A Post Complaining About People Complaining

Don't worry you do not have to point out the hypocrisy in writing an entire blog post complaining about other people complaining. I see it. And even though I hate hypocrisy, I hate people complaining even more. Now, I do not assume that I never complain. In fact, my husband can tell you that I definitely get into ruts where I complain about school, clothes, my hair and skin and basically everything in between.
However, I hate people complaining about their health or lack thereof. I hate it.

If I have learned anything in the last 3 years it would be an affirmation of the how incredibly true this quote is:

Be kind, for everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle

Last Thursday I was in a class where for about 20 minutes I listened to a girl complain about how many doctors she has seen lately because she gets vertigo when she eats sugar. 20 minutes she complained about how hard her life is now that she can't eat sugar, but she doesn't care because she still eats it anyways and "who cares if the world is flipped upside down, right?!" Now, I 'm not saying I never complain to my husband or close friends about it, but to publicly complain only makes you look foolish. I agree, it would be hard to have sugar induced vertigo, but at the same time I think she should be grateful that's all it is, because heaven knows it could be far worse. 

Now from my experiences with health problems I have learned a great deal. Much of it I wish I never needed to learn, but I am also so very grateful for the incredibly large amount that I am not forced to learn about. My health has taught be a lot, but the very most important and valuable lesson I have learned was shortly after being diagnosed with MS two years ago. Yes, I have health problems, but there is, and always will be, somebody next to me who has it worse, who is far more progressed, who is declining, who is in pain, who is terminal. I learned to never, ever utter a complaint about how bad you may have it, because the person sitting next to you is most likely fighting a harder battle. 

Be thankful your battle is what it is, because it could always be worse. 

Senioritis

5 1/2 years ago I thought I was going to die from senioritis. I was so very unmotivated it was ridiculous. I was already accepted to BYU, and they would never know my grades for this last semester. It is a miracle I finished like I did with good grades I did considering the way I had to drag myself out of bed every morning.

Fast forward five plus years to now. My senioritis has progressed to a terminal stage. There's no cure and nothing that can help. Except for binging on Grey's Anatomy and a healthy dose of Diet Coke, but mostly just a lot of McDreamy and McSteamy.

God Speaks Spanish and I Don't

Since moving to Boston, I quickly learned why Massachusetts drivers are called "massholes," and, as I have already mentioned, I am scared of Boston and the people who live here.

Early yesterday morning Steven left for a business trip to Florida--leaving me all alone in this house. Needless to say, I've been incredibly brave and only checked the dead bolt on the front door 3 times, locked my own bedroom door and left almost every light in the house on all night. This morning I decided to go to this cute little diner for lunch and read my book as I enjoyed their refills of Diet Coke. Of course it took about 20 minutes to find a parking meter that was free, and, when I did, it was on a side street about a block away. I went to the diner, enjoyed my french toast, diet coke and book. Two hours later (yes, I did just drink Diet Coke for a good hour, but, hey, I tip well so it's okay) I wandered back to the car...I should've stayed in my blissful ignorance filled with bubbly Diet Coke.

I don't know how this always happens to me. One time in high school during a raging snow storm, I drove my ancient Park Avenue Buick the 15 miles to Montpelier. I pulled up in the parking lot looking fly in this brown car. Have you ever noticed how not many cars are brown? Anyways, I pulled up and was met with the shocked and pitying look of one of the boys in my grade. I distinctly remember him asking if I noticed any strong pulling to the right as I drove through town. No, in fact, I didn't notice much except the wind almost pushing me off the right side of the road. Well, this was because the right, front tire of my car was completely flat and looked like it had been in such a state for quite some time. He was very nice to the poor girl who drove for miles with a front tire basically gone. He changed it out for me at the auto shop before school ended that day, and I went on my merry way.

So, after my euphoric two hours of Diet Coke, I was brought back to reality. Much like my Buick, this little Honda Civic had a very flat front tire. Really, this isn't my fault. It's on the right side! I have MS! My equilibrium is distorted! So really I can't be blamed for not noticing a little slanting to one side, can I?! For reals, sometimes half my body slants to one side, so really a bit of slanting is normal in my world.

I pop the trunk, lift the false bottom and pull out a spare donut tire aaaaand that's all. No, wait, there's some little brown bag that had melted to the rubber matting that had a metal stick with a hook and the lug nut stick. Hm, well, where's the jack? I search around and finally find it wedged into it's little hole and wiggle it out. I, in a dress mind you, plop the tire down with the metal sticks and this itty bitty jack.

Let me tell you about jacks for a second. I know how to use a jack. My dad taught me when I was just little, and we used it to hold the sled up when it broke one winter. However, that jack is red. And huge. It has a four foot handle. It cranks several feet in the air. It is a man's jack. The jack I had was not a man's jack. In fact, I started to doubt whether or not it was even a real jack. And that's when God spoke to me.

I always imagined God having a strong, deep voice that would leave your ears ringing, but God's voice actually had a very thick Spanish accent and sounded a bit far off.

"Senorita, you know how to? Senorita! No, deja! No! Senorita, up!"

I'm standing there thinking I had just been called as the next prophet when I realize God is still yelling at me in Spanish.

If you know anything about my college experience you will know that I very nearly flunked out of BYU because of Spanish. I took Spanish 101, then I took Spanish 101 again. Then I took Spanish 102, and then I took Spanish 101 again. Onward to Spanish 105 where I disgraced every Spanish word in the language. Spanish 106? How about no. I skipped 106 and lied my way into Spanish 205 which was the last required Spanish class I needed to graduate. I can't tell you how elated I was to pass this class and put Spanish behind me forever. So, you can imagine my utter astonishment at discovering God speaks Spanish.

I whipped around and looked up as I had been told to do. Well, there you have it folks, God was sitting on top of the roof of the Greek Orthodox Church. I looked up, mouth agape, and waved. He yells back at me, "You do it wrong. You know how?" I yell back that I'm going to try, but I'm fairly certain I don't know how to use this jack. I will spare you the blow by blow of the next five minutes as he tried to explain from his rooftop perch where to put the jack. As I am using the metal stick hook thing (that looks more like a crochet hook than a tool) to crank the car up my about a half centimeter each turn (oh how I wished I had that red jack).

After a minute my Spanish God was on the phone; he yells down to me, "Senorita, he help you." He points down the sidewalk at a man walking to me with a real jack. Oh, thank heavens! I meet Jose, him speaking in very slow Spanish for my benefit and me speaking in horrible Spanish.

For the next hour Jose and Raul (who descended the roof top throne and subsequently was not God) helped me switch out the back tire with the donut, and then put the back tire on the front tire. We talked in broken English and broken Spanish. I taught them the rhyme 'righty tighty, lefty loosey' and they laughed, but I'm pretty sure it was a courtesy laugh. Raul taught me how to fix a tire valve. He came down with a tire pump and fixing kit and showed me where the valve was cracked. He also taught me not to be swindled my the mechanics. 15 dollars is all I am supposed to pay for the tire, and if I pay more then I am "bobo," which I'm not sure what that means, but I'm pretty sure I don't want to be one.

Raul and Jose were fixing the roof of the church, but they were kind enough to come down and help what obviously looked like a bobo in a skirt trying to decide which side is up on a city jack. People out here are busy and impatient. Not many people look up and smile on the subway, and no one waits longer than .5 seconds before laying on their horn at a green light. However, I realized today that there are good people everywhere, and that even though it took time out of their day, Jose and Raul came to my aide, and they didn't just swap out the tire, no, they made sure the car was okay and then made sure I wouldn't lose money on the tire. People are kind, and despite how leery I am of this city and its people, I need to remember that there are some unexpected, Greek Orthodox saints out there that speak Spanish.

Tasers and 2nd Amendment

With all the controversy over banning guns in the United States, I've never really had to put much thought into my stance. Of course not! No, I'm very much opposed to this infringement on the 2nd amendment. I do not personally own a gun, but people in my family do, my friends do; in fact, probably my whole town does! Protecting yourself is a right, and I do not believe government should ever take control of our right to protect ourselves.

Like I said, I've always been against gun control, but recently I've become much more impassioned about it. Boston is a wonderful place; there are so many great things to do and see, but Massachusettes has a fault, and I'm not talking about their absurd roads or their terrible sidewalks. It is illegal to own or to sell a Taser or any other type of stun gun in Massachusetts under the Massachusetts General Laws Chapter 140, Section 131J.  A civilian in possession of a taser may punished by "a fine of not less than $500 nor more than $1,000 or by imprisonment in the house of correction for not less than 6 months nor more than 21/2 years, or by both such fine and imprisonment."

What?!?

Seriously. As I explained in my last post, I am scared of this place, so Steve and I have been thinking about getting a small taser for me to carry. I'm sure it will never need to be used, but it would make me feel better as I travel the subways, buses and streets by myself. However, I guess that won't be happening.

Like I said, I've always known I am against laws that constrict the 2nd amendment, but now that I slightly understand how it feels to have my right to feel safe taken away, I definitely am against all and any laws that leave civilians unprotected.

On a less serious note, read my favorite story about tasers and I dare you to not laugh:

Taser Story

Last weekend I saw something at Larry's Pistol & Pawn Shop that

sparked my interest. The occasion was our 15th anniversary and I

was looking for a little something extra for my wife Julie. What I came

across was a 100,000-volt, pocket/purse-sized taser. The effects of

the taser were supposed to be short lived, with no long-term adverse

affect on your assailant, allowing her adequate time to retreat to

safety.

WAY TOO COOL! Long story short, I bought the device and brought it

home.

I loaded two AAA batteries in the darn thing and pushed the button.

Nothing! I was disappointed.I learned, however, that if I pushed the

I learned, however, that if I pushed the

button and pressed it against a metal surface at the same time; I'd get

the blue arc of electricity darting back and forth between the prongs.

AWESOME!!! Unfortunately, I have yet to explain to Julie what that

burn spot is on the face of her microwave.

Okay, so I was home alone with this new toy, thinking to myself that it

couldn't be all that bad with only two triple-A batteries, right?

There I sat in my recliner, my cat Gracie looking on intently (trusting

little soul) while I was reading the directions and thinking that I

really needed to try this thing out on a flesh & blood moving

target.

I must admit I thought about zapping Gracie (for a fraction of a second)

and thought better of it. She is such a sweet cat. But, if I was going

to give this thing to my wife to protect herself against a mugger, I did

want some assurance that it would work as advertised. Am I wrong?

So, there I sat in a pair of shorts and a tank top with my reading

glasses perched delicately on the bridge of my nose, directions

in one hand, and taser in another.

The directions said that a one-second burst would shock and disorient

your assailant; a two-second burst was supposed to cause muscle spasms

and a major loss of bodily control; a three-second burst would

purportedly make your assailant flop on the ground like a fish out of

water. Any burst longer than three seconds would be wasting the

batteries. All the while I'm looking at this little device measuring

about 5' long, less than 3/4 inch in circumference; pretty cute really

and (loaded with two itsy, bitsy triple-A batteries) thinking to

myself, 'no possible way!'

What happened next is almost beyond description, but I'll do my

best...

I'm sitting there alone, Gracie looking on with her head cocked to

one side as if to say, 'don't do it dipshit,' reasoning that a one

second burst from such a tiny little ole thing couldn't hurt all that bad. I

decided to give myself a one second burst just for the heck of it. I

touched the prongs to my naked thigh, pushed the button, and . . .

HOLY MOTHER OF GOD . . .  WEAPONS OF MASS DESTRUCTION . . .

WHAT THE HELL!!!

I'm pretty sure Jessie Ventura ran in through the side door, picked me

up in the recliner, then body slammed us both on the carpet, over and

over and over again. I vaguely recall waking up on my side in the fetal

position, with tears in my eyes, body soaking wet, both nipples on

fire ,testicles nowhere to be found, with my left arm tucked under my body in

the oddest position, and tingling in my legs.

The cat was making meowing sounds I had never heard before, clinging to

a picture frame hanging above the fireplace, obviously in an attempt

to avoid getting slammed by my body flopping all over the living room.

Note: If you ever feel compelled to 'mug' yourself with a taser, one

note of caution: there is no such thing as a one second burst when you

zap yourself! You will not let go of that thing until it is dislodged

from your hand by a violent thrashing about on the floor. A three

second burst would be considered conservative.

THAT HURT LIKE HELL!!!

A minute or so later (I can't be sure, as time was a relative thing at

that point), I collected my wits (what little I had left), sat up and

surveyed the landscape. My bent reading glasses were on the mantel of

the fireplace. The recliner was upside down and about 8 feet or so

from where it originally was. My triceps, right thigh and both

nipples were still twitching. My face felt like it had been shot up with Novocain,

and my bottom lip weighed 88 lbs. I had no control over the drooling.

Apparently I shit myself, but was too numb to know for sure and my

sense of smell was gone. I saw a faint smoke cloud above my head which

believe came from my hair. I'm still looking for my nuts and I'm

offering a significant reward for their safe return!!


P. S. My wife loved the gift, and now regularly threatens me with it!

Cats and Crosswalks

Tonight I realized something: I am a pathological scaredy cat.

My mother taught me well; in fact, she taught me too well. I can always remember her jumping to my defense whenever my dad asked me to go get some drill or rope or chain or any other odd tool from over at the barn. She'd say, "Oh, Todd, it's too dark!" He'd always counter with questions of why that mattered asking, "Does the tool disappear if it's dark?" I always loved it when my mom did this because I was usually spared the annoyance of running over to the machine shed, fighting off the ever present dog at the door, hoping in vain the light wasn't burned out, fumbling around in the dark for some obscure tool either on the massive table, our old kitchen table (which I always rather liked), the old truck seat, or in the fridge that stood as a medicine cabinet/Diet Coke stash. By the time I found it and returned home, the job was either finished without whatever I'd spent too much time trying to find, or, and most often this was the case, I came back with the wrong something-or-other. If my mom jumped to my rescue my dad would usually just go get whatever he needed himself, which would leave me safely at home and out of the dark.

This was how I was raised.

If it was dark, you stay inside. If you don't, you end up locked inside a dark, old, run-down, milk barn with a crazed and angry raccoon who can see in the dark whereas you're painfully rooted in rubber boots and over-sized gloves holding a horseshoeing rasp and trembling with fear as you hear the little rodent scurrying around you, but that's a story for another post.

Point: Be scared. My mother was very good at teaching me to be scared.

I think that's what I've learned the most in Boston this summer is that I'm scared. I'm scared of the buildings, the subway, the people--definitely the people, and even crossing the roads outside of a crosswalk.

So, why did the chicken cross the road? Well, maybe it was trying to get over its fear and cross the blasted road! 

Dear Dad

I know I'm a day or two late on this, but I wanted to write down some of my favorite memories of my Dad for Father's day:

• This past Sunday the speaker told a story about her dad making her a play house. This had me thinking about when my dad built a play house for my sister and me. This wasn't just any play house. No, this was a matching miniature house of own house. I remember my dad and his friend Sparky or Sporty or something like that would measure and cut and drill this house. It was painted such a pretty pale peach color that matched our big house's siding. It came complete with a white porch, a mailbox with our names on it and even a sliding window! We had desks, a table and chairs, a mini kitchenette, plastic food and even a broom and dustpan. I remember playing in this house in the heat of summer when I sticky sheen of sweat would cling to our skin inside the house, but it was a small price to pay for such a magnificent house. Today it functions more as a storage shed since my sisters and I have grown old, and I don't know if my dad knows how much I loved that house he built for us just because he loved us. 
• It seems that a lot of my favorite memories consists of building things. One late fall we stated building "the facilities." We remodeled the squeeze chute, alley way, watering hole and other corrals around. It was and is still to this day one of the better alley ways every built in the Bear Lake valley. It has a side walk on the side so you can easily walk on it above the cows' backs and have easy access to hot shots and such. There's gates behind the shiny, red chute that inter lock to make it easy to get behind cows. They corrals or funneled to make it easy to herd the cows, the gates are all perfectly hung a foot or so off the ground so they don't drag but calves don't get out. There's gates that have solid wood panels on the front with a hole to dead bolt it from the other side; there's horseshoe hooks that make it easy to shut the big wooden gate that it is handmade. Everything is made with solid wood that's backed by railroad ties and lag bolts. These lags I remember the most. It was during an early snowfall that I was huddled down in the bucket of the skid steer as I threaded washers onto lags. One after another until I finished the boxes. But it didn't matter, because I was so proud (and still am today) of "the facilities" I helped my dad build. 
• I was so not happy with my little brother's appearence into my life. When my mom told us she was pregnant I cried and cried. I locked myself in my bedroom and wouldn't come out all Sunday afternoon. This wasn't just because I didn't want to surrender my last child baby status, but because he was a boy. I just knew my dad would love him more because he was a boy. With a family of 4 girls I'm sure my dad wished for some manly relief from all the pigtails and pink, but, to me, a new baby brother meant I wasn't going to be my dad's little buddy anymore. I remember my dad coming into my room and telling me that it didn't matter if we had a little boy, I would always be his favorite, and I am pretty sure that still stands. :) 
• Along with the torment of having a brother, there was the torment of naming him. My mom kept a list of names like Cade and Kyle and others on the fridge, but nothing seemed to fit. My sister, Dayna, my dad and I were lying on my bed talking about what it would be like to have a baby brother when my dad suggested the name Theron. He explained how Theron Godfrey was, and why he wanted to name my baby brother after him. It just seemed to fit, and I'll always remember my dad explaining why he picked this name. 

These are just a few of some of my favorite memories with my dad. We worked hard together for most of my time at home. Honestly, most all my memories with my dad are about the farm, but I wouldn't change it for a thing. In fact, after spending a week on the east coast I only miss my little Idaho farm more, and in this city heat I would be happy to go move pipe in the cool mud with my dad any day. Love you very much, Dad.


Love, your favorite daughter

Roots

It's rather late as I am sitting here in the Denver airport waiting to catch a red-eye flight out to the east coast in a couple hours. Steven and I are moving to Boston for the summer; he has a really great internship with PWC until the end of August, so this small-town, country girl is headed to live in the big city for a couple months. This summer hiatus will most likely turn into a more permanent position come next years fall as Steve will hopefully be continuing with PWC as a full time accountant. This means adios to my beloved west mountains and open fields with the neat and tidy rows of hay lying freshly swathed across the fields. Those same sweet rows of hay fill the air with a beautiful smell of fresh cut grass mixed with the subtle sound of tractors chugging somewhere in the background.
I know I've lived in Provo for the last 5 years, but I have always loved my beautiful, little Bear Lake. And the fact are that I am going to miss both Provo and Bear Lake. 5 years ago when I moved to Provo I was so scared. I was too terrified of University Parkway that I wouldn't drive past the Dollar Theater because that road has 3 lanes--3!! I thought that the Kimball Tower was a sky scraper, and I was fascinated that I could get a Diet Coke any time I wanted through one of the many drive-thrus littering Bulldog Boulevard. I was living in a city!
Don't get me wrong, I've been to a couple big cities: London, Paris, New York City and Washington D.C. I stood next to the 100+ story sky scraper that stood next to the Twin Towers and was only half the size of those giants. I've stopped at french crepe shops at all hours of the night. I've weaved through the insane freeways throughout D.C. The difference is that those places were all a sight-seeing, vacationing, wonderland that you go visit and oh-and-awe at and then leave. Emphasis on the leave part. Which is what I think has me so frightened.
My town where cows and dogs out number the residents to big-city Provo where I discovered Red Hot Chili Peppers and 3 lane roads and now onto a city that has 5 million residents in the greater area and subways instead of 3 lane highways.
I'll be honest, I am very scared to go do this. In fact, I would not be able to do it without Steven with me. However, I a little birdie told me some good advice as I left work last Friday

"Don't become a big city girl. Remember your roots."

  

As I walked out to my car I thought about that parting, and I realized that's what I was afraid of: becoming a big city girl. It isn't the serpentine roads or the roads that no doubt have more than 1 lane; it's change. I love my life as is. I love where I came from and who that has made me, and I am afraid that moving to a city where I am pretty sure they won't have a Broulim's Grocery or a PCS that you can ride your dirt bike to will change me somehow. However, even knowing why I am scared to move to Boston has somehow lessened the fear, because I know what I have to do now: remember my roots. 

So, here's to some summer plans of living in the city and remaining in the country.

All Grown Up

Today was Clara's blessing day, and she was so beautiful. She has the sweetest duck tail hair, such big eyes and the most delicate hands ever. She wore a lovely white, knitted dress, and her daddy gave her a wonderful blessing. All eyes were on her beautiful, little face as she was lifted high up like Simba after her blessing; however, not many noticed the handsome boy on the second to front row with the cute smile and short, buzz-cut hair. He looked like a little man as he folded his arms and closed his eyes without being prompted. He's a good little man.

13 Years Later, I'm Getting Married

I remember some 13 years ago when my sister, Natalie, was getting married. I was 9, and this was my first real wedding I'd ever been apart of. I learned all the ins and outs of a bridal shower, the mints that go on the plates, I became an expert on tying ribbon to invitations, I rolled scrolls and put little fake rings around them to keep them in the tight scroll. I tried on her dress and veil, I fiddled with my bouquet of flowers with the little hot glue gun droplets on them to make them look like they were freshly picked with the dew still clinging to the yellow petals. I despised the headband that would get pulled off my head every time I was hugged (I hate all sorts of head bands or those belonging to the headband family). I vaguely remember walking down the aisle as the youngest bridesmaid, and I vividly remember decorating the cake with Nana.

However, the night before Natalie was married, she slept with me in my bed downstairs of my mom and dad's house. I had those glow in the dark stars plastered all over the ceiling, a blow up chair complete with stool, a full sized bed and lots of 9 year old stuff all about. I remember thinking how cool it was to have a slumber party with my big sister, and when we turned the lights off I was so pleased with my taste in decorations as she commented on how cool my ceiling looked. I wish I could remember the conversation we had better, but, alas, my 9 year old brain was still so preoccupied with how validated I felt that my glow in the dark, stick on stars were cool.

Never the less, I do remember Natalie saying how weird it was that this was her last night single and how she couldn't believe that it was actually going to happen in the morning. I know I laid there thinking how strange it would be to be getting married. I didn't eve like boys then, and, yet, here I am, getting married in the morning.

I feel the same sentiments as my sister did 13 years ago; I can't believe I'm actually getting married in the morning, and this is my last night as Carlie Wallentine. Despite being long and inevitably mispronounced, I will miss Wallentine. However, I am lying in this queen sized bed and thinking it is rather lonely. I'm getting married in the morning, and as I think about my wonderful groom asleep in the other room with his groomsmen, I can't help but think how surreal it all feels. I've never been more sure of any decision in my life, and I am positive that Steven is by far the best man for me. I'm not sure why he loves me as he does, but I know he does, and I love him, and he knows I do, so without further ado, I will bid Wallentine adieu.

To Be in America

I've been scared at the thought about moving to Boston since I knew that was where my life would take me. I admit, I was excited, but oh so scared. My hometown is 500 people; there are that many people living in one apartment complex in Boston! I'm used to tractors driving down main highways, herds of cows ambling down the yellow line as a family rides behind them on a menagerie of horses, dirt bikes and 4-wheelers. I know most everyone who lives in my town and if they own a pet or not. My mom has their PO Box numbers memorized, and if you forget your wallet at home when you go to the gas station, it is okay, they'll take credit on your honesty. It's a small town, but I know how to live there.

I don't know how to live in Boston with its bustling streets with individual names and no grid system. I don't know how to navigate my way through a subway system or even find a grocery store in Boston; do they have a Broulims out there with shelves stocked with Best Western? Boston is as good as a foreign country to me. Until yesterday...

Last week, my future home hosted two bomb attacks. I say my future home because it is funny how much I have come to love a place that I've never even been to. I have completely fallen in love with their sports teams, I think the subway T has anamazing history, and have you seen their library? Really, it is huge! I flew into Boston once, but I've never really been there, but I love that little town more than I thought.

It broke my heart to see my future home come under attack, and all I wanted to do at first was turn to Steven and say, "Told you so! Boston is a scary place, and we can't move there because we'll die!"

I stopped at the grocery store the other day and saw the flag flying at half mast in honor of Boston's terror the day before. I was so touched by this huge flag being lowered for a city across the country, hundreds of miles away. I think that what it means to be an American: No matter what city you live in, what religion you are, what color your skin is, you always show love and respect for your neighbor.

Quotable Quotes From Teaching Composition

"Because everyone has been a student, they think they know how to be a teacher, but no one knows how to be a teacher unless you are a teacher."

"Teaching is 90% teaching kids to be good people, and 10% content."

"It's a way to find closure, and I think that's why we don't give up on the personal narrative."

Me + School = Motivationless

I feel as though I am at the end of my rope with school. I literally have zero motivation left. Zero. And trust my math on this one; I doubled checked my answer--it is most positively a zero. That research paper I have due tomorrow...not interested. These unit plans I am supposed to be creating...get thee hence from me. Spanish...please, have I ever really truly cared about you?








This graph may or may not have been created in Microsoft Word and only by inserting lines because I couldn't get the graph thing to work, BUT it is real data! Dr. Dean explained that in a conference or meeting she was at they showed data that explained how BYU students' motivation is super high at the beginning of Fall semester because who doesn't love the first day of school?! New notebooks, new pencils and a shiny, new homework planner--you cannot not love that. However, as the fall semester ends, BYU students are only given a teeny tiny Christmas break. Only two weeks compared to the usual three to four week break of most universities. This only allows a minimal refueling of motivation to begin Winter semester. Most students no matter what university they are at slowly decline at a faster rate than they did in fall semester, so...SPRING BREAK. Or not. Not at BYU anyways. Nope, when the sun is out and shining and most students head off to beaches or canyons to enjoy the summer rays or just take a week relaxing with Netflix, BYU students are still sitting in this retched desks with the poor back support and unshapely bum seats. This lack of spring break sends BYU students into a shockingly steep decline as they are denied this precious refueling week. Nothing even begins to look up as the rest of March and April slowly creep past until the end of the semester. Granted, BYU students are released from their poor seats and attendance points a week or two earlier than other university students, but nonetheless, if you are wondering why your motivation is tanking with no hope of a rise as finals approach, know that there is statistical proof that we are lacking motivation and you are not alone.




***Disclaimer:Although this is based off real data, I am lacking the motivation to thoroughly research it or cite anything. Let's get real here.****

Today

 

Mrs and Drool

After a lengthy conversation about my MS, Steven says, "The only thing I want to change about your MS is make it an Mrs."

I most definitely am in love with the sweetest man I know, who continually amazes me at how patient and accepting he can be. Also, for driving me home safely tonight after I passed out asleep and drooling somewhere around Salt Lake City.

Shouted From the Rooftops

If I were to imagine what the afterlife would be like I would liken it unto the 4th floor of the JFSB. You know the scripture about your sins being proclaimed from the rooftops? I can picture a whole bunch of people ducking under doorways and around garbage cans and lamp poles as "Sara did not read the Terms & Conditions agreement before agreeing to them" boomed over the rooftops from the clouds. Or better yet, "Julianne lied to her doctor about eating 6 to 8 servings of vegetables a day" echoed between the buildings as the voice, which sounds like Morgan Freeman, continues to read off the list of sins from the rooftops.
As I walk down the 4th floor hallway, I duck into a reading room and whip out my phone as fast I can and pretend to be deep in phone conversation as Hutch walks by...whew, I missed him. I duck my head and see him turn the corner a ways down the hallway. With short, quick steps, I hurry down the hallway--my backpack bouncing in the awkward way backpacks do. Eeerrrch! Turn! Turn! Turn! I'm nearing Dr Wood's office, and I can hear her talking on her cellphone as she explains that she just walking out her door. I speed walk back down the hallway that I just did the awkward, backpack shuffle down..heading back towards Hutch. Curse this poorly designed building that is a single hallway wrapping in one, big block. There's no detours, there's no real doorways to duck under. Booming ahead of me, more like Batman than Morgan Freeman, is the F...F...F...that mars my transcripts from Hutch's Advanced Writing Literary Criticism class. Behind me is screaming my terrible semester of Early British Literature where I accidentally slept through that semester. No matter where I run in this labyrinthine building, my English "sins" are being shouted from the rooftops in this postmortem afterlife of the JFSB.

Spinkles with Cookies

Let me tell you about Olivia. She is a beautiful little girl; she has big, brown eyes, and beautiful black curls that hang across her forehead in perfect ringlets. She has big hands and long feet that she loves to paint the nails of. She doesn't talk when you first meet her--she just stares up at you with her big, chocolate eyes, but after she gets you used to you she talks...and talks...and talks but has the prettiest voice. She loves baking with me and Grammy. She can take a sugar cookie and glop a big scoop of icing on top of the it and then scrape and slide the knife across the top until she pulls most the icing off the side of the cookie. The frosting is almost so thin you can see the cookie through the icing. Sprinkles are her favorite. She loves the bright, colorful ones and the little shaped ones too. She'll take a handful of them and meticulously drop them on the cookie until you can't see the frosting or the cookie through all the sprinkles.It's almost more sprinkles than cookie. Of course, she'll have a few stuck to her fingers, so she'll lick them off her long, delicate fingers, and without washing the shining spittle off her hands, she'll grab another cookie--leaving a little piece of her beautiful self on each one.

 

I Miss My Sisters

This took a ridiculously long time to make.

Sunday Football

9 months ago, I didn't even like football.

4 months ago, I was introduced to the "Football Season"

3 months ago, I realized I was in over my head. 

2 weeks ago, I self diagnosed myself with Sunday Anxiety. 

Previous to nine months ago, I watched football for only one reason: Theron. In my opinion, Theron is headed towards the NFL...and the NBA and MLB as evidence by these pictures. I don't think I'm biased, but I've been told I am, but I think they're wrong.

For the last five months the harmony of my relationship with Steven depends on the Patriots. If they win, Sundays are great! If they lose, well, it's just downright lame. Okay, that might be an exaggeration, but every joke has a little truth in it. We are into the Playoff games now, and I am seriously considering some Anxiety medication. I'm sitting here watching the Patriots play the Texans and my breathing is shallow, I'm tense, I get nervous with each Houston possession and I roll my eyes every time Brady throws a low pass. A part of me (I decline to admit how big or small that part may be) that wants the Patriots to lose; that would significantly lessen my Sunday Anxiety for the next 7 months. However, if they lose this game today, Steven might cry, and I wouldn't know what to do with that.

And because I should be studying Spanish:

Nueve meses pasado, no me gusta futbol. 

Cuatro meses pasado, yo se introdujo a el "Temporada de Futbol." 

Tres meses pasado, mi di cuenta de estaba encima de mi cabeza.

Dos semanas pasado, me auto diagnostico con desazon. 

And Miles to Go Before We Sleep

One of my favorite parts of Maine was this picture. 

These are Steven's and Nick's (Steve's brother) mission shoes. Well, the last pair anyways. They wore these home from Brazil where they both served. Steve went to Manaus, Brazil. I asked him one time where that was and he showed me a picture of Brazil and asked me to point to the Amazon jungle. I did. Then he asked me to point to the middle of the Amazon jungle. I did. He then said that's where he served: the middle of the Amazon jungle where it is incredibly hot, humid they have spiders as big as your hand. I never get sick of hearing stories about his mission. And when I saw these shoes I fell in love with them. They are dusty and creased. Both have holes in the sides and toes and the bottoms are almost worn off. I saw the ocean, a famous lighthouse, beautiful sunsets and mounds of snow. While in Maine, I looked at hundreds of pictures and saw adorable decorations, but these two, dusty, dirty, creased and torn shoes were by far the most beautiful of all.

Having no older brothers, missions were not really a big part of my childhood. My second oldest sister, Holly, served a mission when I was in high school, and I was so curious about what she was doing in that little island. I am proud to say that I was most definitely her best pen pal. I loved her stories about her investigators and still remember many of them. Hers was my first experience with missions, and I will always respect her for flying off to another country to preach the Gospel.

I've never wanted to serve a mission. When I turned 21 I thought, "hey, I could serve a mission." I thought about it for a bit. I realized I wasn't near marriage, I wasn't doing much but school, so why not go? Why not? Because I don't want to. I would be a terrible missionary. I hate getting up early, I hate following routines and rules, and I don't particularly like walking up to strangers. Also, I don't fancy ginormous spiders. I love missions and those that serve them, but, honestly, they just aren't for me.

I have this skuzzy little brother whom I love very much. He just turned 14; that means in only 4 short years he could be shipping off to the middle of some jungle. For a long time that scared me, and I always hoped he wouldn't go. I know that is terrible. I actually talked to both Steve and Nick about this before Steve and I were ever together, and they both said I was crazy. They said missions are the hardest two years of their life, but also irreplaceable. I disagreed for a long time until I heard a talk by Elder Holland to the young men of the church commanding them to go! It was so powerful that in the short 10 minutes it took him to dominate from the pulpit, I was completely converted to missions. Years passed and I still strongly believe in missions.

I hope my brother does go. And I hope he gets shipped off to some jungle. It'll be good for him. And I hope my mother keeps the size 15 shoes he wears back, because no matter what else is in her house, they will be the most beautiful decoration she owns.

It Was Only the Best Beginning Because It Was A Great Ending

Tonight, Steve started kissing me at 11:59:55 and didn't stop until 12:01 am New Year's Day. I can honestly say my year ended and started amazingly well.

Last year started fresh and new with nothing exceptionally great on the horizon. I'd broken up with a past boyfriend several months before, I wasn't graduating this year so it was just another year of school, I wasn't going anywhere or had any plans really. I was just rolling along. The ended very differently, however. I am engaged to marry the the best man I have ever met, I have a graduation date set for the near future, I'll be getting married before the year is half over and I'll be living in Boston before fall. I'm going places now. I have a plan and a future and I couldn't love it anymore. I am incredibly happy.