Back To The Ol' Grind

UPDATE. I got ten hours of sleep last night, and when I woke up this morning, I could stretch and take a hot shower and do everything that you people recommended (except for calling my mother, because public guilt trips don't so much work for me), and WOW. It's just a dull aching now that I can stretch out. I'm glad it didn't turn out to be my organs rotting within my body.

Also: Remember the boy from my philosophy class? Well, today we established that we both have March birthdays, and so a truce was called.

And now I'm off to make myself a big pot of mac & cheese now that I have my appetite and my concentration back. Hooray!

A Plea For Help

My back hurts. Pretty badly right now, but not unbearably. I'm looking for remedies that don't include waiting rooms in hospitals and painkillers.

Ready...GO!

Shellshocked

It's never a good sign when you're updating someone terribly close to you on how EXACTLY your life is going and being more honest about some things than you have with anyone in a while, and her response to it all is, "Wow. This is worse than I thought. Much, much worse."

Welcome to my life, people.

Well On My Way To Getting A Full-Blown Geek License

I'm in the pet store right now, looking for a new fish to replace the one that died. Or at least that's the simile Art provided me with in describing tonight's adventures sorting through eBay and alienware.com and the many many visits to newegg.com looking for...a new computer.

Most of you don't care. Because most of you have never seen Mr. Glowie 2.0 and witnessed the awesomeness -- I wish I had a picture. And because most of you aren't aware that I spent a good portion of the summer poring over pages and pages of computer minutiae, helping to pick out the coolest stuff, and watching Mr. Glowie 1.0 being dismantled and basically, well, helping build Mr. Glowie 2.0. A lot of time went into that computer, and I have very warm memories of him.

Which is why Art asked me to sit down today before he told me that he'd be selling Glowie. And then we had to have a long discussion about the whys. He finally brought me around, of course, because it's Art, and one of Art's titles is The Stubbornest Person Ever Evered (And If Not, And Someone More Stubborn Is On The Way, We Are All In Big Trouble, And If I Were You, I'd Get Out Now, Because It Won't Be Pretty).

So that's what I've been doing tonight. In between, of course, summarizing Descartes' Meditations on First Philosophy. Ha. Ha. Haaaa.

Maybe I Shouldn't Talk So Tough Before Art Gets A Chance To Teach Me How To Punch Not Like A Girl

So, there's this boy in philosophy class. Wait, stop right there, I know what some of you are thinking -- one eyebrow just crooked up, as you're imagining a romantic development, picturing me accidentally dropping a pencil and looking around, flustered, for it, while the boy leans over, picks it up, and hands it to me with a charming smile spread across his face. You are incorrigible. Hear me out before you start picturing what the bridesmaids' dreses will look like, will you?

So, there's this boy in philosophy class. And I am afraid of him. You see, I always sit in the second row, the second seat from the front, and Erika always sits in the seat next to me. Well, last week we walked in, and this boy was sitting in her seat. And not sitting in it innocently and unaware, either; he KNEW it was her seat, and yet he was violating the sacred Unspoken Seating Chart rule. That should have clued me in that he'd be the dangerous loose-cannon sort, but I didn't listen. And I couldn't have anyway, because the rule had been violated, and I would have had to fight him, loose cannon or not.

I asked him to step outside with me, so we could settle the score. He refused to. I thought that that would be the end of it. He didn't seem to be exactly INTIMIDATED by me, but maybe had learned his lesson anyway. I thought.

And then the next class, he was sitting outside, waiting for me. He asked me to fight right then. I laughed at him, certain he wasn't serious, and walked into class. I honestly forgot about him, except for the part when he said "Arrr," instead of "Here" when his name was called for attendance. That was at the beginning of class, though, and by the end, I was walking home in the cold, my scarf bright red against the dark wool of my coat, and my thoughts bitter toward the unfaltering devotion with which my professor regarded Descartes.

I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was the boy from my class. I asked him if he was following me home. He insisted that no, he lived nearby, on seventh and seventh.

My friends, he is not to be believed. He was trying to get me alone in an alley so he could work me over. Only my quick wit saved me that time. I won't be so lucky another time. He tried again today, but I was staying on campus to eat and then go to orchestra, and there were far too many potential witnesses milling about.

Would someone like to be my bodyguard?

I Don't Like When Philosophy Class Feels More Like Sunday School

Why are people so desperate to find proof for the existence of God? To logically, definitively conclude that God exists, that He MUST exist? Why do they choke all over themselves in excitement every time someone with important credentials gives a thumbs-up to the ontological argument for the existence of God?

Doesn't this obviate the need for faith?

A Short Note

I make the best mixes; and I make the best of the best for myself. Since I make them for me, I don't have to worry that someone won't get the subtle message behind each song I chose, or the way I put them together: I get it.

Miss Hass Made Me

Four Jobs I’ve had:
1. giving violin lessons
2. makin' the pizza
3. doing something involving pink paper and loans
4. restructuring a database

Four Places I’ve Lived:
1. Camp Hill, PA
2. Frederick, MD
3. Provo, UT
4. Buena Vista, VA

Four Movies I’d Watch Again:
1. Unbreakable
2. Nicholas Nickleby
3. Mulan
4. The Two Towers

Four TV Shows I love to Watch:
1. Boston Legal
2. The Daily Show
3. The Colbert Report
4. Grey's Anatomy

Four of My Favorite Foods:
1. Cheerios
2. chocolate pudding
3. mac & cheese
4. tomato soup with grilled cheese

Four Places I’d Rather be Right Now:
1. Wyoming
2. Washington, D.C.
3. Salt Lake City
4. Harper's Ferry

Four Bloggers I’d Like to Tag:
1. I
2. don't
3. do
4. tagging

If You Have Any Advice, I'd Appreciate It

I've entered into a serious (and scary) commitment: I have purchased a live house plant. A little potted ivy, specifically. This ivy plant is all my own, to care for, and remember to water, and pick dead leaves off of, and frankly, well, what if I'm a failure? I don't want to kill the poor thing.

What's strange is, I've grown up around houseplants all my life. I've watered them for my mother. I know how not to kill a plant. But now, no one else is standing over me, telling me what to do. Oh, and there was that disastrous incident last year involving a couple dead houseplants, too, which is adding to my hesitance.

In any case, I'll keep you updated on the ivy situation. Cross your fingers.

How To Charm Me

Write a "How I Met Elizabeth" tale that goes something like this:

The great thing about the internet is the stories that can be made up. Take, for instance, how I met Elizabeth. It was a cold and windy day in Nebraska, and I was traversing the countryside in search of a state-themed thimble to add to my nearly complete collection. Elizabeth was at the same shop looking at various snow globes as she is a collector of the same. I introduced myself as Dante, the suave heir of a small fortune in the bottled water industry. She introduced herself as Winnifred, the fanciful photographer of tree bark. We became fast friends; I because I enjoy bark and she because she enjoys hydration and wealth. We learned the truth later, but remained friends.

Thank you, Timothy.

A Wal-Mart Tale

Today was Laundry Day, which meant I piled all available clothing in a basket to wash. Some of you know what this means: I pulled out a pair of spandex workout pants, threw on a tanktop, and then included a hooded sweatshirt (because of the, oh, FIVE INCHES OF SNOW ON THE GROUND). This get-up was worth it, because I now have a whole closet full of clean, fresh-smelling clothing, and a bed full of clean, freshly-laundered sheets.

Then the time came for the trip to Wal-Mart. I figured, hey, it's Wal-Mart, they're used to spandex, so I threw my coat on over my charming outfit and hopped (okay, slid; again, with the ice and the snow) into the car.

I have no idea what sort of category of people I have officially joined as of this evening. The Society of People Who Wear Trashy Clothing to Wal-Mart and Try To Locate a Mate in the Gun Section, probably, which is why I avoided the hunting aisle like the plague. Although I did have to pass it twice in my quest for a nice little houseplant, but no one popped out in camouflage and carried me away.

And now I have ten happy little boxes of mac & cheese sitting in my cupboard, waiting for me; what a nice little family we make.

Blame All The Typos On My Keyboard, That Apparently Had Its Own Agenda Tonight

Well, they got me.

For the last three semesters, I've been playing in one of BYU's orchestras. One of the laid-back, let's-just-have-some-fun kind of deals, where class is held one night per week for a couple hours, we have one dress rehearsal and one concert, and we're done. And basically, my role was to hand in my info sheet the first day, then come the next week, ignore the seating chart, take my place next to Matt, wave hi to Misty as she pulls another chair up to join us, fake like I was no good while Dr. Katseanas (the head of the orchestra program at BYU) wandered around making seating changes, and I was in the clear for a semester of messing around with occasional pauses to play a note or two. Orchestra was a wonderful time, full of much laughter and plots to leave early, with minimal practicing and minimal concern over lack of practicing.

This is my fourth semester, and this time everything is different. Matt got married over break, so he's off in daydream world with his child bride and not even IN orchestra. So I had no one to sit wth me the first day when I was filling out my info form, and instead of putting down that I wanted to be seated in the very back next to a certain "Matt Ellsworth," I got all crazy and confused and just wrote "anywhere is fine." Anywhere? WHAT?? You KNOW what sorts of problems that opens up.

Which is why I walked in today, with a new conductor and a new system of doing things and no way to just slink into a seat in the back, and found myself assigned to being principal viola. For those of you unfamiliar with how orchestras work, the principal of each section sits at the very front and is kind of in charge of everything, working with the conductor, figuring out bowings, TAKING FRICKING ATTENDANCE EVERY WEEK. And there's no WAY I can just cut out early anymore.

I guess there was no way it could have lasted forever. I'm just sad to see the good times go.

Not Replacing Cheerios, Merely Adding To The Repertoire

Cinnamon Life is my hero.

On Tuesday nights, I have this creative writing class that goes from 5:10-7:40. Long, yes. A huge deal? Not really. The professor keeps it pretty varied, and there are only eight of us in the class (which might seem average to some of you, but I'm in a school with 31,000+ undergrads, so 8 is practically unheard of), so the time goes by fairly quickly. Especially when the professor decides to let us out half an hour early, like he decided to do last week.

Not so lucky this week.

I'm okay with a class going over (if I have nothing after said class; lateness is not an option to me). Usually it's because the discussion was just too interesting and there's still so much to say when the bell rings that no one really wants to leave. What I am NOT okay with, however, is a class that already lasts two and a half hours going HALF AN HOUR OVER.

By the 2.75 mark, I am starving, I am cranky, I am staring at the clock and hating everyone in the room, and I am most assuredly never putting pen to paper ever again as means of protest. The only thing that saved me was running home and pouring myself a huge bowl of Life from the friendly yellow box sitting on my shelf. Those little squares of deliciousness perked me right back up and fortified me for another long, long night of cuddling up to textbooks.

Looks like my hot love affair with words is still as steamy as ever.

A Question

Maybe I'm wrong, but I don't think it's right to tolerate intolerance or ignorance. I don't think we should smile undulgently at these base aspects of human nature as an incompetent mother smiles on a wayward child.

Am I wrong?

I'm Sorry If I'm Insulting The Carbon Copies Out There, But Not Too Sorry

I was going to write about how I fixed my music collection, and how I finally saw "Four Brothers" this weekend (and was terribly disappointed), but I don't have the time for that.

Because something much more urgent is at hand.

Right now, this very moment, I am deeply involved in a conversation with Megann, one of my favorite people, as well as being one of my oldest friend, and our topic is: boys. No, not that 14-year-old girl, giggly, gossipy nonsense. Gross. We have far too much experience and college-perfected critique and cynicism under our belts to ever stoop so low.

[A SHORT INTERJECTION BEFORE I MOVE ON TO MY POINT: The reason I can get away with this is because there is no way I am a carbon copy. I am a lot of things, but "similar to anyone else ever born" is not it. For proof, I hand you Exhibit A, an exchange made just last night:

Ryan: You are one of the oddest girls I have ever known.
Me: Because I'm honest.
Me: ...About 12% of the time.
Me: But when I am, I REALLY am.

I get that a lot, actually.]

THE POINT: We basically want to know why engaging, smart, funny guys always seem to date the same stupid girl. For instance, you look at the new girlfriend, and she's just a carbon copy of all the other girlfriends before her, and it's not because the original image was terribly spectacular in the first place. It's one of those real speckly, hard-to-read, and not meaningful in any case types; something you'd tape to the basement wall of an ill-used building announcing an informal poetry reading. Not high-class stuff. Nice, but, ya know, just...nice.

So, my question (as always) is, Why?

And now as I leave that hanging in the air, I want to revisit the fact that "Four Brothers" was pretty much a disappointment. It was a good idea, but the cript writer had no idea what he (she?) was doing. People of Hollywood: Do not disappoint me in this manner again, ever. I do not wait six months to see a movie only to lie on a couch and laugh at the absurdity.

I Could Work For Hollywood

BYU campus. Night -- around 7:30 p.m.

A girl in a dark grey coat is walking toward the library as she pulls a cell phone out of her coat pocket. She pushes a button and holds the phone to her ear. She can hear the ringing, and begins to count the rings, knowing that she won't leave a message if he doesn't pick up. He won't check it, anyway. Sprint has made that impossible for him.

A voice picks up on the other line. Instead of a customary "Hello?" or "Hey," though, she hears a teasing "NOW you call."

"I just got out of class, okay? So don't even start." was her quick response. The person on the other end seems taken aback by her tone, and tells her that she needs to change out of her cranky pants, or something to that effect.

Cranky pants. Yes, hello, I am Miss Cranky Pants.

You know things are getting bad when I accidentally snap at Art. I'd like to point out that I have NO idea where the biting tone came from; I meant it all to be light and airy and funny, as per usual, but I suppose the demons of a terribly heavy course load have begun to take their toll so that bitterness is leaking out around the edges.

Someday I'll sleep again, I promise. But not tonight. Tonight, I have a Haiku anthology to read. No, I'm not kidding.

A Personal Conversation Which I Am Publishing On The Internet For You All To Read, Because, Hey, It's The 21st Century

JENNIFER WESTIRFIRDE MERKLEY, YOU ARE IN BIG TROUBLE WITH ME.

I really wish I knew your middle name and that "Westirfirde" were it, because, woah, what a great middle name to have. Of course, no middle name in existence could have prevented tonight's awkward situation in the basement of the BYU Bookstore, where I was casually picking up some notebooks so I could do my homework and was accosted by that boy I met in your apartment and held hostage during a strained and forced and, through parts of it, terribly cold (as we were standing outside) conversation.

I don't know how to extricate myself from social meetings. I possess no instinct for graceful endings...normally, things are enjoyable until they end of their own accord, so I float along with it all, "going with the flow," as kids these days say. I think. Well, in MY day, they said it, and that's good enough for me. But. Back to the subject at hand: I didn't know what to do. Faking a seizure seems like a brilliant option, but unfortunately, I didn't think of it at the time. Now, I could probably come up with a list of about 28 different excuses I could pull, but not then. I was confronted with a face that was vaguely familiar to me, and had a name shoved back into recollection by his voice, and all of a sudden, I found myself playing along, pretending I remembered people and events that have long past slipped my memory.

And you know what? It's all your fault. You, and your finely-tuned culinary abilities and stupid, wonderful Christmas letter writing and soft, soft couches. I have one word for you: BAH.

Also: I miss our chats during Brit Lit. Christina Rosetti goes unchecked and wildly lesbian when we're not there to cover our ears and weep for the loss of our innocence.

Summing It All Up

I need a punching bag.

And a shoulder.

Oh yeah: classes are great, I have a ton of reading to do, and remind me sometime to tell you about my one assistant professor who is a frickin' millionaire. No, really, he is, you should totally ask me about it. Later.

I'm Writing You A Symphony Of Sound

School starts tomorrow, so this will be brief.

Last night, "The Mixed Tape" came on the radio AGAIN. Jack's Mannequin is one of my favorite bands, and while I'm torn between excitement at hearing their stuff and disappointment that they'd be such sell-outs, I think it's at least safe to recommend them to you guys. If you only want your music squeaky clean, they're probably not for you, but then you won't get to have conversations like the following with me... [discussing why Jack's Mannequin was on the radio in Provo, but not in D.C., where my friend is living now, the little Benedict Arnold]



And that would be a tragedy, wouldn't it.

Daddy's Little Defect

The internet went out sometime between four and five this morning; I know this because I was wide awake, mulling over old episodes of Grey's Anatomy on my computer, and attempting to convince my brain to shut off. Unfortunately, my (ahem) superior intelligence is a drawback at times like these, because my brain always manages to outsmart my body, and skips smirking away while my body is left to dangle in a state of exhausted wakefulness. So while that battle was going on, the internet disappeared, and poor Meredith begged "Doctor McDreamy" (ugh) to "pick [her]!"

I finally snagged an hour or two of sleep this morning before deciding it was late enough to call the internet company and demand they fix whatever the problem was. I must have been pretty forceful this time, or something, because the internet was back by this afternoon, and the thin winter sunlight found me sprawled in my desk chair, blasting Sugarcult while reading Žižek. An odd combination, I know, but whatever. You're just jealous.

And then I braved the cold so I could go buy some bread and milk, figuring that now that people were around, I should at least attempt to act like a normal human being who does things like eat and sleep and play Apples to Apples, and the like. Of course, no one has ever invited me to play Apples to Apples with them, but I figure that it's only a matter of time.

It's A Good Thing I Finally Unpacked This Morning

Well, the new roommates have arrived. Last semester it was Jennifer and I, plus Melissa and Johanna, two pretty chill returned missionaries. But Melissa left, and Johanna moved downstairs to live with her cousins, so two new girls bought contracts.

And I met them tonight. I'm not really good with girls all of the time. I mean, I'm fine with girls I know, or with girls whom I can tell like me. But foreign girls? Yikes. So I resolved to immediately get to know them, or else face a semester of living with strangers.

Turns out I already know the one girl from freshman year, so that was pretty easy. And the other one used to live in Maryland, so that's something to talk about as well. Yay for East Coast Girl presence.

Of course, it could all implode right in my face, so if I knock on your door late one night with a bag slung over my shoulder and a hunted look in my eye, please be kind to me and take me in. Please?

The Game Ain't The Same Since I Left Out

Yes, I'm back in Utah. The plane ride was full of bad (read: AWESOME) turbulence, and at one point, I started to consider what it feels like, exactly, to be burned to death in a fiery aircraft impact. I realize I probably just made someone (read: my mother) worry herself to pieces, but the turbulence really wasn't that bad; I was just hopeful. And also glad that I'd had the foresight to instruct my ride what to do in the event that my plane DID crash, so he wouldn't be hanging out at the airport for days. Airports are terrible places to hang out; five-hour layovers are bad enough, but to have to deal with the overzealous passenger pick-up lines at the Salt Lake airport for three days before finally deciding I'd run off to Hawaii instead would be fairly hellish, I think.

Except that my plane landed safely after making some stomach-swooping drops high in the air over the city, and I didn't get to find out how instant "instantaneous death" is anyway. Maybe next year. But I DID get to find out (again) how much I like Chris Rock. We watched "Madagascar" eventually, and to whoever told me it wasn't a funny movie at all, in any way: You are dead to me. Unless you happen to be someone I really like who just exerted poor judgment in this one instance, perhaps under the influence of illegal drugs and Roger Ebert. If that seems to fit you, then you're not dead to me after all, but consider yourself on serious notice. And picture my wagging my finger at you, Colbert-style.

I just wish I could remember who it was who told me to stay away from this movie. It's probably a good indication that I should either, A. keep better track of my friends, B. pay closer attention to them when they're speaking to me, or C. start thinning the list of "my peoples," because once I start getting them all confused with each other, it's clear I have too many.

In any case, hi, I'm back in Utah. If you share a similar ill fate, go ahead and drop me a line, and we'll hang sometime, lamenting the arctic, Mormon-filled desert we're all exiled to, or something.