Estrogen

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.

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.

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 vicious.

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.

I'm breathing. And I'm going to show up to class and be pleasant. I'm going to!

My High School English Teachers followed the opposite trend. Does that mean I have hope?

A Catastrophe of Epic Proportions

Keeping 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:

1) Their algorithms are royally screwed up.
2) I need to seriously reevaluate the nature of my media consumption.

Cause guys. They think I would watch that.

Shudder.

Nostalgia

Sometimes 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.


Now if only I had some salsa verde to smash all over the driveway. That'd be good.

The Happiness Calendar

I 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.

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 must 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.

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 need 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.

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, "Why  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.

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.



Everyone needs this. That is all.

Also. This.

Because we are awesome. And very awkward. And we own it. Like Champions. Best Day Ever.

"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...

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 this, 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!**

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...".

That's okay with me. I like him.

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.




* AKA nobody ever needs to read 1984 twice. As Crawford said, "And just when your soul starts to weep, it gets worse..."

**I miss Brighton. And the yesyesyes dance. That is all.

***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.

S M R T

A 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! 

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 you.

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.

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?

My smart phone makes me feel stupid.


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.

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.

But I still can't get the cover off, so....

And the Winner is...

Elder Daxx Stryker, who opened his mission call yesterday. Storytime.

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.

Hehe. Irony, man.

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!"

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.

(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:
1 Got her car booted
2 Tried to pry the boot off the car herself
3 Used her work key in the attempt

And then they took it away and gave it to Daxx.)

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.

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.

And this joyous thing is what happened.


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.

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.


It was a really good night. July 3rd is speeding towards us.

Also, all my missionary letters will still go to Argentina. Rosario is one mission over from Resistencia. I like Argentina.












* 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.
"Stryker? I hardly know her!" Twenty thousand times a day, seriously.

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.
"Whoa. What do you do for that? I didn't even think about it."
"I don't know. Maybe you need a converter."
Automatically: "Converter? I hardly know her!"

And then we heard it.

"Ha! Convert her!" 

 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.

Conference Kids

When 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.

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.

That, my friends, was short-lived.

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.

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.

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!"

I promise we listened to the Prophet.

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.

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.

 But I really wanted to finish drawing Horton on my sister's leg. Dang!

Not April Fools

I 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.

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.

("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!")

After some body blocking him from getting in the car, he smiled indulgently and danced.

I think it's going rather well.