Oh the addicting pull of pictures and rhetoric. We're all nerds.
1)We can't nuke Nevada until EmPo and Bradly have made their exit, but I love the idea. See side post by Danielson.
2)Bulletin--In our latest "Get to Bed by 1AM" contest, Crystal Fair has won the first week. Bless her little brat heart. It was close--for awhile, then she won by a landslide; therefore, I admit owing her a shake or smoothie of her choice.
3)However, there's always next week. And I KNOW I can beat her because she's a night-aholic just like moi--we howl at the moon and jig jag under stars--which is not easy to overcome. Let's raise the stakes--dinner at Winger's or Applebees? We start again Monday, which means I begin getting ready at 8AM on Sunday. Whaaaaa...
Sister Morgan teaching and laughing:
We never say goodbye.
That was a dang good cake!
Winner gets a Viking Bar. Just kidding, this is a joke in honor of the good old Education Department. If you don't get it, just read on.
1. Must be six words long--no longer, no shorter.
2. Don't cheat. (If you figure out how to cheat, please let us know.)
3. No profanity please (unless it's imperative for the story).
4. Submit all entries as responses to this post. (If they are bad, log in as Kaitlin when she's not looking.)
By Jacob Hasler
Saturday morning Alyssa and I were walking past the bath towels at a Super Target in North Salt Lake. She held a scanner in one hand and mine with the other. I felt a bit presumptuous zapping every barcode for the things either she or I wanted. I numbed to this sensation after about the fiftieth item was added to our registry. Reaching over to touch each of the towels, we searched for a brand that was thick, soft, and inexpensive.
“What do you like?” I asked searching the long row of options.
“I don’t know,” she responded, putting one of the towels back on the shelf. “What color is this?
I paused, smiled at her and thought, “Here it goes again.”
It was only the day before when I realized color coordination in our future house would be a joint effort. We were at Bed Bath and Beyond staring down designer shower curtains hung high above us. Cloth draped down in waves of dissonant colors as we skimmed through the line.
“Jacob, come look at this one.” Alyssa held out a simple curtain, slightly transparent, with a vine of daises in a deep gold.
“What’s wrong? Don’t you like it?” I realized that I hadn’t hid my thoughts well by this comment. There was no use in lying; I didn’t want to be stuck with this shower curtain.
“Well, I like the pattern, but it’s just an ugly color,” I told her, unable to understand why she liked it.
“Wait… it’s green, isn’t it?”
“Oh,” a grin came onto my face. Everything made sense as I tried to imagine the pattern in her favorite color: a soft lemon leaf. It looked pretty good the way she saw it.
“No Alyssa, it’s not green, it’s kind of a brown-gold, like in the sixties.”
“Oh,” she said disheartened.
We kept searching for a few minutes but finally gave up. I never thought I would be double checking everything from bedding to drapes. I’m a guy; I’m not good at that stuff. (Don’t get mad Jami, but I think gender roles come into play here.)
I thought it was weird though that Alyssa’s favorite color was green – the one she confused the most. Much of the weekend was spent trying to understand which greens “looked good.” For example, I learned that sage is ugly, forest is more of a tan, and lime is ideal. It’s the hardest thing to imagine what it’s like to be colorblind without ever experiencing that sensation yourself. It’s like seeing two completely different things and you’re taught that they’re the same. But isn’t not true for every color. She tells me that purples, greens, and yellows are the hardest to separate, but blues are easier. Evergreens look brown and the bark of some fruit trees look florescent orange as if they were sprayed with paint, at least I think.
Alyssa has tried to explain a number of times, but I can’t comprehend it yet. It’s difficult to match colors that look good to both of us. I think our house might be oddly colored at times, but that’s okay – as long as Alyssa thinks it’s good. Maybe I’ll take an interior design class next year.
To Be Human
by Ivor Lee
I am not a wandering king trapped
by duties’ responsibility,
unable to travel or seek the isles
of the happy or to conquer the
scudding drifts of the sea. I am not a
herculean giant, invincible;
a warrior of glory bowing to
no gods on battle’s ringing plains. I
am not the blinded poet calling to
the epic tapestries’ fiber to spin.
It has not been my mantle to write lines
of heroic script, for this is not my gift.
I have not wandered realms of man looking
for meaning in the rise and fall of crimson
suns that shade the earth in world devouring
light. I do not know the dealings of the gods,
for I am no prophet, with no gift to
peer into the churning tide of future
forbidden and I have not seen the dawn
of time where gods and goddesses began.
I am but a man—called to do the things
unnoticed by the tomes of history,
Though through their raging of heroes ego’s
I have heard the voices in the leaves speak
its secret language without listening
to the autumn crush or the winter moonlight
—feeling their truths and so finding no fame
because fame denies its sense for power.
I long to understand their speech and join
them in their whispering on the summer breeze,
far beyond the bounds of all my limits.
I am locked by pleasant care, looking to
those beside me, that I love and would not
leave for Ilium’s glory, for comfort
and rest when my heart echoes the siren song
of journey far into the unknown depths
that always sings the clearness of the deep.
What I am, I am. No strength to lift the
mountains or cause all armies to quiver.
No sophistry in my bones or preaching
to the crawling masses starved for knowledge.
I am just a man, ordinary in
manner and likeness to all His peoples.
I am a weak thing of the earth. Like
a sparrow in the hand of providence,
to fall and fly and not to fight the will
I rely on—the power greater than
my own, my God and find my rest in Him.
Some things I will actually miss about being pregnant, though. At the top of my list is I will miss not having a good excuse to eat any time and at any place. And I'm sure Lance will miss having accessible snacks everywhere, too. (He particularly enjoys stealing my crackers during sacrament meeting.) And, well, that's about all that I think I'll miss. Actually, I take that back, I thought of one more--I will miss feeling her kick in my tummy. I know sometimes she can get a little carried away and kick into my ribs or sometimes she won't settle down when I'm trying to sleep, but I still will miss not feeling her little person inside of me. I know that sounds weird, but that's just how it is.
And please excuse me. I know my posts are all about babies or being pregnant, but it's all I ever think about anymore. Like Sis. Morgan says, though, we have to stop and see what's happening to us now, and this is the biggest thing happening in my life right now. So here it is.
P.s. Anona, girl, when the heck are you due? And thanks for the warning on the childbirth video.
Three experiences typifying the development of my social interactions.
Fall 2007. I was visiting some friends up at the Ridge. Four girls and I were seated in stiff but attractive metal chairs around a rectangular table—the chairs were thick and heavy, and didn’t slide to or from the table easily. I was sitting at the head of the table, my chair a little farther back than the rest of the company. I watched them give one cheap joke after another, with everyone laughing sharply after each line. Remember to keep smiling, I told myself. I studied their faces, trying to see what I could learn from their eyes. Nothing intellectual; intelligence would intimidate them, and they’re only looking for a cheap laugh anyway. One of them, a tall and strong highlight blonde with pig-pink skin (sorry, it’s the best color I could place it with,) offered some double entendre. Something stupid for a cheap laugh. Give them what they want. “Wait—what do you mean by that?” I said. I pulled the right side of my mouth up into a smile, and they exploded in laughter.
February 2008. My New Year’s resolution had been to be more honest and real in my dealings. I realized I had been manipulative and a bit controlling (I referred to it as “guiding” social situations at the time, perhaps to abate my conscious,) and that wouldn’t produce a good relationship. At this point, I had been dating my girlfriend for about a month, and was comfortable acting naturally around her and just “being myself.” I no longer deliberately chose each of my words, as I did in the fall, and I’d stopped constantly analyzing people, too. Let what happens happen, I thought. I was in a relationship, and I was happy, and so what could go wrong if I didn’t constantly monitor all of my actions?
At the Writing Center, I was talking with one of the other black vests. Every time I picture myself saying something stupid to a person I’m trying to impress, it’s always to Jacob, so I’ll just use him. I was leaning on the lip of the front desk, making light conversation with him—telling a story about a funny session I had, or asking about the most interesting thing he’d learned so far from observing his sessions. I was talking, but I wasn’t thinking about what I was saying. He made some statement, or asked a question, and I gave a mildly offensive reply as a joke. He smirked uncomfortably, and then went to work on his twenty-sessions essay. I don’t remember what I said; at the time, I was only trying to impress one person, and she wasn’t there.
Now, or maybe a week ago, I don’t care. Walking on the sidewalk between the Clark building and the grassy quad by the library, I was thinking about myself. Why was I in more control of my tongue when I was being controlling? A girl was sitting on the middle of the grass, her pants rolled up above her calves and her sunglasses eyes looking into some paperback novel. She’s cute. It can’t possibly be that it’s good to manipulate people, even if it’s for a decent cause, so how do I find a balance where I’m carefully choosing my words but not doing it to control? I shuffled forward, tugging up at the leg of my jeans which had slid down and caught under my heel. The day was bright, but my sunglasses made life look less colorful and more gray—the walk between the Spori and that wall behind the Kirkham wasn’t a exactly very vibrant place anyway. My mind flashed back to the times in seminar where I had hastily pushed out a response to a question I hadn’t really understood, or when I was simply talking to a co-worker and I would lose control of my words and make myself appear as a brainless idiot. It seemed like the deliberateness I once utilized had slipped out of my grasp, like my words had taken lives of their own. Talking to friends and associates I respected had become a nervous endeavor—my words seemed to be unbridled and often betrayed me. I had recognized the lack of attention I was giving my world and how dead I felt after the break up, and trying to rectify that, I made an effort to pay more attention. The dirt where the lawn would soon border the street was a rich brown—I walked to the edge of the sidewalk to be close to it and look at the pebbles and grains which speckled the soil. My mind flashed back to the fall when I met my friend Cici. In a second, I saw that her apparel and demeanor was light—jeans and a t-shirt, lighthearted ditzy jokes—but that she also had a deeper appreciation for important manners than she let on.
It would take work to get back to that point.
So speaking of films...Austin and I have been going to these childbirth classes at the hospital, and they've been fairly non-graphic, up until this week, when we get shown a video of women giving birth. Gross! I don't plan on watching myself give birth, and I certainly don't want to see other women do it. We both tried not to watch the screen without seeming too immature about it.
Afterwards, this other pregnant lady asked the teacher what the point of showing us the video was, because she felt like she was about to puke and pass out at the same time. And the teacher had the most BS answer ever! Something about how seeing it helped you appreciate what your body was capable of. Please. I think when we experience actual childbirth we'll appreciate what we're capable of. So then the indignant pregnant lady points out that patients who are about to undergo major surgery don't watch a video of other people having surgery right before they go into the operating room. At which point the teacher said "I appreciate your honesty," and changed the subject.
So anyway, this post is for people who have the courage (or lack of social conditioning) to say the things you want to but never do.
I would never dare follow Dan's masterpiece (Is it possible to get that horse activity as a screen saver? You could sell it, Dan), but this happens to be a terrible emergency. Crystal stopped in my office last Wednesday to finish her Chocolate Milk before studying and ended up talking for 3+ hours--she cried off and on, missed her class, and yelled at Ivor to go away. (I know Ivor thought I was making her cry; excuse me?) In fact, Crystal wasn't really crying; tears were just coming out her eyes. Problem? Crystal is as sleep deprived as I am. We don't sleep, and we're both a big mess because of it.
The night's talk was incredible. But could either of us tell anyone else what we talked about? NO. Because of intense sleep deprivation, Crystal is walking into doors, and I'm leaving work late, thinking it's 9 PM when it's actually 2 AM or 3. (My average bedtime has been 4:30 AM this past month. That's disgusting.) So, I'm sacrificing. To save Crystal's young life, I have challenged her to a contest. Therefore, we officially declare on this blog that Crystal Fair and Sister Morgan are entering in to a blood-and-guts, do-or-die "Get-to-Bed-Before-1 AM-Contest."
Crystal is already swaggering and bragging that she'll win hands down. No way. She's lost already. We started last night. Each had to e-mail Ivor when we went to bed to report in. Crystal lost by one hour; I lost by 2+. But, I'm calling a one time Do-Over. The contest officially starts today, June 18, 2008 (well, technically, it'll be 06/19).
To save Ivor, we mounted a chart on the back of my door. Crystal wants butterfly stickers; she's such a baby. Our sleep-deprived habits are deeply ingrained, so we're only setting this up one small week at a time. (We don't need to pile failure onto this insane addiction to night air.) The winner for the week will buy the other a smoothie. I suggested an IPod as prize, but C. said that would be stupid, since both she and I have IPods already.
Rules? 1. Be in bed, after prayers--with no computers--by 1 AM. 2. Complete honesty, and absolutely no excuses count unless we're calling the other from the Spirit World after a bad accident. That's not funny; sorry, Dan.
But, Crystal says she had a good excuse for messing up last night, and that I didn't have an excuse. She's such a nervy little twit. "You just got distracted," she says.
Ha. I don't know what kept her up, but I had to chase Patch down again, who is having a torrid love affair with a skunk, who hates his guts. After Patch's bath, I had to take a shower, and Lysol the whole house, and then, to overcome the anxiety and stress, I eased into ITunes to find proper "skunk hunting" music for a minute ... or two. In other words, who could judge excuses? Right. No one. So they don't count. 3. No sleep aids--like hammers or chaining oneself to headboards. 4. We must stay in bed. No sneaking back out at any time after 1 AM to walk around under heavenly trees and 1000 stars, or to talk to roommates whom you may never see again, or to watch X-File reruns on TV. No excuses. It's 1 AM or lose.
Crystal is so sure she's going to win that she's already picking out flavors of smoothies. Ha. Crystal Fair is going down.
The screenplay for Incredible Hulk was collaborated on by several famous authors, namely Annie Dillard, Joan Didion, Henry Wordsworth Longfellow, and Shakespeare. And it stars Edward Norton. It's, like, the biggest cultural event of the decade. So, we should go.
If you keep telling such whoopers, I'm posting you on the blog. I'M NOT GOING TO THE INCREDIBLE HULK. What if someone saw me going in? My whole reputation as a movie snob with excellent critical taste and class would be destroyed forever. His face alone makes me want to give up buttered popcorn. No way, no where, no how; give it up, Child.
My cousin says it's a good little car. She's had it for the past five years. It needs a few repairs, but it's mine. She's saving it for me until I come out there.
I probably shouldn't get excited over a car that burns oil, needs a new windshield, and has a broken speedometer, but I haven't had my own car since high school. I had a '91 Ford Taurus my junior year. It stopped moving after a small engine fire. Next was an '89 Ford Tempo. My best friend sold it to me when her parents bought her a new car, and my brother trashed it when I left for college. The poor car wasn't worth much after it threw a rod.
No longer will I have to plead for rides to the grocery store or Walmart. I can even drive to Salt Lake and back without a problem (I hope). Plus I like the sound of "my car." "Do you need a ride? I drove my car"
About those mints we have and consume so voraciously. I like them. I love the wint-o-green. It tastes like a clean and hilly snow-covered field. It's nice. Tastes clean. Kaitlyn gave me a limit of five-per-day. I don't love the pep-o-mint, though; it tastes like a furnace to me. I've never tasted a furnace, but in my ignorant mind, that's what it tastes like. It's a little bitter, too, whereas the wint-o-green is sweet and sugary. Both are a soft chemical white color.
There is a big difference between the two, and one of the worst things in life is a taste-surprise. Other types of surprises are okay, like surprise parties and surprise promotions, but when something doesn't taste like what you've prepared your tongue for, it's not a good surprise. It's horrible-- a travesty, especially when the difference between expectation and reality is so extreme. It's like being punched in the diaphragm when you're expecting a high five or something. Just like that.
On a completely unrelated note:
Dan, you've truly been my mentor because I've ended up just like you.
Anyway, here is one of those slide show things like Sis. Morgan does. <3 Google and Picasa.
When can I come up to the Center and see everyone? From the looks of the photo album there are a lot of new people. Was that Steve in the pictures, Sis. Morgan? I haven't seen him for at least 2 years.
We got to Idaho and my family left. They went on some business trip. David went to work today, and I have yet to find a job. So I decided to be productive and clean the house. And yet here I am blogging. Yes, summer break is all about unfulfilled goals and ambitions. Joyous times of life.
So I was listening to the classical music station while I was "cleaning" and I learned about this famous composer (whose names escapes me) who destroyed all his compositions from his early years. It reminded me of when I was in high school and I went through all my middle school poetry (you can only imagine how entertaining that was to read) and threw it all in the garbage can. I remember flipping through the journals and ripping out the old poetry and entries that I felt were not good enough and flung them into the trash. I still have the journals with the binding slightly saggy because of the removed pages. I wonder if someday I will regret doing that. I only slightly regret it now, solely because I can only imagine how "tragic and serious" it was. At the time I knew I was destined to sit upon hillsides and under trees to write pathetic poetry. I'm not so sure that that dream/ambition has changed too much--perhaps the genre and the setting in which I would write has altered, but this image of myself has pretty much remained stable. I wonder if the composer every felt bad about not keeping his old stuff, or if he realized it was trash and moved onto different genres and settings of his dreams. Maybe I need to do what he did. Maybe I need to throw out everything I've written since the last purge and start afresh. This coming from the girl who can't throw away her old notes from her favorite high school English class--pathetic.
So when can we all go to a movie or something? I missed the last one, but whose up for another?
Thanks to many-- to Kaitlin for helping me brave Walmart on Thursday night to shop. Thank you very much to Jami, Kiersten, and Meghan for coming three hours early to help. They cooked also and worked very hard.
But special thanks to Jami, Chandler, and Kaitlin for not leaving my canoe at the bottom of the river after they tipped it over beyond the bridge (I'm still puzzled over how they could tip a full-sized canoe over in a small river. Was it Matt's blood on the seat that cursed them?) However, they could have easily floated for safety in the snow run-off water, bless their hearts. (But, of course, they knew I'd shoot them for abandoning the canoe just to save their lives.)
I think Jason and Kiersten tied over the marshmallow contest with Chan as a close second (second only because he ate all his himself, instead of sharing); Kudos to Sarah and all others for singing to help my flowers grow.(I'm amazed at the sound of the harmony against the background of trees, stars, and a river--beautiful. We have great talent.) Thanks to Matt for quoting scriptures to Chan about how not to tip over canoes. And an award goes to Eric for "most improved fire builder from Maryland." Thanks to Nate for leaving half a carton of Sherbet for me to eat over the weekend.
Special thanks to Travis and Jami for helping clean up even though they left early, and I'm very grateful for those who stayed to clean at the end--Was it Sarah or Stephanie who cleaned out the bean pan I gave up on and threw back into the sink? Thanks. Good food. Good company (though I do miss the talking; the singing was as good or better). Loved the sunset as the background for fire smoke and assistants wrapped in robes, socks, and hipster clothes. We are blessed.