it. I guess I'm just worried, you see earlier this week I had to text a sibling to communicate that I was not offended about a ridiculous communication that had been happening. And here's the kicker. It was a joke I thought I had started. But apparently I have a reputation for offending or taking offense where none was taken, intended, or accepted. So i'm putting this out to the universe too. I'm sorry. I'm sorry if you feel slighted that I'm not going to participate in the weekly themed post. I admire those that can do it, and I enjoy reading them, but I'm not up for that added pressure in my own life. I'm sorry if my political opinions are too strong, I'm sorry if my humor is too crass, I'm sorry if my voice is too loud, I'm sorry that I just won't accomplish my "to do" list this week, I'm sorry that I ate as much ice cream as I did, I'm sorry.

But here is who I am, and I promised myself I couldn't lie about it. It's part of "I Bei Momenti". You can't re-discover happiness if you aren't re-discovering yourself. And the fact is, I need rediscovering, and even reinventing in some of those previously discovered places that the depression changed. And you can't lay hold of the "beautiful moments" if you are pressuring yourself to write about them instead of going out and discovering them. So that's the part I'm not apologizing for. I'll still speak up. I'll still speak up about who I am and how I am. Because writing about it is how I figure it out.

So here's to my fabulous friday. I worked all week in a classroom that I love. Two of my very favorite babies were there, and they gave me hugs and fell asleep in my arms and let me love them and made my job worthwhile. We are starting some great music in choir, which you will all hear soon enough, and I even went out on an actual date that didn't leave me paralyzed with fear and tongue-tied like a kid licking a lamppost in January. I enjoyed class, I turned in homework, I got paid, and I ate too much ice cream. I laughed, I gossiped, I swore, I sang, I cried, I lectured, I listened, and I'm going to take a bubble bath. Right Now. And when I am done, I expect to see that you have all posted your friday favorites for me to read.

Yesterday's News

2010-09-11T12:45:00.000-07:00

I'm not making excuses for my blogging absence. Just know that if I'm not posting its because I'm using my spare time to do something I love more. And if I am posting, its because I want to. See how easy it is? Of course, that doesn't give any of you an excuse to slack off in your blogging, since I am interested in your comings and goings and you should be responsible about sharing them with me. Got it? This is not a double standard.

I was thinking I could start doing some sort of clever weekly post to motivate me to type at least something. But you know me. Rebellion would turn my Friday Favorites into saturday supers and sunday somethings and monday musings and eventually I would simply declare that I was done conforming to alliterative themes. I decided it would be better for all of us if I just didn't bother starting. Why put that pressure on myself and everyone around me?

And it would be pressure. You know, being chipper and positive online, letting everyone know that my life has become 52 Wonderful Wednesdays occuring in nicely spaced 7 day intervals, as reliable as getting cut off when trying to merge onto I-15. I don't want to give anyone a wrong impression. Sometimes life sucks. Even for people who in reality have it pretty good.

I mean, look at Angelina Jolie. Yesterday she was front page news on Yahoo (I know, what a reliable source...) because she confessed to some reporter that she is lonely. That's right. Angelina doesn't have any friends. Because no one can relate to her plight. You see, she has pressures. She is a sexual icon who acts as the UN good will ambassador, and has to leave her children with their nanny in order to travel around the world spending her millions of dollars helping everyone suffering from natural disasters. In fact, I don't know that there is anyone on the planet who can even begin to relate to that. Except maybe Brad Pitt. And how many people do you know that would trade her for her place? Think about it, millions of dollars, opportunities to right wrongs, beautiful children and a spouse who some would call attractive, personal trainers, a perfect body, those lips that look like they've been freshly pumped with collagen.... I could go on.

But the poor dear doesn't have any friends. Because what would they talk about? Work? Family? Politics? Seriously, who wants to listen to that woman complain?

Meanwhile, hundreds of women that I know have terrifying struggles every day. Will I make the rent? Can someone watch the kids so I don't throw them in a pond? How will I get to the grocery store this week? Is my boss going to fire me? Is my marriage falling apart? What loved one is ill, how do I support them and prepare myself for whatever that may bring? Did I offend that person? Did that person offend me? Did they mean to? How will I graduate from college? How will I pay for college? Homework, chores, laundry, car maintenance, children, relationships... the list goes on. And if the Landlord shows up and notices you haven't mowed the lawn yet, well that may just be the straw that breaks the camels back.

But still the alliterative blog post reflects perfection. Because if we can't have the perfect life for real, we may as well have it in public. Here's where we miss the boat though. Because, you see, unlike poor Angelina, we have friends. So we do the opposite of her. She lives her perfect worry free life and publicly complains of imperfections. We stress and cry and plow away then publicly proclaim our happiness. Maybe thats because our very best friends listen to us and share their own problems with us and we collectively and respectively listen, help, love and comfort. So by the time we are faced with our own personal press, we really are pretty happy with our imperfect lives.

Which means, in the end, that poor friendless Angelina really is worse off than all of the rest of us.

So I guess after a crappy and stressful week working a job that I resent a little more each day and worrying about papers and money and diets, what I really need to post is a HUGE thank you. To all my friends, near and far, close and distant, new and old, and loved in every way, you guys make my life better than Angelina Jolie's.

A Bachelorette

2010-07-23T13:24:00.000-07:00

My roommate watches lots of TV. She doesn't schedule her life around it or anything, she just records a ton of shows and then watches them as she gets bored in the evenings. She just likes to have some shows to watch and she likes them to be the up and coming hottest topic type shows that all the cool people are talking about. (For example, not Glee. Or Chuck. Or Psych. Or NCIS. The shows that all the geeks are talking about) The reality TV programs are what fascinate me the most, because, you see, while I understand a little Amazing Race and a season or two of Dancing with the Stars, she leans towards a more scandal-laden variety. She is catching up on her "Kendra" and thrilled with whoever won America's Top Model. She keeps up with the Kardashians and there was one that I don't even know the title of about a loser who lived in his parents basement and all the girls were vying to be his girlfriend. She eats it up when Donald Trump forces celebrites to turn on each other and she cheers on her favorite big losers with Bob and Jill or whatever their names are. Most of all though, she loves the Bachelor and Bachelorette series. She actually had a few copies of those trashy magazines detailing Jake's realtionship with Vienna. She was thrilled when "Ally" was chosen as the new bachelorette. Because you see, Ally really was the best one last season, and it was so smart of her to leave for her job, and so dumb of Jake not to take her back, and she just deserves a chance at love.
So then came the new season premier of the Bachelorette. I was sitting in my room reading for most of the evening, however I did something funny to my neck and was starting to get a headache from holding a book up. It being too early to go to bed, I wandered into the living room to seee if I could catch the Chuck season finale, when she excitedly told me that she was about to start the bachelorette and didn't I want to join her!? All right. Maybe I'd like it. Maybe I'd pick up a few dating tips. Or maybe some social skills for dealing with a generation of people who eat this stuff up. At the very least, I would end up with something to talk to people about, right? And I figured the worst that could happen is that I would be bored and go to bed early. There are some seriously stupid people out there! But I did come away wondering some things. First of all, knowing that each of those poor sad jerks was trying to put his best face forward in order to end up with a hot blond creates an interesting atomosphere. I mean, dating already sucks to be sure. But these guys are actually begging to be put in the worst dating situation possible, and they are banking on being able to come out of it looking good. Yikes! And then there is all this business with roses. Who gets the first impression rose, who is there for themselves and who goes home that first night beacuse they just couldn't stand out in a crowd. People seriously volunteer for this?
I started thinking, each of them is trying so hard to look his very best for cameras and for the generic (and mindless) hot blond. They must have some performance skills. There must be some character they are trying to play. They are trying to guess what she wants and she is trying to guess who they are and the production crew is trying to find the most dramatic aspects of their trying and lying in order to exploit them all. I'm pretty sure they choose the people with the most conflicting mental illnesses and personality disorders in order to guarantee interest. If it were my own dating life it would never even sell a local car commercial slot. This thing called reality TV is less real than regular TV.
So with fiction on my brain, I hve composed my own version of the Bachelorette, staring myself. Yes, indeed I am submitting my name to the networks as desperate single girl number one. I'm not quite skinny and not quite blond, but I have my own set of personality disorders and promise to overanalyze every behavior so that I occasionally cry for the cameras and pit the unwitting victims against each other.
Now for the men! Bring them on! What is that, you say, no one applied for the position? Well that's not surprising in the least, I mean, no one has in years really. But I make do. So we will here. Rather than choosing real men who are as false as any fictional character, I shall select my 25 bachelors from among the fictional characters who are as real to me as any dating I have done in the past 10 years. (yes, its been that long.) Or as Tenessee Williams stated so beautifully: "They give you the illusion that has the appearance of truth. I give you truth in the pleasant guise of illusion." — The Glass Menagerie ...

Here is the show opener: I am standing on the front porch of the giant mansion selected for filming the show. I am of course decked out in something long and gorgeous and formal and romantic-y. It probably involves diamonds. Understated diamonds. I don't want to look too high maintenance. Not that it matters, after all these boys are coming to compete for me. Its evening and the porch is shiny. I don't know why the porch is shiny, it just looks shiny on tv. Also there are lots of flowers all over the place. They're probably fake, but I won't look too closely to find out, after all this daydream is all about deluding myself. There has already been a montage of me, my childhood, my dating life, all of the fabulous successes in my life mixed with a few moments of me looking humble about having messed a few things up but still coming off gracefully in the end. Now I am waiting on the shiny porch with the fake flowers and a smarmy host who has just stated something stupidly obvious as the first limo pulls up.

So who is in it? I want to hear your suggestions. Characters from books, prefferably, since if you know me at all, you know they are who I know best. Let's write a Bachelorette script for the book nerds. Who runs away to an ex-girlfriend, who do I boot off week 1, who is actually gay, who is just a player, which of the guys fight with each other, and who do I end up with in the end? I've followed a season of this crap now, and I think we could write it better and make it more real than the producers at whatever generic broadcasting company. Let's write it and sell it.

PS. Just FYI, in case you do watch it, you should know that I like Chris, but I know she'll choose Roberto. Which means Chris could be the new Bachelor. Which is fine by me. He's too good for Ally, but in a new season, at least he'll have his pick and his opportunity to show off his own flaws. And if I were a size 4 blond, I might go after him too. But maybe that's his flaw number one, he'd never date a girl like me.

Happiness is singing together when day is through...

2010-06-20T21:49:00.000-07:00

People used to stop me on occasion and tell me that I should sing with THE CHOIR. And I never quite knew what to say, because what I really thought when they said that was "thank you thank you thank you! That would be a dream come true. And its kind of all I ever wanted, and the fact that you tell me that gives me all sorts of hope." But if you say that to someone they think you are weird and sort of give you the gutteral stutter as they walk away. So I never quite knew how to respond to that. But for the past 6 months or so, no one has said that to me. Until today. Finally today a sweet old gentleman turned around during church and said to me "You should be in THE CHOIR" and I finally got to respond with the response I have had prepared since I was 4 years old. "I do." (Meanwhile inside my head was screaming "YYYYAAAAAAAYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY!")

There are a few things I have to admit about the whole experience. Strange things that either didn't occur to me in all the preparations or that I never thought I would admit. Do you want to hear my top ten choir confessions?

Read on, Reader.

10. I love my blue name tag. I got the special black name tag (and it was in FRENCH. Very cool) and then I got the special white name tag (the one that called me a teacher) and now I have the blue one. With little organ pipes on it. It pretty much rocks.

9. I like the dresses. Oh no, I am not saying I would choose them or wear them for fun. I am not defending them as fashion statements or as elegant. I am not saying their cut compliments my body type nor does the color compliment my face. I'm just saying that for as long as I can remember I have wanted to be one of the people in one of these dresses. And now I have a closet of them and the pearl earrings to match. I get so excited every time I put one on, and I am a little sad when I have to take it off again. I would wear it 24/7 if they told me to.

8. Mack Wilberg is a musical genius and Ryan Murphy is as much if not more. This is the perfect timing for me to be in the choir. Past directors have been wonderful, but these two function at a level that astounds me and keeps me moving. These directors were the two I needed.

7. There are mean and rude people. There are good and fun people. There are kind people and there are selfish people. Every group of people has some nasty and some wonderful in the blend. Not everyone gets it. But lots of people do. Especially here.

6. I like the conference center organ better than the tabernacle organ. The two spaces are different and you hear different things from different places and sometimes not at all depending on where you stand and who is playing. And as much as one place is home and historic, the other is modern and amazing. One is Garnier, the other Bastille. We need both. You can feel the organ in your feet at both. But if I have to choose where to listen to the organ solo, I chose the Conference Center, where half the women around me are stuffing cotton in their ears because the pipes are right there and they are blasting you out of your chair, ad I am praying for the organist to pile on just a little more registration.

5. I still wonder what they are all taking pictures of. When rehearsal is open to the public and the tourists come pouring in, or at the end of a broadcast when the cameras start flashing, I still stand there wondering what everyone is taking pictures of. What did they come here to see? Oh yeah, its me. Me and 370 other people. But still, its me. weird to thing that I am in some stranger's scrapbook.

4. I hope I never get tired and complacent. I don't think I will, after all its 16 years since I first saw the big Y on the mountain and I still stare at it and am amazed that it became a part of my life. And its 12 years since I first saw "my" tower and I still marvel that I ever even saw it, let alone lived by it for so long. I don't think this will wear off either. And I don't want it to. There are some people in there, and you can see that it has. There are some people that still marvel after 20 years. I know which camp I want to be in.

3. I seriously don't mind having to miss RS every week. I know its SUPPOSED to be a sacrifice, but lets face it, I never belonged there. Not like I belong here. Half the time the only thing that kept me going was curiosity to see what would happen next. And don't even get me started on the running commentary that I employed in order to keep myself amused and/or behaving. Believe it or not, I am finally attending meetings where I don't have any comments at all, let alone sarcastic ones. Sure we chuckle every once in a while, but but there is no sarcasm dripping from my mind to my tongue every 15 seconds. Its refreshing.

2. It's a good thing I memorized and prepared for 33 years. If I hadn't had the choirs and music I have had, I would never be able to keep up. As is we have now only sung 3 pieces that I didn't already know. And two of them were brand newly written for the choir, so no one knew them. The other was a patriotic piece that always irritated me and so I chose not to learn it. My bad. I just keep telling the other new people that ask me how I keep up: "I'm lucky. God knew I would never be able to keep up with the learning curve in here, so he made sure I learned everything beforehand". With that, I should thank the amazing directors and voice teachers I have had, since they let God use them to prepare me. Seriously, I bet Jim never knew that whole stake choir thing (for how many years) was purely for my benefit. (Okay, maybe a few others too, but I'm pretty sure it was mostly me.) And I bet Jeanine never knew she had to move to MN just so she could teach me (sorry 'bout those terrible winters...) Maybe thats a selfish perspective. But seriously, I can't tell you how much of a difference it makes when you sing through a piece once before it has to be recording and camera ready... I would have been drowned, dead and buried if it weren't for already knowing the music and the vocal production.

1. You sing and you sing your whole life, and sometimes you sing and have to keep pace with a group that has a different goal and different style than you would choose. You try desperately to keep pace. Or sometimes you sing with groups where you set the pace, and where you desperately want someone else to pick up the pace. You are either falling behind or dragging an entire ensemble along behind you your whole life. You learn to sing out because everyone else is getting their part off of you, and then you learn to hear when they've got the part so you can back off and blend instead of lead. You never quite find the group that has unity in purpose and skill and heart. And because you are always ahead of or behind the pack, you always feel just that much out of step. I have sung with a few different groups over the past year. I sang with a professional opera chorus, where outsinging the next person was the rule and the Italian was to be memorized and understood by the second time through, They were professionals and they were already on to expression and articulation before I even got the note right. I also sang with a community college choir, where I shifted from part to part depending on what I heard and in some pieces sang all four parts at one point or another. But I had time to learn and memorize all four parts in the rehearsal time it took for the other vocalists to learn their part. They never even got to dynamics, let alone pronouncing the text properly. I am finally singing with the only group of people in the world that I am in step with. We sing the songs I love and know. We sing them well. I don't have to lead my section. If I get lost and am looking for a note, I can listen around me and not only will someone else know it, they won't hate me for backing off for a moment. It actually took me quite a few rehearsals to even start trusting the voices around me, simply because I had gotten so used to being the only voice. 90 people in a section means I can sing out or I can take a breath or I can quietly learn my part, and it is the best feeling in the world. It's the perfect blend. I have to work at it, but I am keeping up.

Happiness is Five Different Crayons

2010-06-05T07:22:00.000-07:00

Happiness is climbing a tree

2010-05-31T05:40:00.000-07:00

Or in other words, "I can do hard things"

Do you remember that? Julie Beck talked about it in conference a few years back. She talked about a group of youth who had taken this on as their motto, and the thing is, that group of youth was from a ward in Minnesota, and it included my little sister. Who just put her mission papers in. And during that process she asked "People just tell me a mission is hard, but its worth it. ...So what is it you people aren't telling me about a mission?? I don't know what to expect!! Its driving me crazy"

Well little sis, none of us really want to send you out there unprepared, and we want even less for you to go crazy (especially know the genetic predisposition for crazy that runs in the human family) So here's a bit of what we aren't telling you.

Remember when we were trying to climb that tree in my front yard? You know, the one that looks perfect for climbing right up until you stand next to it and try to put your arms around one of those first branches, and suddenly you realize its just a little bit too high and the branch is just a little too big to get a good grip on and we never really had the upper body strength to pull ourselves up anyways? Plus who knows if you'll get splinters or fall down and break an arm. except we kept trying to climb it anyways, because there is nothing quite like the feeling of sitting in the branches of a tree. Yeah. Remember that.

Remember what its like to have a dear friend, someone that you can talk to about the most important things in your life and that you have sacrificed for and prayed for and really just loved. Now remember what its like when that friend suddenly abandons you and the things that you love, and not only do you wonder if you'll ever get to have that same connection again, you wonder if you'll even see them again and you worry about the part of you they took away with them, what they will do with it. And remember what its like when that friend chooses not to abandon you, and they stay close and make wonderful decisions, and the only reason you ever grow apart is because you have both grown and made good choices and taken good paths, and while you might not ever be close again, you know that they are taking good care of the part of you that you gave them.

Once or twice or millions of "upon a times" there was an MTC district that was super close. Normal people don't spend 10 weeks in a 14x14 room with 12 people and end up hating them all. You may clash with one or two of them, but by the second week you will suddenly find yourself with all new best friends. In my district there was an Elder that put up with me particularly well. You see, I have a tendency to make what he called "smart ass" comments during classes and discussions. If you've ever sat with me during Relief Society you'll know exactly what he means. But we sat next to each other for 10 weeks, 14 hours a day, meals and meetings and phone center times included. My companion was on my left and Elder Corey on my right and he not only endured the running commentary, he enjoyed it. And he commented back. We tried very hard to not be disruptive. We even made the comments in French when we could. But those of you who have spent time in the MTC know about disruption and reverence. By the end of those 10 weeks we had a pretty solid friendship. And then we went to different areas of the mission and we never served together again. We ran into each other in a train station once, and he told me that his left ear felt empty with out a constant stream of sarcasm, scriptures, and generally apocryphal stories. And we laughed over it and shared a great moment and went back to being missionaries. And we never really saw each other again. Until a couple weeks ago. 12 years later. When I missed my ward because of choir and so I attended the ward that meets right after mine, and while hiding in the back of the chapel, this bald guy with a beard approached me in a sort of formal manner and addressed me as "Sister Pratt". I seriously thought I was in trouble. I mean, he came from the direction of the bishops office and he carried himself like a ward clerk of some sort. Imagine my shock when, after I replied "Yes" he said "I was sure you would have some sort of a comeback for me". And he identified himself as Elder Corey (and he pointed out that he had changed his hair) and I just couldn't even contain myself and I jumped up and hugged him (how often do I do that?) and then we talked for a few minutes on the highlights of the last ten years. I showed him my MoTab nametag and he showed me his wife and daughter and pointed out that they were expecting again sometime in the next week and we discovered that he literally lives two blocks from me. And then that was it. The only real distance was the 12 years. Our circumstances had changed and with them we had a bit as well. But the really important parts of us, the parts that we knew best and loved and respected best, those are still there, and there wasn't anything else to say. I sat behind him at stake conference and made faces at his daughter, but I have gotten better at keeping the commentary to myself. I met his wife and chatted with her for a moment. I'm not sure that she would really get it if I told her how much I love her husband, so I was tactful and told her that he was awesome. The world that we live in tries to pervert the whole friendship thing into something inappropriate, and so you have to be oh so careful. I hate that we aren't really allowed to be friends with people on a deep and spiritual level without someone questioning what else is there. Look at what they have done to David and Jonathan. They are a scriptural standard for friendship and yet activist groups have attempted to place sexual overtones into their story in order to justify certain behaviors. It kind of makes me sick. So rather than standing there expounding on my love for the kid I sat next to for 10 weeks, I stepped back, expressed a socially appropriate level of admiration, and wished her all the best. And I really felt that whole Dr Seuss quote, where you don't cry because its over, you smile because it happened. And I'm pretty sure that Elder Corey felt that too, because he just smiled and walked away at the same time as I did.

The thing is, as a missionary, you are blessed with an ability to love people pretty unconditionally. That closeness comes from sharing the gospel, whether or not you share anything else at all. But its not socially acceptable to only ever talk about the gospel, and so it seems like distance grows when the important things have never changed. Like my love for a wrestler and a filmmaker, two elders that I have absolutely nothing in common with except for a few months and a French family and one chemically altered blueberry pie. And you feel that love for people that reject you and your message outright as well. There was a woman that we were teaching for weeks and months on end who, due to cultural and familial circumstances one day about a week before her baptism stopped me in the hall at church and tore me and the message to pieces. She accused me of lying to her, of attempting to draw her into a satanic cult, and of only wanting money and control. Her face and name are burned into my mind, and I still tear up a little when I think of all that she gave up because she didn't trust that love. I don't hate her for the things she said to me and about me. I ache for her and I hope that at her final judgement I will have the opportunity to be a witness and defense and even an advocate for all that she must have gone through. I don't want to roast her, I want her to have another chance. Hatred would be an easier thing to feel than sorrow for friendship lost.

There are a whole lot of people that I love like that now. CS Lewis talks about friendship (in his book "The Four Loves") and he points out that friendship is perhaps the love which distinguishes us most from and above animals and plants. It is natural to love your maker, and instinctive to feel a sexual love, and familial love is born of survival and commandment. But friendship does not have to be commanded or inspired by hormone and evolution. True friendship is the frosting on the cake. It is born out of sharing something, a common interest or frustration, and it becomes a kind of acceptance that is effortlesss because there is an understanding. And we still have choices to make when offenses are perceived, but in a great friendship there is understanding which reaches beyond those offenses. Sometimes distances crop up, but in friendship those distances don't diminish the love that is felt. Truman Madsen described them once as fires, that burn brightly and keep us warm for a time, and yet we continue moving forward, and sometimes the fires stay with us a while, and sometimes they are just distant lights on the horizon, but they each serve a function. They show us where we have been and where we are going and they serve as light and warmth and comfort as they go. The love that is there does not change as we travel. It may grow brighter or more dim, but its very nature is good and eternal. And each light is an offering and each friend chooses whether to make an offering and whether to accept yours. As a regular person it is easy to choose to stop offering once your has been rejected. But as a missionary you don't make that choice. As a missionary you continue to offer love and light despite the rejection. So you either connect on a powerful and spiritual level, or you feel that pain of rejection, and the spirit that you feel as a missionary won't allow you to hate someone that you have come to love and value, so rather than replacing the friendship with resentment, you feel a measure of the emptiness and sorrow that Father in Heaven feels when the children that He loves reject Him. But, when that light and love is accepted, you feel a measure of the love and joy that Heavenly Father feels when one of His children comes home.

So be prepared to do hard things. Climb a tree. Love people whether or not they love you back. Enjoy the blessings that come from true friendship and treasure the tears that are spilled over your ability to love unbound by whether or not the love is returned. After all, that is the definition of true charity. It is not conditioned on anything that this world values, not on loyalty or sex or security. There is no return policy. And there is no expiration date.

Oh yeah, and just because we didn't manage to climb the tree in my front yard doesn't mean you won't manage this one. After all, this one is more important, and so you get extra help. Besides, maybe by the time you get back, I'll have nailed a couple of boards to the trunk to help us out.

I'm Back

2010-05-29T08:45:00.000-07:00

School's out, I have returned to full time work, and I successfully completed the 4 months of MoTab training school. All this means that I have returned to a less frantic existence. There was about a month in there when it seemed like I was booked solid every day from 6 am through 11 pm. Between writing papers for school and doing homework for choir school and trying to be nice to people at work in between and desperately attempting to make healthy food rather than resorting to burger kings dollar menu every day, I not only haven't had time to write, I haven't had any desire to. Now that I have been recovering for a month I have things to write about again and intend to return to this. I make no promises though, because it seems like its taking me a while even to get this short update posted. Ah well, time will tell. In the meanwhile, please enjoy this poem by John Donne that has become my favorite thing lately.

A HYMN TO CHRIST, AT THE AUTHOR'S LAST
GOING INTO GERMANY.

IN what torn ship so ever I embark,
That ship shall be my emblem of Thy ark ;
What sea soever swallow me, that flood
Shall be to me an emblem of Thy blood ;
Though Thou with clouds of anger do disguise
Thy face, yet through that mask I know those eyes,
Which, though they turn away sometimes,
They never will despise.

I sacrifice this island unto Thee,
And all whom I love there, and who loved me ;
When I have put our seas 'twixt them and me,
Put thou Thy seas betwixt my sins and Thee.
As the tree's sap doth seek the root below
In winter, in my winter now I go,
Where none but Thee, the eternal root
Of true love, I may know.

Nor Thou nor Thy religion dost control
The amorousness of an harmonious soul ;
But Thou wouldst have that love Thyself ; as Thou
Art jealous, Lord, so I am jealous now ;
Thou lovest not, till from loving more Thou free
My soul ; Who ever gives, takes liberty ;
Oh, if Thou carest not whom I love,
Alas ! Thou lovest not me.

Seal then this bill of my divorce to all,
On whom those fainter beams of love did fall ;
Marry those loves, which in youth scatter'd be
On fame, wit, hopes—false mistresses—to Thee.
Churches are best for prayer, that have least light ;
To see God only, I go out of sight ;
And to escape stormy days, I choose
An everlasting night.

On Roommates

2010-03-18T21:30:00.000-07:00

(A mostly boring post, but skip to the end for some fun if it gets to be too blah blah blah...)

I have mentioned it before, about the insane number of roommates I have had. My current count is 83. Seriously, thats more than worth an honorary PhD in living with people. In fact, I challenge you to find anyone that's lived with more people. That's right, I put it out there, now start counting.

But I'm not complaining. Don't think for a second that I have regrets or grievances about my roommate experiences. And just because there are a few experiences I wouldn't choose to relive doesn't mean they didn't have just as much value as those experiences I would relive. In fact, I think my top ten worst roommate experiences taught me and shaped me more as a person than the entire sum of my good roommate experiences. And now is not the time and place for me to list those things, even if many of them have been running through my head for the past couple of days. I'm not worried about any type of character defamation, since those roomies that might be offended by such a list would have no way of finding my little blog. In fact, everyone who could find this page fits into my "positive roommate experience" category. Even if I don't for them.

And that's where things get interesting. I know there are a few roommates out there that would qualify me as a "worst experience", and I apologize to them and thank them for having put up with me as I was learning and growing. I know there are roommates out there who might even put me in the "best experience" list, and I thank them for the patience they had with me and the benefit of the doubt that they gave me. And maybe I'm just a clueless person when I say that 95% are the roommates I have had are people that I would be willing to live with again, since I know that 95% of them don't feel the same way about me. But this is all becoming very statistc-y sounding, and we know how I feel about statistics. So let me say this in another way.

I have learned so much from my repertoire of people. And when I meet new people, I can easily recognize similarities to former roommates that make it easy for me to talk to them or relate to them. I know that no two people are alike, but I know there are personality traits that are common.

I wish on a strange sort of level that I could get all those roomies together and let them meet each other. And some of them would recognize "that one" or "the other one" that they have heard about. And I could say "You have to meet this one, because she taught me this, and if she hadn't, we might not have been friends". Now I know this would be truly boring for most of them. But then some of them might really like each other. And others might really hate each other. And that would make it very exciting indeed.

And all of this is coming up because as I was sitting in rehearsal tonight I was thinking about two different roommates who came at close to the same time in my life. Both of them are musicians, sopranos, that I really enjoyed connecting with. We bonded over arias and art songs and hymns and music theory troubles. But we didn't really get much of a chance to sing together. Which is probably better, knowing the diva-like tendencies of sopranos. Maybe that's why we were able to be roommates and friends. One of them is in choir with me now. I am so grateful that she is there, even if we sing in different sections and hardly see each other, there is comfort in knowing that a familiar and friendly face will wave and smile when I need it. She has my back, she'll be my friend, and she'll make fun of me only in the most loving way when I screw up. The other is gone now. We won't get to sing together and have each other's backs or wave like maniacs from across the room (even though she would have been the first one to do so, in any situation). But at the same time, I sort of get the feeling we are singing together anyways. Because if the angels sing along with any earthly choir, its the one I'm in now.

Aaand there's where I get a little too emotional. So we'll end this entry with a little fun, because making jokes is how I cope.

83 roommates also means that there aren't many roommate stunts that I haven't pulled. Think about it, the fun times in college you had, doing ridiculous things with your roommates. I don't know why more grown ups don't have fun like that. Sometimes I hear my sister talk about late night roommate experiences and I really want to say "I did that too!", but I don't want to spoil her moment to be the goofy fun college student with crazy roommate stories.

Too bad tonight, though, because I need it. I need to relive a few of the best stunts and roommate moments of my career. So here goes:

*There was the year that "Santa" brought us all leopard print bras for Christmas. I don't know how Santa managed to find all our bra sizes without going through our underwear drawers, but he did. And so we put them on (over a t-shirt, under a sweatshirt, modesty first, we were at BYU after all) and ran to all the other girls apartments and flashed them.

*Late nights at the grocery store, because of one very strange boy who had no concept of how to strike up a conversation, we spent a whole year going to food for less and buying one banana plus a bag of bulk candy, and trying to make it total $1.47. The game ended when one of us succeeded, but it was all sorts of fun while it lasted.

*Breaking into 212 in order to steal back our TV. Oh, and all of their spoons, just for retribution. Spoons, you ask? It was well reasoned. What is a college boy's main dietary staple? Cereal. Try eating captain crunch with a fork.

*Speaking of Spoons, Spoons. And people that are the best at spoons. Or spooning. And sentence to picture. and coming home to general conference reruns on a movie sized screen at 2am.

*J, the narcoleptic friend, who fell asleep on the stairs, mid-race to the kitchen for ice cream. I kid you not. And the story is even funnier if I could tell it to you in person, because it involves the words "Thunk thunk thunk"

*Spiders that drop from the ceiling. Not fun initially, but the retelling involves all sorts of jumping and screaming. It never gets old.

* Mattress sliding.

* Only the greatest Roomie "Road Trip" of all time, ten days in Paris.

* The Bern-mobile, and wondering if a geo metro could make it up some of those hills in Provo. Good thing it was a stick shift.

* Remember when he said "I'm reading a book that night"? Yeah, that's still burnt into my memory. What would I have done without roomies...

* Making bread. Too much of it. And cinnamon rolls. And cookie dough. And all the late night talks that can happen with a good batch of cookie dough.

* Getting a hotel room for a weekend, even if its just in a neighboring city, for the escape.

*Facials, hair dye, boy bands, Michael Jackson's Thriller, and hairbrushes for microphones. Some things are timeless classics.

*I can think of more than a few practical jokes, involving everything from BYU catering services, Mary Kay ladies, and onions to name just a few.

* Four wheelers, farms, farm boys, and boxing gloves. Combine them for an evening.

* The time we found out I sleep walk. 'Nuff said.

* Too many bridal showers to count.

* Movie escape days. Two or three movies at the dollar theatre, some olive garden in between, and maybe some shopko candy to keep you company

* And speaking of olive garden, ordering specialty drinks like virgin strawberry daquiris when you are out with roommates.

* Or staying home and ordering in. Pizza, soda, and the 6 hour long Pride and Predjudice with Colin Firth. There is no better way to spend a reading day.

*Discovering how many hiccups it takes before a case is considered chronic. THen counting them.

*That night that "The Birds II" was on at 2:00 in the morning. And due to an inexplicable case of insomnia, we all watched it.

* Stealing particularly amusing advertisements off the walls of local community colleges.

* There was this one semester that none of the 6 of us slept in our own beds once. It was always out to the living room or camping out in one of the bedrooms. The one night someone did try to sleep in her own bed, everyone else just piled in there with her. I believe this is where the line "I'm Twisted, Sister!" originated.

*The pink mumu. And the album of pictures we filled with every member of the BYU 188th ward wearing it. As a graduation present, of course, because what makes a better memory than having picture of that one boy, the one you never got up enough nerve to ask out, wearing your Pajamas. She complained that her pajamas had been missing for the whole semester, but I'm convinced it was worth it.

* Finally, last but not least, too many inside jokes to count. Whether they are related to TV shows or posters we had on the wall or dumb things people said, or smart things they said, taken out of context. I could spend the rest of my life laughing simply from the words I hear around me that remind me of one of those moments.

And I should spend the rest of my life laughing. Because like I said, who else in the whole wide world has been lucky enough to have 83 roommates? 83 insane, smart, clever, funny, admirable, strong, beautiful, cocky, catty, trying, terrifying, sassy, amazing, admirable, wonderful witnesses to my failures and successes.

I'm pretty sure it's just me.

The Voices in my Head, Part Two: Confessions- in which I allow a few of the less prominent voices speak their mind

2010-03-16T21:30:00.000-07:00

(It's spring break. I have a couple of midterms and a paper to get through, but while I am enjoying a week out of classes and working full time instead, I thought it would be a good time to let the writing take over. All sorts of my own thought come into my head when I'm working full time instead of listening to professors thoughts all day long)

... I was texting to a friend today about getting through the afternoon, and I mentioned the power that a little Dr Pepper and Neil Diamond can have on the 3:00 drearies. He didn't text back for a while, and I got nervous. I realized that in the 15 or so years that I have known this fellow musician, I have never admitted my love for Neil Diamond, and I got worried. Ashamed. Why have I hidden it all these years? Is it really such a terrible thing, to enjoy a little "Forever in Blue Jeans"?

(Train of thought derailment: my roommate has decided to come in and chat at me while I type this, very difficult to focus. I want to be kind. I really do like her, but sometimes she just babbles on and on.)

Anyways, the text conversation went basically like this:

Me:I can only do this job when there is an end in sight. Also, Dr Pepper and Neil Diamond help the afternoon fly by.

Friend:Neil Diamond???

Me: Sadly, Yes. A childhood staple. Cracklin' Rosie and Song Sung Blue.

.... One hour passes with no response...

Me: Can you still be my friend knowing that? You can always blame my character flaws on my parents. I know I do. :)

Friend: FOFLOL! Actually I love Neil...

(Train of thought derailment part two. Roomie has decided to fill out the Census. At 11:00 at night. She is asking me questions.)

The Neil conversation continued from there. About certain songs and albums. But my initial reaction to the whole situation (that of shame or hesitation) had me wondering. What other quirks do I have that the Committee Chairperson in my head squashes with a sense of guilt or pride or shame? Committee Chairperson (as mentioned in my previous post about voices in my head) is ruled by hymns and poetry. Committee Chairperson is sensible and would probably drive a sedan. Committee Chairperson wants nothing to do with Neil Diamond. Or Celine Dion. Now that the voice who directly opposes the chairperson has spoken out (and perhaps we should call him "Neil"), will others be so brave?

Anyone? Beuller?

Ah. There we go. A hand in the back of the room.
Oh look at that. It's Suzy Homemaker. We heard about her a little before. Suzy? What have you got to share?

I like pink. It can be done tastefully you know. Particularly as an accent color. And I don't care what psychologists say about gender stereotypes, little baby girls should wear little baby girl colors and little baby boys should wear little baby boy colors. Its not just about giving a child a clean slate, its also about teaching them social expectations and giving them a template to draw from. They can make their own choices, but they need to know what they are choosing when they do.

Alright, Thank you Suzy. Every fiber of my academic being and every fiber of my women's libber disagrees with you. But I suppose you are a part of this team too.

And speaking of women's libber, it looks like "Libby" has taken the opportunity to control the floor. She may wear a lot of camo, but she certainly does have a way of standing out when she is allowed to.

"I hate the fact that women get paid less than men for doing the same jobs in our society. More than that I hate the fact that so called "pink collar" jobs are as undervalued as they are. And mocked. Seriously, I would love to see some jerk of a CEO try and handle 8 babies for an afternoon. Don't whine at me about balancing millions of dollars or making sure you sell more wheaties than the next guy. Change 8 diapers, make 8 bottles, feed the children 2-3 at a time and get them all down for naps, then start over again all without ever sitting down or having a grown up conversation. That's right, Jerk, you wouldn't last 10 minutes in a "pink collar" job."

OK, well, Libby does tend to get angry. But you can see why that might be coming out this week. Lets see if we can change the tone a bit.

(Train of thought back on track- Roomie finished the census and went to bed. Thank goodness it wasn't the long form.)

Perhaps we should limit the voices to a few words, rather than letting them spew bitter diatribes. Let's move this along. Neil, did you want to jump in for a moment?

"I want to buy a Red car. Not sensible red. Cherry red. And fast. And fun. Like a Mustang."

Thank you Neil.

"Also, I happen to like Celine Dion. And sometimes I sing along with her. Especially that one album, you know, from our Junior year of college. With "Because you Loved Me" on it."

Alright Neil, maybe you have overshared. Insecure girl, did you have something to say, I couldn't tell if you were raising your hand or checking your hair... and what's your actually name? We always just call you "insecure girl".

"Um, yes, my name is Heidi and, um, well, speaking of Celine Dion, there was that guy from our junior year that used to serenade us with that song. I'm still wondering if he was interested in us and we were just clueless. Because how colossally stupid were we to let that one go..."

Which guy? Oh yes, the 6'4" pre-med Puerto Riccan with the luxurious locks of curly hair... Yeah, we all still wonder about him. I believe we have made him the responsibility of "Suppression Sarah"

"Luis"

Thank you, Suppression Sarah. Now please go tend to that... Oh wait, you have a few things to add? Well I suppose, make it quick.

"I like conforming."

Huh?

"It makes my job easier, when we conform there is more to suppress immediately, but less to suppress in the long run. Conformity is relaxing. It's vacation."

OK then, Sarah, that is something for us to consider. Although clearly allowing this conversation at all is a less than conformist approach.

"Well, that's why I brought it up."

Hmmm, it's true. We can't let this go on for too long. Perhaps we have time for just one more confession before we head to bed. Let's see who has something to say...

Ah yes, Marsha, Mistress of Chaos, you rarely get a voice. One final thought for the night?

"I feel pretty balanced right now. You know how usually the car is a mess if the bedroom is clean and the bedroom is a mess if the car is clean? Yeah. Its about equilibrium. The kitchen is spotless, the living room is ordered, the car is carrying everything I need for the crazy days I have and the bedroom, well, its time to focus on some laundry. Its balanced though. So I'm not complaining. Chaos often begets creativity. You need that too. But once the inspiration is there, we have a clean and quiet place to work. And while we were frustrated at having to work full time through spring break, it feels good to turn the brain off of papers and tests and focus on silly things for a bit. Especially knowing that next week we can return to school and listen to other peoples thoughts for a few more weeks. It's balanced."

Thank you Marsha. I'm glad we got to end on a positive note.

Good night everybody!

(Insert Walton's "good night john boy" conversation here, using committee members names and titles.)

Excuse me for a moment while I indulge in intellectual snobbery...

2010-03-11T23:11:00.000-08:00

I see dumb people. I hear dumb people. I talk to dumb people. I'm so tired of dumb people.

I'm sorry dumb people. I'm sure you are nice. I'm sure you have sweet spirits. I'm sure you have pretty faces. I'm just not sure I have the energy to be your friend right now. It's not me, it's you.

It's an Alton Brown night.

(sorry guys, I thought this posted then it didn't also, this is definitely not directed at anyone I know on here, it's directed at people that I see every single day. They don't have access to this)

More FYI tidbits

2010-03-04T21:27:00.000-08:00

Here's some general communication. As of right now, the plan for sunday morning is that you should watch for me as the amazon woman smack dab in the middle of the very back row. It's a lonely place, with no voices behind me, a different voice part to my right, and a sweet but very quiet lady on my left. But it seems to be where I have always and forever stood in a choir. I had hopes of being shorter than at least someone this time, but alas, it's just not meant to be. Maybe on the 21st... Or else during the sat am session of conference. Then again, it could even change again on Sunday morning.

FYI

2010-02-20T18:58:00.000-08:00

The problem with losing that much weight is that when you finally do get around to shopping for clothes, everything looks that much better and you just want to spend that much more money.

Catch Up!

2010-02-17T06:54:00.000-08:00

It's been over a month. I'm not sure than an apology is what's in order (it's not like any of us is obligated to be here, reading and writing) and I certainly don't want to make excuses, since excuses would seem to diminish the things that have been otherwise occupying my time. It seems that all I can really do is offer a brief “catchup” post. I do want to continue the “happiness is” series, and I have all sorts of ideas, but time is at a premium and taking a little to hash through all of that seems far too burdensome right now. I simply don't want the writing to make me more anxious or stressed.

So here is the DL. School started up again. I was taking 18 credit hours, but a few of those seemed to be a waste of time, so I dropped down to 13 last week. I'm irritated with myself that I couldn't take it all on, but at the same time, better to get A's in fewer credits than C's in a while bunch. Especially since those classes I am taking are pretty intense. No breezing through like last semester. (Ha! My last semester self is laughing at that statement)

Choir is good. I would write pages and pages on it, but it is against choir policy for me to post anything, so I will have to leave it at that. If you want all the gory details, you should give me a call or take me to lunch. :)

Work is still work. I still resent my boss, I still love the kids, I still struggle with the parents. But my “part-time” status (really about 30 hours a week) makes it so that I rarely have to face off with the unpleasant bits. I go, I hold some babies and chat with some preschoolers, maybe study a little while they take naps, and I look forward to the day I will quit. After all, no matter what happens with school, I don't intend to go back to full time there. (now watch me have to eat my words on that!)

And speaking of the future, I still haven't heard anything about grad school. Frankly, you'll know when I do, because I will immediately start stressing about one of two things. Either I will become obsessive about finding a new job (that means no college acceptance) or desperate to figure out how to fund the next two years of my life (that would mean things are about to become expensive). I'm not sure which is more frightening to me. Right now, I just bounce back and forth between the two stresses.

Happiness is knowing a secret

2010-01-11T14:06:00.000-08:00

I think secrets taste like lindt chocolates. You know the kind you get a christmas with the creamy middle? Yeah, those. Most are just the milk chocolate kind. They're good, and you can probably down a couple throughout the day, but they are fleeting too, the richness only stays as long as the secret is still a secret, but somehow those never really last very long. Some of them are wonderful dark chocolate secrets that you like to savor for as long as you can, enjoying every bit of the bitter and the sweet. That kind sticks around for a while, and you really can't handle having all that many of them. Somehow, probably because the bitter is just that much stronger in the dark chocolate and that actually makes the sweet taste sweeter, you cling to them, and the flavor of it seems to last. Sometimes, they are the more unusual kind, like the peppermint or the coconut. Those always take a certain kind of person and a certain kind of day to enjoy them.

There are some secrets that you just burst to share, and there are some secrets that are healthier once they are shared. But the reality of life is that everyone has a few secrets that make them so unsure of themselves they hide them away. I don't really think we are as alone in those kinds of secrets as we think we are. In fact, I wouldn't call then secrets at all, I would simply call those "insecurities".

Because if we never share them at all, they aren't really secrets, now are they? Just like if all you ever do is stare at the chocolate or leave it sitting on your dresser, you never really get the fun of eating it and savoring it. Secrets have to be temporary things. Imagine if you got your friend the greatest birthday present, only to never have them open it. And imagine if you simply took them shopping and never got to choose something and wrap it up. Neither of them taste quite the same as selecting and wrapping a present and then anticipating the chance when they get to open it. You have to time things so that your secrets are your secrets for only as long as you can savor them and enjoy them.

Secrets to me are actually just wonderful evidence of friendship. You know how special you feel when your friend decides to trust you with a secret? And you know how great it feels to have a secret and to know just exactly the right person you are going to tell it to? Yeah, those are the kinds of secrets that taste just like chocolate. And those are the kinds of secrets that are really happy to have, because they mean that you mean something to someone, and because they means that someone means something to you.

Happiness is walking hand in hand...

2010-01-10T21:26:00.000-08:00

This one is out of order. Sorry about that. It's not that I didn't have anything to say so much as I mixed up my days and sort of forgot about this line.

Oh HO! You are thinking... who is Nancy walking with "hand in hand"? (I should have said "with whom" but it sounded all sorts of pretentious.)

Well I hate to disappoint on the gossip front, but right now, its CS Lewis. Although since he is dead, that has the potential to be a bit of a grotesque image... So let's say its more that I am walking and his book is in my hand. Which actually proves to be grotesque on another front, because I have a hard time holding a book in my hands without reading it so I end up trying to read while I am walking causing me to run into things, people buildings, etc.

Yup, rough life.

Anyways. I love to read for a number of reasons. One is for the adventure and escape, thus the books like "Count of Monte Cristo" and "Harry Potter". Another is for humor, particularly the dry and witty kind that I wish I could just come up with so I glean one-liners from novels by Douglas Adams and Terry Pratchett. The biggest reason I read though, is that I like to find people, especially published people, that agree with me. Or rather, that I agree with. And its especially fun if the person that I agree with is someone smart or respectable or both. Like CS Lewis.

So I'm reading a collection of his letters that were published together just a year or two ago. And one of the things that I came across was his discusion with a close friend on the concept of love. Which as you know if you've read for very long, I'm a little cynical about.

Hang on, we've been through this. It's not cynicism, it's simply a disbelief in the traditional concept of romanticism and a deep psychological need for control. Or something like that.

But we digress. CS Lewis, in the middle of a discussion of the various greek words for love (in the biblical context), points out that most of the cultural definition of love involves a concept of romanticism that is outside of our own agency, and that it simply doesn't make sense that we would be commanded to do something which we can not control. He concludes that real love can not be remotely the same as what we view as romanticism.

Now lest I offend you romantics out there, he also points out that real love must grow out of something, and often romanticism serves as the foundation for a relationship that eventually produces real love. So I suppose I do have some adjusting of my attitude on the whole thing. I can take correction, especially when it is well founded on philosophy and logic. And when it comes from CS Lewis.

Is this too rambly? Am I making any sense at all? Here's the sum-up. CS Lewis and I agree that love has to be a choice. We also agree that love as a lasting emotion grows out of love as a choice and an action. Its the exact same reason I want the movie "Princess Diaries 2" to end where the fiance admits he is not "in love" but declares that he will keep his commitments and follow through with the marriage and learn to love her over the years. I personally have always thought that was the absolute most "romantic" part of the whole movie. And now I see that CS Lewis would agree with me. That's very affirming. It's almost like he came along and took my hand and walked with me for a few minutes.

Happiness is two kinds of Ice Cream

2010-01-03T17:29:00.000-08:00

I stopped eating Ice Cream back in November. It was the stats Milkshake thing combined with wintertime and a little stress and a sort of a push on the diet thing. I don't know exactly when the last Ice Cream I had was, I do know that things sort of came to a halt with that on the night I was packing to go to Thanksgiving, I thought I might like some Ice Cream, so I got it out to thaw, and then I got distracted and finished packing and went to bed. When I woke up in the morning, the Ice Cream was still sitting out and more than a little bit soupy. I threw it away and hadn't bought any to replace it....

Until New Year's eve.

That's when I suddenly remembered about ColdStone. Not that I had forgotten that ColdStone existed, just that I had forgotten about ColdStone's holiday flavor. Dark Chocolate Peppermint.

Of course, the sudden recollection of it's existence merited an immediate trip to the local shop, just to reassure myself that it was still there. And it was. And I found a coupon for those take-out quarts of ice cream.

But when I went by in the afternoon to check these things out, I got stuck in like behind some sort of relief society group who was having massive difficulties choosing their ice cream. I stood there for an appropriate amount of time before I gave an audible exasperated sigh and walked back out. (I was going to be late for work if I had to wait any longer, and only one of them had managed to order yet.)

So I went back after work. I bought Dark Chocolate Peppermint mixed with brownies and Cake Batter mixed with cookie dough. I'm enjoying a little of it now. And maybe it has everything to do with the "B" in stats that means I will never have to take it again. Or maybe it's just because I have a bit more self control and a little less need for emotional eating. And maybe it has everything to do with the fabulous flavors I chose and the rich creamy ColdStone goodness. Whatever it is, Charlie Brown was right. Happiness is two kinds of Ice Cream.

Happiness is playing the drum in your own school band

2010-01-02T11:08:00.000-08:00

OR maybe its just getting the part you wanted in the school band. And for some of us, its just getting any part at all in the school band.

Or in the church choir.

And I know it's probably getting old, but you may have to hear about this again. Because choir school starts on Tuesday, and I have to admit to feeling a little nervous.

Nervous? Why? I mean, You are IN, aren't you?

Well, yes. But IN doesn't always mean all that it seems to mean.

I mean, I was IN the music program at BYU, and still a certain voice teacher managed to tell me that there was "No natural beauty" in my voice. Which tends to make a girl second guess herself. I was, in fact, in and out of the program several times before I actually graduated out of it.

Plus, they keep sending these letters and emails, full of instructions and warnings and such. What if I screw this up? What if I sing out of tune, forget the words, can't find the right door to walk in, or park my car in the wrong lot?

This is waaaay more complex than the school band.

I know all I really want to do is keep my head down and sing. I'm certainly not one of those people that walks into a choir and tells the director how to run things. For all of the enjoyment I get out of certain diva-ism, all I really want is to be a member of the choir. Sure, in theatre I want a challenge, but in the choir, I want to blend (a near impossibility with my voice). I've seen enough obnoxious self-appointed backseat directors to know that I will be more appreciated as the quiet girl on the back row. (I'm always on the back row, I'm too tall to be allowed anwhere else) It's just that I don't want to screw that up. The goal this time is actually just to fly under the radar, do what I'm told, be prepared, and blend.

Blend? Me? I guess we'll just have to see, now won't we...

Happiness is learning to whistle, and tying your shoe for the very first time...

2010-01-02T09:49:00.000-08:00

My grandpa could whistle, I can't. I'm actually a little ashamed of that. Grandpa's whistle was one of those sharp and clear and LOUD whistles that got everyone's attention. My whistle is weak, particularly considering I played the flute, it should be a little more solid than it is. And I can only whistle when I'm inhaling. Don't quite know why that is. In fact, sometimes when I'm driving all alone I try to practice whistling, but whistling while exhaling only leaves me gasping for breath. I feel fairly insecure about this gap in my musical ability, but it turns out its a fairly common thing for people to not be able to whistle. I know several people who have only figured out how by using coping methods similar to my whistling by inhaling. One good friend whistles out of the side of her mouth, and another person I know just blows air through her lips and pretends like there is sound coming out. It's not that Grandpa didn't try to teach me, in fact, thanks to him I can whistle a blade of grass and even tune it to varying pitches. That is a mad skill that I think makes all the difference for my lack of independent whistling.

But while we are on the subject of learning basic skills with our own coping skills, I should mention the tying shoes thing. My dad ties his shoes different than anyone else I know. He taught me his way when I was in 1st grade, and I did that for a few years before some little girl in my fourth grade class told me I was doing it wrong. I was very concerned, perhaps that I had committed a social atrocity by tying my shoes the wrong way, and so I asked her to teach me the real way. She did, and I blissfully continued my life thinking that I finally fit in properly. Until one day I saw my dad tying his shoes the old way, the way I had learned before. I am grown up enough now to realize that it really doesn't matter how you tie your shoes, as long as they get tied, and so now every time I tie my shoes, I find myself with options. Do I tie them my dad's way, or the normal way? How lucky am I that I know both!?

So why am I still ashamed of the whistling thing? I mean, is it really necessary to whistle with the best of them? I'll be just fine without it, just like I'll be just fine without being able to only raise one eyebrow at a time (even though I still desperately want to learn that), and I'm sure I'll be fine without being able to wiggle my ears, wear nail polish, run in a straight line, or put things in alphabetical order without singing the song. And when it comes to whistling and tying your shoes, I guess its less about how you do it as it is about actually being able to. And even if you can't do some of those useless things, you probably have a few other useless tricks up your sleeve.

Happiness is telling the time?

2009-12-08T20:13:00.000-08:00

Isn't this Linus's line? I seem to remember something about him getting a new watch in the comic strip. For some reason as a kid I remember our bookshelves holding a few volumes of Peanuts books.

But why? Linus, I suppose, felt some new sense of power over his destiny, what with the ability to tell time. Plus, the watch was a gift, and it was a gift that he somehow felt grown up enough to understand and use. Now if I had a chance to chat with Linus about the whole thing, I would tell him to get rid of that watch, that time has a nasty habit of running faster and faster and pretty soon he would be able to tell it anything at all, he would be so busy running after it, trying to catch even a little bit of it. A clock of any type, wristwatch or microwave or alarm or the one hanging on the chapel wall on Sunday afternoons, really just has a way of dictating the hours and minutes and seconds left until we run out. Like the way the clock on my computer is telling me just how much time I don't have left to do stats homework, just how much time I have wasted doing anything other than stats homework, and just how much time I really don't want to be spending on stats homework. Maybe Linus was counting down to something else. He always did have a struggle when his blanket was in the dryer. Perhaps he was counting down the time until his trusty blue friend was returned to his arms, warm and static-y. Perhaps instead of counting down to finals and papers and that big stats grade, I would find more happiness in counting down to something good. Like ice cream or springtime or January 5th. Maybe I'll count down to when I curl up with my own blankie in a warm bed. Ah yes, there it is. Happiness is tellling the time.

Happiness is pizza with sausage

2009-12-03T08:58:00.001-08:00

Actually, I'm not really a fan of sausage. Particularly not on pizza. As a breakfast food it's a little more lovable, particularly if it happens to roll through a puddle of maple syrup, giving it that salty-sweet blend of greasy goodness... But in general, I could live without it. It's ham that I truly love, on my pizza, in my crepe, on a sandwich, and also laying in a puddle of maple syrup. Oh you dieting people, hoping to take off pounds before you start indulging in Christmas fudge or even trying to get a jump start on that ridiculous American tradition of failing at your new year's resolutions, I can hear you whining at me through my computer screen. I should quit talking about such fattening and tempting things, lest I inadvertently send you out on a rampaging search for the nearest piece of chocolate covered bacon. Well I say get over it. 2010 is a month away, I know you've already destroyed your 2009 goals, and 2010 will offer just as many months for failure. December is perfect timing really, for all of the holiday sweets and indulgences.

But of course, I say this all while reveling in dietary success. And I am going to say it loudly and proudly. Have you noticed that there is a lot of talk out there about diet failure, a cultural leaning towards negative dietary speak and a bevy of commercials aimed at capitalizing on such negativity. Think of it, when was the last time you heard a friend say "I love my diet! I get to eat such wonderful exciting things and I feel so good!"? And if you are snarky enough to tell me you've actually heard someone say that recently, then tell me this: did you honestly believe them? No, really believe them. Were you sitting at a restaurant, and a discussion came up about whether or not to split the dessert, and they declined even a bite of that chocolate molten lava cake all the while proclaiming the beauty of their diet? And I will bet you your thoughts were a blend of guilt ("I should probably....") and disbelief ("you protest, but I see you drooling and yearning for it"). Why do we do this to ourselves? Even if we do enjoy the cake, we do it in protest of all that will later land on our thighs, when in reality, its not our thighs that are complaining but the public image! All the while you are listening to friends put the same face forward, but you never really hear about or believe the success. You hear if it failed, you hear if they gave up, you hear all sorts of excuses, but you don't hear "why yes, I'd love to split the dessert with you, because I am comfortable with myself and my image and I live a pretty damn healthy lifestyle!" Why aren't we allowed to say that?

A number of people have asked me about my dietary success. They want to know just what I am doing, and they say it with a little bit of hope in their eyes. Maybe they are hoping that I found the one magic diet pill that actually works (nope) maybe they are hoping that I have landed on the perfect combination of pastries and french fries that leads to a slim figure (nada) and maybe they are hoping that I will plug some "slimfast" type program (I'm not going to waste my dollars, really). And mybe they are just hoping that I won't give an obnoxious person lecture on carrotsticks and treadmills, gym memberships and removing refined sugar from my diet. Well I promise, I won't give that lecture either. I won't spout some LA weight loss joke which will only cost $349 a month and I won't proclaim love for a personal trainer. I'm not what you would call slim either. Just slimmer and getting more so every day, slowly slowly but enough so that I feel good about the things that are happening. The reality of what I have discovered in weight loss secrets is so golden that I should truly be proclaiming it from the rooftops.

But its wintertime, my roof is slippery, and all I really have is this blog. So you, dear readers, will be the unwitting recipients of the gold mine that is Nancy Beth's diet. Are you ready?

I'm happy.

That's it. Its the key to weight loss and healthy living as I know it. It's not just a question of limiting the number of chocolate milkshakes I have in a week. It's also a question of allowing myself one when I really want one. It's not just about cutting out donuts and replacing them with carrot sticks. It's about acknowledging that I kind of like carrot sticks particularly if they are deep fried like a donut and then dipped in ranch dressing. It's not about 6 miles on the treadmill in the morning and a stroll through the neighborhood every night. It's about walking when I feel like walking and driving when I am too tired to walk anymore.

The other day I was in between classes and I suddenly wanted a donut. So I bought one. And guess what? I still fit into my jeans the next day. But also, on another recent occasion, I was eating a meal with my friends, and I thought to myself, "I don't really want to finish this" so I didn't. And on Thanksgiving, this weird and new thing happened to me. I fininshed a plate of amazing food and wandered back into the kitchen for seconds and stared at the marvelous pot still nearly full to the brim with mashed potates (mashed potatoes with crispy crispy bacon chunks and slices of leeks in them... so yummy) and I thought "meh. One serving was enough." And the morning afer thanksgiving, when I got up and found that pies were still strewn across the kitchen, I had a slice with whipped cream and a little scoop of ice cream. And I don't think that caloric intake was any more than what I would have done if I had planted myself in front of those potatoes the night before.

And this morning, for breakfast, I had a mini-Crunch bar. And a glass of milk. But yesterday I had a bowl of Chex (not the whole box... just a bowl). And I excercised this morning too. I put up a Christmas tree, wrapped it in lights, and then practiced the organ for a while. That burns waaaaay more calories than catching the morning show or loading new songs onto my ipod shuffle with the intention of running.

It's so easy, nobody would ever be able to sell it. But you heard it here from me, your friend. This holiday season, you should have that piece of fudge that you really really want. And if it is gross then you shouldn't finish it. But if it is good, maybe you should have another, because the next time the fudge is passed it might be that nasty whitish stuff with the nuts in it. And then when the holidays are over and you feel slightly bloated because it turns out that your friends are better at making fudge then you thought they would be, you should find something you love to do. Like singing or practicing a new instrument or walking in the snow or packing up Christmas decorations so that the lights won't be a tangled mess next year. And you should do those things with all your heart that make you feel happy. Because just breathing burns calories. And learning the cello will do more for your heart and head than forcing yourself to a treadmill in front of a television. And if you do feel yourself slipping into the chocolate milkshake stupor, with the cast of Glee keeping you company and an obscene number of empty gallon buckets collecting under your kitchen sink, you should do that thing that makes you happy instead. I'm not telling you to cut out Glee and milkshakes entirely, but one night a week is probably just enough time to give your walking feet or piano fingers or tennis elbows a rest before you return to actively making yourself happy. Order yourself a pizza while you are at it, it goes very well with chocolate milkshakes. And if you happen to like sausage, go ahead and double it. I guarantee you will still fit into your jeans the next day.

Happiness is finding a pencil...

2009-12-02T07:42:00.000-08:00

If Charlie Brown truly is an allegory for the common man, then we should see that everyone has their struggles, everyone lacks a certain amount of confidence, everyone perceives the people around them as having the confidence that they lack, and everyone finds their own way of coping, like visiting Lucy with a nickel. I think Charlie Brown really has it sewn up, though, between his friends and his kite and his faithful pup, he finally figures out what happiness is.

School is keeping me pretty busy. I have a huge paper due next week, 10+ pages. And I have a stats project due Friday, presentation including regression lines and residuals and I have yet to figure out what those are. And I still have 4 concerts to perform before the semester ends (it's music that I hate, too). Not to mention that I was asked to finish out the Christmas season with the ward choir before I get released.

But I'm actually very happy with it all. Probably because my focus is elsewhere. Seriously elsewhere. It's pretty well fixed on January 5th. Of course, there are a lot of preparations to be made before January 5th happens. Those could be included in the above "to do" list as well, except for one thing.

I am really excited about doing the January 5th things. They don't hover on my list like the others, poking at my brain with dulled sticks, nagging and draining me of all energy as I procrastinate. No, no. These things are exciting adventures which take me to new places and feel like gold stars on the sticker chart of my life.

Included in my letter that started with the word "Congratulations!" was a list of instructions. First, everything I do that is related to choir activities is a part of my new missionary calling, and must be done in missionary attire. I'm busting out all those skirts and dresses I accumulated while I was teaching seminary, and I love it. Finally I have a reason to be wearing skirts again, and I don't feel like such a scrubby gross jeans and t-shirt kind of feeling every day. I know a lot of people love that, but its just not my style.

Next on my list of things to do was to go and get security badges and parking passes. I love that at this point in the letter there was a parenthetical reminder about the missionary attire. Don't forget to wear a dress when you go to the parking garage! I now have my precious badges and official stuff. I've decided that my official and permanent backstage pass works in heaven as on earth, and I promised Emma she could be my +1 as long as she is single. If she gets married then other single friends and family may apply for the position. Married people are on their own.

The third item on the list in the letter was to be sure and get released from any callings before January 5th. Frankly, I rejoice in that.

Now don't go thinking that my life is totally charmed and perfect as a result of the letter and all the instructions. For example, many of the skirts I got while I was teaching seminary are entirely too big for me, and they will have to be altered or thrown out entirely because they actually fall right off of my 3-sizes-smaller hips. See what a trial? Also, the parking pass includes a windshield sticker which I have yet to place, because there is a giant crack in my windshield, and I need to get it replaced but I'm not sure that I will be able to afford to do that before I need to actually use the parking sticker... oh what a quandry! And perhaps most troubling of all is that my bishop wants me to continue as ward choir director right up until January 4th! He's like Lucy, and my release is the football! He's tempting me, tempting me, but alas not yet!

(I hope you all see the facetiousness in my complaints)

Having accomplished all that I could on that "to do" list, I find myself answering the phone to more and more unfamiliar numbers. Yesterday it was a frantic sounding lady who told me that it was "imperative" that I be at the choir office in just a few hours for a session with a voice coach. "Imperative?" Ok. I had some stuff planned for the evening, but could be available for the timing she requested. You say "jump", I say "Really? You want me to? Can I? May I? How high, what time, should I be there early and how long would you like me to stay? Also, I'll bring cookies if it will make you like me more." Of course, then the lady asked me for my height and dress size, which I also gladly disclosed, including the information about the 3-size-too-big seminary dresses.

I went there thinking that it would be sparse as far as traffic and parking, since it was just a random Tuesday night. Of course, I neglected to consider the Christmas Lights factor. It took me a little longer to get there than expected, but I was still 20 minutes early. There was this sign on the door telling me to wait patiently and the vocal coach would be there shortly to let me in. I stood there next to door 25 listening to the recordings of the choir played on the loudspeakers while crowds walked past looking at the lights and then noticing me and staring at me and the sign as they walked past. I wanted to yell at them "I'm standing here because I get to sing with them! They want me and I'm good enough and next year that recording will include ME ME ME!!!!!" But I restrained myself, smiled calmly and waited. The door opened and my old voice teacher was waiting for me. You see, she's the vocal coach for the choir now. She remembered me and we caught up a bit and I sang for her. My 3 octave range is still 3 octaves (hooray!) and my voice is still just about the loudest most people will ever hear (it's a blessing and a curse) but my staccattos have come leaps and bounds and my marcatos are even and controlled and my decrescendo is smooth. Of course, I've also gotten lazy and my jaw tenses up and my chest drops. And she said to me "that was never a problem before, you are lazy!" and while I appreciated the correction I also began to comprehend a little better the standard that I am now going to be held to. I will always prefer participating in an ensemble that requires real effort and produces great sound, but that in no means diminishes the energy spent on such a project. I'm really in for it.

My time was up, I left with a list of things to practice before January 5th. And we walked out the door to meet the next person one her list of voice coach sessions for the night. Nobody was standing at the door, but she called out for her and a nice lady peeked around the corner at us.

"I was just listening to the beautiful music." She said.

And the voice coach replied "That's ok, but come with me now, because by next year you will be singing with them!"

And I waved at them at walked away with the biggest smile I've ever felt.

I am taking a page from Charlie Brown, and finding all sorts of joy in the mundane. I'm sure that there are very few people in this world who have gotten so much of a thrill out of signing for a parking pass. But I'd bet its about the same feeling as Charlie Brown had when he found that pencil. And I know there are people who get a thrill out of hearing the choir, but mine increased exponentially with that letter. The choir didn't change, I did. And the little red-haired girl that chews her pencil doesn't quite know what a gift she gave to Charlie Brown, when he discovered it and realized that she has her insecurities just like him. But it changed him just a little too. So this Christmas you'll find me in his corner. We'll be finding joy in pencils and letters and parking passes and kites and even in that football that keeps getting pulled away. Because eventually Lucy will give us a shot. Think of it this way. The first time you see me up there singing, you'll know that Charlie Brown finally kicked that football. And it went straight through the uprights. GOAL.

coming attractions...

2009-11-23T19:26:00.000-08:00

I shut off my internet at my house, so computer time is scarce right now. Soon, though. Soon, I will regale you with tales of my adventures...

A sad story.

2009-11-08T16:28:00.000-08:00

Today I decided to have a chocolate milkshake. I reasoned with myself that I haven't been using them as stats incentive for a t least a month and that I got a really good score on a stats test last week, so I should be allowed to have one just because I wanted one. No stats homework associated with it, just a plain old chocolate milkshake because they are yummy.

And I got home and I got the ice cream out of the freezer to thaw a little, and I put a few scoops of ice cream in a cup and poured milk over it and ate some of the frozen milk chunks that formed and slurped a little of the chocolate ice cream off the top before adding a little more milk and stirring it up. Then I settled down in front of an episode of NCIS on my computer and...

I didn't want the milkshake. It didn't look good, it didn't sound good, even no longer associated with stats homework, even having gotten a "B" on a stats test, no thought process worked. I simply didn't want a chocolate milkshake.

That has never happened to me. Ever.

Is it because I am getting old and now I prefer healthy things? Or did my pavlovian experiment ruin me forever? How long does it take to heal from the psychological damage we inflict upon ourselves?

Halloween Fun, Each picture is worth a thousand words....

2009-11-01T07:12:00.000-08:00

These pictures are in no particular order, but I had a blast on halloween, getting together with my old roomies and friends and just hangin' out and goofin' off. For example, above, Bryan was trying to show us what a "seductive" pose was.... (or was it "lounging around"? All I remember is something about a call girl....)

It's hard to believe that we've all known each other long enough for people to have children, and for those children to be getting this big!

But some things will never change, like our affinity for Charlie's Angel's poses...

Although I'm sure this little one is just wondering what his crazy mom is up too...

We tried to get them to all stay still for just long enough to snap a picture. It's a bit like herding stray cats on a flatbed truck though.
So the individual shots worked a little better.
Oh No! Captain Hook captured Tinkerbell!

And Peter Pan is clinging to his Wendy... (he really was a good sport, for all the people that invaded his house and his routine.)

Personally, I think Halloween is really just a great excuse to play with dry ice...

And dinner cooked in a pumpkin.... Yummy!

Although I have to admit I couldn't bring myself to actually eat one of these "Toes". For all the people in the room with foot phobias, I was the one that couldn't swallow it.

But the spread was gorgeous...
And our hosts were brilliant.

And we took some time to re-enact great literature...

(I love that I am friends with people who are more likely to dress as characters from great literature than from movies and pop culture)

(Although I'm sure an argument can be made for the fact that Peter Pan and Harry Potter are both movies now too. But they were books first, and the books are better than the movies anyways)

Hey look, more food!

The spider dip was my contribution...

Mmmmm, Halloween always makes me happy, but that could be because of the things that come shortly after.... Then again, with friends and fun like this, How could I want anything more?

A sermon in action

2009-10-18T22:44:00.000-07:00

My ward choir sang in sacrament meeting today. I am the director, and we are by no means a spectacular ensemble. In fact, we are a little bit less spectacular than the average ward choir, and frankly, this is a calling that I dread for that very reason. Its a pride issue. But sacrament meeting today took on a different sort of meaning.

There were 3 speakers: Youth, regular, and high council rep. The youth speaker would normally go first, but the bishop switched it, because the next speaker is a private in the army, just returned from basic training. Our meeting schedule is pretty late in the day, sometimes making it difficult to attend family functions, and the Private needed to spend time with his family before his impending deployment. It's one of those situations where everyone knows, the political climate being what it is, the elections in Afghanistan being as precarious as they are, the president being faced with decisions about troop increases, we can't be sure that Private J will be here next week. There is that unspoken fear that makes it so that when a Private says "I need to spend time with my family" everyone understands and backs off.

This soldier stood up and you could tell he was a soldier. It's not just the haircut or the stance. It's something about the way he carries himself and responds to those around him. He gave a beautiful talk on adversity. He spoke about basic training, and about how our afflictions are but for a small moment. He bore a beautiful testimony of that verse and of the prophet Joseph Smith and the adversity that he faced. But the primary focus of his talk was not on how life was hard, but how his friends, fellow privates and others around him had helped him through adversity with a kind word and an encouraging moment. He gave a specific example of a particularly grueling exercise, when he didn't think he would make it through, a friend came from behind and pushed him just enough to get him through to the end of the exercise. He spoke about how he learned to give such encouragement, and he spoke about that in the context of the prophet Joseph Smith as well. He mentioned how opportunities to both teach the gospel and learn better ways to live it came through moments of adversity, and while he was speaking I just kept thinking how proud his mom must be. It was a really good talk. And when he finished, he quietly left the stand and slipped out of the chapel while the youth speaker stood to speak.

The youth speaker is a 13 year old boy who I do not know very well. When this boy began to speak, we could hear that he was terrified. His voice shook for the first few words and then it was gone completely. There was silence, from him and the congregation. As the silence grew, the microphone began to pick up his choked sobs, and I began praying for someone to intervene.

But for a 13 year old boy to save face, it can't be just anyone who intervenes. His mom can't come tearing up out of the congregation, that would destroy him more than the sobs. And I certainly couldn't, as the stranger and music director sitting behind him. I was looking at the bishopric, wondering what they could do, when the soldier came striding up the aisle and back to the stand. He put his arm around the boy and whispered a few words in his ear, and the boy began again to speak. His voice was still just as shaky, but this time with a soldier by his side he gained momentum instead of losing it. As he got farther into his talk, the soldier took his seat behind him and stayed until amen's were said. He slipped away again just as I was standing up to direct the choir: "Come Follow Me" and "I'm Trying to be Like Jesus".

I don't know what those whispered words were, but he certainly preached one of the most powerful sermons I have seen or heard in my entire life. And I don't know how much of the family dinner he missed, but I do know that the one person in the congregation who could give a 13 year old boy the strength to finish a tearful talk was a soldier, coming up from behind, offering just the right words of encouragement. And I don't know how proud his mom was of the talk, but I know another mom whose gratitude is running over for the soldier that saved the boy on the stand.

And I'm not much for tears and emotion, particularly in public, but I didn't miss the significance of the text when the choir sang "For these are the things Jesus taught; 'Come follow me'"

Opening Night

2009-10-17T19:26:00.000-07:00

I am backstage right now. Don't worry, its a 20 minute intermission and then I have half an act before I go on again, but there are a few things that I am absolutely loving about this. I of course couldn't write about it during the rehearsal process, because I was beyond exhausted and resenting the show just a little and trying desperately to remember notes every night and incorporate them into the next night. This is intense. I'm not surprised at how intense it is, after all there has to be a reason they pay. I'm just ehxhausted by how intense it is. But there are a few things that I absolutely love about this. I've always loved the backstage feeling, and the intensity has increased with the show. Here are a few of my favorite things:

I love hearing calls over the intercom system, "makeup to down stage left" and "full chorus to stage".
It's sort of thrilling to be a part of a cast so huge there are 3 stage managers and 8 pages.
I love that the cast is called by "Mr." and "Miss". There is a fabulous formality about it that makes me feel warm and fuzzy.
I have always enjoyed watching a show from the wings, but this just tops all of them. The soprano is incredible, and I get to sit and listen to her perform these amazing arias every night.
Speaking of the soprano, she can go these glissandos where she falls from the heighth of her range all the way to the bottom and just taps every note on the way down and you never hear the shift in her voice. It's like vocal chocolate cake, with fudge frosting every time she taps the notes. Sigh. I don't have to be able to do it myself if I can just sit and listen to someone else do it every night.
The costuming is INCREDIBLE. I don't even mind the fact that I can't see out of the mask and hood and can't use my hands the entire time the gloves are on, the costuming is incredible. Even when I see other people backstage, I am amazed at the costumes.
Cast party: Exspensive restaurant, catered, opening night, fancy dress required!
We sound good. Not just to boast, but seriously, we sound good. I love singing when I know its going to be good. I love knowing its worth it to invite people to come.
I get to sing full voice on stage. When does that ever happen to me? Never!
I love going in the "Stage Entrance" while audience members are wandering around the lobby of the theatre. It makes me feel special.
I love coming back out of the stage entrance at the end of the night while audience members are still standing around. They never know who I am because the makeup and wig and costume are gone, and I can hear them talking about the show without having to be gracious in taking a compliment.
I have my own little seat in the chorus dressing room with my name on it, and sometimes people leave little presents there that have been sent to me, and it has a mirror with lights all around it. Total pride kick.
I leave my costumes in a bag at the end of the night and someone else does my laundry for me. Every night. I am tempted to bring things from home.
The guy playing Banquo is someone that I find extremely attractive. Just sayin'.
I can make jokes about the form of the overture, and the people around me laugh.

You see, I love this experience. And at this point, it may be the only time I ever do it, and I am so ok with that, because it certainly has cost in energy and time.

Whoops! There's my call for ACT II finale...

Learning tons, just what is still in question.

2009-10-13T10:44:00.000-07:00

For example, I have learned that I can't quite do "Hell Week" (the final week of production before performances) like I used to. It's not just the late night thing, either. I have stayed up late studying several times, and have still managed to survive the next day with some fatigue but mostly functional. This is different. I get up in the morning and not only is the fatigue there, but my whole body aches and hurts, from running and standing on the rake and fast costume changes and shifting between crouched over witch to standing tall noblewoman all the while holding my torso properly for opera singing...

My poli sci paper on health care reform came back to me with a perfect score and a note from the professor to "run for office". While I have no desire to ever do such a thing, it was a moment of pride and a nice assurance that I'm not going to fail at least one class. (Well, 2, since its a near impossibility to fail choir). I guess you could say that I've learned to trust my study skills a little more.

On the other hand, my Stats test came back with a lower grade than I have ever received for something I actually studied. Seriously friends, I have never spent that many hours on a subject and then faced a test in which 1- I didn't recognize several of the terms and 2- I didn't even complete the last two questions. What the heck? I am always the first one done with a test, never the one that has to be told that time is up! This just feels like an epic fail to me, even if it is technically a "C". I guess I learned that some things just won't come easily, and maybe they won't even come at all. ( I might add, however, that the grade was saved by my ability to calculate or "guess" the right answers using my own methods, which according to a math teacher is still mostly wrong because I can't show my work, even it the answer itself is right. Frankly, I still think that's just a stupid policy.)

Most of all, though, I've learned from the two BIG tests this weekend that I actually have a shot at my two big goals for the next year. I don't have any final grades yet, but I left them feeling much better than I felt about the stats test.

Not a minute to spare.

2009-10-07T21:13:00.000-07:00

Macbeth rehearsals move to the Capital theatre tomorrow, and go from 6-11. We open in 10 days. And I honestly can't remember my blocking for Act I scene 3.
Exam for Grad school evaluation tomorrow night. Yikes! My whole future could depend on that.
Poli Sci paper due Monday. Discuss the philosophy of John Locke and how it impacted the framing of the constitution. Luckily, sometimes I read social contract for fun. Unfortunately, I tend to agree more with Rousseau's commentary on it. Will that bbe even remptely acceptable for an American Political Science class?
Stats Exam 1 on Friday morning. What exactly is "x-sub-i", how do I plug it into an equation, and while I get that the standard deviation is the square root of the variance, I can't quite remember how to calculate the variance. I remember what a linear correlation coefficient is, but I can't remember how it relates to the coefficient of determination. Does it? More importantly, does it matter?
Along with the stats exam, there is a review sheet with 27 questions on it that could be worth 5% extra credit on the test. I need the extra credit, but I'm not sure when I will have time to do 27 questions worth of extra homework.
Paper due Tuesday on the evolution of the family shape and whether or not it has affected the levels of function and dysfunction in society. Please include a multi-disciplined approach and reference micro through macro perspectives.
Finish the arrangement for the ward choir. It's arranged, I just need to tweak the accompaniment in a few places.
Request transcripts from all universities attended.
Re-write 4 page Liberal Arts statement for grad school app, I wrote it and hated it, need to start over.
Current events article and opinion for class friday.
Plan and execute sectional for choir, including face off with diva girl and learning the alto lines for "Cloudburst". That piece is nasty.
Work is requesting that I put in 32 hours a week. They won't guarantee me the hours so they won't have to offer me health insurance, but they want me to show up and help out anyways. This is where I put my foot down and say no.

You know, if you consider the whole list, break it down into the bullet points, and think about each project, I am actually counting my blessings. I want to do all of it, I want to do all of it well, I am just frustrated that there isn't enough time in the day to accomplish everything with the refinement I would like it to have. In fact, the only real problem in all of this is that I have one test on Saturday morning that is more important to me emotionally than anything else. Plus its stuff I love to study. Everything else takes second place, even though half of this is due before then. Focus, Nancy, Focus.

Pavlov might have been right...

2009-09-30T21:33:00.000-07:00

... and guess which emotion was stronger? I came home the last 3 nights faced with stats homework and discovered that not only do I resent the idea of finding the z-factor for anything, I also don't like chocolate milkshakes. I'm bribing myself with a brownie now. Let's just see if we can't eliminate unhealthy vices from my life altogether. After all, not only have I not had a milkshake in over a week, I have also dropped a pants size and fit back into the clothes I wore before I left for Minnesota. While I feel a deep sense of loss over the whole milkshake thing, I wonder if I could keep it up? And I wonder what will happen if I allow myself these things without requiring it to coincide with stats homework?

On another pavlovian related note, I also now realize my deep resentment for homemade crocheted ponchos. You see, there is this old lady in one of my classes that irritates me SO much. She argues with the professor and is alll sorts of a know-it-all particularly when she knows nothing at all. She treats people in the class with this air of authority and even her occasional compliments seem condesending. And she wears a different homemade crocheted poncho every day. Along with various other crocheted paraphenalia (like the fingerless gloves and the occasional legwarmer). And today I saw someone on campus wearing one, and it wasn't even that old lady, but I immediately disliked the person, just because of their choice of cold-weather covering. A case might be made, however, for some sort of bias. After all, while I am unsure that I ever had strong feelings about crocheted ponchos before, I am certian that I never thought them to be an appropriate accessory for anyone between the ages of 10 and 65. Let's face it, they are cute on little girls and they are functional on old ladies, but anyone between those ages has no business wearing one. No matter who made it.

This all seems so negative, so let me end on a positive. Tonight was the first staging rehearsal for Macbeth. I love staging rehearsals. I love opera. I love sitting in the wings waiting for a cue, trying to remember said cue, getting notes from the director, and running like a madwoman to try and make the next cue. I particularly love this one because sitting in the wings and waiting is accompanied by the onstage voices singing things by Verdi. And while no one will be able to tell its me, (due to the elaborate costuming) you should know that I am the very first person onstage and center in the whole show. So if you are coming, you will be able to find me. Happy day, I love the theatre.

In fact, I have been spending so much time focusing on music lately that I am remembering how much I loved studying it, which makes it much more difficult to go back and study other things. Like stats. Which I should be doing right now.

Because the weather is just right...

2009-09-30T13:59:00.000-07:00

My very fun cousin started a blog for a little circle of us peoples to contribute to and chat together, you all are welcome to visit and comment if you like! (I think you are, anyways, I'll remove this post if I hear objections)

http://hotchocolateshop.blogspot.com/

...I'm partly posting this just because I have a little story up there now, and so instead of writing a new post for the day I can just send you to that link!
Enjoy!

grumpy....

2009-09-25T07:13:00.000-07:00

What a nasty day.

I was so ready for it. My backpack was ready for classes. My snack was packed for just before work, my change of clothes for work was already in my car. I pressed the dress for the concert tonight. I woke up with enough time to shower and get ready and eat a good breakfast and get to school in time to get a decent parking spot.

But just as I woke up I realized I forgot to print off an article and opinion for my Poli Sci class.

Whatever. I can print it off before I go out the door. Not a big deal.

When I got out of bed I realized the dress had fallen off the hangar in the night and gotten all wrinkly.

I'll just have to press it again.

Getting out of the shower I was putting on my earrings and one of them fell down the drain of the sink. Sad. Normally I wouldn't care, seeing as I generally spend about 75 cents on a pair of earrings. But this is my all time favorite pair. I got them from Anthropologie with a gift card from some of my bestest roomies ever. I was not going to let that earring go the way of dead pet goldfish.

I scrambled for some sort of a hook deally to fish it out, but the more I dug, the farther it fell. Finally I had to pull everything out from under the sink and pull apart the U-bend.

I cannot describe here the disgusting things that came out of the U-bend without putting some sort of a violence rating on my blog. Let me just describe to you what it reminded me of. We used to go swimming/water-skiing on the Rainy River (US-Canada Border). Nobody has any idea how deep the river actually is, because try as you might to dive or drown, you could never really touch the bottom, or at least anything solid enough to be called the bottom. The sludge just sort of got thicker and thicker until eventually it actually sucked you in. I never really allowed myself to sink that far, because right about the time I could feel sludge tickling my knees and my foot movement slightly restricted, I wanted to wretch. That is about the consistentcy of the stuff that came out of the U-bend of my bathroom sink.

So gagging and plugging my nose, I sifted through the silt until I found the earring. Which I then sanitized.

Now I was running short on time. I turned on the iron and grabbed a bowl for breakfast food and booted up my computer. No internet. Its been sketchy lately, I think something is wrong with my wireless router. Great. No time to panic or trouble shoot.

I iron the dress, grab my computer, and run out the door to head to class. Just as I am opening the door to my car, the sprinklers turn on, soaking me, my dress, and my laptop.

Lovely start to a day.

I'm blogging this from stats class, because I don't understand a word of whats going on, and every time I ask a question, the teacher ust says "well, we did it that way because thats the way it is, the formula says to put it there."

Pooh.

Oh yeah, now I remember...

2009-09-19T08:21:00.000-07:00

(I am realizing as I write this that, well, this one goes out to my freshman roommate, the math major.)

I hate math classes. Really and truly loathe them. Not the way I dislike going to work or the way the Twilight books leave a bad taste in my mouth. Not even the way I hate pictures of myself and paying bills and peeling potatoes. No, I hate math classes with a level of detest that is only equaled by how I feel about doing laundry, Northern Minnesota winters, and the feeling of being manipulated by passive-agressive people.

And I know this about myself, but over the past 15 years of not taking math classes, I have often wondered why that is, exactly.

After all, its not physically painful, like a Northern Minnesota winter. And I generally know how to deal with it, unlike being faced with passive aggressive manipulation. And it doesn't give my hands that nasty dry starchy feeling that laundry does.

In fact, I have to brag a little here, I am actually really good at math.

No, Really.

In high school I was at best an average student. Most accurately, I was a below average student who slept through every class, never turned in a single homework assignment, and passed only because I could ace any test without thinking twice. I could also calculate the bare minimum number of tests I had to take in order to pass a class, and as a result, graduated with a 2.7 gpa, having done the least amount of work possible in order to get to college. It's not that I was lazy, I recognize it sounds that way, but in actuality, I was probably clinically depressed and suffering from a classic case of lack of motivation. The "guidance counselor" (read: sorry excuse for a human being paid to guide students towards dead end work at a window factory and a life of trailer parks and domestic abuse.) shuffled me off to remedial English, informed me that I would never go anywhere in life, and insisted that if I really had my heart set on college, I should try really hard and maybe the community college at Thief River Falls would help me certify in something. He tried to refuse to allow me to take the ACT and filled out a window factory application for me instead, insisting that it was all my future held. Of course, if you know me at all then you know that the best way to get me to do something is to tell me I can't. My last year of high school I took this physics class from perhaps the best teacher ever to teach at that particular high school. Mr Rauvola was only there for a year, right out of college, and he had that shiny new teacher changing the world approach to life. There were only 7 of us that took it, all the "smart kids" from my class and me. Mr Rauvola offered an immediate challenge to us. He informed us via college style syllabus that according to his grading scale, an 85% would be an "A", since he fully intended to give us challenges that were miles beyond us. If people averaged above an 85, he would step things up and make them harder, and force us to actually learn something.

Shocking, I know. This was actually a teacher willing to teach.

And we rolled along learning things and doing experiments and amusing theoretical applications.

"How much heat is lost when making milkshakes with three different blenders? Which blender is the most efficient?"

"The diagram below represents a game of pool, calculate the angle and force needed in order to sink 2 solid colors, avoiding the 8 ball"

"How many boxes of Jello gelatin will it take to turn an olympic sized swimming pool into a giant jello salad? Bonus: If Mr. Hendrickson weighs 320 pounds and has a circumference of 62 inches, how long will it take for him to be submerged in the jello, provided he doesn't move or spill his coffee?"

I was good at this kind of math. There was a purpose to it, it challenged me and made me laugh. I even became the person that the "smart kids" would come to for help. In a hushed, after school special kind of social approach, they would call me or stop me when no one was looking and ask me how to calculate the rate of descent at such an angle, or if I could please look over their calculations and slip their paper back to them during physiology. I enjoyed my power. They had to be nice to me, or I might actually choose to return that paper during lunchtime.

One day, Mr Rauvola gave us a particularly difficult assignment. It was one problem and it would incorporate every equation we had learned up until that point in the class. It involved distance and gravity and angles of launch and angles of descent and force and more variables than we had ever seen at once. We had a week. We worked at it, we slaved at it. Those smart kids even started discussing it with me in front of their friends. We tore our hair out. We got it narrowed down to three or four variables, and we came to a dead stop. I looked at it from every angle, I reworked it from scratch several times, the other kids gave up. I kept going. We couldn't figure out how to break down the last few variables. d was still a mystery, mocking us from both sides of the equation, x still punctuated every phrase, m was still unknown and in a seperate equation off to the side it teased us with potential for solvability but we just couldn't see through the math, and we were divided as to whether or not v could be solved the way I had chosen to solve it. Then, in a stroke of both luck and brilliance, a kid named Rusty asked me something about m that proved my solution for v and got us moving again on that pesky side equation. We got out of Physiology (his dad taught it, so that was no great feat) in order to work through the rest of the problem. We pulled the other students together. Lisa stuck with us, Jenny was irritated that I had come up with something and she stormed off, Brian and Rex were fascinated but I think a little lost, (and by this time of the year, Daryl was 7 or 8 months pregnant and not planning on graduating, so she didn't show up very often). Lunchtime came, and those smart kids were faced with a choice between solving the problem which entailed being seen with me by the entire school, or giving up and hanging out with their friends. They made a noble effort, but in the end they couldn't take it and chose to declare it unsolveable. I holed myself up in an empty classroom and somewhere about 8 minutes before the end of lunch bell rang, I suddenly could see the solution for d. It was crazy. It was the most insane math I had ever seen before in my life. I had to insert an extra equation involving the function of x before solving for d and then I had to insert that solution for d still in an equation form back into the original equation creating these layers of parenthetical equations within other parenthetical equations, and square roots of things cubed where x was still both factored and not. I honestly had no idea what I was doing, other than keeping the basic algebra rules of how to solve for x by moving the variable all to one side of the equal sign. I was actually breathless when I got to physics class feeling triumphant. I remember part of the solution. I had gotten it down to an actual answer, 1.53 on one side of the equals sign, while the other side was still peppered with x and cosin, and at least 3 sqare root signs layered over each other and blended into other phrases and sentences that my calculator was incapable of computing. That's ok, I thought, I would just borrow Mr. R's graphing calulator and ziiiiing! it would be like magic.

Mr Rauvola started class by informing us that when he makes up our homework, he does it with the intention of solving it with us and doesn't always check it before he gives it to us. And he's very sorry, but he tried and tried to work this problem, but there isn't a solution for it. He simply gave us too many variables and no way to solve for all of them. He still wanted us to turn it in, so he could give us credit for it and see what we had made of it though. I blurted out (and blurt is a good word for it, since I hardly talked in high school, when I did have to say something it generally came out like word vomit) "what if we did solve it?"

He thought I was joking. "Oh, then you can have an 'A' on the test today and I'll sign you up as an upper level calculous TA at the U."

Really? Because I solved it. He was shocked and gave me that stern teacher look and asked me to bring him my paper. (The rest of the class went silent as well, and I still wonder to this day if some of them didn't feel like I had been holding out on them) I babbled nervously when I gave him the paper. "I didn't solve it all the way, I need to borrow your graphing calculator because I just can't get through this many x's on mine." I remember the silence that seemed to go on for 20 minutes while he checked my work, over and over again.

He gave me the stern teacher look again, although this time it was much more steady and scary. I got it right. Why was his teacher look so much more scary when I had it right? I would almost rather he thought I had lied to him!

He asked me to stay after class.

I had only ever been asked to stay after class for detentions before. You know, the extra homework, clean the chairs, lecture on fighting, kind of "stay after class". Oh, and once because an English teacher wrongly assumed that my essay on gossip about children killing a frog was suicidal instead of a symbolic accusation of the injustices of high school social classes. Apparently she thought I was just dumb too.

So I stayed after class and he sat down in the desk in front of me and I prepared myself for whatever lecture I was about to get. And He didn't lecture me. He reviewed the equation with me, asking me how I came up with certain calculations, asking me why decided to solve for v the way I did, asking me to prove certain sections with other work, and asking me to rework other sections with a different equation.

And then he invited me to attend this math conference thingy with him. I knew what it was because one of my other friends had been invited to attend. Every school in the state was bringing their top math students to this "conference" that was acutally just an 8 hour long math test. It was billed as a competition, but it was actually the state department of education's attempt at gathering data on math education. I didn't understand all that entirely, I just knew that it meant a day off from school and hanging out with Renae instead of avoiding eye contact with the popular crowd, so I agreed to go.

All of the competitors statewide were meeting at one university in Northern Minnesota, but everywhere in Northern Minnesota is a long bus ride away. I think we traveled for 4 hours, took the math test for 3 hours, at lunch for half an hour, did more math for 4 hours, then rode the bus back for 4 hours. On the bus ride back, Renae and I talked to Mr. Rauvola for a bit, then Mr Denault, the head of the math area at my high school and my teacher for Trigonometry stood up to give us our test results. We were scored in percentiles and only the top 50 were actually ranked. The top 20 won a T-shirt. (yeah, do the math there, I'm not sure exactly all the perks for being one of the top athletes in the state, but if you are one of the top 20 math students, you get a T-Shirt). Mr Denault, ever the socially defunct mathematician, simply read our percentiles and rankings alloud. Yes, that's right, Warroad High School had managed to have a few students ranked in the top 50, and even 2 of them in the top 20. Although I thought he should have looked prouder of that. He actually had a pained look on his face when he announced that I had ranked 16th and Renae had ranked somewhere around 8th. Mr Rauvola, however, was positively giddy. He told us, after congratulating us, that we were his. That Denault had to let him choose 2 students to bring, since he taught a math class, but that when Rauvola had chosen us, he had to fight for us. Denault had insisted that I particularly was not by any means or definition a top math student.

(Feel free to act a little juvenile here, blow a raspberry and say "So there, Mr Denault!" I always do)

The thing is, Mr D isn't entirely wrong. I am good at math, I am just a lousy student. After all, I spent all my time in his class working on my physics homework, and I think I probably pulled a "D" in trig, simply because he insisted that we keep a neat and clean notebook, docked us for doodles in the margins, and I turned in all of my assignments needed to pass the class on the last possible day, in classic disheveled loose leaf Nancy form.

But that brings me back to my original point. I hate Math classes. I don't hate math. I hate being a math student. I don't hate doing math. You see, Math teachers are generally really good at math. They are really well versed in their language, and unfortunately for the rest of us, that language isn't English. It's Math. And, as any linguist, anthropologist, or sociologist will tell you, language has a direct impact on one's ability to function in society. Which statement is proved again and again by math teachers. They make their little math jokes and live in their little math world and even branch out socially in the faculty rooms of their minds. But their ability to communicate with the rest of the world is limited by their inability to function in the languages that the rest of us use. And they get excited about do math problems, rather the way I got excited about doing those physics problems, only since they don't talk normal people talk, they assume that the rest of us will be equally excited to do extra math problems. They think that doing extra math homework is like reading a good library book or listening to a symphony or running a mile or whatever it is that is your second language. And they assign those extra math problems with an enthsiasm that is NEVER equalled by their students. They really think that a few extra stem-leaf plots will enlighten everyone the way it did for them, and they talk about it in reverent tones, the way an elementary school librarian might talk about how Harry Potter changed literature for youth.

And that extra homework (really just busy work) is piled on and piled on. And the invention of the internet hasn't helped AT ALL. After all, now they can assign on-line, have it turned in on-line, and still feel obligated to assign in-class and turn it in in-class, and the busy work is actually DOUBLED even though they think they are making it easier by putting half of it on the computer, because they still assign the same amount off the computer and expect you be EXCITED about finding a misleading graph or other statistical representation in addition to calculating the average amount of time in between eruptions of Old Faithful and oh also, by the way, here is some in class stuff that will count as participation points if you finish it at home and turn it in next time but don't expect me to give that info outside of class because its not homework, even if you are doing it at home, its class participation points so that I can force you to come to class too, that way I can waste your time and control your life with ridiculous and nonsensical data ALL THE TIME (insert evil villain laugh here).

Sorry, did that last bit get a little rambl-y? It's what was running through my head for 45 minutes of "group work" during stats class yesterday, after I took 5 minutes to finish my portion of the problem and then did nothing but get more and more irritated while the person next to me tried to figure out how to calculate the median on her cell phone because she didn't know how to work her graphing calculator that looked exactly like the one that Mr Rauvola had.

I remembered why I hate math classes. Don't give me a hundred tiny mindless problems that take up my time and teach me nothing. Give me one massive equation that incorporates everything I have learned and a few things I haven't, then tell me its impossible. Don't waste my efforts on meaningless and ineffective data, ask me something that will have an application in real life and ask me to turn it every which way until we can work out an equally real solution.

I have to go write a paper on the historical and mutidisciplined definition of poverty, including an outline of the attempts our society has made to fix it and my own suggestions as to why they have failed and what we can do to improve. It's a nasty topic, I recognize that its an equation I can barely comprehend, with more variables than I have ever been faced with before. I know Mr Rauvola's calculator will be as much help to me here as it was to that girl in class yesterday. I even know that I am incapable of coming up with a solution and that any suggestions I have will probably never make it farther than the paper I write, but it makes way more sense to me that solving for x when x merely represents x.

A few key points

2009-09-14T21:07:00.000-07:00

Yeah, I haven't updated in forever and I just want you to know that the lack of updates is actually a good sign. You see, even as I type I am using the blog update excuse in order to postpone doing my stats homework. For every day gone past post-less I spent an evening doing homework.

But as long as I am avoiding stem-leaf-tree plots and dot whatever somethings and frequency I don't remember deallies, I may as well post a few highlights of the past few days.

Cereal was $1.88 a box. Not the gross generic kind either, but the good kinds, like Golden Grahams and Cheerios and Apple Jacks and Rice Krispies and, well, the list goes on.
The choir that I joined for the scholarship (remember that, $1000 tuition dollars for the year? yeah, them.) I found out this weekend we are going on a tour to Shanghai next summer. China. Seriously. 10 days. Boom Baby.
I was driving home from rehearsal and noticed that the police weren't in their usual speed trap spots. But when I drove past the gas station on state street there they all were, at least 7 of them, lights off and big sniper guns all pointed at the gas station. I drove past faster.
My boss proved herself an even bigger idiot last week. I can't write the story here, due to confidentiality issues, but lets just say she embarassed everyone around her and somehow managed to escape the realization that she should be embarassed for herself. The whole time she was giggling at her gaffe like a 13 year old I was thinking how happy I am to only be there part time.
I still have no idea how well the "pavlovian stats and milkshake" experiment is working. I still hate stats. I still love milkshakes. I force them together and there is a means to an end, that's about it.
I finally figured out that the guy who looked really familiar in choir and the guy who looked really familiar at opera rehearsal are actually the same guy. I made a new (gay) friend. I have to insert his orientation here in order to protect myself from some people jumping to an immediate romantic conclusion. But honestly people, I haven't met a single straight man in at least the past 4 years. I'm just excited about a new friend.
I am writing a research paper on health care reform. I don't have much more to say on it than that, except that there is a lot of info and I feel like I am beginning to understand it.

OK, I think that's all I've got for now. I have stats to do before bedtime, and I'm not going to get started until I make a milkshake.

Remember Pavlov?

2009-09-03T06:07:00.000-07:00

Here is my new study strategy:
I am allowed a chocolate milkshake every time (and only when) I study Statistics.

I predict one of two outcomes (and would prefer both...) Either I will begin to love statistics or I will begin to hate chocolate milkshakes.

Either I will end up smarter or skinnier. See the benefits? Of course, you see why both would be best?

How's this for a little crazy...

2009-09-03T06:02:00.000-07:00

The sixth grade "Pirate King" from when I directed Pirates of Penzance at the elementray school got his mission call, and invited me to come along to the temple when he goes on Saturday. Am I thrilled for him and his mission call and his various successes? Absolutely. Am I feeling a little disturbed at the time that has passed? Oh My Yes.

It seems like just yesterday we were drawing chest hair on him with eyeliner and teasing him about his voice cracking. We called him squeaker.

Bloggiversary?

2009-08-30T19:21:00.001-07:00

It's a ridiculous term, I know. And mine came and went and I didn't say a thing about it. I wasn't unaware of it, in fact I wondered that day and throughout that week if I should post something about the fact that a year has passed since I moved to Utah and began the blog. But it seemed such a ridiculous thing to do, not to mention how entirely illogical the construction of the word "bloggiversary"is. After all, if you are celebrating a one year annnniversary, you can hardly eliminate the "anni" which is the prefix indicating a yearly celebration. You know, for "annual". And so I ignored it. But with august coming to an end, I still feel a bit like I should acknowledge the year mark. And it still fits as well, since my first august here was still a very transitory time, I was living as a basement hobo and had yet to establish my classroom.

So lets take a brief accounting of the things that have happened in the past year. After all, on my first post I indicated that I was seeking to rediscover and reclaim the happy times I have known in my life. A year seems like a good amount of time for making progress in that goal, now doesn't it?

I found a place to live. I like the place I live. I had a roomie that I absolutely loved for most of the year, and now I have one that I could really give or take. She has some passive aggressive habits that I respond to in equally passive aggressive ways, and we will never really be friends, but she is fairly normal and she pays her rent and we stay out of each other's way. I'm fine with that.

I established a classroom. And then I realized how much I resented my job and unestablished my classroom. Now I am a nomad, wandering from room to room for an hour at a time with no real responsiblilities except holding babies and changing a few diapers. I like holding babies. It somehow feels a little more honest, though. After all, I am a glorified midget wrangler and I would rather not pour my heart and soul into something I am just going to end up resenting again. At the same time, those kids that were in my room over the past year, some of them I really like, and I will really miss them. Just not all of them.

I have returned to school. This was a goal long before the whole re-claiming happiness thing came along, so I think it was an absolute essential. Along with returning to school, I found a little more self respect that was lacking as a preschool teacher. Now if someone asks what I do, I tell them I am a student. It has a much better feel to it than the frumpy stigma that goes with preschool teacher.

I have re-established those friendships that I missed so much while I was gone. Sure we have grown and changed over the past few years, but the security that I feel in those relationships is back, regardless of how often we get a chance to visit. It really did tear at me to be gone for those years, and I began to question myself and the value that I had place on my friends, but I have learned in the past year that I was not wrong, that there are great people who affect us forever, and that we are allowed to cling a little bit to the good times that built the trust we rely on.

In the same realms of friendship, I was able to spend some quality time with my grandfather before he passed away. I can't begin to express how much that meant to me.

I am singing again. For a while there in Minnesota I had stopped. Not stopped the lessons and the working at it, but stopped loving it and stopped really singing the way I love to, except during the lessons, which actually kept me sane. But this is different. Instead of going from week to week with simply lessons and practice time, I am singing along with my cds in the car and I am humming along with my ipod, and occasionally I even catch myself singing to the kids. It's good. I missed feeling the music, and having it back is a pretty significant thing. Plus I am singing with an ensemble again, and that is something that for a while I really thought I would give up forever. I told you, I was in a pretty dark place for a while.

I am making new friends. Yeah, that stopped entirely for a while, and while I still refuse to go to certain singles events and activities established solely for the purpose of meeting a future spouse, I am starting to chat with people and enjoy the company of new people. I still prefer the old friends, but I no longer get that horrible all consuming pit in my stomach when faced with a new crowd or forced to introduce myself.

I should add that along with being willing to make new friends, I did make a very few new friends over the past year, and it's a good feeling, knowing that I wasn't entirely a lost cause socially.

I lost 40 pounds. Yup, its about the lifestyle change. No more evenings alone with a gallon of ice cream, no more sitting at a desk job, no more hiding from the world while curled up in the fetal position. I am back to the size I was before I left, and I intend to continue the trend so that I can actually be smaller than I was when I left. It's not so much a question of my happiness being dependant upon my body image, but my body image reflecting my personal happiness. And now that I am aware of that about myself, I am more prepared to cope with it if the pounds start piling on again.

I taught a really great classroom of 17-18 year old boys in sunday school. Random? yes. And I haven't mentioned it all that much, but the fact is, I loved that class, and today when I was released from teaching them I realized how much they have come to mean to me and how much they affected me over the past year. For the first few weeks of teaching my anxiety was nearly insurmountable, but they came and they listened and they asked me about me and they were my friends. They gave me a place in a ward where I knew no one. And they are really good guys and they accepted me and respected me and taught me to have a little more confidence in myself than I really was allowing. I'm going to miss them. They are moving on just like my kindergarteners, only they are moving on to college and missions. I hope I gave them something to grow on as well.

I lost a car and gained a car and found a child and received a scholarship and, well, the events of the last few weeks sort of pile in there together without me really being able to make much sense of them yet. But the bottom line is, with a little faith there is a lot better plan than the one we make up for ourselves. Seriously. And I think that's the real point to this past year. And I know I still have a long way to go before I can say I have claimed happiness the way I intend to, but the foundations are certainly moving into place. And today is as much a part of that path as tommorrow is, so I am allowed to rejoice a bit in the blessings of today. If all of eternity is a path that includes our yesterdays, todays, and tomorrows, then who is to say that we can't have bits of joy in every moment of that eternity, including the thens, the soons, and the nows. After all, i bei momenti is not only plural, but it literally refers to the blessed moments, and there certainly have been blessed moments.

Some things never change...

2009-08-30T06:30:00.000-07:00

I'm back at school this week. It's been a fascinating time for a number of reasons. My schedule suddenly shifted from just working full time to attending class for four hours, attending work for five hours, and attending rehearsal for three hours. Throw in the driving from place to place and I am leaving my house at 7:15 am and returning around 11 every night. Of course, rehearsals won't be every night now that chorus is in full swing, which will leave me a few evenings a week for homework, and frankly a few evening should be plenty. My classes are by no means difficult (although I will admit that statistics is more than a little bit daunting) and I have had a few pleasant surprises pop up as things got started. But more about that later.

It's really interesting to return to school after 8 years. It turns out that you learn a whole lot of things in 8 years about yourself and about the world around you. At the same time that you remember the way things were and the way you were the first time around, you have a bit of a perspective shift. Here are a few examples.

College professors: Remember how they knew so much and were so ready and willing to dispell all their knowledge upon you, the student who is paying to hear about their expertise and success? They still do and they still are, but it turns out, they are even more than just willing to dispell knowledge. They are also so entirely pompous that you are left with the impression that they are the only ones qualified to offer their expertise and knowledge. They stand at the front of the classroom and spout their credentials as if no one else on the planet has seen or learned as much as they have, and therefore what they have is the gospel truth. Some of these professors even go so far as to imply that every answer a student gives is wrong, and then when they have destroyed the confidence of every individual in the classroom by ridiculing and shutting down responses, they give an explanation that sounds remarkably like the second or third answer given to their question. Professors haven't changed a bit.

That First Day of Class Lecture: You know how it goes. Professor X introduces themself and spouts the aforementioned credentials, then proceeds to skim through a syllabus about the subject matter, the grading system, the papers due, the school's academic honesty policy, and then, oh then, they go into their spiel about how they are the cool professor. They talk about how people either do or don't get A's in their class, and how that makes them cool. They talk about how they want to see well thought out responses, and how that makes them cool. They talk about debate and discussion in class, and how that makes them cool. aaaand we are back to the whole pompous thing, now aren't we?

The Students: That's right folks, from SLCC to U of MN to BYU, the only thing that changes about the students is the number of piercings and tattoos you see. There is still that peanut galllery of silly girls fresh out of high school who managed to register for a class together and manage to disrupt class with giggles and whispering. There is still the pompous guy who makes comments as if he is the only person on the planet with a previous knowledge of the subject. There is still that one girl who asks the most irritating and senseless time wasting questions, with no clue as to how much she annoys the rest of the class.

Along with the students, the Student Leadership Club: You know how they set up their little tables around campus, particularly in the first week of school and they promote school spirit by handing out donuts and bowls of captain crunch and flyers for activities? They are still there, pushing their high starch breakfast foods and repeating the same lines about activities and the benefits of joining student leadership. I just hope they do the whole free hot cocoa during the first cold mornings of the year.

Bookstore ladies and admin personnel: I swear, the same old ladies who worked at U of MN moved to BYU when I did, and then they moved back to Normandale and then they moved back to Salt Lake. And somewhere in the middle there they worked at Weber State. Have you noticed that the college campus full time staff ranks swell with old ladies who look like sweet grandmas but as soon as you speak to them they are stern and disillusioned and no fun at all. Why is this? Have they really spent too many years standing at the entrance to the bookstore directing you where to go for textbook returns, or does the campus actually seek out grumpy grandmas in its recruitment process?

Slow walkers and sidewalk talkers: Everybody remembers this. It was at its worst at BYU, but it still happens everywhere. You have ten mintues between classes, and you have to run a mile across campus in order to be on time for your next class, and that is always the class where they professor only accepts assignments at the beginning of class, and in the middle of your mad dash (and I might add, the only time in your life you will actually be sprinting an 8 minute mile, because really, who runs for fun?) the person in front of you sees a long lost friend, mission companion, distant cousin, or attractive member of the opposite sex they met at a party once, and they stop. They have their precious reunion right there in the middle of your olympic trials, and then they continue to stroll together at a pace only clocked by inchworms and small tortoises. They clog up the entire walkway, causing congestion and collisions as people try to navigate around them in every direction. Freeway's have shoulders, where you pull over and deal with your issues away from traffic, should you have the same courtesy between classes?

Oh yes, some things never change. The way I deal with most of it has changed ever so slightly, only in that I am more aware of the process. I was quiet then and I will be now, I will just have a different thought process as I face each of these things. Bookstore ladies don't scare me any more, now I just think they are sad. Professors aren't the end all of knowledge, I just have to sort out the answers they want to hear. You get the idea. But there is one thing that has never changed that I will approach and conquer with a completely different attitude.

The music student hierarchy: Ah yes, this one some of you may not be as familiar with, but I had a lovely time reliving this, even at a community college. You may think that med school and law school, being professions which garner some prestige and eventually earn some admirable salary are competitive, but they are in fact nothing compared to what musicians put each other through. (My friend Jenny may be able to confirm this seeing as she has experienced both, so I will leave that to her) You see the world will use as many doctors and lawyers as it creates, and your salary may depend on your credentials, but you will always have a job. Musicians, on the other hand, know that there are only so many positions available. There are only so many slots in a choir, there are only so many books that will be published, and there are only so many recording labels and concert halls and performances that will pay, and even fewer will pay well. And somewhere in the mess of limited resources, musicians began connecting their self esteem directly to their abillity to compete in that environment. An attack at a musicians skill is an attack at who you are at the very core. A mild insult about timbre, a feigned correction of intonation these things will send the sensitive musician reeling for years! I still hold a grudge against the professor who told me he could find "no natural beauty in your voice", even if he came crawling back years later. (In fact if you want his name and the information about his "anyone can sing beautifully" singing boot camp, I will gladly give it to you with a copy of his opinion on my voice including his signature at the bottom. I'm not above discrediting the man.)

Like I said, an attack on a musician's ability is personal, and yet we hand them out quite liberally. But since I had no intention of singing with the choirs at a local community college, it wasn't really something I was planning on dealing with. Until I met a voice professor one morning. You see, he sings some of the solo roles with the Utah Opera (remember how I am in the chorus there?) and we were chatting about music and my returning to school for other things, whne he asked me if I was intending to do music while at SLCC. No. But, he told me, there are scholarship funds available. Oh. Here. Go sing for this guy (writes down phone number) and tell him I sent you. I'll let him know you are coming, and we'll see how much money he can get you. OK

So I went to sing for this guy. He was having auditions for his choirs, and all of his little community college American Idol wannabes were gathered around the doors chatting about how fabulous there are and feigning humility to each other while waiting for their turn to sing. (Do you know how a musician feigns humility? It goes something like this: "Well, I would sing that piece, but I really struggle with (pompous passage here) and he is so big on (name important musical quality here, only say it with disdain as if it is actually unnecesary to sing in tune), you know?" Then sing a few bars of it, just to demonstrate that you really could do it if you wanted to, but won't so that other people have a fighting chance at being as good as you are.

I quietly listened for a few minutes, as is customary for any newcomer to a circle of musicians, then I made the choice to be friendly but reticent. I did not opt to feign humility, I opted to avoid the subject of music entirely, they would all hear me singing a few minutes, no sense in lying to them about who I am or where I am at. I simply made friendly conversation about that girl's baby and Sarah Brightman's inabilities and what concerts were being performed around town. Some shiny little college boy showed up with his girlfriend and began bragging to everyone about how fantastic she was while she pretended to be mortified that he would be so bold, and I attempted to make friendly conversation with him as well. The problem is, if you are a straight male and a musician, you tend to be even more pompous than the average, (Sorry guys) and you tend to think that even attempts at conversation are attempts at flirting. (I will admit to knowing one exception to this rule, Bryan, simpy because he tended to be unaware of anything other than the music, right Britt?) I thought I was in the clear, since I am clearly ten years older than this guy, but apparently he felt it necessary to "put me in my place" and he snubbed me with his classic musician snub. When I attempted a friendly "oh I know someone with that last name" he simply said "Oh." and stared at me. and when I filled the silence with undaunted and mindless chatter, he did the "uncomfortable and penetrating stare" and when I stopped the chatter, he obviously turned to the person next to him and started a new conversation about how great he and his girlfriend were at singing. Luckily at that moment, the director opened the door and invited me in to sing, so I didn't have to think of a new way to be generous and kind to the arrogant little terd. (I mean, inexperienced young man. Really). No problem, I thought, now he can hear what he just snubbed.

Don't get me wrong, I know I still have a long way to go vocally, but I am not going to feign humility here. Me auditioning for a community college choir is somewhat akin to Michael Jordan playing high school basketball. (See, I can make sports analogies!). I sang a passage from Verdi's Macbeth that displayed my range, my flexibility, and some lyric moments where I really got to spin my voice and play with the power I have. Have you heard me sing? You know how in church I am loudest person in the congregation and can control the tempo over the settings of most church organs? Well generally speaking, I am holding back during congregational singing. And while I had debated holding back a little for a community college choir audition, Arrogant Terd made up my mind for me, and I did not hold back. I let loose every muscle in my abdomen, I resonated in every appropriate sinus cavity, and I spun each note as perfectly and freely as Jeanine ever taught me to (thanks Jeanine!) and there is no way that those groupies just outside the door missed a single note. In fact, since I could hear their conversations continuing as I began, I also heard their conversations stop as soon as I opened my mouth, and I relished every second of it. Really it only encouraged the diva in me.

And the director offered me a thousand dollar scholarship.

So of course I will be singing with them. Because a thousand dollars is soooo worth it.

And as I was walking out the door, the accompanist handed my score back to me and said "Thank you, it was such a pleasure to hear you sing" and my inner diva roared with delight.

And everyone outside the door, including Arrogant Terd heard that part of it too, and they were silent as I walked past them, except for one sweet girl who said "wow, you sounded so good". And I smiled at her and thanked her, and put my backpack on, and just as I turned to leave, I caught the eye of Arrogant Terd and said "perhaps you should be more careful who you snub in the future." (well, in more or less words I said that), and I walked away.

Yes, some things never change over the years. College campuses, the people who spend their lives there, and the social hierarchies that developed there, those are all the same. But me, I am not the same. And that will make all the difference.

Children I Actually Like: A day in pictures

2009-08-19T21:35:00.000-07:00

This post is mostly for family amusement purposes, you are under no obligation to Oooh and Awww over pictures of my nephews unless you absolutely want to. But that being said, if you do happen to enjoy the pictures and have a few oohs and awws for me (the spoiling spinstress aunt) and my sister (their mom and source of half their genes) then feel free to tell us how cute they are in the comments!

Most of my days are spent with children under the age of 6. Today I actually took a day off in order to do exactly that, only unpaid and with children I like. (See how it works? If I like the kids, I hang out with them for free, otherwise dig deep, I don't come cheap!)

The other thing that happens when I like the kids is we do fun things. Not only am I capable and willing to spoil children, I am also pretty good at wearing them out.

Especially when its on my territory. Would you like a crash course? Here is how to wear down even the most energetic of farm-bred boys:

Step 1:

Take them someplace wonderful and new...

Step 2: Allow them to discover new worlds... Or at least a moon.

Step 2.5: Find out how much you would weigh on said planets and moons.

Step 3: Buy them Ice Cream

(Even the littlest one)

Step 4: Take time for transportation. A LOT of time for transportation, so that you can pause at every distraction along the way.

After all, every kid needs a change to fly a rocket,

... Or drive an ice cream truckAnd carry some extra refreshment along.

Because pretty soon you will be boarding a train...

Step 5: Find some cool places to hide

And Check out some books while you are at it. Are you getting sleepy yet?

'Cause we are...Now all there is left to do is wait for the train,
Ride back to your car,
and give in to the sleep.

Would you like to hear the story...

2009-08-15T16:59:00.000-07:00

...of a very long week?

Read on.

Last Saturday morning I woke up in a state of mild despair. I had laundry to do, but no way to transport my clothes to a laundromat. I had grocery shopping to do, and while walking with a few boxes of cereal and a package of ramen had worked in the past, I didn't much feel like carrying a gallon of milk and a large amount of groceries on the bus. I had to go to the bank to pay some bills and resolve the issue of the one penny that I was off on last month's bills, but the bank was the opposite direction from the grocery store that I like to shop at. I moped and whined for most of the morning, but soon came to realize that life wasn't going to happen without some effort on my part. I realized when I finally resolved to just go grocery shopping (at the one by the bank) and deal with carrying the milk that these questions were going to come up again and again as I continued on my car-less journey. I spoke with a friend who gently suggested to me that perhaps I should consider actually buying a car. I abruptly told him it was an impossibility and that I couldn't even be tempted with the thought, but the thought still nagged at me even after the conversation was over. This is ridiculous I would tell myself, there is no way to even begin considering it. And I ran to catch the bus that takes me to the grocery store and bank.

Gallons of orange juice were on sale, and I do so love orange juice, so I bought one of those too. After all, as long as I had to lug along the gallon of milk...

One of the bank ladies was really nice and funny. One of them was totally snooty. I focused on the big glass of orange juice I was going to have as soon as I got home.

I caught the bus back, and as I was walking up the 2 blocks back to the alleyway that cuts into my neighborhood, I noticed an unusual thing. The traffic was swerving around what looked like a tiny child in the street. I didn't think it could actually be a tiny child, because who would just swerve around a kid in the street?

Turns out, it was a tiny child standing alone in the street and there are people on this planet that would just swerve around him and drive on. When I got up there, quite a few cars had simply driven past him, and he was standing all alone in the street screaming for his mommy in the most frightened and heart wrenching sob I have ever heard. I convinced him to join me on the side of the road and began asking him his name, or wher ehis home was, or where his mommy was. He couldn't have been two years old yet, and he wasn't wearing a diaper, just shorts, and he was soaked in urine, and he couldn't tell me his name or anything at all except "mommy", "daddy", "yes", and "no".

We knocked on a few doors around there, but nobody was home. On eof the neighbors finally drove up and said they didn't recognize him at all, so I call the police and we sat down in the dirt to wait for an officer to come and collect him. He recognized the cheerios in my grocery bag, so we enjoyed a snack while he babbled to me incoherently about the owies on his knees and the trees. When the officer finally collected him, hhe clung to me and I nearly cried at the thought of where he would go next.

I got home and decided I needed some practice time in order to recover from that emotional ordeal, so I packed up my organ books in my backpack and started to walk over to the church building. Just after I got there, Ann Marie texted and wondered if she might come by for a visit, and I decided I wanted to tdo that more, so I turned around to head back home. That's when the bishop's wife saw me.

She asked me why I was still walking and I told her about dead mathilda and taking the bus for the next long while, and she was horrified and appalled. Another member of the ward happened past at that moment, and Bishop's Wife asked Other Lady if she knew anyone that had a good car for cheap that I could buy. I tried to protest, but Other Lady responded quickly that she did know someone that worked with her husband in their mechanics shop who was trying to sell a nice little mazda for way cheap. She was so thrilled to have the opportunity to put her less active husband in a position to help someone in the ward that I could hardly say no to a test drive. We arranged for me to meet her husband at church the next day (which to her meant that he would actually come) and she arranged for a test drive on monday night.

By the time I got back to my house, Ann Marie was waiting for me and we had a lovely chat and some cafe rio in order to round out my improving attitude. Back to my house, I checked my mail and found statements from my 401k/ira companies about some policy blah blah blah and this that and the other. I browsed them and started to throw them away when a thought suddenly occured to me. I had exactly the amount of money in those funds that I would need in order to buy the car.

Of course, it would take weeks to actually procure the money, and who knows how much in taxes or if I would even be allowed to take it. Silly Nancy, quit daydreaming and shine up that bus pass.

Sunday came along and I met Other Lady's husband and he was so nice and a little stern in that grandfatherly sort of way. He told me that his friend would hold the car for me, but that I had better be honest and up front with them, because he already had other calls on it. I thought about that retirement money again and allowed myself to imagine the possibilities. Bishops wife noticed me talking to Car Man and asked me if I was going to buy it, I told her I still had some financial concerns but was seriously considering it. She dragged her husband over and informed him that he was going to have to help me make sure this happened. I reassured him that I was not going to come to the church looking for funding for a car, and that I was happy to keep my problems to myself. He simply smiled, said nothing, and went to start the meetings.

Monday morning, I have to admit, waiting at the bus stop, I thought more about the car thing and how I would kindly tell the nice car men that I simply couldn't afford to buy a car. I should call those retirement money places and get my excuses from them, I thought. So I did. And the nice lady at one place said to me "well since you are a full time student we can cut you the check today and it will be in the mail tomorrow. as a student you won't have to be paying any taxes on it since your income won't be high enough this year".

And I said "Do it".

Crazy.

I called the next place, and the nice lady there gave me a lecture about paperwork and faxing things and documentation of my student status and complicated, anxiety ridden instructions. She said she would send it all to me in an email.

See, I knew it was crazy.

I worked, and I found myself getting off of work early. I decided to finish off the Mathilda issue. She was still sitting in the lot at the shop and I had told the guys there that I was going to donate her, but in reality had not moved forward at all. I called a wrecker place about donation, and on a whim asked them how much they would pay for her. I called a whole bunch of wrecker places, and gradually upped the price. By the time I got off work and over to the shop that was Mathilda's resting place, I had gotten just enough money out of the deal to cut a few losses and turn a small profit. Small, but enough to make the other car a little more of a possibility.

I went home and waited for car guys to show up for the test drive. As soon as they pulled up, I liked the car. It was red and sort of peppy and cute. Older than Mathilda, but smaller and somehow a little cheerful. (My therapist friends think it is unhealthy for me to assign human names and emotions to cars, they think I get too attached. Whatever)

Before we even test drove the car I told car guys that it would take a few days for me to get together the money to do this. See how I was being up front with them?

They said if I wanted it I could put down a deposit and they would hold it til saturday.

I wanted it.

On Tuesday I read through the email about getting the rest of my money with the complicated paperwork. I looked in my bag and low and behold I had all the paperwork in a folder full of student-y type documents. No harm in faxing it, right? Sure it would take 7-10 business days for them to review my reqest and then 5 days to cut a check and then however long after that to mail it to me, but what the hay.

I called them an hour after I faxed the paperwork in order to double check that it had arrived safely. The lady couldn't find my paperwork, so she revied my file in the system. It turns out she couldn't find the papers because they had already been reviewed, approved, and a check was being cut for me at the colse of that day's market.

Seriously? When does "7-10 business days" become "an hour"? THAT NEVER HAPPENS.

I paid my deposit on the car.

I also went over to the church building that night in order to rehearse and record an audition cd for yet another big audition. Then I was more than a little bit exhausted, so I laid out a blanket on my back lawn and fell asleep until my phone alarm wake me up for the meteor shower.

I made a wish on a few falling stars before going to bed in my actual bed.

Weds I took a large group of children to the zoo. See the previous post. I also got off work early enough to go to the campus bookstore and look up text book prices.

!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I forgot what it was like to drop $150 on a book you don't really want to read.

I also finished turning in all the paperwork proving that I am in fact a Utah resident. They wanted me to pay out of state tuition. Crazy.

Thursday morning I finally completed the audition packet with the previously recorded cd. I mailed it. I worked, I missed my bus, I got home and went straight over to Greg's house to help him with his outfit for bingo night. (FYI- Greg's stage name is Tracy. You see what I am saying?)

Friday. Crunch time. I needed those checks to arrive and I needed to call people and to make decisions and ....

yikes.

My boss stopped by my classroom to talk to me about fall schedules. She has me working 30 hours a week, and she wants me there by 1130 in the mornings. That would be an impossibility without a car, but I told her I had one and was ready to go with that schedule. It means I get to keep health benefits, and if I can't do that I may as well quit anyways. Risky. I made a promise and I had no idea if I could keep it. But honestly, if things could fall together this way, well then that would be the best way.

I was tearing my hair out wondering if this would all come together, meanwhile I was pretending to everyone who didn't really care that I had it all together. Its not a great place to be emotionally.

Greg and Kyle and I went to bingo after I got off work. It was fun, it was silliness, I felt famous since greg looked so fabulous in his outfit, everyone wanted a picture with him.

Whe I got home, I frantically searched for the mail. my roommate had stuck today's mail UNDER the collection of this month's paid utility bills. Who does that? Don't you put the new mail on top? I'm not sure if she thought she was sending a message, and if she was, I'm even more unclear as to what the message would be. But Minnesota passive-aggressive habits do tend to make me suspicious. Maybe she really is someone that just puts the new mail on the bottom of the pile.

THERE THEY WERE!

Checks. My retirement become car fund.

When I woke up this morning it was cold and rainy. When is it ever cold and rainy in Utah in August? I've never seen it in all my 13 Utah Augusts. Oh well. I had to walk to the bank. It is a bit more than a mile, but I had a new umbrella (thanks Ally!) and money, and I knew that it would be my last ridiculously long walk in the rain. And after I got money things taken care of, I caught a bus down to the Car Guys shop and I bought a car.

Her name is Jenny. And yes, I am attached emotionally. Because I know what it means to walk in the rain and to take the bus and to carry gallons home from the grocery store and, well...

I'm going to the gorcery store tonight, and then I am going to do some laundry.

And I think that I might just sleep really well tonight.

After all, we all know who gets the credit for things coming together this nicely. I couldn't have done it better.

This isn't worth your time...

2009-08-13T11:47:00.000-07:00

(I can't even tell which kid this is, so I think I can totally post it here, because its just a darn cute picture!)

Well, maybe it is. I'm not posting any sort of an update, since I currently have too many proverbial juggling objects currently suspended over my head, which would contradict the laws of gravity, were it not for the fact that they are proverbial. But it doesn't change the potential that at any given moment one or more of them would come crashing down onto my head, crushing me emotionally or at least causing some amount of neck damage. And I don't like chiropractors.

But I am posting some pictures I took at the zoo yesterday!

Random?

OK, I'll give that to you. But I have always heard from other out-of-towners (say that part with a MN accent) that the zoo here isn't all that great. And while there is a special place in my heart for the Minnesota and Oakland zoos, I have to say that this zoo is pretty good. I thought it was my first time there, but in a few of the spots I had some odd and vague memories resurface, so at some point on one of the many family pilgrimages to Utah in my childhood, we must have visited the Hogle Zoo.

So yesterday I took my class on their final field trip of the summer. We have gone on one per week for the past 14 weeks, and we have seen and done all sorts of fun things, and I am really done with taking groups of 15-20 kindergarten age children out in public. But at the same time, I am now pretty well versed in Salt Lake area activities for kids.

The zoo is one that I would recommend. Especially with all their little babies born in the past few months.

Like the itty bitty giraffe!

And the teeny tiny meerkats!

Of course, Its not just baby animals that were oh so fun to see!

There was a ferocious tiger... giving himelf a bath...

(You try explaining to kindergarteners why the kitty is licking his bum... I just love to see GIANT cats acting just like house cats)

And there was a not-so-cuddly Rhino who came up close to us when the kids were all yelling at him...

(I think he could smell that one kid... you know the one.)

And the bears were actually being active. This one reminded me of the bear that used to eat out of our garbage cans in Warroad (but I'm sure its a totally different species, this is just how I would imagine them when I could hear them at night outside the window.)

Of course, my usual favorites weren't active in the least, since it was entirely too hot for them

I've never seen a sadder group of arctic avians. Even if it was only a mild August day in Utah, they were positively lethargic.

Then again, as the day went on, many of the zoo inhabitants were getting lethargic...

(I think this is called a black footed sand cat or something. Whatever. Fully grown it still looked like a leopard kitten, and I want one!)

Because after all, who wants one of these wandering around their yard:

OK, so maybe that would be fun. At least it would keep away stray cats and unwanted neighbors.

Of course, so would this guy:

But they might also frighten away visitors that you do want to see. Like that baby meerkat one more time. (I seriously couldn't get enough of these little guys)

3 quotes

2009-08-07T12:14:00.000-07:00

Here's a quick post that I am going to count as an update.

3 things I have heard from parents in my classroom recently:

1. Parent: (surprised tone when they found out that I have a bachelors degree and am heading back to school for a Masters) "Oh! I didn't realize you were a real teacher!"

Me: (in a thought bubble) well what the H do you think I have been doing with your child for the past year? They didn't learn to read on their own, and you certianly didn't teach them anything...

I just walked away from that one.

2. Parent to another child (not their own): "What school are you going to for kindergarten next year?"

Child: (responds with name of school)

Parent: "Oh. Well I suppose that's a really good public school..."

I had to just walk away from that one too.

3. Parent looking at science book with group of kids: "those bugs are called lice! They live in people's hair and bite their heads!"

Kids: EEEEEEEEEEW!!!!!!

Parent (in a matter of fact tone): "Well, you guys don't ever have to worry about them, because that only happens to poor people."

I actually had to leave the room for that one.

The thing is, its not just one person. These are three different parents of three different ill-behaved and overly-entitled children. I wish I could be shocked and appalled at just one person having an attitude like this, but it is an overwhelming majority of them!

More or less complicated...

2009-08-01T14:25:00.001-07:00

Yes, my car is dead. The repairs would cost more than she's worth, and so I am moving forward without her. You would think that something like this would ruin all of my plans for returning to school and force back to work full time in order to get a new car and be responsible and all that stuff. But the thing is, it might be easier to do school with a bus pass, and a bus pass is free if I am attending school. And while I couldn't stay at the same job, working part time, since i could never get between the two places fast enough, I wanted a new job anyways. Why not work closer to the school? And while I am having to switch jobs and switch tracks in life, I am even more worried about money, but without a car, I no longer have to pay insurance and maintenance, which isn't a ton more money, but maybe its enough so that I can afford milk and ceral and mashed potatoes. And while it will take that much more time and effort to be taking a bus and carpooling with a friend, it will also mean that much more excercise and weight lost (5 lbs, just this week). And while I don't quite know how I will do things like laundry and grocery shopping, I do know that there are people willing to pitch in and help me out. (The Corvair that I have been driving this week, for example, is at my disposal for a little while). And while we are on the subject of the Corvair, let me briefly take a tangent and ask what is it with boys and cars? I mean, if I'm cute enough to pick up on in the car, why was I never cute enough before the car? Or is it just the car? In which case, I don't want the attention.

The bottom line is, I am not getting a new car, and I am going to find a way to move forward anyways. This next month of transition will be the hardest part. Then I will find a routine, a groove as it were, and nobody can throw me out of my groove. But my biggest concern about this decision, the biggest fear I have and the biggest reason I keep going back to the possibility of getting a car is this: I have so many friends to the north and to the south that I used to visit using my car. How am I ever going to continue playing with everyone that I love and want to play with? Will you still love me when I can't come to parties or drive ins or nertz night? Will you promise to come visit me when you are in my town? I need reassurance!

(...and I promise cookie dough or at least yummy food to anyone who does feel inclined to come visit. My door is always open. Or at least my window is.)

If you can't say anything nice...

2009-07-26T09:18:00.000-07:00

Yeah, I know I haven't really updated lately. And it's not because I don't have anything nice to say, its just that the nice things I do have to say are all related to my efforts to move forward, and since none of them have really come together yet, I didn't have anything nice that I could say. Plus, I have been putting a whole lot of time and effort into the plan, and that limits what I can devote to blog posting as well as what I can devote to having something worth posting.

Am I rambling yet? Are you keeping up?

I hope so, because here in the middle of the muddled mess is where I may reveal more about my plans. So here i am going to throw together some random events over the last few days. Make of it all what you will. I still haven't made sense of all of it.

My poor Mathilda overheated on the freeway on Friday. She had smoke coming out of her hood and had to be towed to a shop where she sits forlornly in the parking lot, waiting for them to have a look at her on Monday. The thing is, radiator issues combined with the 100+ heat at noon on Friday make me worry that the engine has seized. I am trying to plan for worst case scenario.

While walking to the grocery store last night, I saw a semi make a U-turn in the middle of my tiny residential street. It was fascinating. I kid you not, I stopped and watched. They did it in about 90 seconds, stopping to back up once in the entire turn. My car doesn't even turn that well. (And she didn't before she died on the freeway either)

At work they are re-arranging classroom assignments for the fall and my boss needs to know what my plans are so she will know where she can place me in a classroom. Since my plan at that point was extremely unstable, she simply placed me in a "classroom float" position, meaning I will not have my own class, but will go from room to room offering prep time and lunch breaks to people. One hour in each classroom every day, a nomad. I hated when I did it before, but right now I am so burnt out from lesson plans and portfolios that I am actually looking forward to it.

The float position has the option of going part time. Which would greatly ease my schedule in order to return to school.

I also have job interviews lined up at the local community college. Where I will be attending in the fall. Of course, if those come together, then I get to quit my current job.

While Mathilda is in the shop, my friend Greg has offered me the use of his car. (He currently isn't allowed to drive due to some, uhhhh... legal issues.) It's not the most reliable car, seeing as its a few years old. Well more than a few years. It's a '62 corvair. That's right. Classic. And oh so cute. So what if it doesn't start all the time?

The kids in my class are starting to leave for kindergarten. Their fancy private schools start a bit earlier and some of them are going on one last trip to Hawaii before the school year starts. (Is it fair that 4 year olds have seen more of the world than me? No, I don't think so) Anyways, some of my favorites are already leaving, and its just a little heartbreaking. Of course, some of the most frustrating children will be here up until the very last day possible, but if all goes according to plan, I won't be there, so I'm not going to complain about that too much.

There you have it. Did you catch the tidbits? Was it too tid-bitty?

Well then here it is in its whole. I am returning to school in the fall as a full time student. I am currently registered for 20 credit hours (with the flexibility to pare it down to 16) and will be working part time as well. And I plan to continue with the Utah Opera. I will have to if I am going to pay rent. I am going to Salt Lake Community College in order to take the pre-requisites I need in order to get into a Master's Program. I am going to become a full time student again, and will remain that way for 3 years (if all goes according to plan). I have done the math, and I won't be able to afford food or clothes for the next 3 years, but should manage to make rent and utilities just fine. And if my car is really dead, then I will have to do it car-less. And if my car isn't dead, I will probably do it mostly car-less anyways, since gas money usually comes out of the food budget. (Those plans are still hanging in the balance, although Ann Marie and I do have a sort of a plan...) I am not going into a music program, and won't actually divulge program information until I am accepted into one. Not because I feel like stubbornly holding out on information, but because I hate telling people when I have failed at something, and so I still prefer to pretend as if nothing happened until success has happened. And by the way, if you compare my class schedule to the list of classes I want to take someday, you will find that not a single one of them is on the list. Sad. But somehow I am still excited about it.

I assure you, this all makes sense in my mind, even i it doesn't make sense when I write it down or explain it to people. Which is the opposite of how I usually function.

And while I apologize for the boring quality of this post, I don't apologize for its disorganized state. Because without all the pieces, it's just not going to fit together yet, but that won't stop me from moving forward, since the only other option is to stay put and stay miserable. There is no gain without risk, and there is no joy in mediocrity.

This is random:

2009-07-18T20:53:00.001-07:00

But I really like my camera... This cute little escargot was at Red Butte Gardens when I took my class there for a field trip. I got this picture before a 5 year old girl snatched him up and shoved him in the boys faces, causing them to run away 'cause she was grossing them out. (I love that the girls in my class are the ones unafraid of worms and slime and creepy things. The boys had an extensive discussion at breakfast the next morning about how girls like gross things that boys thought were too icky.)

I was curious as to whether my camera would actually capture the bumble bee.... happy day I got bee and flower. I wish I didn't have to crop out the sweet little girl that was standing next to it smelling it in the picture, because it turned out really cute, but privacy issuues, you know.

The weeds in my backyard have grown to be over 8 feet high. We keep our lawn mowed but the garden behind our lawn area is unmaintained and jungle like. (Seriously, ask Ally, she saw them last week, and Orrin said something about needing a machete to navigate the garden) I would love to actually plant a garden, given time. But in the meanwhile. the flowers that grow on 6 foot thistle plants are actually quite pretty. (I'm thinking at this point it would be fun to actually cultivate them into trees, bonsai style)

True Story...

2009-07-16T21:54:00.000-07:00

So let's say a Psychiatrist and a Pharmacist have a child, let's call her "Princess". (That sounds like the beginning of a joke, doesn't it? come up with a punch line...) And she is loved and spoiled and a fairly well-adjusted child, but she really doesn't handle pain very well. Not emotional or physical. In fact, while she is never at the center of any of the social posturing or cliquish nastiness that goes on, she feels all of the emotion of it pretty deeply, and has been known to sob uncontrollably when one of her friends gets their feelings hurt. So imagine how much worse it is if she gets her feelings hurt. And even worse than that, imagine when she actually feels physical pain! And its possible that right now she is, as many children her age do, going through a growth spurt. One of those that makes your bones ache a little because your body can hardly keep up with the growing it is doing. (Do you remember those? They may have been years ago, but there was some ache that came with growing) And that sweet sensitive princess can hardly stand it when there is a little ache here or perhaps a twitch there. And she does tend to feel things more with her sweet heart than any child I have ever known. So when her bones start to ache a little I have learned as many teachers and parents do that a bandaid, despite the absence of an abrasion, will cure many ills. And when Daddy came to collect his Princess, she proudly showed him the bandaid that cured her growing pains, and the teacher sheepishly stood aside and made a joke about the placebo affect, hoping that Dr Parents wouldn't be entirely offended by such ingenuity. And Daddy said oh so sincerely "Yes, we'll have to take some medicine for that tonight. Princess has a prescription for obecalp at home, don't you Princess?"

"Yes, it's yummy! It looks like water and it tastes like water, so its not yucky like some medicine. But it makes me feel better!"

And they left. And teacher laughed and laughed and laughed. Because I do know what obecalp is (spelled backwards) and it's nice to know that even smart doctor-y type people with healthy normal well-adjusted children use the same tricks of the trade. Sometimes I worry about the kids in this classroom. But this one, I'm sure she will be just fine.

It has been requested....

2009-07-13T18:26:00.000-07:00

...that I regale you all with an update of my life. There are still many things in motion that have not quite solidified enough for me to want to share details. But I can tell you about the conclusions I have come to!

You may have heard it said that insanity is doing the same things over and over again and expecting different results. I am no longer going to participate in the insanity.

I took an "assesment" test this evening. It was one of those computerized tests that gives you questions in increasing difficulty according to your answer to the previous question. It is supposed to assess college level skills. I aced the reading comprehension. 100%. I aced the writing portion. 100%. I aced the math skills section. 100%. I remembered how to factor polynomials in the basic algebra section. Not 100%, but decent enough. Then I started this section called "college algebra". Eeep. There were these symbols that reminded me vaguely of something I saw in a textbook a lifetime ago. Seriously, I took college algebra in 1994. People are taking college algebra now who weren't even conceived in 1994. There was a time in my life when I knew how to identify the function of f. There was a time in my life when I knew how to calculate sin and cosin, and I at least knew what tangent meant. Of course, the only reason I could figure out the hypotenus was because of that joke my dad used to tell.

See, there was this Indian Chief, and he had 3 squaws in his tribe that were all going to have babies. He went hunting to find hides as gifts for each squaw. The first squaw had a beautiful baby boy, and he presented her with the hide of a bear. The second squaw had a beautiful baby boy, and he presented her with the hide of a deer. The third squaw had twins, two boys, and the chief presented her with the most rare hide he could find. The hide of a hippopotamus. And so you see, the sons of the squaws of the other two hides were equal to the sons of the squaw of the hippopotamus.

And with that, I really hope I don't have to retake college algebra.

That's all the info you get for now, let it stew for a while, and by the time you figure things out, I will figure things out too.

J... M : My own tribute to a dead musician.

2009-07-13T17:32:00.000-07:00

The press has been a-buzz with stories of a musician who somehow impacted the world enough to justify his story overshadowing things like North Korea launching missiles and supreme court justice selection. Blog entries have been written, facebook status' have been declarative, and I have hesitated to say anything because frankly, anything I could come up with to say about the current event would be insesitive. Perhaps now enough time has passed, the event is no longer current, I have properly mourned and will move forward appropriately honoring a musician who impacted me.

He was born into a family of musicians, and considered a child prodigy. His siblings were all proficient as well, and the family moved around a bit in order to accomodate their musical lifestyle. They were wealthy, not like many tortured and struggling musicians, and saw success early on as musicians in spite of living in a society that was rampant with racism against them. He was instrumental (excuse the pun, it is most reverently intended) in helping his sister to become a legitimate artist as well, even publishing her works in his name since women were not considered legitimate composers in the 1800s

And while he has been dead for 112 years, he was born 200 years ago February, yet no one seems to be celebrating him the way we have celebrated other musicians that impact our lives. Beethoven got all sorts of parties and concerts. Mozart got a movie. I've even heard a few "Elegies to Elgar" (musician joke, couldn't resist, but trust me, its funny.)

Of course, most people are only aware of his first given name, Felix, but Mendelssohn changed his name to Jakob Ludvig Bartholdy when his family converted from Judaism to Christianity. He still signed everything as Mendessohn though. I have always wondered, in fact about that proclaimed conversion, since he refused to publish with the name his father chose as their family's Christian name, and his famous Oratorio is centered around a prophet much more revered by Judaism than Christianity. Some scholars claim that the conversion was merely a publicity stunt, in order to garner more support from an anti-semitic society, but I believe his conversion was honest, he simply recognized the significance of his own heritage within that conversion. I really want to ask him about all that someday.

So here's my tribute to a great musician, the king of the song form, the genius behind the most moving violin concerto ever written, the mind behind the wedding march, and the musician who speaks most to my heart. Jakob Ludvig Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy, there aren't that many musicians that inspire me to learn a new instrument and spend hours practicing just for the sake of spending more time with them and the things of their heart. Your songs gave me a reason to learn the piano, and I am better for it. I love you man.

Waltzing Mathilda: Reprise

2009-07-03T19:43:00.000-07:00

I consider myself a not so dumb girl. When it comes to cars, I can usually manage and logic through things. I mean, I'm no "Handsome Tom", but I can change my own oil, tell you how a transmission works (automatic vs manual) describe what an alternator does, and diagnose a few ailments based on past experience and basic physics. My dad made sure his daughters were at least competent in maintenance practices. That is to say, he taught us to recognize brake squeaks and where to pour the various fluids when things were running low. If we acted interested or in need, he even showed us how to replace brake pads and discs and how to put water in the battery. I may be the only one of his daughters that took him up on that extra stuff, but it's good stuff to know for a couple of reasons. First, there is actually less panic when something goes wrong with your car and you have an inkling of what it might be. Second, it's easier to look smart in front of mechanics who like to take advantage of dumb girls. Third, it's easier to flirt and keep up with the boys in a car conversation. Most of all, I like to think it helped build at least a little of a relationship with my dad.

So the current radiator issues shouldn't be a super big deal, right? I mean, first of all, I know its the radiator without having to ask a soul. Second, I know how to fill the reservoir so that I can keep driving safely without destroying my engine while I save up for the $600 repair that it will probably be. (I'm thinking its the pump, but there is a slow leak somewhere in the system that only leaks when I drive) I know that I'm not destroying the engine because I recently replaced the thermostat and its in good working condition, allowing me to monitor engine heat and blah blah blah car crap talk.

Of course, Independant Nancy (one of my many personalities) won't ask anyone for help or even an opinion on it until she is good and ready to, and since I don't currently have any questions that I can't answer myself, I don't have any plans to ask for help.

Today, among my many "Day Off" tasks was to purchase more radiator fluid and do some maintenance and investigation. I filled the reservoir, I ran the car for a few minutes, then I let it sit for a while, in order to investigate if the leak was happening while parked. Nope. So my next task was to drive for a block or two in order to check just how much it was leaking while driving. I waited until dinner time and made a run to the Wendy's on the corner for some 99cent chicken nuggets. I returned home and popped the hood to check out the levels of fluid. Seriously, two blocks, and I could see nothing in the reservoir. Perhaps time to panic?

Who takes over in Nancy's brain at a moment like this? Does Independant Nancy team up with a voice of reason and pause to consider things? Does Sane Nancy meet up with cynic in order to formulate how much repairs will cost? Does Spiritual Nancy say a prayer while SuzyUtah calls her home teachers to ask them to come bless the car? Nope.

From nowhere, Dumb Girl pops her head out, reaches out her hand and takes the radiator cap off.

SPLOOSH!

It was my Fourth of July Fireworks in flourescent orange liquid, all over my driveway. Because two blocks of driving in 85 degree heat is in fact enough to make your car's radiator fluid boil. Which is also why I couldn't see any in the reservoir. Because it was boiling. And then it was spewing out all over. And the neighbor guys across the street were, I'm sure thoroughly enjoying my dumb girl moment.

Whatever. All I could think at this point was if there is that much stuff still in there, then the leak can't be too bad!

And instead of being mortified by my moment of stupidity, I was relieved. Now haven't I grown as a person?

PS. Jessica, Tom is absolutely not allowed to read this post.

PPS. Contributions to the "Fix Mathilda's Radiator" fund should be made out to Nancy.

PPPS. I don't think dad should be allowed to read this one either, but I feel safe that he won't.

PPPPS. So maybe I am a little mortified.

PPPPPS. I just wanted to see how many Post Post Scripts I could add.

Waltzing Mathilda

2009-07-03T15:55:00.000-07:00

(That's my car. Her name is Mathilda because she is crazy smart- think Roald Dahl- and because of my driving)

Those of you who have met my car may know a few shameful facts about me. First is that my driving skills are... questionable. I do a pretty decent job, but I get anxious if someone is hanging out in my blind spot (seriously, why do people do that?) and I panic if I have to drive too close to any barriers (slabs of cement capable of scraping me and my car to bits) and I tend to have a bit of a lead foot. Also, I get emotionally involved with other cars on the road. I wonder who they are and how they are doing and where they are going and when they are being stupid I get upset with them and sometimes set them up for failure (like purposefully making them slow down to a frustrating pace, tapping my brakes at people that tailgate, and then letting them zoom past me as soon as I spot a cop, so they get a ticket while I glide past). And also, because Minnesota and Utah driving skills are possibly the two most incompatible collection of lousy driving habits, I have multiple driving personality disorder. Sometimes I change lanes like a Utahan, abruptly and authoritatively taking command of where I want to be with little regard for any other cars on the road, and sometimes my lane changes take on a rural Minnesotan flavor, lazily wandering across the lane for a few minutes, as if indecisive of where I am going to or coming from, finally ending up casually landing in one lane again with little regard for the needs of anyone else on the road. This is a particularly dangerous habit if I forget I am on I-15.

Along with the driving skills gained from taking drivers ed and the test with a drunken instructor in rural Northern Minnesota, I have a few other car habits that I am working on improving. One of them is born purely of the hectic life I tend to lead. I take on more projects than a schedule can reasonable allow, and my car collects the evidence. It reflects my lifestyle and state of mind at the same time. For example, it may be filled with costumes and books while I am running from work to rehearsal. It may be filled with shoes if I am feeling frumpy and in need of frequent comfort-shoe days. It may be filled with paperwork and unopened mail if I am trying to sort out some new project. For a while in Minnesota it had a box of children's books in need of repair and countless Seminary visual aids and lesson plans. For another while it was filled with clothing changes and music books. I was frantically auditioning for every show I could find. For a few weeks here, it simply had lamps and candles and dishes. I was helping Maurine move and she tended to hand off all the stuff that her new place couldn't take.

You see, I only get opportunity plus energy to deal with my car every so often. I work all day every day and by the time the weekend rolls around, I have grocery shopping and house cleaning and laundry and only a small window for time with friends. Keeping my backseat clean takes a backseat to important things. Until I actually get a day off.

Like today. I get Friday off and pretend it is a Saturday, so that on Saturday I can actually play, guilt free, all day long! Who is so excited for that?! I got up extra early and did my laundry and my grocery shopping and various and sundry errands and cleaned the bathroom and tidied the living room and scrubbed the kitchen and then came Mathilda.

It didn't take very long, and I am not going to list all the things I took out of the car. That would reflect my state of mind for the past 6 months. Instead I am going to list for you the things that are still in my car, because it should reflect my current state of mind.

the Scrabble Game from Grandpa's house is still in my backseat. I don't play it at home, and its too important to have it on hand in case anyone does want to play.
3 spoons, ready for the next ice cream craving
4 window scrapers, in the trunk, all various size and usefulness. Some work better for snow, some work better for ice.
Bag with Organ books and shoes. (I don't have an organ at home, why would I take them in?)
box of candy canes. (what the heck am I supposed to do with candy canes in July?)
Box of cassette tapes. (mostly recorded from the radio in the early 90's)
3 hairbrushes. (I also have 3 in my bathroom. It's important to have them on hand)
Lotion (witch hazel based, from france)
8 walnuts and a pingpong ball. Also from Grandpa. Can't really explain why I would rather they just stay put.
4 unopened cds of christmas music (mindless orchestrations from generic ensembles and composers) also because I'm not sure what else to do with them
a "Greatest hits of Madonna" cd, on which I don't recognize a single song.
The David Hasselhoff album. Jealous?
Grandma's cookie jar, that she kept the scrabble tiles in
a red heart from a student that says "you are my sweetheart" in 4-year old scrawl
A cat in the hat doll and a purple bird girl necklace.
a refrigerator magnet with "Spike" on it.
Wrapping paper and scotch tape. (these things come in more useful than you could possibly imagine)
Two empty water bottles and a half a gallon of radiator fluid (I need to save up for this next repair)
Dental Floss (Also more useful than you might imagine)
4 decks of playing cards and two poker chips
tweezers and nailclippers
Box of Kleenex
Straw Hat for hiking and sunny days
A map of Kirtland Ohio, Palmyra New York, Niagara Falls, and a generic Atlas of the US
Eyeshadow, Mascara, and a shade of lipstick called "Demure"
Two pairs of shoes (one black, one brown, just in case)
Zupas frequent buyer card
Cafe Rio frequent buyer card
Vase
Puzzle of a picture of the world (24 piece, need to bring it to school)
Music Notebook
Dressmaker forms
Christmas tin
Two sets of old lisence plates, one set Minnesota, one set Utah

I'm not really sure what all this means, why this is the particular set of odds and ends I feel the need to tote around with me. Draw your own conclusions, and let me know if you come up with a better explanation than this: I'm not sure what life is about to hand me, but whatever it is, I will be ready for it.

Shouldn't there be some sort of a reality TV show where people have to perform ridiculous tasks using only the items in their car? Mathilda and I could so win that...

What greater goodness can we know than Christlike friends whose gentle ways strengthen our faith?

2009-06-27T12:10:00.000-07:00

It's technically a question. Which has always amused me since in the hymnbook it is punctuated with a period. But the construction is fairly complex, so I suppose I can forgive the oversight. You should already know how obsessed I am with the hymns, don't be surprised that I have spent time pondering the punctuation of a verse. And while we are at it, please notice that I am getting comfortable enough with this blogging thing to bore you more frequently with my hymn obsession. First you got lectured on Amazing Grace, now if you would all kindly open your green scriptures to hymn number 293... Someday you may even get lectures on my very favorite verses and passages, but this is the one that came up today.

No, its not my favorite hymn. I don't dislike it, its just not really in my top 25, partly due to the complex grammar construction, that makes it so that I wonder if those that get all teary over it are really aware of the text. There are a whole bunch of great and emotional phrases in it, but the real meat of it, the real substance of the text is often entirely overlooked.

I wish I could actually graph it out on the blog, but lets take apart the text of that second verse for a moment. "What greater gift doest Thou bestow" is a question, but since the thought is not complete we are postponing the punctuation with a comma. "What greater goodness can we know" is another question, but it is continued with the qualifying "Than". You see, language is really just math. (Or I suppose if you want, math is really just language. Whichever helps you to comprehend better). The bottom line is, if you shave down all the extras, the question asked is "What is greater than?" So it is a question. and a profound one at that. What is a greater gift than friendships that strengthen and enrich us? And perhaps since the author intended to convey that the answer is "nothing is greater" I can see why the statement is punctuated with more finality than a question mark. Of course, if I really wanted to convey finality, I would have gone with an exclamation point, which is why I question the period. It seems to be neither accurate enough to represent the grammar, nor emphatic enough for the philosophy.

Sigh.

This is why a lot of times, I just don't talk.

My very dear friend from my freshman year at BYU found me the other day. I have no idea how her husband ran across my email address (perhaps they already had it and he was cleaning up files?) but he emailed me to ask if I was me and when I was they looked me up on facebook, and we have hadd all sorts of fun chatting since then. And I have been thrilled with the whole thing, because I have been thinking about the two of them so much lately. He was my friend too, but she lived on my floor in the now flattened Deseret Towers, S-Hall, and we had all sorts of wonderful chats and fun. And the thing is, I have grown up a whole lot since that year, and I have come to an awareness of what a mess I was back then, and how much of that mess must have been evident to everyone around me. And yet there were, in spite of the messiness, a very few people that took me under wing and gave me the benefit of the doubt. I wasn't unaware of the awkward silences and looks I got, I wasn't oblivious to the social aviodance, I was in fact entirely convinced that I deserved it, and so I did nothing to change it. But for some reason, there were a few people around me that felt I had more to offer. One of those people heard me singing while I was cleaning a bathroom at 4 am, and he invited me to sing in his choir, and he encouraged me to do a little more with music. And maybe he was just in need of an extra soprano, but it made me feel like I had a place on that campus. I would have drowned without that. He is a high school music teacher now, and I have quite a few friends that know him as an authority figure rather than as the friend that offered me a lifeline when I sorely needed one. And maybe life hasn't dealt him all the cards that he wanted, and maybe he has grown into someone else entirely, but he still gets to count mine as one life saved.

Along with Johnny is Jenny. She is one of those Ensign cover model type women. Well, when we were BYU freshmen, I suppose it would have been New Era cover model. Bright and funny and friendly and talented and practically perfect in every way, she had all the popular friends and was out on a different date nearly every night of the week. I was nowhere near her social circle. Yet somehow, she chose me to be her friend. It wasn't the patronizing "project" kind of friendship, I don't think. I've been in those before, and I think I recognize them, but if it was she was way better at it than anyone, perhaps because she was more sincere. She played the piano, I could barely read music, she flirted with every boy in the ward, I didn't even own makeup, she smiled easily, I was too terrified to make eye contact, she had smart funny replies to everything, I could barely loosen my tounge to talk. She was the first person I really knew who spoke openly to me about things like hopes and dreams and daydreams and fantasies and faith. So many of us were too terrified to really share, but Jenny had confidence and humor that comforted even the most insecure of teenage girls. And insecure is what I was. It didn't matter though, she still treated me as if I belonged in her circle of friends, she still invited me to parties and told me about the boys she was seeing and writing and interested in. And even though I was nowhere near ready to start talking and sharing myself, she let me watch and listen and simply accepted that I was learning and that I was making my own efforts. Maybe what I am trying to say is that I never once felt like she was mocking me. And when I did start to talk and to try things, she was right there encouraging me. And of course, she got married right out of freshman year. But we stayed in touch here and there, we had each others phone numbers for a long time, and she had babies and I went on a mission and she bought a home and I graduated and she raised a family while her husband got a PhD and I worked a few dead end jobs and she went back to school and finished while I worked a job I loved and she got accepted to med school while I returned to working dead end jobs. And I think is particularly funny that 15 years later, the former pre-med student now has a degree in music and the former music major is starting med school in the fall. That's right, we went our seperate ways after just one school year, but somehow her frienship still affects me to this day. And I have made many more friends since then that have been affected by the confidence she taught me, and perhaps they are unaware, as much as I may be unaware of their friends that affect our relationships. And some of the friends I have made since then have had as much as an affect on me and my life.

The thing is, I have been asked in the past few weeks how I have the patience to listen to or deal with a certian level of immaturity, and the answer was easily, because of Jenny. I wonder where I would be if she hadn't had the goodness to teach me, and I have to offer whatever I can to that soul that is sinking where I once stood. It's taken a lot of good friends placed perfectly in my life to keep me afloat. Whatever stability I have is not my own, and as such I have no right to withold it from others that stand in need. And every time I offer my hand to someone else, I offer it knowing that were it not for people like Jenny then I would have nothing to offer. I wonder who the people are that helped her to become someone that offered strength, and I wonder if they are aware of how they have touched my life, and I begin to see very faintly how connected we all are. And I feel more deeply how important those friends are that we sing about in hymn number 293.

So I'm choosing the exclamation point, and I'm dedicating it to each of those friends that has strengthened me. I don't know if you all know who you are, and I don't dare make a list, not here, because of all the lists I could make, that would be the dearest and most personal to me. Just know that if we have laughed together, if we have mourned together, if we have shared testimony together, if we have sat up ridiculously late chatting and reading, if we have exchanged emails full of hopes and fears, if we have hugged or cried or thanked each other or called just to say "hi", if we baked cookies and ate the dough before any of it hit the oven, and most of all, if I have been able to listen and learn from you, you can take a bit of the exclamation point as well.

What greater goodness can we know than Christlike friends who strengthen our faith!

Childhood Exposed?

2009-06-19T11:53:00.000-07:00

I taught elementary school music during the height of low-rise jean popularity. (Can low-rise jeans be said to have a heigth of popularity?) You might remember that at the apex of said fashion statement, the highest high brought the lowest low. That is to say, the jeans were extremely low cut. And lower even than that was perhaps the pentient that young parents had for putting their children into the low jeans. Parents of kindergarteners, paricularly, young 20 somethings were determined to make their child the most popular thing right off the bat by putting them in the latest styles, in an effort to help them avoid all the trauma of the friendless junior high years that they suffered from. (We all suffered from them. And once we deal with them, we learn that the suffering was somehow formative. But until then, we somehow make a whole lot of efforts to see that our own offspring won't have to suffer them.)

And as an elementary school music teacher, faced with managing a classroom of 75 kindergarteners at a time, I employed an old Mid-west trick for maintaining control. When things got too loud or needed to transition without the mess, we sat in "Tornado Position". Heads down, hands over the backs of our necks. But a kindergartener from the mountain regions doesn't quite grasp how to put their head down while sitting criss-cross-applesauce, and so they shift towards the familiar, which in Utah is family prayer style with bowed heads. And the 75 kindergarteners in low rise jeans would wiggle and turn their bodies around until they managed to kneel, put their head down, cover their necks with their hands, whispering and giggling and letting their pants simply slide down.

I'm not exactly sure, but I think you haven't really lived until you have been mooned by 75 kindergarteners all at once.

And I know there are horrible people and perverts out there that make such things an impossibility, but I always wished I could have taken a picture of it. The innoncence of 75 cracks staring at me every Wednesday and Friday at 10am.

Today is Water Day. We are fully into our summer camp days, which means the schoolish type learning is over and the real learning of childhood is in full swing. We go on a field trip once a week, we spend a day baking cookies once a week, we have field days and bike days and craft days and once a week we have a special day for the teachers. We put the kids in swimsuits and turn the hose on them. The kids think its for them. They think the fun and games of playing in a sprinkler is extra special because the teachers get excited about it too, and then we get outside and they run and scream and jump in puddles and dump water on each other, all the while the teacher stands there manning the hose. Do you think it's cruelty to offer a child a drink from the hose and then spray them in the face instead? Silly. It's a game. I count out loud to thirty, and whoever is taking a drink when I get to thirty gets doused. Some of them try to be there at thirty. I count slower or faster depending on who really needs to be soaked. And when we get back into the classroom, they change back into their warm dry clothes and I change back into a fair and balanced teacher. And they all sleep really well for naptime.

Of course, the connection to all of this is again the case of the crack. For about 45 minutes I have 20 naked children running around the classroom. Because try as I may to regulate things, every single one of them will forget to bring something or another over to the bathroom to change. and they will only realize it after they have stripped down, so they will run as fast as their naked legs will carry them over to their cubbie, find the forgotten item, and run back. And no matter how I regulate how many children are in the bathroom at once, several extras will be too excited to wait their turns and sneak in while I'm not looking. And once we are in our swimsuits we will have so many wedgies on the girls and low-rise on the boys that propriety is an impossibility. And our playground is level with the office windows of the cubicles that we share a building with, and i have no doubt that people sitting there enjoy the innocence of the play as much as the rest of us do. They too know the joy that is being mooned by an unsuspecting kindergartener.

Of course we try to teach them to keep their dresses down and pull their pants up. Of course we teach them to cover their bodies and be aware. And their innocence is both sweet and scary, and I wish we could simply leave it as sweet. But they are growing up as quickly as the world is growing into a frightening place. And we give them safe places where they can be children while learning to face that frightening world, and while most days I am very frustrated by my job, by the frightening people that are perhaps too close to the innocence, and by the closed and uneducated minds that don't protect as well as they should, there are also days when I get mooned by 10 kindergarteners and I don't think I want any other job on the planet.

Full of grace and full of Grace

2009-06-11T21:35:00.000-07:00

I hope you are prepared for me to go a little religious nerd here. Don't worry, I can mix it up with some self-deprecation, just to keep it fun...

If you look up "Nancy" in one of those baby name books it will tell you that my name is a derivation of "Ann" and it means "Full of grace". This has always been a source of amusement for me, since as much as I love things like dance, and as much as I enjoy actually participating in it, graceful I am not. Yes, I can dance. No I will never be invited to join a ballet company. I can dance well enough so a director doesn't have to worry about me keeping up, but I certainly will never be cast in a dance-centered role. I can kick it up with the chorus, but ask me to leap across a stage solo and you will hear something that can only be described as "Gallumphing". I could go on for days.

But I digress. My gracefulness came into full view the other day, much to the delight of more than one of my co-workers. In my defense, it's been crazy weather here lately, which tends to mess up my knees quite a bit. I stumbled into work on Weds knowing that I should probably stay home and give them a rest, but also knowing that since it was field trip day, they couldn't spare the staff. I (fairly literally) girded up my loins with ace bandages and painkillers and set my mind to the task of ignoring the ache. We organized the 20 children into 4 teams of 5 before setting out to catch our bus to the museum. My little ensemble consisted of "Future Serial Killer" (you've met him before), "Pees his pants daily" (at nearly 6 years old he should probably be getting over this), "Mommy I won't be a princess without my jewelry" (she also has come up before), and "unfortunate child of the most neurotic parent" (He's actually a great kid, its his parental figure I struggle with), and of course I had the flex spot, the empty space available to the kid who was scheduled to come but his parents didn't get there in time so we would give it away to the kid who wasn't scheduled to come, which is irksome at best and if you are a parent that is reading this you should never be either of those to any teacher. *deep breath*

We headed out the door at 9am, which on any college campus is the heaviest time of day for traffic, simply because people who work and attend college campuses are generally too lazy to actually function before then. (I dream of the day I can join their ranks) and we stepped out onto the road , joined hands raised up in the air, to make us taller so the cars could see we were crossing. But suddenly my knees were no longer coming to the party. In fact, they checked out entirely leaving a heap of Nancy in the street, still attached to the 5 year olds who were simply staring in a state of utter confusion. Teachers don't fall down. Especially not while doing something basic like walking. And the kids were kind of looking at each other and looking at me wondering what the heck just happened when suddenly (and I should have expected this) all of their preschool training kicked in. It started with "Mommy I won't be a princess".

"That's ok Miss Nancy, you are a tough girl! You can get up and we will be tough girls together!" (growl grunt snort) "Tough girls!"

Then "Pees his pants daily" chimed in: "Do you need a bandaid or a hug? Let me help you up" (grunts as he tries to grab my arm and pull) "Wow, you are a tough girl, you are strong!"

"Yeah, you can do it!" adds "unfortunate child of neurotic parent". I'm afraid he's not quite as creative in his encouragement, and as much as I would like to psychoanalyze that, I simply need to add here that Future Serial Killer just stood there staring at me the whole time. (Insert your own guesses as to what his thoughts were, I shudder to even consider it)

Many of you may have experienced similar moments of gracelessness, falls in front of co-workers (in this case it was still in view of the office windows at work, and I heard later that everyone saw and enjoyed my moment) and many of you may have had the luxury of tripping up in front of strangers. But I tell you there is nothing quite so humiliating as falling in front of both co-workers and strangers, stopping the cars full of strangers who are late for work, most of whom work in my building or complex, so they are strangers that I will continue to see every day, all the while being patronized by 5 year olds. It was the "tough girl" comment that stung the worst, since I knew exactly where she had learned it from.

But of course, I had a job to do, so I picked myself up and we went on our merry way. It wasn't until about 4 hours later that I finally got a break enough to check the damage. One knee was bloody but had scabbed over. The other was bruised and clearly had a lump on it that was growing to a fully swollen knee, and one ankle was nearly the same size as the swollen knee.

Full of grace. Graceful. Nancy.

But there's more! You see, as I was contemplating this blog post, in the face of those same co-workers who took delight in my tumble, I was faced with a fascinating little conversation. I was exiting my classroom today headed out for a lunch break when I accidentally walked into a debate in progress.

"It's not a church song" says co-worker that I just don't get.

"Yes it is, where did you learn it?" counters raging lesbian.

"I don't know, probably from TV or something" inserts chatty friendly co-worker.

"What song?" I ask, because, well, I'm me.

"Amazing Grace" They all reply.

"Oh, well, it's not in the LDS hymnbook, but the Tab choir still does it and it has been sung at the funerals of several different leaders in the church"

"Oh, are you saying that since it's not LDS then its not a church song?" (Raging lesbian tends to hate on some of the culture here. It happens.) She stomps off without waiting for a reply.

"Actually, I learned it in the Lutheran church. And it's in pretty much every church hymnal except the LDS. Why?" (That's me again.)

"Well it doesn't talk about anything church in it" says chatty friendly co-worker.

"Yeah, it was just about freeing the slaves" inserts co-worker that I just don't get.

"Umm, allow me to help you out" I proceed to recite the first verse of Amazing Grace to them.

"See, nothing churchy in it!" They both concur. And I am APPALLED. I know that Co-worker I just don't get is referring to the movie that was made about the song, but if she is still convinced that there is no religion in that text, I wonder how she can claim to have seen the movie? Are the people I work with really this clueless?

Silly Nancy, glutton for punishment, continues the conversation where she could have just left it alone.

Yeah, nothing churchy at all, except that the term "Grace" is always capitalized, indicating that it actually refers to the Grace of God, which in Protestantism is a direct reference to Jesus Christ and His crucifixion. Grace means Atonement in that text. As in "Amazing {Atonement} how sweet the sound that saved a wretch like me..." or in the next verse, "How precious did that {Atonement} appear the hour I first believed..." I could go on, I know seven verses, and don't even get me started on the foreign translations I know. And where do you think the "there" is when you sing "when we've been there ten thousand years, ...we've no less days to sing God's praise"? Have you ever even thought about the text?

There was more, questioning and answering, but that pretty well sums it up.

And once again, everybody sort of stared at me and made a few jokes as I stumbled out of the room. And I thought, as I painfully navigated the furniture while trying to stay upright, that I was probably at that moment the last person who could lecture on the term "Grace". But then I wonder how many people out there have never looked beyond their own circle of experience and thought about the things around them. And I wonder if somehow their unawareness of an entire philosophy, an entire branch of their own religious roots left unexplored, is related to those kids that threw some cliches at me simply because that is what we have trained them to do. Their responses weren't bad. It's not wrong to call someone a tough girl so she won't cry when she falls. And I suppose it's not wrong to limit your knowledge to personal experience. It's not wrong to dance the correct steps with a bit of a thud. It's not wrong, but it's certainly not the best way.

Which I suppose is where gracefulness comes into play. You see, the protestants that wrote "Amazing Grace" were lumping a whole lot of doctrine into one word. There was the necessary Grace that saves each of us, there was the extra Grace that we can ask for, there was the concept of Father and Son in one, and there was the concept of Father and Son as separate. All things considered, the message of the enire song is, there are ways to do things blind, lost, and faithless, but life goes so much more smoothly with a little Grace. It's not wrong to stumble around in the dark. But there is a better way. And for as many people that think they are doing the world a favor by leaving the lights off, there could stand to be more of us willing to turn the lights on.

Go ahead and laugh with me at my stumbles, grace is overrated. I will continue to trip and gallumph my way around busy streets and stages. But let's see if I can't manage to work on being more full of Grace.

Big things are coming... (no matter what)

2009-06-10T16:00:00.000-07:00

... But I think I have finally learned to keep my mouth shut until they are in motion. Otherwise, when things fall apart I have to answer all of the questions about my failures, which only makes me more sad. So you will just have to wait for any details at all until the plan is in full swing. But what you can know is that I am excited, happy, and actually looking forward to a few things in life. And if the plans fail, if they somehow bottom out, or if I screw them up (which I am apt to do) or if they just somehow don't pan out, I will be more than devastated and I will remove all evidence of even having tried (specifically this blog post). This is sort of a last ditch effort, and I am going to go down big if I go down. By which I mean: if this doesn't work, expect me to consume enough gallons of chocolate ice cream each evening to not only gain back the poundage I have lost in the past few months, but more than triple it. When I say I will go down big, I mean big as in a 350 pound diabetic coma that has to be removed from her house on an auto-wrecker. At the same time, if I take no risk at all, I will be working in a daycare for the rest of my life, which is just as disappointing albeit less exciting to me than an auto-wrecker assisted demise. So here's to risk, here's to ice cream, here's to figuring out who I am, here's to knowing that who I am is better than who I've been, here's to hope, here's to progress, and most of all, here's to optimism. I am choosing to believe in a better me.*

*will you all please choose to believe in a better me too? It would really help me believing in a better me. Like Charlie Brown. "If just one person believes in you... then maybe even you can believe in you too."

This is getting old

2009-06-05T12:52:00.000-07:00

Well, the blog posting thing was interesting, since I couldn't see anything for about 12 hours, on my blog or anyone elses, then it came back up for a few hours before the internet at my house shut down completely. Grrr. That's not the first time Qwest just stopped working for us, and whenever you get a technician on the phone they treat you like you are the idiot. So we told them to just shut it off, and we're switching to comcast. My internet is down until Monday. I am typing this at work, which never leads in a positive direction. It also means I don't particularly want to post any of my real thoughts or decisions, because I'm afraid to consider them in this environment as well as because I don't particularly want any of my co-workers to read about the adventures in my mind. So this post is brief, simply designed to inform you that I am making decisions, I am moving forward, I am more than these people give me credit for or allow me to be, and I am not a glorified babysitter. (I just had to get that last one off my chest, since it seems to be coming up a lot lately.) I do have yet another new roommate, and I am not so sure about how that will all turn out, but it was the only option available to me in the time I had to consider moving or finding someone or negotiating contracts or whatever. But again, since I am typing this at work, take my perceptions with a grain of salt. Hopefully Monday I will feel more like chatting! (Ha! Is it futile to hope for a good day on a Monday?) Philosophize until I return...

Blank?

2009-06-02T20:12:00.000-07:00

Why is it, then, that with 112 posts, I can't get any of them to show up? They are still in my little file, but gone from the site.... is this temporary or should I panic?

Restless

2009-05-31T17:02:00.000-07:00

My roommate is moving, summer is here, and the time has come again for me to get a little stir crazy. I start looking at college catalogs this time of the year, every year, in hopes of finding some Masters program, or perhaps a program for a second bachelors degree that suits my interests, my hopes, and my needs. My problem is not that I can't find anything I want to do, but that everything I find is something I want to do. I spent the morning drooling over a few course cataloges I have amassed over the years, and folding and unfolding corners of pages for classes I want to take. I finally decided to make a list of everything, regardless of how reasonable it seemed, and to put it in order of priority. These are the classes I dream of mastering, and as you can see, they do not lead in any particular direction whatsoever. even putting them in a prioritized order is causing the pit of my stomach to hollow out with anxiety. I keep having to ask myself if I am putting it in order according to what I want or according to what is responsible. I keep re-ordering them both ways. Here it is, according to what I want. Now who wants to volunteer to pay my tuition for me?

Beginning Italian
Chemistry (Have to admit I've actually taken this one several times, I just really really really want to pass it.)
Technical writing
Humanities
Tap Dance
Accounting
Organ Lessons
Photography
Anatomy/Physiology
Culinary Arts
Human Growth and Development
Children's Literature
Personality Theory
Computer Engineering (Just an intro course)
Linguistics
Business (again just an intro course, and perhaps an entrpreneurship class)
Tailoring/Costuming
Hiking
Yoga
Beginning Social Work
Grammar
Communications
Economics (Just an intro course)
Marriage and Family Relations
Education (leadership and theory classes)
Novel Writing
Genetics
Organic Chemistry (contingent of course on whether or not I can ever pass a chemistry class)
Genetics
Oil Painting
Philosophy

You see, the problem I have is that I simply do not know enough about anything. And as I frantically search for a new roommate with the plan of settling into and staying in the same old routine, there is this nagging sound at the back of my brain and at the front of my heart. Go back to school, you aren't getting any closer to your goals and you certainly aren't getting younger. But how? I can't see the end from the beginning. Heck I can't even see the beginning from the beginning. And even if I did manage to get back to school and make progress towards that elusive Masters Degree, you should see that list of possibilities.... It's even longer than the list of classes I want to take. And the hollow in my stomach is just getting deeper and more painful.

With Roomie leaving, this would be the perfect time to just pick up and start something new. But with the job situation the way it is, it seems pretty irresponsible to do that without any sort of a plan. And the arguing in my head is getting louder and the pit in my stomach is getting deeper. Life used to be so straightforward. What happened?

Peace, Yes, Rest, Not on your Life

2009-05-29T18:36:00.000-07:00

There are some people that you just know will never rest. Not in this life or the next. And I have come to believe that those who continue working are the blessed who will find peace up there. It's the people who pass on with every intention of finding rest that my never actually find peace. After all, how peaceful can an eternity of floating around on a cloud watching everyone else really be? It sounds to me a bit like the life of a gossip. Which is not in fact restful at all, but full of emotional tension and working their jaw in an attempt to befriend everyone and love no one. But those who work, especially those who continue their work once their pathway takes them away from us, they are the few who actually find some peace in eternity. Theirs is the business of loving without the pressure of others perceptions, because they in fact gain that perfect perception that relieves them of the emotional work that really gets us down.

Too much at once? Let me explain. Have you ever taken a "stress day" from work and found yourself going a little stir crazy before you get an hour into your freedom? Have you ever passed your children off to someone for an afternoon in the hopes of finding some peace and quiet, and instead found that without having them in earshot you can get no peace at all? These are the things that make me wonder about the cartoon image of heaven, sitting on a cloud strumming a harp for all of eternity. How can anyone enjoy that? Sure it might be nice for a few years, but by the time you have mastered it and become bored with it and written your own harp improvisations for every melody you ever heard (Gun's N' Roses, unplugged and angelic?) you will be tearing your halo off begging for an opportunity to go raise a little hell (literally, probably...) Eternity is a long long long time to be stuck with a harp on a cloud. You might last longer if you make the brass ensemble (they have a few more engagements scheduled in the upcoming millenia) but eventually even a Trumpet voluntary will become bland and distasteful to you. But consider if you actually pressed on into that next life with a variety of tasks and purposes to pursue. Imagine you can move forward with some knowledge and a preparedness for any assignment. Imagine if instead of being handed a harp and assigned a cloud, you could be handed a "To Do" list and assigned a stewardship. And this isn't any "To Do" list. It contains far more important duties than the mundane survival tasks we have here, and it comes with that promise and perspective that not only is your list significant and important, but it is pertaining to people and things that you actually love. Rest from triviality, perhaps, but work and all the strength to accomplish it still the same.

The Stake President who helped me fill out my mission papers passed away yesterday. He was and is a giant among men. More than a scholar and an author, he taught me and those around me some wonderful and profound lessons. Every time I had opportunity to interact with him he left me both introspective and improved. When we met for my mission interviews, he initially encouraged me to stay home from my mission for a few silly reasons, but then as the interview progressed he began to both teach and encourage me. By the time he signed my papers he had not only soothed my fears and concerns regarding my ability to be a good missionary, his confidence in me had convinced me that I could be better than I ever imagined possible. He had a gentle laugh that put me at ease and yet an ability to correct that encouraged repentance. And the thing that stuck out to me the most was his encouragement and enthusiasm for work. "Sister Pratt, I only want missionaries who understood the value of work. You understand it, and you will be a valuable missionary to your mission president because of it. And you will be happier for it as well."

There was absolutely nothing conditional in his statement to me. He didn't tell me "if"or ask that I try, he simply stated that I was capable and would find happiness. And he was right. I was capable, and I did find happiness. And I am capable, and I will find happiness. Not if.

When I arrived in my mission, my mission president told me he was impressed by the recommendation that I received from my stake president, and at the time I brushed it off as owing to this man's impressive credentials. But as I pressed forward throughout my mission and I lived up to that recommendation, I learned to trust the text more than the signature. And I found more than happiness in work. I found peace.

So as President Madsen embarks on his new portion of this journey I am one random student that passed though his office a few times and tried to serve as well as he thought I could. And I don't believe it is appropriate to wish him the traditional "Rest in Peace". Because I know he won't rest. There are no harp laden clouds waiting for men such as this. Instead, my prayer is that his to do list will be eternally filled with meaning and power. As surely as he taught me there is peace in work, I have no doubt that he will Work in Peace.

Weddings, Dear Friends, and Paris

2009-05-25T10:04:00.001-07:00

This is a picture we took just for you, Leona-

We're only 75% of the bird girls, and we couldn't remember a single bit of our choreography, so you'll have to settle for some cute shoes and all our love.

Yes, we were all at a wedding and looking fantastic. This was I think the last wedding from that circle of friends that came to me as a result of the most fantastic summer of my life. We did Seussical, we forged great friendships, I moved to Minnesota and the rest of everyone got married. Ann Marie wasn't in Seussical with us, but she was a roommate in that house where I ended up moving and we all got to be so close. Ann Marie was the Bride on this lovely day:

And it was absolutely perfect. 70 degrees and sunny and a light breeze and the best part of all was hanging out with those wonderful friends. Even if they didn't want their picture taken...

And I should take this moment to say thank you to the grandma's that take care of little ones so that I can play with their mommies and daddies for a day. I know you didn't do it for me, but I sure am a grateful recipient anyways. It truly was a day that recalled all the good moments of that summer.

We danced

Even I danced, although I have no pictures and I'm not sure that any of the pictures that were taken should ever be seen by the general public....

And we ate. And we laughed. (I think our table at the luncheon was perhaps too loud, but the reminiscing and the fun was just so good...)

And I cried.

I didn't cry during the ceremony, which was one of the most beautiful I have attended. No, just like usual, mine was the only dry eye in the room.

I didn't cry because all of my friends are so happily married and I stick out like a sore thumb or a seventh wheel everytime we do something together. I'm actually pretty happy with life, and don't mind one bit being the spare with a group of people that don't mind having one.

I didn't cry when I saw old friends and held their babies and shared litttle bits of their happiness.

I didn't cry when I saw people whose friendships I may have lost due to some neglect or stupidity I have committed.

I didn't cry when I saw some of the sorrows that my firnds have endured in the past 3 years either.

I cried when he told me he was taking her to Paris.

And it was kind of awkward, because nobody there had ever seen me cry before. So I feel like I owe you an explanation. And now that I am in the privacy of my home, where I can cry without making you feel strange at having to see, I will tell you something about my tears.

Paris is an important thing to me. For all that it represents as far as pop culture goes, I couldn't care less, and for all that it was to me as a missionary I don't expect anyone else to appreciate. But there is a part of Paris that is perhaps born of bits of each of those things that everyone should experience. Maybe not Paris itself. And maybe not as a missionary. But the happiness, definitely. And when I say "Paris", recognize that I might not be talking about a specific location or a certain calling to fulfill, but I am talking about what that specific combination created for me. I was happy in Paris. I'm not telling you this because of some lack of happiness now, just that what was then was then and it was good. I was really happy there and it had everything to do with having a purpose to my life that was so much more than mere survival. I was happy there because I had a job to do and I had no insecurities whatsoever about the importance of that job nor about my ability to accomplish it. I was also happy there because I knew what I was doing and how to do it. Because I was meeting my own expectations for myself. And also, because I understood the culture and the people and the beauty of that place. And somehow, the art and the culture and the expectations and the work and even the perceptions of people around me brought me to a better understanding of myself. You know the movie Sabrina? When she comes back home and is seeing the old town again and the old people again and she simply says "I found myself in Paris". Well I know exactly what she means. I got to know myself in Paris. I made important decisions about who I want to be in Paris. I learned that it was possible to be that person in Paris. I still believe to this day that I can become that person, because of Paris. But I am less sure now that I can do it without Paris.

Which is why the tears came to my eyes when he said "I'm taking her to Paris". Because I miss it. I miss that surety of every step that came with Paris for me. And while I'm pretty sure that everyone's Paris is something and someplace different, my Paris is Paris. And as a result of that, I feel like Paris is mine. So my tears at that moment were little more than a touch of jealousy, a wish for something I feel like I've lost and a hope for something I haven't ever had. I want somebody to take me to Paris.

Of course, I got over it by changing the subject and pretending like the tears never happened. It takes a certain kind of strength to maintain emotional constipation for as many years as I have. If you catch me by surprise, you might see it again, but you would have to be watching pretty closely.

An Irish Queen

2009-05-24T09:34:00.000-07:00

I love making a quilt. I'm not great at it, but I find something soothing about the math and the geometry and the labor. Throw in the fun of color selection and that sense of satisfaction you get when you create something, and you have a pasttime that can easily transform mindless tv time into legitimate function and useful hours. Everyone should have something like this. I know people that might do needlework or crochet or any hands on type project. There is something emotionally cathartic about the creation process, and it helps immensely if you aren't spending the time actually thinking about the emotions or the day or the bills or the complexities of life.

The problem with making a quilt, though, is that I won't actually force myself to sit down and enjoy doing it unless I have a purpose and a deadline. Otherwise, I can't justify doing something that I enjoy. And having a deadline takes away a little of the enjoyment. Its a bit of a catch 22, but I can overcome it easily if I love someone enough and have the proximity/time/money to focus on it. I have to put that disclaimer in here, because there are a number of people that I love to bits for whom I was not able to do a quilt. And I still kind of regret that.

But this is not about regrets! This is about success!

There is one quilt pattern that I am more familiar with, simply by right of having used it more often. I particularly like it because it looks way more complex than it is. ...uh, I mean, It is really complex and really really hard? Nope. I can't really lie here. This is easier than it looks. And it covers some of my faults as a quilter. I am terrible at matching up corners. No worries! There are so many corners on this that a few are bound to match up! And the pieces are so tiny, nobody should hold you accountable for matching ALL the corners. If I actually try to, I end up wanting to quit halfway through, making a ridiculously complex wall hanging or baby quilt instead of a queen size masterpiece.

Precision is not my gift. Endurance, yes. Accuracy, No.

So of course, if I am making a quilt, I would be excited to learn a new pattern, but I certainly won't discourage you if you say "remember that quilt you made for Brittany and Bryan?..." Because familiar territory is certainly easier to navigate. Even if it does involve little tiny 2 inch squares assembled into a queen size pattern.

It's called an "Irish Chain" but I had yet to do it as a true Irish Chain. You can vary with whatever colors you want, and most people have their own ideas as to the colors and themes, but a true Irish Chain is done in greens. And this time, with a wedding themed in green, and a bride who preferred the pattern she has already seen me do, I finally had motive and opportunity. And so a few months before the wedding I wentout and bought all the green necessary...

And for a month or so I procrastinated.

And then for a week or two I worked on it here and there

And then for another week of worked on it every evening I had available

And then for another week I cancelled everything else and spent every spare minute on it

And then for a week I stayed up until 1 or 2 in the morning every night until Friday rolled aong, and I had this:

Which was just finished enough to display like this:

Which was how everyone else saw it before I took it back home to actually finish it.

And it is still sitting on my living room floor, needing only about another hour worth of work. But you see, now I don't have a deadline anymore...

Fourteen Pieces of Bacon

2009-05-24T08:20:00.000-07:00

Work is exhausting. I know, I know, everyone's job has its ups and downs, everyone has some amount of stress and some amout of emotion, and well, let's face it, work is work, otherwise why would get paid for it? Granted, my job is one that most of the people who perform it well don't get actually paid to do. But you multiply what a stay-at home mom does times 20 children and subtract the sleepless nights and gorcery store runs, and emotional reward of them being your own kids, and you have the reason I get paid to do my job. By the time I walk into the classroom in the morning my head is already ringing with whining and tantrums. By the time we head out for recess, I need to be outside as much as the kids do, and by the time my lunch break comes around, I can't actually accomplish anything, I just need a little food and some sleep. I could run down to where foothill turns into 4th south and have my pick of any number of restaurants and food choices. I could run over to Sugarhouse for even more options, some of which I crave throughout the day. But there is a little sandwich shop immediately accross the sidewalk from my building, and I am afraid they have had my business since the first week I worked here. It is ridiculously priced. A cheese quesadilla is considered a grill item, and costs $6. I make cheese quesadillas at home sometimes, I know that I could make at least 45 cheese quesadillas for $6. and that's not the least of it. But a 32 oz refill of Dr. Pepper is only 70 cents, and so I tote my water bottle along and one day a week I allow myself to have that 32 oz goodness. And a half an egg salad sandwich on wheat bread is only $2.42. And it comes with a pickle. I swear half the time I get that sandwich, I am paying for the garlicky crunch of a deli pickle. I don't care how many commercials claim that they are selling deli pickles at the grocery story, they have got nothing on a real deli pickle. It's like the difference between pre-bottled Dr Pepper and Fountain Drink Dr Pepper. That stuff in a can is an entirely different beast than the stuff that comes freshly mixed. Occasionally, depending on who makes my sandwich, I get 2 pickles. If its the old lady, she usually forgets my pickle, but if its the scruffy guy or the tall girl, I get 2 pickles. Joy of joys. I don't know why some of the people there seem to like me, but I can accept the double pickle days as an offer of friendship and validation.

Work also has become more interesting lately. Someone dared compliment me on "lightening up" lately. I was appalled. Here was a person that had never once spoken to me, never extended an offer of friendship, and had shot me down everytime I tried to converse with her. She was one of the people that would contribute to the awkward silence every time I tried to make a joke the first month I was here, and suddenly she has decided that I have lightened up? My behavior hasn't changed! Because of the people I was working immediately with, she judged me to be prude and judgemental of her (and I will admit that I was working with peole that did treat her that way, although every effort I made towards her was shot down.) Since my immediate co-worker has changed to someone that is in her circle of friends, and since that person has decided she approved of me, then this ringleader of the "popular crowd" has now deigned to offer her approval of me by telling me she was glad I had learned to "lighten up". I felt like I was in high school, which is a nearly unforgiveable abuse in my book. (And especially going into planning a visit with my old co-workers that actually liked me without needing petty social approval, it was a stark contrast) And you can be guaranteed that me and my big passive agressive mouth weren't so generous in returning her feigned compliment. I told her I didn't particularly value her approval, and that although I'm sure it was a nice gesture, it would have been nicer 8 months ago. How's that for "lightening up"?

I left the conversation headed over to the deli for my sandwich and pickle. Of course in the time it took me to cross the sidewalk, I had already over-analyzed the conversation and become even more irritated with her and though of a hundred better things to say in such a situation. If there was ever an ill-timed emotional eating experience, this was it. I stood staring at the menu wondering what I could reasonably consume without shelling out half my life savings and at the same time satisfying the emotional hungry monster that had relocated to my heart.

The Deli was almost closing, the grill was already closed. I was forced to pare down to the deli sandwich menu. (This is a good thing, because I might have allowed myself to spend $7.50 for a chicken quesadilla). My eyes scanned until they came to the BLT. Oh sweet BLT. I do love one on my mom's homemade bread, toasted and with thick tomato slices and crispy crispy bacon. That sounded like exactly what I wanted. One half of a BLT, for $3.68. Perfect. And there was tall girl, my hope for two pickles leaped into my heart. She handed my deli box and I nearly ran out to the privacy of my car to enjoy it in peace.

I hooked my MoTab laden ipod to my radio as I opened the deli box. One Pickle. Hmm. The samdwich seems pretty thick. Did they stuff too much lettuce on there? I prepared to pick off the unnecessary greens. Nope, thats not lettuce, its just alot of bacon. Bacon? Bacon is the sodium of the sanwich. Everyone knows you only put two pieces of bacon on any sandwich. May 3 for a BLT. Its fatty and flavor packed, you don't NEED more. You just always WANT more. I'm not complaining. By no means should anyone ever complain about too much bacon. I can't even believe I just thought that! There is no such thing as too much bacon! I took a bite. Its a good thing I was in the privacy of my car. Do you know why we only put one or two pieces of bacon on a BLT? Remember how it's sort of hard to bite off just a piece of bacon, usually the whole piece comes out of the sandwich? Remember how bacon is mostly fat and sodium, and its sort of hard to really chew it? Most of the bacon came out of the sandwich with that first bite, and I certainly couldn't chew it. Even my big passive agressive mouth couldn't handle that much bacon. I promptly opened the sandwich and began counting the bacon as I pulled it off the sandwich.

Fourteen.

Remember how I ordered a half sandwich? This is basic math folks. Think about how many pieces of bacon are in a one pound package of bacon. Think about how much bacon there would have been if I ordered a full sandwich. That's right folks, there is such a thing as too much bacon. You will know if it is hanging out of your mouth and getting mayonaise on your shirt and you can't even taste the tomato.

When I headed back into work, I asked my friend that works the front desk if she had ever ordered a BLT at the Deli. Yes. Was there a reasonable amount of bacon involved? Yes, 3 pieces. Normal, maybe a little stingy for a whole sandwich. OH. Then the kicker. "Sometimes I think I get the sandwiches just for the pickles. I wish they would give me two pickles once in a while."

"They never do?"

"No, not even if I ask."

"Not even scruffy guy or tall girl?"

"No. Why? Do you get two pickles?"

"At least once a week. And my half BLT today had 14 pieces of bacon on it."

"No Fair! They must like you better than they like the rest of us!"

Well maybe they do.

It seems to me that if you are wanting approval from someone, you should get it from the people that make your sandwiches.

Bloggitty Blog Blog

2009-05-22T11:49:00.000-07:00

I know, I know, I have been slacking this month. This week, in particular, has been rough as far as the writing and sharing goes, but not without reason! Sure, I have a TON of things to share, but I was slaving away at making those things actually happen (yes, folks, in order to have something to write about, I have to be too busy to write about it. Such is the nature of my life) and then I was actually without computer access for 5 days. Well, not entirely without computer access, but only having cellphone access to my blog makes it pretty difficult to type any entries. (unless you wanted to dechipher them as typed on a cellphone without punctuation and with predicative text with more than a few typos which you know cause even more than a few problems in predicative land plus my thumbs would be sore) Happily I have returned to my routines and virtual connection to the world around me, and it only took two days of sleeping and housework to catch back up to life as I love it. And all of that just in time to love memorial day weekend!

That being said, you can look forward (or avoid entirely, you choose!) to the upcoming blog entries, which I hope will happen in rapid succession over the 3 day weekend.

Fourteen pieces of Bacon
An Irish Queen
Weddings and Dear Friends (or: Why Paris still brings tears to my eyes)
Adventures in the North: a marathon weekend
Posted with Permission: Generic pictures of other peoples kids that I can force faithful readers to enjoy.

Look at that! 5 whole ideas, wanting refinement and nurturing. If they actually happen, you will be caught up on the Beautiful Moments of May. Of course, my posting their titles kind of binds me to it. Which is why I am doing it. Announcing my goals, inviting my friends to an awareness of my personal expectations, this means I have to actually follow through. So as I hit the "Publish Post" button, and tell the world my plans, knowing that follow through might be sketchy, I have a question for you. Is there a subject here that should be priority 1? What do you actually want to hear about? What piques your interest? Tell me and I may be more encouraged to press forward. It's called validation, and I am not afraid to ask for it right now.