nostalgia

My dad is a real meat-and-potatoes kind of guy.

Last night we had fried chicken and french fries for dinner.

a rant

Okay, so I can understand that Australians can get a little mixed up sometimes. I mean, they're already upside-down and it's a slippery slope towards the backwards-thinking that makes postmen to bungle up the mail.

At least you get your letter back in a couple weeks so you can try again.

In the progress-driven United States of America, things are different.

The pony express got letters from St. Joseph, Missouri to Sacramento, California in 10 days. 12 if there was snow. And that was back in 1860!
Folklore says only one mochila was lost in all the time, but that hasn't been verified as true.

So you'd think that in 2005, we'd be at least as good, right? Wrong!

Today I got a letter back in the mail that I had sent:
With proper postage

To Ohio

Four months ago

The stupid sticker on it said "Postmark Expired" or something.

Yeah, you better run, Mr. Postman.

I thought I thought a pussy cat!

Once I got lost in thought, it was unfamiliar territory...

But lately I am only losing my thoughts.

Sometimes I think good thoughts in the shower, but they usually all go down the drain with the soap suds.

Sometimes I think good thoughts before I go bed, but I usually talk them all out in my sleep.

I think I'm only having this epiphany today because I woke up today with a cat on my face.

Gag me.

And my thoughts.

a reflection

There are certain times in my life where thoughts and ideas come together from different directions and crystallize to bring me to a sort of heightened awareness of their contents. It's just another one of those syzygys that happen every once in a while.

Today, three things happened. The sister of one of my mom's teaching associates committed suicide, so we are watching her kids while she goes to help her family. The son of my boss's visiting teachee died suddenly in his sleep from congestive heart failure, and I am typing up his funeral program. And I got an email from an old friend.

It's always sad when someone dies unexpectedly, and I can't help but feel a little down even though I don't even even know these people, but the email from my friend made me value life even more, because it included this poem:

Around the corner I have a friend,
In this great city that has no end,
Yet the days go by and weeks rush on,
And before I know it, a year is gone.
And I never see my old friend's face.
For life is a swift and terrible race.
He knows I like him just as well,
As in the days when I rang his bell.
And he rang mine, but we were younger then,
And now we are busy, tired men.
Tired of playing a foolish game,
Tired of trying to make a name.
"Tomorrow," I say, "I will call on Jim,"
"Just to show that I'm thinking of him."
But tomorrow comes and tomorrow goes,
And distance between us grows and grows.
Around the corner, yet miles away,
Here's a telegram sir, "Jim died today."
And that's what we get and deserve in the end.
Around the corner, a vanished friend.

So I just wanted you all to know that I am thinking of you, and thanks for being my friends.

Just in case you're really bored...

...here's a little present from the grandparental units...

shuffle, shuffle, cough, cough

Once I was having this really, REALLY self-conscious day and I thought: I need some friends.

So does anybody wanna play with me on Friday? Our ward is helping with a multi-stake Halloween Party/Dance that I really wanna go to, but not alone.

And also, what about next weekend? Taylor and I were thinking about having a Halloween Party on Friday like the old days with whoever wants to come? Sound interesting?

And can I have a hug?

Thats all.

a short poem

There was a little girl
Who had a little curl
Right in the middle of her forehead.
And if she was good,
I mean really, REALLY good,
SHE GOT TO GO TO LONDON STUDY ABROAD!!!!

bad timing

One would hope that in growing up, we grow wiser. You know, in that "shame on you if you fool me once, shame on me if you fool me twice" kind of way.

When my sister Lauren was about three, she got a hold of a permanent marker and signed every surface in sight with the rudimentary, dyslexic signature of "Lpn". When faced with the evidence of a defaced desk or chair, she would immediately shift all blame to Ian. This was, of course, ridiculous--Ian was 6 months old. So Lauren was sent to her room with washable markers and ream of paper to do her penance.

Now fast forward 12 years to a teenage Lauren and literate Ian.

Today I was coming downstairs to set the table for lunch when I saw Lauren spill Quik all over the counter, write something in the resulting goop, and run upstairs as if nothing had happened. When I saw the letters "I A N" written on the counter, I'm ashamed to admit that my first thought was: "Genius."

Then everyone came down to eat. My mom noticed the mess on the counter and scolded Ian. Ian came over and with the look of an injured innocent protested that he hadn't done anything. He looked so pitiful, that I finally gave in and told Lauren to clean up her mess. Ian loudly complained that he “ALWAYS gets blamed for things and he NEVER does anything EVER” before sitting in his chair and putting his head down in his arms. His outburst left us all feeling sufficiently chastened.

For about 2.5 seconds.

Until my dad sat on the homemade whoopee cushion Ian had put on his chair.

Skills

So I was really curious about the sudden proliferation of pizza delivery trucks on my way to the Relief Society Broadcast when it finally dawned on me:

Poor undomesticated daddys (:

dilemma

Once, out of boredom-slash-curiosity, I read this article on Feng Shui.
Vortexes of Sha? Centers of Chi? Sounds perfect!

So did I move my desk 1.4 inches to the left? You betcha.
Invest in an assortment of divine aromatherapy candles? Check.
Get a plant to inspire my energy forces towards positive growth? Of course.
(Make sure it was fake so as not to incur negative energy when it thirsted to death? Duh)
Measure the straps of my backpack to ensure perfect symmetry? To the angstrom.
Drape myself in various strands of energy crystals? Er...

Ah. Crystal-Free-Quasi-Harmony.

After partaking of some Chi-flavored goodness, I decided to let you all know about my success. But when I logged onto my blog, I got a BIG Sha-zam.

You see, the whole point of Feng Shui is balance. Balance. Symmetry. Poise. Harmony.

So how the heck am I suppose keep my Chi in check with "Jon Harmon" sticking out like a sore thumb? Obviously something's got to change, but do I balance the cosmic equation by giving EVERYONE two names? Will "Annie Jacob" jive? Does "Adriane Blackham" float your boat? Although I will admit that "Bobbert Buhler" brings an alliteratory smile to my face, I just don't think that's gonna fly.

On the other hand, I just can't have "Jon." Jon? Jon who? For all I know it could be a misspelled Prince John (a valid concern given a series of strange comments on Maria’s blog.)

Thus the dilemma.

So now what do I do? Without my Chi, all I have is a plastic plant and a lifetime supply of smelly wax.

My groove is totally thrown off.

My third first week at BYU? Here's some ABCs for you:

Atmosphere. Sure, there's a little bit of this, and a whole lot of this, but I love it anyways.
Boys. Boys. Boys. Boys. Boys. And Brady Toone. What is he, cloning himself?
Classroom. So What if I've been downsized from one building to one room? So what if it looks like this? Curtains make GREAT walls!
Drywall. Hallelujah!
Espanol. Is it a problem if every time Taylor suggests practicing, I get the Bay City Rollers stuck in my head? (Sabado Noche! Sabado Noche!)
Friends. Yeah for football even though we lose. Yeah for chill spots. And yeah for really nice compliments on a bit of silliness, really (thanks Annie).
Guys. Guys. Guys. Guys. Guys. Is that technically allowed? Heck yes it is!
Hilarity. Like that one time Hannah stole Taylor's jeans so when Taylor accidentally knocked over her garbage can she said, "Just be glad I'm only literally kicking your trash!"
Impatience. Like that one time I missed the green arrow and looked in the rear-view mirror to find the driver making neck-choking motions in the air. I assume in my direction....
Jabbar Gibson. Finally comes a story of hope.
Katrina. A rock dropped into the sea of humanity. Stepping stone or stumbling block?
Labor Day. Yes, I can indeed trim trees like this.
Musical Mondays. How can you make an inspiring Elvis movie? If you end it in 1969.
Naps. Here a nap, there a nap. Everywhere a nap-nap.
Olives. The only way to play.
Popsicles. Mmm. Mmm. Good.
Queues. It's a good thing I'm in an Engl-ish state of mind and find that word funny, otherwise the bookstore lines, the twilight zone lines, the banking lines and the traffic lines wouldn't be quite so amusing.
Reality Check. Isaiah 58:6-9.
Surreal. Playing tennis with Tyler Severe.
Tennis. In general. I pity the fool that messes with this!
Ultraviolet. More like ultra-beet-red. sheesh.
Veto. It's the way to go, Arnold.
Walrii. Class is in session. And Winston. Married.
Xanthochroi. Do gentlemen really prefer them?
Yellow. Bad for journalism. Good for writing.
Zebra Logic. No Meagan, just because you have no idea what la profesora is saying doesn't mean she's speaking Greek. Maybe you should have done your homework at the library instead of sleeping, then you would understand her. Oh wait, she is speaking Greek.

I'm sane, but I'm overwhelmed

Alanis Morisette's "Hand In My Pocket" was playing on the radio as I went to pick up Hannah from work tonight and that particular line stuck a chord in me as my thoughts went from the astronomical gas prices to the disastrous effects of nature's wrath that are behind them.

I'm scared. Whole cities have been swallowed up in the depths of the sea--it's as if I'm reading the Book of Mormon, only it's the headlines on MSNBC. But even more that being scared, I'm sad:

I mourn the deaths the occurred during the storm itself.
I mourn those who lost their lives in the subsequent storm surges and floodwaters.
I mourn for the survivors who are stranded, still awaiting rescue.
I mourn the lost possessions, the damaged livelihoods, the tarnished memories.
I mourn the country whose thirst for the terrible has accustomed the media to highlighting tales of terror instead of stories of hope.

But most of all, I mourn those who have allowed their better selves to be overwhelmed by the situation. Those who have let hate and fear wash away their humanity as Katrina washed away their homes. Those whose only response to tragedy is to rape, pillage, and plunder until patients have to be moved to the upper floors of the hospitals because looters have made the lower floors unsafe. Until police have to halt rescue efforts because they are being fired upon. Until store owners must guard their doors at gunpoint in order to stop the robbery of their goods. Until the dead are left lying in the streets as officials try to restore order among the living. And until people who should unite in their time of tragedy instead live in fear of their own.

So in your thoughts pray, and in your prayers plead--that sanity be returned, peace be restored, spirits rejuvenated, and hope revived.


Then know that "what it all comes down to, is that everything is gonna be fine, fine, fine."

STOP!

do you smell that?

I have your shoes.

Some famous person once said something.

The gist of it was “The things that bug you most about other people are often things that you also have a problem with.” That being the case, I’m in the market for some heavy-duty super glue, an air-compressor staple gun, or one of Annie’s dad’s handy-dandy-cell-phone-attachers-of-permanence.

About a week ago, Taylor never came home. There had been previous occasions where she had disappeared for extended periods of time, but those were when she had a boyfriend.

Now she has a missionary in the MTC.

My first thought was, “Oh, no!” Closely followed by “No, it’s okay. I already told her breaking and entering doesn’t work.”

She was gone ‘til past midnight and wasn’t answering her cell phone and I was annoyed and my mom was crying.

Anyway, she eventually answered and quickly came home. When she walked in, my mom said “Pick up or move out.”

Taylor thought she said “Pick up AND move out.”

There was more crying.


So sorry to anyone whose call I missed for less-than-legitimate reasons. It will probably happen again, but when I eventually return your call, I can commiserate with you in your annoyance. (:

Anyway, I hope school is good for y’all.

YYYEEESSS!

So once, for the first time EVER, ALL my textbooks fit into ONE BAG!

And they had these awesome bookmarks of Nathan to advertise for the OCTOBER 21ST release of the second movie!


Only don't blame me if there aren't any left.... (:

the next aristotle still has a bottle

As I was surfing the Daily Universe site for Tiffany in all her graduation glory I saw the statistics from this year's graduating class. The youngest graduate was 19. NINETEEN! Who the heck is that smart? Have they always been that smart?

So later on I was watching TV with the fam and we watched this show called "House". It's a medical show about a Dr. House who works at some specialized research hospital and has the most fantastically caustic sense of humor. My mom is in love with him.

Anyway, in a Steinbeckesque fashion, the main storyline occasionally cut away for a small, turtle-crossing-the-roadish story about this teenager (Twitty on "Even Stevens") who is babysitting his twoish-year-old brother who keeps sticking things up his nose because Twitty (not his name but not the point) did that magic trick where he pulled a coin out of his (the baby's) nose.

So first the baby comes in and he has this tiny little toy policeman up his nose. House pulls it out with tweezers. The next day it's a tiny little fireman toy. House pulls it out with tweezers. The next day it's a not so tiny fire truck toy. Out come the tweezers once again. Stupid kid, right? WRONG!

House, in his creepishly-amazing "I know everything in the world" attitude realizes that the boy is in fact a genius so he of course gets a high-powered magnet and sticks it up the kid's nose and out comes this even less tiny metal toy cat.

The two-year-old was only sending the troops up to save the cat.

In seventeen years, HE'LL be a BYU grad.

Ashley Clement For President!

Okay, so a most of you probably don't even know who she is, but through a "Legally Blonde"-esque nomination platform I will prove that she's the best qualified. Only except for a pool, I'll use a volleyball court:

#1- Ashley Clement is not afraid to stand up for her morals.
Example: While the rest of us girls tried to avoid looking at these guys. Ashley boldly shouted "Ew! Gross! Put a shirt on!"

#2- Ashley Clement knows the importance of a good appearance.
Example: After a missed serve: "That doesn't count, I have to fix my hair."

#3- Ashley Clement doesn't gamble
Addendum: But she always keeps an ace up her sleeve just in case.

And perhaps most importantly:

#4- Ashley Clement comes from humble beginnings. She is truly one of the people! Example: "7-11 Service!"


So Vote for Ashley Clement! Now the ball is in your court!

Um...

let me know how it ends, I didn't make it past the first paragraph...

another flip-flop story

I think it was Aristotle that said "Art Imitates Life", but after a few choice experiences yesterday, I venture to tweak that statement a little bit and say that the opposite is true.

First I went to work and my boss' dog began barking at me like he normally does, only he wasn't looking normal, he looked more like this. (Apparently he cut his ear on something and has to wear a headcast for a week.)
Then I was in the stationary aisle at Target where this guy was on the phone with his wife trying to describe candle scents. It went like this (I'm forming the wife's side based on the husbands responses):
Husband: "Here's one called waterfall."
Wife: "What does it smell like?"
Husband: "Um.... water? Or soap?"
Wife: "Any others?"
Husband: "How about fresh laundry?"
Wife: "What does it smell like?"
Husband: "Um.... water? Or soap? Basically the same."
Wife: "You need to describe them better."
Husband: "I can't describe them better. (pause) We're not communicating very well. (pause) *sigh*"
I was just waiting for that guy to come in and switch phones.

Then as I was leaving the checkstand, these two guys were peering into the bagged ice freezer asking "what? what? what?" until the door opened and a voice from the depths said "Can you hear me now? Good. It's cold in here." before this other guy climbed OUT of the freezer.

Just as I got to the doors to leave, the girl in front of me walked right into the doors. It was like some sad, slapstick comedy routine only it was deliciously real. She even made the "umpf" noise as she bounced off of them.

So as I got in my car, another epiphany piggy-backed into my head: Boys never grow up and embarrassing moments will stalk us all our lives.

Just remember the immortal words of the great Brad Holland:

"Art imitates life. Life imitates high school."

*sigh*

the real issues

If ever a journalist should be applauded for tackling the real concerns facing America today...

it's like that

You know that movie "The Gods Must Be Crazy"?

Well this was my life then.

And this is my life right now.

And I don't even like coke...

how far is too far?

I'll be the first to admit that I am pretty fond of Harry Potter, but I am also fond of Garfield, and I don't spend hours and hours debating the nuances of his syntax and activities with Harvard Grads. For one thing, he is a paradoxically fat, yet ossifying feline who hardly ever forms a particularly remarkable sentence, and for another, WHAT IS THE POINT?!?!?

So imagine--when in preparation for my midnight marathon tonight--I googled a summary of Book Five to freshen up my memory of the storyline, only to discover that SPARKNOTES does Harry Potter!

I LOVE Sparknotes when it comes to completely avoiding Beowulf, or for help analyzing Heart of Darkness (?), but who honestly thought that someone with the brains to tackle those would spend the time playing Freud to a CHILD'S FANTASY book?

"The writers of SparkNotes are top students or recent graduates who specialize in the subjects they cover" only the "how to cite this" page doesn't just list Life, Greta as the author, it lists the entire Sparknotes Staff, who are all apparently experts (after seeing their pictures that's not so surprising, I guess).

Knowing that, I'm not sure why I was then furthur surprised when I googled the Cruciatus Curse because I couldn't remember what it was only to find this piece of work:

http://www.hippie.nu/~caniche/Death_Eater/Crucio.html

But suprised I was, only now I'm not sure if it was the intense work behind that Harvard Degree or the competition to become head honcho at the office that produced this kind of wacko.

What is the world coming to?

generation blech

Have you ever seen someone of a younger generation, or at least a younger member of your generation (i.e. sibling, sibling's friends, youngish looking strangers, etc.) participating in something so completely ridiculous and wrong that you breathe a somewhat self-righteous sigh of relief knowing that you never, ever, EVER did something like that?


Only to belatedly remember with gut-wrenching shame that once, in your deep, dark and hopelessly naive past, you did?

Two words people: banana clips.

Need I say more?

a short film...

The answer to another one of those mysteries of the universe:

http://albinoblacksheep.com/flash/aw.php

liminality.

Picture a young, carefree girl, captivated by the magical worlds of Ariel, Aurora, and Belle, who finds in a grocery store one of the products a more jaded individual would see as the monetary-motivated marketing schemes of the corporate board of directors behind these stories.

But to this girl, the blue plastic sunglasses with a princess decal seem to offer a chance to see the world as that princess must see it. So she eagerly puts a pair on and glances quickly around for a mirror to see if the miraculous transformation has taken place.

POP! That's the sound of this girl's bubble bursting when she sees that the mirror is located approximately waist-level-- perfect height for a girl of six or seven, but ridiculously out of reach for a twenty-year-old. The girl sees no choice but to bend down on her pre-arthritic knees only to see herself looking ridiculous in a few-sizes-too-small pair of glasses.

Despondently (between fits of laughter), she heads to the register sans glasses. And spots the fireworks. Okay, so age does have its privileges (:

But the victory is temporary when weighed against the aging discussions about soon-to-be-returning missionaries and soon-to-be-married friends.

So the girl goes home feeling tired and worn, only to find a note on her pillow saying: "It's 12:30 almost. Will you come wake me up when you see this so I know you made it home? Thanks. Love, La"

There's nothing like the love and concern of a little sister to blow that bubble right back up again.

overdose.

So my grandma keeps a bag of Dove Promises in her kitchen cupboard, purely for medicinal reasons, of course.

So I decided it was in my best interest to eat some. As it was close to dinner time, I limited myself to three.

So I opened and ate the first two, reading the generic "You're a wonderful person...blah...blah...blah..." messages on the wrappers. Touching.

Then I opened the last one. It said "Test your limits and keep going."


Who am I to argue with the Powers That Be?

bad news.

my left eye is falling out.

blindness is no doubt inevitable.

i'm going to have a lie-down in an attempt to suck it back in.

Mmm. Mmm. Good. 

just got back from the windy city...

And I've been thinking (NO!):

Having a corner suite on the 18th floor with incredible views of both Lake Michigan and the Chicago skyline is great. Except when some wacko blows a fuse that takes out 12 entire blocks of downtown power and you have to WALK up 36 flights of stairs to get to your room (curse vaulted ceilings), wash your face with water from the melted ice bucket, and read your scriptures using the backlight of your cell phone. RB Stairs what?

You really shouldn't judge people on how they look. You could have a cabbie who dresses like one of Puff Daddy's entourage but really just moved to the US from Nairobi and has an excellent command of English because that's what he has a bachelor's degree in and is now driving taxis to pay his way through Medical School. On the other hand, you could have a cabbie that dresses like Dennis Rodman and has the road rage and Tourettes to match.

It's a good thing I don't drink. For one thing, it uses up way to many tickets at taste of Chicago, and for another, its not funny if you're so drunk at the ball game that you can't find your seat and have to stumble around like a complete idiot yelling "TOUCHDOWN" and spilling Bud Lite all over your equally smashed girlfriend. It's only funny if you fall down. Ha ha ha.

I'm glad I'm not an otter. A five square-inch piece of their fur has approximately 6,500, 000 hairs, enough to cover the heads of 48 people. Can you imagine how long it would take to dry off?

I'm also glad I don't live in the 70s. Not only would I be forced to associate with balding men that probably would kill for that 5 square-inch piece of pelt, but I would be addicted to video games. Pong? Digger? Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy? Bring it on.

Ana Gasteyer was selling herself short on SNL. What a set of pipes. I am in awe.

Why the heck do I have to go all the way across the country to see a girl of seventy-fun? Don't get me wrong, Jena and I had a blast (picture to come) but what the heck's wrong with Utah?

Okay, I'm done.

i have a confession...

I think I have misled a few people about the real reason I am hoping to go to London for Study Abroad.

Sure, the classes will be interesting, the ambiance is fabulous, and the chocolate is to die for, but that all comes in second to England's best attraction: the tube drivers.

Yes, the men and women famous for the droning repetitions of "Mind the Gap" and "Next stop: Piccadilly Circus" are the driving force behind my attempts to become a temporary expatriate.

Why, you ask? Well I'll tell you. If you spend enough time in the underground, the dank recesses and harried crowds of public transportationists can get to you, and you are forced to break the Beefeater-like facade of disinterested contempt and show some personality.

For example:

"Ladies and Gentlemen, I do apologize for the delay to your service. I know you're all dying to get home, unless, of course, you happen to be married to my ex-wife, in which case you'll want to cross over to the Westbound and go in the opposite direction".

"Do you want the good news first or the bad news? The good news is that last Friday was my birthday and I hit the town and had a great time. The bad news is that there is a points failure somewhere between Stratford and East Ham, which means we probably won't reach our destination."

"Ladies and gentlemen, we apologize for the delay, but there is a security alert at Victoria station and we are therefore stuck here for the foreseeable future, so let's take our minds off it and pass some time together. All together now....'Ten green bottles, hanging on a wall.....'".

"We are now traveling through Baker Street, as you can see Baker Street is closed. It would have been nice if they had actually told me, so I could tell you earlier, but no, they don't think about things like that".

"Beggars are operating on this train, please do NOT encourage these professional beggars, if you have any spare change, please give it to a registered charity, failing that, give it to me."

"Please allow the doors to close. Try not to confuse this with 'Please hold the doors open'. The two are distinct and separate instructions."

"Please note that the beeping noise coming from the doors means that the doors are about to close. It does not mean throw yourself or your bags into the doors.""To the gentleman wearing the long grey coat trying to get on the second carriage - what part of 'stand clear of the doors' don't you understand?"

"Please move all baggage away from the doors (Pause...) Please move ALL belongings away from the doors (Pause...) This is a personal message to the man in the brown suit wearing glasses at the rear of the train - put the pie down, four-eyes, and move your bloody golf clubs away from the door before I come down there."

"Let the passengers off the train FIRST!" (Pause ...) "Oh go on then, stuff yourselves in like sardines, see if I care - I'm going home...."


Holy funny Brits Batman!

are you sitting down?

I think I have a crush.

I'm going pull a Drew and leave this person nameless until I'm more certain.

After all, I only pulled the strategic meandering past his house...twice...yesterday...


In other news, when I shared this tentative tidbit of information with the fam, they freaked. This led me to some serious pondering as to why I find it so hard to like guys and thus cause such a stir when someone catches my eye.

Enter the eternal room-cleaning quest with yet another commentary on the state of my psyche.

While I was wading through stuff AGAIN yesterday, I came across a newspaper article that my grandma sent me. Before I impart the words of wisdom (?) it contains, allow me to point out few essential facts:

1. This article was published on July 10, 2003. Less than two months after I graduated high school at the absolutely un-nubile age of 18 and almost two months before I even entered that hunting ground we call BYU.

2. This article appeared in the Deseret News and my grandma doesn't even LIVE in Utah. So now she's combing national newspapers to try to explain my condition?

3. The fact that I saved this disturbs me. But at least I can share it with you! It's kind of long, but bear with me:

“Why guys aren’t getting married”
By: Jody Genessy
Deseret Morning News

Men, according to a recent study, are waiting longer than ever to get married. To sum up the Rutgers University report, guys from 25 to 33 aren’t getting hitched because they’re, well, too busy watching “The Bachelor” spin-offs.
The real reasons for the cold-feet epidemic: fear of divorce, children, changes and compromises; and wanting to live up the bachelor life until a “perfect soul mate” comes along.
Your average Utah guy has 10 reasons for remaining, as Brigham Young supposedly referred to bachelors, a “menace to society.”
10. The “something-better-might-be-coming-around-the-corner” syndrome. So you won’t commit to the wonderful woman you’re dating for fear that a model-like babe who watches ESPN and plays Xbox may come along right after you propose? The only person likely to come around the corner is Father Time, and he’s got a bigger-sized pair of pants and a shinier scalp with your name on them.
9. Waiting until your college career is completed. This is usually a four-year process elsewhere, but it takes a decade in Utah once you figure in an LDS mission and all the time you spend trying to get into BYU before “settling” for a state school.
8. You don’t want to leave Mom’s house. Pretty pathetic, right? Look at it this way—no rent and no laundry, no cooking and no cleaning. No long strands of hair clogging up the bathtub drain or 75 pairs of shoes to trip over. Nobody saying that you can’t watch five football games on Saturday, three on Sunday, and one each on Monday and Thursday.
7. You’re trying to meet the expectations of that “150-things-I-demand-in-a-husband” list that all girls prepare in Young Women. If you don’t look like Brad Pitt, have a wallet like Steve Young, or act like Capt. Moroni, good luck.
6. Can’t get a date. All the mid-20s women in your singles ward have already told you, “Let’s just be friends.” And the 18-year-olds tell you, “Thanks, you seem like a nice guy, but NO! YOU REMIND ME OF MY DAD!”
5. Holding out for an eight-cow woman. Or at least someone who doesn’t fall asleep during your mission slide show, who believes the North Dakota Bismarck mission is the best in the world and who doesn’t whine when you’re telling that story for the 3000th time about your favorite companion Elder Kessler getting bitten on the rear by a poodle.
4. Sweet-spirited guys try to cultivate romance and are willing to accept gals for what they are on the inside instead of judging them only by their exterior package, but women these days are alarmingly superficial. Oh wait. That’s men, sorry.
3. Keep getting phone numbers from hotties at night clubs that start with 911. (Operator: “Do you have an emergency?” Bachelor: “YES! I need to get ahold of Betty, she told me to call her here!”)
2. You want to marry a certain sweetie, but Utah girls demand a wedding proposal that is at least as creative as the way they were asked out to prom (which is often just the previous year). Sorry, fellas, but dropping to one knee doesn’t cut it anymore. In other words, don’t bother asking for her hand if you don’t have a fish bowl with a cute card that says, “Out of all the fish in the sea, I want you to marry me,” or a hidden, coded marriage-message buried deep inside a box of Alphabets.
1. You just can’t find a wife. You bachelors have tried, of course. Looked high and low, turned over every rock, searched every singles Web site this side of IAmADeperateManAndNeedAWifeNow.com, and blindly dated every “perfect-for-you” girl whose mom--and the lady at work’s neighbor’s cousin’s friend—set you up with, to no avail.
Stay tuned for another column: Angry single women respond, call shallow bachelors really bad names that can’t be printed.


So I’m assuming she sent this as a comfort. You know, “Don’t worry if you don’t get married in the next two months Meagan, just look at what you have to work with!”

But I can say that while some of this stuff is pretty accurate, there are TONS of boys who don’t fit this image at all. So even though I didn’t get married at 18, I can say that's a good thing because I’ve matured enough to be able to pick out those anomalies from the mainstream.

And I’ve even taken another step in the right direction...

Yep, it’s definitely a crush.

the perks of being a packrat

In the seemingly eternal quest to:

(a) clean my room
(b) unpack from moving home
(b pt. 2) unpack from moving home last year
(c) get organized
(d) become the world's next domestic goddess

I pulled every last cardboard box and plastic bin out of my closet and proceeded to painstakingly sort through the muddled mass of memorabilia. Accompanied only by my good friend the big, black garbage bag, I endeavored to determine what had to go and what would survive until next year.

At first it was relatively easy, who wants the reminders of that trial by fire we call American Heritage lurking about? And just how many bottles of hotel shampoo does one need? But about 2 hours into "Meet Joe Black" I hit a paradox (no, not a pair o' docs, I had made some progress and they were already neatly stored out of the way.) This paradox came in the form of that roadblock we call memory lane.

When I opened a box marked with malicious vagueness as “Taxes, Recipes & Other Files” what to my wondering eyes should appear but a colossal jumble of cards, certificates and other communications. So for the next hour or so, Mr. Garbage Bag went hungry as I relived Jr. High crushes as exposed in notes and emails, the love of family in cards and letters, and the glory of my days as a world-class shoe thief in an epistle demanding my immediate sale into slavery should the pilfered pair not be returned.

It was a bittersweet experience and though Martha Stewart would probably disapprove (but who am I to be affected by the opinion of an ex-con?), I boxed it all back up again (save for one birthday card from an old dentist) and put it back on the shelf. And although I did change the misnomer on the label to “Memories” so as not to be blindsided again, I think I’ll repeat the experience next year with my eyes wide open.

far off places, daring swordfights, magic spells, a prince in disguise!

Okay, so it's not exactly Beauty and the Beast, but close. The Scarlet Pimpernel is playing at the Scera Shell June 8-24! (gasp, faint, die) I've included the description here for anyone who needs more info:

This lavish musical epic set in 1794 Paris during the French Revolution is blazing with adventure, romance, intrigue and deception. Back at SCERA by popular demand, THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL tells the story of a brave band of Englishmen who masquerade as cowardly nobleman while secretly rescuing innocent victims of the guillotine. Their leader is an enigmatic hero known only by his calling card -- the red flower known as the Scarlet Pimpernel – a secret he must keep from his wife and her former lover who has sworn to apprehend him! Directed by Neal Johnson.

Adriane and I want to go this Friday (June 10) and EVERYONE should come! The show starts at 8:00 but we want to get there early for good seats. I propose we meet at 7:15 outside the gates. Everyone bring lots of blankets and other comfy lounge equipment. Tickets are $10 but you get $2 off if you bring your student ID. Call me if you have any questions! (400-5766)

Obsessions and Illuminations

Once upon a time I really, REALLY love the show Gilmore Girls. I aspire to the wit that is so easily displayed by the Loreleii (hee, hee, hee) and although I know it is completely scripted and staged, my hat goes off to the writers that actually think up that stuff.

So anyway, my sister got me the third season on DVD for my birthday and I have been watching it while I try to reassemble my room and there was an episode yesterday where Kirk (one of the eccentric townspeople) starts a new business where each day he prints a humorous quote he heard in his meanderings the day before on a T-shirt. Granted his endeavor fails miserably because his grand opening slogan was "Babette ate oatmeal today" (ha, ha, ha....?) but I think the concept is brilliant.

It's like a combination quote board and friend-finder. It lets everyone see something funny you heard, and then you can know that the people who get it are much the same as you!

So, based on my experiences yesterday, my hypothetical billboard T-shirt today says:

"I'm standing here in pieces and you're having delusions of grandeur!"

Get it?

My New Pet Project

So today we had a bit of a family shindig in American Fork. The theme was Napoleon Dynamite, but that is a story for another time and place. I only bring it up to set the stage for the awesome epiphany I had.

So I was sitting under a tree blissfully munching on reconstituted school lunch items (corndog, tots, freakin' quesadillas, etc.) When what to my wondering eyes should appear to beg me for some potato goodness? No, it wasn't Missy; she was grounded to the back yard. It was a goat. Yes, a GOAT!

Now my cousins live on a bit of a farmish, so it wasn't all that unusual, but these goats aren't just any old cow or alpaca (sorry Maria, but the DO have them. One's brown and one's white and they are named Merry and Pippin because of their hairy feet and fondness for second-breakfast), no these goats are the family pets!

My aunt said they're great to have around because:

1. They don't stink
2. They mow your lawn and they LIKE it
3. Natural paper shredder
4. They love to cuddle
5. They are excellent guardians (it's because their pupils are rectangular so they can see more than 180 degrees and spot any dangerous alpacas (sorry Maria)
6. They're goats! What else to you need to know?

Daddy!

A Story For Annie...

Once upon a time there was this girl who shall remain nameless-- this may sound like I’m making her up, but this is untrue. She is, in fact, a real person whose experience I heard from a reliable source.

Anyway, this girl got these really bad headaches all the time, and soon they spread to her neck and back like so many unwanted dandelions. The pain got so bad that this girl went to a doctor where they did all these crazy tests and couldn’t find anything wrong. So the good doctor, who, in complete tactfulness and delicacy, blandly suggested it might be stemming from a brain tumor.

Idiot. The girl, her parents and everyone else involved freaked out of course, so they quickly ran more tests. And what do you think the root of the problem was? Not cancer, luckily, but STRESS, the eventual killer of us all!!

This poor girl got so worked up over homework and schoolwork and housework that she was stressing herself to death!

So this genius of a doctor prescribed a treatment that could only come from a brain that worked in such a way as his. Now, every time this girl sits at the computer or reads a book, she first attaches little suction-cup probes to her forehead, neck, and spine. These probes attach to wires. The wires attach to this box. The box attaches to a plug that goes INTO THE WALL, and any time her muscles tense beyond a certain, previously-determined level of tautness, she gets a nice little shock!

Electrocution: the ultimate relaxation device.

Makes cold cans sound pretty good…

Top Ten Reasons Why There Isn't Supposed To Be SNOW On My Front Lawn:

10. Because we live in a desert.
9. Because snow was SO last season.
8. Because we're already at half the average rainfall for this month and I'm positive that number is TOTALLY skewed by the whole Noah's Ark incident.
7. Because I did my hair today.
6. Because I couldn't find my window scraper this morning.
5. Because I'm sure I'm developing Rickets.
4. Because we just planted my mom flowers for Mother's Day.
3. Because I left my window open last night.
2. Because Vanessa Williams says JUNE not MAY.
1. Because I just bought LOTS and LOTS of cute new new flip-flops that are getting VERY lonely.

Take me out to the Ballgame...

HEY EVERYBODY! I'M HOME! LET'S PLAY!!!

sixty-onederful!

The dictionary.com word-of-the-day today was "palindrome."

We are such trendsetters!

You don't need a Man Catcher in San Francisco! 

The Man Catcher, Part 2 (and other stories)

WARNING! This blog is going to be long and overly-dramatic, but such is the life I lead. Read to the end, it's the best part!

So, right now I'm sitting in my own private hotel room watching the Bay Bridge and San Francisco skyline slowly light up as the sun sets. I just finished eating clam chowder straight off of Fisherman's Wharf, and I'm seriously considering opening the Ghirardelli chocolate basket the was delivered to me from the Manager of the hotel with his compliments. Plus, there's a Law and Order marathon on TV. Have I died and gone to heaven? Hardly. But if this is torture, chain me to the wall!

But the road to such bliss was not easy. The death knell came when my boss said that there were no flip-flops allowed. Apparently "no flip-flops" means no jeans, t-shirts, cute blue linen skirts and deliciously gaudy jewelry. Thus I began the excruciating process of acquiring a suitable wardrobe. I even bought one of those tweedish suit jackets (gasp, faint, die). But, I drew the line at sensible shoes. Sensible shoes--what a frightening description. I figured that spending several dollars on a pair of ugly shoes I would only wear for a week wasn't really sensible at all. Thus I settled on some semi-respectable footwear that was already in my closet.

THE GOOD NEWS:
While I have to be responsible during the day, the nights are all mine. And Ethan Hawke's hotter and younger twin works security in the lobby. It's funny how easy it is to get lost around here. I always seem to need help...

THE BAD NEWS:
I FORGOT MY MAN CATCHER. Blast! The perfect opportunity and I blow it. But, how hard can it be to find fish netting in a coastal city?

Stay tuned for further developments...

p.s. Did I mention that I sat next to STEVE YOUNG on the plane over here? 'cause I did.... (:

what the?!?

What do you think when you see a girl dressed in blood-red scrubs, hefting a giant frying pan who stops whistling only long enough to gleefully tell you she's off to the trenches again?

I cautiously cross the street while wondering what color her scrubs were originally...

What do you think when your professor comes to class wearing a battery-powered bowtie and a Cat-in-the-Hat hat that rivals any towers coming out of Italy, and proceeds to tell you YOU'RE the ridiculous one?

I think of padded cells...

What do you think when you're taking a final and one of the questions is, "What is a pirate's favorite fast food restaurant?"

I think, Arbys?...

What do you think when you see a precipitous proliferation of polka-dotted pajama pants prancing across campus like so many poppies on a pleasant plateau; both babbling and burnt-out bodies blundering 'cross a quad quite comparable to Coleridge's "Kubla Khan"?

I suspiciously re-think the whole poppy thing...

But besides a few valid concerns about the “prescription pills” popped by the pirate-passionate professor, I decided it must be finals week.

And I’m glad it’s almost over.

A few thoughts on Pavlov...

So this one time when I pretended to be really smart, I took a psychology class, hoping it would launch me into a career as the next Dr. Laura. I promptly forgot that dream after the semester ended, but I do remember one thing, and that is Pavlov.

Ivan Pavlov was the guy who coined the term "conditioning" while studying dogs. He rang a bell right before he brought food to his salivating dogs and after a while, it got so he could simply ring the bell and the drool would pool because the dogs were "conditioned" to believe the bell meant dinner.

And then there was this other experiment with rats. A rat in a cage would push a green button and food would come through a tube, if he pushed a red button, he got a nasty electric shock. It didn't take long before the rat would avoid the red button and live on top of the green button where he got fat and lived a happy, pain-free life. This was called “positive reinforcement.” Good results led the rat to continue practicing a specific behavior.

As I stressed my way through last week, these thoughts spent way to much time circling in my brain like so much flotsam and jetsam, taking up valuable room and making me dizzy. But they did get me thinking. It seems an obvious truth that if a student stays on top of his or her work, a fat, happy, and relatively pain-free life will ensue. The very isolated experiences I have had with this have proved it to me. Why is it then that I continue to push the red button? I don't particularly enjoy pulling all-nighters with only Shakespeare and a Thesaurus for company! I am not a masochist!

And yet, the fact remains that the green button is getting lonely and my brains are being scrambled. But then again, how much use can they be anyway if I can't even measure up to a rat? :)

I come away perplexed

Can an entire day be ambiguous?

When I went to work today, my sister asked me how I was; I responded "I am..." and was at a genuine loss as to how to complete that sentence.

I woke up early today! At 7 am! Then I showered and put in contacts, which I haven't done in a week. (Put in contacts that is, I'm not a complete Neanderthal)

However, I "accidentally" got back into bed and promptly fell asleep until 11 am. I woke up after having missed two classes still wearing my towel turban.

So how do I describe my morning? Quasi-successful?

Then, I went to my last three classes. The first one had a sign on the door that class was cancelled. Sweet. In my last class we talked about the process of electing a new Pope. Is it bad that I relied on The Da Vinci Code to answer the questions?

So then I came home. When I got to the crosswalk, I thought of Tiffany's blog on "stopping traffic"--but then I pushed the button and the flashing hand STOPPED and turned back to the walk sign!!

Ouch.

Then I went to the Distribution Center and bought Preach My Gospel along with about 20 million other Richard G. Scott fans. That was pretty cool.

Traffic was another story.

So there I was, trying to answer my sister.

Know what I did? I just ended there. I said "I am."

And discovered that it was a pretty good place to be if you have to tree-diagram your emotions.

Oh, to be an English major...

p.s. here is a "sneak peek" from the upcoming short film "Night of the Man Catcher"! 

Attention All Utahns...

...and anyone else with anything to say....

I am in a folklore class right now and I am doing my final project on Creative Dating (you know, the weird ways you asked/answered someone to a high school dance). So I am putting out an APB for any of you that want to respond to what you think are the "unspoken rules" for Creative Dating. Things like how you ask, how you answer, talking to each other between the asking and answering or before the dance, what if you have to say "no", etc., etc. Or what happened if you or someone you know ever BROKE the "unspoken rules" (gasp, faint, die)!

Also, if you have stories on how you asked or were answered, or pictures or whatever I would LOVE them! I am wondering if there are any "one-ups" like if you played off some aspect of the way someone asked you or vice versa.

If you don't want to blog it, you can email me at meaganbrady@hotmail.com, or I can come interview you with Adriane's nifty mini tape recorder at your convenience.

Thanks a bunch!

Oh, and p.s. Does anyone know what APB means? I'm pretty sure I send them all the time at work and I have no idea what it stands for. Enlightenment would be greatly appreciated... :)

Undressed!

What's bigger, better, and more fabulous than a crowd of celebrities outside the Kodak Theatre in Hollywood? The crowd of celebrities outside 3380 of the Wilk, of course! And last night was a dazzling display of style and “suave”-ness one cannot help but analyze and applaud.

Annie Jacob:
Following in the footsteps of fashion maven Audrey Hepburn, Annie sported a spanglified version of the little black dress, but this fashion-forward form didn't stop there, she proved that "black is the new pink is the new black" by throwing on an electrifying feather boa and sinfully smooth black party gloves. And the hair? Every Who down in Whoville has started to sing, baby!!

Maria Walen:
Proving once again that less is more, Maria blew away the competition in an casual Caribbean number that raised the room temperature at least 30 degrees. Maria accentuated the sans-sartorial scarf with brilliantly cut chandelier earrings and a hairstyle that would make Marie Antoinette sell the farm!

Adriane Blackham:
Prince Charming better be willing to step it up a little if he wants to keep up with this Cinderella. Whoever she is, Adriane's Fairy Godmother better start negotiating for a better contract! Talk about Ice, Ice Baby! But, this blue-clothed Belle glowed brighter than the diamonds strategically scattered about. The inspiration for Josh Groban was obvious with this walking Starry-Starry Night!

Meagan Brady:
Back-off PETA, this Prima donna proved that even fake can be fab in an amazingly realistic replica of a silver "faux". Meagan fellowed the fantastic fur with spectacular specs and a yummy, butter-yellow number that screamed “Spring!”

Erika Harker:
Bringing back the disco daze, Erika rocked out in a sequined sash and riotous ringlets. With a fabulous black top and trendy long-and-lean jeans, she proved to be a real mover and shaker. Looking at Erika makes us long for the REAL dance revolution. "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun" anyone?

Jena Peterson:
Jena was the picture of understated elegance in monochromatic black. From her splendidly simple short-sleeved sheathe to her sleek ponytail and classic make-up job, Jena brings to mind the glory days. Is this the face that launched a thousand ships? We think so.

Tiffany Gibson:
Bedazzling in a dress inspired by Midnight in the Wasatch Mountains, Tiffany delighted in a bodice of black-velvety-velvet and a swirling skirt of tempestuous taupe. She was nature personified in a beautiful Persephone.

Crystal Manning:
Crystal stayed close to her magnificent moniker by modeling an angelic amethyst number that set off her greenish eyes and reddish hair to perfection. With such invigorating Irish beauty about, it's no wonder the place was crawling with love-sick leprechauns.

Miscellaneous:
And leprechauns there were galore! From the fully decked-out lad straight off the Lucky Charms box to the usually staid and serious Jon Harmon's Kelly green neckpiece (perhaps he found the pot of gold at the end of the Reading Rainbow?), the Luck of the Irish made a strong post St. Paddy's day comeback. Tell us Jon; could green be the new pink?

The Man Catcher, Part 1

So I woke up this morning with a hangover and a man catcher.

I groaned loudly and promptly when back to sleep, of course. When I woke up again two hours later, I was sans headache, but the proof of my last night's craziness had not disappeared. Yes, the man catcher was real, and it was mine. The following is an account of the events which led me to this never-before-reached low, and a plea for help to stop the insanity:

The night started innocently (as these things often do) with Annie and me deciding to combat our boredom by hitting up the dollar theatre. National Treasure was our choice (how much trouble can one get in with a beer-belly wielding Nicholas Cage, I ask you?). However, it was sold out, so we settled on The Incredibles, but what was to be safe, fun, family-friendly entertainment quickly took a turn for the worst when a closer look at out tickets revealed them to be for the 10:15 show! As it was only 9:00, this made us somewhat perturbed. In more lucid moments, I have come to the conclusion that what next transpired could have easily been avoided by the presence of a partially competent male, and that is the most likely reason I have a giant butterfly net obstructing my access to my dresser drawers. (For if ye are prepared, ye shall not fear, etc.) What happened the next two hours is a story for another time and place, but suffice it to say that yes, there are pictures, and no, we're not going to show them to you.
(At least not until we ascertain just how much damage they will cause)
(Translation: they'll probably be posted as soon as we upload them and work out a story line)
(But there is a preview on our door if you’re interested…)
(I also want to insert an early disclaimer here anticipating that event. We didn't actually GO to Squaw Peak, so don't get any ideas!)

Anyway, after thoroughly exhausting ourselves, we swung by Macey's to pick up some sloppy-joe sauce for Break the Fast when what to my wondering eyes should appear in the "Sale" bin next to our checkout line but the answer to all my troubles. Happiness for 99 cents! I couldn't resist.

And so now I have a man catcher- scientifically formulated to measure the ego size of any prospective pray, making it easy to discard the undesirables, thus saving me a lot of time and energy.

Anyway, the real point of all this is unless you happen to like bamboo sticks, wire hangers, fish netting, or red electrical tape, delete “bored” from your vocabulary and get a life. And while you’re at it, help me!

Thank you and good-night.

p.s. I'm working on a petition for Provo-Orem stores to stay open later on the weekends, this being closed by 9:30 is not good for my Di-GESH-tion!

Ready, Set, Go!

After much deliberation and wracking-of-brains, here it is...my very first blog! Sometimes being an English Major is so demanding, suddenly the simple task of picking an address is not so simple. Vocabulary must be combed, allusions considered, authors consulted and poets called in. But I am happy to say that it has begun--unintentional paradox included. You see, "perfect" isn't really perfect this time. Syzygy is awesome enough in its own respect that it needs no qualifiers, but someone else obviously recognized that and so it falls to me to attain that goal. And from me to you, dear reader! Syzygies in space have been known to happen on occasion (ever heard of Hercules), but in my life, they can be numbered at nearly one. In other words--NEVER! But that, of course, it the purpose of this blog--to reconcile the parts that constitute Me, Myself and I into one working individual. So read freely and comment often, I'm counting on you to play Freud to my John Nash! Have a nice day!