Main Points of Maine

The last couple days are most easily described as being on a roller coaster... In slow motion. Vacation is great; it's nice and relaxing, and, at the same time, it is hectic and stressful. I enjoy the time I've spent just relaxing and being with Steve; however, I've learned a few things since the end of finals and here they are:

1) Despite the horrible fights and overall cheating of it, I miss playing Pollyanna with my family this Christmas.

2) Maine roads are so confusing! Hopefully Steven likes to drive, because I don't see myself driving anytime soon here.

3) Lobsters...

4) Little boys will always love their mamas.

5) Some find it harder than others to talk to people.

6) Some find it harder than others to understand that.

7) Code 340 does not have to be my goodnight.

8) Only 5% of the people who take the ACT score over 30. Unless to you happen to be sitting by a row of Guerrettes.

9) I hate waking up more than anything. Especially when it's done rushed.

10) I miss my family but I love his... But I still miss mine.

I am Code:340

Today I got a procedure order form from my doctor...

Under patient description it read: Diagnosis code: 340...

I wonder if I'll ever get used to seeing that? 

Freezing Cold

Guess what....I PASSED SPANISH!! Barely, but a pass is a pass, and I'll take it!

Also, I was spoiled again. Steve spoils me with all sorts of things from fuzzy, purple socks to sparkly, purple watches to an amazing purple camera! This camera can do all sorts of things like: 

Give me a big nose...

Make Steve an Alien.

Ha! Morph faces. Maybe we shouldn't try this one again...

And take normal pictures.

 

Also, Colty learned to walk! Such a cute little boy. 

This break has been great so far. We haven't done much; we came up to Idaho and have just been hanging out with my family, but I love being here even if it is cold and icy and makes me want to move somewhere where it doesn't snow. 

Sheldon's Theory

Sheldon has a point...





But so does President Uchtdorf...



I find gift giving so hard! I enjoy finding and giving gifts, but I hate receiving them. They stress me out and make me feel out of place. I seem to be having a very difficult time with it this year. So much so that it is making Christmas gifts more of an obligation rather than a chance to bless and be blessed my the service and humility that giving and recieving gifts can be. Tonight, I decided I am sick of being stressed about it, so I'm going to shrug off my Sheldon like theory and try to "build and strengthen bonds of love."

Doing What I Love

My roommate, Courtney, posted this video on facebook today, and it spawned a long train of thoughts for me. Alan Watts is a British philosopher who died some 40 years ago, but years after his death his video speech is circulating the internet. I listened to his words and was stuck by the profound message he delivered. He asks the listener what you would do for a living if money didn't matter; he then goes on to explain that working at a job that you do not like for the only purpose of gaining more money, you will be unsatisfied. If it's all about the money, then you work in order to go on living, but living is doing what you don't like doing, so why not do what you love?

I thought about what I love and what I would do if money weren't an issue: I would bake, read and write. Wait, that's what I am going to do! I thought, man, I'm lucky to be able to do what makes me happy.

Then something else crossed my mind that turned my thinking around. What about being a mom? Isn't that what I should want to do more than anything else? If money wasn't an issue, shouldn't the obvious answer to what you want to do for your life be to be able to stay with your family. I felt a little abashed at my first response to that question. That's not what I am supposed to want! I am supposed to want to be a stay at home mom. Don't get me wrong, I do want that eventually, but I also want to use my college education. Then it dawned on me, my thinking was so very narrow and naive as to what being a mom entails. Baking, reading and writing are not exclusively work place characteristics. Duh. I felt so dim after realizing this. In fact, I will probably learn more as a mother than I have in five years of college instruction.

Actually, being a mom is combining what I am training to do and what I want to do. I love cooking breakfast. Although I am not enticed by breakfast foods, I love the breakfast smell, people and idea of sitting down, eating and being together before the day begins. I love to read, and I love to read aloud. I will never forget the sound of my dad's voice as he read Drover's lines from Hank the Cowdog. I love to write; i write better than I speak. Speaking of writing, I have a huge paper I should be writing...

I honestly cannot wait until I can cook breakfast for my brown-eyed children, read aloud to them the wonderful adventures of Hank and Drover and write notes from the tooth fairy, Skippy the Elf and the Easter Bunny.

Old Roots and New Beginnings

If you're reading this, then you know my blog has undergone some changes. I loved my old blog title and blog URL, but it has run its course, and we all make sacrifices for those we love. Quackgrass has been on my mind lately. Maybe because I have a painting of Quackgrass hanging on my wall, so it is always in sight, or maybe it was because I read to Steve the beautiful paper my sister, Natalie, wrote for me about Quackgrass. Why Quackgrass? Because that's who I am and always have been ever since I was little. My dad nicknamed me Quackgrass and my other sister, Dayna, Petunia. As a small child, I didn't realize the significance behind these names, but looking back now my dad's sense of humor is dripping all over them. Dayna is sweet, kind, tender, graceful and beautiful: like the Petunia flower. However, I wasn't like my wonderful sister who as she ages only lives up to the name. I was a bit more well, Quackgrassy. I followed my dad around like a puppy dog, so that whenever he turned around he was stumbling over me, I was into everything and I was stubborn and enjoyed being more of a nuisance than a help during chores: not unlike the Quackgrass. Considered a noxious weed, this grass is everywhere, it is stubborn, strong and usually a nuisance rather than helpful. I grew up with this name, and at times I was jealous of my sister's sweet name and demeanor and ashamed of mine. It took some years, and different perspective to realize being Quackgrass isn't all that bad.

So, as I begin a new part of life with getting married, moving to Boston temporarily, graduating and moving to Boston permanently, I'm letting a lot of things go. I will say goodbye to Provo, in fact, I'll say goodbye to my beloved west. I'll lose the luxury of living only 3 hours away from home and from breathing in the wonderfully crisp, somewhat dairy air of Bear Lake, and in return I'll be blessed with a loving husband, a secure job, the busy city and living only 2 hours away from family.

Like the Quackgrass, my future life has some drawbacks, but it also has some great things to come, and I couldn't be happier for them to come. So, here's to my old roots and my better beginnings.

Hot Air Balloons and Rings

Usually I blog because I need to write. Tonight is different than usual, however, because I need to write, but I can't find the words. This has been a recent problem the last couple days. I need to explain how happy I am, how much I love him, how excited I am to spend the rest of my life with him, but for the first time I can recall the wonderfully vast and beautiful English language can't put words to my feelings.

Thanksgiving day Steven told me that he had a surprise date for Saturday morning. I asked if there was any amount of begging that would eventually make him cave into telling me the surprise, and when he promised me there was no way, I gave up and waited patiently. The next day he told me we would be leaving at 5:45am for our date, and to dress nice and bring a coat. He also got another secret phone call that he spoke completely in vague, neutral responses. I am a nosy person, and this was silently killing me! Later that night we were walking around the SanTan Mall in Gilbert Arizona when ducked into a ring store to look at more rings. This was the point where I confidently crossed off engagement for our Saturday morning date. One down and a thousand other possibilities still on the list.

Finally, Saturday morning came and we set off...to a gas station. We got a drink, and set off...to another gas station. I was left to wait patiently in the car while he went in, and as he got back I asked if it was even worth asking why we went to two. He said no, and I stopped begging. We started driving and about 15 minutes later he got another secret phone call. Good thing I trust Steven or I might've started believing him when his response to my questions about who was calling was always his "other girlfriend". We were running late, probably because we stopped at not one but two gas stations, but we pulled into this golf resort around 6:20am. We rolled up next to this truck that, for lack of any better description, was the most redneck truck ever. I mean, I grew up in small town Idaho and this was even tipping the scales of redneck. We met the driver, a rather unique looking albeit nice guy, and climbed into this truck. Again, I'm glad I trust Steven or I would've been scared he'd hired his own grave digger and I was off to my death via a jacked up diesel hearse. The driver is making small talk with Steve about how he has been flying for 20 years with this company or that, but now he is the only person in the area that does ballooning...hold it!! Flying...ballooning..HOT AIR BALLOON! As I climbed in the truck earlier I noticed a familiar looking fan thing amidst all the covered stuff in the bed of the truck, but now I recognized what that was. It was the fan used to fill the balloon! I grabbed Steven's arm and his smile told me everything. I didn't know what to do with myself! I wanted to laugh and yell but I didn't want to creep the driver out, and I wanted to jump up and down, but I also didn't want to die in this truck that was currently off roading over the Arizona desert. We stopped to check the wind, and we were both sad to hear that it was too windy to fly from this area. Steven was upset at this, and I was just happy to be riding in a truck that was carrying a hot air balloon! We drove in the other direction hoping to find calmer winds, but we were warned we might not be flying that morning. Luckily, the next place we stopped was calm enough to fly, and we were told it would be ready to fly in 15 minutes.

Steven and I were still sitting in the truck about to get out and watch the balloon inflate when he hands me this little box with a bow on top. This was a fancy box that was small and shaped like a ring box. Don't ever give a girl a small, square box unless it has a ring in it. He just kinda handed it to me and said this is a sign of things to hopefully come. I honestly didn't know what to do with it, and I said that. "Steve, I don't know what to do with this." I know he is smart enough to not propose like this...I hope. He told me to open it and so I did. Inside was the prettiest, biggest, sweetest...Ring Pop! We have a running joke about getting a ring pop for a ring, and this also explained the gas station detours on the way. I laughed and loved that it was a green ring pop. I love how most of Steven's belongings are green. :)


After that laugh we got out and watched the balloon inflate. At one point Steven helped hold the it open and as the balloon pilot flipped on the burner right under Steve's arm, he jumped so high! His nerves must have been a little on edge ;)


I was giddy with excitement. I love hot air balloons. It's a floating ball of color! How can you now love that?! Steve was kind enough to wake up with me at 5:30am on the 4th of July this year to go to the Hot Air Balloon festival with me, so he knows how much I love them. I remember the occasional sighting of a balloon as it would float over our farm fields in Idaho, and I distinctly remember one afternoon I was on a little old tractor racking hay for a neighbor when I just turned the tractor off and watched the balloon float across the valley. I love them, but not as much as I love Steve.

We climb in and slowly start rising in the air. For an hour we just floated just over 11 miles across the desert. At one point we were going 20mph, but my hair wasn't even blowing. The balloon is a part of the wind, so there is no wind chill, resistance or really any evidence that you are moving. It was the most peaceful 2,000 feet in the air ride. In the picture you can see the hot air balloon's shadow. Have I mentioned how great it was? It was great!!

As we were getting closer to where we were going to land Steve asked the pilot to take a picture or two. We took this one and continued flying. I didn't realize it, but that was supposed to be it, but Steve said he forgot what he was going to say! Everything went blank and he just quietly took the camera back. I was just happily floating along!

 

The pilot told us we would be landing in about 10 minutes when Steven asked him to take a couple more pictures, we took another couple and when he went to hand the camera back to Steven he asked the pilot to hang on to it for a second. What?! Oh, boy. That's when I knew something was happening. Steve was sweet and loving as he talked to me for a second and then, even though there wasn't a whole lot of room in the basket, he got down on one knee and asked me to marry him. Here is where my beloved English language fails me. I wish I could explain to him how happy and in love I am with him--especially at that moment, but there just aren't words for it. Nothing has ever felt so right, so peaceful and so easy as saying yes. Well...I guess I didn't say yes right at first. I told him it would be an awkward ride down to the ground if I said no, huh? Later he told me it would've been a quick trip actually because I would be, well, overboard! :)

 

 

This is my favorite picture. I remember thinking how wonderful it is to be in his arms. I love him :)

 

That's the last thing I remember of the ride. I know we descended 2,000 feet, floated over a town and landed, but after saying yes, the next thing I remember is the pilot telling me to bend my knees to absorb the bump landing. We safely landed and had the traditional drink after. At the end of each balloon ride it is tradition to drink champagne (we had sparkling cider though). We took pictures while they packed up the balloon and headed back to our car. On the 20 minute drive to our car, Steve fell asleep. It is not a comfortable truck but I laughed as he completely crashed afterwards.

Nailed it.

We had to do our most posh poses for this.

He's the best man I've ever met. I love everything about him and us.

He picked it out, and it is perfect. I love it, but mostly I just love him!

He makes me happier than I have ever been before. 

We were taking this ourselves, so we missed me, but he's more important anyways!

I love everything about it, but mostly I love that he picked it.

Steve and I started off a little unorthodox, but the last 7 months have been the best I've ever had. I love the way he loves me, I love his eyes, his patience, his logical thinking (we counterbalance each other there!), his humor, his smell, the way he treats his little brothers and sister, the way he loves his mom and dad, how hard he works and how hard he plays. I love his spirituality and his mission. I love his flaws (which there are very few) and, most importantly, I trust him. I couldn't be happier to be by his side as his future wife. 

Guess Where I'm Going Today...

And I couldn't be happier!

Barley There Part II

Taylor Mali has been my favorite poet for a long time now, and this is by far my all-time favorite poem. I was thinking about my future as a teacher today, and I thought of this poem and how it is perfect reply to "barely there"

For Bekka

Two very photogenic people right here. :)

The Joys of Camera Phones

I feel like the last page of the syllabus doesn't exist in my life. Every year about this time classes flip to that last back page of the syllabus where the final projects, research papers and final exams are due; however, this time unfortunately coincides with a complete lack of effs given for homework. This week I had/have several projects due, and I have not done (or done at all) a fantastic job on them. I took some rejuvenation time tonight in hopes of getting back into the swing of school. Therefore, tonight I am thankful for this building and what it stands for, and the opportunity I had to sit and enjoy its beauty.

Also, I got this bear today. It's almost as cute as the man who gave it to me.

Jumping on the Bandwagon

Today did not start off with a bang. First, if I die soon it will be because the mountain of laundry in my bedroom has crushed me. Please, someone come dig me out and give me some purple flowers for my funeral death by laundry. That being understood, my selections for a dress were limited today. I tried on three or four before I finally settled on one, but I still felt blah. Second, Relief Society focused on modesty, which is a great topic, but an hour of discussing body image left me even more blah. However, I am first and foremost thankful for a wonderful boyfriend who will tell me I am absolutely beautiful. My hair wasn't curled, I wasn't wearing heels and after church I changed into a pair of comfy sweats, but for some reason he still loves me, and nothing can make me feel as non-blah as he can.

I'm also thankful for Fast Sunday. First, testimony meeting was inspired. Almost everyone, if not all, spoke about temples and the importance of attending them. It was a very sweet reminder why we have them, why we go and why it is important to me to go. Also, fast Sunday provided an opportunity to fast with purpose today.

I'm also thankful for these boys. Growing up with sisters was great; it meant if you couldn't find a shirt of your own to wear, you always had your sister's closet. It meant if you ran out of mascara you could always borrow another. It meant lots of hair ties, hair in the brushes, hair in the drain, hair on the shower wall, hair on the bathroom cupboard, hair on the carpet, and hair everywhere. It meant lots of shoes, and jewelry, lots of prom dresses and crushes. However, it didn't mean video games, football, that man smell or as many jokes about anatomy. I'll take the video games, football and jokes anytime now...the smell, well, I plead the fifth on that one.

Lastly, I'm thankful for blankets and pillows or two or three blankets, two pillows, one body pillow and a jacket. I love being warm and snuggly in my bed that has two homemade blankets from my mom, one fuzzy that I have to sleep with, pillows keeping a strong barrier between me and any hard or cold wall, and that warm jacket that puts me to sleep so well.

It Doesn't Get Much Better

This is my Saturday night, and to be honest, I really do love it.

 They better enjoy their football, because after we are watching The Proposal per my request, and they will love it too! :)

Tougher Shells

I was talking to my sister tonight, and, probably completely unbeknown to her, I had an epiphany.

Today I had a mini emotional melt down. It was 15 minutes before my Shakespeare class, and I pulled my car into what seemed to be the last parking spot on campus. I sat there for a second, laid my seat back and just silently cried. It wasn't a sob party or a "good cry" but it was just silent tears that slide down my temples and became lost in my hair. Almost exactly two minutes later, I sat my seat up, grabbed my back pack and stepped out into the abyss of cars and people who had no idea that I'd just cried for a whopping two whole minutes in the drivers seat of my car.

On a totally unrelated note to that story, my sister said I needed a tougher shell. She didn't say this condescendingly, jokingly or harshly, but just a passing comment. Tougher? Tougher?! Honestly, I don't even like to shake hands with most people; how can I be tougher? But, she's right. And I realized that tonight.

I need to stop crying. I wouldn't call myself the emotional roller coaster that some girls can be, but I, like the previous story showed, I can cry for a couple minutes over money, school, no parking spots. homework, dirty laundry or a low battery on my lap top right before class. I also cry when I give my shot. I've decided this needs to stop. The latter I mean, sorry to anyone who became all hopeful over the new resolution to obliterate tears over parking. :) Lately, I've been able to take my shot if I had help. That help came in several forms ranging from the security of a hug to a simple picture or a text message. Tonight though I've decided to stop relying on that help. I can do this without needing the help, because sometimes there is no help, and that is not an excuse to stop.

Guess what...I wrote this post and didn't even cry. That's progress, right??

 

In case you wanted to know the parts of a turtle shell.

Barley There

Tonight I register for my 12th semester of my college career. 12..I know, and I'm not even done til I register for my 14th semester. It has been a long road, but my dream hasn't changed for years. I remember in first grade Mrs Stucki asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up. I froze, and with knocking knees and a head swimming with wordless thoughts, I spluttered that I wanted to be a Post Office person like my mom. That wasn't true, but I loved my mom and wanted to be like her, so that was my default answer. Until about three years later when I fell in love. I savored the taste the word "coon dog" left in my mouth as I came to know where exactly the red fern grows. I didn't know I could be so happy until I met Harry, Ron and Hermione; little did I know the journey that would take me on. I learned to be grateful for the people in my life by reading about the hells Jane Eyre lived through. I remember sitting "my carcass" in my desk in Mrs Pugmire's class and thinking I want to read The Wind in the Willows forever. Every since then I've wanted to study English, and it wasn't till my perspective on people, race, love and hate was revolutionized during a class discussion of To Kill a Mockingbird that I knew I wanted to teach others about acceptance, love, siblings and differences between people. Years later I watched Jenny, a 9th grader straight from Africa who was learning a new language, school, family and culture, explain that Esperanza from The House on Mango Street gave her hope that she can still be African and American. For the past 13 years all I've wanted to do is teach English to a bunch of teenagers because I love the literature, and I love the kids.

Yes, it has taken me a while to get through school, and I still have a ways to go, but I'm proud of my desire to teach. Tonight, I didn't feel so proud though. During a shamefully embarrassing discussion of math where I tried to multiply 9X9 to equal 89 and then 8X8 magically equaled 36 in my mind, I explained that I may not be able to multiply but I can write a pretty poem about math. Overhearing this conversation, a bystander responded: That won't put food in your mouth. I defended my love by simply saying that you can make a living by teaching. The response: Barely.

Ouch.

Don't misunderstand, these comments were not made with malicious intent, but quite honestly it made me sad. The average salary for a teacher is 34,000$--chump change to some--which is 50,000$ less than he'll be making but does that make my career choice of lesser value? I could one day be teaching his future children! A career that seems to be barely a career is entrusted with the future children, but here it is just barely a career.

I don't have presentations about venture capitalists, and I am not sought after for internships that pay three times my future salary, but that doesn't mean I will have any less of a career. In fact, I'll teach the children of those venture capitalists about racism, love, death and God, so before you scorn my future, you better understand that I am not studying to be rich--I'm studying to do what I love and have loved since my dad first read to me the heart wrenching story of a boy and his two dogs.

Sincerly,
your child's future teacher

The Mostest Happiest

A lot can happen in 6 months...

...the Earth takes half a turn around the Sun.
...a Baboon can have one baby from conception to birth.
...a Mouse can have 10 pregnancies.
...Subway grosses 222,000.00$.
...your heart can literally grow two sizes too big.

Okay, that last one might not be scientifically true, but this is my blog so I can state whatever fact I want, and I'm saying a heart can grow! A lot has changed in my life in the last six months. I went from being simply content to exceedingly happy. I learned to keep secrets...well, kinda sorta. I woke up to a beautiful 4th of July morning. I had wonderful conversation at a Bees game in July. I enjoyed the Schmidt reunion more this year. I catered a wedding where the least stressful thing were the cupcakes. I gave some foot rubs and got some back. I learned a lot about football. I came to love the Squaw Peak lookout. I went to a doctor appointment without anxiety because I wasn't alone. Zupas is now my favorite place for multiple reasons. Even if you get poked in the eye it can still be an amazing time.

And flowers can make me smile so much my cheeks hurt.

Softy at Heart

Tonight I read some of my past posts lately, and I realized I am a very sappy girl. Some of what I post may not make sense to anyone but me, but most of what I post is dripping in sweet. And guess what, I don't even care! I post what I need to write, and lately I need to write about good things in my life, so, to who ever might be reading my blog, sorry not sorry for the sappiness. I love it.

I need to write about my day:

1-I hate Spanish. I love my time at BYU, but each semester I fill up 4 credits with Spanish. The BYU English department is one of the best English programs in the Nation, and I am filling my semester up with lo/le/se/le when I could be taking Adolescent Literature from Christopher Crowe or learning about post-modern American literature, but, alas, I am learning about the difference between alli and alla.

2-I get all nervous with goodbyes. Whether it is one day or one month, I get all emotionless and just rush through it. After, I regret it and wish I would have given one last hug or smile. #sociallyinept

3-Ah, finances. I did some math today. Shocking, I know! I've been to 12 semesters of school, 50 months of rent, and 4 literature Anthologies. Let's work this out.

12 semesters X 2,300 tuition=27,600

50 months X 300 avg rent-15,000

12 semesters X 200 books=2,400

GRAND TOTAL= 45,000$

I am so grateful that I go to a private school that charges a small fraction of what other private school charge. Also, I am grateful I have a roof over my head, heat in the winter and, well, windows that open in the summer. And I love my books more than I love most people. With that being said, I should be grateful that I've only had to take out a small amount in student loans in order to get where I am. If I could do that math, I would tell you the percentage, but I can't, so we'll just round it a small digit that I should be grateful for instead of crying about. It could be so much worse.

4-Toothpase rubbed on headlights clears them up. For reals. Check it out.

 

5-I'm dying from a cold. In the past six hours it has mass multiplied and will probably turn into strep or broken bones or amputated arms. I'm not even exaggerating.

6-I busted out 4 big assignments tonight. That's an achievement that, if my dad were here, would say deserved a ribbon if he had one.

7-I miss the gym.

8-Google rules the world. Did any of you know that the ads that show up on webpages can be linked to what you searched in google? Well, it can. :)

9-One thing Idaho doesn't see much of: Taxis and Limos


10-I am a mix of emotions: excited and nervous, sad and worried, but mostly just happy. Very, very happy to be so blessed in so many ways.

Some Nights

Some nights I realize my life is so very good.

I got a poem tonight, and it was better than any gift I've ever received.

Some nights, I wish I could just sit and smile because my dreams aren't as good as reality.

Because lately I've been dreaming about Zombies....

No Sad Bunnies Today!

Shots and Cats

I feel abnormally stressed lately, and it needs to stop. One, I am afraid of getting wrinkles. B, people my age get grey hair now; that needs to not happen as well. Three, worrying is like a rocking chair: it gives you something to do, but it gets you nowhere.

I have MS. I mean, I have it have it. For the last year and half I have been 70% diagnosed, and in my mind I took that to mean I didn't really have it, and that it would go away eventually. I was all prepared last week to go in to my neuro's office and be cured from this non-curable disease purely because I was stubborn enough to think I could prove science wrong. The exact opposite happened. In fact, that 70% became a full blown 100%. I was okay with it at first, but then reality sunk in, and I realized these shots are for the rest of my life. I could take the little buggers because during my nightly ritual of face washing, reading, last minute texts and a shot, I thought about the time when I would slice off that last part and go to bed happy and comfortable. Well, that's not true anymore and it is hard when the only solid plan for your future is a damned shot.

Which brings me to another worrisome area. My mom says I have a smile that gets captured in pictures every once in awhile. She calls it my real smile. The real smile, according to her, is in my eyes where she can see me in two little blue dots. I was a good child. In fact, I was my mom's best child for obviously, non-biased reasons. I may have bit Dayna a time or two...or a lot, or hid toys in the hall closet instead of walking them the ten feet further to my room. But, I do know I could entertain myself for hours at the end of some meadow field while my dad slowly chugged away in a tractor--the rythmic cha chu, cha chu, cha chu of the tractor was my summer time theme song. I loved any type of water, perferably one with fish, frogs or bugs to watch. I loved the haystack with all it's catacomb tunnels and holes that, like pandora's box, just had to be explored! That was me and how I grew up. If I saw some bug or cavern of hay I wanted to know about, I went and found out about it. That's a little harder to do nowadays. I just like to know things. I don't need to know facts and figures, but just things. That is the me my mom sees in those pictures. I'm curious, and I like to know things.

Balance is necessary, and right now, the only for sure thing in my life are these little glass syringes, and I hate that, but curiosity did kill that cat.

Happier

A lot can happen in one year...

...the Earth rotates the sun.
...a Whale can have one baby from conception to birth.
...a rabbit can have 12 pregnancies.
...McDonald's sells 29 billion dollars worth of McDoubles.
...the heart beats 37,869,120 times...

This is what interests me tonight. The heart. It's an amazing little freak. It can feel so deep, yet it can be so shallow. It can be so easily exposed, yet it can shield itself like a fortress. It can keep beating even though it is broken. Exactly one year ago today, I went to bed crying, and tonight I laid my head down with tears in my eyes yet again. However, the tears are so incredibly different that even I am trying to understand them. A year ago, I was crying over love lost, a future made unsure, and an insult to lead to permanent injury. It is true what they say about heartbreak: your heart is literally broken. The body is made to heal though, and after crying for a bit, taking a heavy dose of NyQuil, and crawling into bed, by heart started healing. It was a slow and painful process, but I eventually decided that I was not doomed to a life of jilted love and cats, nor was my future a black hole, but it was back to open and minus hot weather. Suzanne Collins created a scene in Mockingjay where Finnick Odair says, "It takes ten times as long to put yourself back together as it does to fall apart." Oh, how true that quote is, but it may take ten times as long, but that does mean there is a definite end to that ten times. My ten times ended long ago. I remember counting one week; one week since it so quickly changed. Then two. Three. Four. Five. Six...I counted of awhile, but soon, I forgot to count, and soon I forgot to care, and soon I was okay. Just okay. It was long after putting myself back together that I discovered I could be far more happier than I ever had been in the past. Then I became better than okay, and better than I had ever been.

Tonight I lay down crying not because some freak luck that repeated the night's events of 365 days ago, but because I can't change things. I realized today that I wish I could take away pain and frustration. I wish I could heal . Let's go back to that insult/injury comment. That's why that past love didn't work. The wish to heal wasn't there. Oh, sure, the wish to ignore and make disappear was there, but not because of empathy or sympathy, but because it was a burden. I was a burden. Not anymore though, now, it's just another nightly routine-like washing your face, saying your prayers, or if you were Petunia Dudley from Harry Potter it would be wiping down the kitchen. Now, it's just "everybody gets something, but just because [I] know mine now doesn't mean it's bad. It just means I know sooner than most." Now, it isn't embarrassing or shameful; in fact, now it's no big deal-just another shot. Tonight I realized the difference a year can make. At the time, it hurt so deep, but I'm glad it happened. If it hadn't, I wouldn't be where I am today. I wouldn't be going to bed praying for another man's health instead of my own.

Pain Killers without the Pill

Just over four years ago my dad was in an accident that damaged his leg quite badly. Four years ago? It seems like just yesterday since I can hear the siren on the ambulance ringing clear as a bell, and the sight of the bale wagon mangled in the exact place where I know-because I saw it for 18 years-my dad kept his left leg: cocked back against the seat, the open door and so unfortunately close to that trigger bar that would later find its home in my dad's mid calf. Yes, I remember the car ride over to the hospital, the sight of my dad's shoe with the laces sliced off, and his bloodied pant leg cut up around his knee. I remember the walk I took with my brother, and when we stopped in the hospital cafeteria that smelled like PineSol and chocolate milk, and hugged hard and long as we both cried  far out of the public eyes that we thought would scorn our tears (that's how bad both of us hate crying). I remember the family that flocked to fill cars with gas, grab extra clothes and stuff money in hands and pockets to send with us to the Pocatello hospital. I remember looking at my dad's familiar hand with the dark brown, calloused skin and  crooked pinky holding my sister's petite, white one. I remember the waiting, the stress and the worry. I remember drugging my brother with Tylenol PM so he would sleep that night. We slept in the same bed, and neither one of minded; in fact, we were happy to have each other close by. One detail that I never paid much attention to until tonight was what my mother did. Of course she was stressed, worried, anxious and exhausted, but tonight I remembered exactly what she was doing. She held my dad's hand with one of her's and stroked his eyebrows with the other. She did this for hours after his emergency surgery. Actually, I'm willing to bet she stood by him and did it all night long, because the next morning she was doing the same thing: holding his hand and stroking his eyebrows. And the day after, and the next and the next. When my dad was able  to come home, my mom went straight to the store and bought tubes, bottles and jars of every kind of lotion, numbing lotion, smelly lotion, soothing lotion ect. Then for the next 6 months she rubbed my dad's feet every single day.

Sometimes that's all you can do: hold a hand and  rub feet. If you're not a doctor, then you can't really help, even if you sit there and get all anxious as you scope around for something to do. The minute you see a pillow that could stand to be fluffed, you fluff it. As soon as you see the water glass inching just out of comfortable reach, you scootch it closer. Sometimes, no matter how badly you want to help someone, make them feel better or take away their pain, there is nothing you can do but hold their hand and rub their feet--for the next 9 months. 

Wanted

There is something to be said about being wanted. Everyone needs to be wanted; despite what some may say about not having feelings or emotions, if another makes you feel wanted, you better hold on to that person. There is something about a hand holding yours, that gives you security and confidence. However, take that hand away, and you cannot help but feel. You feel slighted. You feel embarrassed. You feel alone. You feel ashamed. You feel as though you are not wanted. I wager that one of the best feelings to be felt is to feel as though you are wanted. To feel like he wants to wrap you up. To feel as though he wants to kiss you. To feel as though he wants to call you his own. To feel as though he wants to hold your hand forever. To feel wanted.

It's hard to separate though. The ideal is being able to have privacy, confidence and trust in each other. Just each other--without the scrutiny of any other person. I want the ideal. But then again, I want to feel wanted. No, wait, I want the ideal. Changed my mind, I want to feel wanted. Wait, no, yes, no. Nevermind, I don't know. That's my answer: I don't know.

But I do know I want to make you happy. I do know that no matter what I feel in a passing moment, I know that I consistently feel happy with you. I may not know what I want some of the time, but I do know that I want to be with you all of the time. You make me feel wanted.

420

The other night, someone did me a service.
They did nothing more than simply hold me.
Such a small act, but it cured me.
If only I had known...

The other night, I learned what trust means.
It means leaving yourself completely exposed
While exploratory surgery is performed on the heart.
If only I had known...

The other night, I discovered I am weak.
I can do hard thing as long as I know no other way,
But all things in the right time and dosage.
If only I had known...

If only I had known...
How to say thank you.
How to make another understand.
How to repay such a service.
How to appreciate it in the moment.

How to do it alone the next night...

Today...

...was a great day. I didn't wear much make-up, didn't do my hair, wore my brother's old hand-me-down T-shirt, and I didn't shower after going running, but I am blissfully happy tonight.

Cows and Casseroles

My dad taught me to feed things. I vividly recall the chore of bottle feeding the baby calves. It was both fun and miserable. As a little girl I would lug a white jug of water, brimming with hot water, up from the basement, across the road and over to the barn. It had a lid, but most of the time I would misplace it and have to carry the water slopping and slooshing down the pant leg of my dark green coveralls. Once I got what was left of the water over to the calf pens, I'd slop out a bit into a giant bottle, put scoops of the sticky milk powder in and wish I was done. This was the worst part: taking my little kid hand, I would try to position it just right over the top of the bottle and start shaking. No matter how I put my hand over it, it would always squirt and drip out between my fingers, and then taking my hand off the now air filled top, it would whoosh out specks across my face. I wiped, probably with very dirty fingers, a lot of that sticky milk out of my eyes as a child. I then would stretch the huge nipple onto the bottle and start feeding the calves that never seemed to be filled. There is something satisfying in the feel of a baby calf bunting hard against the bottle you're holding, and knowing that you're taking care of him, and that without you, he would sleep hungry that night. Even as a small child with only 6 or 7 years of life, I realized that we feed things. That's just what we do.

We feed cows, horses, lambs, pigs, chickens and the occasional flock of geese.We also feed ourselves. My dad may have taught me to feed things, but my mom taught me how to feed. My mom's kitchen is a wonder. It is small, but it is full. She has no fancy kitchen island or walk-in pantry, but she has every spice, noodle, can of obscure sauce and seasoning you would ever need. She packs all of this into only a handful of cupboards, but if you keep searching you can find whatever basil leaf or cream of celery you need. We used to have one fridge, but now we have two. They stand side by side and are great! I don't know why more people don't have double fridges. One of the hardest lessons I had to learn when moving out on my own was how to cook for one. One? That's all? That's a waste! You mean to tell me I need to save the rest of this pound of hamburger? Pah! I'm just gonna cook it all up now and eat hamburger for the next two weeks. My mom never taught me how to cook for less than ten people. Just half the recipe you say? Half the recipe? I'v heard of doubling it, and even tripling a Chocolate Chip Applesauce recipe before, but never halving one. That's just ridiculous. She may not have known she was teaching me all this, but I was watching as she would violently chop onions, simmer chili and jog the bosch as she made bread. I don't have her knack of pantry stocking, or her wonderful utensil drawer where there are never dirty spoons or mismatching knives, but I do share her need to feed. She can whip up a full course meal on the spot and usually without ever glancing at a recipe. My mom feeds people. It's what she does, and I've never met anyone who can do it better.

My dad taught me to feed and my mom taught me how, and I'm grateful they did. I have a need to feed people. I miss feeding the animals, so I need to feed people now. I don't show love easily. In fact, it was hard for me to even type the word "love" let alone show a person I care about them! But I do feed easily. It's what I know how to do for those I care about: stuff them with food, wash their dish and do it all over again by dinner time. It's what I like to do. Thank you mom and dad for teaching me how feed things. Little did you know that it would be my saving grace when it come to being sweet and nice.

Long Hair and Pigtails

A couple months ago I left work early and drove up to Logan Hospital to meet my newest nephew, Colter Jake. Colty is now 5 months old and growing faster than I would like. In a few short months, little baby Colty will be a big brother. I hope he gets a little brother. I love my sisters, but lately I've been given the opportunity to see how brothers work. I love my one and only brother, but multiple brothers is such a foreign concept to me. It fascinates me and makes me wish I had brothers and at the same time it makes me incredibly grateful I only have to deal with my little Skud Muffin. However, I love this chance to see the inner works of brothers, and I hope Colty gets a little brother to pick on, fight with, work with and play with.

Late Nights and Early Mornings

My left eyelid tells me when I am exhausted. Ya, sure, I can feel tired, look tired and yawn away, but when it takes a conscience effort to keep the left eyelid open, then I know I'm beyond tired. Lately, my left side indicator is always droopy. But I do not care. It is worth it. 

Drop away, left eyelid, because I have better things to do than sleep! 

Today I Learned...

...everyone is fighting their own battle. Just because someone seems okay, doesn't mean they haven't been heartbroken for the last 7 months.
...patience is as elusive as smoke.
...being completely giddy over a person without any fear is quite remarkable. I don't see how people do it.
...being insecure only hurts yourself.
...people need sleep.
...some people are weird and love nacho cheese. Still weird.
...pretending was fun as a kid, but not so much anymore.
...sometimes there is no answer or solution. Deal with it.
...the lady at the Chevron is one of the nicest people I know, and I don't even know her name.
...8pm Thursday night television isn't as captivating as I wish.
...there's no use crying over cracked cheesecake. Maybe one day I'll make a perfect cheesecake that doesn't crack.

Cupcakes

Harlem

What happens to a dream deferred?

      Does it dry up

      like a raisin in the sun?

      Or fester like a sore—

      And then run?

      Does it stink like rotten meat?

      Or crust and sugar over—

      like a syrupy sweet?

      Maybe it just sags

      like a heavy load.

      Or does it explode?

---Langston Hughes

10+5-4+6+10-5=22

I'm officially 22 years old. I was asked today what I have learned in 22 years, and this what I've learned:

• God is real; as is the Atonement. 
• Everyone's life is hard. 
• Do what you want to do. If that is going to school, dying your hair purple, or staring at hot air balloons--do it, and do it well.
• Loving is real. Hurting is real. Healing is real. Loving again is real.
• Not everyone graduates from college in 4 years.
• Find your drug. 
• Laughing really is the best medicine. 

Today really was great. I worked most the day and played volleyball in the evening. I kinda like my coworkers. I blew powder sugar--if you haven't done that before, do it. It's one of my favorites! I finally got my teaspoon set and my favorite Half Baked ice cream. I'm going to bed a happy 22 year old tonight. 

Hell Bent and Scared

Quite a while ago I put a "Do Not Disturb" sign on me. I hate to admit, but I was hurt, and I didn't like it. I could feel my heart inside of me physically hurting. I never knew it could do that until I felt it give a jolting throb. I gave it some time to regain its composure, and then I put my sign over my heart and went along with life. Brian says I put up barriers, and Chad says I'm "frontin'" (said in a gangsta accent and not in a Idaho country accent, as I learned). Mostly, I'm just scared. Growing up, I wasn't scared of much. Ya, ya, ya, I'd climb a fence if it came between heading the hell bent cow and becoming a road bump beneath her 1500 pounds of cow flesh, but that's besides the point. My point is, I used to be brave, I used to trust (kind of) and I used to let myself take a chance--emphasis on all those "used to's." I took my "Do Not Disturb" sign down, but I'm scared every single day, and I don't trust at all anymore and I'm holding myself back as hard and as long as I can. Right now, I think I'd rather take on that hell bent cow...

Ode To My Wisdom Teeth

Oh, dear Wisdom Teeth,

You've done so little for me over the years.
I really didn't know we were friends, you and I.
Now you've made your presence known,
And I regret having ignored you all last summer.

You're smooshing and plooshing your way inside;
Thanks for ruining those years of braces.
I really thought that if I ignored you, you'd go away,
But, alas, most annoying friends don't.

Now our time is short together, however.
In just an hour or so they'll take a scalpel to you,
And probably a crescent wrench...gulp.
Farewell, my dear Wisdom Teeth; I won't miss you.

Skeletons Walking Around

This morning I finished my final project for Women's Literature. I learned almost nothing about Women's Literature since the class wasn't the best organized, taught and tended to lean more towards that hatred of men rather than the love of women. However, from the texts and papers I learned a lot about myself. I just finished taping together (for the second time because I taped it backwards the first time) a timeline of my life for the past two years. I've done and seen a lot in two years, and it has made me who I am. There were parts of the past two years that I felt were skeletons in my closet waiting to fall out, but after writing this project, I feel like I let them out. I let it all out. All my mistakes and my pain, my love and my hope. I let it all out. I felt as though I was Atlas shrugging the world off my shoulders and letting it roll away. What did surprise me, however, is what I am feeling now. I am no longer ashamed, scared, or sad about my past. I love it because without it, I wouldn't be who and where I am today. I'm not saying I am some great person today, but I like who I am, and without the past two years, I wouldn't be me. So, if you happen to run across one of my skeletons, don't shirk from it, but know that I let it go. I let it all go.

Someone, Somewhere, is Helping Your Grandma

Sometimes I drive to the Walmart in Springville even though there is one in Orem. I pass up coveted parking spots on the grounds that it is too awkward because the neighboring car has people in it. I avoid going to people's houses because I don't want to meet their roommates or family. Simply put, I like my space. I don't hate people, but I'd rather observe them from a distance than actually chat with them. My roommate says I am intimidating, but really, I think I'm just antisocial. I like people in small doses and not on a daily basis.

Despite my antisocial tendencies, I met a friend the other day. She is old. And short. And round. She wears glasses and those orthopedic shoes with extra grip rubber soles. She has veins that stick out on the backs of her hands. I love hands like that. She was on the edge of her even-if-you-tried-to-slip-you-couldn't, rubber soled shoes and reaching for a box of Pepperidge Farms Thin Mints a shelf and a half above her vein-ridden hands. I saw her from about half the aisle down and, against my usual self, I walked over to her. She laughed and asked if I would get her a box; I did as she asked. She raised an eyebrow at the box and said, "Well, that's about enough for a skinny person. Pass me two more, will ya?" I liked this woman. I passed her two more, smiled, turned around and walked away--never to see her again.

This old woman, with the veins in her hands and the velcro shoes, reminded me of my grandmother. My grandma Connie is a special woman. I see her as my second mother. She lives on a few miles away, so I grew up with her. She was my sunbeam primary teacher. She was my Achievement Day leader and she is always my friend. Even though I've been moved away from home for almost 4 years now, she still calls me. I don't think she'll ever know how much I love her phone calls. She is kind. I've never heard her speak a misjudged, ill word about anyone. She rarely swears, and she always says "I love you" when leaving. She is one of the most well-read people I know. You've never had toast till you've had my grandmother's toast.

The point is, I miss my grandma. I love and admire her. I was happy to help somebody's grandmother get a box of Thin Mints, and I hope someone helps mine get a box two as well.

First grade; second row, far right

8th grade; back row, far left

3rd from the left

Gold and Green Ball; second from the left

And still as beautiful as ever.

I love you, Grandma Connie.

I lay there with my head in a cage,

And pray she hits the vein the first try.

The elastic band is cutting into my bicep,

And I already know she's going to miss.

"Pump your hand in a fist," she says,

But I can see the self-doubt on her face.

She warns me that it's about to pinch,

But the pinch is nothing to me nowadays.

I heard her mutter and scowl in frustration,

And then I felt, inside my arm, as she fished,

Dug, dived, dipped and twisted the needle.

She pulls the needle out of my retching elbow,

And moves the damned elastic to my other arm.

I see her fidget and furrow her brow in concentration,

And I know she's going to miss--two more times.

I'm not crying from the pain,

I'm crying because I'm not a human pincushion.

Grace-isms

Grace is the little girl who lives upstairs; she is four years old, and one of the smartest people I know. She likes cookies, play dough and Dora shoes with velcro straps. Today she came down to bring me a bank statement and magazine ad that had come in the mail. I told her to come in and visit me while I finished fixing my hair. I asked her how her day was going, how her baby sister was and other whatnots. This is what I learned from our conversation:

Pretending is not just a game

"Is your brother and sister at school?"

"Ya, they go every day."

"Do you miss them when they're gone?"

"No, I just pretend they are here so I don't miss them."

Pretending makes you feel better, so why do we all stop pretending?! Because it is child-like? Well, I've decided I want to pretend more.

Cookies are good

"Grace, do you want a cookie?"

"Well yeah."

"I have oreos. Do you like those?"

"Yeah. I like most cookies."

If you like it; do it. I like laughing out loud while running at the gym. I like driving with really loud music. I like wearing eye shadow. I like dying my hair different colors. I like drinking milk straight from the jug.

It's okay with her if I don't get married for a long time

"Where's your boyfriend?"

"I don't have one, Grace."

"What happened to Chris?"

"We decided not be boyfriend and girlfriend anymore."

"Did he marry someone else?"

"I don't know, sweetheart."

"Oh. That's okay. You'll get married in the temple. Lots of people get married in the temple. You can't live here anymore when you get married. I hope you don't get married for a long time."

First, I was shocked she remembered I had a boyfriend, let alone his name, but as I said earlier, she is smart for four years old. Grace understands more of the world than I give her credit for. She understands break-ups, she understands you get married in the temple and she understands that getting married should take time and not be rushed. I think I'll stick with Grace and not get married for long time :)

We all look different, and that's okay

"Grace, who is your favorite Princess?"
"The one with the slanty eyes." (She pulls the corners of her eyes back tight)
"Jasmine?"
"No! The one with really slanty eyes!"
"Uhh...Pocahontas?"
"No! She has eyes that go like this!" (She pulls her eyes even tighter)
"Oh! Mulan?!"
"Yeah! That's her name. I like her."

Grace doesn't know or care that you shouldn't describe people as having "slanty eyes," because in her mind it isn't a bad thing to have eyes that slant. I'm going to stop caring so much about mine and others' physical appearance. It's okay.

Things I Would Do if I Wasn't So Tired...

I am tired--very tired. Physically, emotionally and mentally tired. If I wasn't so tired, this is what I would do:

• Make breakfast. Not just an over ripe banana on the way out the door, but a breakfast with oatmeal, eggs, sausage and toast.
  
• Get my hair dyed and trimmed since it has been woefully neglected lately.
  
• Buy conditioner, a new razor and concealer. I'm out of conditioner, I might as well shave with a butter knife and I can no longer hide the dark circles under my eyes.
  
• Do my laundry!
  
• Clean my sick nasty car out before the sunflower hulls start falling out the windows.
  
• Make marshmallow flower cupcakes.
• Watch The Vow, Haywire, A Dangerous Method, The Ides of March, Fireflies in the Garden and The Rum Diary.
• Go to my Thinking Spot (a place I haven't been since August), drink a Diet Coke and watch the clouds turn pink in the evening.
  
• Go to FHE....maybe...maybe not though.
  
• Paint my nails. Well, I'd have to clean them first, so I guess clean my nails and then paint them.
  
• Get my wisdom teeth out. Another one is popping through right now, and I wholly regret cancelling that appointment two years ago.
  
• Drink less Diet Coke. It has moved from a pleasant beverage to enjoy, to a life sustaining liquid that without I wouldn't stay awake during my Grammar class.

I Miss My Home

I miss my home. I miss everything about it. Provo has nothing of my home in it. My home has a smell. In the summer months you can smell the water in the air from the pipe. You can smell the exhaust from the tractors. The air smells of warm work. In fall, you can smell fresh cut grass anywhere you go. You can smell alfalfa, grain and later the straw--you can smell the difference. In winter, you can't smell anything at all. It is so cold that everything loses its scent. If you sniff, the inside of your nose will freeze, so even if there were a floating smell, you wouldn't know it. In spring, you smell rancidness. Dairy farms are thawing and the sewer ponds, too. I miss my home. My home looks like nothing else. The land is flat until you raise your eyes ever so slightly and all that's visible is a wall of mountains surrounding you in an oval. Behind those mountains are just more mountains. It is a bowl of mountains. A cup of mountains. An upside down hub cap used to feed the dog. You see a patch work quilt of fields separated not by stitching and batting, but by battered fences that sink somewhere in the middle, but neither neighbor will fix that part. You see animals. Cows, black, white, red and grey. You see horses. Well-trained quarter horses, sway-backed nags, powerful draft horses and shoddy Shetlands. You see trucks in the fields and tractors on the road. You see your neighbor, and you wave. I miss my home. My home has a sound. In winter, you hear snow plows scraping, sparking, grumbling, tearing down the road. You hear the snow fall. Piling up the banks. Piling on the roof, the cars, the cows, the fence posts. You hear the constant hum of tractors in the summer. You hear the che-che-che-che of the pipe's song. I'll never forget that sound. It was my bed-time song for 18 years. I miss my home.