"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.