Eternal Perspective

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

A Very Good Year

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

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?

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!

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

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

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?