Ukelele heartbreak

Over the break, my parents wanted to get me a ukelele for Christmas.  I went to pick it out. A very nice gentleman behind the counter helped me find the perfect one. For the sake of this blog, (because with my luck, someone probably knows him) and to protect the innocent, we shall call him Cal Griffin. He was gorgeous. Tall, thin, thick brown hair. Cute scruffy beard. We talked and flirted for probably an hour ish. On and off, because he had to help other costumers. I fantasized that he didn't want to leave my side, of course, but he was on the clock. What a responsible, honest, hard-working young man! ahhh. 

Did I mention he was gorgeous? 

 He was an English major. Musician. Budding novelist. Just working at this store until he became a successful author. I'll bet his writing would melt my heart. 

My dad joined us later to actually purchase the ukelele Cal helped me pick out. Cal made a point to tell us that if there's any problem with the insurance, or anything at all, to give him a call. He said that twice. And my dad liked Cal as much as I did. In the car, he said, "Why don't you call the store, and ask Cal to come to our ward Christmas party!"

So... I did. 

This is the conversation I had: 

"Guitar store. how can I help you?"

"Um..."I panicked. What if I was talking to him?! "Um.. To whom am I speaking?"

"Joe Bresh"

"Hey, Joe.  Do you know Cal Griffin?"

"Ya! Of course. He works in the north desk" 

"Ok, so don't laugh... but do you know if he's dating anyone?"

*Laugh*

"You weren't supposed to laugh!"

"I'm sorry. Cal's a cutie. I don't blame you!"

"Ok... so...?"

"Um... lemme find out!"

"Wait!..." Before I knew it I was on hold. 

"So... I've got some bad news..."

"Aw man. He's dating someone."

"Ya. sorry."

"Well at least he doesn't know who I am right? No harm done."

"Were you the girl in the grey dress?"

I was. 

"Maybe..."

"Ya, he knew who you were. He thought you might call."

"Oh man! that's embarrassing!"

"No! It's flattering to a guy! You're a cute girl."

"Aw thanks. Wait... did we meet...?"

"Ya... you walked into the keyboard section. You asked me where the books were."

"Oh."

I definitely didn't remember anyone besides Cal. 

"But hey, I'm no Cal, but if you're looking for someone to take out, I'm not dating anyone!"

oh dear. 

"Ha ha ha. Merry Christmas!"

inner-10-year-old girl

I had the pleasure of spending the day with my old friend, Whitney.

We giggled about boys. We told stories of stupidity, rumored and of our own.  We walked around trying on clothing WAY out of our price range, and inadvertently added Whitney to a special club in a very high-end clothing store.

We bought a cake pop at Starbucks, just so we could use the bathroom. Guess who ended up eating the cake pop... who knew that Whitney doesn't like cake?!
...

new famous friend :)

Right after finals, I sat next to a very nice man on a plane from Salt Lake to Denver.

As is my custom, I asked, “Are you leaving home or going home?”

“Neither”

“What were you doing in Salt Lake?/why are you going to Denver?”

You know, normal airplane chit-chat.

“I was here for a concert”

“Oh! The Mormon Tabernacle Choir concert?!” I knew several friends who went; that’s the world I live in.

“The what…?” he responded.

 I might have guessed that this bling and chain-clad fellow didn't fly in to Temple Square to hear the Mo-Tab.

“Um… never mind”

“No, I was in a concert.”

“Oh! Cool! What’s your name? Would I have heard of you?”

“You might have. My name’s Sloan Bone. The band’s name is ‘Bone Thugs and Harmony’”

I may be the last person in the world who would have heard of them. To fully appreciate the reality of this scene, I have to give you a background of my musical history and knowledge.

I grew up in show choirs, singing Broadway oldies and pop songs from the 60s; step-touching and snapping to the beats, in bright, cheesy, and often pleather costumes, and we would perform in places like amusement parks and retirement homes.

In high school with my Concert Choir, I sang Schubert’s Mass in G, and a very complicated choral arrangement of, “We Wish You a Merry Christmas.” I was in the Colorado All-State choir, where we sang a Debussy piece, "Nuit d'Etoiles"in the Denver Capital Building.

 My high school musicals consisted of dancing to "Shoeless Joe from Hannibal, MO,"



being the Fairy Godmother in Cinderella,





and directing a musical about women pioneers.

Right now, I am a member of the BYU Women’s Chorus, where we buzz and trill our way through warm ups, so we can sing Sanctus after Sanctus, and some Beatles’ songs...with ukuleles.

The worst part of this all is that it's true.

one should look before one enters a car

about three weeks ago, I had a date call and say he'd pick me up on the curb. For the record, he's a perfect gentleman, and would have come to the door, but we were a little bit late, and it was cold outside, and trying to find parking in my neighborhood is like finding Rudolf on the Fourth of July.

So I ran out, scarf in hand, still putting one arm through the hole of my jacket. I rushed to the white car pulled up by the curb of my apartment complex and jumped in.  As I was organizing myself in the seat, reaching for the seatbelt, I shouted, "HEY! How's it going?" and looked over at the driver.

then promptly said to the confused expression staring back at me:

"Youuuu areeeee not my date."

The nice man laughed, and said, "nope"

"I hope you have a lovely evening. I'll get out of your car now"

When I saw my actual date pulling up right behind. So I popped into his car (which was kind of white, for the record). I asked him if this was the same car he picked me up in last time, and he said no; he was borrowing his roommates.
"ok. cool."

That is a story in itself. However, the story continues.

So last week I was walking around Salt Lake with a blind date, looking at the lights in temple square. A nice man, (Scott I found out later), shouted from across a few people to my date. They knew each other from school, and so he stopped to chat for a moment on the sidewalk. After they discussed some group project, he turned to make small talk with me.
He asked me how I knew my date
"My brother's in your program as well"
he asked me where I lived
"Just south of that restaurant"
"oh? In those apartments?"
"yup!"
"Funny story about that apartment complex..."
I look at my date, and the other couple with us, everyone intent on hearing the funny story.
"I once was parked outside, just on the curb waiting to pick up some friends. And this random girl gets in my car."
At this point I start to giggle. Thinking, what are the chances that another girl got in his car, and that it wasn't me...? He continued,
"She said, 'Hey! how's it going?!" man, he even repeated my inflection pretty convincingly, "then she said, 'Oh you're not my date!' then she gets out!"
so now, I've totally lost it. My giggles are coming out in sobs...
"Do you know who it was?!" he asked
I was thinking I could probably pin this on an invisible roommate, or some crazy friend. but the truth of the matter was just too funny.

"That was me!" I said through hefty laughter.

He said he tweeted about it. #that awkward moment when some girl gets into your car, and realizes you're not her date.

I would have laughed at the tweet.

My friend in the other couple standing beside us, witnessing the whole thing said sincerely, "I'm not even surprised that was you."

honestly, neither am I.

boy story: Wilbur, the curly red-haired coloradan

My apartment went on a roommate date to an acoustic guitar concert. The few of us girls enjoyed what was a exciting night of deep lyrics and provo heartthrobs.

After the show, we walked by the stage, and caught a close glance at one of the performers.

He had played in one of the last bands. Just to give you a picture of this guy: he was wearing shorts and long socks pulled up half-way to his knees, tucked into purple keds. He had a goofy smile and red curly hair, and he was gangly and awkward, but in a cute sort of way. He was a healthy mix of an young Ron Weasley, and Prince Harry. but more awkward. and curly hair. For the sake of this post, we shall call him Wilbur.

I whispered to my roommate, Jenny, as we were leaving, "I kinda want to talk to that kid."
To which she responded, "I'll go with you if you want," she's an awesome wing-woman, "But if you can start a conversation with him, I'll be very impressed."

What was I going to say?
"Hey! You did great! I really liked your set"
To which he would respond, "Thanks! glad you liked it." He might throw in a "thanks for coming" or a "Like us on facebook" too. then that would be the end.

She was right. How could I start a conversation that would be more than two sentences?

Challenge accepted.



So I walked right up to his silly red curly head and said, "Gosh, you look familiar, are you from Colorado?"

Expecting a: "No, I'm from Utah/Arizona/California/Wyoming"and hoping for a: "But Colorado! My roommate/buddy/bishop/dog's uncle has some specific connection to Colorado..."
Taking the chance that conversation would ensue. There's always a connection to the great CO.


What I did NOT expect was what happened:
 "Gosh, you look familiar, are you from Colorado?"
"YA! I am"
"Wait, really?" I was just asking you that to start a conversation. "Denver stake?" thinking he just picked up on my cue, and was playing along,

"Columbine stake."
"Wait, what?! really?"
flabbergasted. That's my stake. "What high school did you go to?"
"CHS"
"REALLY?!" not my high school, but very close by. We probably know tons of people in common. "When did you graduate?!" I might have actutally met him before!
"I graduated in '09.  I served my mission in the Philippines, I'm O positive blood type. what else would you like to know?"
I laughed. It was funny.
"Sorry I just got back from my mission. clearly I'm still awkward. you guys probably think I'm a freak."
Smile. "No we don't"
"So would you maybe want to hang out sometime?'
"Sure!"
pause
Me: "You're just back from your mission right?"
Him: "Ya. ha ha"
Me:  "Well, let me tell you how this goes. here's the part where you..."the rest of my sentence was interrupted by his acknowledging some adoring fan in the distance with a  head nod, before pulling out his phone.
"let's do this. what's your name again?"
Me: "Averill."
Jenny: "Like April with a 'Vuh'" like I said, she's the best wing-woman.
Me: "a-v-e-r-i-l-l"
Wilbur: "Averill. that sounds like a medicine prescription" pause, "But in a...beautiful way"
Huh. I've gotten a lot of responses from that name, but never that.

I contained my giggles until we were walking out the door, when Jenny and I then burst into laughter. Later as we relay the story to our other roommates, I found that what Jenny thought was so funny: "I didn't think she'd even get a conversation, and he got her number. It's bewildering" (that's where the nickname wilbur arose)
I was thinking "heck, I was just trying to prove that I could start a conversation with a random boy. Turns out we were only ten blocks and one grade apart!"

We chit-chatted about my incredible forwardness, and talked about other boys in our lives.
Rachel then said, "I'm rooting for the curly-haired red-head. What's his name?"
I looked at Jenny.
She looked back at me.

the room went silent.

Then roared raucous with laughter.


no one remembered his name!
"Um...He kinda looked like a Wilbur...?"

my one political post

I have thus far avoided any political opinion posts on my facebook,* but I'm writing now, before my opinion becomes moot. 

I sincerely dislike politics. 

The very word "Politics" has negative connotations, bringing to mind a sense of falseness, duplicity, acting. I work with actors. they are very good at making you believe whatever they want. And that is what our political forums have turned into: an act. 

An Oxford professor, Dr. Peter Hacker, recently gave a small lecture at BYU. He stated eloquently that the standard of awareness and real news has been corrupted by mass media communication. We have corrupted the practice of real citizen involvement and discussion. We cannot have serious debates any more because all of our politicians are pre-packedged and pre-programmed. 

To the average voter, to most of Americans, there is no real discussion on what the real problems are, and what real potential solutions might be. There are no conversations, no compromises, and as far as I can tell, there are very few facts. 

Negative campaign ads that take statistics out of context, or commercials that blow up one line from a an entire speech, and ignorant, polarized commentary everywhere, even among my own friends and family.

I would never claim to be an expert on politics, I don't consider myself even politically aware, so that is why some of my experiences drove further the point of my frustration. I worked on both campaigns. Albeit for a short amount of time, I was involved in campaigning for both Romney and Obama in this election, in hopes, both times, to become more educated and aware of the scene. And both sides were as ignorant and closed-minded as the other. A main focus, as far as I could tell, was to villainize the opponent. No one--on either side--mentioned the other candidate's policies, except to remark plainly how insane or awful they were. 

These campaigns have created a necessity to vote, not discuss. They need to motivate voters by rousing passions, providing a sense of urgency; each side is assailing us with a feeling of desperation that the other candidate will destroy our nation--nay, the world. I feel slightly manipulated because of such extremist thinking. 

Also, people tend to jump to conclusions, in order to sound more convincing. (Let's be honest, we've all done that when writing persuasive essays--right?)  

But in their passions, they sometimes skip over some logic. 

A very intelligent, politically active friend of a friend of mine said something to this effect: 

• To my friends who 'say' you believe in women's rights...You're voting for Romney because of his economic abilities? Well look me in the eye and tell me that your take-home pay is more important than your fundamental civil rights, dignity as a citizen of this country... the mental welfare and emotional well-being of your youth, and your very personhood.

And on the other side, we've all heard the argument somewhere along the lines of:

• If you don't want this country to get dragged down to hell by this incompetent, socialist who's ashamed of America, we need to get Obama OUT of the white house! 

What logical fallacies! Romney is not going to take away women's rights. Also, just because he doesn't believe in gay marriage does not mean that the dignity and emotional and mental well-being of our youth is under attack. And need I remind the country that Obama has ALREADY been president for four years? Yes, we have problems, but we are not stuck in hell, and we certainly do not have an incompetent leader. 

They raised upwards of $900 million EACH for this campaign. Obviously both of these men got where they are by having outrageous amounts of support. Neither of them are idiots. Please stop insulting my own intelligence by telling me to vote for one because the other is awful and crazy and incompetent. 

Because he's not. 

Good luck to both of these men. 

Maybe some day, one of these politicians will acknowledge that his opponent had a good idea? Wouldn't that be interesting. 

I'll keep dreaming.  

To my politically-active friends: please tell me what I am missing here. 

*The one facebook post about politics I wrote was to announce that first-time colorado voters need to attach a copy of their license in an absentee ballot. But it was a non-partisan announcement, and turned out to be false anyway. (If they sent you an absentee ballot, they already had your registered license number). 

to every awkward seventh-grade girl: there is hope.

Normally our show travels to elementary schools, but one show of the whole touring run, we performed in front of a middle school audience.

When some of the cast said that we really did not love middle school, my director warned us that we might panic slightly when back in a middle school setting.  I laughed off the thought! But she gave us some mantras to say, just in case. "Talk yourself down: 'I have friends. I am a grown up. I am cool. I am cooler than seventh-graders. I've kissed boys. I'm in a main stage show at BYU.'" The cast just giggled. ya ya, sure. we'd be fine.

Then we stepped inside the middle school building.

Suddenly I was the gangly, acne-covered, braces-clad, big-nosed, awkward being that I was in seventh grade. 

My brain started to get fuzzy.

I was back in the hellish existence that was my adolescence.

"Oh No. Did I put on those stupid jeans again? the ones that only go to my ankle bone? Am I wearing that old pooh bear sweatshirt again?! Are my socks the right length?!"

My mother's voice rang through my thoughts,
"It doesn't matter if those silly kids think you look dorky, honey. Sneakers are so much more practical. You could start the trend! You could make tennis shoes a cool thing!"

Panic set in, my awkward middle school posture came rushing over me.
My memory flashed back to my 7th-grade audition for "Bye Bye Birdie".

I complained about how awful "Put on a Happy Face" was as an audition song for Kim McAfee.

I could hear Kara Semrey's weasel-y little voice croak, "YOU think YOU could play KIM?!"
"Why not?!" "i'm the best singer in the class!" I thought.
"Well first of all, you're waaaaay too tall!"
"And second...?"
In response, she just laughed. An awful, nasal cackle, and she and her posse turned away.
"Good one, Kare Bear" I heard as they followed her down the hall of the tiny theater.


I got cast as "BOY #3". they didn't even register that I was a GIRL.



I had to call upon my director's mantras:
"I am a grown-up. I have friends. I am cool. I'm way cooler now than Kara Semrey ever was in seventh grade. I've kissed boys. I am in a main-stage show at Brigham Young University. Calm down!"

Hunched and fidgety, I felt these Jr. High Schoolers watch me; glaring little beady eyes, staring me down.

A typical day in sleepy hollow

I wake up at some awful hour of the morning. (Sometimes my call time is 6:15 am.) As I arrive at the school, and see another shadow disappearing into a building, I think, "What poor soul is on campus at THIS hour?!" then I chuckle at myself. because I'm here. Blegh.

I do my hair, and put on my makeup and costume.

But it's not quite that easy.
I put on gobs of makeup. corrector, cover-up, foundation, powder, blush, eyeliner, highlight, shadow, mascara... All in an effort to look effortlessly, naturally beautiful.

I tease, spray, mold, and pin my hair into an arrangement of a bounty of cascading curls (attempting to capture my designer's vision).

I put on stockings, then bloomers, then a petticoat, then a huge skirt, then a bustle--the whole thing has my hips carrying an extra 7 pounds all on a very small clasp that is very tight around my waist. then i struggle into a custom-made jacket, where I avoid pulling one single hair out of place. I then velcro, then snap, and then finally lace a ribbon down the front of the bodice to put it all into place.

After all that time and configuring, to create an 1800's New Englander. I feel remarkably... comfortable. I feel like a 19th century ingenue. I feel naturally and effortlessly beautiful. It is quite a remarkable thing: under all of that, I feel very much myself.

Then I get the indescribable pleasure of doing the show. I am a narrator, an old woman, who is a marvelous cook; a mischievous school child; a choir singer with a lisp; and Katrina VanTassel: a sought-after duplicitous peach of a young woman.

I get to sing and dance and just PLAY for most of an hour.

After the show, when I take off my costume, I feel 15 pounds lighter. I wash of my thick makeup, unpin my hair, and feel like myself again. just in a slightly different way.

Sleepy Hollow Cinderella Story

I feel a little bit like a certain Disney princess these days.

Let me tell you a little bit about this Cinderella Story of mine:


When I saw my name on the cast list for Sleepy Hollow, I was in denial.  Shock and awe. Literally had NO expectation AT ALL that I would make the company. But by some divine intervention: I did!

We had a pre-show production meeting. We have a production TEAM. YES> A whole team of people working to make this touring company a successful venture.

We have a hair and make-up design team, a costume design team, and a tour coordinator. Not to mention the stage managers and technical crew for the run at BYU.

In the spring, I went to the basement of the arts building to get my costume, but I walked into the wrong room. You see, I've done student shows before, and I've been costumed, but turns out there is a GINORMOUS costume shop for main-stage productions

it was like stepping into NARNIA!

My costume!

The measured every inch they could possibly find on my body. I said, "You can't possibly use all of these measurements" (like, for example, the circumference of my forearm?). The cute girl with the measuring tape said, "You'd be surprised. When we make skin-tight spandex suits, we need every measurement we can get"

I didn't ask what they were making skin tight spandex suits for.


This is the custom designed, hand-made, specially tailored costume---->
Isn't it darling?!


 I am seriously the luckiest person in the world.


We are the BYU Young Company.

the cast with our incredible director

We travel to elementary (and middle) schools around Utah every Tuesday and Thursday. We do our funny, charming, imaginative, INTERACTIVE show, "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow." The show is brilliantly adapted from Washington Irving's classic short story by our Phenomenal Director into a fast-paced, multiple-charactered, two-person show. (well, 4. depending)

Black Eyes Part II.

I went on another date with this boy. Member THIS ONE, where I had mascara all over my face when I came home?

Well, I asked him casually (super smoothly) if he had happened to read my blog after our date.


"Ya, I did"
"YOU DID?! Did you notice??"
"uh. ya. I did"
"ok. why didn't you say anything?!"
"I didn't know what it was."

comforting.


so that's the closure for those of you following this story. I hope you found as much peace as I did.

two black eyes

As my date dropped me off at my doorstep, I opened the door to find my roommate sitting at the kitchen table. So I stood in the open doorway and faced my date to bid him goodnight.  He said, "This feels rather...formal"

"Why yes. it does." I replied in my most formal, cordial British accent, "Well, sir, I hope you enjoy a lovely rest of the evening"

"I hope you do as well, madam. And I dare say I hope to see you again"

"I shall wait with bated breath"

"Well, Goodnight!"

"Bye (insert date's name)! See 'ya later!"

I shut the door behind him and giggled at our cleverness. 

Abby said, "how was the date?"

I gushed in detail about the date:

How much fun I had just sitting and talking for much longer than expected. I relayed how impressed I was with his knowledge of American politics (because of his exotic Canadian upbringing). I told her that we met a waiter who knew a friend of ours. I expressed that I said the phrase, "the moral of the story" at least eight times. As I was starting into the tale of our giant chocolate truffle cake, I happened to catch a glance of myself in a small mirror, and to my horror, saw this:

I appeared to have had two black eyes. Rebellious eyeliner had plagued the top of my cheekbones with dark smudges. I looked like the end of a teary-break up, smeared with makeup. Or like I'd gotten caught in a coal mining accident. Or like a bad halloween costume of an over-worked witch. 

"Dear goodness!" I exclaimed to Abby.

"What?"

"How long do you think I looked like this?!"

"oh man..."

"How long has it been like that?! All night probably! Oh gosh! Why didn't he say anything?! maybe he didn't notice?"

Abby crinkled her nose, "Um... maybe..."

"Oh my gosh. He MUST have noticed. how could he NOT?"

Trying to console me, she optimistically pointed out that it was a lot less noticeable when I smiled, as the creases in the bags under my eyes were filled in, and only accented when I dropped the grin. "So you must have been smiling a lot...?" 

Note to self: 

If you buy new eyeliner before a first date, check the bags under your eyes in the mirror at least half way through. As to avoid him remembering you as the girl who's football game war-paint had gone terribly wrong. 

I know that I know you...?

I know this man. I've seen his face.
In the few moments I have before he sees me/recognizes me I have the opportunity to sort this out in my head:

OK.
 are you an old acquaintance ? from my home state? friend of a friend from church in colorado?
Did you once work tech on a show I was in? GAH! Were you IN a show that I was in...?

No. I hope that I would definitely remember his name if it were any of these... but alas I don't.

so I continue listing the options:

• did I once flirt with him in the library? or waiting in line to get food somewhere? 
• (not that this happens often, but it's a possibility)
• we were in a class together maybe?
• summer camp? summer program? EFY? Freshman year?
• did we once go on a date?
• were we once supposed to go on a date, so I stalked him on facebook?
• did my friend once go on a date... so I stalked him on facebook?
• did I just come across him stalking other people on facebook?
• I would really not like to admit to that being probable. but it is.
• did I see him in a show once, and thought he was great, and because I really connected to his character on stage, I remember his face like we were best friends?
• happens more than you'd think...

He's turning his gaze my direction. I have approximately 0.0763 seconds to decide the course of action. I could go two ways with this:

1) I could say, "HEEEY!" like we know each other. And if he was a victim of my stalking in any form or another, and actually never met me at all, I could seamlessly pretend like I was calling to someone behind him, or really quickly raise my phone to my ear, like I had been talking to someone on the phone...
or
2) I could pretend not to see him, pretend that I was busy with my phone, continue to walk past, avoid any awkward confrontation.

I turn my head, just enough as to prevent potential eye-contact. I keep walking.

Just as I take a breath of relief, (he must not have known me after all!)

I hear:"Averill!"

(that's when I know they really know me--they pronounce my name correctly.)

"Averill! hey! how are you?!"

oh no.





"HEEEY"

Numbers

How strange time is.

I recently music directed a show at a local elementary school. One of the sixth grade girls was self-conscious about her costume because a cute boy was in the audience. She pointed him out, and I thought, “oh dear, honey. This man is some little kid’s father. He's way to old for you to be worried about what he thinks of your costume.” 

But then I realized she wasn't looking at the 30-something gentleman, who I had thought was attractive, but the 12-year-old boy sitting next to him. The kid had hair that stuck out at funny angles. His mouth was overwhelmed with braces. And his skinny little limbs were swimming in his clothes. That boy looked so young He was young! But my little actress was self-conscious around this cute, older boy. 

I remember being a giggly sixth grade girl.

• The conversation I had with my mother later that day:
• Me: “I remember when twelve-year-old boys looked so old!”
• Mom: “I remember when forty-year-old boys looked old.”
• Then we both burst into laughter.

Do you remember when you thought that a 12-year-old was old? Now what do you think of when you think of a twelve-year-old?*

And then as soon as you turn twelve, all you want to be is 16.

As a 12-year-old I thought, "when I am sixteen, I will be beautiful. I will have grown out of my big nose by then. I will be tall and lean and datable. Nay! Not just datable, but desirable."

Then I turned sixteen. I was pretty much as awkward as I had been my whole life--maybe more so. I was taller--now taller than most of my classmates, and I still didn't like my nose.  maybe went on 2 dates (max).

But it was ok, because in 4 years, when I turned 20—TWENTY! It'd all be figured out. I’d be in college,  I’d have already accomplished so much by then, it’d be hard to turn down all of the perfect job offers that would be flung at me every day—because I’d already have the perfect job. (what it was, I didn’t know—but it would be perfect.)

I mean, 18 was OLD (now, 18 is so young--am I right?), but you were still allowed to not know what you wanted to do when you grew up.

BUT 20 was wicked old--in fact you were grown up, and if you didn't have your life figured out by then... you’re pretty much a slacker.

Now I’m 20. My sixteen-year-old self is calling me a slacker.

The most knowledgable I ever was was at 16--My parents will attest to that--when I didn't know what I didn't know.


The more I know, the more I know how little I know--you know?

The better I become at things, like piano or tennis, the more I realize how much further I need to go to become actually good.

The more I discover about the world--the more I travel, the more experiences I have-- the more I discover how much more there is to know about the world.

The more people expect maturity, the more I realize how very immature I am. The more "adult" I officially become, the less "adult" I feel. 

What makes us "mature"? education? life experience? knowledge?

age?

I hope not.

I have lived 20 years, 5 months, and 16 days. 7,476 days exactly.  I realize to some people that sounds very young. 


When I'm 30, THEN I'll have all the answers.

yup. I'm sure of it. 

*I thought i'd add a picture of a 12-year-old kid to illustrate my point, but then I felt like a creep stealing a picture from a "12-year-old boy" google search. But--funny little moment-- the first picture that came up was one of Justin Bieber. bah ha ha.

My.Friends.Are.Awesome

I have been asked several times: "If BYU students don't drink... What do you do?"

Well, sometimes my friends throw EPIC Harry Potter Parties:

(made with butterscotch, and butter. no alcohol, in case you're wondering)

Me (Professor Trelawney), surrounded by nondescript Hogwarts students: Ammon (Slytherin perhaps?), Ashley (Ravenclaw Representative), and Jackie (Gryffindor Girlie)

Jackie, Chelsea, and Kelsey in the world they created!

Kelsey as Luna under the sorting hat!

Dan=Lupin. Obviously.

David as Serious

Proof. 

Madison as Bellatrix... COOL right?!

this is the sober college life. 

We need nothing but our imaginations (and a lot of work put into apartment #3) To have a MAGICAL Saturday night. 

sniffles on an airplane

Friday, August, 24th, 2012.

You know when you get on an airplane and there’s that one girl…

She starts to sniffle, then cough, but daintily, to try and mask the fact that she’s probably infecting the air you’re all sharing in this extremely enclosed space that is the plane. She asks for more tissues from the flight attendant, because she’s in the window seat and can’t get out to get them herself, so her row companions get to watch her wipe her desperately runny nose with her sleeve, because the flight attendant forgot about her request. And of course she can’t sleep, because she’s now coughing and sneezing (at least attempting to curtail the blows, but really just making it worse) and leaning against that awkwardly concave window, in an attempt to get comfortable. The whole scene is just a horrible annoyance.

You know what’s worse than sitting next to that person?? Being that person!

MISERY.

In the last week, starting Monday Night, I’ve gotten a total of 12 hours of sleep in 5 days.

Between writing a final essay, traveling to and from Denmark, studying for a final exam, packing, then catching the bus, I have gotten an average of 2-3 hours a night.

I used to have this awesome super power. I bragged about this super power: I could sleep pretty much anywhere, pretty much anytime, under pretty much any circumstance. As of this week, my power is lost. I tried to sleep on the bus to the airport on Wednesday, because we woke up at 4:30, and I’d gone to bed at 2, so I was exhausted. I tried to sleep on the plane ride to Copenhagen. I tried to sleep on the way back, after having walked around a city for 10 hours: the plane the train and the other train. Unsuccessful.

I tried to sleep in my own BED last night, but for fear of sleeping through my alarm, I didn’t sleep at all. Zilch.

I tried to sleep on the 3 hour bus ride to the airport this morning, and the EIGHT HOUR plane ride to Chicago.  All my efforts futile.

What’s wrong with me? My super-power is gone! All right—who in Cambridge was hiding the Kryptonite?

And because of this highly stressful week (I wrote a final paper, traveled to Denmark, sent in a final portfolio, and took a final exam) and extreme lack of sleep, apparently, I am now sick.

Super.

I finally just gave up trying to sleep, and started writing this. My poor airplane companions: this blog post is dedicated to you all. It’s hard enough being stuffed in this quarantined air vessel together for eight hours, without some miserable little sicky poisoning the air. And even though you don’t know me, and will probably never see me again, please accept my sincerest apology for my current state of being.

Next time I see a coughy, sneezy person on my airplane, I will not be annoyed. My heart goes out to you poor soul in sympathy. I’ll probably still overdose on vitamins and cold-preventatives as soon as I get off the plane though. No offense.