one . . . one . . . one . . .

Okay, so I have this secret confession called this semester has been really hard for me:

No, my professors aren't slowly killing my soul.
No, I'm not depressed.
No, I'm not being bullied for my milk money.

The truth is I'm sick.

I have this rare, degenerative disease that causes me to emotionally regress. The disease has advanced so rapidly of late that I have been reduced to the mentality of a three-year-old. I am having an increasingly hard time counting past "one"; double digits are now laughably out of reach.

You see, it was this exact time last year that I was steeped to my eyebrows in English culture--both refined and not-so-refined. Now I am in Provo, and the mundane aspects of life like trudging around campus hefting a load of editing books that weigh more than an abnormally large baby, or spending half my paycheck on gas, or vacuuming are suddenly so much sadder than they used to be.

This tragic truth is literally underscored in semi-permanent ink in my 2006 journal/planner:
While my 2007 self was cleaning out the garage so the cars could fit, my 2006 self was cleaning out the Cadbury machines on the platform at Charing Cross.
While my 2007 self was programming eacademy, my 2007 self was studying the program while sitting front-row at Les Miserables.
While my 2007 self was reading about the Oxford Comma, my 2006 self was walking the streets of Oxford.
While my 2007 self was fruitlessly battling a never-ending pile of laundry, my 2006 self was fruitlessly battling a never-ending pile of laundry using BioSoap.

Apparently "masochistic" is a word prospective employers generally tend to frown upon when asking prospective employees to describe themselves in three adjectives or less, so the planner had to go.

But I still found myself constantly thinking about England. Something had to be done. Taking into account my cognitive reversal, I decided to try a game called, "Count how many minutes you can not think of England." It went something like this:

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 11. ??? Oh, 1611. The year the King James Bible was commissioned. Also the door code to the London Centre. London... Oh blast!

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11. Elevensies. Like from Lord of the Kings. Written By J. R. R. Tolkien. Member of the Inklings who lived and taught at Oxford... Oh blast!

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7. Symbolizes perfection. An important element of sacred space. Found in cathedrals such as the famous one in Canterbury... Oh blast!

1, 2, 3, 4. Tea time. Yum. I love tea. Especially blackcurrant. And scones. Especially the ones they had in Ambleside... Oh blast!

So, yeah. It was basically a fantastic failure. Until last night.

Last night I was at school for waaay too long. As a result, campus was virtually deserted as I hurried towards the Marriott Center parking lot. It was bitterly cold, and the snow blew across the tarmac in great gusts. If there was any noise, it was drowned out by the howling of the wind. Despite the fact that I couldn't feel my nose, my ears, or my toes, but could definitely feel my right elbow, I stopped for a moment. It was so peaceful; there seemed to be nobody else on earth. I was the only one. It was a moment of profound inner-reflection:

1. One against the wind. Alone in the elements. (Wo)man against nature. Like Ernest Shackleton. (Ha! For once my stream of consciousness didn't flow into Lake Wintermere, Loch Ness, the Serpentine, or the Thames! Excellent progress. Continue.) Ernest Shackleton. Famous explorer who traversed deepest Antarctica after his ship was crushed by massive icebergs. Later in life implicated with his brother in a famous jewel heist. Jewels never recovered. Popular myth asserts that they are hidden somewhere in the walls of his house. The house was purchased by The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in the 1960. Was extensively remodeled and currently serves as housing for BYU's study abroad programs based in London...Oh blast!

1,...

A note on absurdity...

Have you ever had one of those absurd days where you wake up late, try to brush your teeth while simultaneously pulling on a pair of socks, rush into class 10 minutes late only to find it's the wrong classroom and you've got toothpaste in your hair?

Er...yeah, me neither...

Anyway, I'm just trying to illustrate that frustrating things happen, but it's important to just laugh it off.
Because that's a lot less painful than blowing a gasket.
Especially when you discover that you read the room number wrong because you forgot to put in your contacts...

So here are a couple of absurd moments from yesterday that I share for your general amusement:

1. Elang 350. Elang 350 is a class on copyediting. It's full of editors. In other words, Type A central. So yesterday we were exploring the fascinating world of correct comma placement by working our way through a worksheet at an excruciatingly slow pace. We finally came to the last sentence which read as follows:

The portrait of the founder, that hung in the dining hall, was stolen by pranksters.

It was our job to determine if the sentence was correct, and if not, fix it. Thus ensued Great Debate #278969786:

OCD Student #1: "I would take out the commas because it's a restrictive clause and we need to know which portrait they're talking about."

OCD Student #2: "Yes, but a restrictive clause modifies its antecedent and I'm pretty sure it wasn't the founder who was adorning the wall. I would reword it to say 'the founder's portrait that hung in the dining hall...'"

OCD Student #3: "Yes, but then it sounds as if it were a portrait painted by the founder when it is actually a portrait of the founder, so we need to think of something different."

OCD Student #4: "Actually, it would technically be correct the way it stands if the commas were removed, because the founder wouldn't be hung in the dining hall, he would be hanged in the dining hall, so it's obviously referring to the portrait."

The tedious arguement was finally drowned out by the blessed ringing of the bell.

2. BYU Police Office. So we did some shuffling of cars at my house which necessitated the registering of another car for a BYU parking sticker. Since the car that wouldn't be coming to campus much anymore was registered to my little sister, we decided that she would register the other car for the hanging permit. I called the parking office to find out what we needed to do and they told me that we needed to bring in the sticker that was already on the windshield and they would trade it in for a hanging sticker.

So I drove to school, parked in a Y-Lot, picked at the sticker until it was transferred from the windshield to an indistinguishable mess in my pocket, met my sister at the parking office, filled out the necessary paperwork, received the new permit, bid my sister farewell, and returned the car only to find one of those lovely green envelopes flapping in the breeze.

It contained a curt notice telling me I was not allowed to park without a permit. I, of course, returned to the parking office to appeal the decision and met with a helpful young officer who spent 15 minutes describing his own experience as an English major before asking me why I was there. I explained the situation, pointing out that the ticket was given at the precise time we were upgrading the permit.

He waived the fine, but said he could not mark my appeal "not guilty" because "under no circumstances are BYU students allowed to park on campus without a permit."

Oh, what a world, what a world....

The Hollywood Librarian

Although my perpetual ironed-oxford-under-sweater-paired-with-low-bun-and-eyeglasses look of the last few days might have inspired the resurrection of my studious inner-adult, it didn't.

It took a fabulous hour of online shopping and a divine sample sale at Office Max to do that.

There's nothing like a 55.74% discounted Chicago with a pink and blue argyle spandex cover to bring out the homework-doer in me...

Well, that and the matching knee-socks (:

Some Facts

Fact: I am totally snowed in. Like I can't leave the house. At all.
Fact: My only resources are the internet, and season two of The Office.
Fact: My grandparentals are the only people left on Earth who still have DIAL-UP, which equals negative-percent effective. I did the math.
Fact: This leaves me with 20+ episodes of The Office.

Question: Where will this lead?
Answer: Only time will tell...

P.S. Don't hold your breath waiting for an update. It took me FORTY-FIVE minutes to get this to post.

she pulled the covers over her head...

...and buried herself beneath a mountain of various and sundry items:

1 quilt
2 down comforters
3 blankets (wooly mammoth, Mexican, and fleece)
4 loads of laundry
5 bags of Japanese food
6 sweaters
7 sudoku books
8 tubes of chapstick
9 dollars in change
10 library books
11 unfinished to-do lists
12 homemade coupons
13 half-sticks of gum
14 straws from Wendys
15 Halls Blackcurrant Soothers
16 Star Wars action figures
17 Magazine (2004 Prom Edition)
18 hours worth of Jane Austen books-on-tape
1999 yearbook
2007 calendar
21 years worth of life experience

yet even that could not smother

the cry

wrenched from the very center of her being:

WHY MUST I BE SO VERY, VERY

AWKWARD?!?!?!?!?