"My name is Marius Pontmercy." "And mine's Cosette!"

I'm not poetic enough to recap my entire year.

This pathetic attempt at a blog post is all you're getting. 

And I won't apologize, because I'm not sure anyone cares about anything I have to say, anyway.

This New Year's Eve, I decided to join the party by drinking fluorescent liquid and using drugs.

It's all absolutely against my will, and with the Niquill I just swallowed, I'll be asleep pre-celebration.

Also, you should know how much I hate Mucinex. 

Geez, I am a good time.

In other news,

I've seen Les Miserables twice in three days. 

And the Marius-Cosette-Eponine love triangle has always been my most favorite part of the story.

Oh yeah.

Happy New Year.

Loving life. Is that a crime? If it were, we'd all be criminals.

I am not coming home from this Christmas cabin in the mountains.

Not ever. 

Especially because varieties of these tiny humans are crawling over every square inch of this space:

Tiny ones, twin ones, toothless ones, chubby ones, bald ones, ones with lisps...

I am loving them all one thousand junior mints.

Like, seriously. Tots and her "petty dess" in the above picture, and the way she says, "luhhh yoooo kikki"... I love that Taytum-Tots.

It is HEAVEN over here.

I have decided that it's time for me to start reproducing. 

...

.....

......

just kidding.

But one day, I'm going to have a million babies, and I'm going to kiss every single one of them four thousand times a day. 

I'm a kiss enthusiast.

And isn't it lovely that I get to be with them forever because of the Plan of Happiness?

My sweet dad suggested doing devotionals after breakfast, and today, my brother, Mike, taught us all about The Plan of Happiness.

I can't imagine Heaven without these people. I am grateful for my knowledge of the gospel, and the opportunity that I have to live with my big, loud, obnoxious, adorable family forever and ever.

Now excuse me while I go love them a little bit more.

@21

Impatient. 

At twenty-one, I am still impatient.

I cuff my pants, because at twenty-one, I have stopped growing. Imagine that. A statement for the record books.

I am twenty year old Courtney, minus the brunette, minus the mystery, add a traffic citation and a year. I can still fall asleep anywhere, can't solve simple math equations without a calculator, and I floss more often than necessary. 

Parting my now shoulder-length blonde hair straight down the middle is something that I do, and my celebrity crush is the Hybrid resulting in a cross between Jimmy Kimmel and John Krasinski. And I'm sure. Because I've thought about it. A lot.

At twenty-one, my mother still forgets the date of my actual birth, confusing it with the day before, but I let it slide because she's the one that gave me life, or whatever. And I appreciate that.

I hate the smell of maple syrup, but who is that opinion really bothering, anyway?

In my twenty-first year, I still hate Cantaloupe and Peas, beef stew, Acai berries, and I think that I'm allergic to Avacados.

At twenty-one, my pallet is picky and naive. Sort of like the rest of my existence, really.

This doesn't have anything to do with anything, but I always think about the fact that I'm still not sick of this song... which means there is a good chance that it is now a part of my identity at this age, right?

Right. 

We're going with that.

And, you know, at twenty-one, I know what I want out of life:

babies, clean white sheets, dimple-kisses, Van Goh on every wall, and a messy kitchen.

It could all make me happy forever.

Inspiration.

Who I was at twenty.

Celebrating a birthday, and staying up until 3 A.M.

I mean, you can't tell, but we definitely broke the law yesterday with fitting a grand total of 8 people inside my car. Cupcakes and Slurpies are how we do birthday celebration, and yesterday, we were all very thankful for Carter, the reason for all the birthday madness. He was a great sport, letting us sing the birthday song, and cooperated in blowing out the candles (even smiling for pictures!) but the poor boy can't adjust to the below freezing weather we're having, and is constantly wrapped in blankets. Being in Mexico really did a number on him.

When our little-but-lovely (and growing!) group gets together now, I guess we talk about marriage, babies, how much I hate college, and other adult-ish concepts we're supposed to understand. But Gordon Daw still keeps us in line, and tells us to whisper when we're laughing too loud... which is about every five minutes. So, at least there's one element of consistency.

I never ever want Christmas break to end.

Is this real life?

I got the most bizarre phone call tonight, from a number that I only half recognized. After ignoring the call once, I answered. On the other end of the line was a voice I hadn't heard in two years, but recognized immediately, asking me to make my way to Daybreak. Needless to say, it didn't take more than two minutes to get into the car.

I love this guy. He's one of the two best friends a person could ever have. And, in his own words, nothing has changed about him, other than the fact that he's less sinful now. So that's... good. Also, his brain functions even faster than it did before (and to further complicate things, it functions in Russian), amplifying the bad habit of mumbling that has always plagued him. I literally cannot understand most of the things he says to me... which really isn't new, it's just a bigger problem now.

Seriously, I missed everything about him. And I am the happiest human alive these days. Nothing makes me happier than my two best friends. And how lucky am I to have them come home within the same week? I'm counting my blessings twice today. Maybe three times.

The day I became Mary Hatch.

   Complex truths about my life in the form of a Jimmy Stewart metaphor. 

     "What is it you want, Mary? You--you want the moon? Just say the word, and I'll throw a lasso around it, pull it down. Hey, that's a pretty good idea. I'll give you the moon, Mary." 

     "I'll take it. Then what?"

     "Well, then you can swallow it, and it'll all dissolve, see? And the moonbeams would shoot out of your fingers and your toes, and the ends of your hair. Am I talking too much?" 

It never takes Mary Hatch long at all to figure out what she wants.

Today, I became Mary Hatch, and for the rest of my life, all I want to do is watch George Bailey lasso the moon.

And it only took a few minutes.

Like I couldn't even believe my own eyes.

I hope you're as smiley as I am tonight.

I really, really love my friends, and the way we have story time on the carpet like six year olds, catching up on the last two years of our lives.

I have missed you, Carter.

Like, held-the-tears-in-until-I-got-home-that-night, missed-you-like-crazy missed you.

Please never leave on a mission, ever again.

I know how to do hard things.

And I do them.
And then, they pay off.
They pay off in the form of flannel button up shirts and post-final celebration.
And I am a happy, happy, bold girl who says what she means.

Did you see the universe cooperating? Neither did I, but I do love surprises. :)

Matt Doane? I miss the way we used to sing together.

This blog has become one of missing people. Fortunately, having people to miss is telling of a wonderful life. I mean, it's the entire premise of the well known holiday movie by the same name, starring Jimmy Stewart (unintentionally appropriate and festive for the season).

Anyway. I'm up to my ears in letters that I've been meaning to respond to (I used to be so much better at that), but decided to blog it out, instead.

So. Dear sweet Matthew David Doane:
Tonight, I saw the pretty little Art Deco book you gave me for my birthday last year. It made me wish I could tell you all of this to your face. But I can't. So here is a memoir, a montage, if you will, of our friendship.

Remember how I used to sneak you into Miss Frederick's class, and we would sit in the practice rooms, making up dumb songs about people we hated? And remember those stories you used to tell me about working at Paradise with illegal immigrants, and how they would give you instructions in Spanish, and judge you when you did something wrong? While I'm thinking about it, thanks for supporting my David Price obsession, even though he was first chair violin, and you were second chair Viola (Chamber rivalry at its finest). Thanks for an entire summer of discount Yogurtstop, and going to see Eclipse with me when you'd already taken your sister. Tonight, I really missed you, Matt Doane.

Love you long time.

P.S.
I'm still sorry about that time I ditched you, mid-semester in A.P. Gov. I just couldn't handle anymore debates.

Love, love,
"My-madrigal-crush-is-Conner-Edmiston".

Dearest Luke Wesemann...

Since you're hardly a stranger to this blog, why not add one more post to the archives, just to keep things interesting? While this is a twist in the story that I did not see coming, and I sort of hate that you know how I felt about your one dimple once upon a time, I'm glad that we're weird friends. 

Thanks for reading. You are now in on all of my little secrets. Congratulations.

And here is a fantastic picture of you, published on the internet, to make you feel at least half as bizarre as I've felt tonight.

Love, the writer of this blog.

This is a post called, "Figuring It Out".

The key to Figuring It Out (capitalization of the first letters of each word is necessary because Figuring It Out is the title of a step-by-step guide that I am prepared to capitalize on someday, making lots and lots of money) is having a plan.

No, it's not having a plan. Because when have I ever had one of those?
But for the sake of this being a blog post on how to Figure It Out, the key to Figuring It Out is to have a plan.

This plan, in your case (or mine, because who are we really talking about, here?), solicits the following: 
     -A few stupid things coming out of your mouth.
     -Wanting the above situation to not happen again (DISCLAIMER: It probably will, anyway. Just be goal-oriented, and try your hardest to fight against it).
     -Calling your sister.
     -Having her tell you what to do.
     -Trusting her to tell you what you need to hear.
     -Trusting her, tricking yourself into being bold the way you've always been, and speaking your mind.
     -Just... trust Julie. She's good people.


Really, this whole marketable strategy should be called, "When You're A Nervous Wreck For Little To No Reason At All, Your Older Sister Can Keep Secrets And Tell You What To Do; Listen To Her, Unless She Tells You That Phone Calls Are Less Awkward Than Text Messages (Because thaaaaaat's just ridiculous)(But be prepared with a you-were-right-about-that-phone-call-thing speech. Just in case she was)(And, she was)(Exhibit A) 


And also, this is the part where I get it together and the universe cooperates. Sound familliar? It should.
I mean, the plaid shirt thing doesn't exactly go away. Especially now that you know he noticed how you walked into class every day of the semester, late, wearing red lipstick. Because he's straight forward. Just like you. And he told you. And he talked to you, even though you were wearing a Christmas turtle neck and tights that made you look like a five year old. This is also the part where you listen to Julie when she says, "Don't screw this one up, you big weirdo."

Thanks JuJu. Even though we're not exactly in the same generation bracket, I still think your advice is valid. And I love you.

*Also, I love you, too, Caitlin Craig. Because you have fantastic friends.

Sucre.

   

     I didn't want to do it, but I knew that I'd been spotted. And it was either humiliate myself by running away, or face my fears and say hello. I chose the latter.
     Blinking twice, I continued towards their table.
     "I'm so glad you're here!" she yelled, loud enough for the entire room to hear. I stood, tall and awkward, at the edge of the table, my fingers pressed up against its trim. "Gosh, it has been... nine months? A year, maybe?"
     "Yeah! I guess!" Trying to sound happy usually came off as overly thrilled. This time was no exception, but 'thrilled' couldn't be further from the truth. I cleared my throat. "How are you?" I asked. She jerked out her left hand, which hauled an over-sized diamond engagement ring. "Oh, wow," I smiled, "engaged!"
     Her hand retracted.
     "Married, actually." My eyes widened. The man sitting to my left was not her fiance, but her husband. He wore a Lakers T-shirt, and, looked highly disinterested in our conversation. "Three months, today!"
     "Congratulations!" Overly excited, again. A character flaw I had been meaning to get under control.
     "Thanks. Anyway. Rohen, dear. Listen," I cringed at her condescension, wondering if she knew how much older than her I was, "you've got to help me. My brother..." My heart fell into my stomach, and I could feel myself losing traction, "he needs a good girl. Can you help me find him one?" I stared, hoping the feeling in my legs would come back before I had to walk away. "I just," she said, pushing strands of dark hair behind her ear, "I know you're close."
     "I'll see what I can do," I choked, faking the smile I'd prepared specifically for moments such as these.
     "When was the last time you saw him?" she asked. I stood for half of a minute with my hand over my eyelids, not thinking about the last time I'd seen him, but rather, the last time we'd conversed. The last time he, you know, told me all about how he didn't want me. I thought of it all in thirty seconds, sort of against my will. Sort of not against it. "My brother, I mean." she interrupted, busting at the seams and impatient for an answer, "Roe, when was the last time you saw my brother?"
     It was an answer that I had, absolutely. One I didn't have to search for, even. It had been engraved into my mind for months.
     "April 15th," I blurted, "Tax Day." I looked down at the white linen table cloth.
     "Oh," Brenda piped after a few seconds. I looked to her husband, perhaps for sympathy. Perhaps for a way out of the questions that were sure to follow this interrogation, unsure of how he might've been able to make that happen. "Have you... spoken? Since then?"
     "Bren, stop hounding her," he finally joined, "let her go, now."
     "I am not hounding her, Michael," her eyebrows crossed each other, forming a deep 'V' shape. "I'm just--I'm curious," she looked up at me, "I'm sorry, does it feel like I'm hounding you?" Before I could get a word out to answer, she said, "It's just that it's November. And you haven't seen him since April? Did something happen? Between the two of you?"
     Behind that question was an entire brigade of more questions, ones that I didn't want to answer. At that moment, I wanted nothing more than to not be there.
     Instead, I opened my mouth, and spoke. Truthfully.
     "Too many to count, I guess." I felt my heart breaking the way it hadn't done in months. "Listen, Brenda. It was so nice running into you and..." I turned towards her husband, realizing that we'd never actually been introduced.
     "Michael." She pointed, jaw still agape with embarrassment.
     "Michael. Nice to meet you. Enjoy you evening."
     I began walking away, but didn't get two feet before seeing the glass of scotch before Brenda and her slim, black dress. My heels pivoted, returning to the table. I quickly picked up the glass, threw my head back, the drink along with it, and hurt so much that I almost forgot to breathe. Brenda's eyes wide on her slender face.
     I slammed the drink to the table and swallowed hard.
     "And, I'm fine," my small voice shook. "Really, I am."
     My legs grew new feeling, and I turned from the table, waiting for the strength I assumed would come.
     I thought about how long it might take word to get back to Finn, deciding that his sister had a big mouth, that, on good days, might stretch to Chicago, at the very least. I wondered what kind of a day she'd had today. It was no secret the way mind had turned out.

Mama said there'd be days like these.

Things that made this day suck:
-Everything that happened in it, ever.

  
Things that made this day not suck so much:   

Okay. I am going to bed now.

"Too slow; need to grind." --Carter Monson

Oh, what's that you say?

You're tired of hearing about this?

Well, sorry.

But also, I'm really just not at all.

A few pieces of my life have been missing for two entire years,

and next Thursday, one of those things comes back to me. You cannot blame me for being overly excited. And if you are blaming me, you're just jealous. And I hate you. 

 

Remember when I wrote this? I was thinking about that post today, trying to recall all of the changing that I've done since then. The list was large. It's hard to believe that I haven't heard the voices of my friends, the voices that in high school I heard all day, every day, over the phone, across the commons, chanting, "OFF ROAD IT, COLTON!" in the car from the school parking lot to the lawn, down the hall, at stupid dances that you think will never be remembered... voices I took for granted. It's so bizarre to me that their lives have been on hold since 2010, and mine has just carried on, the way lives have a tendency to do. 

...though, some parts I might've liked to skip. 

Like the first time I ever got really, really homesick a few years ago. Or when I blew up with fever blisters while I was in Mexico this past summer... or my toothpick eyebrow phase, Freshman year (I could've done without that one, all together). 

This all to say that I can't wait to compare notes next week with Carter. 

 

I would also like to say that I am thoroughly excited to have my "would you get me a glass of water" responding, cell-phone-from-the-counter retrieving, front door answering, light turn-off-ing, netflix-documentary-watching, mixed-swearing, i've-missed-you-like-crazy-carter-monson piece of my heart back, for good.

 

And for the record, I still think he's totally boss.

Noteworthy Banter, Volume II

Dad: Courtney, you should ride the Frontrunner home.
Amy: Yeah. Train riding is very 'in' right now.
Courtney: It has been since The Golden Spike happened, really.

"Oh, look at this one!
     'Amy: thanks for kickin' it with me. You are so fine. Seriously.
                  --Richard Neeve, #32'
I wonder whether he knew that it was customary to leave phone numbers in yearbooks, rather than the one on the back of his football jersey... by definition, a winner."

Mama: Coming out of Seattle, it was so bumpy that I was singing to myself the entire time...
Courtney: I am a Child of God, and he has sent me here?
Mama: Nope.
Courtney: Lady Madonna, children at your feet...
Mama: Not likely.
Courtney: Okay, your turn, Amy. I'm striking out.
Amy: Gaga, oooo la-la... want your bad romance?
Courtney: Really, Amy?

"Are candy corn M&Ms your favorite treats ever?"
"Close. I really like blueberry muffins."

(While watching the Santa Clause)
Courtney: That's what Heaven is like. Just a ton of kids with pointy ears.
Mels: That actually sounds a lot more like Hell to me...

Mels: His eyebrows have gotten progressively... loftier...
Courtney: Okay, well, maybe that just happens when you go through major life changes... LIKE BECOMING SANTA CLAUS, for instance. You wouldn't understand. You have great eyebrows.
Mels: None of what you just said even made sense.

"Why are you staring at me so creepishly?"
"Just so I could hear you say the word, 'creepishly'."

Courtney: What's that saying? My mouth is too big for my eyes?
Mels: Uh... your eyes are too big for your stomach?
Courtney: Oh. Yeah. That just happened to me.

"We are going to have so much fun with Snapchat!"
"Yeah! Especially when I send you naughties!"

Mels: Misha can bring you up.
Stetler: Who's Misha?
Mels: The Russian that goes to BYU.
Stetler: Oh! Your Russian guy!
Madison: I had a Russian guy once. His name was Azat.
Amy: Ah, I remember Azat.

"That guy looks like a chubby Joaquin Phoenix."

I wish I wasn't coughing up a lung right now. That would be a good time.

I dream of a day in which the tickle of my throat becomes submissive.

P.S., since you're probably wondering about the fever dreams I keep having, I'll tell you one. They're freaky, getting freakier. In the middle of my afternoon nap today, I was married to a tacky red head boy who took me to the circus and refused to sit on the same row as me. WTF?

Also, December 13th could not come fast enough, and I own both editions of Miracle on 34th street. What can I say? Big fan of Susan Walker.

This is a story about plans, and how they usually don't work out.

 

This is the blueprint of a plan that never worked out. 
R.I.P., Dourtney.

 My friend, Haley, sent me this picture the other day. 

In high school, I half-loved a boy who half-loved me back. I remember thinking that our two halves made a whole, which, logically, should have been true. So, imagine my surprise when after ten months of angsty, pretend-to-see-the-future, miss-every-red-flag "love" stuff, we broke. Quickly, loudly, and realistically, in half.

This little number was the fatal juxtaposition of romantic ideals, teenage hormones, and the honey lipgloss song; it was the ridiculous scribble of a plot that blew up in my face. 

And, my word! How could I have not seen it coming?

I mean, please. 

Such an Exposition proves pathetic time, and time again. This one, no exception. A weak protagonist: the first downfall to any outline... non-existent rising action, and a conflict that begs the question: how many "I love you" phrases may be spoken before theirs meanings become obsolete? When does what we say not matter, and where do those words go?

I don't know the answer to that. Maybe because the meat of my story, my resolve, has yet to be found. Maybe the words for the way it all feels ran away with the plot, or maybe I've learned that it's braver to keep them holed up inside of me.

Or, could it be that the resolution isn't found in the story? Not in the plan, at all?

And so, after an entire year of trite pity parties consuming the majority of 2009, rehashing the story, searching for another step, I woke up. I put on a pair of pants, and I started a new day, sans plan.

After I realized that all we would be was unfinished, I began to finish myself, which was the only thing under my jurisdiction.

And I haven't made a plan, since.
 

(I hate to ruin the ending for you by revisiting the beginning, but plans: they don't usually work out.)

Remember that time I tried to get on a plane with about 5 hours notice,but then I didn't?

Well, this time, I did.
And here is a tacky airport picture to prove it.

Happy Thanksgiving.

I will never love a man, cause love and pain go hand in hand, and I can't do it again.

You know how sometimes you just feel numb?

Not happy, not sad, just... numb?

I think I'm the personification of the word, lately.

And if there were a song for the way I've felt, 

it would be this one.

P.S. 

Thanks, Caitlin. I sort of really love you a lot.

Guess who comes home in one little measly month from yesterday.

Well, Carter.

But then Austin does. Six days later.

29 days, people. 

Like, we're in the twenties. Not 166, not 79 or 54...

29.

Am I being unreasonably liberal with my italics button, here?

Conservative italic-ism... not a thing.

Merry Christmas to meeeeeee!!!!

On a more serious note, I have got to stop watching The Walking Dead. 

I hallucinated that zombies were in my room last night.

Everything was beautiful at the Ballet.

     Tonight, I saw this Downtown Logan.
The ticket cost an arm and a leg, but do you know something?
It was the first big ticket I have ever bought for myself. And now, I can put that in my story--the one I told you I'd write.

     I drove downtown, and into a back alley parking lot. I looked up, saw a million glowing lights through the fog (doesn't there always seem to be fog?) from what I can only assume was an entire wall of dressing room windows. There was a man dressed in a full black uniform guarding the stage door, cigarette in hand. Smoke stacks were breathing heavy on top of the building, and I noted two fire escapes. I was completely alone in an alley, lit by the fluorescence of a few street lights and the glow of my own doe-eyed-disposition, swearing I'd somehow been transported to dark, damp New York City. The man gave me a nod, wished me a well evening, and pointed toward the back door where I could show my ticket and find my seat. As I walked in, I smoothed the pleats on my skirt breathing the air around me. It smelled like heavy pockets full of money. Even more-so, it smelled fur coats... but aren't they one in the same? I was shown the mezzanine, row BB, seat 21. I peeled off my coat and sat down, waiting for the house lights to dim, the way they always do. The pit hummed as the company entered the stage from every corner. I watched in silence, as if it were my first time in a big theater.

     Since the age of six, I have been a seasoned connoisseur of culture. My parents have taken me to countless symphonies, shows on and off Broadway, The Radio City Rockettes, the Louvre, and aided me through about a thousand dollars worth of piano lessons, which I complained about for all 12 years. When I was seventeen, they took me to a Russian piano concerto held at St. Peter's Abbey in Salzburg, Austria, and walked with me through Mozart's childhood home-turned-modern-art-museum. These are all experiences that reach the deepest parts of my bones,
however,
tonight, I felt ecstasy. Real ecstasy. Something similar to that Bernini sculpture of St. Theresa, I'm sure. I've always wondered what that piece was all about, and, well, tonight, I get it. It was all richer, somehow. Maybe because I was excited to be alone. Maybe it was the fact that my menstrual cramps subsided to let me enjoy this, if only for two hours. Maybe it had everything to do with sacrificing half of November's groceries to do something just because I wanted to.
     As I sat, I noticed the coffers in the ceiling, outlined with gold trim and the gorgeous red-velvet seat beneath me, unarguably the most beautiful upholstery in town. In a small city just south of Preston Idaho, I felt another little piece of me fall into place.

     I guess I became a patron of the arts tonight--a patron! A title given to Pope Julius II and Catherine de Medici! And while that is all wonderful, I don't think it has much to do with why my high.

     This is my favorite number from A Chorus Line. Sung by Sheila, Bebe, and Maggie, it is heart breakingly beautiful. Life can be a crap shoot sometimes (like, for instance, bombing two tests two days in a row, or having to ride the shuttle around for the second time in one day), but everything is always beautiful at the ballet. My ballet was made manifest tonight, and oh, was it sensational. What's yours?

P.S. 

If you're wondering, YES, Sheila is being played by a (much younger version of ) Emily Gilmore which makes life even more fun.

Also, if you read this entire thing and getting to this point, congratulations. You're the most patient person in the whole entire world. 

Life Lessons from one, Liz Gilbert.

Tonight, I was part of a conversation. One that involved the breaking point of a relationship. Why it broke. How it broke. Who broke it? When was it going to get fixed? It was a quick conversation, one that didn't exceed five minutes. The speaker made a comment that I couldn't put in the back of my mind. She said, "It sucks. Being alone sucks. But I'm okay." My heart went and goes out to her. The breaking point is rough... however, I immediately wandered to Liz Gilbert, one of my favorite writers. She knows about loneliness... understatement of the century! And though I think often times it was self-inflicted, it all made her who she wanted to be.

“When I get lonely these days, I think: So BE lonely, Liz. Learn your way around loneliness. Make a map of it. Sit with it, for once in your life. Welcome to the human experience."

I've been thinking about that, too--who I want to be.
What is my coming-of-age story? Do I even have one? When am I going to be brave enough to write it? Who'll want to read it?

I remembered this piece from Eat. Pray. Love. and then I remembered that I'm okay. We all are. It is a noble thing to navigate around lonely. It helps us find ourselves. Finding yourself... a cliche we all need to invest in.

We need to be lonely, and we need to be lost.
How can we expect another person to find us when we can't tell them what they're looking for? Better yet, how can someone else find a person who's not alive yet?
And isn't that the point? Doesn't finding ourselves make us feel alive?

Did I take this idea too far, or are you understanding?
Maybe we'll revisit this topic at a later date.

I've had to hold my tongue a hand full of times tonight, what with the facebook boom as it is election night and all. I'm not exactly one of those people who gets too involved in internet bashing. I believe there is a time and a place to make one feel so foolish they can hardly breathe, but the FB world just doesn't do my words justice. So, for the most part I refrain. (I totally got in a tiff with Greg Holden once. I just could not resist... but let's not open that can of worms.) This is why I have a blog. So I can write passionately the words I wish to say without creating [too much] conflict... though, I must admit... the arguments are rather entertaining, and I do read them. Yahtzee! 

And I know, I know.
I'm annoyingly political. Raised to be, even.
We used to watch Hannity and Colmes while we ate dinner on wicker trays, and at the ripe old age of nine, I wrote Bill O'Reilley an email, letting him know that I appreciated his contribution to politics, and the world at large. On my 18th birthday, I raced home from school, excited to watch a Glenn Beck Christmas Special. Undoubtedly a conservative Republican. Undoubtedly outspoken about it.
Whatever, I get it.
It's annoying, and it's me.
But I'd rather care about it all like a maniac than sit on the fence while the rest of the country makes my decisions for me.
My parents taught me to be an active participant in changing the things I don't like.
Though I do side with them on most of the issues, and our ballots today were rather similar, I am proud of the fact that I'm an avid news watcher. I am fond of Brett Baier, Anderson Cooper, and Mila Kunis. (She doesn't really have anything to do with this. I just love her SO much.)
I think for myself, and that's something of weight.
Not only do I think for myself, but I try really hard, even as a twenty year old, to think of those around me, and ultimately, think of the sacrifices that have been made on my behalf, giving me the right to cast my ballot just across the street from where I live. 

And that is why statements like this irk me to my very core:

"Last I checked, America was a free country... and I have the right to not care about this election. I will exercise my right by not voting." 

Not doing what is expected in an election will never be a hipster revolution. Contrary to popular believe, it does not reward its participants with People Water and vegan friendly foot wear. This is bigger than social media and an I'm-too-good-for-politics election mindset. Undeniably, America is a free country. As wholesome as apple pie, and with a star spangled banner on top. Our country is as free as they come. And if you'd like to keep it that way, then dammit, you'd better exercise your right to vote.

Someone also said this:
"Politics brings out the worst in people." 

I, for one, think it brings out some of the best in people.
And let's be honest... it brings out the wit in them, too.
For instance, my good friend, Jared, commented, saying:
"To everyone complaining about the election and politics: just remember to be quiet while the grown ups are talking." 

Priceless. 

For the record, I voted for Mitt.
Don't be one of those people who say they're leaving the country for the next four years.
Put on your big kid pants, saddle up, and take your country back.

A guide to why I am the way that I am.

I was thinking about something tonight that I really could not stop thinking about.
It was something that made me be like, why are you still thinking about this? But... here I am... almost two in the morning, still thinking about it.
Let me say think a few more times: think, think, think, think.

Remember that scene in Mean Girls where Cady is at the Mathlete's competition and she says this?

"Miss Caroline Krafft seriously needed to pluck her eyebrows. Her outfit looked like it was picked out by a blind Sunday school teacher. And she had some 50 cent lip gloss on her snaggletooth. And that's when I realized, making fun of Caroline Krafft wouldn't stop her from beating me in this contest. Calling somebody else fat won't make you any skinner. Calling someone stupid doesn't make you any smarter. And ruining Regina George's life definitely didn't make me any happier. All you can do in life is try to solve the problem in front of you."

Well, that's all true. 

But it's not exactly the point of this blog post. 

What I can't stop thinking about is the fact that I still hate people. No matter what life changes I go through, I'm always going to be a little bitter about that soccer ball Jordan Stadig nailed me with (on purpose) in the sixth grade. It's always going to bug me that Haley Needs made my high school boyfriend want her more than he wanted me. I'll always harbor some hatred for that T.A. last semester who told me to rewrite a paper because she didn't like the way I said the things on my mind.

And do you know what I think? It all doesn't make me the worst person in the world, and all of them probably hate me right back.

One time, I had a conversation with my sister about how I think it's okay that sometimes we skip church to hang out with each other. Because we're pretty sure there are terrorists in the world who are most likely worse off than we are. Also, I've never punched anyone in the face. So, Bonus. And gotcha.

But my friend, Haley (Not the one who stole my boyfriend. Another Haley. I know. My life is so confusing.) never hates anyone. Like, she just doesn't.

And I admire that, I do. 

But she's probably the only one on Earth like that. 

Well, besides maybe Kelsey Gwen Conover, who is fully incapable of hating people, too. She's my other friend.

Both cases are exceptions, and extremely impressive.

So here is my theory about this whole thing:

People who are nice to everyone and don't have malicious feelings, like Haley and Kelsey, most likely have special reserved tickets to Heaven in the official Heaven box office (a real place), which is nice, but not the end of the world for those of us who've been a little choosy in our relationships, right?

It just means that maybe we, as haters, will just have to wait in line for our own tickets... which is annoying, but sort of worth it... right??

Because sometimes you just need to hate on people... RIGHT?!

And if you're concerned about Heaven selling out tickets, don't be.

Because I don't believe in a god who would ever be like, "Oooo... sorry. Fresh out of salvation."

I'm just going to be honest right now. 

I hate a girl that I don't even know. 

And the worst part about it all is that I'm pretty sure we'd be really great friends if circumstances were different and I wanted to be around whenever she was. 

Maybe we'd be friends if I hadn't been in the place I was a few months ago, and she had been there, too.

Maybe we'd be friends if I wanted to like her.

Maybe we'd be friends if I believed in a god who was like, "Oooo... sorry. Fresh out of salvation."

This is the part where I tell you that I had this thought today: 

"He has really poor taste in girls. Except for when he picked me. Because look at me.

I am fantastic."

Still trying to decide whether I'll be line buddies with the annoying vain people, or the angry, bitter haters.

I am unsure. Only limbo will tell. 

The purgatory kind... not the horizontal-broom-sing-songing-back-bending weird game kind. 

Unless they have that there. And in that case, I guess maybe then, the game will tell.

I am still unsure. Only limbo-in-limbo will tell... if it exists.

Anyway...

Thank you, Mean Girls.

Okay, rant over.

My life is dumb; I have a dumb life.

 I have been blogging a lot lately... I don't know why. Perhaps it is because I've got a lot to say? It's never important stuff, so I'm not really sure why I feel the need to put it out into the cosmos. But maybe you find it interesting. And I like to hear about interesting things, so I guess I just figure that you do, too.

I was sitting at school today, listening to the lecture, when I tuned out and stared at the ground. This is the way class usually goes for me. I noticed a small shard of glass, pointy side sticking straight up out of the carpet, and thought What?! How can this be? No. THERE ARE PEOPLE WALKING AROUND THIS SCHOOL WITHOUT SHOES! And then, I had a minor panic attack for them. Because they deserve to know. Not that I condone shoeless people walking around campus, because really, I don't, but I do think they have a right to know what they're stepping on. Like, a guy who used to be my neighbor. He doesn't wear shoes, and he rides around on a big unicycle. It may sound comical, but he is a talented creature of this campus, I tell you. And I just think it would be such a shame to waste all that talent on behalf of an unwarranted piece of glass which he got caught up with. Get it together, janitorial staff. I mean, honestly. Thus, I give you the reason that I don't take many notes in Archaeology.

I waved hello to my friend, Luke, on campus today. One time, I told him (IN CONFIDENCE) about how I do this embarrassing thing where if someone doesn't see me waving to them, I nudge them on the shoulder in passing, without saying a word. It's sort of just a weird reflex. And I told him about how it is particularly embarrassing when I don't really know the person and it just sort of happens, anyway.
So, today, when I waved, because he thinks he's funny, he pretended to be me, doing that arm nudge thing, really dramatically. But it wasn't just a nudge. Oh, no. It was like a full force human interactive hurricane, and it almost knocked me over. And it really wasn't funny even at all, Luke. It wasn't.
Well, okay. Sort of, it was.

In class, whenever Dean doesn't hear something, or he misses a concept, he always just blurts out, "What did he say?" and looking back on my previous point, number one, I'm usually staring at insignificant (or are they?) shards of glass. Liiiiiiiike I can even explain what just went on. So most of the time, I just make stuff up and he writes it down. I figure it's better than people looking at him as no one responds, right? Right. That's what I would want people to do for me, you know, have my back and all. And I may not get all of the concepts, but one thing I've always got is Dean's back.

I can't spell the word conscience without using autocorrect. Even now, when I just tried to type it into google, google didn't even know what I was getting at! And I'm a good speller. In the twelfth grade, I won Mrs. Williams' Spelling Bee against Blake Ziser (my first through ninth grade crush--that one felt good... cosmic bitch slap, blake ziser!) with the word porcelain. So really, this misspelling thing is hard for me to admit. Be gentle with me.



Have a quirky weekend, okay?

Pretend, and go to bed before midnight.

Yes, that's what you should do. And live our your life like you're Jane Austen. And not really care about what people think of you. Or what you write. And "miss your mother so much you almost can't breathe". And wear yellow tights. And have a picnic in the park by yourself with a double cheeseburger and a large french fry from McDonald's because you weren't white-trash enough before. And talk to one of your friends on the way to class and across campus. And realize that the two of you have nothing really to talk about and question why you're even friends at all. And get so homesick for your best friends that it almost brings you to tears. And remember that you've only got 43 more days--you can do it. And stalk the guy who works at Apple Spice bakery even though he seriously needs a new pair of jeans. And admit to yourself that you're a little bit OCD when it comes to a bedtime routine because it takes at least twenty five minutes. And promise yourself that you'll find a boy good enough to lean into, one that wants to lean right back. And then, he'd call you up and say, hey, how 'bout coffee, or drinks, or dinner, or a movie... for as long as we both shall live. And don't cry, shopgirl. Don't cry.

I may or may not have been in my bed before midnight, and I may or may not be watching Valentine's Day right now... Okay, actually, both of those things are true.

I put blood paint all over my teeth. It felt an awful lot like that new fluoride shiz they have at the dentist that's really sticky and terrible--do you know that stuff? I wouldn't recommend it. The tooth blood, nor the fluoride. Both suck. Tonight, we went out to eat because it was a holiday. We always feel better about spending money on holidays. A couple weeks ago, we decided we'd only go out if it was in celebration of a birthday, even though there wasn't a birthday in sight. Anyway, that's not the point. The point is that I went out in public looking like this. It was pretty neat. I'm pretty neat. I tried to watch It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown! but it was not on Netflix. Which made me straight pissed. IT IS ALWAYS ON NETFLIX ON HALLOWEEN. I don't know what this world is coming to, but I do know that I do not want to live in a world without Charlie Brown holidays. Also, Melodey got that pumpkin to fit on her head. And she didn't even get stuck in it! She is so talented. It's Halloween, but I am terribly sick of it. October is probably like... my least favorite month. Maybe right next to August or March. I'm all Halloween'd out. Good thing that tomorrow is November first, AM I RIGHT?! Bring on the holly berries, homemade pumpkin pie, and the Macy's Day Parade, you know? Either way, Halloweener or not, I hope your holiday was, like, crazy. And I hope your November is full of less scary stuff. And are you so overwhelmed with pictures? Good.

P.S. 

"WOAH!"

"That's a scary mask, bro." 

--Mean Girls. Best line.

Conversations with Dean, Volume I

My neighbor, Dean, is perhaps one of my most favorite people, ever. We are in the same Archaeology class, and often chat on our way home from school. Not only does he have an endearing stutter when he gets to speaking too fast, but he has an innocence about him--one that I find most admirable. And man, is that boy honest. Brutally honest. He often makes comments about my outfits, telling me that I don't match, asking me why I wear such bright colors together... I love it! Anyway, today, we were able to talk for a while after school. I always enjoy conversation with him. It's just too good not to share.

Dean: Would I look good with a goatee?
Me: Dean. No one looks good with a goatee. Would I look good with one?
Dean: Girls don't look good with facial hair, but some have it, anyway.

(Walking out of class)
Dean: Did you smell that?
Me: No, what?
Dean: It smelled incredibly strong with B.O. just now.

(We rode the bus home today, and Dean had to sit next to a stranger, but without him noticing, the stranger got up and off the bus. Someone else sat down, again, Dean not noticing.)
Dean (Screaming extremely loud... Louder than necessary, for all the bus to hear): WOAH!!!
Me (startled, obviously): What!
Dean: The person next to me changed.
Me: What do you mean?
Dean (suspiciously, and pointing): That is not the same person I sat down next to when I got on this bus...

Dean: Do you snowboard?
Me: Not really. I ski, though!
Dean: Oh, well once I was at the top of a mountain with my dad, and I went faster than him. He was skiing. I was snowboarding. He was slow, I was not. I was really proud that day.

(And my personal favorite conversation snippet...)
Dean: Have you ever driven a bus?
Me: No... Have you?
Dean: Yeah.


Three cheers for confidence, honesty, and good company.

Halloween by polaroid. We dressed up like this for sport, but also because it was halloween, and I guess that's just what you do.

 (Rosie the Riveter, Gypsy Mama, Mother Nature, and Audrey, herself.)

 

Every Halloween, there's a big dance party on campus.
I'm sure you've heard all about it. The Howl. It's sweaty, gross... and surprisingly fun.

We decided to go this year. 

I was probably one of the only girls with a dress to my knees (or, really a dress at all, for that matter, but no judgement here),

and my mad EFY-trained dancing skills kept all of the weirdies from 

grinding all up on me. Because my moves are anything but suggestive. Or attractive. 

So, that was nice. 

Happy Halloweekend.

I drank abnormal amounts of tea today because it felt good on my throat and I'm not even sick at all. And I played hookie from school, explained what hookie meant to a boy who wants to be my friend, mopped my floor, admired my longer-than-ever-fingernails,

and I really don't like marshmallows or s'mores at all.

One time that same friend of mine told me that I will

probably change my mind about marshmallows someday.

I sort of kind of think he's really wrong. Because I still

don't like Canteloupe, and he still hasn't really changed

his mind about me. But that's okay, because yesterday, I 

told him that I wasn't, like, in love with him or anything,

and I think it was something no one has ever said to him

before. And by the way, I sort of kind of really meant it. 

Because he makes a really good friend. And Heaven knows

that before someone can be both, no one can. It's a mean 

paradox, having your cake, and eating it, too. Which is 

something Heaven also knows: it doesn't work. So 

here's to having cake. Because it's better than not having 

any.

And it sure is better than marshmallows.

Sometimes, my life is like the books I read. Sometimes, my life is exactly like the books I read:

     I walk out onto the porch, and there he is. Three months after our date, there is Stuart Whitworth himself, standing on my front porch in khaki pants and a blue coat and a red tie like he's ready for Sunday dinner.     Asshole.
     "What brings you here?" I ask. I don't smile though. I'm not smiling at him.
     "I just... I wanted to drop by."
     "Well. Can I get you a drink?" I ask. "Or should I just get you the entire bottle of Old Kentucky?"
     He frowns. His nose and forehead are pink, like he's been working in the sun. "Look, I know it was... a long while back, but I came out here to say I'm sorry."
     "Who sent you--Hilly? William?" There are eight empty rocking chairs on my porch. I don't ask him to sit in any of them.
     He looks off at the west cotton field where the sun is dipping into the dirt. He shoves his hands down in his front pockets like a twelve-year-old-boy. "I know I was... rude that night, and I've been thinking about it a lot and..."
     I laugh then. I'm just so embarrassed that he would come out here and have me relive it.
     "Now look," he says, "I told Hilly ten times I wasn't ready to go out on any date. I wasn't even close to being ready..."
     I grit my teeth. I can't believe I feel the heat of tears; the date was months ago. But I remember how secondhand I'd felt that night, how ridiculously fixed up I'd gotten for him. "Then why'd you even show up?"
     "I don't know." He shakes his head. "You know how Hilly can be."
     I stand there waiting for whatever it is he's here for. He runs a hand through his light brown hair. It is almost wiry it's so thick. He looks tired.
     I look away because he's cute in an overgrown boy kind of way and it's not something I want to be thinking right now. I want him to leave--I don't want to feel this awful feeling again, yet I hear myself saying, "What do you mean, not ready?"
     "Just not ready. Not after what happened."
     I stare at him. "You want me to guess?"
     "Me and Patricia van Devender. We got engaged last year and then... I thought you knew."
     He sinks down in a rocking chair. I don't sit next to him. But I don't tell him to leave either.
     "What, she ran off with someone else?"
     "Shoot." He drops his head down into his hands, mumbles, "That'd be a damn Mardi Gras party compared to what happened."
     "I don't let myself say to him what I'd like to, that he probably deserved whatever she did, but he's just too pathetic-looking. Now that all his good ole boy, through bourbon talk has evaporated, I wonder if he's this pathetic all the time.
     "We'd been dating since we were fifteen. You know how it is, when you've been steady with somebody that long."
     And I don't know why I admit this, except that I simply have nothing to lose. "Actually, I wouldn't know," I say. "I've never dated anybody."
     He looks up at me, kind of laughs. "Well, that must be it, then."
     "Be what?" I steel myself, recalling fertilizer and tractor references.
     "You're... different. I've never met anybody that said exactly what they were thinking. Not a woman, anyway."
     "Believe me, I had a lot more to say."
     He sighs. "When I saw your face, out there by the truck... I'm not that guy. I'm really not such a jerk."
     I look away, embarrassed. It's just starting to hit me what he said, that even though I'm different, maybe it's not in a strange way or an abnormal, tall-girl way. But maybe in a good way.
     "I came by to see if you'd like to come downtown with me for supper. We could talk," he says and stands up. "We could... I don't know, listen to each other this time."
     I stand there, shocked. His eyes are blue and clear and fixed on me like my answer might really mean something to him. I take in a deep breath, about to say yes--I mean, why would I, of all people, refuse--and he bites his bottom lip, waiting.
     And then I think about how he treated me like I was nothing. How he got shit-dog drunk he was so miserable to be stuck with me. I think about how he told me I smelled like fertilizer. It took me three months to stop thinking about that comment.
     "No," I blurt out. "Thank you. But I really can't imagine anything worse."
     He nods, looks down at his feet. Then he goes down the porch steps.
     "I'm sorry," he says, the door to his car, open. "That's what I came to say and, well, I guess I said it."
     I stand on the porch, listening to the hollow sounds of the evening, gravel under Stuart's shifting feet, dogs moving in the early darkness. For a second, I remember Charles Gray, my only kiss in a lifetime. How I'd pulled away, somehow sure the kiss hadn't been intended for me.
     Stuart gets in his car and his door clicks shut. He props his arm up so his elbow pokes through the open window. But he keeps his eyes turned down.
     "Just give me a minute," I holler out to him. "Let me get my sweater."

Kathryn Stockett

The Help

The parallels are uncanny.

things i'll never say, volume II

"WHERE did you get those leather pants?!"
"it's cool, dad. i think i'll just sit this trip out."
"i wish i could be more like michelle obama."
"totes."
"the 'b' word... hardly a term of endearment."
"when is nikki minaj going to come out with a new CD? because i am ready."
"take your time walking across the crosswalk."
"your new boyfriend is way cuter than the one who looked like jacob black and offered to help me with my laundry."
"you pay 25 cents for a water from mcdonalds? that is such a waste of money."
"apostrophes were made for the letter S. in all cases."
"cafe rio puts enough pork in their tacos."

i am still in an i'm-obsessed-with-being-auntie-courty phase

dear buster:



the other day, i was exhausted and on my way to pack my bags. when i came up the stairs, there you were, sitting on the carpet, moving around a few action figures by yourself. i couldn't resist asking to play, though my eyes were droopy, and i figured you'd want your space. it was your time to play, after all. no one was there to bother you or tell you what each toy should say. i snuck in, quietly, prepared for a polite dismissal, and asked, gambling, "what are you doing, buster?" and then, one of the sweetest things happened: you said nothing, but offered me a spot beside you. at that point, my droopy eyes turned to drippy, and i was on cloud nine. you let me play trains with you. you let me dump the bin, attach the tracks, move the cars, even make the sounds! then, you told me it was fun. i'm never going to forget those sweet fifteen minutes. not ever.

i love you, john davis.

love, aunt kikki.

today i wanted to write down everything that i saw and heard because it was all so wonderful.

instead, i bought some flannel shirts from the men's section, ate a double cheeseburger, and vowed to one day be a balanced combination of carrie bradshaw and skeeter phelan.

and it all made me really, really happy.

seriously?

i spent the weekend in arizona. it was much needed time with mi familia.

and i played with babies all day long.
can you even believe these faces?
i love my tiny humans.

you know that pin that's like, "when i get home, i try to make myself as unattractive as possible"?

well, that's my life.

and since i came home from school today and accidentally slept for a hundred hours, i am not tired in the least right now.
i figure that it's a great time to rediscover the office, and remember that jim halpert is the love of my life, forever, the end.

dear everyone-who-is-thinking-about-not-voting-next-month:

first of all, i think you're an idiot.
sorry, but not really.
you just sort of... are. by definition.

 

id·i·ot

 [id-ee-uht]

noun

1.

Informal . an utterly foolish or senseless person.

  (see?) 
 

i, like most people in this country (well, the less ignorant ones, anyway), watched the second presidential debate tonight. alongside my television screen was my computer, following the comments of the entire world, via twitter & facebook. some, like chris rock's, made me want to kill myself... just thinking about there being such uninformed lunatics at the voting booths... it makes me want to scream. others, like elisabeth hasselbeck's, instilled hope in an educated american people. (thanks for standing up for smart celebrities, E. i knew they were out there, somewhere.)

but what's worse?
comments like these:

"i'm voting for mickey mouse."
"i am not voting. neither of the candidates care about me specifically, anyway."
"what is with all of this bickering? can't we all get along? why does it matter how we get there if we're all trying to end up in the same place?"
"i hate contention. contention is contentious. let me say contention 400 more times because i want to show everyone how non-contentious i am."
"i would so much rather watch family guy than the debate."

first of all, whenever anybody praises "family guy", their opinion about anything else automatically becomes invalidated in my book. do you know those people?

 "have you seen that episode of family guy where..."

"no. no, i haven't." 

glad i got that off my chest. 

now, second, pleeeeeease. 

step up to the plate, america. seriously. grow up, educate yourselves, do the work, listen to the speeches, the debates.... anything! lest we not confuse the other countries, we are people of substance, people with values, morale... we are people of joy, people who fight for it. 

so, this november, get off your high horse, your soap box--get off your ass, and DO SOMETHING. do anything. vote for whoever you would like. that's the beauty of it all--you have that right. do something about it while you still can... before government takeover is shifted into high gear. cancel out a vote if that's the only motivation to get you to a poll. and if for no other reason, vote because your posterity is at stake whether you would like to believe it or not. 

i will vote for mitt romney, and i'd like anyone who would like to take a swing at me for that to come at me. because at least that would mean you're making a valiant effort to contribute, and i appreciate that.

"dwight! you ignorant slut!"

i've just always wanted to use that phrase, and it seemed relatively appropriate here.