In the Past Couple of Weeks

Mike and Andrea got married.

It was the most exquisite wedding and perfect in every way.

We've played more games, watched more movies and eaten more food than you could imagine.

We have done weird things, like always. And laughed about them afterwards.

Preston and I played with my scarfs in an attempt to get me ready for Jerusalem.

I leave in exactly 6 days from now and I can't even wait!

Major Get of 2009

We have a game of sorts that is constantly being played in my family. It is called the game of "gets." It never ends, and there is never a set winner. It has been ongoing for too many years to count now.

How to play:

1. Tap the victim on the shoulder and hope that they think it was someone else that tapped them, preferably a stranger, although another family member is still considered a success.
2. Tell a flat out lie to the chosen family member and count on the help of others to play along until they believe you.

How to score/win:

1. If performing option number one, we use a baseball-type score keeping theory: a small turn of the head gets you to first base; shoulder and hip turn gets you to second; a full turn gets you to third base; and if you talk to someone because you believed they tapped you, when in reality they didn't it is considered a home run. The greatest home run ever to occur happened nearly ten years ago while waiting for a BYU devotional to begin. Alex reached across the seat and tapped my dad on the shoulder who then proceeded to turn around and carry on a two-minute conversation with the student sitting behind him. We still haven't let him live it down.
2. If performing option number two, after a sufficient amount of time has passed and you're quite confident that the person fully believes whatever lie you've just told them, start laughing and yell, "GET" (as in, "I got you") and watch as they hang their head in shame after just being got. Last night, the best "get" of 2009 took place. On me. It's hurting my pride to even admit it, but sometimes you just have to confess that it was a good get and give props to the "getter"

Last night we went to the Jon Schmidt Christmas concert. During intermission a very tall man on our row walked past us to go into the lobby. As he was coming back, Ethan leaned over to me and said, "That's Mehmet Okur." That meant nothing to me, and when I asked who Mehmet Okur was he informed me that he was a Jazz player. No way. We were just three seats away from a Jazz player. Kind of a big deal, right? I immediately turned to my mom and dad and told them that the very tall man wearing designer jeans was a Jazz player. When my mom said that it couldn't be because the Jazz were playing in Atlanta tonight my dad quickly said that he hurt his knee and was on the injured list and didn't have to travel to away games with the team. Mom thought this was a great hook-up and told us that if she was on the Jazz she would want to get injured during Christmas time so that she could still go to concerts. My thoughts: when else in my life will I be sitting three seats away from Mehmet Okur? Never. I needed to take this situation seriously and while he was standing with his back turned towards us I pulled out my phone to snap a picture. Afraid of getting caught, I was only able to get a photo of his elbow. Despite the less than quality picture, I was still feeling somewhat successful until I heard both Ethan and my dad bust up laughing, feeling even more successful at this "major get" they had just completed. Yes, I had been "got" and was forced to hang my head in shame. I believed I was sitting next to a celebrity and even took a picture. Unfortunately it wasn't Mehmet Okur. It was just a regular tall man with nothing famous about him. In my defense though, he was really tall and may as well have been a professional basketball player. Well played, Ethan and Dad, well played.

You Know it's Cold When...

• You look like Randy walking to campus
• The nice boy in the ward you have never talked to offers you a ride to school and there is zero hesitation. In .02 seconds you are sitting in the front seat. Any awkwardness is completely worth it.
• You are faced with the 'winter-time dilemma': you have 20 pounds of layers on when walking to school and by the time you maneuver around the overheated building and finally arrive in your classroom and have the chance to take off your coat, scarf, gloves, and hat you are sweating like a dog in a Chinese restaurant.
• Your jeans freeze almost solid and make it painful to walk.
• Your leg hairs begin to grow at an alarming rate.
• Icicles are formed on the inside of your roommates car.
• After being outside for several minutes your nose hairs freeze. Try sniffing when this happens, it's one of my favorite strangest sensations.
• The thermometer reads 1 degree.

The Revival of Chivalry

This morning I woke up and was stumbling into the bathroom to take a shower when I heard voices. No, not the kind of voices that crazy people hear in their heads. These were real voices and it sounded like they were coming from just outside my front door. I hesitantly walked to the door, stood on my tip-toes, and peeked out the peep hole. What did I see? Several inches of snow and several guys in the ward shoveling our walks. My heart melted just a little. Nothing gets me quite like good, old-fashioned chivalry. I think I was maybe born in the wrong era, because when I watch movies like Pride and Prejudice it makes me wish I lived in a time when men respected women the way Mr. Darcy respects Elizabeth Bennett. Sure, it's a little extreme for the man to stand up every time a women enters or exits a room, but a toned down version of that would be nice. It's unfortunate that in today's world a man can't open a door for a woman without the fear of her becoming offended. Obviously I can open a door by myself. I can do a lot of things by myself, but the simple acts of courtesy from a man to a woman are appreciated. Call me old-fashioned, but I get a little offended if the boy doesn't open the door for me. When he helps me with my coat, pulls my chair out, or offers to carry something heavy for me it is not implying that he thinks I'm incapable of performing the acts myself, rather that he has some respect for me. And so today when I saw the boys in my ward going from apartment to apartment, shoveling the snow for all 80 girls in the ward, it gave me a little hope. Perhaps chivalry isn't dead after all. If it is, perhaps the men in the BYU 84th ward are doing their best to revive it. Here's to the resurgence of chivalry and gentlemanly acts of courtesy and respect.

Farewell Carlos y Espanol

Isn't it weird how emotionally attached you can become to fictional characters? Almost every time I read a book I for some reason think that the characters are my best friends and that I know everything about their lives and they know everything about mine. I have to contstantly remind myself that they are fictional and have no idea that I exist or that I am reading their story. They don't even know they have a story, I think. Nevertheless, I become attached. Weird, I know. When the characters in my favorite book, The Book Thief died, I felt like a family member had just passed on. I cried hard. No, I wept hard. Tears streamed down my face, snot ran out of my nose, and I was hyperventalating/gasping for air. It was that kind of weeping. I think I used an entire role of toilet paper to wipe away the combination of tears and mucus. I am slightly embarrassed by the way I reacted to reading that novel, but I justified it by the fact that it is incredible literature with excellent character development that I had invested hours into reading. I've decided that it's okay to get emotional in books. Books being the key word.

Remember Carlos? He is my friend from spanish 101 and 102. In each of the 18 chapters I have studied through out the two semesters, Carlos has had 3-4 'escenas' in each chapter. Each escena is about one page long of dialouge between Carlos, his relatives in Mexico and his girlfriend, Patricia. These dialogues are put in the Spanish 101 and 102 packet purely to engrain spanish vocabulary into our venacular with the ultimate goal of us becoming fluent spanish speakers. They do not include Carlos in the packet in hopes of us becoming emotionally attached to him and his family. He is not a real person. He doesn't have any character development or intelligent conversations. And yet, he somehow managed to get a hold of my heartstrings.

This week I have my final chapter test in spanish. Unfortunately, Carlos's story ends in 102; he doesn't continue on to 105 or 106. Today, I sat in the library and read the last 'escena' in the packet. The story ended by Carlos boarding the plane to head back home to Argentina, saying a heartfelt and emotional goodbye to his realatives and Patricia. And thats the end of Carlos.

Now, I understand that it was acceptable for me to weep while reading The Book Theif and really any other novel for that matter. But when I got the lump in my throat when Carlos boarded the plane, I just couldn't justify it. I had to mentally tell myself to cut it out, I would not allow myself to cry over a Spanish lesson. I could not. I have to admit that I am very sad to see Carlos's story come to an end. He has been such a major part of my life for the past two semesters. But cry over him, I could not. But because Carlos doesn't continue on to 105, neither can I. My Spanish career is quickly coming to a close; it's been a good ride. Adios Carlos. Adios Espanol. I promise to continue practicing with mi hermano.

A Classic Thanksgiving

A couple years ago we had Thanksgiving dinner with my mom's side of the family. Because there were over thirty people present, we had to split up into different tables. One table was for the kids under 10, another table was for the adults and one special table was for the teenagers. The nine cousins that I shared the table with are some of my best friends; we have the ability to laugh together for hours on end and this occurs nearly every time we are together; we were thrilled to find out we had our very own table. We were the first to take our seats, all physically and mentally prepared to inhale the pounds of delicious food that stood only an arm length away, tempting us mercilessly. As soon as the prayer had been offered and the amens were uttered we began to indulge. Our plates were piled high and succulent food covered every square inch of the plate in front of us. We were tremendously focused on the goal at hand: clear the plate and load up again. The table was silent; the only sound that could be heard was the clinking of the gold fork against the porcelain plate and an occasional blunt and panicked, "Pass the potatoes" (or rolls, turkey, stuffing, gravy, yams, green bean casserole, etc.) as if the mentioned food would be spoiled shortly and we had a set time limit to get the food safely stored in our stomachs. The laughter and quality conversation that usually exists when we are in each others presence was absent, instead we stuffed our faces. After we each had seconds, thirds, even fourths for some we began unbuttoning our pants to allow room for our stomachs to expand. We glanced over at the adult's table just to the right of ours: they were all fully engaged in conversation and still only beginning to make a dent in their first helping of the feast. While they had been focused on enjoying the company of family, the food had been the focal point at our table. And the fact that we had cleared our plates three times before everyone else even filled their plates for the second time confirmed that fact. We soon made our way into the family room where we collapsed from overeating. Some fell onto the couches, others lay spread eagle on the carpeted floor. Then we stared at each other. It hurt to breathe. It hurt to talk. It hurt to laugh. So we lay in silence, doing our best to avoid breathing any more than absolutely necessary to remain alive. Every now and then, someone would begin to laugh at the situation at hand, after all we had just eaten enough food to feed an entire third-world country and were now laying like a colony of dead logs on our grandparents floor. One laugh caused everyone else to start laughing which quickly turned into moaning. If it didn't hurt so bad to shift positions we would have thrown a pillow at the first laugher that inflicted so much pain on the rest of us. Instead we uttered a, "Stop laughing, it hurts!" and went back to laying in silence. Three hours later our parents informed us that it was time to leave, ushered us into the car, drove the 20 minutes home and watched "Miracle on 34th Street," our annual Thanksgiving night movie.

When I think Thanksgiving, my mind is flooded with this memory, it's a classic. I hope I experience a little déjà vu tomorrow and have another excellent Thanksgiving Day. I kind of can't wait.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Strike a Pose

Today as I was walking home from campus I passed in front of the HRCB just as a group of six professionals were exiting the building. They must have been involved in some important meeting or conference because they were all dressed in formal business attire: well tailored suits and panty hoes with high heels. Each one of the six people were of a different nationality each with their own unique accent. One woman appeared to be a Scandinavian, one man had an English accent, one man was from an African nation, another woman represented Russia, they referred to one man as "Mexico" and another one seemed to be of Asian descent. Just as I was passing by, the Scandinavian woman asked me if I would mind taking a picture for them. I readily agreed and she gave me her iPhone to snap the picture with. Seconds later I was handed two more iPhones from the English and African men. As I snapped three photos in a row and began returning the expensive devices, the six very professional looking and businesslike men and women asked me if I could take just one more. This time a "funny picture." I said that I didn't mind and snapped one more photo as four men in shirts and ties and two women in business suits and high heels pulled faces and stroke (striked? struck?) poses similar to the ones that are made in the high school dance group pictures at Viewmont High. As soon as the camera clicked they each offered me a sincere thank you and I continued on my way. Walking home I thought about this event that had just occurred and tried to imagine my father and uncles and a few more of their associates leaving a meeting and asking a passerby to take a "funny picture." And I just couldn't imagine it happening.

It is comforting to know, however, that adults from various parts of the world, no matter how distinguished still feel a need and desire to be silly sometimes.

Deep in a Dream

Last night I had a very bizarre dream. One of those dreams that seem so real and even though I've been awake for some time now, I can't stop thinking about it. Keep in mind it's a dream and it is not a requirement for it to make logical sense:

I was back in high school, but rather than attending Viewmont High I was going to a private school where uniforms were necessary. Although I was in high school I was still living in my apartment that I'm in now but with all different roommates, none of whom I know, but I seemed to be good friends with them all. Well, there was a cute boy that went to my school and he was throwing the biggest party of the year this Friday night. It was the kind of party that if you didn't attend, you would be forever classified as a nerd and no longer socially acceptable to associate with. And on top of that, I had a crush on this particular boy. That Friday at school, while dressed in my school uniform, the principal walked up to me and started screaming at me because my skirt was too short and told me that if I didn't get it fixed I wouldn't be able to go to the party that night. And the cute boy that I was crushing on heard the whole thing. I was so embarrassed and unable to fix my short skirt that the party was out of the question for me. I was perfectly devastated and walked to my apartment with tears streaming down my face.

As I walked into my bedroom, ready to throw myself on my bed and wallow in self pity, my roommate stopped me in my tracks: she was holding a gun and pointing it right at me. My hands flew up in the air and I tried to understand what she was doing but mostly talk her out of killing me. Apparently, the waitress at the restaurant had put hot fudge rather than carmel on her ice cream sundae and she felt justified in killing all of her roommates in a frantic rage because of the inconvenience she had caused her. I couldn't talk her out of pulling the trigger and seconds later I laid writhing in agony over the bullet that was implanted into my stomach. But, didn't you hear? I'm superwoman and it takes more than one bullet to stop me. She went into the other room and pulled the trigger on my other two roommates, but same story with them, one bullet is nothing. She then went into her own room to work on some homework while we sat there bleeding. The three wounded roommates made our way to the stairs and called 911 and when the crazy roommate heard she came out with the gun and tried to put a second bullet in us. Luckily, she had used all of her bullets and ended up throwing the gun down in frustration. When the police arrived, they immediately healed us with the wave of their wands and a little spell. It was very Harry Potter-esque. Then they turned to our violent roommate and told her what she had done was wrong and if she did it again she would have to stand in the "time-out" corner for 30 seconds. Understandably, the three of us were a little nervous to be around her and gathered in a different room than her and decided that the appropriate way to 'get back' at her would be to give her the silent treatment for the rest of our lives. Harsh, I know.

Well, then my brother Alex called to see if I wanted to meet up with him and Allie for dinner. I told him I did and that I had a crazy story to tell them. I recounted to them that just 20 minutes earlier I had been shot and nearly died and they offered a sincere "I'm sorry" but then told me that dinner would have to be cancelled because their friend had a wedding reception that night. The friend's wife had a strange disease that caused her to throw up every 12 minutes which lasts for three days, by the end of the third day, the victim of this disease dies. They had 24 minutes until the end of the third day and they wanted to meet their friend's new wife before she passed away. Hence, dinner had to be rescheduled.

As I walked home, feeling a little down on myself after having been yelled at at school and forced to miss the cool party that night, shot by my roommate, rejected by my brother and sister-in-law, and informed of this heinous disease that someone was knowingly going to die from in 24 minutes, I walked past the house of this cute boy where the party I was forbidden to attend was being held. The principal was the bouncer of the party and under no circumstances would let me in. Unfortunately everyone there came to the windows and started pointing and laughing at me (kind of reminded me of what I picture the great and spacious building to be like in Lehi's dream). And I was known as the social reject for the remainder of my high school career.

And then I woke up and have been a little depressed ever since. I was curious as to why I would dream something so morbid and did a little googling. According to dreammoods.com dreams are an outlet for suppressed feelings and a place for anger and negative emotions to be expressed. Apparently, subconsciously I'm a little nervous about being the social reject in high school, getting a gun pulled on me by my roommate, and having someone die after three days of ralphing. Pretty legitimate fears I would say. It also said that if you die in a dream, you will die in real life. Good thing I'm one tough chick and a single bullet couldn't take me down or I wouldn't be here to tell the tale. And it said that the average person has 3-5 dreams a night but some have up to 7. It's a good thing I only remember one a night or I would be completely overwhelmed with my crazy dreams.

Introducing the new Mr. and Mrs. Alex Hymas

Just a few days ago I sat outside the Salt Lake Temple and watched Alex and Allie walk out the doors after having just been sealed. Neither one of them could wipe the smile off their face, take their eyes off each other, and I have never seen either of them happier than they were that day. Congratulations! I'm so happy for you!

Hey, It's Ethan's Birthday

Happy Birthday to one of my favorite brothers! Today he turns 15. He's the best little brother a girl could ask for. I love you, buddy.

Best Friends Forever, Best Friends Forever!

(Let's chant that today since we didn't last night, Ok?)

Little Letters: A Little Old

Purely from my own observation, it seems to be that currently the craze in the blogging world are "Little Letters." You know the ones, where letters are written to anyone, but more particularly, anything. Bloggers are trying to become pen pals with inanimate objects. I find it a strange practice. I'll admit, I found it clever and cute the first 700 times I saw it, but I've seen well over 700 now and the cleverness and cuteness is quickly wearing off. One night, just a week or two ago, Megan and I were walking up to campus for a late night study session when this very subject of "Little Letters" became a topic of conversation. We soon began orally composing letters to everything around us, for example, "Dear Moon, Thank you for being so full, you really make the evening quite lovely" and others similar to this. By the time we reached the library we had nearly peed our pants from laughing so hard.

The next afternoon as I was sitting in the library, drained from reading too many pages about commerce in Amsterdam, I pulled out my computer to take a little break by completing a short Facebook check. To my delight and surprise I had one notification: Megan had written on my wall. As I clicked on my profile and read what she had to say, I let out a giggle, causing my fellow studiers to glance my way in annoyance. Here's what I saw:

Dear Mother Autumn,

Thank you for being so nice to me today. Thank you for the pretty leaves. I wish you could stay forever, I've loved having you in town. That's all.

Love,Megan

Because she had provided me with laugh, thought it only fair that I comment on the post and give her one (or two) back:

Dear Facebook,

Thank you for giving me a break from studying today. Oh, how I got

a laugh out of this post. I don't know what I would do without you.

Dear Feet,

Thank you for getting me to campus this morning. I'm sorry that I wear ouchy shoes sometimes. I really do appreciate you.

Love, Stacie

Megan and I are both Facebook friends with a man named Richard Peters. Richard Peters isn't real. He is a dummy and his account is being run and operated by a friend of a friend of Megan's. He must have seen our "little letters" and wanted to join in the fun. He wins for the best/funniest/most creative "little letter" hands down:

Dear Butt Cheeks,

Thank you for making everyday a joy. What with your fart muffling capabilities and your soft cushioning to provide ample comfort while sitting. I hope you never change.

Love, Richard

I laughed real hard when I read that. And when I'm in a need for a good laugh, I go back and read it again. If all "little letters" were like Richard's perhaps I wouldn't think the concept was so overused. Unfortunately, the majority of them are more similar to mine and Megan's letters.

I'm so ready for this craze to come to an end.

In the Past 24 Hours

These are my five favorite things that have happened:

1. I've realized that there aren't many things more satisfying than having a productive study session at the Harold and walking out feeling completely exhausted at midnight. First, that loud, booming voice comes over the intercom at precisely 11:45 announcing the closure of the library for the night and with a warning that "any unauthorized personnel who choose to remain in the building may be pressed with charges." (It's comforting to know that one of the police force's biggest concerns down here in happy valley is that students will want to study later than the library hours allow) After the man on the intercom ends his speech it's almost like all the students are participating in a well-rehearsed, choreographed show, because in one swift movement hundreds of backpacks are zipped and coats are buttoned throughout the library. But my favorite part is walking out of the atrium with a swarm of fellow students while they play a variety of tunes overhead. Last night was an invigorating rendition of Amazing Grace, complete with bagpipes. One time they played Broadway show tunes and that time, I couldn't help but dance my way out of the building.
2. For my World Civilizations class we were assigned to write 8 papers by the end of the semester. The catch was that we could get extra credit if they were in by midterms. Due to two weddings, getting ready for a study abroad, and finals, I knew that if I didn't get them done before midterms they would add extra, unnecessary stress come December. Today they were due in order to receive the promised extra credit and had to be in my professors hand by the time he walked out of the lecture hall at 8:50 am. Last night I printed them all off and set them on my desk, ready to be loaded into my backpack this morning. Something went wrong and rather than waking up at the 7:15 am time that my alarm clock had been set for, I woke up on my own at 8:39. Yes, I had 11 minutes to get up to campus before those papers I had worked hard to get done by midterms would be late and the extra credit would be but a far off fantasy of what might have been. I ran to the bathroom, brushed my teeth (skipped the rinsing and swallowed the paste) threw on some clothes, grabbed the papers and ran out the door. I drove to the closest parking lot and got out of the car at 8:46. I had four minutes remaining until the game was over and I still had an 8 minute walk ahead of me. I sprinted the remaining way and made it into the JFSB, room number B190 just as my professor was walking up the aisle to leave and with sweat dripping down my face and gasping for breath, I safely put my papers on top of the stack he was already holding. Talk about divine intervention, if I would have woken up 30 seconds later I would have been out of luck.
3. Today there were close to 50 second graders on a field trip to BYU campus. They were walking in a single file line, each holding a plastic ziplock bag full of leaves they had collected along the way. I can't tell you how tempted I was to skip Stats and join them. 2 1/2 more years and I'll be taking kids just like them on similar field trips for my profession. Watching them walk past the JKB today confirmed that I've chosen the right major for me. It made me oh so excited.
4. One of my favorite things is passing by people when they open a text and their face lights up with excitement. Today I walked past a girl who pulled out her phone and got a smile on her face that reached from ear to ear. Her eyes even smiled. Maybe her boyfriend sent her a cheesy "I love you" text or maybe her best friend sent her something referring to an inside joke they had the night before. All I know is that someone made her a very happy girl, and made me smile just a little too, watching the situation from afar.
5. My late night jog around Provo in the crisp autumn air. The crunch of leaves under my feet and the smell of October surrounded me while I ran to my latest iTunes purchases. It doesn't get much better than that.

And now, rather than study for my upcoming Stats test, which I should do, I'm going to end this stellar day at the international cinema watching the Japanese version of "The Ring" to get me in more of a Halloween-y mood. Words can't express how much I love international cinema.

And a special shout out to my little brother Ethan who just made the Junior High basketball team, so happy for you, buddy.

I Just Can't Do It

My favorite part about awkward dating stories are laughing about them with the roommates, friends and family for hours, even days afterwards. It's been such a great 12 hours full of so much laughter. I've had my fair share of them, but I think this is my best one yet. I promise, my story is better than yours, whatever it may be.

The Devil's Pet

Yesterday a black cat was wandering the streets of The Colony. I was afraid for my life every time I walked outside. Then some of the more brilliant people in my ward decided to put bowls of milk on their doorstep and feed the stray so that any chance of it leaving would be destroyed. If you know me at all you know that I'm terrified of cats. If I were to rank my top five fears, cats would fill the number one spot, no question. So you can imagine my fright when this little feline began appearing at various points throughout the day. I even had to cut my socializing short at break the fast and ward prayer in order to safely reside in my apartment, behind a closed door. Although Freud was a quack, I will admit that in this scenario he nailed it right on. I can trace the development of my fear of cats back to one cold, winter day in my childhood...

My best friend growing up owned a cat as a pet, something I can't fathom. It was snowy white with one green eye and one blue eye. I was always a little nervous around him, but afraid I was not. Then, one January day when I was a mere eight years old, it was a day like any other: Alyssa and I rushed over to Mikelle's to play with our American Girl Dolls, something we did six out of the seven days of the week. After several hours of playing make-believe we heard the phone ring. It was the phone call we dreaded every day: it was time to put the dolls away and go home for dinner. As we packed up our dolls and stood up to leave, the cat that had been perched on the chair watching us play arose and followed us out of the room. Just as my foot hit the first step on my descent down the stairs, this cat up and decides to bite me. On my rump. And again on my upper thigh. I'm not sure what I did to receive such treatment; I always thought I had treated him with respect. Sure, I wasn't one hundred percent comfortable and relaxed around him, but never had I ostracized him. Mikelle, of course felt horrible and immediately sent the cat to his room and locked the door. After a few tears were shed I hurried up the street and the comfort of my cat-free home had never felt so good. I suppose you could say it was a traumatizing event in my life. After all, it was the day the entire species of cats became the devil's pet in my mind.

And so, although I don't appreciate my fellow ward members encouraging this cat to remain in the neighborhood, I do have to admit that it helps me get in the mood for the next upcoming holiday. Black cat wandering the streets with Halloween just a few short weeks away: coincidence? I think not.

Do I Look Like I Speak French?

This afternoon I was on the fifth studying away and shortly after arriving, a girl wearing a red hat sat down at my table, and as library etiquette has it, she took the chair directly diagonal from me. It was a busy day on the fifth today and there came a point when all of the diagonals on the tables were filled, resulting in fellow students being forced to sit directly across/next to someone already residing at the table. This was the case with my table and soon a male character pulled up a chair next to my friend in the red hat. He must have seen that she was studying French and was delighted by this newfound information, so much so that he began chatting away with her in French. While he was thoroughly enjoying himself, she on the other hand was feeling highly uncomfortable and ended the conversation as rapidly as possible. Well, the girl in the red hat eventually packed up her bag and left the library. I was busy typing away on my computer with my headphones in listening to a little Miley when I heard this guy across the table speak to me. I hesitantly took out my headphones and asked him what he had said. He then repeated a phrase to me in French and when my face displayed complete confusion he shockingly asked, "Oh, do you not speak French?" No. No I do not. Do I look like I speak French? French. If it were Spanish I would be more understanding since I'm willing to bet that nearly 50% of students attending BYU speak it, but French? Just because the stranger in the red hat that happened to sit diagonal from me at the library speaks French does not mean that I do. I sadly revealed that unfortunately I am not bilingual and after a quick exchange of names I went back to writing about the Mexican War of Independence while nodding my head like yeah to Party in the USA. Later tonight as I was leaving my Humanities of Islam test review I walked past a bulletin board advertising a study abroad to Paris this winter. Since I apparently look like a natural in the French language maybe I should hit up that study abroad next year. Until then, my goal from now until the end of December is for some man in the library to start up a conversation with me in Arabic, assuming that I'm fluent and look shocked when I admit that I'm not. Fat chance of that happening, but it would make me feel more confident in my ability to pass my Arabic 101 class that I will be enrolled in come three months from yesterday.

General Conference Weekend

There is just something about general conference weekend that words can't really describe. This one weekend puts all my worries at ease and reassures me that everything will work out. Sometimes I forget how rare, yet lucky, it is that I get to listen to prophets who receive revelations purely for this day. What a blessing. Because I'm human, I occasionally doze off for a minute or two or get distracted while addressing hundreds of wedding announcements for my brother, and don't get everything out of the talks that I probably should; that's where the printed version comes in. Even though I don't remember every word that was spoken over the past two days, I do remember that every one of the addresses contained something that I needed to hear. I went into conference with questions and concerns I had and in a round about way, every one of them was covered. I heard exactly what I needed to hear and it was a testimony builder that the leaders of our church really do receive inspiration and revelations from God regarding what we as a church and individually need. They really do. General conference weekend always seems to fly by and I'm always sad to see it end. Those eight hours will get me through the next six months and I'm already looking forward to listening to the apostles and prophets six months from now.

October Gave a Party

October gave a party:

The leaves by hundreds came

The Chestnuts, Oaks, and Maples,

And leaves of every name.

The Sunshine spread a carpet,

And everything was grand.

Miss Weather led the dancing,

Professor Wind the band.

-George Cooper

(thanks to megan for showing me this poem)

A Good Time vs. A Good Story

I'm not sure why, but for some reason, everyone I know seems to think it is their duty to set me up on blind dates. Perhaps they don't think I'm capable of finding my own dates, maybe they truly believe the set up and I will really hit it off, or it might be that it's what I like to refer to as a 'favor date.' Whatever the reason, the mutual friend always seems to talk me into going, despite the fact that 90% of blind dates I've been on have been disastrous. I've decided however, that one of two things will happen on these blind dates: I'll either have a good time or I'll have a great story to tell. I've adopted a new theory when it comes to blind dates, a game of sorts, to see how good of a story I can get out of it. Fortunately, my most recent blind date was unable to top this one that occurred in early May of this year, and it remains the best story that I've come out of a blind date with:

I should have known it would have been a disaster when the mutual friend asked me to go on a date with this guy simply to show him that "there are nice, cute girls out there." This is what I like to call a favor date: the mutual friend knows that nothing will come of it and the date is occurring purely because the other end needs a little practice interacting with the opposite gender. Because I have a hard time saying no to people, I agreed to go. Mistake #1.

So, Irwin (names have been changed) came and picked me up one spring night. We drove 30 minutes to a restaurant, at which we had to wait one hour to be seated. Five minutes into the drive it was confirmed that Irwin and I were not soul mates, which made the hour long wait seem dreadfully long, especially because it was with someone I knew I would never see again after that night. When finally the hostess called our name and ushered us to our table, I was relieved that I now had a menu to act interested in rather than awkwardly try to make conversation with Irwin. Our food finally came, and I jumped right into my chicken enchilada. I had eaten less than half of my meal and was still going strong when Irwin looked at me and said in an appalled tone, "Wow, you sure know how to eat." Really? It's a good thing I'm not insecure about my weight or that bold statement could have caused some serious damage. Sorry Irwin, if you're looking for one of those anorexic-type, you've got the wrong girl...I've got an appetite that requires more than half an enchilada to provide satisfaction. Needless to say, it caught me a little off guard. I wasn't quite sure how to respond: "Yes, I've been doing it for 19 years now, I suppose you could call me an expert" or something more along the lines of "Thank you, I take great pride in my ability to chew and digest food"? By this point in the date I was far from wanting to impress poor Irwin and so instead of a dignified response I settled on saying, "Yes, I sure do" while shoving a forkful of chicken enchilada the size of a small child into my mouth. And I continued on to devour the entire enchilada, putting Irwin and his wimpy fajitas to shame. By the time we got to the sporting event that we had tickets for, I had no desire whatsoever to carry on a conversation with him, and instead acted as if I was an avid fan of the sport and emotionally involved in the game we were attending. Needless to say, neither Irwin or I had an enjoyable time and a second date was out of the question.

Every time I go on a blind date I secretly hope that something will happen to top my experience with Irwin, when I was told I eat a lot. Everyone knows that two stories are better than one. However, I suppose having a good time is better than having a good story to tell.

best day of the year

"Write it on your heart that each day is the best day of the year"

-Ralph Waldo Emerson

Yesterday as I was sitting in Sacrament meeting I glanced over at my roommate's notebook and saw those words written in bold, black letters. I loved it and immediately pulled out my pink sticky notes and a pen and scribbled it down so that I would never forget it. Sometimes it's making that small decision every morning as you roll out of bed that 'today is going to be the best day of the year' that makes the difference between a mediocre day and an exceptional day. Here's to having each day be the best day of the year.

I Hear Jerusalem Bells A Ringing

The past couple of weeks I've been in a little bit of a funk. I've been unsure with where my life was heading and what I would be doing for the next several months. There is nothing more frustrating than having a plan for your life up in the air, just playing the waiting game. For the past week I've been on the verge of tears all day, every day and I've had more than just one good cry over wondering if my plan for my life is in line with the Lord's plan for my life. This morning at approximately 9:08 I found out that at least for now, the two plans are very much in line with each other. Today an envelope arrived in the mail informing me that I had been accepted into the BYU Jerusalem Center to study abroad winter semester 2010! I have been anticipating this letter for over a month now and it was such a relief to finally get an answer. And oh so exciting that the answer was the one I had been hoping and praying for all this time. I've had my heart set on studying abroad in Jerusalem for so long and come January, I'm moving to Israel to study in the Holy Land. I'll be able to walk where the Savior walked, visit the most sacred places in the world and have more life changing experiences than I can even imagine right now. I haven't been able to wipe the smile off my face since I heard the good news and I couldn't be happier than I am right now. Today, I came out of my funk. Things are good now.

Thank Heavens for Cleaning Checks

An apartment of 4 girls (plus one roommates boyfriend, who much to my dismay, seems to live on our couch) can produce some pretty revolting sights. Thank heavens for monthly cleaning checks that force us to clean up and put the apartment back together again. Some of my favorites that we found this time around were:

1. A rice cooker with dried up, week-old rice still in it.
2. Dishes piled so high that I couldn't even turn on the faucet to fill a glass of water.
3. 8,000 otter pop wrappers.
4. The bathroom garbage can overflowing with feminine products.
5. And the winner goes to....A pile of fingernail clippings on the armchair (not mine)

It is so nauseating that we finally resorted to placing sticky notes around the kitchen identifying things such as "DIRTY...Fill me up" on the dishwasher and "Girls...no more piling dishes in the sink, it's getting nasty!" above the kitchen sink. Hopefully they serve their purpose and next months cleaning checks wont be quite so monumental.

10 Things I Love About Provo:

1. Being reunited with friends that I haven't seen for months

2. Student wards and awkward lessons about eternal marriage

3. School

4. Killer Whale posters

5. Cousin lunches

6. Being just two blocks away from my brothers apartment

7. Always having a social event to attend

8. Coming home from ward prayer exhausted from socializing

9. It's only an hour away from home

10. Personal phone calls from grandma again

Back to School

This morning I set my alarm for 7:30 am so that I would be able to see my little brothers leave the house for their first day of school. Although, it's not my first day of school until next week, both last night and this morning have taken me back and caused me to reflect upon my days of elementary, junior high and high school.

The Sunday before the first day of school has always been my favorite Sunday of the year. It's always full of excitement mixed with anticipation mixed with sadness of seeing yet another summer come to an end. We always have a family night that ends with my dad giving all of us back-to-school fathers blessings and no matter how hard we try to remain calm and collected, the tears always come and an entire box of tissues is consumed. This, the most important part and my favorite part of the night, has remained the same throughout the years. The following is but a distant memory of what took place during my elementary days:

After the tears were wiped and the noses were blown, we would all rush up to our bedrooms and rummage through the sacks of new school clothes to pick out our favorite outfit, the one that would go down in the scrapbooks as our "first-day-of-school outfit." Then it was time for the fashion show. The clothes we had chosen were put on and one by one we would walk down the stairs to see if mom approved. It was at this point in the night that she was cutting our favorite and annual back-to-school treat, peanut butter bars, and before we could eat, our new clothes had to be carefully laid out, ready for the next morning. After our treats were scarfed down, the sponge curlers were rolled into my hair and then it was time to brush our teeth, say our prayers and go to bed. Of course, I laid in bed for what seemed like hours before I could really fall asleep but before I knew it, mom was waking me up for a new school year. Pictures were snapped of us in our new outfits, we met up with all the other neighborhood kids and as tradition has it, all of our mothers walked with us to school to see us off. We lined up on the blacktop with our new class until our teacher beckoned for us to enter the classroom that would be ours for the next nine months. The actual school day was full of disclosures, new crayons and pencils from the teacher and more name games than I knew even existed. That night, after the much anticipated "Back to School Neighborhood BBQ", it was time for bed once again.

And then it was over. The first day of school had come to an end. I miss those days of the traditional 'first day of school.' I was tremendously disappointed last year, when the night before my first day of college went nothing like that and I didn't play a single name game in one of my classes. I guess I'll just have to live vicariously through my brothers in order to have a proper 'first day of school' this year and count today as my day.

What's with all the dead animals?

For some reason, dead animals seem to be a major theme in my life right now:

1. A couple of weeks ago, I was innocently riding my bike along Main Street when suddenly a giant dead rat appeared in the middle of the sidewalk on which I was riding. Luckily, I swerved out of the way just enough to avoid riding over it, but it caused such fright in me that I nearly fell off my bike from hysteria.

2. Because we hate traffic and construction, dad and I have been driving the new Legacy Highway to work lately to avoid the I-15 route. One of our favorite games to play while driving is called "count how many dead animals are on the side of the road" I'm not sure why the number of roadkill is so astronomical on this particular highway, but it makes for a good game, despite how disgusting it really is. Our record is 21 dead animals in just a short, 20 minute drive.

3. We have never had a mouse problem in the thirteen years we have lived in our home. However, ever since the new neighbors, who own close to 17 cats, moved in a few weeks ago we've had a little bit of a problem. It first started when these obnoxious cats started to roam around the neighborhood (note: if you own a cat, keep it to yourself. Not all of your neighbors love your little furball as much as you do) We began finding little tufts of hair all around the yard: Cat hair or mouse hair? Still a mystery. Although the recent discovery of hair gave me a little fright, I was able to stay calm and collected for the most part. It wasn't until little brother, Preston, found a dead mouse in the back yard, that I truly began to fear for my life. Shortly after, he stumbled upon another dead mouse, this time on the driveway, claiming that this one had "guts spilling out everywhere." On top of that, three different neighbors have found a mouse in their house, a mouse in their garage, and mouse poop on their front porch, respectively. I'm not sure if we've always had mice around and now that cats are present we are just starting to find their remains or if these cats are bringing their prey in from outside sources. Either way, I'm not a fan. I've reached the point on the fear scale where I look out the window for a good five minutes before going outside, examining every square inch of my yard for cats or mice, dead or alive. After I decide the coast is clear, I sprint faster than Asafa Powell to the car, slam the doors shut, and push the lock button all in one swift movement. This is a very real fear; I have never been more frightened in my life than I am right now. The majority of my nighttime prayers consist of me pleading that mice wont crawl in my bed and eat my flesh while I sleep.

I think in heaven, rats, cats, mice and dead animals will not be present. What a perfect life that would be!

Go, My Favorite Sports Team, Go

Today was a very long day at work. My cousin who sits in the cubicle next to mine is gone this week on a road trip to South Dakota. My uncle whose office is across the hall from me is spending the week vacationing in New York City. While they are off on holiday, I'm left alone with no one to talk to when entering numbers in the computer no longer holds my interest. I even journeyed to the other side of the floor to visit my dad, but he too had left the office for some important meetings. Today, boredom and the gray walls of my cubicle became my best friend. When this occurs, I unwind my headphones that are wrapped around my iPod and try to drive boredom away by listening to some of my favorite comedian friends. Today was Brian Reagan. While I was listening to this, a memory of my first day of school, junior year of high school came to me and made me smile just a little:Meet the Buick. This was the vehicle that I was so blessed to drive throughout a portion of my high school career. Some of my favorite things about this car were:

1. The dent in the side of the left, backseat door, courtesy of my brothers hip. And the broken seat belt.

2. The fact that I was the only person in the state of Utah under the age of 85 that drove this make and model.

3. The smooth, low ride it provided.

4. The plethora of nicknames it had: the bui, the land yacht, the boat, etc.

5. The thrill I got every time I got in it, hoping and praying that it would still turn on and run properly.

Which brings me to my first day of school, junior year. Because of my summer birthday, this was the first day that I was able to drive to high school. I was ecstatic. Although I didn't have the 'hippest' car at Viewmont High School, it was a car nonetheless and I had the keys. At approximately 7:05 am I said good-bye to my mother and walked out of the house, ready to start a new year of school. I was full of that anticipation and excitement that you get at the start of every school year as I walked to the Buick and unlocked the door. I drove two houses down the street and stopped at Alyssa's house to give her a ride. This was her sophomore year, and the first day she would be attending high school, I'm sure her anticipation was even greater than mine. I laid my hand on the horn to let her know I was outside her house, and as I lifted my hand off the steering wheel, I was shocked by what happened. Normally, the honking stops when pressure is released, however this particular time the honking continued despite the fact that my hand was no longer anywhere near the steering wheel. Yes, the horn in my reliable Buick had stuck. Because I know nothing about cars, I didn't know what to do other than put my hands up in the air, claiming my innocence at what was occurring. Alyssa's entire family walked onto the porch to see what the commotion was, and seeing that I had no control over the situation waved good-bye as Alyssa entered the passenger seat, laughing nervously. I quickly explained that I had no idea what was going on or how to fix it and we both decided that the best thing to do would be to continue on to school and hope that the honking would cease on its own. Did I mention that this honking that was going on was quite loud and a solid stream of blaring noise? It wasn't a "beep beep" every few seconds. It was a continuous "beeeeeeeeeeep" and it took no breaks to breathe.

As we drove through the neighborhood, I hid my face in shame as all of the neighbors peeked their heads out the windows to see who that obnoxious driver was. Eventually we got to Main Street and I wildly underestimated the amount of traffic that would be there. Bumper to bumper traffic. Completely stopped, moving maybe 5 feet every ten minutes. And I had a horn that was letting off a continuous honk. This is the point in the story that I felt like Brian Regan, I felt like yelling, "Go, my favorite sports team, go. Score a goal, unit, basket, point." Instead, I half-joking, mostly seriously, asked Alyssa to get a paper out of my notebook and write in bold letters, "SORRY, I'M NOT HONKING ON PURPOSE" She chose not to, and instead I called my dad in distress, looking for insight on what I should do. His solution was to pull off Main Street somewhere and wait for him to meet me and switch me cars. Our first attempt at this was into a small neighborhood, but when the 93 year old man working in his yard glared at us with annoyance we decided to move locations. We settled on the city Post Office and soon enough my dad met me with his car and we made the swap. I took the parking pass from the Buick and put it in his car and Alyssa and I were well on our way to the public high school. Unfortunately we hadn't planned the car delays into our schedule, and ended up being a good 20 minutes late to the first day of school. That didn't go over well with Mr. Crook, but I sucked up to him enough throughout the remainder of the year that we parted on good terms and he eventually forgot my first impression.

You'd think this would be the end of the story. Oh no my friends, it is not. I was sitting in class and meanwhile my dad somehow got the horn to stop honking. He drove it over to the high school and swapped cars back. I had failed to inform him that the parking pass needed to be swapped back as well, and as a result I ended up with a parking ticket that day. Later that day, I had a tennis tournament and in a hurry to get changed into my uniform, I grabbed my clothes from the car and accidentally bumped the horn on my way out. Because of my time crunch, I didn't even try to get the horn to stop, but instead locked the doors and ran into the girls locker room with the horn blaring in the background. I went off to Salt Lake, carpooling with other team members, and upon my return to Viewmont's parking lot, I found that the continuous honking had killed my battery. Although the honking had ceased, so had the Buick's life, temporarily. After several tries of jumping the car, we eventually revived it and had a smooth ride home. It was the most eventful 'first day of school' I've ever had and needless to say, for the remainder of the year I called Alyssa when I got to her house. I never touched that horn again.

Although the Buick wasn't the hot car that everyone talked about, it had character and I loved it dearly. I shed a tear or two the day that two elderly gentlemen came to take it away to it's retirement home. Sometimes I wish I could return to the days of the Buick, and on those days I just listen to Brian Regan and I am taken back immediately.