Poll

More Scents

The women's restroom on the first floor of the HRCB smells exactly like horchata.

Prof. Keenbean's Smellmaster 9000

Yesterday I walked into the women's restroom and smelled the deodorant I used to wear in 7th grade. I immediately looked down at my socks. Or nylons, since I rarely wear socks these days.

7th Grade. Gym class. Snotty, beanpole of a blonde chic we'll call AL. Everyday Al would make fun of me for wearing mismatching socks. Every. Day. The repetition gives you a small hint of her intelligence level. But I was what...13? Incredibly sensitive to teasing, I would feign nonchalantness by making my own snarky retort with the excuse that I was just too cool to match my socks. Ha. Take that popular girl. I'm cool.

Obviously scarred for life, I write this in a pair of matching socks. It's one of the few insecurities I carry with me from my schooling experience. The other? I will always be scared to death that someone will make a mess in the play kitchen and I'll get in trouble for it. OCD explained.

Man is but a patched fool

I read a speech written by my Women's Lit Prof today. She opens with "Although English studies is a varied and complex discipline, those of us who work under the aegis of the English Department share many values. Whether we are poets, novelists, essayists, literary scholars, composition specialists, teachers, folklorists, or rhetoricians, we are all writers" (Howe 8).

So I wanted to write a blog about how, despite the "English Major" on my transcript, I'm not a writer. But, that's lame. And self-absorbed. And downright whiney.

Instead, there are some blogs with some great writing out there that I'd really like to commend.

We Can All Have Secret Blogs. I follow this blogger religiously. Although few of words, the wit sends me rolling every time. With no care for capitalization, it's strictly stream of consciousness. In the corniest, most honest way I can put it.... the brown river- it ain't no lazy river. (+ she plucks a mean eyebrow)

Call me Siouxsie. Queen of creativity (please see Fleur & Feather), B. tells the best story. 'Though I've had but a glimpse of her glorious workplace, I'm always ready for another HBH, Dallas, or Donetta escapade.

Quiet Smitches. ....I just wish this could be a blog with a million recordings of her laugh.

Born Free. Two words: Geeky keen.

Ah. This procrastination has served its purpose, and, inspired by all my favorite writers, I'm now ready.

Hello Othello.

I always thought Charles was in charge.

A dream release.

Last night I dreamt that I peed in the shower (...I reeeally had to go. Sorry.).
And I could smell it. In my dream.

This is my first experience with dream scents and let me tell you, it's legit.


No worries. The bed was dry when I woke up. But I was quite worried it wouldn't be.

Tweet

Today I was so bored at work that I spent 2 hours reading about etiquette on Real Simple and Emily Post.

And I started a twitter account.

Release the hounds.

Band Wagon

I figured I'd jump on and get my own cool background.

My life is no longer average

MLIA

[Untitled]

The coffee mug resting in the shag carpet contained only hot water. Mrs. Brokaw, my 96-year-old piano teacher, needed something hot to keep her awake during the half-hour lesson. Unfortunately, as I kept returning each week, the sips of hot water lost their potency and the only thing that could wake her from her naps was a resounding F instead of F-sharp. Mid-snore, she would perk up, shake her head, and correct me: "Ahem, F-sharp."

It'd been four years since I'd had a lesson and Mrs. Brokaw rarely appeared in my thoughts. Pulling out the short story, Dance of the Happy Shades by Alice Munro, my teacher and her quarterly recitals were tucked away in a remote corner of my subconscious. Yet here was a story about an aging piano teacher, Miss Marsalles. You could sense her purity from the first paragraph, her innocence making you feel like a sinner right from the get-go. I read on. The narrator, a young pupil, gave me the polite image of her mother graciously accepting Miss Marsalles’ invitation for a recital. Then the mom phones all the other mothers and gets in a snit over how miserable Miss Marsalles' recitals are. As backbiting as it was, I couldn't deny my empathy; my commiseration with Kaylee had expressed the same disgruntled obligation each time Mrs. Brokaw announced a recital. And the expressions of worry over Miss Marsalles age—well, those worries defined why I slammed the door to announce my entrance, addressed Mrs. Brokaw as I would a foreign exchange student, and said a prayer in the entryway that I wouldn't be the poor, unfortunate youngster to arrive on the scene of her death. As the recital began, even the treats paralleled those served at Mrs. Brokaw's recitals. Paragraph followed memory as I felt my past pulled forth, aligning itself with Munro's plot line.

I was back in the dim, 70's-style house on Prospect Street. Any moment now, the story would lead up to where I played my piece. As Munro's characters' clunked through notes and rhythms, I sat nervously fingering the air. Then my parallels fell short: The final player in Munro's story was not me, the eldest, and hence, most experienced. On the piano bench sat Miss Marsalles' newest student. Munro had primed me for this moment. Assiduously collecting my emotions, she thrust them back at me with her alterations. From where I'd witnessed peers produce music with depth and power, Munro brought me real, miraculous music from what had been an evening of childish performances. Her final performer, despite age and inexperience, illuminated the internal power that is music. The piece, “The Dance of the Happy Shades,” established itself in the room as a presence. I couldn't hear the notes but Munro told me they had strength and I felt it. Her words took me beyond expectation, capturing beauty in the experience. Her diction was illuminating, reworking my reality to form a piece of art.

My bottom isn't very tight.

I will never take toilet paper for granted again. 

Copycat

This has so been done before. We call it the Brent Brown revolution.

Famous Scots

Turn, Turn, Turn

Disclaimer: I really didn't mean to sound whiney yesterday. I was legitimately homesick. It's such a rare occurrence that sometimes I just need to wallow in it. Oh Michiana. Someday I will return. ...And then quickly leave again.

Yesterday:

1. I saw a boy on a scooter barely keeping his hold on the beach ball and bouquet of flowers he was carrying. I spent all of class thinking about where/to whom/why he was going. As Dougie would say, "Now there's a story!"

2. While I went to the temple looking for some peace, what I found instead was grins, joking, and joy. Which was even better. The random interlude of German conversation, the way Brother So and So raised us up from the bench like Moses commanding the waters, being baptized for a "Cohen" (I chuckled...with, uh, modest delight), and the pat on the back when I was all finished: muy perfecto.

3. The house for sale on 7th East. I didn't have much time to look because I was racing the storm home, but the brick, the steps up, the small window in the door, the tree hiding it from the street were delightful. Noni, we should go check it out. (There probably isn't a dog though. Shoot.)

4. South Fork Canyon. While the first 45 minutes of the ride was on a bike that weighed more than a pregnant seal and switched gears every 30 seconds (I counted. Thanks Kenz for switching me), the agony and pain was worth it for the ride down. K, so I first have to admit, the way the road moved under my tires totally reminded me of a racing game. But, when I dared to look up from my hunched position, the view was...well...all I can do is kiss my fingers and wave them in your face. We hit it at just the right time - sun setting on the ridge and the mountains across. In the midst of all this grandeur, we have Big Mountain Bob zooming past, no hands, wearing shants and commentating on his own performance. What a pleasant contradiction.

5. Banana bread made with 7 grains and a smoothie with strawberries, raspberries, agave, almond milk, vanilla, some sort of bran, and who knows what else.

6. I have to do another triathlon so William will stay my friend.

"Washing the dishes. First step to becoming a great swimmer."

"I went through all of college without doing laundry. BYU Issue! They even give you socks!"

If I'm preggie, then I can have cravings.

Don't get me wrong. This summer has been great (bolded for stress). But as I start my almost complete day-off, all I want is to do fly home and have, what is in my mind, the perfect summer day.

It might include horse syringes. And an old lady swearing at us as we wave mosquito candles around our heads. We've even got the cliche holding of hands as we run through a cornfield. ...You know why that always shows up in short stories and novels? Because there are only a few times and places where you can feel so secure and connected amidst such simple confusion.

Dang. There aren't even roman candles in Utah.

Tweet: Currently ticked all the way off.

If I were Miss America, I wouldn't wish for world peace. I'd wish for clear communication. Worldwide.

Honestly people (myself included)- Just be clear and honest. Until technology develops better mind-readers, your mouth and vocal cords are gonna have to do the job.

A Walking, Talking Question Mark

New knowledge. 

1) Nothing soothes like the hustle.

2) Gap employees deserve to make more money during Friends & Family.

3) I was a smurf in a previous life.

4) Hannah Montana/Miley's songwriters know my soul. 

5) The Provo Library parking lot does not offer comfort. 

6) Noni is a major stalker.

G'night cuz.

Alfred Hitchcock. A man of utter dry wit. This quote from Alfred Hitchcock Presents just slayed me.

"Tonight's discussion is concerned with that thorny problem that all parents face as they survey their children; 'Is coexistence really possible?'"

And from the same discussion, this one concerns the "middle-ager."-- "He can only drive down the dusty road towards civility in a cooled-off hot rod, forever doomed to be a mere spectator in the great drag race of life."

Yeah. Yeeeeah. Anyone who wants to come watch with me is welcome at any time. Thank you and good, hyphen, night.

Preg'd

"Could you tell me how much this would be with the 25% off?"

"Sure thing..."

"(beams at me) ...Are you pregnant?"

".........Nope."

I felt almost bad disappointing her. She was so excited.

However, I have always eaten for two.

Together we're Real Easy

Noni and I both won awards at our Gap meeting tonight. Domination. 2 outta 4 baby.

Just wanted to give you all a heads up from the fashion world: Loose is the new skinny.

Hamburglar

The only thing I've retained from my Psych 111 class Freshman year (besides Pavlov's dog) is the story about the young child who craved salt. When his parents refused to let him eat salt, he died. (Talk about guilt and remorse. My kids can eat whatever they want.)

What's wrong with my body that I constantly crave hamburgers? No, not just hamburgers. Cheeseburgers. BBQ. Western. Quacamole. 2 for 1. Plain with tomato- any kind and every kind. I honestly can't get enough. I even just spent 5 minutes reading some medical article about how "salt is a natural mood-elevating substance" in hopes that I would find some answer to these ridiculous cravings.

I wear black and white everyday too. The similarities are just too much to deny. Hide your ground beef.

For those who just adore personality tests

These are my two favorite colors so these must be true. The tests are never wrong.

Try it yourself.

If I could be anyone...

I would be Charles.

You're such a twit

So I was thinking about twitter tonight and cringing over the thought of that social networking site that encourages people to share every detail about their booger goblins, tenuous relationship status, and/or non-realistic social life if they're tweeting every 5 minutes....
when I realized something.

That's kind of what this blog is.
Suck.

Dear tweet blog:
omg. i love sitting in my long-tank, drinkin' chocolate milk with a spoon and listening to g.love. teehee, i should be doing homework but i'm just lazin' and bloggin'! lolz.

Your looks are striking and your words are wise.

I'm supposed to be writing a psalm but everything I want to rejoice about isn't fitting in my psalm outline. And the things I want to yell to the Lord in misery about are things my class probably doesn't want to hear.

I think I'll just turn in a copy of Psalm 19.
Go read it. Right now.

I'll probably get an A+.

Did you know?

Hay fever is the biggest cause of sickleave in the US and the UK.

I'm gonna go snot on someone so they make me leave.

P.S.  Me = ain't just a shell.  The creepy Google ads that read my e-mails to personalize their advertising make me happy.

Jobs Convicted Felons - Felon.JobsToCareers.org - 

233 Local Jobs For Felons. Sign Up & View Free Job Listings!

Man. Google really knows me.

Dinner

The epitome of satisfied.

She Reads As She Brushes Her Teeth

While I adore Keat's poetry, I have a few bones to pick with the man. First off, not everything perfect can linger and be as stedfast as the stars. The idea is nice in an idealistic, wow-that'd-be-boring-in-reality sort of way. It's like how the gnomes at your aunt's house never move and seem to repel even the dust that would make some area of their exterior alter. Come on! Reorganize! I'm sure Fatty gets sick of sitting next to old Snotty Nosed Youngster. And also, get this Keats- according to Wikipedia, stars are not unchangeable. Which I like. Stagnant, unchanging existence holds no appeal for me.
Bring on the change. I will embrace it with open arms.

Mrs. Potter's Lullaby

This is for when Jill stalks my blog. When you read this, come sing with me.

Love stinks.

Apple-T

Friday: I was working on something in Word and I wanted to start a new page. So...apple-t. No new tab popped up. I actually got confused for a moment. Every program should have apple-t. Seriously. Multitasking is impossible without it. Where's my instant access to a fresh start whenever I have a new idea? Denied. 

My brain could really use an apple-t right now. I tried using a regular apple this morning and it just made me sick. 

Cookies

I made two batches of cookies today. One in the evening and another now, in the late-night hours. Not quite the bewitching hour, but close.

A not-so-secret love of mine is baking (and eating) late at night. It takes me longer but it's just me in the kitchen and I can be anal and stressed without bugging anyone else about it. Tonight, it's not exactly because I thought I needed more cookies for class that I'm still up baking and blogging. Making the one batch of cookies seemed wrong without the other. I always make the two. That's the way it happens. So it goes.

Nostalgia is a major factor of the cookie baking experience. Yeah, it's kind of strange how I have so many strong memories, tastes, and scents connected with the activity. Coconut, parchment paper, mixing with hands, and giant cookies that you half-bake and then store in the freezer for stealthy snacking throughout the week. My parents never did figure out how a huge batch of dough could make so few cookies.

No one ever found my gargantuan secrets hidden behind the spinach.

Rip'd

Jill just ripped her pants. In the same couch corner where I ripped my pants twice.

We reside in an apartment with cursed furniture.

heh heh. I'm gonna make Noni sit there.

Frank.

I'll give Noni the pleasure of blogging about our newest pet but I just wanted to beat her to the punch and tell everyone that it was me who suggested his name first. (suckas)

Thank you and good night.

Hi.

Hello stalker.

I think you're swell.

Count Dracula

First off, read this.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Countess_Elizabeth_Bathory

Although the Wikipedia article says that the accounts of her bathing in blood are false, the History Channel says they are true. I saw her bath in it myself countless times. Sure it was an actress, but I'm convinced.

Tonight we watched a special on the History Channel about how legends of vampires formed through historical and other origins. I'm glad Jay wasn't there, or else I would have had the word "folklore" repeated rhythmically throughout the show. Needless to say, the entire thing was a bit more than freaky. Once they snaked down through the ages of myths, they started to describe vampire cults in our own age. That's when I left the room.

Pigs will fly before I go to Area 51. I'm keeping my throat safe.

So I Married a Monster from Outer Space

Ted and Lynn were married this Saturday.
"This ring shall ever be the symbol of my growing love." What the two of them decided they couldn't memorize will forever be embedded in my brain due to their giggling repetitions.

In the ceremony my dad read, he was forced to use dancers as a metaphor. My father, who refused to dance more than half a song at that one, ridiculous Father/Daughter Dance we attended, used dancers as a metaphor. It could have also been used as a metaphor for my chair, which was shaking faster than Carolyn's salsa hips.

I held it in. But it was hard.

I also had a Xanga site back in the day.

Try to find that.

Natalie just told me that there is some low income housing in Kansas where if you have babies, you get to live for free.

I'm moving to Kansas.

Legal Pads.

I found a stash of yellow legal pads in my desk drawer today, hidden behind old manila folders of press releases, campaign outlines and all those other PR tasks that I don't understand and will never actually care for. But the legal pads! Mm. Delight. They reminded me of an old list I used to keep of all the things I loved. I probably wrote half of it on a legal pad itself until I moved it to a digital file. 

Maybe it's the absence of spiral binding that makes me love legal pads so much. It never failed that that stupid wire would come undone or snag my sweater. ...Since I wore so many geeky sweaters as a child.

Doodle doodle. Joe and I used to play tic-tac-toe and the dot game all through Stake Conference on my yellow pad. Or there were a few years when pages were filled with those schnoz'd comic heads of Joe's. 

I don't know how it happened that we always sat in the overflow section. Probably Mom's fault. Heaven knows the rest of us didn't take much time cleaning and dressing ourselves.  

Then there was that day I decided I would be a poet and I took my legal pad to the sidewalk's end for inspiration. As I lay on the hill under that gnarly...oak? tree, I composed the following masterpiece:

Clouds are so big in the sky

They are so prity 

I am so small here on earth.

I would like to state that even as a 7 year old child, I recognized that as crap. I knew I'd never be a writer but come on....the dream was too fun to give up.

I relish being so cliché sometimes. Whatevs. Keeps me unified with my fellow mankind. 

(I just heard a faint "hee hee" from the other side of the office. MJ is spreading.)

Secrets secrets.

Look at all these secrets Noni.

I went to Life Club today and they said a requirement for their club was to send them our "secret in a drawer" (definition: life goal). Apparently, they're going to help us fulfill our dreams. I'm intrigued. And excited about their little happy messages/secret service. "Just call her." Appropriately cliché.

My secret in a drawer? To find a passion. Everyone else seems to have one.

The one I'm sending in-- "To be leader of the PTA."

I think I'll start working on humility now.

In 2010, I will run the Edinburgh Marathon.

http://www.edinburgh-marathon.com/?home

Finally made the decision on my minor. Oddly enough, the revelation came in the middle of Eng375. We were talking about classes in the Victorian ages and in a weird connection that I haven't yet understood, the word "profession" kicked me in the head and said, "Hello girl, you don't want the profession your second minor is pushing you towards. Why don't you drop that in the bucket and spend more time on the things you love instead?" Maybe this revelation was due to the topic of the younger brothers getting the shaft and having to be clergy men. ..I don't want to be a clergy man. Or a business management minor either. They relate. Somehow. In my head.

"Don't let the perfect be the enemy of the good." Voltaire

I made this fake blog so I could take a screen shot for work.

Maybe I'll write in it instead of reading all of xkcd and marthastewart again.

But probably not.