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.