tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14633354762075512302024-02-18T20:38:22.100-08:00Little Amy in a Big WorldWe are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars. - Oscar Wildeamyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03330921805879869867noreply@blogger.comBlogger261125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1463335476207551230.post-75950628809949008392017-08-01T19:03:00.003-07:002017-08-01T19:03:47.516-07:00So that happenedYesterday, following family home evening, Rose received a phone call. Because she is a good citizen, she politely consented to complete a political survey instead of hanging up. So here's the situation:<br />
<br />
Rose is in the kitchen on the phone.<br />
I am sitting at the kitchen table, still holding my scriptures from family home evening.<br />
Anthony and Luca are three feet away. Luca is in time out and Anthony is kneeling on the ground, supervising time out.<br />
<br />
I can tell from Rose's end of the conversation that the survey guy is asking her opinion about Trump. She begins a level-headed response, something beginning with "totally unprofessional..."<br />
<br />
When!<br />
<br />
With absolutely no thought or consideration, I looked up from the email I was reading and added my two cents in case the survey guy was allowed to input responses shouted at him from the background.<br />
<br />
Said I, none too quietly...<br />
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"He's an ass!"<br />
Cue me seeing the shocked look on Rose's face, realizing that Luca is, in fact, right behind me, and desperately trying to recover.<br />
<br />
"...tec....warrior!"<br />
<br />
Rose started laughing, Luca had no visible response, and Anthony gazed on me with a steely look brought on only by inappropriate input in his child's life. And then I sat there with my hands over my mouth in horror until Anthony took Luca upstairs to bed and Rose stopped laughing and got off the phone. She complimented my "nice save." I decided that I've become too comfortable expressing my feelings about political leaders to my siblings in the middle of the night, because the combination of those three things leads to the very worst language I ever use.<br />
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The whole thing reminded me of the time I showed my students a youtube video with an F word on accident. Maybe I need to reevaluate some things.amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03330921805879869867noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1463335476207551230.post-76283337489561934122017-03-30T18:14:00.003-07:002017-03-30T18:17:45.585-07:00Conversations with Sophomores I am currently in the process of compiling snippets of the hilarious daily entertainment provided by my school children, but in the meantime, a conversation I had in class today for your amusement....<br />
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Boy: My mom says I shouldn't kiss people, but I am just a kisser. I do it anyway. I've kissed 23 girls!<br />
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Me: Seriously? That's more people than years you've been alive.<br />
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Boy: Yeah. I do it all the time even though my mom says not to.<br />
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Boy's sidekick: Really? My mom gets upset when I don't kiss girls.<br />
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Me: What now?<br />
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And later on....<br />
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Me: Nope, you are not speaking about girls that way in my class.<br />
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Boy: What are you talking about? I already told you I've kissed 23 girls and I wasn't in trouble then!<br />
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Me: You can kiss whoever you want, but you cannot refer to this girl as "a homework assignment I've<i> got</i> to get done!" Do you see how that's different?<br />
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Boy: Okay, but! Listen..<br />
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Me: Alright, moving on! Which rhetorical strategy was strongest in the documentary?<br />
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Boy: Fine. Pathos.amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03330921805879869867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1463335476207551230.post-73201675173710306262017-03-13T11:08:00.002-07:002017-03-13T11:12:14.347-07:00Grapplings with NihilismI have a recurring dream.<br />
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In my dream, I am blind. Not so blind that everything is black, but enough that the sight I have left seems to be a cruel joke meant to taunt me. I can see just enough to know what direction to go in, maybe.<br />
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And then something else happens. That barely perceptible goal in mind, I reach. I run. I exert all my energy, but I cannot move of my own free will. My movements seem to be controlled by some outer force- like someone is watching me struggle and gleaning enjoyment from the experience, lowering the resistance at times for just a moment to increase their own amusement when I struggle harder.<br />
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Everything is faded. Everything is still, but me. My mind is working triple time, as if to compensate for the uncontrollable slothfulness of my body. I panic. I plead. Whatever I am searching for drifts farther away, and I am left to drown. I am all alone.<br />
<br />
And then I wake up. Shiver, and pray. Move on with my life, until the next time.<br />
<br />
I don't know exactly what this means. I'm aware that eventual blindness is a legitimate possibility, but I can never decide if this dream feels literal or existential in nature. Deciding which often seems important, which of course does not translate into doable.<br />
<br />
Besides this recurring dream, I have also sometimes dreamed of things before they happen. More specifically, people. I dreamed of Emma before I knew she was coming. When Bekah was pregnant, I dreamed of a little boy and knew that he would be alright. I dreamed that something terribly wrong was happening with my best friend, and found out later that this was, in fact, the case. Sometimes this has been a comfort, and sometimes it frightens me a bit. These dreams feel different than the ordinary ones, more real.<br />
<br />
This is what the blindness dream feels like. Literal or existential, I don't know, but real.<br />
<br />
New story.<br />
<br />
When I was in High School, the Drama Club had season tickets to Pioneer Theater. Every other month, I would sit on the front row with my friends, enthralled at the artistry occurring in front of my eyes. Each season they would premier a show never before produced, often directed by the writer. One such show was titled Touch(ed). This play explores themes of traditional madness and how insanity is influenced by human connection.<br />
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The story focuses on two sisters, one ultra focused, responsible, a bit high-strung, etc. Not a relaxed individual, but clearly what we would call "sane." This sister is the caretaker for the other, a woman who is schizophrenic and has spent much of her life in and out of various treatment programs following suicide attempts. During this story, the schizophrenic sister (who is a little "touched' as they say) moves in with her sister and the sister's boyfriend. While the sane one is out of town, the schizophrenic one, with the boyfriend's support, begins a regimen of healthy eating, exercise, and stops taking every single one of her medications. When her sister comes back, she finds a healthy, high-functioning, lucid person in place of the crazy one she left behind.<br />
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Though she is skeptical of this new undertaking, she is persuaded by her sister's success and seeming happiness, which seems legitimate for a long enough period of time that they begin to hope it may be permanent. The neurotic, uptight, responsible sister stops worrying and calms down enough to get happy and engaged. While she and the fiance are out celebrating, the schizophrenic sister is at home, sitting in silence. The lights go down, the door opens, and we see the silhouette of a man, large and imposing, enter the room. He stands behind her and waits. She curls into a smaller ball of weathered resignation, and without looking up, says this:<br />
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"I've been waiting for you."<br />
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When the couple returns, they find the house burned down, and the sister dead inside it.<br />
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Now, listen.<br />
<br />
The threatening, aggressive figure taking over is so unexpected that it kind of shocked the audience into silence. Everyone seemed to hold their breath at once. I remember feeling like I had had the wind knocked out of me. The usual swirling eddy of my thoughts abruptly ceased, and I remember one feeling, insisting to be heard; this was shocking not because of the contrast, but because it felt so familiar.<br />
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I am not schizophrenic. This is an extreme comparison, I know But in a much smaller way than a woman with schizophrenia suddenly succumbing to suicidal tendencies despite all healthy prior indications....that man, threatening and aggressive, who functions as a symbol for mental illness, is a figure I know well.<br />
<br />
This part right here, this is the healthiest I've ever been in ten years. All that time, depression and I gnawing away at each other, has been filled with various victories and defeats. That constant struggle has been ugly and often unexplainable. No matter how hard I worked or how much I won, I always ended up in a puddle on the bathroom floor in the middle of night again.<br />
<br />
So, I pull myself off the bathroom floor and get back to work on this thing called happiness. And when this goes well, I do fabulously. I have all the good advice. I've done the therapy. I have answers, but answers and execution are different things. When things are going well, it still takes constant effort, and I always have this nagging question at the back of my mind. How long can I keep this up?<br />
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Sooner or later, to some degree, the silhouetted man comes back. He seems to have a key for all the locks. He stands near the windows to block out the light. Without looking up, I hear myself say, "I've been waiting for you."<br />
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Of course that response has other layers. Sometimes, that weathered resignation wins out, and I decide that as long as he's blocking the light, I'll just rest for a bit- no need to hurry back to daylight. Other times, I stand up and scream. "I told you not to come back here. Get out!" With the darkest anger I've ever experienced, I tell him I've been trying so long to kill him. I'm generally against violence, but he is an exception I feel good about. Other times, I ignore him, step gingerly around him to throw the curtains open wider and pretend he isn't following me. I continue on. His stamina is impressive. He never speaks, but he doesn't need to. If he spoke, I could argue; I'm extremely articulate and I have an excellent shouting voice. His silent looming is more frightening than an active assailant. A fight I can handle, but he doesn't fight back. He simply is.<br />
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So here's the thing. What does that all mean?<br />
<br />
I know for a certain fact that fighting depression, clawing to shove him out the door, buying more deadbolts, is basically struggling for survival. It's fighting to feel something. I also know that this struggle is a big part of who I am. I am different in a lot of good ways because of all that crap. And the pure "good ideas" part of me says of course fighting back is the correct response. I should do the things I can to be a healthy happy person. But always, there's that knowledge that whatever I am doing to cope is not going to last forever. No lock ever does. This is always going to be a part of my life.<br />
<br />
Thanks to the antidepressant that miraculously works better than any other I've taken in my life, I can fall off the wagon of unsustainable healthy habits every so often without being a volatile freaking mess like I used to be. In the past couple of years, I have discovered that there can be a middle ground between happy and a happiness sucking black hole. I never really experienced that before. And sometimes I rest from all the unsustainable healthy habit work because it is nice to know that I can do that without falling off a cliff.<br />
<br />
But then I feel guilty.<br />
<br />
I was talking with Bekah about this the other day, and she said, "You need to give yourself a break, kiddo."<br />
<br />
Do I? Or is that getting too comfortable with the guy blocking the windows?<br />
<br />
Back to the dream. This has a point, I promise.<br />
<br />
So that dream, the real one. I have been experiencing this dream with dread for quite some time, and it always makes me afraid. As Emily says, "Today is bearable, but to always be afraid of tomorrrow!" I'm always a little bit afraid of the tomorrows, because of the drowning dream.<br />
<br />
But a couple of things occurred to me recently.<br />
<br />
One.<br />
If that dream is <i>not</i> literal, if I'm<i> not</i> going to go blind and get MS all at once, what does it mean? I think that dream is how depression feels. Maybe I haven't been dreaming prophetically, and that dream was just a response to how I was actually experiencing life. ( I do sometimes dream in poetry. I guess this could just be metaphor dreaming?) Maybe it isn't something to be dreaded because it's something I already lived. Something I will keep on living to some extent for all my life, but nevertheless something I know I can survive.<br />
<br />
Two.<br />
Have you guys read The Hiding Place? In this book, Corrie Ten Boom has a vision of herself and her family and some of their friends being arrested by the Nazis and taken away from their home. This dream is frightening, of course, and she takes the matter to her father to discuss it. She, also, is afraid of what may happen. Her father asks her what the purpose of the dream might be. What he told her made me gasp out loud in a room full of people.<br />
<br />
If this is a dream of things to come, then maybe the point is for <i>you</i> to know that<i> God</i> knows. Because He has planned it, there is no need to fear.<br />
<br />
This does not, of course, mean that the experience couldn't be in some way horrific. Nazi imprisonment was no less real to her because she had some inkling it might happen beforehand. But what a comfort to know that a horrifying and difficult experience is not the product of pointless chaos. This dream is frightening to me. It is deeply uncomfortable. It feels like something I have worked so hard to overcome that will just keep coming back like the silhouetted man. But it is also not for nothing. There is a point, and God knows it. He is not unaware of the silhouetted man who stalks me. In fact, they might know each other.<br />
<br />
Because God created the waster to destroy, I can dream of blindness and drowning alone that feels very real, but wake up, shiver and pray, and move on without the fear of tomorrow hanging over my head. God created the waster to destroy- he lets me suffer from depression for a reason, but He also gave me a Savior who is far more persistent than any shadowy figure can be. He gave me a Savior who won't simply lock the door, because that isn't the point. Instead, He will stay inside with me and make me strong enough to fight back. Maybe that point when I fall off the wagon for a bit is a tool to help me know that there <i>is</i> a middle ground that is solid enough to rest on. And when I get back up to grapple with that dark figure -who will keep coming back because he's really only a part of me- I'll be able to do it because the Savior will be there, asking to be a part of me, too.<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03330921805879869867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1463335476207551230.post-58138111544602733242016-08-26T22:27:00.000-07:002016-08-26T22:27:52.593-07:00If you could leave tips over the phone...Greg from Progressive would be a richer man. That was the most helpful and patient insurance agent I have ever encountered. And I hope he gets to go home soon cause he sounded tired. And I don't know if I believe in blog karma, but Greg, you deserve good things.<br />
<br />
Good people get stuck in really crappy phone jobs late at night and have to answer questions from crazy people like me. Four phone calls and a Herculean effort on his part later, I have new car insurance. amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03330921805879869867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1463335476207551230.post-80427780447299248352016-08-26T22:24:00.003-07:002016-08-26T22:24:48.914-07:00The Illusion of ManIt is a truth universally acknowledged that a single woman of four and twenty in Logan, Utah must justify singlehood. All. The. Time. (Also, not being a True Aggie. People are shocked to hear that I've gone six years without making out with a stranger on a ritual cement platform at my college campus. "You're missing out!" they say. "The horror!" I reply.)<div>
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Singlehood can be awkward here. I am no longer a tiny freshman who is clearly too young to marry regardless of absurd cultural standards. I'm about to enter my third Senior year of college, just shy of done. I live in a Young Single Adult ward which is fabulous and filled with good friendships, but the boys also scatter reliably and consistently when they discover my age. While 24 is clearly not spinsterhood, I live in the midst of many, many, young men whose average age is years younger than mine. </div>
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I guess their thing with the age is pretty comparable to my thing with height. There's my comeuppance for being shallow!</div>
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The past couple years have been filled with uncomfortable, sometimes painful, albeit hilarious dating experiences. I focus on the hilarious because what else are you supposed to do? We all know about awkwards hands by now, right? I am trying to own the awkward and revel in the "double hands way in the air" storytelling moments. </div>
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Like the time a friend of many years and I decided that we should maybe, actually, try out that dating thing that everyone has been teasing us about since we were sixteen. And then he dated someone else and didn't bother to tell me, instead opting for the "radio silence for months" option. We finally figured out that mess, and it was fine. He is married now. I was in the wedding party. This wedding day was a truly happy occasion wherein I felt not a shred of jealousy for his gorgeous wife, who I actually really like. But the principle of the thing stung a bit, if I'm honest. </div>
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Or the time my boss tried to set me up on a date with her husband's coworker, twenty miles, an entire canyon, and a different county away. What are the odds he would live in my apartment building and attend my ward? They were slim, but they won out. I had private intel from the husband that the coworker was pretty excited and intended to call. And then he figured out he knew me and proceeded to never call. Instead, we've spent the last year in a silent mutual agreement that we will never speak on the bi-weekly occasions we are in the same place, doing the same thing. Awkwardly avoiding eye contact. </div>
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There was the pride-shattering and unexpected deep discomfort when Facebook informed me that my ex-boyfriend was dating somebody new. Three years later, you'd think that wouldn't matter. I thought it didn't matter. But, sheesh. Nothing like an innocent photo to knock the wind out of you for a bit. </div>
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Or the other time my boss tried to set me up with this guy we both know, and then asked me about it every day while I tried to list all the evidence that nothing is going on with this guy. When dating came up in a group conversation yesterday, I said something about being single and she looked at me wide-eyed; "<i>Are</i> you single?" I'm confused about what part of "never been on an acutal date with this man" makes her surprised that we haven't made it official. </div>
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There's the whole family demanding details about the man I met on the internet before I go to meet him in a very public place. After a few minutes of the Spanish Inquisition, I finally said "This is sort of humiliating anyway. I'm done answering questions right now." Mom did not understand why internet dating would be humiliating. My sister understood, and said "Yeah, I can see how you wouldn't want to talk about that." I appreciated her backup, but I'm still not sure which of their points of view is less flattering. </div>
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Anyway, we're done with the internet's input. </div>
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The thing that is sticky about this point in life, see, is that the first thing people ask when we see each other after a long while is "Are you dating anyone?" Then they get upset when I laugh involuntarily. My mom is offended on my behalf."Why is it funny that you would be dating?" But everyone also gets happy, wide-eyed surprised, and actually literally "proud!" when I tell them I am going on a date. That expression is always the same, and while I appreciate my mother's argument on my behalf that it is not ludicrous to suppose I might be in a relationship, there are some mixed messages going on here. In the past year or so, when people ask me if I'm dating and I say no, there is also an added "Well, that's okay." </div>
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Which really means, "It's a little weird at this point, so I have to reassure you that it's not weird." Nobody reassured me at twenty one, but here we are. </div>
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I live in a place where I am encouraged to date and to marry. Our Bishop is famous. The year before I moved into my apartment complex, more than half the ward got married and moved out, and the Bishopric is proud of their success. Tithing settlement is called "dating settlement" here in the 27th ward. We spend all of 12 seconds on tithing and the next questions are, consecutively, </div>
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"Are you dating anyone?" </div>
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"Do you want to be dating anyone?"</div>
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"Who in the ward do you want to date? I'll tell them." </div>
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(Cause there's not enough awkward avoidance of eye contact in Sunday School.)</div>
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Every year it seems, we are begged from many and multiple pulpits not to "date through our twenties," but instead, to be serious, and look for marriage. Don't waste time. </div>
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I gotta be honest. I am being begged not to stay someplace I can't even get, because that miles ahead point on the road that is called "dating" isn't good enough, they say. If only I could just get to "not good enough" instead of "failing so miserably." </div>
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Don't wend your way leisurely along the highway, cruising in the center. Get in the left lane. Commit. That's great. I love the left lane. I don't want to wend leisurely in the center. But I don't have a lot of options, cause I'm in the right lane impeding traffic, trying to get up to speed. </div>
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Remember that " focus on the hilarious" thing I'm going for? I realize I just fell of the wagon. But the point of this whole thing, before my accidental venting session, was to tell a story that <i>is</i> focused on the hilarious. </div>
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A few days ago, my roommate Krysta and I were in the Walmart, shopping for light bulbs and various apartment cleaning sundries. We stopped at the aisle filled with scented wax refills and smelled them all. Cause who doesn't, right? We always do. </div>
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There was a lot of "ohhh, smell this... wow, that is nice!"and "HOLY Cow, that is disgusting!" </div>
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Then Krysta held up a package to me to smell. It smelled really good. </div>
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"Wow!" I said. </div>
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"It smells like man!" Krysta said. "What's it called?"</div>
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I turned it over to look. </div>
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<b><i>"Illusion</i>"</b></div>
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I have never laughed so hard in a Walmart. "That's about right." said Krysta. </div>
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"Yep. Accurate." </div>
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There. I made it back to humor. We bought the wax.</div>
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amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03330921805879869867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1463335476207551230.post-65483318021226472015-09-18T17:06:00.002-07:002015-09-18T17:06:08.461-07:00So I was walking with my friend Adam today...Adam: "Oh sorry! I just spit on you a little. That's awkward."<br />
Me: "Eh, I didn't notice. We've endured much more awkwardness. That doesn't even count."<br />
Adam: "That's true. We almost kissed once."<br />
Me: " Yep. And then Dr. Kinkead told everybody about it for the next year."<br />
Adam: "Yeah, that was great."<br />
<br />
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<br />amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03330921805879869867noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1463335476207551230.post-74969845261218017242014-04-04T11:26:00.000-07:002014-04-04T11:26:59.312-07:00Bipolar, but leveling offOnce upon a time, I had this extremely busy semester. And it almost killed me. Stuff happened. Some terrible stuff.<br />
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Aka, last Thursday I found myself sitting in my car, which wouldn't start, trying to do homework on my phone, which wouldn't work, and trying not to panic about my computer, which is broken, or hyperventilate about my wallet, which was lost. "Pure Satan. Like, Comcast Evil."<br />
<br />
And I called Erin and she told me to be calm. And that worked, which surprised me. That was a whole week ago, and I have discovered since then that my computer is worse than I thought and I have to buy a new one. And my car isn't fixed yet, so this week has been fun like that. But I don't feel like hyperventilating. Which is a big deal, which you know if you have been reading this blog....<br />
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This lack of panic has me wondering some things about myself. It is only one of the many stark contrasts I have noticed between this semester and that last time I was in school full time. These drastic changes are one reason I am really glad I moved away for a whole school year. Now I am back, and I think that huge gap is the only reason I really noticed how different I am. I have been trying to figure out which changes are good and which are not so good, but also why I am different. What changed me?<br />
<br />
I have some proposals for this specific and odd "Not panicking" thing.<br />
1. I am way too exhausted. My energy, previously absorbed in being worried and falling off of emotional cliffs no matter how hard I tried not to, seems to have been diverted, in large part, to getting things done that I wasn't getting done before. I am way more productive, and I sleep about half as much, and maybe I am just too tired to panic. Somebody told me once that happiness is, in large part, being too busy to be unhappy. I think I believe that.<br />
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2. Maybe I grew up a little bit? Maybe I figured out some bigger things, and I can handle problems more effectively now? I know I have a better idea of what I believe and why I believe it than I did before, but does that influence panic attacks directly? I don't know about this one exactly. I'd like to think this is the reason, but I suspect it's a little bit this and a lottle bit exhaustion.<br />
<br />
3. I quit drinking diet coke and started exercising. Could this reduce erratic emotions? I am healthier. That has emotional impact, right? Maybe it is the physical impact and a little bit of the immense battle of self-discipline I had to win in order to overcome what was beginning to be a severe and prohibitive addiction. Maybe self-discipline is the important factor.<br />
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Maybe it's this. One of the differences between now me and 2011 me is that I feel differently about miracles. I had a lot of miracles in my life before, and a lot of people willing to help me, but I didn't ever feel like those things came naturally. Even though I was grateful, those things made me uncomfortable. I think I had an odd definition of self-reliance. I think I thought that meant that you never should have to rely on other people. But that isn't true. If that was true, what do we have families and friends and loving relationships for? We aren't supposed to do everything by ourselves. We are supposed to work hard and take help and give help as much as we can, and I feel better about my ability to accept with gratitude and to give. I feel more confident not that miracles will come, but that I can work hard and make things happen with the help of people who care about me, and that <i>is a miracle.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
For instance:<br />
Six people have jumped my car battery in the last two weeks, because sometimes I really need to use my car and I haven't had a chance to put in a new battery yet. Last week my car wouldn't start and I was stranded at Walmart, about to be late for a group project that was kind of a big deal. So I texted my friend Adam from the group to tell him I would be late. Surprise! He just happened to be at Walmart at the time and came and got me. And then Shane took me back and started my car the next day, and Katie offered to take me to buy a battery anytime. My friends are miracles.<br />
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And my broken computer? Mark transferred stuff from my hard drive onto his computer so I could take a computer back to school with me and do my homework until I could get mine fixed, and Ben interrupted bedtime to hash out my computer problems with me and find a solution. And now I know that I can't fix my computer because I would have to buy a new motherboard. I just have to buy a new one. But you know when that happened to occur? Two weeks before Black Friday. Miracle? I think so.<br />
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And my job! I was worried I wouldn't get enough hours, and then I got a promotion, and a raise, and another promotion within a month. And I got to handpick my schedule for next semester and choose as many hours as I wanted. MIRACLE!<br />
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Things are working out even when I don't have the time or energy to pour into excessive anxiety. What a gift! We all know that this hasn't been completely consistent. Sometimes, like a month ago, I have stress attacks, and I slammed some doors and swore a little bit, and I burst out crying in the middle of a room filled with fifteen people because of one innocent comment, and mom sat down and had a talk with me about my emotional health. That all happened in one day. But even since then I feel like I've made good strides in being calm. I have learned to ask for blessings instead of slamming doors and swearing. Progress, right?<br />
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Of course right.<br />
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<br />amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03330921805879869867noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1463335476207551230.post-1713681331947691422013-09-28T18:23:00.002-07:002013-09-28T18:34:46.274-07:00Not always, but sometimes......drivers in Logan give me dirty looks when I am in their way. Nevermind that they are the ones driving on the left side of the road. Nevermind that this happened <i>twice in the past three hours.</i> Nevermind that we are not in England.<br />
<br />
(But seriously. Let's not think about not being in England. It will make us sad.)<br />
<br />
....I want people to do their job, because I am doing mine, and also, you are getting paid. When things in my life depend on you, and I have never met you yet, and the only thing I have ever heard from your employees is how you are pissed off at them even though they are literally doing your job, I get grouchy. Not that that is your problem, but your job description is, actually, your problem.<br />
<br />
... I am grouchy. Not always, but sometimes.<br />
<br />
....I remember to write in my happiness calendar, and Zane snapchats me stuff, and I make a lot of money in two hours, and I dance on a streetcorner with a new friend, and I get all of next week's homework done in advance for my YAL class, and I find twenty dollars I forgot I had, and I suck up the grouchiness and make my bed, and then I feel better.<br />
<br />
...I remember the boy from England who can't pronounce Tater Tots to save his life and also that he winks at me a lot, and I feel better about not being in England, cause he isn't either. <br />
<br />
<br />
Take away message:<br />
<br />
(Cause randomness has to mean something. That is what they taught me in Lit Analysis, so it has to be true for the sake of my sanity. )<br />
<br />
Ahem. Happiness is sometimes a precarious state of things. But we have more control of it than we realize most of the time. Happiness is hard work. Good thing I have a whole lifetime and that's the point of it.<br />
<br />
Always. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
*Dear family, I realize this is, as we used to say, pretty rich coming from me, the door slamming cusser with the tiny black soul filled with rage you all spent last weekend with. But I am making progress, so thanks for all the niceness and putting up with that psycho wielding a lawnmower in spite of the rage. Y'all are great. Love you. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03330921805879869867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1463335476207551230.post-5975449954096534562013-09-25T21:22:00.000-07:002013-09-25T21:22:02.237-07:00Library SleepersSometimes I am one of them. Like today. They just put pillows in the chairs lining the east windows, and that was a beautiful thing that turned out to be the arch nemesis of homework time. I had an hour and a half break between classes and sixty pages of Gulliver's Travels and rms errors to study and instead I took an hour and twenty minute nap. And the amazing thing about this is that I woke up and didn't even feel that guilty.<br />
<br />
You hear that, mom? Not guilty. Boom. Roasted!<br />
<br />
We're making progress. amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03330921805879869867noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1463335476207551230.post-26735828357206859832013-09-17T17:12:00.002-07:002013-09-17T17:12:36.705-07:00Word Vomit and Why I Abstain, CourteouslyNot in the usual sense of dumping any words on a page you might feel like at the time with no regard for applicability, coherence, or appropriate boundaries. <br />
<br />
No, my friends, this is me realizing that I want to vomit because of the textbook that wants to teach me how to be an English Teacher. I just read a chapter on censorship that made me want to vomit. Such self-righteous language as I have never been fed from a legitimate source! Such self indulgent and exclusive Messiah complexes! Wowza!<br />
<br />
I understand the point. We believe in the right to read. I get it. I agree with it. I read a lot of stuff in school that wasn't necessarily 'appropriate' for my age group. I believe that being 'appropriate for an age group' is a subjective thing, and I certainly defined that for myself. That's cool. My parents were fine with it, and they were involved in it and I talked about a lot of it with either my parents or my teachers. Go Right to Read! Yay American Library Association!<br />
<br />
However, one small qualification: I absolutely believe in the right to read, and I absolutely believe in advocating the right to read for other people, especially children. What I don't support and can't understand is that a campaign which claims its purpose is to support the free thinking and trust the intelligence of the individuals they work for also refuses to accept the fact that these people may exercise that free thought and intelligence to choose not to read a work they find inappropriate or disturbing. The Right to Read is valid only when accompanied by The Right not to Read.<br />
<br />
I would like to think that I am not a close minded puritan who hates anything remotely offensive in literature. I read Les Miserables and Crime and Punishment and Beloved, for crying out loud. I had no problem with reading an uncensored text of The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. I support the sentiment as my Writing Professor expressed it; "If you're gonna be offended about something, be offended that this is rooted in history, that this type of thing existed to be written about in the first place." Truth. There is value in literature that contains things we may find offensive, immeasurable value. There is a reason I have never had an issue with reading the things he assigns. There is a reason we talk about things like racism, and violence, and as abhorrent as it is, there could even be a reason to use the N-word in a book. We should have the right to read.<br />
<br />
But what if there isn't a reason? What if vulgarity, or obscenity, or extreme violence, and there isn't a purpose for it? What if there is a purpose but I just know that I'm not ready for it? What if those kids in high school who we hope are learning to think for themselves and make their own decisions actually do just that when they say "I believe that this material is degrading and offensive for no reason and I choose not to participate."? What if their parents decide with them that they are willing to say it out loud and find an alternative assignment? Maybe we should knock down our pride a notch or two, enough to realize that they are applying the critical thinking skills and independence we've been trying to teach them and get over ourselves enough to accept that they are doing it in ways we may not personally agree with. Maybe we respect that, or if you can't, suck it up anyway. <br />
<br />
This is all on a case by case basis, of course, There are absolutely students and parents who abuse that right not to read, who try to impose it on other students who have no problem with what they've been assigned, and that is a shame, and when it extends to the rights of others to read, then absolutely educators should fight such attempts at censorship. But if a student chooses not to read something and has legitimate reasons and cares enough to address them with you, perhaps the respect and open-mindedness you've been preaching could go both ways. Maybe you could refrain from demeaning, belittling, and self aggrandizing vitriol. Perhaps you could recognize that 'censor' is not a term automatically synonymous with 'Beelzebub'.<br />
<br />
I never realized before taking this class that the field might involve some things I have deep personal issues with. I didn't realize I might be one of those people they are preaching against in this book they made me pay for. And it makes me nervous. I didn't realize it might be such a difficult task to support the Right to Read and the Right to Abstain simultaneously, but maybe if I can pull it off, I'll have something to be proud of.<br />
<br />
Though it is not always an option, and we don't want to be New York, sometimes it is appropriate to abstain, courteously. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03330921805879869867noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1463335476207551230.post-42301777742269880672013-09-16T10:46:00.001-07:002013-09-16T10:46:37.648-07:00Estrogen You know how female cops are stereotyped as being horrific and terrifying because they have something to prove? Well, I am going to extend the stereotype to female professors. Like a terrible person.<br />
<br />
According to the world of academia, I'm allowed to be a terrible person because I am female. Seeing as how all the female educators preparing me to be a female educator are hateful, its going to take a lot of energy not to be unwittingly inducted into their clan of shrewishness. And that, my friends, is energy I just don't have today. Which we can all tell cause I am venting all my frustration to the internet and I'm going to hit the publish button. <br />
<br />
And all my suspicions that I am not at all a feminist have finally been confirmed. Because I have never had any trouble with the men who teach my classes. But the women are overwhelmingly catty and passive aggressive and elitist and unclear and impossible and <i>vicious.</i><br />
<br />
Also, I hate your reading assignments. I wonder what she'd say if my assigned video posting for banned books week actually supported the parents who cause all those headaches for teachers whose literature choices they despise. Because that book was terrible and also inappropriate and I would never make high school students read something that included that much graphic description of sexual activity. Maybe I don't want to support all the banned books. Maybe some of them should be banned.<br />
<br />
I'm breathing. And I'm going to show up to class and be pleasant. I'm going to!<br />
<br />
My High School English Teachers followed the opposite trend. Does that mean I have hope? amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03330921805879869867noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1463335476207551230.post-10017366889278396762013-09-11T21:29:00.000-07:002013-09-11T21:29:39.369-07:00A Catastrophe of Epic ProportionsKeeping up with the Kardashians and Pretty Little Liars just showed up on my list of Netflix suggestions, just for me. Which means one of two things:<br />
<br />
1) Their algorithms are royally screwed up.<br />
2) I need to seriously reevaluate the nature of my media consumption.<br />
<br />
Cause guys. They think I would watch that.<br />
<br />
Shudder. amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03330921805879869867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1463335476207551230.post-52886461710374390162013-09-07T21:30:00.000-07:002013-09-07T21:30:04.157-07:00NostalgiaSometimes I have this intense need to go to Walmart with Erin in the middle of the night. And I can't, but I still need change so I can do laundry. So I go by myself and buy the cheapest thing from the day old bakery section. And then I eat three crullers on the very short drive home. And I know what Erin would think about such extraneous carbohydrates so late at night so I pawn off the rest on all the random people who are watching a movie in my living room when I get home. And I feel closer to her, cause that's what Erin would do.<br />
<br />
<br />Now if only I had some salsa verde to smash all over the driveway. That'd be good. amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03330921805879869867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1463335476207551230.post-39200276386834672182013-09-07T19:45:00.002-07:002013-09-07T19:45:55.224-07:00The Happiness CalendarI have a friend named Genevieve. She is twice as cool as her name if you can believe it. She can make me laugh harder in public than anyone else, and she uses words like "indelicate", and she cannot cartwheel. And she is superwoman and kind of intimidating sometimes, because she has a book of a hundred and something things she wants to do in college and she sticks to it with the utmost dilligence. I've seen it. All the goals and their descriptions are written in a small book in pencil, and she retraces over them in pen as she completes them, and she has done a lot of stuff, my friends. <br />
<br />
Last week we had our breaks at work at the same time and were sitting eating dinner together, and she was telling me about the last year when I was in North Carolina, and it was a rough year for her. And out of the difficulty was spawned a thing called "The Happiness Calendar". (Tell me she's not the most admirable woman in the world. You can't. Such positivism!) All it is is a tiny cheap calendar from Walmart and the rule is that she <i>must </i>write one thing that made her happy that day before she can go to sleep, even if it's really hard to think of anything. She just makes herself pick one.<br />
<br />
Such a suggestion struck me like a lightning bolt. I thought, I must have a Happiness Calendar. To be able to look back at an entire huge period of time marked only by the things that made you happy? I <i>need</i> it. I told her I was going to do that. I thought, life is kind of rough, and I am kind of nervous and wandering around trying to figure out exactly what it is I'm doing and how exactly I plan to pay for that and just being lonely and afraid in general. And that's no way to live, but I have a hard time snapping out of it at times. This seemed the perfect solution.<br />
<br />
So, needing a new planner, I bought one accompanied by a calendar, and I've been writing on it. And let me tell you, folks, that the majority of my days are still ones of fatigue, and discouragement, and uncertainty, and that balance that you have to find at the beginning of each new semester is not yet achieved. But I am inching slowly closer to the fulcrum, I think, and it has been eye-opening to take that calendar out and write down something that made me happy today. Not because it's hard to choose one, but that the instant I actually stop wallowing and think about it, it's impossible to pick from the streams of small miracles and tender mercies. It helps me to remember the things I love about Logan and why I wanted to come back here. And it helps me to realize that, even in the midst of my loneliness, most of those things that end up on the Calendar are people. Katie who I ran into on the Quad, and Alan who keeps me from falling asleep in the mornings at work, and Scotty who will teach me how to stretch my intensely painful right shoulder blade area, and Dr. McCuskey the professor who changed my life who I saw on the stairs (who looked at me and said, "<i>Why </i>aren't you in my classes?"), and Erin who will leave me voicemails just to say she misses me. Life is hard, but the point is to surround each other with love and support, and my Happiness Calendar sessions are not only an excellent excercise in humility but a reminder that I'm not alone even if I feel like it.<br />
<br />
Genevieve gets a spot tonight, I think. She gave me the way to remember all those things. It's almost like giving me all those things in one. I'm a lucky girl. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Everyone needs this. That is all. amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03330921805879869867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1463335476207551230.post-8492560438835649332013-09-05T20:35:00.002-07:002013-09-05T20:35:45.151-07:00Also. This. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEGn5aQ9ejR0arQfqKPapeWprIA5WS88SDMddoa-A3SRZh4qRtO_kM5p5n8l580DLfl-bJ6QZ3R6SlpuXrhXvCsIizw8bJvaZ35oth_RATfyFQVqMBv0mMRQ_4i1-qZ1iTnWmuFhIBuXA/s1600/awkward+hands.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEGn5aQ9ejR0arQfqKPapeWprIA5WS88SDMddoa-A3SRZh4qRtO_kM5p5n8l580DLfl-bJ6QZ3R6SlpuXrhXvCsIizw8bJvaZ35oth_RATfyFQVqMBv0mMRQ_4i1-qZ1iTnWmuFhIBuXA/s320/awkward+hands.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
Because we are awesome. And very awkward. And we own it. Like Champions. Best Day Ever. <br /><br />amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03330921805879869867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1463335476207551230.post-54603037965272306362013-09-05T20:08:00.005-07:002013-09-05T20:08:56.062-07:00"If it looks like a duck, and it talks like a duck, it's Imperialism"Once upon a time I locked my keys in my car outside the library at school. After extensive searching under my car looking like a loser, I concluded that my hide a key is no longer attached to the underside of my car and could be in any number of places spanning about three thousand miles. So I called the campus cops and sheepishly asked them to come break into my car for me, cause you can't do that with a credit card, and that's the only break-in I am any good at. Sigh...<br />
<br />
While I was waiting for the cops to come save me, I called my twin Amy. I miss her and I needed someone to give me permission to drop the horrid grammar class. And I sat outside the library talking with her for a good long while about all manner of things; cabbages, kings, our parents, bratty teenagers, school, and eventually the George Orwell piece I had read for my persuasive writing class called Shooting an Elephant. I highly recommend anything written by George Orwell at least once*, and in this case a re-read would probably be in order. I was sharing with Amy the intense satisfaction I get from this class, which is taught by my second favorite professor who I love. He is hilarious and paces around the front of the classroom with growing intensity proportionate with the intensity of the literature we are currently analyzing. I love this man. And I took this class specifically so that I could take it from him and not some grad school hippie who doesn't care, which was a wise choice because <i>this</i>, this is just like the Lit History class that changed my life, but applied to writing. And it is brilliant. And even at seven thirty, it gives me an adrenaline rush that reminds me why I want to teach English! Dr. King! The Rhetorical Triangle! Characters symbolizing the conflict between Imperialism and the native oppressed! yesyesyesyesyesyesyes!**<br />
<br />
Long Story short, Shooting an Elephant is the most damning evidence to Imperialism I've ever read, including everything I ever read in 19th Century British Lit. And it is brilliant and beautiful and gory and graphic in all the most effective ways, and now I sound like my crazy coffee-chugging floor pacing, cussing professor, who, after reading a specifically revealing passage, yelled "Excellent!" and then mutter under his breath as he paced away, "Syria...". <br />
<br />
That's okay with me. I like him.<br />
<br />
And I really like Amy, who is a really good egg, and a really good twin.*** And she plays along when I get all hyped up on English and says extremely quotebook worthy things. It was a good day. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
* AKA nobody ever needs to read 1984 twice. As Crawford said, "And just when your soul starts to weep, it gets worse..." <br />
<br />
**I miss Brighton. And the yesyesyes dance. That is all. <br />
<br />
***Guys. Did you know I have a roommate named Amy? I am also one of five Amys in my ward. We're taking over the place. amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03330921805879869867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1463335476207551230.post-52157514070207957542013-05-22T09:26:00.001-07:002013-05-22T09:26:03.734-07:00S M R TA few weeks ago my phone broke. Like, hardcore broke and took all my contacts and voicemails and text messages down with it. Which was a little bit of a huge deal because I had text messages and voicemails on that phone from three years ago. In a desperate and unhealthy "let's be a packrat for the digital age" kind of time, I saved everything. And I am still mad that I won't ever be able to listen to those voicemails again. You know that part that drives me even more crazy? Those voicemails are older than that phone. Which means that somehow they got transferred over when I got that phone, and I DON'T REMEMBER HOW I DID THAT, GUYS! <br />
<br />
So if someone really loved me and knew how to make that happen, I'm still a packrat for the digital age and I would really like all that stuff and I would really like <i>you.</i><br />
<br />
But that wasn't the point. The point is that after two weeks of denial about the real and truly dead state of my phone and some irritation and anger from my family who was sick of wondering where I was, I caved and bought out my contract and bought a new phone. And it's a really good deal. Like, I am getting unlimited everything for twenty bucks a month with no contract. And I really like it. But there's always a catch.<br />
<br />
This is my first smartphone. And you guys, it is smarter than me. It's taken me a week to figure out how to use the thing. And there are still some things I am fuzzy on. Like why the heck I can't find the place where it will send picture messages. And I am also pretty embarrassed about the part where I can't get the freaking cover off the back. Which is inconvenient seeing as how I really need the SD card. Seriously, who can't get the cover off their phone and who the heck can't figure out how to send pictures?<br />
<br />
My smart phone makes me feel stupid.<br />
<br />
<br />
My only consolation is that James couldn't get the cover off either, and Zach couldn't figure out how to send picture messages either. And when I ask Bekah really stupid questions like "What does the red exclamation mark mean and how do I get it to go away?" she is really nice and doesn't make fun of me.<br />
<br />
Wait. Lie. There was one more consolation. Yesterday my Uncle Leon and cousin Zach and his wife and daughter came to visit on their way to Washington. Which was really nice cause I haven't seen Zach or Leon in so long I can't remember the last time I saw them, but it's been something like eight years. And Leon has this fancy smart phone he doesn't know how to use cause he thinks "Technology is the worst thing to ever happen to our world!" And the only reason he bought it was to get pictures of his granddaughter, but apparently his curiosity is getting the best of him cause we spent the better part of last night listening to Zach teach his dad how to use his smartphone. And I learned some stuff. And I didn't feel as discouraged about not knowing how to use my phone when Zach had to explain how to download apps and the difference between 3G and wi-fi. I felt better then.<br />
<br />
But I still can't get the cover off, so....amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03330921805879869867noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1463335476207551230.post-56806946420032792732013-05-09T09:35:00.004-07:002013-05-09T09:50:13.112-07:00And the Winner is...Elder Daxx Stryker, who opened his mission call yesterday. Storytime.<br />
<br />
The plan was to wait for me to get off work before he opened it so I could be there. This turned out kind of funny. First, we were disgustingly busy the night before and prep was gonna be a freaking nightmare the next day, so I offered to come in early, right? Which makes me sound like a nice person but really I wanted to make sure we freaking got out on time cause they were already waiting for me. And Megantron our fearless leader agreed that coming in early would be really good so that Daxx could leave when I got there to go open his mission call.<br />
<br />
Hehe. Irony, man. <br />
<br />
So all day long I hear updates at work. Megan just got a snapchat of the mailman "taking his sweet time!" and another one with "It's here!" Hayley showed up and announced to everyone first thing that Daxx had his mission call and then all I wanted to do all night was scream "I KNOW! EVERYBODY STOP BUYING SODA AND GET THE LIST DONE SO I CAN GO AND HE CAN OPEN IT! ALSO, IF YOU SWEEP THE FLOOR ANY SLOWER MY ARTERIES MIGHT EXPLODE!"<br />
<br />
Eventually everything was done. And I tried to lock the door and leave. And then a horrific thing happened. It wouldn't lock. I couldn't do it.<br />
<br />
(Backstory. I don't normally have a key cause I don't close very often. I had Daxx's key on loan last night. His key was once my key for a really long time. But in between the time it was mine and the time that it was his, it belonged to another employee who:<br />
1 Got her car booted<br />
2 Tried to pry the boot off the car herself<br />
3 Used her <i>work key</i> in the attempt <br />
<br />
And then they took it away and gave it to Daxx.)<br />
<br />
Long story short, the key is bent, and Daxx is the sole talented person who can use it, apparently. So, exercising my talent for the worst timing in the world, I had to call Daxx to come lock the door, cause I just wasn't being enough of the problem child.<br />
<br />
Thank goodness Daxx is super patient and didn't blow up when he had to come save me after waiting for six agonizing hours. But he worked his magic and we finally got there.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?v=10200573255206156&set=vb.1602256105&type=2&theater">And this joyous thing is what happened. </a><br />
<br />
<br />
HE'S LEAVING FOR ARGENTINA IN EIGHT WEEKS! Well technically fourteen, but whatever. The MTC is exciting too. Out of all the votes marked on the map, not one person guessed Argentina. We all lost.<br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />
There was a lot of "Where's a map?" and " Converter? I hardly know her!"* and incessant "Shoot! That's soon!" and "Guys. I'm gonna die." and a whole lot of fake lisping. (Apparently, Argentinian people say Carne Athada? No one knows. Either way, all the boys started calling him Elder Thryker and its my job to make sure everyone at Papa Murphy's only talks to him in a lisp for the next eight weeks. We jumped up and down trying to contain our joy. <br />
<br />
<br />
It was a really good night. July 3rd is speeding towards us.<br />
<br />
Also, all my missionary letters will still go to Argentina. Rosario is one mission over from Resistencia. I like Argentina.<br />
<br />
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* For as long as I have known him, Daxx has made "I hardly know her" jokes. Any exclamation of words ending with er elicits this response. Duster. Eraser. Register. Heater. Steeper. The list goes on. And when he changed his name, I thought it would never end.<br />
"Stryker? I hardly know her!" Twenty thousand times a day, seriously.<br />
<br />
And then last night, I was reading the packet they send with the mission call. And there was a part where they talked about electricity and how the voltage in his mission is 220 and he should prepare accordingly.<br />
"Whoa. What do you do for that? I didn't even think about it."<br />
"I don't know. Maybe you need a converter."<br />
Automatically: "Converter? I hardly know her!"<br />
<br />
And then we heard it.<br />
<br />
"Ha! Convert her!" <br />
<br />
There you have it. The most perfectly timed unintentional mission joke in the world. All the jokes culminated in that one perfect point. There was not a more perfect high five moment ever. I will remember that as a golden moment in time for my whole life. That is all. <br />
<br />
<br />amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03330921805879869867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1463335476207551230.post-32370828354970739522013-04-24T09:05:00.001-07:002013-04-24T09:05:29.395-07:00Conference KidsWhen we were teensy children, I remember Conference being a super big deal. It was always memorable, be it good or bad. I would spread out my orange blanket on the ground in the living room and fight over floor space with Rose. We'd start, so excited that we got out of Sunday clothes, and ever steadily fight to stay awake. Halfway through we'd beg mom and dad to let us watch it down in their room, pleading with promises that we would be good and watch the prophet. This wish, when granted, usually turned into a raucous, laughter-filled, pillow fight with Alex as the ringleader. Of course, he doubled as the one to tell us to behave so he could claim being in charge on both ends. Those were the days. <br />
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Things evolved, of course, as we grew up. We got better at listening, betterish at taking notes when applicable. Ben and Erin started the Conference Waffle tradition and that regulated things quite a bit. And then, one day, we were all magically grown up and there was another generation of big people instructing a new generation of little people in the art of conference- watching. We were well-mannered, and dilligent, and attentive, and mature.<br />
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That, my friends, was short-lived.<br />
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I realized this last week during the Sunday morning session of conference. Mark and Amy had come the night before so they could make us waffles on Sunday morning, Ben being in North Carolina and the Trents being industrious and service oriented. We had breakfast on Sunday and then went downstairs to the living room so that Amy could take a nap. Of course, she took Mark with her to snuggle like the pukerific newlyweds they are. Of course, I came along because Mark and I were in the middle of a conversation. So there we were, on the couch, not bothering to get ready. Bekah came over to watch with us, and she ended up down there in a chair by my end of the couch. Mom, of course, sat across the room, seeming to sense with her mother's intuition, that she would need to tune us out.<br />
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And so conference began, the new generation of adults at one end of the room. And we began in a well-mannered and dilligent and attentive and mature fashion, albeit a pajamified fashion. And then Bekah and I began to cross into each other's territory. Which started off as a companionable sisterly thing and ended with us playing a game of "Draw Something" on each other's ankles.<br />
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Mark and Amy had to see, of course, so there ended up being a lot of stretching my ankles across people and holding some double awkward hands positions while people laughed at Bekah's message. ("Moisturize Me!" I guess I should use more lotion.) Bekah's ankle started out with a dandelion looking thing and ended up as a clover with a Who Village on top, complete with captions and labels. All we needed was the Elephant. It was almost as good as Pillow fights downstairs, even without the urgent warning which is strewn throughout my childhood memories, "CRAP! Dad's coming!"<br />
<br />
I promise we listened to the Prophet.<br />
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But it was a good thing Mom tuned us out. Also a sign that maybe we are more kids than ever now that we are grown-ups. Cause she doesn't even try to make us behave anymore. And then Matthew came home and we shaped right up. We had to be big kids again. Good examples and all that. I was amazed to realize how quickly we can transition. Maybe we're all just faking it for the kids.<br />
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Moral of the story, kids might be better at encouraging good behavior in us than we are at encouraging good behavior in them. Matthew is more awesome than I knew.<br />
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But I really wanted to finish drawing Horton on my sister's leg. Dang! <br />
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<br />amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03330921805879869867noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1463335476207551230.post-60121336274874385882013-04-01T08:50:00.002-07:002013-04-01T08:50:18.667-07:00Not April FoolsI am sitting in Kansas City with Dad. We are gonna be back in Salt
Lake on Tuesday. And the adventuring is going well. We drove through
Oak Ridge and saw Grandpa's old house (read: laid on the hill outside it
while Dad thought I was weird), and I finally know where Gatlinburg is
(Tennessee, that's where it is), and new inside jokes have been born,
and we continued the road tripping with Ruby Tuesday's croutons
tradition, and I finally found something that makes Dad sicker than me! I
can look up at the St. Louis Arch just fine. Also, I laid on the ground
and put my feet in the Missouri river again. Bam! St. Louis is mine
now.<br />
<br />
Also, I made daddy dance with me in a parking
lot somewhere in Missouri. No one knows where. Well, probably he does,
but I don't remember. My capacity to retain small details was
drastically impaired after driving through three states over five hours,
but my ability to produce sillyness was apparently intact.<br />
<br />
("Dad,
you have to waltz with me in the parking lot! Please! Then I'll own all
of Missouri and not just St. Louis! Dance with me!")<br />
<br />
After some body blocking him from getting in the car, he smiled indulgently and danced.<br />
<br />
I think it's going rather well. <br />
<br />amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03330921805879869867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1463335476207551230.post-51803646033241977472013-03-03T12:07:00.000-08:002013-03-03T12:07:09.261-08:00Having fun isn't hard when you"ve got a Library Card!Erin and I have been meaning to indoctrinate her children with the musical episode of Arthur for so long! And we haven't done it and that makes life so much harder cause then I can't walk around the house singing about cookies that smell like fish cause we can't ruin it for them. And it is hard not to sing Arthur songs, for reals.<br />
<br />
In other news, I started going to the Library again after a long Hiatus. Part of that was because I was in Utah for three weeks and also because I've been working my way through hardcore English Literature ( which takes a lot of concentration, due to the mixture of Author Schizophrenia and Professor Schizophrenia). But let me be completely honest and admit that those reasons, while valid, are both cop outs. You want to know the real reason for my Library Hiatus?<br />
<br />
Says, the English major: The Library is always an adventure. Why is adventuring bad? Keep in mind that I am using the word adventure free from its general positive connotation. Not that the implied connotation is negative, per se. My point is more that there is no general connotation which applies in any consistent way. Things happen at the Library. Sometimes they are good and sometimes they are bad, and the only consistent thing about the things that happen is that I leave that place exhausted. These excursions are generally interesting enough that I have begun to think of them as Episodes in my own personal Library sitcom. Synopses, coupled with their respective Friends knockoff titles, are as follows: <br />
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#1. The one where I lost my wallet<br />
Covered. Found it. Only panicked a lot. <br />
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# 2. The one where I lost Libby<br />
Libby agreed to stay at a table and watch my stack of books whilst I used the facilities. And then I came back and she was gone. And I panicked and broke the quiet library rule* searching for her until I found her in a back corner looking for books on bats. Why didn't I think of that? <br />
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#3.The one with all the texting<br />
I lost my powers of Author memorization on this afternoon. So my awesome sister Rose googled like twelve books in a row and texted them all to me while I wandered the rows cursing the library computer that wouldn't let me into the catalog and ignoring the offended looks because I was using my phone and it went off once before I remembered to turn the ringer off. Long story short, Steinbeck and Hemingway are not the same person no matter how much I mix them up. <br />
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#4. The one where I ruined Daxx's favorite shirt.<br />
I was writing a check for a library fine cause no one in this state takes plastic money (although they all have charging stations for the smart cars in the parking lots. Priorities...) and I did not have a pen. So I grabbed his from his pocket, right? And then I stuck it back in and noticed hours later that there was a gaping hole and some pen marks. And he didn't even say anything when I ruined his favorite shirt cause he is all about avoiding the guilt trip, like a champion. I still owe him a green shirt and possibly a pocket protector.<br />
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#5. The one with the Rude Librarian.<br />
They have this book drop outside the library. But on the inside of the library it's a door that is labeled book drop that goes to the bins you drop books in from the outside. So if I am in the library, and all the librarians are busy, and the door is open, and the door is labeled book drop, it is reasonable to assume I can go put my books in there, right? So I thought, until that one guy came up to me and said in the most condescending tone of voice possible,"Actually, that isn't for you to use. Do it outside." Somehow, that one phrase coupled with his Snotty Librarian face made me feel like the smallest person in the world. And then I avoided him for the rest of my life.**<br />
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#6 The one with Lee in the DVD section.<br />
Once upon a time, I was looking for Jane Eyre unsuccessfully at the Library, when I was approached by a man who asked for any suggestions because he has worked through most of the romantic comedies and he needs new options. Thus ensued a surreal conversation in which Lee presented to me several different business models for all those new occupations he wants to get into including, but not limited to a law firm specializing in malpractice, a catering business that only does weddings, and a restaurant that serves only cloned woolly mammoth steaks, "because you know they are doing that in Asia now. It'll be here soon." He also told me about an eleven year old kid figuring out that T- Rexes <i>could not have been</i> the dominant predator of dinosaurs because their legs aren't long enough to catch anything. He also expressed a sincere love of Jane Eyre and knew what I judged to be a surprising amount for a man in his forties about every version of the movie. The moral of the story: When they start talking about cloning woolly mammoths, nod politely and extricate yourself. Do not ask questions to be polite. I learned this the hard way.<br />
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#7 The one with Ross's doppleganger.<br />
I went to this writing workshop at the Library once, and while this author/teacher man looked more like a caveman than Ross, listening to him talk resembled the lectures and quirks of our favorite paleontologist in an eerie way. He even told us about his three divorces, coupled with a segment of the presentation called "Why married couple should spend less time together."<br />
Winner, that one. <br />
<br />
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<br />Last but not least is the all inclusive "The one where I had to go to the bathroom" because every time I load myself down with books and/or have a small child to keep track of, something about that place send signals to my bladder to ruin my life.<br />
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*I find it ironic that the time where I yelled semi-frantically and the one with the rude libararian encounter are not the same day.<br />
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**Also, I have a knack for attracting snotty Librarians. They accuse me of stealing books, or charge me double fines, or ask me if I know how to read. Maybe it's the fact that they have degrees in Library Science, a thing that is clearly not a science. Maybe they have let their fake scientist delusions go to their heads. You know, collectively. (Seriously though, why are all librarians brats?)amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03330921805879869867noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1463335476207551230.post-92058859955417285542013-01-28T20:52:00.002-08:002013-01-28T20:58:25.425-08:00Sometimes, Life takes a turn for the Unpleasant.It just does. Sometimes it's even my decision to instigate unpleasant situations. And things get uncomfortable, and I feel shaky and unsure and occasionally incredibly guilt-ridden. And I descend into the depths of obsessive coping strategies.* Sometimes you work thirteen hour shifts and it is hard to keep standing up and keep smiling at rude customers and keep going even though you forget the filter in the coffee and your boss gives you a hideous look of disgust and some extremely passive aggressive comments, and <i>then the thing overflows</i>, because I didn't look stupid <i>enough</i>. (By the way, the overflowing was totally <i>not</i> my fault. My image at work is irredeemable, so I have to post the facts on here and hope that the Internets will offer some form of vindication. It could be a long wait, I know, like <i>modem slow</i>. But my job is teaching me patience and self-control. Bring it on.)<br />
<br />
The point is, crap sucks. Sometimes. Only for short lived periods. At least the intensity ebbs out. Example time: Today was bad. My brain is "a dangerous neighborhood that you should not go into alone!" Last night was one of those times I stay up late and pay obsessive attention to incredibly insignificant details in order to keep from losing my mind. (and also to do laundry cause I got called in to work and was woefully unprepared in regard to my uniform.) I slept short and got up early and went to work for a hugely long period of time where I made a complete fool of myself in person and through accidental and horrifically timed text messages. But it's okay, cause my sister hugged me and affirmed all my life choices before she went to bed and I went to crazy town. And my dear caring brother drove me to work this morning cause I was freaked out about my tires, and he told me I was being brave. And my boss was only passive aggressive. She could have been straight-up aggressive. And then Monica (the other boss who hired me who is my favorite person I met in North Carolina) came and made me feel comfortable again and drove me home cause we live close and gave me my long-forgotten and belated Christmas gift which I love and told me hilarious and unbelievable stories about her honeymoon. And I got home and the children were awake and they promptly dragged me upstairs to show me the roses my family put in my room. And I laid on the kitchen floor and had story time with my siblings before our almost nightly ritual of British Television before bed. ("Downton, anyone?") And then I talked to my best friend in all the world who lovingly threw my own advice back in my face (as he has a special ability to do) and told me to pray and that everything will be alright.<br />
<br />
And suddenly I feel I can wake up tomorrow and buy new tires and go to work all over again and fold all the laundry which is currently all over my bed (which, let's be honest, is the reason I am blogging instead of dead to the world and horizontal.) I can come home and make dinner and through sheer effort,<i> I can be awake</i>. And I can do it and be cheerful even if I don't feel very much kinship with any sort of ray of sunshine. It's fine, cause I have the best smelling roses you ever smelled and a big heart picture that my Libby gave me along with a hug and a fairly large amount of enthusiasm.<br />
<br />
<br />
That's worth a lot. And life takes turns for the unpleasant, but not the impossible.<br />
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* For example. I once got the worst news I've ever gotten in my life. And all I could think to do was to clean my fish bowl, an impulse which worried and bewildered my sister standing by. My mom told her not to worry because methodical cleaning is how I deal with stress. This is true, and routines of perfectionism and organization seem to help. Erin has this theory about how I get extra clean and orderly in phases as if to compensate for the times when I am an emotional mess. I think she's on to something, and I feel to develop this observation into an addition of my collection of Life Theories. Perhaps The Tucking Theory. Hm. <br />
<br />amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03330921805879869867noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1463335476207551230.post-11036612406073845602013-01-16T15:03:00.003-08:002013-01-16T15:03:47.648-08:00Things about my Life, Part 2- My hair is an awesome mixture of hat hair and humidity poof. Guaranteed it's the most attractive I've ever looked, barring the Fanny costume, cause that was <a href="https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?fbid=1290419142461&set=t.1641896112&type=3&theater">hot. </a><br />
<br />
- I finally figured out all the freeway stuff. I'm an expert, and I haven't gotten lost in forever. Also, I figured out why I sucked at it so much. Back in Utah, you can always retrace your way back on the freeway cause you can see where you are going. Here, it is misty and full of foliage and you would never know that freeway was there unless you used Google maps, cause here in the south we just lose things in all the trees.<br />
<br />
- I tasted Gumbo today. All southern like.<br />
<br />
- Libby called me a whale today. All self esteem boosting like.<br />
<br />
- After a while, you can't feel the 80% humidity. And sometimes, the poofy hair is absolutely a fair tradeoff for all the tree silhouettes out my window. Cause even when it gets dark the air is white, and it is gorgeous. I miss mountains, but I'll miss this just as much when I leave.<br />
<br />
- I have been super clumsy lately, which is a problem at work, cause that gives Ana more material and she isn't shy about laughing in your face anyhow. I spilled soup yesterday and macaroni and cheese today. And I thought it was just physical, but apparently my brain is a little off too cause Megan asked me today if the gumbo had dairy in it and I responded promptly, "Yeah, it's gluten free." And then I realized that was a really stupid non-answer. And then there was this awkward pause where Megan and Garret both debated about how to tell me I don't know what gluten is. I really do know, I just say stupid things. Awesome.<br />
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- Ben and Erin and I have been watching Downton Abbey after the wee ones are asleep. (Cause that's what I moved here for. So Erin and I could distract Ben from his Doctorate program. It's not like that's a big deal or anything.) Also, Maggie Smith is a champion. <br />
<br />
- Sometimes, people make me angry. "Indignation has been stirred!" And I want to write scathing emails but then I decide that such a response will only make me angrier. Aka I just got done talking about how I get into scrapes like L.M. Montgomery characters and I just know I would hit the send button. Some horrifying circumstance would occur if I let myself go to the angry place, right? Of course right.<br />
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- Emma and Libby are so amusing I could die. <br />
<br />
- The other day, Libby used the word regurgitate. I have high, high hopes for the girl's vocabulary.<br />
<br />
- I have a serious neurotic problem about the floor of my car. There are only so many times you can shuffle all the cars around to use the vacuum in the garage, but the carpet is driving me distracted. Erin thinks I'm a little weird about the cleanliness of my car, but it's better than the alternative, right? (Right?)<br />
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*This edition of Narcissism Celebrated brought to you by contributions from the Mark Trent Advising Firm. <br />
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<br />amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03330921805879869867noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1463335476207551230.post-36993304409013815462013-01-11T22:13:00.001-08:002013-01-11T22:24:41.632-08:00Words to Live byI am historically good at living by words. In fact, I live or die by them. They bring me certainty through concepts and configuration. Lit Analysis classes are sort of an adrenaline rush, because I get to analyze and pick out the meaning of innocent phrases and the subtle satire of an Irishman making fun of the old snobby Englishman *. Even our old roundabout Lewis Carrol argument that "language is too unstable to mean anything. All it can do it be beautiful" doesn't carry much of a threat. Because sometimes all it needs to do is be beautiful, and it generally rises to the occasion if you know where to look. In honor of this gift of language, I am a fan of themes to live my life by. Although not always, there have been times when I was so posessed by a simple phrase that I chose to live and die by it on purpose to figure out wether it was just beautiful, or if it meant anything.<br />
<br />
This happened last February when I was trying hard to decide about whether I should move across the country, and what on earth I would do there if I did. And I decided to, not exactly out of a desire to leave but more of some unmistakable voice telling me it was imperative that I muster the courage to pick up and get out. And somewhere around the time I made this decision and felt all decided and half terrified out of my wits, I stumbled upon this gem of wisdom and decided to take hold of it almost as a sign, certainly a confirmation, and most definitely something to be chanted in my brain ad nauseum in the coming months while I attempted to muster the courage.<br />
<br />
From our good friend Tenessee Williams:<br />
<br />
"There is a time for departure, even when there's no certain place to go."<br />
<br />
I was talking with my sister tonight about all the plans and desires she had for me when I came to live here. She was saying that I kept changing my plans and giving her entirely different timelines, which is true. The only thing I was ever certain about was that I was coming. Everything else has been planned ten thousand times, and the reality didn't turn out to look anything like a single one of those plans and timelines I prattled on about. I have struggled with that. I generally thrive on frantic activity and sleep deprivation. I'm not happy without some deep struggle or project to master, and it has been rough on my already tender insecurities to be here working and not tackling a whole lot else besides playing hard with some really adorable people. But at the same time, I've never been able to regret or second guess the decision to come, and while I wasn't aware before that there were things that needed such deep fixing, the simple act of being here far away is fixing them as I go. I couldn't even articulate completely what the purpose is, but I am comforted by the fact that I made myself depart. And I know now that while I had such lofty original plans for a palace, it's alright that I've adjusted down, and even that I may not stay long. My palace turned into a nice cozy cottage, one I don't want to leave. As I said to Erin, "I'm sorry I didn't live your dream, but I lived mine!" Even if I was never sure what that would look like, it worked out somehow. <br />
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This cottage home of mine, it was never certain. I didn't know I would love it here. I knew I would love being part of a family, but I didn't know I would fall in love with my little green room, or the fog you find when you get off the freeway at New Hope Church Road, or the scrapes I get into in this foreign land of freeways that aren't I-15. I love Ayr Mount and the walk between work and Duke Chapel, and I have been given a few good friends. Work is sometimes difficult, but I have bosses who will hug me before I leave and friends who will laugh hard with me even when the catering client is rude and people I can sing with. I can look out the window on a foggy day like today and see the woods against the sky in my backyard. I never ever thought I would have any of this anywhere but home, and the fact that this feels like home too is a gift. The cottage home which is, I suppose, a downgrade from the lofty dreams of finishing college and finding a whole group of best friends here and having a North Carolina castle, is also an upgrade. I like my little niche in my cottage in the woods here. I am satisfied and that is certainty enough.<br />
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So this is a shout out to Tenessee Williams, for giving me the vocabulary to express why I had to come here. The point was not perhaps the palace, but having the faith that I could be happy in a cottage somewhere else.<br />
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"It was worth it to move to North Carolina just for that!"<br />
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* Everybody read Dracula. Jonathan Harker somehow doubles as a nice guy and a schmuck you just want to hit. In a subtle, charming, way, of course. <br />
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<br />amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03330921805879869867noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1463335476207551230.post-79365027296470627972013-01-11T21:31:00.001-08:002013-01-11T21:31:54.107-08:00Your Face!Today I was playing with Emma, aka Erin and I were on my bed with Emma in between us, alternating between merciless tickling and dancing. In a transition between the two, Little Lemonade happened to make a dive bomb straight for my face which resulted in a bruise on her head and some bleeding in my mouth where a tooth sliced its way into my lip pretty far. We've been having some fun with this. Like when we were at Chick-fil-a and Erin told me that my obviously fat lip was now a bruised and purple lip. I hadn't noticed, but that sounded intriguing, so I was trying really hard to look at my own lip, right? That resulted in some awesome facial expressions from both of us.<br />
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Altogether, it was an interesting day. But the crowning glory came at home when Emma glommed me til I picked her up, and then she said with such concern in her little bird voice, "Let me see it, Pillow." So I stuck out my lip and she touched it and frowned a bit before asking (as if she wasn't present during this accident) "What happened, Pillow?"<br />
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Completely innocently, I replied "Your face happened, silly girl."<br />
And then I thought about that for a second. I just said "Your <i>face</i> happened!" And it was applicable. For reals. The best possible reply in this instance, and I did it on accident. Boom Roasted!<br />
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Emma didn't really get why I was laughing.<br />
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(That was okay, though. Cause then she looked at me with those big beautiful eyes and with the most adorable possible little voice she asked, "S' it okay?" Honestly. I'm totally the luckiest maiden aunt in history.) <br />
<br />amyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03330921805879869867noreply@blogger.com0