list almost lost

My mom asked me to email her a paper I wrote in Family History about Bob's family. She has asked me this countless times since I wrote it in April. I finally put forth the effort to get it to her and couldn't find it on my U drive. My only other thought was the flash drive that sometimes works. And there it was. Along with other little treasures. The papers were mostly composed for my Personal History class, pages about my family, my childhood and adopting Step-Bob. Where they fall short in facts they are rich in truth.

And there was one last paper titled simply List. I wrote it on March 28th, the anniversary of the day I began to Fail. The list has 101 things I learned in the year prior, my way of turning my Failure into a success.

Some of the list includes things that are rather random: my hair makes me look like a cockatoo in the morning, Star Wars III was a let down. Snape is still on the side of good….yes he is!

Some are more proverbial: being honest means more than telling the truth, laughing cures everything…except when it doesn’t, and crying in front of other people is okay--In fact, it’s nicer than crying alone.

There are practical discoveries: Jet Blue is my favorite airline, and How to drive stick-shift .

Personal Growth: I can bear seeing my dad cry, I can write a complete novel, and I can get a good GPA.

I have personal testimony and long-term goals. There are things that are changing about me all the time, and things that will always, always stay the same. I have a unicorn.

magic anticipated

Tuesday felt like Christmas Eve, the way it has always felt since my childhood, and hopefully how it will always feel long past when I am dead. The feeling is that of anticipation. It is not the anticipation of presents or of food but of magic. There is not any emotion that is quite like the anticipation of magic. The restless night before the first day of kindergarten, the slow-passing hours before a day at Disneyland, the butterflies that dance intricate waltzes in your stomach just to say, Tomorrow! This joy and fear are enough to make life real for you, testifying that you had not lived until this moment of squirming hope, and that you will likely die if the magic doesn't come soon. Oh how hard waiting becomes at those times! Sleep is the best way to pass the hours, because then you cannot count them. However, few can sleep when the halo of anticipated magic hangs around them. The glow is too bright and too beckoning. Even dreams pale in comparison to the simple splendors of waking the next morning.

I remember from when I was little opening my eyes in the gray light before dawn, blinking away the mundane from my eyes, and suddenly having my stomach give a whoosh as I recalled with vividness the magic waiting for me just outside my room. Every fearsome and flighty word I knew leaped to my brain to try to describe to my heart just what lay out in a day run by magic: elves and oliphants, wrapping paper and evergreens, a word that sounds like "pomplemoose", cocoa and Mom (mom encompasses so much magic herself, that the only word to capture all those sensations--the way her hands stroked my hair, the voices she used when reading aloud of dwarves and wizards, the smile she had that she reserved just for special occasions--is 'Mom').

These feelings of radiance attended my sleep Tuesday night and forced me to wake before my alarm Wednesday morning. Not really fair of course, since in this instance the magic wasn't due the moment I woke, but a whole twelve hours later. It is lucky for me, and perhaps for all who know me, that the magic kept all her promises over the next three days.

I felt well rewarded by her enchantments, especially surprised and pleased by the charms of the Denver airport. Other times I felt swallowed by time himself and what I experienced is mine only. But in Denver I saw, touched, heard, smelled and tasted outside of myself. It is the first time I noticed how bewitching the airport is. Of course, this is the first time I explored it during my layover instead of sitting self-contained at my gate. I walked with a quick but heedless pace up and down the length of terminal B, absorbing sensations real and imagined. I felt the grainy texture of the hand rail pass under my fingers, swiftly turning them black, as I meandered on the automatic sidewalks. As I stepped, I pretended my feet sunk tiltingly into uneven surfaces of sand and grass, afterward hopping off the walkway as it came to its end. The sensual aromas wafting from the chocolate factory smoothly replaced the scent of salted popcorn just a few feet before. Children screamed and giggled and somewhere someone sang. Shops of crisp books followed boutiques with dresses made of rose-tinted copper.

On my third trip around I only watched the people. An old man with a cane and liver spots aimlessly walked the terminal too, graciously allowing me to pass him whenever our circuits met. He reached a hand to his brow to tip the hat that wasn't there. Probably his hat used to be red but had faded to a rough pink from sun exposure at countless ball games. I smiled and walked on. A young boy shuffled backward against the rhythm of the moving sidewalk, not in a hurry to get anywhere, rather enjoying his stagnation, unlike his frazzled young mother who watched the other children too small to amuse themselves in an airport. An old woman brought to her husband his favorite snack of honey roasted peanuts before seating herself, feet tucked up on the chair, next to him. They held gnarled hands as they read. Families, couples, wanderers, all with their own measure of romance and magic. I felt connected to them all as I traipsed through their midst and as they began to cast an eye toward me, watching the odd girl who looked happily lost walking the terminal again.

This was magic experienced.

Yet, when I boarded my flight and my plane left the ground, my stomach once more gave that whoosh that said something greater still waited at the other end of my journey.

everything i needed to know

I learned in statistics.

The lesson for today: chi-squared. What I learned from it: chi (pronounced kai) is a Greek letter for the sound "ch" as in "Bach". It looks like this: X. Historically it was used all throughout Europe any time the word "Christ" appeared. Christopher Columbus signed his name (and others wrote his name) as Xopher. Even Cristina Aguilara knows this (of course her parents are BYU alumni) as she tattooed Xina on her neck. So now, you may all dispel the myth that signing X-mas is disrespectful and a sign of our increasing secularism as a culture. It is in fact more historic to use chi.

The lesson on Wednesday: difference of percentages. The example: contracting the common cold from a) playing poker and 2) French kissing. What I learned: You have a greater risk of catching someone's cold by playing poker with them than you do by making out for two minutes. And yes, that is backed up by science, though it makes me wonder who got to participate in that study! Bacteria do not reside in saliva but in mucus. Touching one's eyes or nose transfers the germs onto your hands, a very communicable place. It would be more sanitary, says my professor, for ward greeters to offer a tongue than a hand to church goers. It may also boost the prestige of that calling.

success

Jean Paul Ghetty gave this formula for success:

Wake early, work hard and strike oil.

discovery

I do not make friends. I discover them. I'm the Christopher Columbus of my social life. Just as he did nothing to bring about the western hemisphere, I seem to stumble upon already existing friendships and then receive credit for my clumsiness. This week I staked my flag into two new friends.

Rachael. She is the Cosmo's supervisor right after me. Our interaction usually involves saying hi while switching out our tills. But we also sit together at the staff meetings. On Monday, when the thought of another hour standing at the register and greeting greedy freshman with a smile nearly made me cry, Rachael showed up and took up the load. I went home and napped. When our Wednesday meeting came I arrived early and she late. The only empty seat was next to me, as if everyone else had acknowledged Rachael's rightful place. She and I talked and laughed and made cynical gestures when Curtis spoke too long. And on Friday when she felt sick, I realized that she is my friend, because I felt as badly about her pain as I had about mine.

Aaron. Aaron is the student manager during my shift every day. He begins his sojourn in my area with a question along the lines of "best movie ever made" or "top ten bands of the seventies." One time he asked me who I thought the worst US President was. Of course these questions lead to conversations and debates. He once called Ayn Rand the Anti-Christ! I love the boy to death. Naturally, that means he is gay, whether openly admitted or not. He is a soft, round sweetheart. When I had a bad day, he thought of me between work days, and when he thought of me, he thought "cheese." He cut me a wedge of cheese, because as he got ready for the day, he remembered my fondness for the food. How cute is that!

It's a good day when you discover two new friends.

dayspring

I am over the disappointments of Monday morning. Although I still do not like the grades I received, nor the news, and though the little pains of that day were very real (I must say that it felt as though everything went wrong), this morning they have fled. My alarm clock chased them away, and I woke before my usual time, avoiding hitting snooze until I heard the water shut off in the bathroom. No, I woke early, read in the Gospel of Luke, and started my day off with the strength of the Lord. How long has it been since I woke up early? A couple weeks? I appreciated the reminder last night that made me reset my alarm clock and back it up with my cell phone on full volume.

The softness of morning surprised me, for when I had allowed it to be my enemy its harshness had wounded me, stumbling from bed at too late an hour. But this morning the amber glow of my lamp warmed everything which fell within its halo, the weight of the blankets over my legs gave comfort instead of imprisoning me, and the words of Luke cheered my soul: "Through the tender mercy of our God; whereby the dayspring from on high hath visited us, to give light to them that sit in darkness and in the shadow of death, to guide our feet into the way of peace."

small heroes

I almost ignored the fire alarm when it started going off during my morning class. Everyone, in fact, ignored the loudspeaker. Noise in the hall shouldn't interrupt a good class discussion. Finally we evacuated. The prerecorded voice said over and over not to use the elevator, which is fine by me. I was only one floor below street level.

As I passed one classroom, however, I noticed someone emerging, someone to whom one flight of steps might be more than an inconvenience. I've met this kid many times, though I don't know his name. He's simply the blond curly-haired boy who has the electric wheelchair I so covet. I kept my eyes on him as Laura and I walked to the stairs. Would he take the elevator anyway? It probably wouldn't hurt anything, I thought. Laura had the same worries. How is he going to get up the stairs? I saw the answer to that.

One guy who had followed Curly out of the class, bent down next to him and said jovially, "How about some help there buddy?" The strapping youth waved a hand to another anonymous classmate and the two stooped and lifted the chair between them. I couldn't watch the whole procession out the door, because I had already easily mounted the steps by myself. As I walked out of the building, my heart lifted at the thought of those two boys and the kind deed they had done.

bugs for breakfast

It was bad enough Sunday morning. I needed pancakes. For that, I was willing to use the sifter on the weevil-infested flour. I'm fairly certain that I caught most of them before they hit the mixing bowl, and the rest got cooked on the griddle. Of course, I had no syrup, so the entire Sunday morning pancake breakfast went a little wrong. My mood darkened all day any time I thought of pinching maggots in my fingers to dispose of them in the garbage. But I moved past it.

Monday was worse. Exhausted, I moved about my morning routine with my eyes closed and my feet scuffing in slippers. I dumped a packet of instant oatmeal into my bowl, added water and microwaved it. I pulled a frothy pink and white mess out a minute later and shuffled to the dining room. I opened Sudoku to waken my mind and then I moved my spoon to the cereal. I thank God that I looked at my spoon before inserting it into my mouth. I nearly screamed when I saw them. Instead I held my breath, held it tight against the gagging in the back of my throat. I didn't know if the bugs had been that big to begin with or whether microwaving had engorged them. Half an inch long. I stood calmly and deposited my bowl in the sink. I rinsed with hot water and sent the carcasses to their demolition by garbage disposal. I did not eat that morning.

Having bugs for breakfast is worse than waking up on the wrong side of the bed. At work my normal cheerful attitude lacked as I cleaned out the ice cream machine someone turned off Saturday night. Spoiled soft serve has a terribly sticky-sweet smell on top of the rotten-sour aroma of old milk. I think I am cured of ever eating again. My bad mood haunted me all day, and I kept wishing I could find someone at whom to be mad. I could have taken it out on Nora, since she's family and has to forgive me. I would apologize later, and mean it. I'm sorry Nora, it's just that I had bugs for breakfast.

you might be on nyquil...

You (or I) might be on NyQuil if...

...on a test where you would otherwise have demonstrated amazing math skills, you add 2.5 + 59.5 to get 72. Might I add that the range of the numbers in question only went up to 69?

...on same said test, you calculate the percent rate of change perfectly in five different problems and then on the multiple choice you choose the highest rate of change when it asked for the smallest.

And my personal favorite:

You might be on NyQuil if you go to the store to buy more medicine and buy DayQuil in liquid form instead of gel caps with the intent of carrying the medicine to school each day to redose.

rhea

This weekend I got a whole new perspective regarding just how long a year and a half is. If it were a single unit of time--obscure yet specific like a fortnight--I would call it a Rhea*. Now, on its own, it's not so intimidating. Just one. But looked at as a collection of smaller increments, the Rhea becomes more menacing. All apologies to my best accounting friend, to whom the following arbitrary units of measurement may be painful.

Sick days. I anticipate that in the next Rhea I will have six colds: four minor, two major. That means an innocent looking eighteen months is really a sinister 10 sick days. It is one sprained ankle, roughly 80 exams and 12 cried-over season finales.

It is one birthday (of mine), two or three family vacations, two Christmases, dozens of lesser holidays and approximately 78 family home evenings. It is two fights with Ted, two letters from Bryan, and two visits from April. It is three weddings**, 156 date nights, and probably 20 actual dates. It is one nephew (hint to Jamie) and one degree.

It is also approximately 360 emails, 156 phone calls and four visits. I'd guess that 20 of those emails will be from me, exhibiting cracks in my emotional well-being, and 20 of those phone calls will be from him making it better.

* The name Rhea comes from the beginning of rhinoceros, because 18 months is the approximate gestation period of said animal, and the ending of Flea, which insect may live said length under ideal circumstances. Rhea is also the wife of Cronus the God of Time.

** All predictions are determined by recent rates.

master plan

I have never been ambitious. I thought I naturally had a penchant for contentment. It turns out that I just needed to pick a direction, and then I would run in it. I didn't do well in classes until I chose a major. Now I do fairly decently. I also see how everything I learn ties in to what I want to be when I grow up. Because I know that now too. I want to be a great mom and write whenever I can--fiction, nonfiction, whatever.

But now that I've decided to be a writer, I want to be the best writer I know how. I want to get my master's degree in creative writing from the University of Texas (James Joyce gave them his money!). In order to follow this path in the preferred Energizer Bunny method, I will have to minor, at least, in English. Nothing so easy since most of my electives have stemmed that way anyway.

But yesterday, I received a cruel blow. The English department wants to require one more class than in years previous. One more class added onto my well thought-out graduation plan. Where do I fit it? Next semester, in my 15 credit load? What about Spring and Summer with their 9 credits apiece? I suppose there is always fall. Seventeen credits isn't too bad for a final semester with all 400-level classes. Right? At any rate, I am not staying in Provo an extra semester.

So what do I do? What's the master plan? I don't like that I don't know.

alas, babylon

One of my favorite books, one that I can read over and over, is Alas Babylon by Pat Frank. At the beginning of the book, Randy receives a simple telegram from his brother Mark using their childhood code for danger. Only days later the horizon is lit by multiple mushroom clouds, and the small town of Fort Repose is cut off from the world without an idea of what is going on outside.

Cut to a new TV series airing today. Jericho. A small town in Kansas witnesses multiple mushroom clouds on the horizon and are cut off without information. What will they do? They look like they're going to try to recreate The O.C. without the beach.

If I were Pat Frank, I'd sue. But I'm not. I am, in fact, the next closest plagiarist to them both. I think I am annoyed that the story hits too close to my own. At least mine isn't full of pretty boys who give you the creeps...yet.

happy talk like a pirate day

Talk Like a Pirate Day stems from a long and well-reputed tradition begun upon false premises by none other than nautical expert Dave Barry. I first learned of the holiday in high school, though my love for pirates existed long before. This picture, in truth, was not taken to commemorate this celebration but was a momento of a summer fling. I take this day to remember Cap'n Pete and our love.


. . . and, um, yar.

the passing of ann

Ann Richards, the last REAL governor of Texas, just died. In the article about her death, she was quoted as having said of our dear president/her successor, "Poor George. It's not his fault; he was born with a silver foot in his mouth." We will miss her.

baseball and weddings

After my brother's wedding reception (which is really his wife's reception, which is really for her mother) I am more firmly convinced that I would prefer a park for my own celebrations. A baseball field is the only place where bunting and diamonds are allowable. And, Heather added, what a better place to celebrate "going all the way." At least my sisters made it fun.

oops

I got this email from another supervisor at work today, reporting on last night's business:

"Slow most of the shift. It picked up right before closing.
A note to all those with tills. Peter said not to let any one else ring up besides you and he said that because he is very smart. Do not let anyone else touch the tills.
We had a major problem tonight,
Bottom line, I enjoyed this job while it lasted."

They say a word to the wise is more than sufficient. I won't leave my register for anything! Wow.

it counts

I felt like a Sesame Street special, sitting on the tile floor opening box after box and simply counting the contents. I used no upper-level math, I did nothing particularly skillful. I simply counted.

The mind-numbing process began after eleven PM, the inventory crew having been christened with Mountain Dew just before. The assignments were given, and I smiled sympathetically at the boy whose task it was to spend the next hour and a half in the walk-in freezer, while I got to be warm and comfortable in the dry goods stock room. The time passed quickly enough for those of us in the "Cage". We all joked and talked. Sometimes the laughs would come a minute or so late because the listener's focus had been so intent on not losing count. That was the worst. Was I on 36 or 46? Damn!

Soon even the Dew and the company lost their power to help and the counting just didn't seem as interesting as it had when we started. That's one! One hour! That's two. Two hours...Three. . . I got home at three o'clock in the morning absolutely exhausted. Sleep, however, didn't seem as restful as it might have were I not continuing the inventory in my dreams. A room with imaginary dimensions can be quite full of strange and scary items that need counting.

So why did I do it? I asked myself that question when I almost fell asleep before ten last night while waiting for my shift to start. I knew why I was doing it. Because I had said I would. The money didn't matter, not really, and I didn't need the practice (I'm almost quite certain I have my numbers down). I did it to impress the boss man, to make him see I am cooperative, willing to help and a hard and dedicated worker. I have my eye on his job, after all. It paid off too, when I got the email thanking me profusely for a job well done. I am now in even greater favor with the Powers that Be at work, a good thing when I'm taking the weekend off last minute. So, I'm glad I did it after all, because it counted for something.

Who has a Great Lakes accent? I've been speaking lately with one and I can't figure out why! Bags comes out "begs" and aware sounds like "awear". Who did it to me?

growth

I picture to myself the woman that I want to become. She is prettier, kinder, wiser, more patient and more faithful than I. Yet I do not despair. I was once small and weak, not able to walk or talk, crying whenever things did not go my way, and I could not control the simplest bodily function. And that was only twenty-one years ago. It is encouraging to see how far I have come.

i fought the law

I looked into my rear-view mirror at the beautiful display of red and blue flashing lights. Ah, Heckle! ~as Emilie would say. I pulled to the side, still maintaining one hand on the bag of Wendy's takeout to make sure it doesn't fall over. I put the car in park and rolled down my window. Officer Ought-to-be-retired walked up to my window and politely introduced himself.

"I'm Officer Ought-to-be-retired, with the BYU police." Crap, a rent-a-cop; I couldn't drop Jason's name. "Have you been warned about stop signs before?" he asked after requesting my license and registration.

Well sure, I thought. Someone's told me before that they exist. I just never believed it. "No," I replied distractedly as I rummaged through my purse. Why haven't I cleaned this thing out! I berated myself as I searched every pocket before finding my license.

"And are you aware of the speed limit through here?" I paused in my quest through the glove compartment and stared at the street in front of me, looking for such help as a speed limit sign. I must have passed it. "It's twenty-five in residential areas."

"Oh. I thought it was thirty." But, now that you mention it, I think I have seen signs with those numbers on them during my drive through this neighborhood each day. Huh.

I handed him my undignified bent copy of the registration and an even more bedraggled insurance paper. I guess I need to clean out Dad's glove compartment as well. I mentioned inanely that this wasn't my car, just so the polite old man would know that I would have kept my papers in better order. Yeah, I thought, just look at my purse.

"I'll be right back."

"Stupid BYU." I slapped a hand to my mouth. Why can't I just not say things I think? And why when I do say them do I have absolutely no control over my volume? Luckily he had already walked away, and I was left to consider my behavior toward an officer of the law.

I used to be awed and intimidated by police officers in their pressed uniforms and shiny badges. When I was five I got an officer's signature for a book of autographs I had. The awe wore off, replaced by pure hatred. Cops were bullies, I decided, after one pushed his way through my front door and me to drag a scared little girl back to her abusive parents. I had held my ground against men with guns and watched them do the wrong thing in the name of the law. Power hungry, gun-slinging play-ground bullies.

Except Jason. He has done what I had thought since the age of sixteen to be impossible; he made me respect law enforcement again. Jason believes in honor and duty and tasers. Plus he gave me a get out of jail free card when he told me I can drop his name if I get pulled over. I never got a chance to use that privilege, so for a moment I was excited that I had California-rolled my way through a stop sign, until I remembered that I was on campus.

While Jason's contempt for the BYU cops is palpable, my own was secured independently of his opinion. I remember too clearly being pulled over by The Beat on my way to class one early morning. I was late and in a rush. The car pulled up beside me and waved me to the side. Oh yes, and I was on foot. Jay walking! the cop cried, not bothering to exit his vehicle. I merely gave him a scathing look and walked away. Let him get out and chase me, I thought, I have a paper to turn in. He didn't chase me, and I haven't respected the over-inflated security guards since.

The officer returned to my window. "I've written this down as a warning," he said. "For the stop sign and the speed. You know-" he gave me a fatherly look- "you only dropped down to eight miles an hour before you continued through the stop sign. I should write you a ticket..."

But we both know you're not going to, I finished for him in my head. I took the papers, restored them to their rightful piles, and pulled away from the curb, making sure to complete my stop before turning left. Next time, I won't take a short-cut through campus.

dashed plans and locksmiths

I had the weekend planned in detail--what I would wear, how my hair would be styled, where I would be and when--but I had absolutely no idea what the weekend would be like. My inability to predict the future is likely the cause behind my obsessive planning. I wanted as much control as possible. I think, however, that Higher Powers often laugh at my plans, taking great pains to unravel my carefully woven preparations. And He chose this weekend to do it.

The anecdote of the car is one which I can tell with great relish, but I find I lack patience for writing out the seven hours of frustration I went through. I will mention one point, however. As I waited for Grisly Old Locksmith Number 3 to gain entrance to my trunk, a kindly neighbor offered a prayer on my behalf. She then turned to where the man crouched trying to pick the lock of the Chevy Malibu (the Fort Knox of cars) and confidently assured him that now he would meet with success. I left my car in their hands as Kevin drove me to Tarythe's reception. I sat in the passenger seat without my hair done, with no makeup, no nylons and wearing borrowed shoes that happened not to match (of course everything I owned had to be in the car!) while he and I talked of faith in prayer.

I came to this conclusion: I have faith that everything will work out for the best in the end. Unfortunately, I cannot see which end is best or when it should occur. So while I had complete trust that Heavenly Father would take care of me, that gave little assurance that I would get back in my car before my flight the next day. I mean, had I had my way the miracle would have occurred when I tried to shut the trunk; maybe my purse strap would have caught blocking the lock from latching. I would have been spared hours of frustration. So would many other people, Kevin not least of which who sat with me for hours in the heat while my embarrassment prevented me from being my most poised and pleasant self.

Poise. The greatest of all casualties this weekend. Never once did I feel prepared for the situations in which I found myself. I didn't get off any pre-planned witty remarks, no clever jokes or speeches; I got bug-bitten and sunburned; I never got to see touristy Austin; none of my outfits worked, for one reason or another; my hair nearly always failed (no bobby-pin magic); and I never had a stitch of makeup.

Thank Goodness.

Given how (for lack of a better word) perfectly the weekend went, I can only be grateful that none of my plans came to fruition. I still don't understand the trunk incident, but I know it must have been for the best. I went into this trip with a million plans and absolutely no preconceived notions. How would it be to see Kevin again after a year of not seeing him, and months of not speaking to him before that? What would I say for my maid of honor toast to the bride? I didn't know. But I left Austin with sweet memories of the wedding. I am also maintaining a count-down for twenty days hence. I'll try, in good faith, to make no plans, a feat made possible by the knowledge that I don't have to pack and that a spare key to my car is just across town.

homecoming

I didn't know the reason for my anxiousness. All I knew is that I had to get home, I had to. Now I knew I needed a nap, but that wouldn't make me anxious, waiting for that. No, something bigger. Lately not having a reason for any emotion has become somewhat normal, but anticipation has not been one of those vague shadowy feelings ordinarily plaguing me.
"Who wants to go home?" my boss asked, looking at the large crew of tan bedecked employees and the scant number of customers.

"Oh, me!" I cried, "Oh me, oh me." Maybe I jumped with my hand in the air.

I ran to the time clock and didn't mind the lost two hours of pay. I galloped out the door and sprinted to the apartment. I never paused to consider that my house was in the opposite direction. I realized the reason even as I burst through the door.

Tarythe jumped off the couch and I met her as she leapt into my arms. I spun her in a hug. The ambiguous purple feeling that has been hovering somewhere before my eyes and clogging the free flow in my chest evaporated like the tiny wisp of a cloud that it was. Oh Tarythe is back!

After roughly fifty hugs we drove to my house to catch up on all the changes, locational and otherwise. We sat on my bed, as we have done innumerable times before--the only difference being the larger mattress--and asked each other questions and told stories we haven't told to anyone.

I knew I had missed Tarythe. I knew before she left that I would miss her, past experience having pointed that direction. But it wasn't until earlier this week that I wanted her and felt it distinctly. I knew I needed Tarythe. There are just these times, when I read a book, when I get back from class, when I want to talk out ideas for my book. I don't notice until afterward that all those things I have been keeping in weren't used to being shut up. She gave ear to all that superfluous communication.

Today was no different. Immediately she hit the nail on the head, asking the target question. I talked, confided, laughed, shared, and even listened a little in return. She asked what I have learned.

I have learned all the wrong lessons. I don't ask for help anymore, and I know, again, that everyone will leave. I feel absolutely worthless at times. That if I were just a little bit better...but everyone leaves.

Sometimes they come back, is what her presence declared faithfully. Just talking made me feel better.

I feel...

I feel like I can write again.

rocking horse winner

I have had two images in my head for days now, maybe weeks. One is me diving off a cliff, arms spread wide not caring when someone catches me though the air streaming past my face is growing more ferocious and the ground is racing nearer; I don't care because I know I'll get caught before I hit the bottom, even if only barely. The next image is from D. H. Lawrence, the Rocking Horse Winner. When I think of that, my eyes flinch open and I see how very close the ground really is and wonder why haven't I been caught yet. I force my breathing to calm once more and my body to relax in free-fall. Instead my tension is transferred to a little boy feverishly racing his rocking horse to the finish line. There must be more money. There must be more money.

My short-term loan was due today.

since hell froze over

I went to choir practice, proving once again how futile oaths are. Ted has finally beaten me into submission after nearly three years of trying to make me attend. I don't sing, I argued in the beginning, and at that time I didn't. Then I lived with April for two years, and then Tarythe, and now Emilie, Caitie and Cassidy. In there were friends like Bryan who thought a past time wasn't a past time unless it included singing. So I guess I sing now. That doesn't mean I sing well, or that I will sing in front of people. Jam sessions with Ted have made me less self-conscious, but I have seen how exacting he is even in casual events when it comes to music. How can I step so far out of my comfort zone as to try to sing with a group? I'm probably crazy, or maybe it's this whole self-improvement kick I've been on all my life. Probably though it's Ted. Because he asked me to go. At least I can lay any blame on him; I told him I'm no singer, and he knows my proud and vain manner which makes learning painful for me; so if he can work with that, that's his business. My job is showing up, and I did that.

lesson plans

An entire lesson in literature from one paragraph:

"A novel is not an allegory, I said as the period was about to come to an end. It is the sensual experience of another world. If you don't enter that world, hold your breath with the characters and become involved in their destiny, you won't be able to emphasize, and empathy is at the heart of the novel. This is how you read a novel: you inhale the experience. So start breathing. I just want you to remember this. That is all; class dismissed."
~ From Reading Lolita in Tehran: A Memoir in Books, by Azar Nafisi

strengths and weaknesses

The money still has not arrived from the VA. After I checked the mail this afternoon I shrunk into a little ball and rocked for a while. When I stood up and managed to go about my business, only my body uncoiled. My spirit is still compactly boxed, sitting at times in my stomach and at others in my throat. I feel small, uncertain and weak.

At such times of emotional insecurity I want metaphorically to bury my head in the sand. So, today I am grateful for the small strengths I possess--that I went to dance class and spun without losing the footwork; that I have not marked days of of my calendar since my white board read 68; for the fact that I don't know how many days ago 68 accurately measured my countdown; that I got two A's on two tests in as many days; that I managed to make my savings account have more than my checking; and that I went running when I wanted to sleep away my loneliness.

For these things I am grateful. But above all I am grateful for the knowledge I have that it will all work itself out in the end--the money, all of it. Knowing that the Lord is at the helm, despite not knowing where he is steering me, is a great strength.

pied beauty by gerard manley hopkins

Glory be to God for dappled things-
For skies of couple-colours as a brinded cow;
For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;
Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches' wings;
Landscape plotted and pieced--fold, fallow, and plough;
And all trades, their gear and tackle and trim.

All things counter, original, spare, strange;
Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)
With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:
Praise him.

i'll take a number 7

Last night I cheered myself up as I often do: I spent time with my best friends (all but Cassidy who had to work). We went to eat at the Olive Garden ordering fancy drinks, appetizers and entrees. A celebration in gluttony. I decided it was my favorite of the deadly sins, until I looked back over the day. Yesterday was a celebration of all seven. Kevin Spacey would be proud.

sloth--five episodes of Gilmore Girls
lust--did I not mention five episodes of Gilmore Girls? to better specify, all the cute ones with Jess.
jealousy--I wanted my friends all to myself! Sorry new people, you must find your own friends.
greed--I want more Gilmore Girls!
gluttony--mmm chicken alfredo, artichoke dip and a mango daiquiri with lime
pride--I didn't play anti-nephi-lehi when it came to the pillow fight with Ted last night.
wrath--when Matt made comments during volleyball. "No, no, don't get up. I got it." Good!

But my favorite was gluttony.

bureaucracy

Up until this point I have been relatively sheltered from the bureaucratic processes of complex organizations. For me to get anything done I had merely to ask my parents. Sometimes they dealt heavily with me and made me ask the other parent too. That's the worst I had it. Now I am dealing with the Department of Veterans Affairs. Not only is the VA a government branch, but it is also severely underfunded. Thus, when I ask them for money, they do everything they can to put off payment.

I got the letter in the mail a while ago, saying that yes I was entitled to full educational benefits from the VA. That is 695 dollars a month (I'm sure it used to be 700 but then they wanted to spread the money farther and torture the accountants who work in the basement). All I had to do was provide proof of current enrollment at my college and then pick the date for the benefits to begin. I could back date it to July 2005 when I became eligible. So that's what I did. I faxed them my paperwork, saying yes please send me a very big check. Instead of a big check in the mail, I got a letter asking me to do the whole thing over again. You must select a date, it said. The following letter attempted to talk me out of backdating my benefits. You won't get more money up front by choosing July. Another problem was that I had only provided proof of enrollment since January, not July. I'm sorry, I thought, I didn't realize that current enrollment went back to the time I started kindergarten!

Today I called the toll-free number (so help me, if I get charged for that, those Veterans will remember what war looks like!) and was put on hold for eight minutes before someone took the call. They asked for my social security number, then my name, then my mailing address. I'm sorry, but if my file didn't come up with the social then they need a new filing system. Or is it proof they want? I'm sure someone stealing my identity would know my name and address. I could mail in a blood sample if they'd like. I told him my problem.

They said I picked the wrong date, but I was told I could pick any date.
I have here that you can pick any date.
I know! But it won't let me.
Have you filled out an application?
Didn't you just say I could pick a date?
Yes.
Then obviously I filled out an application.
And I have here that you were approved.
Funny, that's what I heard as well.
So, all we need is for you to pick a date between, let's see....July-
July 22, 2005 and February 1, 2006
So you already know this?
I want to pick July.
I see.
If I do will I get a check for the back payment to that month?
Absolutely.
I will get a check for all the months since July?
Yes.
Then I pick July.
Are you sure you want to do that?
YES!
Okay, just one second...okay, you're all set. The payment department will calculate the money and get it sent out to you.
That's it?
Yes.
You just did it?
You said July, right?
Yes.
Yep, all set.
Thanks.

I hung up the phone wondering why on earth they couldn't have done that in the first place. I had to get an extension on my tuition because they sent a confirmation letter instead of a check, and all it took was thirty seconds to do it. God bless America, but Satan can have the Government.

On the plus side, when I drop out of college for lack of funding and join the circus, I will be expert at jumping through hoops.

that's one, one day!

My birthday came, was wonderful, and fled, leaving behind it a naked spot on my white board. There I had counted down the days until my crowning victory of turning another year older. Now, I could either start over with 364 days or find something new toward which to look. And 364 is such a large number. Alas, so is 72, but that's what the board now says. Tomorrow it will read 71, and in about two months I will be able to bear looking at the teasing integer. Probably. I almost wish I didn't know how to count.

paul simon is my hero

Someone told me
It's all happening at the zoo
I do believe it
I do believe it's true
It's a light and tumble journey
From the East Side to the park
Just a fine and fancy ramble
To the zoo
But you can take the crosstown bus
If it's raining or it's cold
And the animals will love it
If you doIf ya do now
Something tells me
It's all happening at the zoo
I do believe it
I do believe it's true
The monkeys stand for honesty
Giraffes are insincere
And the elephants are kindly but they're dumb
Orangutans are skeptical
Of changes in their cages
And the zookeeper is very fond of rum
Zebras are reactionaries
Antelopes are missionaries
Pigeons plot in secrecy
And hamsters turn on frequently
What a gas
Ya gotta come and see
At the zoo

birthdays

Tonight Nora, Jason, Jamie and I celebrated with my dad his birthday. This leads me to one thought. My birthday. And yes, it's in twelve days. Remember that.

rainy days and mondays

Over a year ago I had a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. It was the day I recognized my failure in so many fields. I went to my dad for comfort and on the drive home, the Carpenters' Rainy Days and Mondays played in the background. Even as I sobbed, I sang along. This year, the anniversary of the day went rather well, and I let it pass. I thought that was the milestone I had to reach, and I admit to being slightly disappointed that it was so nondescript. Today, however, I realized that today is the day I was meant to reach, and I feel that it truly means something that I listened to Emilie sing that same song as we drove home from my Dad's house. I wondered briefly to myself whether Heavenly Father would inspire someone with Carpenters' lyrics, before I nodded with certainty. Of course He would. That one chorus told me so many things that I needed to know.

I didn't get an A this semester. No, not a single one. I haven't received my grades yet--I even have one final remaining tomorrow night--but I know my performance. I did not meet the criteria for an A. I cried when I sacrificed my last possible chance to see that letter on my transcript this semester. Sharing the Gospel is graded almost entirely on the Honor System. We graded our own finals and merely reported the result to Brother Bott. Then he handed out an evaluation where we ranked ourselves on all the various requirements for the course. Reading assignments completed takes twenty percent of the total. All I needed was to give myself a fifteen (I have perfect scores on everything) but I couldn't do it. I probably only read half of the material. Ten. I took away my own perfect grade. Had I lied, I would have hated to see that glowing jewel on my transcript--the Tell Tale Heart comes to BYU. I know I did right, but I am disappointed. I am not hurt because I want to show off my report card, or because I know others lied to get grades they didn't deserve. I simply wanted the A.

Nobody who has known me will believe that I cried when I found out the A was gone. I do not care about grades. I never have. What I care about is that my efforts get acknowledged. I have never put effort into classes and so I never obsessed about what that final letter said. What it testified to was not who I am but merely how I did in one class. That's even true this semester; I am pulling straight B's. But Sharing the Gospel was different. I learned that material. I know it. More importantly, I internalized what I learned and let the class make me a better person. If my grade were based on how much I gave to and took from that class, I would have a grade higher than A. But I did not finish the text book. So I guess I am merely sad that I will not get official credit for what I've done. It is a petty thought. I chided myself for it on the entire walk home from this perfect final.

Your success is between you and the Lord, someone told me in my heart. I know, I said, and that is when I started to cry. But I wanted the A. I pleaded to Him to inspire the heart of my professor to know that I'd done my all to give me the grade anyway. I wanted it for me, I whispered; and then I cried harder when I realized I'd given it up precisely because of what I had learned through the Spirit of that class. It stung, giving up the reward I wanted, even though it was for the only One who knows how truly far I have come this year. Is it okay to cry, even though I would not take it back, even though I feel it is my thanks to Him for helping me become who I am? Is it still okay to cry?

Emilie held me for a moment or two before my dad came to give me his car. She and I drove him home and are now primping to go out to celebrate. What are we celebrating? If you are answering to yourself that it is the car, then you know me none at all and should not be reading my blog. It is not even the money that had chased away so many future moments of worry. It is a celebration of perspective.

This semester has been the greatest time of my life for becoming who I am and liking that person. I successfully balanced a full load of school with an intense work schedule. I slept well each night and woke early in the morning. I made my bed. I read scriptures and I am learning to pray--really pray. I think, I hope, that I have acquitted myself well with family relationships and with friends. I have a sense of honor and a hope that someday I will be humble. I have learned more about the Atonement. I dress well. I handled money decently well. I have learned a lot about who I am. This above all.

Last year I didn't have definitive answers to anything about me. I liked most things in moderation and nothing in particular. Now I know. I know that I love oldies music. My favorite genre of movies is family films, but I also like westerns. I like studying human interaction, but I hate the word "culture" (thanks to anthropology). I take too long in the shower. I don't like wearing makeup, not even when I am dressing up. There are exceptions, I guess. I want to be a mother when I grow up, and write whenever I have time. I want to write my fiction, but mostly I want to write personal histories. I love family history. I grumble when woken up from naps. I don't like swimming. I wear pink. I love hiking. I work off the reward system, especially if the reward is cheese. I think I would like volleyball and want to learn. I hate hiphop music, and country is only good when sung by male voices. I can be scary when protective. I am Texan through and through. I cook well. I am nice.

I never knew I was nice and good. I think I believed the cynical cruel things I said about myself before; I was just waiting for that day last year to prove that I was a failure inside just waiting to break free. Now I know that I am a success who needed to learn it for herself. I love my job; I am good at it and my bosses know it. I have become spiritual, more than merely religious. I love the Book of Mormon, and I love seeing Heavenly Father's Hand in my life. I have hope. My first instinct with people is to forgive. I like serving. I love my family--so help me but I do. I am smart and able to do well in school. I know my priorities, and I know my friends.

I looked back over this semester in personal interview with my Lord. I walked away from campus crying over a second-rate grade, but the whole way home I felt this burning that I have learned to recognize as the Holy Ghost (this is perhaps my greatest achievement, though I am far from being where I ought) whispering words of comfort and approval. At first I thought it was confirmation that I had done the honorable thing when signing away my A, but I know it was more than that. It was a testimony of what I have just related, that who I am is pleasing to the Lord. He is not unaware of the great growth I have undergone. Most importantly, I believe that Heavenly Father loves the person I am for who she shows the potential to be. This is what I have wanted for over a year.

This is my A.

my tree of life

If someone were to tell me that the little white tree, standing firmly and delicately in the middle of those tall wild things near which it is growing, had been planted only this morning by the hand of God just for me, I would not doubt him.

friendship

Hope, trapped in the box
Pandora opened for us,
Came when you called her

I came too. We lay
Our heads together touching
Hearts, hands, tear-stained cheeks

You gave me your strength
And I gave you my sorrow
Then you let me sleep

little

An acquaintance came over to my apartment yesterday as I sat with my laptop, writing. I gave a distracted answer to his questions after my well-being. At least I think that is what he meant by, "wuz-up," in this case. Oh, are you writing in your little blog?

Oh how I wish Tarythe or Ted had been there for my facial expression, because I am sure only they would have seen my reaction. Debby might have picked up on it; she and Spencer sat on the other couch.

I turned my head and smiled at this visitor. How charmingly condescending of you. But, no, I am not writing in my little blog. I am in the process of writing a little story that I hope someday to turn into a little novel. And how are you? I wanted to add. Did you receive your little rejection letter from that little university you wanted into?

Debby and Spencer squirmed in the background. I smiled again and went back to dreaming my little dreams of being a little writer.

perry como, quoted by russel m nelson

Because you come to me,
with naught save love,
and hold my hand and lift my eyes above,
a wider world of hope and joy I see,
because you come to me!

Because you speak to me in accent sweet,
I find the roses walking 'round my feet,
and I am led through tears and joy to thee,
because you speak to me!

Because God made thee mine,
I'll cherish thee,
through light and darkness, through all time to be,
and pray His love may make our love divine,
because God made thee mine!

foolish

This is not an entry dedicated to the stupidity of this holiday. The only thing I can say is that the French got something right; they took the day a step further and involved fish. Poisson D'Avril. Nice. But, back to my point...this is just about one of those stupid things I have learned to do as part of my daily routine.

On Monday I gave my blog address to Kevin. I know this blog, so while I knew there were rather exposing statements I felt vulnerable letting him read, I also saw how much more there was here. I felt safe. I got his email Thursday morning. He had read the entire thing--all 100 plus entries! And his focus was on finding himself in the paragraphs. His email told me just how much he had found, and I blushed with discomfort wondering what in the world he must think of me. I tried to remember everything I had said about him. I ran distracted. I tried eating soup with a fork.

Ted laughed at me when I told him; if you didn't see this coming then you don't know Kevin. I know! I cried. I just didn't think I would be this awkward about it. I don't wish it back. I do wish I had been more prepared for having him comment on my words--you know, he didn't even say anything mean or embarrassing or revealing. I'm just being overly-sensitive about my blog, as always.

The problem is, any mention of my writing and I feel completely mocked and a little foolish--like when I got caught playing "make-believe" when I was little. Utter humiliation. I didn't even let Ted read my blog for the longest time. I didn't share my writing until only a few months ago, so I am still not very good at handling response. Oh well, I guess I can chalk up my over-reaction to one more foolish thing I've done regarding him.

procrastinated works of genuis

I finished the paper for anthropology. Ha, to those who thought I couldn't do it on time. It took less than an hour to do five pages. I shouldn't be surprised, since it was a topic I am most loquacious on--my roommates. It's done now, and I am free to blog. Maybe I am procrastinating another paper, and I know that by posting I am helping Ted procrastinate his papers, but I don't care. I'm in the zone.
* * *
My professor loved my concept for my anthropology paper. Apparently my focus was narrow enough and full of implications regarding this social interaction I observed. By the way, I wrote it on the Kitchen Practices of Apartment 99. I was very amused with my own interpretations. I used myself as a character and an observer, so while I felt a little bit DID (disociative identity disorder, means multiple personalities) I had a fun story to work with. I'll share it later, once it's polished a bit more creatively.

sociology

It only took six semesters, but I finally did it. You can see for yourself. Wherever I go, I am heralded by this great accomplishment. Wherever my name appears so does this title, like a badge of courage or a degree (heaven forbid I ever get one of those). Yes, boys and girls of all ages, I have declared a major. Let it be shouted from the roof tops, Audrey is not undecided anymore.

i'm hungry!

For once there is something I would rather be doing than spending my time in the LRC writing. I had less than six hours of sleep and I ate only two bites of yogurt for breakfast. This has been an amazing day, but the tootiredandhungry headache is starting to bother me just a little. Alas that the Wilk had to be abandoned when the fire alarm went off. Is a little food too much to ask?! Poor me; poor, poor me.

my new favorite recording artist

I woke up at seven thirty this morning listening to the soft sounds of the radio being played in the hall. This is not unusual, nor that I find myself mentally singing along as I reach consciousness. This morning, however, I got a pleasant surprise. Hey, wait! I said to myself as we sat up in bed. I know this song! I stumbled from my room, eyes blurred, face swollen, and hair--well for those who have seen my hair, you know there is no describing it. Emilie stood before the mirror curling her rather more tame tresses. So, you and Ted recorded his song last night. It was not a question. We started the CD over and listened again. The song has been stuck in my head all morning.

I want my own copy, sir, as well as one of your other song.

complements

My mom once wrote a letter to the makers of a cereal, letting them know that they had hired idiots to print their boxes. "Regular exercise compliments a healthy diet." I pictured how it would be. Regular Exercise (Fabio) walks up to Healthy Diet (Cindy Crawford circa 1990) and says "Hey, I really like that waistline you have; it's very small." What the -!

Last night I got a sparkling compliment. Shy Boy at work, whose name incidentally is Rob, walked up to me with more determination than usual. His fist was clenched in the Go Get 'Em way that athletes use to psych themselves up before a match. With his voice at such a volume to be heard over the Brobdingnagian dishwasher, yet pitched to avoid yelling--Shy Boy could never draw such attention to himself--he leaned in and said with practiced leisure, "You know, you have the most beautiful smile." I, like a retard, didn't hear him right away--why oh why can't I read lips--but once understanding settled over me so did the biggest smile of the night. I even managed to say thank you with a self-conscious-less pleasure. Of course, for the next hour I was shy of Shy Boy, unable to meet his eyes and bowing my head every time I had the temerity to smile at him. Did I blush? Possibly; but if I did, I attributed the glow to the heat in the dishroom. You know how steamy that place can get. I did make sure to cut the awkwardness before the end of the night by smiling that smile I now know he loves. And then I went home and told my roommates.

I love compliments. Who doesn't? I'm not saying I handle them well; I'm usually much less classy than I was last night. Even praise offered with the deepest sincerity leaves me feeling embarrassed and mocked. I feel I have to defend myself from others' adulation. If, however, I can overcome my shyness, I cherish the flattery I have received. For instance, eleven years ago Brittany Makos told me that I have lovely feet. I have an Anne Complex now, only with a fixation on a different part of my anatomy.

There are some people who compliment me better than others, whose words fill me with pleasure instead of discomfort. One may even say that they complement me. I have had many complements in my life. I never knew, until recently, that there is a pattern into which they fall. Those girls who have the most influence over me have always been the beautifully feminine and morally strong women with whom I thought I had nothing in common. Alyessa was the first. April and Emilie have been two of the best. Their gentle influence and subtle compliments bring out my own femininity. Among the male gender there seemed to be no standard; just you try finding the x-factor that groups Ted and Bryan together! These elite of the elite, support with ever-present positive reinforcement all the good things in me, until I find myself becoming good. Some, whose love for me is more an admirable reflection of their ability to love than my entitlement to it, see me as great. As I come to trust these few I even begin to see my own inherent potential to greatness. These are they who make me a better person and more worthy of others' compliments.

amnesty

"Again to the sisters I say that you will be as highly respected, you will be considered as being as much in the line of duty, your efforts will be as acceptable to the Lord and to the Church whether you go on a mission or do not go on a mission" ~ President Gordon B. Hinkley, October 1997 Conference Priesthood Session.

Brother Bott played the recording of that talk to the class today. This is the lesson I have been waiting for, so I am glad that I made it to class, however late. I sat on the floor in the back of the stadium classroom in the law building listening with baited breath. Ladies and gentlemen, the prophet of God said this, in full accord with the apostles. It is scripture.

But not for me, I said. It's not true for me. I am still required to go, obligated to go. My heart kept rebelling against the amnesty. Finally my heart cried out, scripture! And I accepted it. Instantly my heart calmed, my mind elevated and the Spirit almost patted my hand as if to say, there thatta girl. It's all I've been trying to tell you.

So I have entered into a new phase of not-knowing in my life. For the last month I have not wanted to go on a mission. I don't know the reasoning. Perhaps because I made it a chore. But that does not mean that I don't want to go. It's just that I've always said I would go, and so I've kept saying it. That, however, is not a good reason to do anything. Feeling it my duty, a recent development, directed my path toward it, but the duty is not mine. The experience would be amazing, but, as Brother Bott said, "You will not do anything while wearing that black name tag that you will not do as a wife and mother; you will reactivate, teach, prepare for baptism, serve, etc. And there are sacred experiences you cannot have as a missionary that you are allowed as a wife."

So now I must make up my mind. I will make it up for me, with the Lord's help, but whatever the decision at whatever time, I have my Heavenly Father's blessing on it. And that's good to know.

pictures forthcoming

My mom’s face hasn’t changed in thirty years. I know this from the photographs. A few months ago my dad gave me a collection of all the things he had that reminded him of Mom. It took him two and a half years after the divorce to part with their wedding announcement. I have it. I have it in one of those gallon-sized zip-lock bags along with many other pictures of her. There are two that I love.

The first shows her when she was about my age. Like I said, she has the same face. My mother’s beauty, then and now, comes from that face--timeless, both old and young. She has no expression either happy or sad dancing on her face. She is merely quiet. Whoever took the picture must have known my mother well; she didn’t even look up from her book when the shot was snapped. Her hair is long and dark and parted straight down the middle. She is leaning back ungainly and slouching on the couch so her hair flows around her shoulders and the thick knit sweater she wears. Her knees do not sit lady-like, but lean against the armrest with her feet on the table-top. She wears wool slacks, and in the seventies, this wasn’t usual. Of course, my mother never was very dainty, despite her inherent femininity. She always wore the pants in the family. The ring on her left hand should tell me something about the time frame, but I don’t know for a fact that it was my father to whom she was engaged at that time. Like I said, she was beautiful. I think it was dad though. I like that he had the kind of intimacy with her that allowed him to take that picture.

But what I like best about the photograph is that it looks exactly like one taken of me. I look more like my dad, really, but there’s a shot of me, lounging in an armchair with my legs over one side and a book in my lap. My hair is dark and I used to part it in the middle. I too wore that same expression of serenity. I have loved this picture ever since I first saw it. I once asked my mom if I may have it, but despite her search she never produced it. When my dad gave me the pictures, I first cried, and then was glad. This picture ties me to my mother.

The second picture of that bunch that I particularly liked was one taken a few years later. My mom is wearing a heinously hideous one-piece pantsuit that resembles the couches made in that same era. She is standing next to an aluminum Christmas tree that is so bedecked in tinsel that it appears as though silver has vomited over it. It’s beautiful in its own cheap way. What’s prettier, however, is my mother. Even in that pantsuit. She is standing with her hands on her hips, a stance that says, “why not”, poking laughter at her own happiness--for she is happy. I have never seen such an unadulterated smile on her face in all the years I can remember. Her eyes are mischievous. It is my parents’ first Christmas together and my mom would have been about six weeks into her first pregnancy. This shot captures that “glow” that people speak of.

The class project which sparked this entry asked us to point out what might be missing from the photographs we looked at. I have discovered what is missing from the serene shot of a girl enjoying her book and the excited air of a newly wed: time. She didn’t bear that look for long. My mom is never at peace, a constant type-A personality. Go, go, go. If I were to compare a picture of her now, to say what is missing would be harder. She isn’t as poor as she was then; she is more educated, and has seen and done more. What would be absent is that look of excited expectation, from the second picture, and that look of unbreakable peace from the first. Time makes us wiser but it takes with it our innocence. Thankfully, we have pictures in order to remember that these things did exist, even if a long time ago.

my hope

I did not use to have a favorite prophet. And then I read the story of the saving of Alma the Younger. The angel appears to him and said, "Behold, the Lord hath heard the prayers of his people, and also the prayers of his servant, Alma, who is thy father; for he has prayed with much faith concerning thee that thou mightest be brought to the knowledge of the truth; therefore, for this purpose have I come to convince thee of the power and authority of God, that the prayers of his servants might be answered according to their faith." And now I love Alma with a loyal devotion; not Alma the Younger, but Alma who is his father--he who prayed and anguished over the salvation of his family, hoping that his favor with the Lord may be passed in the form of blessings to another.

And my favorite scripture is 3Nephi 18:32.

If you know me, you know why.

on the top of the world

Work has become the place where I am most myself. Part of it is because I am confident. I am a dang fine worker and my supervisors and coworkers know it. I am not assigned a station in the dishroom. I am the rescuer, running from disaster to disaster and making it right. But there is something else that lifts my head and gives me the confidence to smile at the charmingly cute grill worker who walks through every day between the hours of seven and nine. It's the music.

I do not enjoy the music of my roommates, for the most part. I used to think I liked all music, but now I know that I despise hip-hop. And while I like many songs of the country variety, what I really love are the hits of the sixties and seventies. Joyce has made comments to me about how dad gave us our music tastes, and it's true. However appealing Dashboard Confessional is at times, there is never a moment when I don't want to hear Simon and Garfunkel. But alas, I do not own a single CD of any of the music that I love. And that is why I need work.

The radio station is named something totally stupid, cozy 104.1 maybe, but it is followed by "all the hits of the sixties and seventies". Why, it's like discovering my soul mate!--as actually I have when I see who in the dishroom or of those walking through are singing along. Turns out, both boys to whom I give "the look" know the words to Beach Boys, Carpenters, Beatles and a few others. Good boys, Lloyd. I find myself singing along to every song. Every single flippin' one. I even know The Lover's Concerto (sung by the Supremes), not to mention that it is a "cover" of Minuet in G. I know the words to Margaritaville, including the profanity. No, Nora, I didn't omit it, even on BYU campus.

Another great part of my dishroom experience every night is that the clanging and banging of dishes is too loud for my singing to be heard, so I feel free to belt it at the top of my lungs. If I also dance from the silverware station to the dishwasher, then that's my own concern.

I can't wait for work on Thursday. Maybe they'll play some more CCR!

self

How many children have been accosted with the thoughtless remark, why can't you be like your sister? (brother works too, just less often.) Parents have no idea how cutting that simple sentence is. It tears apart a child's identity, creating self-doubt and abnegation. That is where we grow stereotypes, from those told to be someone else. Since when has self not been good enough?

I have always fought against anything false in my self. I do not wear makeup because I do not want someone's entire view of me to be someone hiding herself. Once I am familiar with a person, I let my inner princess show, because then I am confident that my bad hair days and cosmetic-free self are already well known. I am a sweetheart--really quite a generous and genuine person--but only those who know me in and out notice that. I am nice to other people, but I do not fake a smile. I am not the Caitie type who is naturally sweet and glowing. I don't want to leave that impression on those I meet. I hate the idea that they will be disappointed eventually.

But really, in the end, it isn't for anyone else. That would be just as false. I do it for me. If I can't love myself, then who can? "To love one's self is the beginning of a life long romance." I have been laughed at because of how seriously I take a careless criticism. I don't mind. I know that I spend a conscious effort to understand and improve myself. It has never reached the stage of fanaticism or sycophancy because mostly, after self-evaluation, I decide it is better to love myself than to change.

Like most girls, I am not one hundred percent in love with my physical appearance. But I will not be in a battle with my body for my entire life. So, it comes down to a simple choice, to love it or change it. For those things that are life-long or at least long term it is healthier to love them, while those day-to-day annoyances will be fought. I can fix a bad hair day, wrestling with the strands, but a bad hair-cut I will accept and adapt into the image I hold of myself. My hair style may change with the weather, but my hair color--including those four streaks of gray--will not be touched. I try to fix my posture for the sake of my spine, but my facial expressions are meant to please only myself. I only bought nice clothes when I decided it made me feel better, as opposed to caring how I appeared to others. I wear make up when I want to feel like a princess, but I will not do it when I want to impress someone. Maybe it's pure vanity: that I am good enough without all the borrowed feathers. If so, vanity is my favorite attribute.

Ridiculously, my feelings were hurt the other night when a friend made a suggestion, which--to me--sounded like, why can't you be like Emilie? Anyone out there who knows me knows my fondness for Emilie. If I weren't myself I should like to be her, but I am not. I am myself and ought to be loved for that. I am shy, despite my brashness, and I do not like strangers for the mere fact that I don't already know them. I sit out at dances, even though I could, conceivably, make a bold move and ask a guy to dance. Or, even walk the floor looking demure and attract one to me. The thing is, I don't want to, and I don't see how that is a flaw. I enjoyed my time, and hopefully I did not detract from anyone else's pleasure. I felt giddy for Emilie as she was admired by the many boys, smiling at the rightness of the night. Until, suddenly, I was wrong. My way was not the correct way. The comment wasn't meant to criticize; it was supposed to be encouraging. We've discussed this and understand the fact that we had misunderstood.

But as I do most character analyses, I took this to heart and contemplated it. I came to this conclusion: I am not like everyone else, but I love myself. It is not as much fun to deal with grays as it is black and white, laughed a friend, play-attacking me. Perhaps this is true, but it makes me miss Bryan who, when faced with such a choice, spotlighted the white, instead. Why can't you be more like you?

I have decided --and surely I am not the first person to do so-- that money sucks. If the love of money is the root of all evil, then surely the lack of it is too. Either way, it is always on your mind, gnawing at your subconscious, making you evil toward your fellow man. When I have money, I never give it a thought. I am quite altruistic and nonmaterialistic. But when I don't have money, I want it, I crave it like I will crave my body before the resurrection. Both hold the same purpose; they foster movement and growth. Without either, one is forced into limbo, neither being nor doing. It is a bad state.

Today I bought books, paid rent, paid credit-card bills and recieved two more notices from my bank about checks that over-drew my account. Only the presences of Emilie and Caitie kept me sane as I separated myself from nine-hundred dollars. Nine hundred that I don't have.

Today Ted told me, Emilie and Caitie what kind of girls we are. You know, since there are apparently only four personality types. From what I gathered, three of the types are as follows. There are the fun girls, the type whose friend you become if you want to win her. There are the nurturing romantics who need to be told they are beautiful and wooed after the traditional manner. For me, one must insult me.

stepping out

I sat myself on the couch at about five thirty yesterday evening preparing to read a book. I wore anything but my usual jeans and sweatshirt, and my hair had the look of a soon-to-be-partier. Indeed, I had spent a good deal of time blowing-dry, pinning and curling my hair until it looked the fright that girls call elegant. I had no plans to go out, and my dates were the brothers Karamazov. I found, however, that I couldn't concentrate on Zosima when my hair begged to be taken out.

I immediately texted Emilie. Should I go to Danny's party? She had told me to the day before. However, I was not invited and had none of the information necessary to gate-crash. She never texted back. Instead the land-line rang. Hi, my name is Danny Nelson. We met once before... Wow, Emmers, quick work. With advice from Caitie I changed my outfit and casualized my hair by straightening it in a high ponytail. I even wore mascara.

And then I walked out my door and up to the door of a complete stranger, and into a room where I didn't know a single person. I was brave --and yes a little awkward at first-- but soon I was chatting with perfect strangers about movies, books, and French history. I feigned coolness when Death Cab for Cutie began to play. Joyce gave me their CD just a week ago, and I have learned that if I want to act popular I need to mimic anything Joyce. It worked. I talked to Danny for maybe a total of five minutes, but that didn't stop me from having a good time.

I left about one o'clock and headed home in a state of pride. Although Emilie was disappointed that my evening didn't end in a date invitation, I felt no regrets. I, Audrey, had been successfully social. Dates can wait. What a way to start off the New Year!