A True Account of It

T-minus 12 hours . . .

2010-08-24T08:58:00.003-06:00

In just about 12 hours I will be en-route to here: (Foshan specifically, in the Guangdong province)

Maybe I will eat one of these: (probably not)

One thing's for darn sure, there will be a whole lot of these there:

I will DEFINITELY go here:

And hopefully here!:

WHOA! I'll do my best to keep my blog updated, but in the likely scenario that China's infamously controlling government blocks blogger, I'll just have to send out e mails. I'll miss you all!!!

You Know What Stinks?

2010-08-04T10:20:00.001-06:00

Running on trash day.

Asians Falling from the Sky, or An Ill-fated Trip

2010-07-27T09:31:00.006-06:00

Warning: A very long series of unfortunate events

DAY 1

Thursday.

Dad, Mom, Jing and Hao (mom's Chinese study buddy at the U and her boyfriend), and Christian and I drive several hours to Southern Utah to camp before starting canyons the next day. We spend a good hour driving around searching for our campsite. Finally, at around midnight, we hunker down to sleep out the night under the stars (but not before I pick a big creepy crawly caterpillar off my pillow).

DAY 2

Friday.

Dad wakes up at 5am to drive into Zions to get permits for the canyons we plan on doing on Saturday. After an hour of driving he arrives there, well before opening, only to find that there are more people already in line than there are permits. He drives back.

We wake up, pack up camp, and try to explain outdoor-bathroom-procedures to Jing and Hao in the most delicate way possible. In a few minutes we are at the trailhead and ready to embark on our first canyon, Boltergeist--a short, 2 hour, perfect for beginners canyon. About five minutes into the hike we come upon a sort of gully area that we need to scramble down into. No biggie, this is fairly typical before you hit the canyon entrance. Just as dad finds a relatively secure and easy place to walk down, Hao also believes he has found a good place. Christian follows Hao, knowing he has little experience. Just as dad calls out to them to take the easier route and not risk anything we hear several loud exclamations from Christian--a few of them containing mild obscenities. Hao has fallen.

Not only has Hao fallen, he has fallen 20 feet, the last 10 right on his face, and he has not avoided rocks in the process. Christian was sure he was watching him fall to his death, or at least to some serious broken bones. We all make it down to the bottom of the gully in time to see Hao sit down on a rock and begin squeezing his arm around the place where he now has a well, hole in it. There is a quarter-sized, inch deep chunk of flesh missing from his arm and several other cuts and scrapes besides. I observe this only long enough to know it will make me queasy and choose a rock some distance away to plop myself on. Meanwhile dad and Christian sift through the somewhat jumbled first aid kit and Hao assures everyone that he's fine and is ready for the canyon. His assurances continue as he starts to turn white and shiver. Clearly, not fine.

After some rudimentary first aid is administered and following extensive deliberations it is decided that Christian will return with Hao up to the car and wait with him there in the air conditioning while the rest of us continue on to the short 2 hour canyon. It would be silly for all of us to sit in a car and wait and the canyon is short, so Hao can relax and decide what he wants to do.

The first rappel is a bit of a challenge for Jing, but this is normal for beginners. It's always difficult to become comfortable with the rope and harness and positioning necessary to keep stable. She makes it down, but is clearly very scared. A few short feet after that we encounter a down climb, meaning you climb down without any ropes, using your body and various climbing techniques to secure yourself. This one involves positing yourself in a crack between two giant slabs of rock and making your way 30 feet down:

This may not have been the best choice for a beginner. But at this point, you just have to go on. So after talking both Jing and my mom down (she is an experienced canyoneer and was still rather terrified of this particular climb) we move on and do a few more rappels, none of them much better than the first.

Finally, we come to the last rappel before the hike out of the canyon. Unfortunately, this turns out to be a 150 foot free rappel, meaning your feet are not touching any rock, you are merely hanging from the rope and lowering yourself down. As I lower myself down, a little nervous, I begin to really worry about Jing. This is no baby rappel, this is some scary stuff. Jing eventually makes it down, but not before her harness malfunctions and all of her weight is centered on one pressure point around her waste. She freaks out as her harness is pulling really tightly at her rib cage where it has made its way up to, but I'm belaying her from the bottom and manage to lower her down before she loses it.

Phew. That's over. But the hike out isn't and we spend the next several hours hiking up canyon in search of the exit which we do eventually find. . . or at least somewhere we can climb out (then under a fence and finally back to the road). At this point we're out of water and it's hot. Our short 2 hour beginners canyon has now taken us 4 1/2 hours.

Christian and Hao have now been sitting in a car for 4 1/2 hours and I'm pretty sure Jing is traumatized. We decide to stop and eat our lunch up the road and then take Hao to Christian's parent's house in St. George where he can get cleaned up and possibly checked out at a clinic while Dad and Christian do another short canyon. As we're eating lunch under the tarp we set up for shade (remarkable foresight) the blue skies suddenly break open in a torrential downpour which lasts for about 40 minutes. Having waited that out we split up and make our ways to our various destinations.

By the time mom, Jing, Hao, and I arrive in St. George Hao has become determined that he will rent a car there and drive home. Despite trying to convince him otherwise and offering our car he makes a bee line for the internet right when we get there. No luck. We finally convince him to just borrow our car and we'll ride back with my parents. It then takes quite a bit more persuading to get him to take a shower and let Rose (Christian's mom) clean up his wound before taking off. Immediately after these things are done Jing and Hao flee back to Salt Lake.

Christian and Dad get back from their second canyon (Yankee Doodle) and we all enjoy warm showers and soft beds before resuming camping mode in the morning.

DAY 3

Saturday.

We were unable to get the permits we needed for the planned canyons today so we have to come up with an alternate itinerary. We decide to do Birch canyon, one of the few near Zions that doesn't require a permit. Unfortunately, it does require two cars which we no longer have since Jing and Hao took ours as their get away car. Ever helpful Jim (Christian's dad) volunteers to make the 40 minute drive and shuttle us from trailhead to trail end where we can leave our car. Zions has road construction so it takes a little longer than that.

No one is exactly sure where the trail end is that we're supposed to find, so we spend a looong time looking for it. In the process we find ourselves on a very bad dirt road surrounded much too closely with trees that proceed to make there mark all over Jim's shiny red truck (formerly in perfect condition). Oops. Determined to press on, he insists on continuing with us and is then favored with a flat tire, courtesy of aforementioned road.

Finally, we find a place very near to where the trail comes out. By now though it's almost noon, getting late in the day to start out on a canyon and we discover that the new exit we have chosen will result in several miles of trudging through sand. It's hot, it's late, and Christian has a bad knee that isn't usually friendly to sand-trudging. Mom and I pioneer the no vote and the canyon is called off.

But we have to do something. So we drive an hour back down to the Zion's visitor's center to hike up the bottom of the narrows (essentially just hiking around in a river for awhile). The visitor's center is swarming with people and it's blazing hot outside. We (Jim included) pile onto the tram and ride for 40 minutes up to our stop, fantasizing about the relief the cool river will bring from the heat. As we step out of the tram it starts to rain. It's not hot anymore. We get to the river and my mom and I are not about to step into the cold water to trudge up river in the rain and get cold. Dad and Christian head up river, Jim heads home, and we wait it out.

We eventually make our way back to the visitor's center and back on the long drive home, stopping to eat in Cedar City. On the plus side, the food in Cedar City was really good.

Moral Dilemma?

2010-07-22T16:02:00.002-06:00

Today at Costco we were in the food line waiting for our delicious running-errands-with-mom-childhood-nostalgia pizza (fine, I was the only one getting delicious pizza, Christian thinks it's gross because Christian is a snob--he did get a gelato though, which everyone knows is a snobby thing to get xoxo). There was an old man in the line right next to us ordering a salad (who knew they had salads, and more importantly, who needs to know they have salads when there is pizza??), as I had nothing else to look at whilst awaiting my culinary delights, I observed silently as he completed his transaction.

The old man ordered one salad and two drinks--oh cute, wife-sharing possibilities--and handed the man at the register a ten dollar bill. When he was handed back his change the man glanced at it and said "that was a $20." That was not a $20, I thought, but waited. The young man at the register looked confused, glanced at the receipt and, clearly unsure of what to do said "oh . . . that's weird," followed by a quick "sorry about that" as he handed him an additional ten dollar bill. Judging by the look on register boy's face, he was not at all sure that the old man was right--which he wasn't. But what was he to do? Should he have argued with an old man at the front of a crowded Costco line? I sure wouldn't want to. Enter disrespect for the elderly and massive doses of social embarrassment.

Still though, Costco just forked $10 big ones over. That could buy you some serious goods at Costco, like three huge cartons of raspberries, or a three month supply of soy milk. Here's the real question: malicious intent or honest confusion? Sure, old people can be forgetful--well, all people can be forgetful--but maybe, just maybe he was taking full advantage of the strained social setting he knew would be created by his assertion. Probably not, but maybe.

Messy Merrymaking

2010-07-14T18:06:00.010-06:00

Dad's Birthday: An illustrated Account

On May 1st, dad got even older than he already was. Unfortunately, on that particular day I was busy getting married and everyone else was busy celebrating my marriage, so we had to celebrate on the 30th. It was a joyous occasion--we laughed, we cried, we laughed so hard our bellies hurt . . .

Mom organized a family talent show of sorts, all dedicated to dad. First, Layla and MJ sang an adorable song just for grandpa (somehow this picture got deleted, sorry).

Next, Zachary treated us with a rousing PowerPoint presentation proving dad's superhuman ability to carry cities, companies, and even nations to success. There were graphs, it was all very legit.

Weston found this segment particularly enthralling.

Later, Angelica showcased her outstanding oratory delivering a well-crafted address detailing dad's influence on her life.

Julie and Liam co-authored a book all about dad (grandpa). I believe the creative rights to the illustrations are the sole property of Liam.

Then Courtney showed a book of Photoshop illustrations she had created of the poem Jabberwocky. Then dad showed his interpretation of the poem with his face.

Next I presented an excellent re-writing of one of dad's favorite poems, "If." It was really very touching.

Finally, we all gathered for what we assumed was the grand finale. Merritt recomposed the lyrics to "Piano Man" and Sam accompanied on the guitar. Everyone sang along and things were getting pretty emotional (a rarity among the Aho clan). Just as everyone started really getting into it there was a disturbance in the corner. Half of us continued singing while the rest watched in horror as MJ began uncontrollably spewing the contents of his stomach onto his mother. At first the song continued--no one really sure of the protocol for this kind of situation--and a few still blissfully unaware of the events unfolding at the other end of the couch. Eventually the musical number broke down into stifled laughter from some of the more irreverent Ahos (myself included), rushing of aid to Stacie who had made an unsuccessful attempt at catching MJ's contribution with her shirt and then her hands, and some delayed crying from MJ once he realized what was happening. Grand Finale: check.

Home Remedies

2010-05-26T19:21:00.002-06:00

Ok, I know that I should probably blog about marriage/graduation/wedding etc. but that will all come later. Because what I really want to blog about today are the wonders of the Internet! I've been sick the last few days (bleh) and today I woke up with horrible ear pain. Somewhere in between clutching my head and stumbling from my dose of Nyquil last night I got online desperately seeking some relief. Within a couple of minutes I had dozens of solutions at my fingertips, complete with discussions and commentary. I found it all on this great website:

www.myhomeremedies.com

It's great and I highly recommend it. In no time I was pouring warm olive oil into my ear canal and holding steaming bowls over the side of my head. Perfect if it's late at night and you can't get to the doctor, you don't want to pay a million dollars for urgent care, or if you're just into household experimentation.

Good Old Romans

2010-03-29T22:06:00.002-06:00

I've come across a couple of good quotes from ancient Rome recently, thought I'd share a few.

"Carpe diem, quam

minimum credula

postero.

(Sieze the day,

put no trust in tomorrow.)"

-Horace

"A home without books is a body without soul."

-Marcus Tullius Cicero

"Outward looks are not enough,

Beauty is not common stuff-

Of merriment it is compact,

Playful grace in every act,

Witty laughter, laughing wit:

These are things that go with it."

-Petronius

Dreaming of a Happily Ever After

2010-02-11T23:00:00.002-07:00

I have been having very vivid wedding nightmares. Like, my subconscious pounding on the sides of my head at night yelling: "hey CRAZY, this is all going to be a disaster!" Anyway. One night about a month ago I dreamed that on my wedding day my dress was delivered and it looked something like this:

I think it had something to do with the fact that one of my wedding colors was goldenrod yellow. How it got to be a jumpsuit I have no idea. If it helps, Christian was wearing old pajama pants with holes in the crotch, so at least we still went together.

NEWSFLASH: Weddings make people crazy. I'm not saying we shouldn't do them, I'm just saying that if you seem me running around the streets in tattered clothes yelling something about flower arrangements and tulle, blame Martha Stewart.

Good Gracious and Holy Heavens

2010-01-14T15:29:00.006-07:00

Well folks, I did it! I just turned my thesis and honors portfolio in. IN. Just like that. Bing bong boom. All 45 blasted pages of it and that massive 3 inch binder are out of my hands and into those of the three fates. I have spent the last year slaving over the blasted thing and now it is done done done.

And now I am going to Phoenix where I will revel in the sunshine and in the babies and in Angelica (and maybe even a little bit in Ryan). And on Sunday I will be 21 years old. Which is old enough to do a lot of things I'm not supposed to do anyway.

I feel strangely at peace with the world.

The cosmos and I have reconciled. In fact, minutes after I turned my honors stuff in I walked past a man wearing a brown shirt, brown pants, and carrying three bottles of chocolate milk. I somehow feel that this is evidence of cosmic harmony. Thank you world, and thank you chocolate milk man.

Story Time

2009-12-26T20:46:00.002-07:00

Greetings readers, it certainly has been awhile. Not that anyone is waiting anxiously by their computers trembling in anticipation for my next post, but I nevertheless feel the need to apologize for my lack of regularity. Finals, etc. I guess.

So, the real reason for this post is to officially leak my engagement into the blogosphere--in case you don't have facebook or haven't talked to me in awhile. So it's out there, I'M ENGAGED. To be married. . . in case that wasn't clear. I suppose you'd all like to hear the story now? No? Well, the title of this blog is story time so you'll just have to hear it anyway; it's fairly simple so don't go getting too excited.

First, we went to a very fancy restaurant in Salt Lake called Faustina's--me and my fiance that is (Christian if you haven't already gathered). It was just fancy enough to serve a dessert with lavender in it, and yes, I ordered dessert. After that we went to see the Utah Symphony perform Haydn's Creation at Abravanel Hall, which, by the way, was fantastic. Once our taste buds and ears had been sufficiently entertained, we decided to walk around down town and treat our eyes to some Christmas lights. We walked first around the outside of temple square (the square itself was closed), and then around the downtown streets.

By this time I was freezing cold and getting a little sick of all the drunk folks hanging out downtown. Luckily for Christian I have no sense of direction so I thought we were headed back to the car when he wanted to sit down on a bench at the Gallivan Center. Really? A bench? I'm freezing my toosh off. But I sat down anyway and cuddled up to him only to turn and find him giving a little speech and holding out a ring. After gawking for a good fifteen seconds I managed to say yes and then quickly yanked my gloves off and squealed at him to put the ring on. I have to gush for a moment and tell you how beautiful and sparkly it looked with all of the Christmas lights reflecting off of it. We reveled in our love for a moment (not a very long one, it was still cold), solicited a couple of slightly tipsy people to take a picture, and headed home. When I arrived home I found a dozen white roses on my bed (good thing I had made it that day) and a very sweet note. Nice move on Christian's part in case I had started to doubt myself already ;) .

So there you have it. The story of our engagement. No definite date yet, though it's a tentative May 1st. I will know for sure by tomorrow so hold on to your boots.

10 Reasons to Love November

2009-11-07T01:47:00.004-07:00

1. Pumpkin chocolate-chip cookies

2. Pumpkin pancakes

3. Pumpkin bagels

4. Pumpkin cream cheese

5. Pumpkin cheesecake

6. Pumpkin pie

7. Pumpkin casserole

8. Pumpkin soup

9. Pumpkin seeds

10. Pumpkin cheesecake Ice Cream

I may or may not have consumed all of these things within the same two week period.

The American Way

2009-11-07T01:22:00.002-07:00

There are times in life when you just have to stop and appreciate the ridiculous conveniences that surround us. Sometimes it's when I get a freakish craving for french fries at two in the morning; today it's the wonders of late night grocery shopping. It turns out that I much prefer this kind of shopping. There are no crowds. There are good parking spots and available carts with non-squeaky wheels. I can compare brands for as long as I like without feeling someone breathe down my neck or hearing the impatient tapping of toes. I can stop in the middle of the aisle to review my list and stand on my cart. I can even stare confusedly at the frozen meats for as long as I want without feeling slightly embarrassed. It's actually relaxing. Grocery stores frequently stress me out, but not at 1am. At 1am I just breeze up and down those aisles, sometimes even singing along to the grocery store radio. Thank you America.

For the beauty of the earth

2009-10-19T19:05:00.004-06:00

So, I know that I have already posted my share of I love fall pictures, but that doesn't change the fact that today is beautiful. Things are feeling stormy outside and as I walked home from campus the wind was blowing hard and the world was raining leaves. And it was wonderful. And as I stopped and stared up into the beautiful oranges and yellows falling all around me and staying on my shoulders, I wanted to share it with all of you. Especially with Angelica because she lives in Phoenix and doesn't get to see this. She does get to see Layla and Weston every day though and for that I am eternally jealous.

Greetings

2009-09-28T21:14:00.004-06:00

The other day Christian and I went to Borders and I saw the coolest greeting cards by the counter (because everything by the counter at those fancy-dancy bookstores is by definition cool). They were super artsy and had a sort of semi-3D thing going on. Pure inspiration. Of course they were way overpriced, and of course after I saw them I could think of nothing but making cards. Unfortunately, it was already too late to go to the craft store and get fancy-dancy supplies (which would probably end up costing me more than just buying a card), so I had to make do with what I had. It was fun. I want to make greeting cards as a career. And cookies. And stuff with cheese in it.

Why God Created Sundays

2009-09-28T14:49:00.005-06:00

Where There's a Will There's a Way

2009-09-25T16:47:00.001-06:00

WE have faith in old proverbs full surely,

For Wisdom has traced what they tell,

And Truth may be drawn up as purely

From them, as it may from "a well."

Let us question the thinkers and doers,

And hear what they honestly say;

And you'll find they believe, like bold wooers,

In "Where there's a will there's a way."

The hills have been high for man's mounting,

The woods have been dense for his axe,

The stars have been thick for his counting,

The sands have been wide for his tracks,

The sea has been deep for his diving,

The poles have been broad for his sway,

But bravely he's proved in his sriving,

That "Where there's a will there's a way."

Have ye vices that ask a destroyer?

Or passions that need your control?

Let Reason become your employer,

And your body be ruled by your soul.

Fight on, though ye bleed in the trial,

Resist with all strength that ye may;

Ye may conquer Sin's host by denial;

For "Where there's a will there's a way."

Have ye Poverty's pinching to cope with?

Does Suffering weigh down your might?

Only call up a spirit to hope with,

And dawn may come out of the night.

Oh! much may be done by defying

The ghosts of Despair and Dismay;

And much may be gained by relying

On "Where there's a will there's a way."

Should ye see, afar off, that worth winning,

Set out on the journey with trust;

And ne'er heed if your path at beginning

Should be among brambles and dust.

Though it is but by footsteps ye do it,

And hardships may hinder and stay;

Walk with faith, and be sure you'll get through it;

For "Where there's a will there's a way."

Eliza Cook

Urban Spoon

2009-08-28T11:58:00.004-06:00

I love to eat. I love to eat out. I love to eat out at delicious food establishments. That is why, my friends, I love Urban Spoon. My now favorite friend Camille introduced me to this magical site at work the other day and I am addicted. I have more than once attempted a google search to find new/well-reviewed restaurants (I'm not cool enough to have an i-phone with fancy restaurant apps), and let me tell you, it has never ended well. Compound that with the fact that I have recently decided that I must branch out from my usual restaurant rut and discover new and original restaurants--I have spent too long chain-frequenting and succumbing to the mass-production-profit-greedy man!

So, back to the point. My problems have been solved--or at least quelled somewhat. Urban Spoon is a website where users in various cities rate local restaurants and/or write reviews. My favorite part is that the reviews are organized by genre so it's easy to find whatever kind of food you're craving. Although I should say that there are some restaurants listed which don't need or deserve to be renewed (Wendy's, really? Do we need to review Wendy's?), but it's nevertheless a great way to find the best in your city. So, all of you get on there and get reviewing so that I can find more yummy restaurants! Get eating!

[NOTE: I don't mean to brag, but I just want you to know that I take secret and great satisfaction when I click that little abc check button on the top of my post box and it brings up a little green message that says: No misspellings found. It makes me feel independent of machines.]

Cooky

2009-08-19T10:02:00.004-06:00

I really like decorating sugar cookies. I REALLY like it. So, figuring I'd seize the last few drops of summer time, I headed to the cooking store to find some non-holiday-themed cookie cutters. I then proceeded to spend all night. . . and a good way into the morning decorating. I think I might be a little mental, but look how pretty!

Really?

2009-08-06T23:44:00.002-06:00

Not that I'm making excuses or anything, but I don't normally watch reality television. While in Phoenix, however, my sister Courtney was watching the show So You Think You Can Dance which I found surprisingly entertaining as I sat down to join her, soon accompanied by my sister Angelica. I would like to share with you a little tid bit of the glory we beheld. With all the authority of reality television behind him, one of the judges boldly uttered the following train wreck of attempted poetics--looking very proud of himself--and all to a glassy-eyed audience seemingly awed by his eloquence yet apparently oblivious to the actual words that were coming out of his mouth. And without further adieu . . .

The performance ends, the host chats it up with the panting dancers for a moment, and all eyes turn to the judges for their expert opinions. Placing his chin on his elbow searching for the right words to express his profound critique, taking a deep breath and a long pause, and gazing heavenward as if for divine inspiration, he begins to speak:

"Being outside of your comfort zone represents umfa. . unfam. . unfurmiriarity (he struggles with this word but it doesn't seem to deter him and he moves forward with the utmost confidence) and it also represents darkness. And when faced with certain challenges like being out of your comfort zone of your gen-gen-genre you have to go and befriend characteristics of your challenge and you see the music. But when you see the music, you have to see certain pieces of music with your ears. And when you see with your ears, there is no darkness. And I saw no darkness within this routine."

Applause erupts from the awestruck audience who have just been privileged to hear from the Homer of our age. But just when you thought he was finished he clears his throat and begins again over the enthusiastic cheers:

"A lot of dancers they tend to forget that there's a pocket of music [. . . like a pita pocket? I'm not following. . .]. Each specific you know piece of music has a pocket and you have to get in between those instruments, you feel me?" [no, I really don't].

Now that's what I call entertainment. But seriously, who let this guy on T.V.?

St. Lucia

2009-07-24T16:45:00.006-06:00

When I decided to write an Honor's Thesis I had no idea it was going to involve this many perks. I've been in St. Lucia in the West Indies for the past two weeks--a trip funded by the Honor's Program--working on my thesis. I'm writing on a book-length poem called Omeros by Derek Walcott who lives in St. Lucia. The poem is anchored in St. Lucia and is essentially an investigation of the St. Lucian identity. Consequently I was able to go and spend time on the island, positioning myself within the poem, visiting the various sites mentioned, and getting a feel for the culture and issues there. I've gotta say, not a bad way to spend two weeks.

Christian came with me as he's prone to take any and every opportunity to travel and we spent 12 glorious days on the island. The landscape was absolutely stunning and the culture pretty fascinating. I was also able to meet Derek Walcott--the author--who turned out to be quite funny. I'm sorry I'm not writing more here, perhaps I'll expound on my experiences later but right now going into any sort of detail seems overwhelming. So I'll just post a few pictures and call it good for now.

If you are what you eat. . .

2009-07-01T23:22:00.000-06:00

. . . meet Lanee:

Most Important Meal

2009-06-30T20:27:00.002-06:00

I woke up. I went to the kitchen to eat breakfast as always. I pulled out some oatmeal and cooked it up. As it was plain oatmeal I threw in a spoon full of extra crunchy peanut butter and coconut. Protein, flavoring, good. Then I thought: I should put some chocolate chips in there. So I did. They melted and made a gooey, delicious, brown substance which I promptly began scooping into my mouth. This is really good, I thought. This is really familiar, I thought next. And it was then that I realized that I was essentially eating no-bake oatmeal cookies in a bowl for breakfast.

Flighty

2009-06-16T21:36:00.002-06:00

I went on a lovely one day vacation on Monday. Well ok, it wasn't lovely, but it was a lot more lovely than the 48 hour drive endured by my parents and little brother. So here's how things went down:

I got up early Monday morning and headed to the airport to catch a one connection flight to Minneapolis where I was to meet my immediate family, to join my extended family who live there for a lovely week at the cabin. I made it through security--after a slightly creepy incident involving the security guard hitting on me--and rolled my little carry-on happily to my gate. I boarded the plane, was seated next to a very young, very lovey couple, and before I knew it I was ready for take off. A mere hour and five minutes later we landed in Denver where I was to have a two and a half hour layover before jetting off to Minneapolis, the land of the mosquitoe.

To my surprise, Colorado greeted me with an alarming message on my voicemail; it was my mother telling me that due to some unforeseen circumstances the vacation had been cancelled. This seemed especially odd since my mom, dad, and brother had just driven 24 hours to the lake-y state less than a day before. After talking to my mom it was determined that unless I could get my flight changed back to Salt Lake (I was flying on a one-way ticket) I would have to fly to Minneapolis where they would meet me and then drive the 24 hours back to Salt Lake. This did NOT sound like a good option.

Still confused about the cancellation and desperate for another option I approached the airline's help desk. I walked up to the woman behind the counter and clumsily attempted to describe my situation--explaining that someone in my family was sick and that our vacation was cancelled and that I had to get back home. Conveniently enough I was on the verge of tears the entire time, something I was not fabricating but that I'm sure only added to my case. I think maybe it was the prospect of driving 24 hours with my coughing brother in a small car that made me a little misty. In any case, the woman clearly felt sorry for me and managed to get me on a flight back to Salt Lake in a half an hour and waived all of the fees.

Relieved, I headed over to McDonalds to be reminded of the horrors of airport fast food, and before I knew it was back on the plane with the same grumpy flight attendant who had manned my earlier flight. Two crosswords and a sudoku puzzle later I was back home enjoying the rosy memories of my one hour Denver vacation.

Still, all your sympathy should go to the ones who drove to Minnesota and back. I'll take the two one hour plane rides any day.

(By the way, can anyone tell me who told Frontier Airlines that it was a good idea to paint creepy animals on the wings of their planes? Really, and Delta's going under?)

7 Day Itch

2009-06-11T21:17:00.003-06:00

For the last week or so I have had a mad itch to clean something, to organize something, to glue something to another something in a sorry attempt at an art project. I feel this compelling need to do or create something that will somehow dramatically increase the organizational and aesthetic quality of a space. A need. Unfortunately, everything I can think of dramatically reorganizing is in my apartment where I will only be for another two months. Thus it seems useless to take on a project there--to lose all of the benefit in two months?! I can't even deep clean anything because I am going out of town for a week and can't stand the thought of scrubbing on my knees only to leave it for my roommates to enjoy and soil. So you can see that I have a problem here.

Now I have tried to fix this. I have reorganized all of the drawers at work, I bought a little tiny adorable day planner to micro-organize my day in, I've been making my bed every morning, I even bought a new dress today--which usually solves everything. But to no avail, I itch on. Raar.

Angels Among Us

2009-06-03T22:21:00.003-06:00

(Disclaimer: This post is in no way intended to be sacrilegious and should be read with the knowledge that its author intends no measure of seriousness, only a little light-hearted humor)

Remember that talk by Elder Holland from October Conference about angels surrounding us? (If you're not a member of the LDS church, don't be offended, just play along--the majority of the people that read this--at least those who comment, are). Well, he talks about the people around us being angels, and let me just tell you, I just met one.

I am at work right now, on my usual Wednesday night shift (otherwise known as the longest shift of all time). Twenty minutes ago, about five hours in to the shift of death, feeling very bored of my book and otherwise quite restless, an angel arrived. I looked up from the desk to see a twelve pack of Diet Coke floating by in front of me. Ok, there was a girl carrying it but I didn't really see her. Turning to my coworker I said something like "Oh man, now I want Diet Coke". Apparently the girl heard me and she turned excitedly (anyone with that much caffeine does everything excitedly) and asked if I wanted one. I laughed a little and shrugged it off but she insisted and before I knew it there was a beautiful, shiny can of Diet Coke in my bored, restless hand. It was. . . a miracle.

In other news, on my way home from work I ran into a raccoon. Not a joke. It arched it's back and ran away. Coincidence?

An Ode

2009-05-15T22:00:00.008-06:00

To Interlibrary Loan:

Because you give me any book
My heart could dare desire
Because you don't ask why my life
Would one such book require

Because my every whim you grant
And always very quick
I needn't even leave my chair
It's processed with one click

Because you give me access free
To every subject matter
I write to you this ode of praise
To thank and dote and flatter

I want the world to know the joy
You've brought into my life
That maybe they will seek your aid
Whilst in literary strife

Best Week Ever 5/4 - 5/9

2009-05-11T17:41:00.004-06:00

You may or may not have had a VH1 obsession at some point in your life. You may have even watched it when it still had something to do with music, or you may be one of those who are now shamefully remembering the entire day you wasted watching a marathon of America's Next Top Model. You may be proudly relating to yourself the fact that you have never watched VH1 or maybe that you don't even know what VH1 is. For all of those may-nots, the last I checked (which might have been 11th grade), they played a show every week called Best Week Ever where comedians and other famous-for-no-reason-personalities commentated on the week's events, counting down the best things about it. Anyway, I have decided to do this on my blog (except of course, I am not a comedian, nor am I famous, nor do I intend to comment on anything significant to anyone else). This is a good idea for several reasons: first, it will give me an excuse to blog about nothing and post ridiculous pictures; second, it will help me to appreciate things (this idea must have originated in a relief society lesson somewhere); and third, I will update my bloggedy blog more frequently. So, without further adieu and unsolicited advertising:

10. I got into both of the classes that I want to take Fall semester which were previously full. This means there will be no need to endlessly harass the professors of said classes until they let me in--although I had some solid strategic planning underway. Unfortunately, I failed to realize that one of them conflicted with a class I was already registered for. . . woops. I am now considering staying in both classes and running between them everyday pretending that I have some sort of bladder problem (which some would argue is true).

9. I discovered a phenomenal antique store in Salt Lake where I bought some phenomenal jewelry and had exciting conversation with a phenomenal old woman who was buying phenomenal old barbies from a phenomenally shady looking man.

8. I chopped my hair off. Chopped it right off.

7. While chopping my hair off I finally found the perfect hair stylist. For years I have been fantasizing about having a stylist that always gave me a good cut and was somehow not ridiculously over priced and was also probably gay. Instead I always ended up at great clips or getting my hair butchered by a strange Hispanic man who kept cutting presumably because he so enjoyed chatting in Spanish resulting in the loss of much more hair than I had intended. But I have found her, and she is wonderful. But not gay (that I know of).

6. Sunshine

5. I experienced the joy that is Banana Cream Cheesecake from the Cheesecake Factory, courtesy of my little brother Sam.

4. Cinco de Mayo party = huge success. Viva La Mexico!

3. I finally decided on a topic for my thesis and it is officially underway! I'm writing on Derek Walcott's epic poem Omeros and will probably be in St. Lucia for a week in July doing research.

2. I got to hang out with Ms. Alysha Bruce (see photo) for the first time in a long time and it was wonderful.

1. Christian made me breakfast and dinner yesterday for "Future Mother's Day" and it was delicious. And he wore my ruffle-y apron.

da DUM da DUM

2009-04-30T22:32:00.005-06:00

As a prerequisite to this post it is necessary to review the previous posting entitled "Urban Jungle."

Today I walked out of my new apartment and sitting on my doormat was a raccoon. Granted it was a dog toy with a bell inside, about the size of my forearm and probably belongs to the therapy dog that just moved in next door, but still. They are following me. WHOA.

Sustenance, Shelter, Sleep

2009-04-25T13:37:00.002-06:00

I can't decide whether to make this first line a reference to the Jungle Book and "bear necessities" or something much more sophisticated like Thoreau's outline of our basic needs. Then again, The Jungle Book was based on Kipling, but I don't think there were any singing bears in the book. Probably I would choose the singing bear anyway. I'm not feeling very sophisticated.

Sustenance
I can't actually remember the last time I went to the grocery store, which probably means it was a really long time ago. During finals week--and ok, the two weeks preceding--my roommates and I collectively abandoned the kitchen. No one felt they had the time or energy to cook or clean and so it became a quarantined room that you avoided entering at all costs because the sink was full, the trash overflowing, and the smell permeating. Plus we had to be out in a couple of weeks anyway which would require a thorough cleaning so why bother, right? (apparently). At some point I had to stop drinking water at home because I couldn't fit my Brita pitcher under the faucet to fill it up. Also there has been no time for grocery stores and I wanted to avoid moving one ounce more than absolutely necessary. Now finals are over and I am finally in my new apartment and there has still not been any time for grocery stores. Basically I have eaten out more in the last month than probably in my entire life combined. I have had sandwiches from every place imaginable: Subway, Blimpie, Gandolfo's, Einstein's, Great Harvest, and even a vending machine once. I did eat at home this morning, I found some oatmeal in the bottom of one of my boxes. Currently I am at work drinking an orange soda. I don't think I have ever bought an orange soda in my life. It may in fact be the most artificial liquid on the planet. But after ten minutes of staring blankly at the bleak options in the vending machine, I had a sudden flashback to Kenan and Kel and somehow decided to buy an orange soda.

Shelter
On Wednesday night I finished my finals, and my best friend The Branbury decided to kick me out of my apartment at noon the next day. Lovely. Consequently I spent all of Wednesday night and Thursday morning frantically shoving things into boxes and scrubbing mysterious marks from walls in preparation for our "white glove cleaning check". When the RA's finally showed up it turned out to be more of a cleaning glance, which was a little frustrating since I had spent so long cleaning, but at least they didn't notice the holes in the walls where the mirror hung or the marks on the cabinets from the tape that held pictures up. Thanks to Christian and friends I was able to get my masses of possessions up the three flights of stairs at my new apartment, where I then did the best I could to make it look that I had not in fact just transferred ten million (slight exaggeration) boxes into the living room so that Missy could get passed off for moving out--I'm not technically allowed to move in for another week. My other two roommates are out of town until some unknown date so currently it's just me and my lovely boxes which I have not had one second to unpack. I've found if I can close my eyes fast enough when going to bed I can relax enough to sleep without thinking about the boxes. By all current estimations I will have time for those on Tuesday. There are also about 15 lamps to keep me company and one mysterious ottoman. The mystery remains as to how they all came to reside in the same apartment.

Sleep
I also haven't really slept in awhile. I mean, I've slept, just not for more than four to six hours at a time. Although last night I did get a rousing eight hours. Still, I think I'm due for a good long marathon of slumber. Maybe once the boxes stop talking to me in my sleep.

I forgot one last S. . . . .

SPRING!!!

Glory glory glory hallelujah.

Everything's Amazing, Nobody's Happy

2009-04-18T20:56:00.001-06:00

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LoGYx35ypus

Oh to be ten years old. . . .

2009-04-15T11:38:00.002-06:00

I am at work in the Learning Resource Center at the Harold B. Lee Library on Brigham Young University campus two days before finals. I am at work, surrounded by frantic students with rumpled hair, some odd imprints on the sides of their exhausted faces (the unmistakable sign of an unplanned nap on a keyboard or textbook), stacks of books slipping out from under each arm, barely-honor-code-appropriate 5 0'clock shadow on their faces, and clad in the same sweatshirts and old jeans they wore yesterday which were doubtless picked indiscriminately from a pile on their floors that has been there since the last time they did laundry--if they can remember when that was. Yes, everyone is in a state of frenzied half-consciousness, exchanging knowing glances with passers-by, acknowledging the fact that a wave and a smile might just suck up the last of their energy if they tried it. Everyone, that is, except the blond-haired, blue-eyed, rosy-cheeked ten year old standing in front of me. There he stands, using our phone for the seventh time in the last twenty minutes to call his mom who works upstairs, smacking his gum, and carelessly spinning his neon orange yo-yo in ten feet concentric circles which I can't help thinking could easily take out a sleep-deprived freshman. I can hear him trying to convince his mom that he cannot complete the rest of his homework alone, that it would be more fun if they could do it together later, and that he should therefore just watch TV until she gets off of work. Yep, I totally wish I was this kid. I want a neon-orange yo-yo, and I can already think of five solid arguments as to why I should watch TV and not do my homework.

Coping

2009-04-08T23:44:00.002-06:00

I have discovered that with great stress comes great addiction. I'm serious, I find myself thinking constantly of the next food/beverage I will consume--my sole consolation in a day of paper writing.

When I discovered they sell these babies in the ever-so-convenient twilight zone of the bookstore, it was pretty much over. One on a good day, three on a bad one. This can't be good. But it is, it's soooo good.

Other coping strategies include: Cottage cheese, Olive Garden, goldfish, impromptu yoga, and excessive hand washing and teeth brushing.

P.S. Don't judge me, I'm watching a movie for homework right now, it's multi-tasking not time-wasting.

Metaphor

2009-04-08T19:24:00.002-06:00

As I was standing behind the desk at work gazing absent-mindedly (aka staring down super creepily) at the patrons (that's the fancy name we employees call them) walking through the library, contemplating the gloom and destruction known as finals that lay before me, I came up with the perfect metaphor. It's almost an allegory really. I should give some credit here to Amber, my lovely coworker, who, after being subjected to my metaphoric musings, suggested I write a blog about it (as far as I can figure, this could be for one of two reasons: a. she noticed I haven't posted on here for a month, or b. (and maybe more likely) she thought there was a good possibility that I would stop talking and sink back into thought with this suggestion). So here it is in all its glory (or not):

I was canyoneering several years back with my dad and sister, and we came upon a swim about halfway through the canyon. We stopped for a moment, as one does before any obstacle, and I stood at the brink of the dark abyss of water before me feeling masses of dread and anxiety weigh heavily on my body. This was the. last. thing. I wanted to do. Seriously, the last. It was freezing. The water was stop-your-breath-lump-in-throat cold and there was no sunshine reaching this cranny of the canyon. The canyon was narrow and winding, making the length of the swim impossible to determine--no end in sight. The water's depth was impossible to tell and my feet wouldn't touch bottom. The water was dark and rotten-smelling with a thick film of dust and slime on the surface. And possibly the best part, there was a dead rabbit floating about ten feet into the swim. A dead, unavoidable rabbit. Dead for long enough to be half decayed but still recently enough to be disturbingly recognizable as a close relative to Thumper. As I stared at the cold, narrow, winding doom that lay before me, the inevitability of it started to sink in. I realized that there was absolutely no way I could avoid this. I couldn't turn around; it's not like you can climb back up 60 foot rappels. Even as I realized this my body reeled back in obstinacy. I didn't want to do it. I really, really didn't want to. I remember the feeling of absolute dread as I realized I HAD to do it, that there was no alternative. Needless to say, I did it, I survived, and I accidentally kicked some stinky dead rabbit water in Angelica's face.

This, that I have just described, is what finals are like. They are there, they are unavoidable, they appear to be never ending. Even though every fiber of my being is searching for a way out, I know there is none. They are a necessary evil and I cannot get around them. I honestly cannot see the end of the next two weeks, it does not exist in my psyche. I have to overcome the all too natural resistance and force my body forward. And I might even get some dead rabbit water kicked in my face. So it goes.

Josie May

2009-03-06T13:09:00.003-07:00

GOOD NEWS: another healthy addition to the Aho clan has arrived!

Josie May Aho was born early Tuesday morning to Merritt and Stacie in Phoenix. She is perfectly healthy and adorable. I can't wait to meet her! Congratulations guys!

Urban Jungle?

2009-03-06T12:23:00.004-07:00

SITUATION: Out my front door, up seven stairs, ten feet down the sidewalk, where the untamed wilderness of the Provo River meets the slightly more civilized world of the Branbury live a legion of raccoons (I would say family, but who am I to assume their relation? Or tribe, but that just seems to conjure up some sort of politically incorrect connotations involving Native Americans).

ORIGIN: These furry little friends (or foes. . . this has yet to be determined) first appeared a couple of months ago. The common consensus seems to be that they were originally attracted by the cat food that some well-intentioned individual started putting out to support the growing number of stray cats also wandering the area. The unintentional result seems to have been the creation of a feeding ground for any and all scavenging animals.

ENCOUNTERS: I will admit that when my roommate Heather first described the raccoons I thought she might be lying, or at least that the animal in question could have been a particularly large model of the aforementioned cats, plumped up by the free food. After my other two roommates and at least three neighbors described similar sightings however, their existence became undeniable. By far the most eventful encounter was Heather's recent. . . experience. For some reason I still haven't quite pinned down Heather was delivering brownies to some boy at two in the morning. While returning to our apartment and text messaging, she heard a hissing in front of her. Quickly pocketing the phone Heather looked up to see one of our furry masked friends poised in the middle of the sidewalk, teeth bearing, hissing (Heather has re-enacted the event for me in the very same spot so as to ensure accurate reporting--though she found recreating the proper hissing noise somewhat difficult). At this point she ran. Taking shelter one stairwell over she watched anxiously for an opening. After a couple of minutes the raccoon retreated a bit towards the riverbed and Heather took the opportunity to sprint to the door and get inside. Fearless and curious as she is, she apparently came back out to observe the raccoon, who, upon seeing her again re-commenced hissing and began approaching her. After slamming the door, Heather spent the next couple of minutes watching through the blinds as the raccoon descended the stairs and sat in front of our door, staring. Now I'm not trying to be paranoid, but I think there might be something up here, are we being stalked by raccoons?

FACTS: According to a disturbing account on This American Life (a public radio show), rabid raccoons are likely to attack and are almost impossible to kill (think 50 bludgeons with a tire iron and five gunshots--two separate accounts). Also, apparently they can pick complicated locks and remember them for up to six years--it says so on Wikipedia which anyone can edit so you know you're getting the best information out there (thank you Michael Scott).

SUGGESTIONS: This is the part where you say something.

Eternal Perspective

2009-02-07T23:42:00.004-07:00

THIS, right here, is why I will one day marry

A Very Good Year

2009-01-03T17:48:00.031-07:00

All The Best Moments and Pictures of 2008:

JANUARY: When we were at Chili's (it's the new golf course) for my birthday, Estee hit on our 200 lb. black waiter only to find out his girlfriend was sitting two tables over staring us down. She also told him he looked like the black guy on The Office, which he apparently took to mean Stanley instead of Darryl and appeared to offend him somewhat.

JANUARY and 1/2: Not one, but TWO bad haircuts this year! YEAAHHH. In January, as you may recall, I chopped it off to a couple inches above my chin and when it finally grew back I marred my forehead and created a strange excuse for bangs. So I think what I'm saying is, I should totally cut my hair again.

FEBRUARY: Ok, speaking of hair, in February a couple of us went up to stay at a condo in Park City for the weekend and someone had the brilliant idea to dye every one's hair. SO, Estee dyed hers "dark brown", which turned out black, which made her look a little like Cher. Ingrid dyed hers "darker blond" which in fact turned out to be gray, and later pink when we tried to fix it, and finally a nice shade of light brown after an expensive and panicked trip to the salon. All in all a fabulous weekend.

MARCH: When the sun came out this year, all of Helaman Halls migrated to the quad equipped with blankets, sunglasses, and some homework which they promptly forgot about the moment they laid down to soak up the rays. Those were the best days.

APRIL: Ummm. . . so this one time in April I went skiing on a gloriously sunny day on the last day of the season. On medication that made my skin sensitive. With no sunscreen. Then my face turned a color red rarely seen further than a mile from the sun, then a lovely shade of crackly yellow and finally, four days later, it evened out into a nice tomato red and I could leave the house again. Well, I won't do that again.

MAY: I finished my first year of college and left the dorms behind for good. This involved about 37 trips to the car to load up all of my stuff and Deb's and my very last cleaning check during which our RA sauntered into the room in her characteristically slow and heavy-stepped gait, scrutinized every last surface of our room (including all of the really high ones which she could see and I couldn't), and then in her heavy southern drawl asked me to clean the windows again.

JUNE: In June Courtney and I volunteered for the Ragnar Relay which various family members were running. We were assigned to be there from 4:30am to 10am. Consequently I had a 44 oz. Diet Coke. That coupled with Ragnar stickers, t-shirts, and plenty of tired runners to harass with excessive amounts of cheerfulness and on-the-spot ditties (some with accompanying dances) made for a seriously good time.

JULY: For about two months this year I looked like a Dr. Seuss character with a polka dotted tummy courtesy of Ecuador's finest bed bugs. Totally Awesome.

AUGUST: While at the James Taylor concert at Usana (best concert EVER) I sat behind a deceptively mild looking middle-aged couple, probably in their late 40's or early 50's who, between beers, wowed the crowd with their highly suggestive and energetic dance moves and make-out/necking sessions. Definitely one of the more disturbing things I've ever witnessed but admittedly mildly entertaining.

SEPTEMBER: Emma hosted a superhero themed birthday party at the tumbling gym; consequently, Sara sported a rose-patterned swimsuit paired with some lovely tights and a cape which prompted the exclamation: "ROSE WOMAN IN THE SKY!" (ask me later for proper voice inflection directions) which has since been repeated at least once a day, taking on meanings ranging from "hey" to "I have nothing to say and desperately want to enliven the moment"; needless to say it has become a staple in our every-day jargon and thus deserves due recognition.

OCTOBER: A couple of friends, my dad, and a friend's dad Bruce Cummings took a canyoneering trip near Hanksville at the North Wash canyons in October. Pretty much as a constant commentary throughout the trip we were throwing out quotes from Baby Mama and a certain Mad TV skit, and I think one of the best moments of my year was hearing Bruce quoting these (which he had never seen, and would probably, under any other circumstances, find completely ridiculous) on the last day. This just proves that if you repeat anything enough times it becomes funny.

NOVEMBER: Definitely the highlight of the year: the birth of Weston Bruce Hatch. Weighing in at some 7 pounds at birth the kid has gained a pound a week since and is now a 2 month old in 6-9 month outfits and one of the most adorable little chubsters I've ever laid eyes on.

DECEMBER: Julie and Emily threw a SWEET New Years party filled with lots of insane theatre (English accent please) where I was able to act like a crazy person (myself) and no one even gave me a second glance. It was fabulous.

Here's to another good one!

Climb Inside My Head

2008-12-15T20:48:00.000-07:00

I can't study deductive logic anymore. I just can't. It might actually be physically impossible. Some very talented grad students at Harvard are looking into the possibility right now in fact. Julie is clomping around the kitchen. Really, clomping. She is wearing big, dramatic, black boots and lifting her legs about a foot higher than necessary with every step while painting a scary scowl on her face and bringing each boot-clad, high-lifted foot down with a loud thump. It's a little bit funny. Wendy is eating those Pillsbury biscuits from a one of those exploding cylindrical containers (which I had to open because both Julie and Wendy were too scared) as her entire meal. She just said "toss me another one would ya?" I feel like we're in a bar or something. I have a strong desire to tear off the cheap (yet oh so expensive) cardboard cover of my philosophy book right now. Probably I shouldn't do that. Probably.

No one seems to be able to figure out how to regulate our apartment's heating system. It is either freezing cold or way too hot -- although I think the latter might just be a result of a spurt of hyper activity that heats up your body, thus giving the apartment the illusion of warmth. You know, like when you suddenly decide to run around the apartment screaming and jumping up and down and sneak attacking Wendy, obviously. Also, our utility bills are ridiculously high. Though originally hypothesized to be a result of the winter furnace use, we have since determined that it makes absolutely no difference whether we keep the house at 40 or 80, the bill is the same. There is probably some sort of extortion scheme going on with big apartment owners living off the sweat and pennies of poor college students. I say we storm the Bastille. Life, Liberty, Fraternity! Or, to avoid the whole guillotine fiasco we could just keep sending them our money.

As I need to dedicate the remainder of my night to figuring out how to write truth-functional proofs, I will just end by letting you all know that in the Christmas village Jessica has displayed on our shelf, the outhouse is the most prominent feature and about three times the size of any other building. If anyone has any thoughts as to why this is, please, enlighten me.

How Did You Die?

2008-12-13T15:42:00.000-07:00

Did you tackle that trouble that came your way
With a resolute heart and cheerful?
Or hide your face from the light of day
With a craven soul and fearful?
Oh, a trouble’s a ton, or a trouble’s an ounce,
Or a trouble is what you make it.
And it isn’t the fact that you’re hurt that counts,
But only how did you take it?

You are beaten to earth? Well, well, what’s that?
Come up with a smiling face.
It’s nothing against you to fall down flat,
But to lie there -- that’s disgrace.
The harder you’re thrown, why the higher you bounce;
Be proud of your blackened eye!
It isn’t the fact that you’re licked that counts;
It’s how did you fight and why?

And though you be done to death, what then?
If you battled the best you could;
If you played your part in the world of men,
Why, the Critic will call it good.
Death comes with a crawl, or comes with a pounce,
And whether he’s slow or spry,
It isn’t the fact that you’re dead that counts,
But only, how did you die?

--Edmund Vance Cooke

Welcome Weston!

2008-11-20T16:50:00.000-07:00

For those of you who have not heard the FANTASTIC news, Weston Bruce Hatch arrived on November 3, 2008, joining Ryan, Angelica (my sister), and Layla (their first child). My mom and I drove down to Phoenix the following weekend to welcome him personally and help out a bit, and, can I just say, that he is absolutely perfect in every way. I wish I could stay in Phoenix and play with Weston, Layla, and MJ (my other nephew) every day, but alas, higher education calls.

Can you say perfection?

Besties

I taught Layla some very important "big girl" skills, like how to vogue

Poetic Passion

2008-11-18T16:15:00.001-07:00

pablo neruda

I've been reading a little Spanish poetry lately, inspired by an assignment I had for comp lit to present a close reading of a foreign language poem in class. Although I probably don't have the time I've been spending surfing poetry sites online, it's always wonderful when an assigment ignites a keen interest in something, and I never feel like time is wasted when I'm learning about something exciting or following a passion.

One poet I became particularly smitten with is Pablo Neruda. I had read some of his stuff before but had never really delved very deeply into his impressive repertoir. Neruda (a pen name) was a Chilean poet, a politically active Communist, and famous for his accessible poetry written for the common man (1904 - 1973). I have posted one of my favorite poems below--I also posted a translation, though I must say, something is definitely lost in translation.

Oda a los calcetines

de Pablo Neruda

Me trajo Mara Mori

un par de calcetines,

que tejió con sus manos de pastora,

dos calcetines suaves como liebres.

En ellos metí los pies

como en dos estuches

tejidos con hebras del

crepúsculo y pellejos de ovejas.

Violentos calcetines,

mis pies fueron dos pescados de lana,

dos largos tiburonesde azul ultramarinoa

travesados por una trenza de oro,

dos gigantescos mirlos,

dos cañones;

mis pies fueron honrados de este modo

por estos celestiales calcetines.

Eran tan hermosos que por primera vez

mis pies me parecieron inaceptables,

como dos decrépitos bomberos,
bomberos indignos de aquel fuego bordado,

de aquellos luminosos calcetines.

Sin embargo, resistí la tentación

aguda de guardarlos como los colegiales

preservan las luciénagas,

como los eruditos coleccionan

documentos sagrados,

resistí el impulso furioso de ponerlas

en una jaula de oro y darles cada

día alpiste y pulpa de melón rosado.

Como descubridores que en la selva

entregan el rarísimo venado verde

al asador y se lo comen con remordimiento,

estiré los pies y me enfundé

los bellos calcetines, y luego los zapatos.

Y es esta la moral de mi Oda:

Dos veces es belleza la belleza,

y lo que es bueno es doblemente bueno,

cuando se trata de dos calcetines

de lana en el invierno.

Ode to My Socks

Maru Mori brought me
a pair of socks
knitted with her own shepherd's hands,
two socks soft as rabbits.
I slipped my feet into them
as if into jewel cases
woven with threads of
dusk and sheep's wool

Audacious socks,
my feet became two woolen fish,
two long sharks
of lapis blue
shot with a golden thread,
two mammoth blackbirds,
two cannons;
thus honored were my feet
by these celestial socks.

They were so beautiful that for the first time
my feet seemed unacceptable to me,
two tired old fire fighters,
not worthy of the woven fire
of those luminous socks.

Nonetheless, I resisted the strong temptation
to save them the way schoolboys
bottle fireflies,
the way scholars hoard
sacred documents.
I resisted the wild impulse to place them

in a cage of gold and daily feed them
birdseed and rosy melon flesh.

Like explorers who in the forest
surrender a rare and tender deer
to the spit and eat it with remorse,
I stuck out my feet and pulled on
the handsome socks, and then my shoes.
So this is the moral of my ode:
twice beautiful is beauty
and what is good is doubly good
when it is a case of two
woolen socks in wintertime.

I absolutely love this poem; it seems to be so profound in its simplicity. Sometimes I feel like poetry is so contrived and even bombastic that it becomes a form of expression inaccessible to the common man. But poetry to me is such a natural and organic outlet of emotion and ideas that it can be understood by any human being. Neruda approaches the poem with a very personal voice and simple language, and is almost comical in his subject choice. But his theme emerges with such unaffected wisdom that we see the inherent and unpretentious truth in it. Rather than a traditional ode to some grandiose person or object, Neruda's is to a pair of wool socks; but in the wintertime, when you have cold feet, what could be more important?

Nothing To Be Done

2008-10-07T18:58:00.000-06:00

A couple of weeks ago I came to the startling realization that I can do absolutely anything that I want with my life. It seems like I should have realized this sooner, but somehow this fact managed to escape me, until, of course, it hit me like a ton of bricks (sorry about the hackneyed metaphor--but really, what great imagery). As great as this bounty of opportunity is, I feel wholly unprepared for such a vast expanse of possibility and choices (how many aggrandizing adjectives can you use in one sentence?). Life thus far has been fairly straight forward: school, summer, another year of school, graduation, college, etc--but apparently no one thought to tell us what to do after that. It seems rather like clear-cut stepping stones leading right up to a sheer cliff accompanied only by one of those comical road signs with arrows pointing in every possible direction leaving the traveler befuddled. In case you didn't catch the metaphor I would be the befuddled traveler in this imaginary situation and I seem to find myself staring blankly at the overloaded road sign. At this critical juncture on the road of life I see several possibilities presenting themselves (feel free to send in your votes):

1. Obtain an uber prestigious job offer post-graduation which will in turn lead to business school and a high-powered career including pencil skirts, high heels, and long hours.
2. Throw caution to the wind, my money to plane tickets, and take a year after graduation to see the world. Maybe head off to Europe and stay until I run out of money.
3. Drop out of college and buy a van from 1975 that I can live in by the river. . . with Chris Farley.
4. Spend all of my time seeking out an unsuspecting R.M. wandering campus and make him my husband; then bear his 12 children and cook him dinner every night.
5. Stay in college forever getting completely impractical degrees in every subject under humanities and making myself absurdly overqualified for any job I might ever hope to obtain.
6. Marry rich.
7. Get a business degree and become the dictator of a small Latin American country, preferably one with a good amount of beach front property.
8. Spend next summer interning somewhere in Latin America and then heading up some sort of non-profit development organization post-graduation.
9. Move in with Angelica and spend the rest of my life nannying her children and offering my expertise on which shoes go best with which jeans.
10. Borrow one of Hilary's pantsuits and Palin's glasses and become President of the United States and then rule the world (this one comes from a childhood aspiration expressed in a kindergarten in-class activity).
11. Go to law school then get married and have kids and realize I just went into debt getting a degree I will probably never use.
12. Go to law school, become a judge, and finally enjoy the long-fantasized privilege of telling people exactly what I think while they are forced to listen and follow my directions.
13. Live in Julie and Tom's basement cleaning up their messes and making sure their kids stay alive.
14. Move back to the jungle, marry an 85 year old Shaman, and master the art of the blow-dart gun.

Thoughts?

P.S. Anyone catch the reference in the title?

Highlights

2008-09-04T20:56:00.001-06:00

I have recently moved back to Provo and into a new apartment, started a new semester at BYU, begun a new job, and become a member of a new ward. With this slew of changes I have had little time for silly endeavors such as blogging, so I'll just toss out a few highlights from the last two weeks or so.

#1 has been deleted due to offensive content.

2. The day that we moved in Julie and I had a very traumatic trip to Wal-Mart. We needed to stock our kitchen as well as buy ridiculous amounts of random crap for our apartment that it would never have occurred to us that we would need. This trip ended in me underneath our overflowing cart (because somehow we thought we only need one) in the middle of Wal-Mart laughing so hard I was crying as I tried desperately to unwedge a frozen pizza from the bottom while scolding Julie for putting the frozen food next to the produce and the bananas on top of the bread amidst every college student/resident/homeless person ever to set foot in Provo doing exactly the same thing that we were (except for the homeless people of course, they were just holding signs--and they were outside--and one of the signs said "adopt me" (changed from something about work for our special benefit)).

3. I SAW BOB DYLAN. I know you are all very impressed. Also I feel quite proud that I have now established myself as a "hard-core fan" since going to his concert also entailed standing in pouring rain for four hours and freezing to death while screaming along to "how does it feel?" and trying not to inhale the smoke from the joint being smoked by the 60-ish man standing next to us. It was amazing.

4. My D&C professor has one of the most entertaining comb-overs I've ever laid eyes on. Instead of combing the little gray hairs still left towards the front of his forehead to the side where they belong or even straight across the growing bald spot (also known as the traditional comb-over), he combs them straight down so they resemble bangs. It's a little distracting but oh so entertaining.

5. Elder Lund came to the library when I was working the other day and I almost collapsed. We joked around a little after which I began feeling very elite--hob nobbing it with the best of 'em. Apparently he was supposed to pay $50 for library privileges for the year since he's not a student but the girl training me said she didn't even mention it because she was pretty sure he didn't have to pay. Being a representative of God and everything. No big deal.

6. Apparently, when checking in books, I am not allowed to accept any with "excessive sticky notes". I find this highly amusing and have spent at least 4 hours of work time imagining scenarios in which I demand that the patron step away from the desk and remove the excess sticky notes immediately before I have to call security. This has yet to happen, but when it does, I'll be prepared.

7. My Comparative Literature professor (the head of the department) spent a good hour and a half of class time explaining how incredibly intellectual and elite our major is, which really didn't hurt my ego. BYU has the #1 program in the country in case you were wondering. Then I went home and read the first paragraph of a reading he had assigned (and written, it's from his new book, very fancy) and understood absolutely nothing. Not one word. Needless to say my ego deflated to a more manageable size.

8. My first day on campus was absolutely wonderful and full of excited reunions and engaging classes.

9. My bishop gave a somewhat disturbing speech on how his job was to marry us off in church on Sunday. It was weird. Other than that (and the fact that any kind of non-laffy-taffy humor appears to go straight over his head paired with my inability to stop myself from cracking constant (granted lame) jokes has created more than one awkward moment) the ward seems great.

10 is such a cliche list number, and since I'm ohhh so much better than that, I'm stopping at 9. HA.

Finn Fixation

2008-08-23T15:40:00.002-06:00

Ok, I am about to do something a little annoying and potentially lame but there are at least three good reasons for it. I'm going to post an essay I wrote fall semester for a personal narrative assignment in my writing class. I'm doing this because I have no original ideas, and because I have mentioned this particular essay to at least three family members promising them that I would send them a copy which of course I never did. Anyway, consider this a disclaimer: there are a couple of painfully cheesy parts, a few less-than-proud writing moments, some organizational issues, and just a touch of that mundane scholastic style we all feel needs to be included in anything being graded by a teacher or professor. But, I will say that the essay actually reflects a sort of epiphany I had last summer and helped me to sort of gather my thoughts about it. So without further ado, enjoy (or don't, you know, whatever):

It’s a Finnish Life for Me

“Finn Parking Only”—I read the familiar greeting as I enter the gravel drive. I hardly notice the subtle references to our Finnish heritage littering the landscape at my grandparent’s cabin anymore. Yes, the “You can always tell a Finn but you can’t tell him much” sign is still there. Why wouldn’t it be? Things have been here forever; the place is like a well-preserved museum exhibit of a 1960’s living room. The bright orange velour couch clashes glaringly with the turquoise rose-patterned cushion on the rocking chair and the various Finnish pride insignia tacked to the walls. The “SISU” hat is still hanging on the corner hook and I am fairly positive that I saw that jar of peanuts there the last time I was here three years ago. It looks like a scene from My Big Fat Finnish Wedding. Standing on the porch, I can see the Sauna my grandfather built with my Uncle Paul, the outhouse that my grandma still uses out of principle, and the faded red pump for the well that only gives cold water. This is my history.

This place is constant; it adapts with the generations that pass through it—little things are added here and there: the sauna stove is replaced, a loft is added on top of the garage, a bath house with a flush toilet is finally built, a paddle boat appears—but the cabin is still the cabin. It speaks history, it breathes the life of the family and our heritage, and whispers of times and people long ago. This cabin represents my inherited legacy. I am learning to embrace this heritage, and beginning to understand how it affects me. I am noticing how immersed I really am; how it infiltrates every facet of my life. I always thought of the cabin as the place where all of that family history existed, somehow separately from my real life; but the truth is that it is only the outward manifestation of something I carry within me, of the blood that runs through my veins: the red and pulsing, proud and hard-headed Finnish blood. ‘Finn parking only’ isn’t just a sign on a driveway, it’s a message engraved on my bones.

Looking out the window from my mountain home in Park City, I can see my grandpa, who is here visiting for a couple weeks from Northern Minnesota, sweating profusely while hauling huge rocks from the yard. He has decided that he will begin our landscaping by removing all of the rock from a small area so that we can put sod or flowers in. He must be crazy, I think to myself, the rock to soil ratio of our yard is roughly 10:1; there is no way he will ever even make a dent. He looks like a man trying to drain the ocean by hauling water out bucket by bucket. But my grandpa has already finished my mother’s list of things to fix around the house, and he certainly isn’t going to sit around—apparently neither am I, and I soon find myself by his side reluctantly filling a bucket.

Ridding the yard of rock was just one small manifestation of a lifelong devotion to Uurastus—hard work. Hard work is what brought my grandparents—and by extension us—to this country and to this lifestyle. Growing up in large families and difficult circumstances, my Grandparents learned the value of many of the luxuries I now enjoy. Working on the farm as a child with his brothers and sisters, my grandfather would turn his underwear inside out halfway through the week in lieu of putting on new ones. I have never been certain of the factual accuracy of this story, but the message is clear enough. Similarly, my grandmother May, who also grew up on a traditional Finnish farm in Minnesota shared a bed with her twelve siblings, whom she, being the eldest, would alphabetize for sleeping order. Though they are not my own, these experiences are collective and ongoing; they are as much a part of me as they were a part of them.

Waste not, want not: the unspoken credo of my family tree. I reflect on my grandfather’s hard set belief system as I stumble over to the wheelbarrow with a large grey rock. Always appalled at wasted food and picky eaters, he was party to the belief that everyone should be a member of the clean plate club, or else not eat at all. “When I was growing up I ate whatever was put on my plate, no questions asked,” my mother reminds me as I skeptically eyeball the too-rare, too-big, too-animal product hamburger on my plate. I am reminded once again of her family’s almost fanatic no-waste policy. This belief went far beyond food or any simple dinner conversation. Organic waste was composted, leftovers were reinvented for another meal, scraps were fed to the dogs, paper products were burned, cool-whip containers housed the rehashed leftovers, and pop tops were saved to donate to the Ronald McDonald House. Anything that could be made was never bought; grandpa could build just about anything with spare parts found in dark crevices of the garage—aesthetics of course always being second to functionality. My mother sewed all of her own clothes in high school, including her wedding dress and my father’s three-piece-suit.

On the day my young father packed up his old car and moved my mother and her two young children from their home in Northern Minnesota to Provo, UT, my grandfather bestowed upon him, as a parting gift and peace offering, a jar full of old nails. Offering little explanation he simply stammered “you might need these.” This was a man who had never thrown away a nail in his life. If he saw one on the road he would pick it up and add it to the jar. If they were bent, he would hammer them straight again. Those nails say more about him than any journal ever could. His values have become my values, his nails, my nails; the things that an old Finnish barber and insurance salesman believed in have sunk deep into the value system of a young BYU student.

My most treasured heirlooms are embedded in the actions of my predecessors. Though sometimes unacknowledged as morals and traditions that I have inherited, they are the most basic values I hold. They have been formed generations before me and passed on to me by the way my forbearers lived their lives.

Walking into my great aunt and uncle’s house, the last stop on the way home from the cabin, my eyes meet with walls papered in pictures of family members. After being warmly embraced, I am introduced to various extended family members who have stopped in, and am invited to sit down. Then the talking begins. After a couple of minutes have passed, I have been introduced to every face plastered on the wall as well as offered explanations of the sketches done by their granddaughter. It is not difficult to see what is important in this home. People. I now face my share of questions, all delivered with obvious sincerity. My dad looks comfortable and starts swapping childhood stories with some distant cousins. It occurs to me that even though at first glance my life seems so different from that of these people living on a farm in rural Minnesota, I am at home here. This is what my dad grew up with and it’s clear that he greatly values this history. There is name dropping everywhere in this conversation; each name that comes up has its own story and you can tell that they are just another string in this web of relationships. It amazes me that they remember the names of all seven of my brothers and sisters—it’s not like we are very closely related. I begin to understand that they remember because they care. Getting back into the car, my dad talks about the grand Finnish tradition of sitting down after a meal with guests and talking for hours. I can see that he really admires this. I begin to admire it too.

As my mind works, I realize that this is not so foreign after all, this tradition has been carried on by my family, and I have seen it at the cabin countless times. In fact, that heinous neon-orange velour couch is never without an occupant. Finnish homes are always filled with friends, family, neighbors, and loved ones. Whether they are just stopping in to say hello or have traveled across the country to visit with relatives, guests are always warmly welcomed and never without a meal. Mucada, cheese trays, cucumber slices, flat bread, crackers, coffee cake, pulla bread, lemonade, coffee. You never leave hungry or without a friend.

My history is the collective history of my family. My values have been shaped for generations, and I am as much a part of this legacy as my grandparents are. As I glance around my desk I realize that the tissue in my pocket that I have nicely folded because I didn’t use it all the first time, the leftovers in my mini fridge, and the pictures of family and friends tacked to my wall are not all that different from a jar of old nails, a couple of reused cool whip containers, and a wall papered with memories.

Free Falling

2008-07-29T21:04:00.001-06:00

At some point in my scholastic career I had a teacher, possibly several (it's all become a blur at my ripe old age of 19) that required something called "free writes" during class time. This exercise, supposedly a sort of stretching exercise for the creative juices (if you can stretch juices...maybe a really viscous liquid--like honey? Can you stretch honey? How about taffy, I know you can stretch that, can that be called a liquid?). Anyway, the idea is to sit down (although I suppose you could do it just as well standing up, assuming you had some sort of solid surface high enough to write on so as not to strain your back) and begin writing whatever pops into your mind. You are not to stop writing before the allotted amount of time is up but rather to just sort of spit out whatever pops into your head without giving yourself time to even think about it (though it seems to me that by virtue of something popping into your head you've technically already thought about it). So as I was hopelessly gazing at my empty screen thinking that I should really write a new blog post (because somewhere in my mind some part of me is harboring the delusion that someone out there enjoys reading these and is waiting in eager anticipation for me to write another post--this part of me suffers from a guilt complex and then begins worrying that that one person obsessed with my blog will forget about it and let it become some old, forgotten bookmarked site, floating out there in the archives of their computer if I don't update soon) but not having the foggiest idea what to write about, my mind wandered back to those school days, and well I just began writing. And now I am writing. And now you are reading. And this is called free writing which apparently is just a friendlier term for mindless babble in my case involving an unsightly amount of parentheses in a futile attempt to add some sort of grammatically correct punctuation to a stream of consciousness composition.
Have I made your mind spin yet? Have you taken a breath? Are you suddenly remembering how fast I sometimes talk, especially when around Julie, and regretting beginning this post because you are already exhausted but you, like me, suffer from a complex with which you are incapable of starting to read something without finishing it even if it makes you want to poke your eyes out with pointy sticks? I almost couldn't remember what kind of punctuation to end that sentence with it was so dang long. But I guess that's what happens when you are "free writing". I feel so creative and free spirited. Not really. Except that I feel like this is something that "those" people do; you know the ones that hang out in coffee shops and recite poems to each other and wear skinny pants and big dark-rimmed glasses and have real and intellectual thoughts about literature and art but scoff at the rest of us when we think we have those thoughts because ours obviously aren't genuine. You know, them. I bet they do stuff like free writing. And I bet they use terms like creative juices also. They probably know which liquids are viscous enough to stretch.
Wow, I just felt a profound sense of guilt for actually writing something this unreadable with the intent to subject others to it's insanity. But I'm doing it anyway, so I guess guilt just isn't a powerful enough motivator. It's just been overcome with selfishness which is unfortunately one of the MOST powerful motivators. Isn't that sad? And isn't that really what we are all trying to overcome in our quest for self improvement in life? I mean it seems like most things universally considered "good" can be traced back to overcoming our own selfish desires and viewpoints. Maybe we think it's good because it's so hard to do. We have so many unsettling selfish tendencies that just come so naturally and are thus so hard to overcome. So we all wish we could overcome them and we admire those who have. Ok, I've lost that train of thought, which might be ok because it might have turned into a train wreck.
Ok, here's a thought: you know those word verification things they use all over the Internet where you have to type in the letters you see that are all warped and swirly to prove that you're a real person and not a destructive hacking machine? Am I the only one that gets them wrong disturbingly frequently? Seriously, I consider myself a fairly intelligent person, and a very good test taker if I might add, but I get those things wrong constantly! Aren't they designed so that the average person can complete them? Is there something very very wrong with me that I should see a physician for? Every time I get that little red error message informing me that I should type the letters as they appear (in case I didn't know already, as if it's yelling, HEY MORON! to me) I have serious doubts about my abilities. I have especial trouble with blog spot's verifications; I am not exaggerating when I say that there have been times I have had to re-enter letters three times before I got it right. So please, seriously, somebody tell me, is this normal?!
I think I'm going to end this now for all of our sakes, I don't think anyone wants to find out where my free-spirited mind is going to go next. Shalom.

Let Me Count The Ways . . .

2008-07-09T18:08:00.002-06:00

I would like to write a post about my two favorite people in the whole wide world. There are two reasons for this: 1. They are my two favorite people in the whole wide world, and 2. It's always nice to be told how great you are, and no matter how much you deny it, we all know it's true (not that either of these two would ever deny it). Oh yes, and 3. I think everyone else should know how great they are too. Wait, wait, and 4. I miss them both terribly and think of their pretty little faces practically constantly. Let me revise; there are four reasons I am writing this.

And my two FAVORITE people are . . . (drum roll. . . . ) . . . Angelica and Julie! WHOOOO!!!!

Why I love Angelica Hatch:

She bears wonderful children for me to play with and uses words like "pregnanter"
When we get old, we're going to wear multi-colored, hideous thrift store clothing (including, but not limited to large hats and plaid pants) and swear and act completely inappropriately. Together.
She has the best hand writing on the planet and her lines are always straight.
She laughs at all the right parts in movies.
She has perfect style, which happens to be almost exactly the same as mine and gives me clothes when her weight fluctuates... you know, like when she goes and gets herself knocked up again or something.
She eats healthy, except when she is eating enormous amounts of junk food.
She orders 15 things at a Chinese restaurant even though I am the only other one there and it will all be leftover.
She likes sports AND shoes.
She reads books, uses big words, and does otherwise intelligent and well-educated things.
She watches bad movies with me, laughs at me when I run into trees, tolerates my blunders in cooking and art projects, and always hangs out with me.

Why I love Julie Garbutt:

She understands exactly what I'm saying even when all that comes out is a grunt or hand gesture.
She has super wicked (you know, in the way that English people use it) style and can pull off anything. Thus, her name is often found in sentences such as "that's cute, it's something JULIE could pull off, I don't really think I could".
She tolerates me remarkably well and understands emotional handicaps.
She pretends to monitor my junk-food intake but actually just lets me eat tons of it because she knows I want to and acts surprised later when I tell her I feel sick.
She might be the same person as me.
She likes nude art and other such scandalous atrocities.
She acts exactly the same around everyone.
She sings show tunes and thinks musicals are the greatest thing ever invented even though the rest of us know they aren't.
She jumps around like a wild banshee to express emotion. In public.
She walks around barefoot and burps and gets her hands sticky and eats food off the floor and sticks her finger in her nose. And I still like her.

Working It

2008-07-05T18:32:00.000-06:00

I have recently started a new job at Dollar Financial Group working in collections. I am a collection officer on Cash til Payday loans. Or, in layman's terms, I call people all day that borrowed money from my company and try to get them to pay their stinking debts. I like to think of myself as a cronie of sorts, using verbal gymnastics and unspecified threats to convince the sorry debtors to give my boss da money. Not surprisingly, my job has a high turnover rate; I guess getting yelled at, hung up on, and bonding with answering machines is not every one's idea of a good time. I've been surprisingly entertained by it though, I see it as a kind of sociological study--I am exposed to a whole other side of the socio-economic spectrum the likes of which I never found in my upper-middle class neighborhoods and schools. For instance (and this is really very factual), I never actually thought there were that many people named Shaniqua out there.
The wide variety of names, answering machines, and occasional vulgarity keep me entertained, and when that gets old, I console myself with crossword puzzles and sudoku games. Much of my day is spent on hold at businesses and leaving messages, and I have become intimately acquainted with every answering service, call screening device, and disconnected number message out there. It is slightly disconcerting when I catch myself having actual conversations with machines, but I brush it off as boredom and hope it doesn't turn into anything that will be expensive to fix with a therapist.
I thought I would share with you all a couple of my favorite calls thus far, which I have recreated below to the best of my ability:
1. Subtlety's Overrated
ring ring ring
Bob: (we'll call him Bob to protect his real identity, which I don't know anyway) Hello?
Me: Hi I'm looking for Shwanda.
Bob: Hold on a second, I'm just comin in the house, I'll see if she's there.
In the background, perfectly audible to me:
Bob: Shwannndaaa!
Shwanda (presumably): who is it?
Bob: Dollar Financial
Shwanda: WHO?
Bob: (in an exaggerated tone) DOLLAR. FINANCIAL.
Shwanda: Hang up!
Bob: What?
Shwanda: hang up!
Bob: WHAT?!
Me: She told you to hang up.
Bob: uh, hold on a sec
CLICK.

2. Past Your Expiration Date
ring ring ring
Joe: Hello?
Me: Hi, joe?
Joe: What? Speak up, I can't hear you!
Me: Joe, this is Lanee from Dollar Financial
Joe: From what? (clearly strained on hearing)
Me: Dollar Financial, it's about loan mart, you owe $315, it's 189 days past due
(Joe can't hear and hands the phone to his wife)
Wife: Hello?
Me: I'm calling about loan mart
(the phone switches hands again)
Joe: How do you know I owe that?
Me: Because I work for the company
Joe: How late did you say?
Me: 189 days
Joe: 189 days?! No wonder I don't remember it!
(at some point during this call I look at Joe's birth date and realize he is 85 years old)

3. Answering Awesomeness
Just a little sampling of my favorite answering machines, in case anyone needs any suggestions:

Gospel singing, American Idol audition style
Really obnoxious couples answering in unison with a perfectly choreographed message in which each has separate lines as well as lines they pronounce together in a sing-songy voice
Everyone in the south that says "have a blessed day" at the end of theirs (which is everyone)
Scripture recitation (again, mostly in the South)
Apocalyptic warnings (apparently these people didn't expect to have to pay back these loans....)
Really loud rap songs about having a lot of money (clearly not accurate representations of their lives)
kids that you can't understand which basically translates into undecipherable babbling
Fat Albert impression

Jungle-icious

2008-06-25T18:33:00.000-06:00

OK, first let me apologize for waiting so long to finish describing this whole jungle experience (I know you were all hanging on the edge of your seats huh?). I'm going to make this brief, and just sort of give an overview of the rest of the trip, as much for your sakes as for my own.

Our days in the jungle generally consisted of three meals eaten in the village which were cooked for us by one of the local women. The guide had food brought in for us from the city to "prevent depletion of their resources", though I suspect also as an attempt at comfort. This mostly consisted of rice, soup, some fruit, and a loaf of white bread. There were some seriously inaccurate calculations somewhere along the way and this "western food" ran out about day four. After that we pretty much ate yucca and.... no wait, yep, just yucca. This proved to be a fairly uncomfortable diet for someone not accustomed to so much starch and I even got a nice little starch belly (which disappeared days after departure thank goodness). Between breakfast and lunch we would usually go on jungle walks with Abel, our 23 guide from the city, and Gustavo, our local guide. This generally involved trudging through knee-deep mud (don't worry, we had rubber boots on at all times) and occasionally crossing bridges over streams (and by bridges I of course mean trees cut down over the river). The foliage was incredibly thick (as you'd expect in the jungle) and we saw an amazing variety of flora and fauna. Our guides would frequently stop to explain the use of different plants--everything ranging from medicinal to edible.

We encountered a fair amount of animals while we were out wandering (millions of species if you count bugs). Our guides were extremely enthusiastic about searching for monkeys, I think that somewhere along the way they got the idea that tourists are obsessed with monkeys and will not be happy unless they see them every day. So we spent a good amount of time scanning the canopy for primates and spotted some at least five or six times. But by far the coolest animal we saw was an anteater that walked right up to us and then stayed around for awhile climbing trees and searching for food. It was pretty amazing. It frequently rained, which made the jungle walks considerably less comfortable and the mud infinitely deeper. I must say I also thoroughly enjoyed our guides various animal calls throughout the trip.

There were definitely some amazing experiences in the jungle, but by the end, I was more than ready to leave. This unfortunately did not happen as planned (as nothing really did). On the day that we were supposed to leave there was bad whether in Shell (the city the plane leaves from) and we couldn't fly out. I don't think I have ever been more devastated in my life. Wait, that's not true, on the THIRD day of waiting with still no sign of a plane I was significantly more devastated. Finally, at the end of the third day our salvation arrived. The plane had left just as bad weather was rolling into Shell and the pilot was freaking out and yelling. At one point we were in the air in the middle of a gray cloud where we couldn't see anything, I really thought we weren't going to make it.

Because of our delay in the jungle we ended up missing our flight back to the States and couldn't get out for another week. At first this thought was horrifying, but after a massage and a facial and a couple of days in incredible Colonial Quito at churches and museums, my hope in life was restored.

It's been almost three weeks now since we've been home, and the whole experience is getting rosier in my memory. Though I do STILL have bed bug bites that itch every once in awhile. I'm not sure if I'll ever be completely healed.

Welcome To The Jungle (think Guns n Roses)

2008-06-07T14:53:00.007-06:00

The next morning luck (or some other universal force, after reading our experiences, you decide) was on our side and we made our way bright and early to Shell, a neighboring city where the plane would be leaving from. I will admit that I was a little worried when I saw the old 4-seater plane that looked like it could be straight out of 1978 waiting for us. It didn't help when the pilot immediately began praying and crossing himself, but I guess it's always better to have God on your side.

After an hour and a half flight over miles and miles and miles of absolutely nothing (seriously, nothing) during which I began to question my decision, we arrived on a hand-cut landing strip in the community of Juyuintza. The culture shock set in almost immediately as we stood in the middle of a crowd of almost the entire community in the bazillion degree heat (that's a technical measurement) watching confusedly as naked children ran around and the adults had some sort of heated discussion about who would take the plane ride back to the city. We understood none of this, as the community speaks an indigenous dialect called Shiwiar and our guide had apparently momentarily forgotten about us. We were finally led to what appeared to be a community hut (which we found out later was the home of the teniente who was away in the city, but seemed to be a popular place for community gatherings) where we sat down on wooden benches and again commenced listening dumbly to a community discussion in Shiwiar. After awhile our guide told us that we were waiting for the president who lived a half an hour away on foot. We sat like that for another hour or so while the chicha was passed around and everyone talked (except us of course, who probably just stared wide-eyed).

Chicha is a traditional Shiwiar drink that makes up the staple of their diet and their primary beverage. They drink what appeared to be gallons of this stuff a day, drinking it out of bowls that they pass around, and always served to the men by the women. Now I don't mean to sound culturally insensitive, but chicha is quite possibly the most foul liquid ever created on the face of the planet (needless to say, I passed on trying it). Allow me to explain: chicha is made from Yucca, a root plant similar to a potato that makes up the bulk of the Shiwiar's diet. They harvest the Yucca, peel it, cook it, and place it into a huge canoe-shaped bowl to prepare the chicha. Once in the bowl, the women mash it up and then begin filling their cheeks with the stuff after which they proceed to chew it up until it is almost completely liquid at which point they spit it back into the bowl and continue mixing and chewing. Once this step is complete, they allow the mashed up and salivated yucca to sit for a day and ferment (they sometimes let it sit for up to three days if they want alcoholic chicha). Then they mix it with river water (brown, and taken from the same part of the river in which they bathe and wash clothes and dishes) and serve it in community bowls. When the women are serving it, they frequently stick their hands into the middle of the bowls to squeeze the yucca fibers and then run their fingers around the mouth of the bowl before handing it to a man. When drinking the chicha, they sometimes get yucca fibers in their mouths and so they hock massive loogies throughout the whole experience. It's all very appetizing. Chicha is one of the most important parts of Shiwiar life and, as explained by our guide: "Chicha is life".

We were eventually led about five minutes away from the main part of the community to the school, a cement building with a corrugated metal roof and the only closed in building in the community since it was constructed by the government. This was where we would be sleeping. They set up some one inch thick mattresses with sleeping bags and pillows and left us there to rest. It turned out that they actually cancelled school while we were there so that we could sleep in the school, an idea I found to be a little unsettling but didn't have much control over. Overall the mattresses weren't too bad as far as comfort goes (nothing even rivaling a motel 6 but I wasn't expecting much), although when we discovered that they were infested with bed bugs it became significantly more difficult to sleep on them. Still, I was grateful for a little privacy and a bed somewhat protected from the elements. From what I gathered the people slept on wooden planks under their huts, some of them with mosquito nets and a few with sheets. I was grateful we had somewhat better accommodations. I did find it a little weird when our guide told us he would be sleeping in the one room school house with us, but we just went with it. It was a little awkward when my mom asked him where the bathroom was for the school and he looked around a little confusedly and, with a vague motion to the surrounding area replied "anywhere". When in the main part of the community there was a three-sided outhouse with more species of insects than I have ever previously encountered; I learned to prefer the greater outdoors.

After a day or two of sweating profusely and trudging through knee deep mud, we finally brought ourselves to inquire after bathing accommodations. Our guides obliged very kindly by hauling two kettles of river water up to the school for us (these looked VERY heavy). We managed to achieve a mediocre level of cleanliness (which lasted all of an hour before we were just as dirty as before) and even succeeded in washing some clothes in the leftover water as we had already dirtied half of our clothes by the second day. I soon learned to accept the stench coming from virtually everything I owned as inevitable and we just did our best for the rest of the trip.

Well, I think I've at least covered the basics of jungle living, though I haven't even begun to cover all of what we did there. I'm going to have to stop there for now, but I promise to get into some wildlife descriptions in the next post; I can only take so much reminiscing in one day :).

Monkey Business

2008-06-05T22:28:00.000-06:00

To be perfectly honest, I'm not exactly sure where to begin this post. I have recently returned from a trip to the Ecuadorian jungle and want to share all the gory details, but there are almost too many to think about. I find myself torn between getting my feet wet and just jumping right in. I suppose if you're going to get wet you might as well go swimming right? Consider this a bucket of water dumped on your head. So, per the Von Trapp's excellent musical advice, I'll start at the very beginning, a very good place to start.

The original plan was to spend ten days in the Ecuadorian jungle, working through a very, very small, virtually unknown tourist agency to live in a small Shiwiar indigenous community. [Anyone seeing any warning signs yet?] A little apprehensive about this expedition with no reputation that she found on the Internet, mom opted to pay only half before we arrived and put up the rest of the money when we met Pascual (owner, director, and tour guide) and confirmed the existence and legitimacy of the trip. When we arrived in Puyo, the day before we were supposed to fly to the jungle, we met Pascual, decided that he seemed legitimate enough, transferred the remaining money, and packed up our stuff.

The next morning, we were met with what would prove to be a common occurrence on our expedition, bad weather and a change of plans. Because of the weather, we were unable to leave for the jungle, since we would be flying in a small, 4-seater plane into, well, the middle of nowhere. After waking up at 7 am as directed, we waited around the hotel for a couple of hours awkwardly attempting conversation with our 23 year old and clearly inexperienced and less than social guide who kept assuring us that the weather could clear up any minute and we thusly had to be ready to go on a moment's notice. [It should be noted that this guide was not the aforementioned Pascual, but rather his younger brother Abel. Pascual apparently decided that since we didn't require an English-speaking guide (of which he spoke a little), he would take this opportunity to stay home and work at his various pursuits while sending us out into the jungle with his kid brother.] The team (by which I mean Pascual, his wife, and Abel, which, from all that I saw seem to be the whole of the company) eventually decided that we should do something other than sit around waiting, since, by all calculations, the plane would not be flying today, and we were still paying for a day's accommodations and activities. (This thought had occurred to me hours before).

After a sufficiently awkward lunch during which I discovered that they believed that vegetarians only eat vegetables, we headed to a sort of nature preserve outside the city for jungle animals. Here we were introduced to many of the animals native to the jungle we would soon be exploring. Unlike any zoo or preserve I've been to in the United States, they invited us right into the cages where I came into much closer than comfortable contact with several unsettling reptiles.

The most eventful part of the day however, occurred when we were walking the muddy path around the preserve through trees and jungle. We saw several monkeys jumping around the trees surrounding us and got pretty excited. The guide mentioned we were in the vicinity of this particular group of monkeys' haunts, so we stopped, presumably, to observe. When Abel took out a banana I wasn't sure exactly what to expect, but certainly nothing even close to what happened. Within seconds there were four or five monkeys jumping all over me and, from the shrieks I heard behind me, my mom too. Alarmed but not wanting to miss the moment, I quickly shoved my camera into the hands of Pascual's wife standing in front of me, as much so that I wouldn't drop it as that I wanted a picture of what was happening. The monkeys were climbing and jumping around excitedly all over me trying to get a piece of Abel's banana. I can't say I really enjoyed the moment at the time, I was so shocked that I didn't know quite what to do and concentrated primarily on how many animals I had on me and where exactly their hands and tails were going (I am fairly positive that several of said appendages made their way down my shirt at some point). I am also pretty sure that I was left with a couple little presents on my shirt, something I think happened sometime while two monkeys were fighting over some banana on my back. It was all over in less than a minute, but it was certainly a memorable experience.

After that adventure we headed back to the hotel for another night, once again anticipating departure in the morning.

Puerto Lopez

2008-05-13T16:24:00.001-06:00

Well, we´re just past the halfway point in the trip, and it´s been nothing short of interesting thus far. We just returned from a weekend trip to Puerto Lopez which proved both educational and entertaining.

The first bus from Canoa to San Vicente was crowded, a common occurence here. As usual this did not prevent the ayudante from hailing down more passengers, creating a wonderful mass of sweaty bodies scrunched together in a sardine esque manner in every bit of space avaialable, occasionally venturing onto the top of the bus. Somewhere in this mass of people a very old, very small woman pulled me onto her lap. I tried to protest, assuring her that I was just fine standing in the aisle (just like the other 20 people, a fact that seemed to escape her attention, or else just didn´t bother her), but she was very insistent and continued to pull me onto her lap. Evaluating the situation, I determined that it was better to consent and not offend the woman, even if it was at the risk of breaking her 80 year old, frail looking legs. The woman was very sweet, calling me a doll, and proceeded to wrap her arms around my waist, pat my thigh, etc. Since she was old and female I decided that this was probably ok and hoped it was customary or something. I soon surmised that this was not in fact an every day occurence as I took in the stares from everyone else on the bus. I was sure they were all gawking at this obnoxious American tourist who was crushing a poor old woman´s legs because she couldn't handle standing in the aisle like everyone else. Needless to say it was a mildly uncomfortable situation.

After several more uncomfortable, though comparatively less eventful bus rides we arrived in Puerto Lopez to a very cool little eco lodge called Mandala. Our room was a little private cabaña with two beds complete with mosquito nets and a bathroom boasting some very attractive woodwork. All in all a great place with pretty good food and phenomenal tropical gardens. The owners were on vacation at the time, they had left their friend Walter to run the place. Walter was an older German man with wire rimmed spectacles on the end of his nose and white, somewhat unkempt hair on the sides of his head. Walter became frustrated rather easily and became visibly stressed when Lucy tried to order a drink while he was still checking us in. We soon learned not to burden Walter with more than one simple task at risk of making his head explode. One morning we wanted a taxi but none were available, so a worker at the hotel called one that would be there in ten minutes. A couple of minutes later four taxis arrived and Albert became so flustered that he could hardly get his words out, which quickly became very amusing as he was sputtering in his less than perfect Spanish to the taxi drivers. A very nice man, but not cut out for air traffic control.

On our second night in Puerto Lopez we heard that there was a traveling circus in town, so me, mom, and our friend Gerard from the school in Canoa decided to go. I for one just wanted to see how on earth they got a lion (their biggest draw on the advertisement) to this little town in Ecuador and what state the animal was in. This proved to be one of the more bizarre spectacles I have ever had the privilege of witnessing. The circus was supposed to start at nine, so, obviously, when we got there at five to, the place was deserted. After finally getting in, at the steep price of a buck a pop, we paid fifty cents more to sit in the plastic lawn chairs set up in front of the bleachers and then proceeded to sit around for forty minutes waiting. At one point a dog ran in and peed on a pole in the center, which I mistakenly took for the first act. The show started promptly at ten thirty. I immediately realized that this was not going to be like any circus I had ever seen.

It opened with four women, scantily clad in thong bikinis with beads hanging down (probably for modesty´s sake) and high heels dancing. Now, I use the term dancing lightly, it mostly consisted of some impressive booty shaking and the occasional turn (so as to see this from all angles of course). They did at one point attempt a sort of can can type move which didn't work out very well due to an apparent lack of coordination. Jim (a man we met on our tour of Isla de la Plata that day) who I was sitting next to suggested that perhaps if this whole college thing didn't work out I could have a career in the circus. We´ll see how this semester pans out. After that spectacle, there were a couple of acrobat type performers (with three guys in the background controlling the pulley system with their body weight and a disturbing lack of a safety net), and a contortionist the likes of which I have never before seen. Next came a five minute intermission that only lasted for twenty minutes and more dancers. There were some clowns thrown in the mix at certain points, I don´t pretend to have understood all of their jokes but their actions made it clear that there was some PG 13 humor being tossed around. There were also some mechanical dolls doing dirty dance moves, which turned out to be a guy squatting underneath some mannequins and moving their legs. And finally, as a finale, some little monkeys dressed as Rambo complete with mini machine guns came out. There never was a lion, but as this didn't seem to bother anyone else I assume this was expected.

A very interesting trip. We head to the jungle on Friday so no Internet for ten days or so, so I guess this is Ciao!

Bienvenidos a Ecuador

2008-05-03T10:53:00.000-06:00

SO, after twelve hours on a plane and some painfully long bus rides I am now in Ecuador! We flew into Quito (the capital) at 7 or 8...(ok note: I never have any idea what time it is here as I don´t have a watch and usually just depend on the cell phone). I learned some little fun facts about Quito from our unusually friendly pilot: apparently it´s the second highest airport in the world and they actually have to lower the pressure inside the plane before landing to match that of the altitude outside--I guess they haven´t been flying there very long because of the problems presented by the altitude and such. So now that everyone reading this has officially fallen asleep, please, let me continue.

The first night in Quito we seemed to be staying in the heart of the tourist district and I was ecstatic to be greeted by a hot shower at my hotel. The area, known as New Town, is affectionately (ok, maybe not so affectionately) termed Gringolandia by the natives--not exactly my style. On the first day we went to Mitad del Mundo (the middle of the world), and straddled the equator, which my mom thought was stupid and I thought was freaking awesome. Then on Wednesday (I think, I also generally have no idea what day it is) we headed on a ten hour bus ride down down down to the coast. I took some magic little pills (Dramamine for the motion sickness) and was out for the majority of the ride, except for a couple of times when I woke up to the sound of vendors walking through the aisles of the bus and some beggars with elaborate stories at which point I feigned sleep anyway to avoid confrontation. And one time when I was out sprawled onto two seats and a lady came and sat on me instead of tapping me to wake me up first.

We have been at the beach, at Sundown Inn, a hotel-type place owned by a family where we have spanish classes 4 hours a day for a couple of days now. It´s about a fifteen minute walk up the beach to Canoa, a little coastal town known for being a surfer´s haven. This place is pretty much all I could ask for: a stuning beach, plenty of hammocks, and hours and hours of down time to read and sunbathe. Aside from my classes that´s pretty much all I do here, relax and read. It´s phenomenal. It´s extremely humid but really not too hot, at least not unbearably so. Hot enough that you want to jump in the ocean but with the breeze definitely not too uncomfortable. We will be here for two weeks, which should be great, aside from the less than desirable food (including a wide variety of mystery meats--which we can only hope doesn´t include Cuy, or Guinea Pig, an Ecuador specialty) and the really uncomfortable matress.

For those of you who were wondering, I´m keeping the sunburn under control, no face boils yet so it looks like we´re in the clear. I learned my lesson, so you don´t have to be afraid to look at my pictures later :). ¡Ciao!

Goodbye My Lovers

2008-04-23T21:57:00.002-06:00

[Yes, I just quoted James Blount in my blog title, I am not proud of this but it was all too appropriate—anyone remember that episode of the office?? Hahaha] So it’s official, freshman year is over. I packed up my mom’s Durango today, filled it to the brim actually, just short of having my clothes hang out the window. I almost didn’t make it in myself. (Incidentally in case you were wondering, no, I don’t have any idea how I acquired so much crap). It ended, as T.S. Eliot famously said: “not with a bang, but with a whimper” [Hollow Men]. Seriously, it was really quite anticlimactic; I don’t think I was ever actually expecting it to end and then suddenly I was leaving. I’m sorry if I didn’t say goodbye to you by the way, I hate goodbyes, they make me feel awkward and uncomfortable. But now I am gone and can’t believe I’ve left that hole of a home forever.

Yes, the dorms were below-average living conditions, but we slummed it together and I will always have a place in my heart for Helaman Halls. I must admit I was rather stunned when I realized how sad I was to be leaving—being infamously unemotional I wasn’t expecting any separation anxiety with the move. But alas, I am all weepy on the inside (not on the outside of course, that would be just ludicrous, really). It really has been an amazing year; ridiculously fun looking back on it, and a lot of personal as well as academic growth went on too. SOB. So I guess as a sort of eulogy to my freshman year I will list what I will miss most:

1. DINING PLUS—does anyone disagree? Yep, I didn’t think so.
2. Freak dance parties—really only possible in an all-girls dorm. Breaking it down with my ladies in the hallway was priceless, and Deb, those little one-on-one dance parties in our room have a special place in my soul.
3. The really friendly old lady custodian who always took Deborah’s shoes and who once talked to me while I was peeing and made me feel extremely awkward.
4. Shower conversations. It’s not very often that you encounter situations where you can talk to people while taking a shower—without it being extremely uncomfortable that is.
5. Walking three feet out my door every time I was bored or sick of homework to park myself on someone else’s bed and express my discontent (this was usually Chloe, you’re the best).
6. Really obnoxious people singing Disney songs outside my window at 3 in the morning…wait, wait, no I won’t miss that.
7. Stupid pranks—I know I complained, but really, some of those were dang funny.
8. Naked and semi-naked people in the hallway. It really just added a level of comfort hard to find anywhere else.
9. Awkward couples in the lobby—come on, they were entertaining. What are we even going to talk about now?
10. Living with Julie Ann Garbutt. Deborah Tan. Jane Nelson. Emma Richey. Kelli Child. Chloe Skidmore. Estee Ward. Sierra Robinson. Emily Harris. Ingrid Nilsson. Kara Christensen. Maddie West. Sara Hansen. Caitlin Markham. Kyra Malcarne.

March 26, 2008

2008-03-26T21:48:00.000-06:00

1. Made it to Political Science on time. Score. Hot TA stopped short and sat in my row. Double score. Succeeded in getting half of my Greek and Roman Lit reading done during class--great multi-tasking. Made lame jokes with Tom during class, we got our groove back.
2. Completely bumped into hot TA on the way out and was extremely awkward in apologizing...possibly offended him by not saying hi too, woops. Tom called him "bud", spent the next ten minutes making fun of him for it and arguing about geriatric vocabulary.
3. Awkward kid in my Greek and Roman Lit class didn't give me my packet back. Butthead. English kid I made friends with via e-mail didn't show up to class, too bad I was looking forward to a slightly awkward real life conversation. No quiz, didn't finish the reading, so you know, bonus.
4. Developed a severe annoyance with mankind making my way through the hoards of lemmings walking in every direction at unpredictable speeds all over campus. Got stepped on at least three times. Annoyance persisted throughout Book of Mormon. Sent uni-bomber texts to Julie. Possibly the only human tolerable at this point.
5. Ran into some llamas on my way to the MARB, real ones. with fur.
6. Class cancelled, starving, but promised Chloe I'd go to lunch with her at one. Headed to the lib to wait out the hour with my comp lit. Holed up in a corner cubicle because the annoyance with the human race is persisting and I have a million obnoxious flyaways in my hair. Realized I don't know the page numbers. Texted five people to get them. No reply. Hungry and annoyed. Gave up and left seeking consolation in a very cheesy, strings-when-you-pull-apart quesadilla.
7. Swarms of aforementioned annoying humanity at the Tanner building. Wait TWENTY minutes for the quesadilla. Almost murder someone. Mood is improving. Send more scary texts to the Juj to prevent death by boredom and mass homicide. Receive all five reply texts kindly informing me of the page numbers. Too Late. Annoyance and sour mood increase as stomach begins to eat itself.
8. Go running and to the gym with Chloe. Glorious. Mood dramatically improved. Flyaways have been tamed by sweat.
9. Lovely shower even though I didn't get the good shower. The endorphins prevent this from becoming an annoyance.
10. Mediocre tour at the MOA. Hardly any participation from the young women's group. Visibly bored. Want to say they wouldn't be if they talked so I didn't have to shove a monologue down their throats. I refrain, it would probably be inappropriate.
11. Come back to Gilmore Girls and a Diet Coke to heighten the mood. Should probably be doing homework. Break out the peanut butter and goldfish. Bad idea. Start feeling guilty and fat about the needless calories and spend the next fifteen minutes doing sit ups.
12. Get emotional over Gilmore Girls because it reminds me of Angelica. Reminisce and feel happysad for awhile.
13. Write a really long blog. Roller coaster day man.

The food of my body part

2008-02-27T23:13:00.000-07:00

In several of my readings recently I have noticed certain phrases that seemed like anachronisms in their context. Some of the sayings and what have since become somewhat cliche colloquialisms I was astonished to encounter in writings from the 8th century B.C. My interest finally peaked to a level warranting some research today so I decided to look one of them up. The phrase "the apple of my eye" has been popping up a lot lately, specifically in both The Odyssey and The Story of the Stone (Chinese novel from the 1700s by Cao Xuequin). So fueled somewhat by my curiosity but probably more so by my desire to avoid catching up on my political science reading, I looked it up.

It turns out that the phrase is indeed pretty old. It first appeared in Old English in writings by Aelfred of Wessex in AD 885. It was also used by Shakespeare in the 1590's (A Midsummer Night's Dream, one of my personal favorites), and appears several times in the bible. Several internet sites suggested that it came about referring to the central aperature of the eye, and used apples as they were the most common spherical object around.

I also discovered a site presumably dedicated solely to the author's curiosity about the same phrase. They posted this definition: "Apple of one's eye: The pupil of one's eye; figuratively, any thing or person that one cherishes", followed by: "Well I'm sorry, but that just doesn't make sense to me. If anyone has further information on the origin of this phrase, please let me know." I found this pretty amusing, but not as amusing as the list they proceeded to make of other food-body part combinations they felt equally appropriate, which included the bean of my kidney and the cauliflower of my ear. Maybe it's my trained ear, but somehow I don't think referencing a leghume and an internal organ is quite so eloquent.

All this is interesting enough, but it occurs to me that both The Odyssey and Story of a Stone, as well as the Bible for that matter are translated works. I highly doubt that "the apple of my eye" was a literal direct translation from the original languages, so why, I wonder, did the translators choose to interpret it that way? The Odyssey was composed in the 8th century BC yet the phrase doesn't appear in modern english until 885 AD. So I guess the conclusions that I've come to are these:
A. I may not have actually uncovered the first origin of the phrase, but I have sufficiently satisfied my curiosity
B. I don't understand the work of translators but I certainly admire them and find even the thought of translating daunting and tiresome
C. It really is incredible how much of our language survives from much earlier times
D. Anything you ever wanted to know you can find on the internet
E. I have never fully been able to grasp how so much random and detailed information gets on the internet. Who posts detailed instructions on how to bind a book or descriptions of knitting patterns in the Middle East? Seriously, I want to know, who does it?? How does all of this information get out there? Are there really that many people that post stuff on the internet just to have it up there?
F. That phrase obviously really is hackneyed, I mean come on, over a thousand years and no one has come up with anything better to say? Maybe it is time to switch to the bean of my kidney.

New Blogger

2008-02-26T01:17:00.000-07:00

Well, I have finally succumbed to all of the pressures inflicted upon me by friends and family and started a blog. It turns out I already had one, courtesy of my brother Zach, so all this undertaking really involved was changing a few colors, uploading a picture, and of course bearing a little of my soul for the masses of the internet (out of which something like two individuals are likely to ever even see this). I suppose 1:30 in the morning is as good a time as any to venture into the world of cyber-prose, but it doesn't seem to be lending itself very well to producing anything particularly interesting to say.

This is posted to my family website, so I guess a bit of an introduction or brief history would be pertinent--for those who stumbled upon this and haven't seen me since I was a baby or something. I am currently a student at Brigham Young University in Provo, Utah, a mere forty-five minutes from my parent's house in Salt Lake. I am majoring in Comparative Literature (lit in Spanish and English) and minoring in Spanish--an undertaking that seems to be going well so far. It turns out that with literature if you talk long enough and throw in a couple of big and impressive sounding words you can earn an A, since apparently there is "really no right answer", great literature allows for personal and unique interpretations. Luckily for me, this happens to be my specialty. My dad used to tell me my favorite subjects were those in which the right answer is a matter of opinion--he was right.

I've liked most of the classes I have taken so far, though some have been more enjoyable than others. I unfortunately didn't exactly excel in the sciences. My physical science professor didn't really appreciate my own interpretation of relativity and wasn't interested in hearing why I thought that neither A nor B were in fact the right answer. Needless to say I'm sticking with the lit major.

My night owl roomate has just gone to bed which I take as a sign that I really shouldn't be up. So, in the interest of my health and for the benefit of my morning professors tomorrow I will call it a night. I'll try to get better at this blogging thing.