Well...
it was good knowing you. See you in a year or so.
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
Friday, August 5, 2011
Helllooo summe...oh wait.
Um. Today I looked at my calendar and it was August 5th.
PEOPLE! DO YOU KNOW WHAT THIS MEANS? (No, it does not mean I have permission to type in caps lock).
Summer is over in three weeks. In case you don't know (and if you've talked to me in the past month, I'm sure you do) I love school. I can't wait for classes and papers and newspapers and spending late nights in the library not being able to breathe as I frantically run across campus....
But in the meantime...
it's time for another list.
Thelastmonthofsummerlist
Go to the hot springs
Get a picture with an Idahoan
Eat tacos from at least 5 more places
Go to a Bee's game
Make homemade pasta
Swim in Bear Lake after midnight
Pull an all nighter
Finish the Old Testament
Watch Anna and the King
Make a last awesome homemade meal with the soon to be missionaries
Go to Rupert
Watch a movie in a park
Eat a food I've never tried
Read the AP style book
Tube in a river
Yeah. Who's in?
PEOPLE! DO YOU KNOW WHAT THIS MEANS? (No, it does not mean I have permission to type in caps lock).
Summer is over in three weeks. In case you don't know (and if you've talked to me in the past month, I'm sure you do) I love school. I can't wait for classes and papers and newspapers and spending late nights in the library not being able to breathe as I frantically run across campus....
But in the meantime...
it's time for another list.
Thelastmonthofsummerlist
Go to the hot springs
Get a picture with an Idahoan
Eat tacos from at least 5 more places
Go to a Bee's game
Make homemade pasta
Swim in Bear Lake after midnight
Pull an all nighter
Finish the Old Testament
Watch Anna and the King
Make a last awesome homemade meal with the soon to be missionaries
Go to Rupert
Watch a movie in a park
Eat a food I've never tried
Read the AP style book
Tube in a river
Yeah. Who's in?
Monday, August 1, 2011
Funk
I was five years old when the gunshots started.
As I sat in the warmth of my grandmother's yellow patch quilt, my small body trembled.
I imagined men with guns and eye patches, waiting just outside my window.
They would break in and yank me out of my ivory bunk bed.
Before my mind could ponder what they would do next, I slipped out of bed as quietly as possible, hardly letting my feet touch the cold floor, for fear they would hear me escape.
I tiptoed into my parents room, tears streaming down my small cheeks.
"Don't worry," they told me, stroking my hair. "It's Chinese New Year. Those sounds are just people lighting fireworks."
I was nine years old when my room turned into an ocean.
The warmth of my grandmother's yellow patch quilt disappeared.
The bed I was on was suddenly floating.
A figure was coming towards me.
With every second it got closer, and my skin grew more ice like.
My heart stopped as the face finally came into view.
There was Lord Voldemort, wand in hand.
As his slit-like mouth pronounced a curse on me, I let out a blood curdling scream.
Just then, my father appeared by my side.
"It was just a dream," he said, taking me into his arms. "Just a bad dream."
I was fifteen years old when I woke up convinced I was on my death bed.
My entire body was drenched in sweat.
My insides ached so badly I didn't dare move.
All I could do was sit in the warmth of my grandmother's yellow patch quilt and utter prayer after prayer.
Mustering every ounce of strength in my body, I crawled slowly out of bed and up the stairs.
Waking my parents out of a deep sleep, I told them my stomach was going to explode.
"Darling," they said, probably trying not to laugh. "You just ate some bad food. Wait a few hours and everything will be fine."
I was nineteen when I thought my heart was breaking.
As I clutched at the worn threads of my grandmother's yellow patch quilt, my body, no longer small but still fragile, quivered.
My eyes were swollen and the beat of my heart that echoed in my ears seemed unsteady.
I could hear yelling outside my window.
Frantic screams of college voices.
I looked for somebody to tell me everything would work out fine.
But all I got was cold air, and the echo of my roommates watching reruns of Buffy the Vampire Slayer.
As I sat in the warmth of my grandmother's yellow patch quilt, my small body trembled.
I imagined men with guns and eye patches, waiting just outside my window.
They would break in and yank me out of my ivory bunk bed.
Before my mind could ponder what they would do next, I slipped out of bed as quietly as possible, hardly letting my feet touch the cold floor, for fear they would hear me escape.
I tiptoed into my parents room, tears streaming down my small cheeks.
"Don't worry," they told me, stroking my hair. "It's Chinese New Year. Those sounds are just people lighting fireworks."
I was nine years old when my room turned into an ocean.
The warmth of my grandmother's yellow patch quilt disappeared.
The bed I was on was suddenly floating.
A figure was coming towards me.
With every second it got closer, and my skin grew more ice like.
My heart stopped as the face finally came into view.
There was Lord Voldemort, wand in hand.
As his slit-like mouth pronounced a curse on me, I let out a blood curdling scream.
Just then, my father appeared by my side.
"It was just a dream," he said, taking me into his arms. "Just a bad dream."
I was fifteen years old when I woke up convinced I was on my death bed.
My entire body was drenched in sweat.
My insides ached so badly I didn't dare move.
All I could do was sit in the warmth of my grandmother's yellow patch quilt and utter prayer after prayer.
Mustering every ounce of strength in my body, I crawled slowly out of bed and up the stairs.
Waking my parents out of a deep sleep, I told them my stomach was going to explode.
"Darling," they said, probably trying not to laugh. "You just ate some bad food. Wait a few hours and everything will be fine."
I was nineteen when I thought my heart was breaking.
As I clutched at the worn threads of my grandmother's yellow patch quilt, my body, no longer small but still fragile, quivered.
My eyes were swollen and the beat of my heart that echoed in my ears seemed unsteady.
I could hear yelling outside my window.
Frantic screams of college voices.
I looked for somebody to tell me everything would work out fine.
But all I got was cold air, and the echo of my roommates watching reruns of Buffy the Vampire Slayer.
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
I made it to the top of the world
Covered in clots of mud, bleeding, bruised and breathless I grabbed his hand as he helped pull me over the final wall of ice. As we stood side by side, it was almost as if we were looking at the rest of our lives. For five minutes we remained hand in hand, not saying much of anything, yet letting our silent prayers say everything. Like a leaky water balloon, I felt my heart start to use my tear ducts as an overflow. Heavenly Father had painted a picture with a viewing only for us. We were standing on the edge of the world. Everything below us- the trees, the buildings, the city- seemed to speak of the power of God. It was as if he was saying “This is yours. Go and do.”
Want to convince an atheist that God exists? Have them hike the Alexander Basin.
It’s no small miracle that I made it to the top. In case you don’t know, when it comes to physical things I can be a little bit of a baby. I’m no Pillsbury dough girl, but taking a hike with me is about the equivalent of playing a baseball game with Ernie Lombardi. Slow.
Two miles into the hike, the trail disappeared under a thick layer of snow. Beyond the snow was a giant hill…and more snow. Okay, okay. To use the word hill would be underestimating the monstrosity before us. It was a small mountain. If I can be completely honest, my first thought was this:
“That’s a nice sight. Glad I don’t have to climb it.”
There was no way in this life or the next that I was going to climb a mile up a giant ice covered hill without a trail. In his wisdom, Rhett knew that I wasn’t just going to tackle the hill all at once. He led me up the hill a little at a time, without me realizing that I was actually climbing the sheer side of a mountain. Every 20 yards of so I would pant and ask for a break. It took every ounce of personal stamina to claw my way, sometimes on my hands and knees, through the mud and snow. After a half mile of hill, I didn’t think my body would take another step. Sensing my frustration, Rhett offered me his wrist. I think he dragged me half way up the mountain. He must have had a better sense at what was at the top (as per usual) than I did.
If we had gone by my limited vision, I would have missed one of the most breathtaking moments of my life.
When I stand on my knees, bruised, broken and disheveled, Heavenly Father sends those stronger than me to drag me up mountains. More often than not it’s kicking and screaming (I'm working on it), but somehow I always make it. Someday when I lie at the feet of my Heavenly Father I’ll have a little dirt under my fingernails. I’ll be scratched, scarred and sweaty. Yet, I live for the moment when I finally reach that peak, when he can say, “Well done, my child,” and take me into his arms.
I am blessed.
(oh, and Rhett only lost his phone one time during our five hour escapade. Success.)
Want to convince an atheist that God exists? Have them hike the Alexander Basin.
It’s no small miracle that I made it to the top. In case you don’t know, when it comes to physical things I can be a little bit of a baby. I’m no Pillsbury dough girl, but taking a hike with me is about the equivalent of playing a baseball game with Ernie Lombardi. Slow.
Two miles into the hike, the trail disappeared under a thick layer of snow. Beyond the snow was a giant hill…and more snow. Okay, okay. To use the word hill would be underestimating the monstrosity before us. It was a small mountain. If I can be completely honest, my first thought was this:
“That’s a nice sight. Glad I don’t have to climb it.”
 | |
| Feel free to use your imagination to envision us on this mountain. |
If we had gone by my limited vision, I would have missed one of the most breathtaking moments of my life.
When I stand on my knees, bruised, broken and disheveled, Heavenly Father sends those stronger than me to drag me up mountains. More often than not it’s kicking and screaming (I'm working on it), but somehow I always make it. Someday when I lie at the feet of my Heavenly Father I’ll have a little dirt under my fingernails. I’ll be scratched, scarred and sweaty. Yet, I live for the moment when I finally reach that peak, when he can say, “Well done, my child,” and take me into his arms.
I am blessed.
(oh, and Rhett only lost his phone one time during our five hour escapade. Success.)
Monday, June 27, 2011
NO lions or tigers or bears. Just birds.
24. Got to Tony's Grove and roast hot dogs
25.Visit Willow Park Zoo ✔
26.Mountain Bike
In case you don't know, I'm not very good with animals. Okay, that's the understatement of the world. I lose dogs, kill fish, and forget to feed frogs causing them to feed on each other.
Going to Willow Park Zoo was of those things that everybody in Logan seems to have done...multiple times. As a testament to how truly dull Logan can be, I've had the following conversation at least 6 times in the past year.
RandomgirlImayormaynotlivewith: I'm bored.
Me: I'm not (because really, when do I get bored?)
RandomgirlImayormaynotlivewith: Oh good, I'm glad you're bored too. Let's go to Willow Park Zoo!
*Cue happy music with bunnies hopping in the background.*
Me: Animals are scary. And also, I don't want to be sued if I accidentally kill a common crow. Or suck up baby sea horses with a vacuum.
I got away with this until this week when Andie and Kinsey visited me. They said, "Hey let's go to the Willow Park Zoo!" and I realized that it was on my college bucket list. So...I sucked it up and went. The only words are can use to describe the trip? Logan-esque.
I think that possibly, turtles could be an animal that I could put up with. Not like, mind you. Put up with. They are nice and slow and they live a long time. Also I couldn't kill them accidentally (at least not easily).
So maybe when I have kids, and they ask for a puppy, we'll compromise with a turtle. Maybe. I won't get their hopes up.
For the record, "Willow Park Zoo" should be renamed "Willow Park Bird Sanctuary...(with a bobcat and a raccoon. And a snow cone shack)" because SERIOUSLY. I can look out my apartment door and see a common raven. And a robin. Or I can go to Willow Park and see them for $2. Huh.
The exhibits are in this order: birdbirdbirdbirdbirdbird, monkey!, birdbirdbirdbirdbird, elk, bird, duck, duck, duck, duck, bird.
Except, I did really like the eagle. It made me feel patriotic.
One pet that I will allow my children to have? Pet rocks. So convenient. They don't poop, AND even though they don't quite have the sensitive nature of other pets you can customize them.
Okay...despite the look on Shaun's face the trip really was fun. I promise.
(Also, I am aware post makes me sound like the worst future mother ever. I may have to budge at some point and allow my kids to have a puppy. As long as it doesn't turn into a dog.)
25.Visit Willow Park Zoo ✔
26.Mountain Bike
In case you don't know, I'm not very good with animals. Okay, that's the understatement of the world. I lose dogs, kill fish, and forget to feed frogs causing them to feed on each other.
Going to Willow Park Zoo was of those things that everybody in Logan seems to have done...multiple times. As a testament to how truly dull Logan can be, I've had the following conversation at least 6 times in the past year.
RandomgirlImayormaynotlivewith: I'm bored.
Me: I'm not (because really, when do I get bored?)
RandomgirlImayormaynotlivewith: Oh good, I'm glad you're bored too. Let's go to Willow Park Zoo!
*Cue happy music with bunnies hopping in the background.*
Me: Animals are scary. And also, I don't want to be sued if I accidentally kill a common crow. Or suck up baby sea horses with a vacuum.
I got away with this until this week when Andie and Kinsey visited me. They said, "Hey let's go to the Willow Park Zoo!" and I realized that it was on my college bucket list. So...I sucked it up and went. The only words are can use to describe the trip? Logan-esque.
I think that possibly, turtles could be an animal that I could put up with. Not like, mind you. Put up with. They are nice and slow and they live a long time. Also I couldn't kill them accidentally (at least not easily).
So maybe when I have kids, and they ask for a puppy, we'll compromise with a turtle. Maybe. I won't get their hopes up.
For the record, "Willow Park Zoo" should be renamed "Willow Park Bird Sanctuary...(with a bobcat and a raccoon. And a snow cone shack)" because SERIOUSLY. I can look out my apartment door and see a common raven. And a robin. Or I can go to Willow Park and see them for $2. Huh.
The exhibits are in this order: birdbirdbirdbirdbirdbird, monkey!, birdbirdbirdbirdbird, elk, bird, duck, duck, duck, duck, bird.
Except, I did really like the eagle. It made me feel patriotic.
One pet that I will allow my children to have? Pet rocks. So convenient. They don't poop, AND even though they don't quite have the sensitive nature of other pets you can customize them.
Okay...despite the look on Shaun's face the trip really was fun. I promise.
(Also, I am aware post makes me sound like the worst future mother ever. I may have to budge at some point and allow my kids to have a puppy. As long as it doesn't turn into a dog.)
Friday, June 24, 2011
Bad pictures, good life.
 |
| This picture took an hour to take |
 |
| This makes me miss classes |
 |
| So many books. So much time. |
 |
| Just...don't ask. Because I don't know. |
 |
| When french fries go moldy. Art, I guess? |
 |
| I tried to be a secretary for 3 days. Fail. And I used at least $300 worth of sticky notes |
 |
| Stupid. Trivial. Pursuit. |
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
I'm going to talk about newspapers again
5. Visit Old Ephraim's Grave
6. Get an SPJ award ✔
7. Obtain True Aggie Status
I'll be truthful. Even though I tried to make my college bucket list at least a little realistic I figured there were some things that probably wouldn't happen. For example, given my recent experience with bad buffets I may never get Midnight Pizza at the Junction. At least not without a Walmart store worth of Pepto Bismol on hand. Getting an SPJ award was one of those things I figured COULD happen, if I decided to write something semi-decent in the next 3 years. A.k.a if it wasn't snowing in Logan (bahahaha!), the Gilmore Girls were not distracting me, and I wasn't trying to do something silly like succeed in school.
So, March rolled around and I got an about the email about the awards. I could only enter articles that I had written in 2010, which left me with about 15 articles that were so boring that I probably fell asleep writing them. Not being one to give up an opportunity however, I did enter an article I wrote in fall It was a story about a woman dealing with her autistic son. Oh yes. And how she wrote a book about it. Despite my mediocre writing, this woman had a very touching story and it was one of the best interviews I did all year.
Pick up the remote and fast forward to June. I am both shocked and slightly perturbed to find my name on the finalists list. Seriously? What are these people thinking? Did somebody threaten to take away their AP stylebooks if I wasn't a nominee? I quickly go from shocked to happy, because really. These are big people. Who I will someday work for. Hopefully.
I didn't shell out $40 to go to the ceremony, partially because that's a two weeks worth of tortillas and black beans (pretty much what I'm living off of) and also because I had a hot date at the Brigham Young Park.
When I log onto Facebook later, I have like a million (or three) messages congratulating me. I guess I took 1st in Division C Medical/Science reporting.
Hello? I am not a scientist. Or a doctor. That's why I'm getting a degree in print journalism a.k.a "a degree to nowhere". Plus, I like to write about people strumming guitars and feeding the homeless and sometimes puppies. Use the word blood and I WILL get dizzy.
Despite this, I am so grateful.All those wee hours of the morning with my Dr. Pepper in one hand and a pencil in the other really did pay off. Things like this convince me that maybe, just maybe, I'll be able to NOT work in a call center someday.
Hey, I'm a winner. And also, The Statesman is a winner because we are took 2nd place overall for our division. I work with some seriously talented people.
And now I'm thinking about pizza...
6. Get an SPJ award ✔
7. Obtain True Aggie Status
I'll be truthful. Even though I tried to make my college bucket list at least a little realistic I figured there were some things that probably wouldn't happen. For example, given my recent experience with bad buffets I may never get Midnight Pizza at the Junction. At least not without a Walmart store worth of Pepto Bismol on hand. Getting an SPJ award was one of those things I figured COULD happen, if I decided to write something semi-decent in the next 3 years. A.k.a if it wasn't snowing in Logan (bahahaha!), the Gilmore Girls were not distracting me, and I wasn't trying to do something silly like succeed in school.
So, March rolled around and I got an about the email about the awards. I could only enter articles that I had written in 2010, which left me with about 15 articles that were so boring that I probably fell asleep writing them. Not being one to give up an opportunity however, I did enter an article I wrote in fall It was a story about a woman dealing with her autistic son. Oh yes. And how she wrote a book about it. Despite my mediocre writing, this woman had a very touching story and it was one of the best interviews I did all year.
Pick up the remote and fast forward to June. I am both shocked and slightly perturbed to find my name on the finalists list. Seriously? What are these people thinking? Did somebody threaten to take away their AP stylebooks if I wasn't a nominee? I quickly go from shocked to happy, because really. These are big people. Who I will someday work for. Hopefully.
I didn't shell out $40 to go to the ceremony, partially because that's a two weeks worth of tortillas and black beans (pretty much what I'm living off of) and also because I had a hot date at the Brigham Young Park.
When I log onto Facebook later, I have like a million (or three) messages congratulating me. I guess I took 1st in Division C Medical/Science reporting.
Hello? I am not a scientist. Or a doctor. That's why I'm getting a degree in print journalism a.k.a "a degree to nowhere". Plus, I like to write about people strumming guitars and feeding the homeless and sometimes puppies. Use the word blood and I WILL get dizzy.
Despite this, I am so grateful.All those wee hours of the morning with my Dr. Pepper in one hand and a pencil in the other really did pay off. Things like this convince me that maybe, just maybe, I'll be able to NOT work in a call center someday.
Hey, I'm a winner. And also, The Statesman is a winner because we are took 2nd place overall for our division. I work with some seriously talented people.
And now I'm thinking about pizza...
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