Short Lived

I'm back.

Yeah... so much for a "break." I finally fell asleep last night. Hit up water aerobics with the old ladies at 0-dark-hundred hours. And I'm back. On the internets.

I'm a talker by nature, and I need someone to listen to all my problems. Normally I turn to my loved ones for that role, as to not sound like a complaining jerk on the world wide web. And who doesn't want a real hug of comfort over a simple blog comment of condolence?

But this time, I've decided not to burden the loved ones.

So, prepare yourself for some serious verbal vomit.

- - -

I've shot myself in the foot. I've allowed myself to spiral down--very low--in the pit of comparison. I know it kills my self-esteem, not to mention wastes loads of time, but my carnal nature concedes to the enticements of its evil lure.

Let me explain.

I feel like such a jerk.

Maybe I shouldn't explain.

Let me start in the middle.

One day, while psycho analyzing myself (pretty sure I've told you all how regularly that occurs), I realized my motivation for something I'd been doing. It was more than a light bulb turning on, it was as though someone walked up and slapped me in the face. The "something" I'd been doing was hating on a particular girl. Okay, maybe "hate" is a strong word. I just let her get under my skin. I would have a noticeably worse day for having thought of this girl, than if she weren't a part of my life.

I can't really blame her. Honestly, she's not done anything but be herself (which was apparently enough!...oops, there I go again.)

Really though, she's a fairly nice person (I'm trying!).

But this truly isn't about whether or not I'm going to ever become friends with, or even like this particular girl. It comes down to my motivation. I felt insecure and of less worth because of her. Silly, really. But true. And I couldn't deny it--nor could I ignore it at this point.

She threw me into the "not enough" cycle-- not pretty enough, not stylish enough, not successful enough, not rich enough, not smart enough, not skinny enough, and on and on.

My solution? Well, to hate her of course! And, if at all possible, get many others to hate her too.

Hello, Anna..............WRONG ANSWER!

But that was my natural reaction, and I didn't even realize it.

This isn't my only issue in life right now (believe you me, I've got plenty), but this seemed to significantly aggravate the others. And it's not just this girl, she just worked as a very nice example.

As I cut myself down (and worse, think less of those around me), I give this girl power.

- - -

I think my dog is dying.

Don't know what to do. I'm not one to shell out a bunch of money to get x-rays and such for a pet. But I really wish I could help her.

Here's a funny video of her. Chryssie likes to wait for everyone to leave the bedroom before crawling into bed and tucking herself in to the blanket pile. Sadly, her snores are a dead give away!

Isn't she cute??

- - -

I'm flying out to Indiana to see boy and boy family on Wednesday. I've been so wrapped up in, again, comparison and concern of comparison, I've not given myself much room to just be excited. I'm too worried about all the many, many ways I can potentially "mess up." I've gotten to a point of not caring, which isn't a good place to be either.

Luckily, I've got two days to pep myself up again.

- - -

Wow, I really do sound pitiful and whiny (I mean really, how much more pitiful can you get then "my dog is dying"!) when I put my complaints in words. Sorry for being a Debby Downer--but everyone needs a moment to vent, right? It's just a lot better when I spit up my complains instead of allow them to stir inside and rot. Normally I just write these posts and then delete them. But hey, who am I to deprive you of my drama? So if you just read that whole thing, again, I'm sorry, but you were told at the beginning it was nothing but verbal vomit--meaning, not my fault you just wasted at least 15 minutes.

Whew. I'll try not to fling that on you again. Can't even say it helped much. Hope to have something more positive for you later. I just couldn't put on a face and pretend today. Thanks for listening and putting up with me!

ps. my Christmas was wonderful. Hope yours was too.

It's Not You, It's Me

It's definitely me.

If you haven't already noticed, I've been a little hit and miss lately. I'd like to blame the holidays, but I know there are other reasons involved.

Those "reasons" have been on my mind a lot lately. And after keeping me from being able to get any sleep tonight, I must kowtow to their demands.

I'm taking a blogging break. I'm sure this all seems fairly cryptic, which isn't my intention, but right now it needs to remain that way.

I may periodically post a "Times with Tabitha" when they occur, but that'll be about it for awhile.

Consider me on vacation in the Bahamas until further notice.

Checking out, Anna.

Times with Tabitha

While at a buffet restaurant with my 30 cousins, Tabitha and came running to the adult table with many of the kids her age.

"Look, Mom! That man over there just gave us all gum balls!"

Promptly taking the candy from Tabitha:

"Sorry, Tabitha. We don't eat candy from strangers."

"Oh, darn."

Ten minutes pass.

"Mommy, Mommy! Can I have the gum ball now? He's not a stranger any more, his name is Cory."

- Tabitha, my 8 year old sister.

God is Love

The gift of Christmas isn't wrapped up in presents or parties. The gift of Christmas is Jesus Christ, the Only Begotten of the Father, the Son of God. As you follow Him, you put people first. You may spend less time in lines and more time serving others. You may spend less money on - and more time with - the people you love. You may lose yourself and you may find everything else that matters.

Merry Christmas.

I'm on IMDb!!!!!!!

So, I found someone with my name on IMDb....... 

then I realized it WAS ME!

CHECK IT OUT!!!!!!

Times with Tabitha {and friends}

"Was that the Holy Spirit whispering in my ear?"

"What did it say?"

"Hit you!"

"No, Hyrum. That was the Devil."

"Oh, I wondered."


- Hyrum and Rachel, my 5 and 13 year old cousins.

Another 5:45am Wake Up Call

Made it to water aerobics this morning.

There's nothing like running through a downpour of rain in the wee hours of the morning to get to your car, and then spending the rest of the time before the sun comes up shaking booty in the pool with the old ladies.

Love it!

Smells Like WHAT?

So.... I ate a roll. It was delicious.

Day-old homemade rolls in the microwave for precisely 13 seconds make a delectable snack.

After the consumption of said roll, I SWEAR my hands smelled like baby skin.

You know, that distinct smell babies have--I had it, all over my hands.

I do not know if this specifically had to do with the particular roll I partook of, a distorted sense of smell, or a messed up psyche, but I tell you, rolls = baby smell (the good kind).

...maybe I really am just obsessed with homemade rolls!

Times with Tabitha {and friends}

With Christmas around the corner, the little one only become more and more cute. And the Santa naughty/nice list threats sure help. :)

Here's a bit Christmas cheer from those little ones:

"If Santa lives in the North, then the EASTer Bunny must live in the East."

-Alex, my 5 year old cousin.

MISSIONARY ...to be

Look! Look! I told you the pictures were coming!

Caleb, my little brother, has finished his papers! 

Only the interviews left and he's ready to submit them!

Doesn't he look good?!

I'll keep you posted on where he goes.

What's a missionary?

Times with Tabitha {and friends}

My young cousin had an "accident" in his pants the other day.

When Mommy asked, "Honey, why didn't you just go potty?"

He responded, with a very serious look of correction on his face, "Mommy, I did."

-Alex, my 5 year old cousin.

Off on the WRONG Foot

The alarm blared in my ear at 5:45am. It was time for water aerobics with my mother!

I rolled over for two seconds, snuggled deeper into my pile of seven blankets, and returned to my conversation with a store clerk about picking out the perfect party dress.

Ten minutes passed.

I woke up, wondering why my mother hadn't yet stuck her head into my room.

Jump out of bed. Threw my suit on. And leaped up the stairs.

She was gone. SHE LEFT WITHOUT ME.

So, I'm throwing a pity party for myself by sitting in the dark, quiet livingroom and catching up on all my blog stalking.

I've grumbled for a few minutes, putting on the sad face hoping the Christmas snow globe next to me will have sympathy. I considered going back to bed and trying to get out on the other foot, hoping that would help. But, alas, I don't think it will. I'm going to have to resign to giving up my grumpiness by choice--not something I do easily.

And I realized I've been a little MIA recently, and decided I could put on a happy face for you (at 6am--I know, I'm that good), and catch you up on the happenings.

DRUM ROLL PLEASE!!!!!

I got a new camera!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Actually, my wonderful boy got it for me. And it's AMAZING.

So, now you don't have to read all of my long boring posts anymore. I'll have pictures. MANY, MANY pictures!

We did an early Christmas exchange. I wanted to open them in person, and we knew we wouldn't see each other until after Christmas. So, instead of waiting, we opened them early. (Naturally, I didn't complain!)

He gave me this super cute photo album of all my New York pictures (remembering our days past), and then a super, super nice camera to take more pictures (remembering our days to come).

So, be ye ready for bazillions of pictures!

Ok, I feel better just thinking about taking pictures. Maybe I'll go do that now.

Update since Mother's return:

She thought I had chosen to stay

and didn't want to wake me so early.

Really, she was just being thoughtful.

What a nice Mom.

I need to work on that whole getting grumpy thing.
Or rather, the not getting grumpy thing.

Times with Tabitha

My father took young Tabitha out on a date to see a theatrical production of "A White Christmas."

He opened the door for her, and explained that's what gentlemen do for their dates.

To which Tabitha promptly replied:

"Dad, seriously, we can't date. You're at least six years older than me."

-My 8 year old sister.

So I Cried.

I couldn't help it. I got in my car, and cried.

It was only a few tears. And I fought super hard to hold every drop back.

But, alas.

To no avail.

The tears fell.

So I had Cheerios for dinner, because I wanted to. And I put lots of sugar on top, because I wanted to.

And nobody can say anything about it.

And now I'm going to bed.

My "Mystery Man"

I've realized in many recent conversations with friends that I've kept some goings on in my life a little more private than said friends have appreciated.

I guess it's story time.

Once upon a time, I met boy. Let's call him Robbie.

Robbie went to BYU. I went to BYU. Robbie majored in Broadcast Journalism. I majored in Broadcast Journalism. Thus, we met.

We've had all of our major classes together since the program prereqs in fall of 2007.

I thought he was a bit of a cut-up, sports fanatic.

He thought I was a brown-nosing nerd.

We never really talked.

Fall of 2009 I was his boss.
Anna- Newsroom Executive Producer and Tech Director.
Robbie- Sports Expert and Anchor

I crushed on him. He would never date his boss.

Winter 2010 I was no longer his boss.

He asked me out.

And again.

And again.

I wasn't interested.

And again.

OK. I was a wee bit interested. But I knew I would be interning with Nat Geo in New York, and I had no real intentions of going back to Provo....ever again.

We said our "good-byes" the night before I flew out. He was to remain "the boy who's my friend who I sometimes hold hands with. "And that was going to be that.

He hoped I would come back. I figured he'd go away.

But he didn't.

Text, handwritten letter, Skype, gchat, email, phone, etc. He made contact at least once every single day of the summer.

I refused to let things get serious, so I intentionally failed to respond to his text one day, just so he wouldn't have the rights of saying he'd "talked to me" every day of the summer. I also put back the postcard I was going to mail him because I didn't want to give him the "wrong idea."

But after a 9 hour Skype conversation one Saturday, I knew I'd done it. I'd given him the wrong idea. :)

He wanted to take me on a date, so he sent me a date in a box.

Then I invited him to visit me in New York. I know, talk about giving a wrong idea. Guess that wasn't my biggest concern at that point.

So we kissed atop the Empire State Building, discussed decorating ideas in the MET, and dreamed about the future while looking at the skyline from Staten Island.

Needless to say, I came home from New York. And I've been officially giving him the wrong idea for about 5 1/2 months now.


Here's a little about boy:

He's from Indiana, but grew up in Michigan, California and Chicago as well.

Served an LDS mission in Mongolia.

Where he ate really crazy food and did cool things like this -

He graduated in Broadcast Journalism this past April with the goal of becoming a play-by-play sports announcer. He currently works as the True Blue producer and the BYUB sideline reporter.

Where he gets to go crazy places

and interview really cool people like this -

 If you couldn't already tell, he's more than a sports fan. And if you didn't already know, I know less than nothing about sports. But in spite of my writing as a 15-year-old "cannot like sports" on my list of attributes for boys I would date, it hasn't stopped us yet.

He buys me chocolates and presents, lets me pick the movies we watch, attempts to answer my unreasonable sports questions, plays with my little sisters, listens to and is interested in my never-ending babble and life philosophies, and tries to remember the names of my 30 cousins. He's terribly ticklish, which gets me into trouble sometimes. He loves clam chowder and the color blue. He turns 25 in January. He's a runner and plays the piano and violin. And he likes me, a lot.

Now you know. This is boy--my boy.

To Vomit or Punch?

That is the question.

Yesterday was another very long day in jr. high school. For those of you who don't know, I've been freelance interpreting for the Deaf for several months. (...now that I've graduated with a degree that has nothing to do with my current job and I'm living at home with my parents at the age of 22. ((ps. I've recently understood both of these things to be a huge blessing. More on that later.)))

I've subbed as an interpreter at this particular jr. high before, and really enjoyed working with the group of Deaf and hard of hearing kids there. But this time was different.

The kids I was working with were just as nice, chatty, and attentive as they were before; it was the other students that made me sick.

While waiting outside math class, I overheard a group of students ridiculing the unaware deaf student several feet away.

"I just want to beat him over the head."

"Yeah, I'll be I could smack him into a pulp with my hard arm cast."

"I dare you to just walk by and punch him."

"I'll do it if you'll do it."

Luckily, these little bird brains were all talk, but, like most things of this kind, I took it personally.

Next, while walking out of a class, I walked right into a very loud, if not shouted conversation where a child somewhere around the age of 14 yelled:

"All Jews belong in ovens."

I'm not the strongest of people, and I don't have a hard cast to use as a weapon, but I was nearly positive I could beat that kid into a pulp within minutes if I wasn't completely positive parents and school would quickly ensue legal action against me.

I was absolutely disgusted. Again, I was hugely offended.

I concluded my day with a nice dose of jr. high P.E.

All the while, during any test, worksheet, or personal time of the students, I'd been reading The Road by Cormac McCarthy, a postapocalyptic novel where a father and son struggle to live because of their love for one another. Throughout the novel, the boy constantly asks his father, "We're the good guys, right?" "We wouldn't hurt those people because we're the good guys, right?" "We would have saved that baby because we're the good guys, right?" Their emaciated bodies painfully grope for progression--away from "the bad guys." The gruesome horrors they endure daily are merely tolerated in survival mode as they live with no hope of a future and constant fear of death.

I will save you the details of what "the bad guys" do, but suffice it to say, I was not a happy camper yesterday. Not to mention the fact that I was sick with an upset stomach.

So, all of this together made my already churning stomach slosh with anger and malice--the very things I saw in others. This black hole of hate sucked me in as I realized I hated the hater.

My mind began to reflect on haters of the past. Other books that came to mind are Man's Search for Meaning by Viktor E. Frankl and One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich by Aleksandr Sozhenitsyn.

I remember one particular scene where a small group of men under the rule of Stalin are forced to dig an icy grave in the frozen land. After a full day of work on their weak bodies, the soldier over watch commanded one of the diggers to throw another into the grave, burying him alive. When he refused, the guard turn to the almost victim and commanded him to throw in his supporter. The man did. And he was buried.

I've often wondered where such hate comes from, how such people as Stalin, Hitler, Mao, Hassein, Mugabe and many other could have had mothers and fathers and childhoods and be children of God and still hate and kill in the way they did. And what of all their followers. How do you become evil? I don't understand it--really.

As I looked around this school and reflected on the words from The Road, "We're the good guys, right?" I placed myself in Nazi Germany where neighbors turned on neighbors, and friends gave up on friends. I thought of my own neighbors and friends; I thought of the students in the hall. If we were forced into a survival mode, if I were walking the road in postapocalyptic America, would I be a good guy? Would I give of my own vital resources to help another who all knew would "die anyway"?

I know hate is taught, but it is also accepted by the learner. What 14-year-old would come up with such things without a peer, parent or idolized person first saying such?

I interpreted a clip from an old movie last night where a man from another planet lingers in a cemetery with a young boy.

Bobby Benson: [indicating grave marker during a visit to Arlington] That's my father. He was killed at Anzio.
Klaatu: Did all those people die in wars?
Bobby Benson: Most of 'em. Didn't you ever hear of the Arlington Cemetery?
Klaatu: No, I'm afraid not.
Bobby Benson: You don't seem to know much about anything, do you, Mr. Carpenter?
Klaatu: Well, I'll tell you, Bobby, I've been away a long time. Very far away.
Bobby Benson: Is it different where you've been? Don't they have places like this?
Klaatu: Well, they have cemeteries, but not like this one. You see, they don't have any wars.
Bobby Benson: Gee, that's a good idea.

Why can't I come from a place where there are no wars? Why do people have to hate?

Times with Tabitha

Half way through her large bowl of split pea soup, Tabs gazed at the green glob on her spoon and asked:

"Are there peas in this???"

-Tabitha, my 8 year old sister.

Thanksgiving Recap

I ate some turkey. Played some games. And got sick.

Really though, I had a wonderful Thanksgiving week with family and boy! We managed to visit both sides of my family, and everyone traveled to and from all gatherings safely! 

My brother, Josh, drove to Colorado to have Thanksgiving with his girlfriend (we have yet to get the full update on that one), and they successfully traveled through the storm. So, safety was one of the big things I found myself being grateful for this year. 

Boy and I didn't get to visit his family, on account that they're in a different state and all--too far to drive for just the weekend. ..............however, I will be visiting over Christmas break! I know, kind of a big deal, right? I go back and forth between being nervous and excited. Mostly, I'm just trying to convince myself it's not a big deal at all. But who am I trying to kid. 

That's a whole four weeks away though, so for now I'm just going to worry about my Christmas shopping, driving all over the state through the snow to my different interpreting assignments, and picking my next novel to read while hunkered down in some warm blankets. Any suggestions?

Times with Tabitha

Grace has been quizzing us for days using a flip question book for sixth graders.

Boy has taken the brunt of these questions.

This morning, Grace asked the following:

"Put in chronological order: Galileo, Isaac Newton, Copernicus."

Do you know the answer?

Well, boy did. However, the answer looked like this:

Copernicus (1473-1543),
Galileo (1563-1642),
Isaac Newton (1642-1727)

Grace didn't just take the names, and required boy give the appropriate birth and death dates in order for the question to be counted as right.

When he couldn't get any of the dates correct, Tabitha proceeded to chastise boy with:

"Robbie, you don't know anything about the Book of Mormon!"

(In Tabitha's defense, Grace struggled with the pronunciations, and said "Isaac Newton" as "Isaiah-ic Newton.")

-Tabitha, my 8 year old sister.

What's Irreplaceable?

I lost my purse.

It may have been stolen.

I feel sick. Utterly sick to my stomach with a throbbing ache on the right side of my head.

I had so many wonderful things to tell you about this weekend. I went to a Silent Weekend, where my sister and I, along with at least a hundred other people, used American Sign Language to communicate. I met up with some of my best friends, whom I haven't seen in ages, and saw Harry Potter and had a sleep over. And I got to see boy.

But the pictures I intended on sharing are in my camera, which is in my purse, which is NOT anywhere to be found.

What do I do?! I don't even know when I lost it!

Feeling sick. sick. sick.

Cash. Cards. Camera. Jewelry from my late grandma. Favorite pocket dictionary. Planner. Handmade Bag. Gone.

Hopefully not for forever.

sick. sick. sick.

Times with Tabitha {and friends}

"Morning, Mom!"

"Good morning, Hyrum!"

"Mom, what's today??"

"Today is Thursday."

"Oh. Well, how many more days until tomorrow??"

-Hyrum, my 5 year old cousin.

I'm Not Made For Middle School

Today I interpreted for an 8th grader. She was nice, didn't want me to walk too close to her in the halls, but nice. The content was more than doable for my interpreting skills, consisting mostly of movies and worksheets, obviously doable. Some of the kids looked so little and cute, others towered over me and even caused me to lose my balance as they pushed passed me in their self-obsorbed manner, so maybe I only saw one or two cute kids.

I am so. so. so. so. so. so. so. so. so. so. glad I'm not in middle school--even if some of the teachers thought I should be and tried "encouraging" me to get to class.

Ugh.

How We See Ourselves

Situation one:

So..... friend and I were reflecting back on the earlier days. We do this often. It's fun to share journal entires and thoughts surrounding a particular event, and compare what we were REALLY thinking.

Friend made a comment weeks ago that he saw me as "quiet" when he first met me.

Recently, we had another such conversation where I referenced the earlier comment about being "quiet," and laughed at how we initially had such "incorrect perceptions" of one another's personalities.  To which my friend responded that he still saw me as being quiet.

I was really taken aback. Me? Quiet? I saw myself as pensive, and even decisively reserved in certain social circumstances, but I've never used the word "quiet" to describe myself.

Maybe our applications of the word were different. Sure. But my mind raced through memories of a very social, outgoing, talkative me.

Situation two:

Recently, I went to a very formal ball with my boy. I spent hours tediously curling my hair and applying makeup. I know that everyone has a different style, and individuals often feel strongly about said personal style, but boy commented (very innocently, might I add) about my wearing too much makeup. (I also have to add that he said very wonderful and kind things about how "gorgeous" he thought I was, and that I was the "most beautiful" girl there... this other comment was very small, and again, very innocent.) Whatever intent he had when making the comment, I couldn't help but let my thoughts wander in comparing other things we might see differently.

I'm sure you can tell, I'm trying very hard not to paint these situations as negative things, but rather factual things. The world looks different through each of our eyes. I know this.

But more than how our world around us looks, I can't shake this thought of everyone around me seeing ME differently than I see myself. I felt self-conscious, and slightly defensive.

I don't have anything conclusions or profound thoughts on the subject. I'm just having an unnerving out-of-body experience trying to size myself up and examine my world from the perspective of others. I don't recommend it.

What Do Babies Know?

As a child, I don't believe we understand the existence of time before our birth. We only understand the creation of life with beginning at our own creation.

I pondered this the other day when I realized I'm taking my mother's position--the position I've perceived her as having my entire life--and she my grandmother's, and my grandmother passing on.

I heard all growing up that "parents know better than children" because "they've been there." I though I understood, "mom was once a child;" but in reality, I don't think young brains are capable of understanding the "before our time" concept.

It makes me wonder what I think I'm capable of understanding now, but am truly not.

It also makes me wonder what babies DO know that I am also incapable of understanding.

via

Look, Mommy! Look! A Real Job!

Phew. It's been a long, hard road these past few months in the employment arena. I've had so many rough days solely because of my sitting duck lifestyle. I'm a busy body, and when my body ain't busy I ain't happy. But I FINALLY feel as though my life is heading in a productive, paid direction again.

I worked three separate interpreting assignments AND worked in my freelance position writing web content for a business. Yippy. I've really expanded my range of interpreting assignments and have really broadened my capabilities. I'm not making tons of money. But "some" is good.

Now, if I can just get up the energy to work on my novel tonight, I'd be doing real good.

...Remind me, now, why doesn't this money stuff grow on trees?...

Work. Work. Work.

Poor Tabitha

Wednesday afternoon, Tabitha began complaining of a toothache. My mother examined the tooth in question, and agreed that the tooth appeared loose, but worried that it was also an adult tooth. That evening Tabitha cried through the night.

By Thursday morning, her top lip was so swollen, it nearly touched her nose, and her right cheek was swollen from her lip to her eye. My mother called the emergency dentist, and he sent them to the ER. After being admitted to the hospital, Tabitha had an IV and lots of drugs pumped in her.

They extracted a baby tooth next to the adult tooth, and said there really was no more they could do. The doctors didn't know what was causing the pain and infection, and therefore didn't have a clear idea of how to fix it. She is now home, and antibiotics are helping.

She really wants to show everyone her face, hoping it will help her get on a commercial for the hospital or something so that she can make some extra money--thank you Tabitha for thinking of pocket change while we're all worried about whether your dying! So, I told her I'd share with you instead. If you have a great desire to donate to the Tabitha Fund, that's your own prerogative.

As for me, we're just glad she's home, and hope she continues to get better! Keep her in your prayers.

"Normal" side.

Swollen side (half the size of what it was yesterday afternoon).

Our bruised and battered little girl.

She's very concerned that her smile is now lopsided. 

We're sure she's feeling a lot better by this evening though, as she is downstairs laughing at herself hysterically. 

Oh, Tabitha.

What Does "Failure" Really Mean?

So, I'm a little behind on my NaNoWriMo daily novel writing.

...Okay, I'm a lot behind.

Fail?

Maybe. Or maybe I can just point and laugh at others and tell myself I'm not THAT bad...

Tomorrow will be better.... I hope.

But don't hold me to it.

Failure

Shh. It's a Secret

I've always loved secrets--not the ones kept from me (I'm rarely fond of surprises), but, of course, the ones I'm involved in keeping.

I do a wonderful job of weaseling my nose into all sorts of private conversations. I do quite well at keeping these kinds of secrets, but I'm rather awful at keeping personal secrets, the private thoughts in my head, to myself.

I've thought a lot about secrets for several weeks now. I've pondered on the role of privacy in our lives.

I have a friend, a best friend, with whom I've managed to share all of my secrets. For some reason, the words of certain secrets can rest heavy on our souls, and simply speaking them aloud to another helps relieve some of their weight. I had heavy secrets. And I shared them. This simple act unlocked a hidden door, permitting this person passage into my heart, giving them a key to the heavy door of privacy.

My thoughts have circled this moment, repeatedly. I recall the details of the dark night when bitter words fell on sweet ears. Then my thoughts wind up and project an expectation on my future--an expectation of open and intimate sharing. The thick door which was once locked, is passed through freely, and left open.

But where does this leave privacy?

Are intimacy and privacy contradictory? Can they coexist? Should they?

I think of my mother, commenting on a child's inability to wait five minutes to make their next request, causing them to barge into an occupied bathroom with their list of demands. Yet, simultaneously, I remember the childhood rule of not locking the door of our only bathroom creating a sense of familiarity in our family, we were more than siblings, we were friends.

Lack of privacy can cause one to go insane; yet, too much privacy creates isolation.

When your spouse asks, "What are you thinking?" do you answer them in full honesty? Does he or she have a right to your very thoughts?

Privacy is important, but what is it's role in our lives?

Do You Hear the Music?

It rained this morning. It's pouring now. Thanks to daylight savings, my body woke at it's usual time, but at the new hour of 5:30am. I laid in my warm bed, briefly contemplating how I would use this gift of time--sleep, read, work. After ten minutes of trying to keep myself awake while closing my eyes, so as not to drift off and lose the time to unconscious rest, I heaved myself up from the shamble of my cosy covers.

My family is having car problems--it's a habit of ours--so my mother was driving the girls to school and my dad into work. I elected to go with them and help my mother after dropping off the crew. With all sisters in dance, she has been cleaning the ballet studio to supplement tuition costs for years.

My cold, tired body hoisted itself into the car, flipping through the pages of my new novel as quickly as I could in the dim light of the morning.

Soon, we were in the studios, mopping floors, washing mirrors, and scrubbing bathrooms. I haven't really danced in years. I may have dabbled in a few college classes here and there, but nothing like my time spending every afternoon as a "studio rat."

As I bent over, reaching to a child's smudged handprint on the mirror between to bars, I had a powerful and unexpected flashback. I recalled standing in that very room, the air heavy with body heat and sweat. I remember the aching muscles, the lack of confidence, the shoes and tights and leotards and hairnets. My body marinated in the memory, growing heavy the longing for that elated rush of finishing a combination with a perfect triple pirouette, landing with precision and poise. I could almost hear the melodic, classical piano notes filling the rooms, begging to carry your fingers and toes.

I miss it. I miss dancing so much. 

The Beautiful Ballerina Project

Times with Tabitha

"Mom! Mom! The mustard bottle says "Since 1904"! We're still eating it and it went bad over a hundred years ago!"

-My 8 year old sister.

Times with Tabitha

"I got ready so fast this morning, I even had time to brush my teeth."

-My 8 year old sister.

Everyone has a Story

I loved reading biographies on blogs, websites, and the inside cover of books--the short (or long) blurbs about the author. I don't know why the person is just as important to me as their work, but I always find I have this insatiable crave for more and more details about their history. One of my favorite little facts to search for is what said people are getting or have gotten degree wise, and where. I think that's because in my heart of hearts, I'm trying to convince myself that there are plenty of writers out there who have degrees in things other than writing (like me), who still find themselves publishing incredible works. But I also love to hear about where they live, how many kids they have, what their hobbies are, why they chose the topic they did, and why they love what they do.

People are so fascinating to me--both their told and untold stories. Have you ever just people watched? I love watching strangers (a little creepy, I suppose. but I feel I'm not the only one who does this, so somehow that makes it okay.), but I also love watching people I know as well. Comparing the personality seen through peoples words with the personality resonating from their actions always interests me.

I just love people so much. I love history on a global and personal level. I care about the individual, and their intricate part in this ever-complex web of life.

I wish I could help people tell their stories. This desire is such an integral part of who I am, it's the reason I majored in journalism, work as an interpreter, and want to write. It is me.

I hope you don't think I'm a total creeper for not only people watching, but completely psychoanalyzing everyone around me. I seriously need to stop doing that.

Politics are for the Dogs

The time has come! It is indeed election day. And, alas, the future is not bright. This morning, my father returned from the voting booth and informed us that he had done his best, and voted for the best candidate available--our dog. He wrote in the name of our little Cocker Spaniel, and voted for her. Now, Birdie (the dog) didn't do much campaigning, so we're not sure how far she'll get; but there may be hope yet at the end of this dark political tunnel.  

Every year the State will be the dog that chases its own tail... engaging in a futile attempt to close a perpetual budget gap. -Richard J. Codey

I would rather be beaton and be a man than to be elected and be a little puppy dog. -Davy Crockett

Dogs are great assets to candidates, and the feeling seems to be engendered that if a dog loves the candidate, he can't be all that bad. -Dick Gregory

Politics are not my concern.... They impressed me as a dog's life without a dog's decencies. -Rudyard Kipling

During the Prince's visit, King Timahoe will be referred to only as Timahoe, since it would be inappropriate for the Prince to be outranked by a dog. -Richard M. Nixon (writing to White House staff on how to address the president's Irish Setter, during a visit by Prince Charles)

You want a friend in Washington? Get a dog. -Harry S. Truman

Dogs are great assets to candidates, and the feeling seems to be engendered that if a dog loves the candidate, he can't be all that bad. -Dick Gregory

Diplomacy is the art of saying "Nice doggie!"... till you can find a rock. -Unknown

I may have grown cynical from long service, but this is a tendency I do not like, and I sometimes think I'd rather be a dog and bay at the moon than stay in the Senate another six years and listen to it. -John Sharp Williams

I Don't Care What You Wear

I'm sick of reading blogs, just to watch them turn into sites of "here's what clothes I picked out to wear today." I want to read what's in your head, not look at the way you styled your hair on it. I don't mind the occasional fashion post, or even entire blogs devoted to such (I can choose not to read those), but please don't profess to write your "inner most thoughts and desires" and then just post a picture of someone else's living room..... unless that's as deep as your inner most thoughts and desires go.

OK. That was a little harsh. Please don't kill me if you actually keep one of these blogs. Some of these blogs are done well (probably yours), I'm referring to the ones that aren't (definitely not yours).

I'm just looking for some good reads. Got any really good ones you follow?

NaNoWriMo

Today is November 1. I can't believe October has already come and gone.

Not only does this month welcome in the beginnings of our winter season, today marks the first day of NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month).

Think I can do it?

A whole novel in a month?! (Well, at least the first draft.)

1,667 words a day?!

At least a few minutes of every day I linger in the beautiful thought of one day becoming a published author.

Could today be the beginning of making dreams into realities?

I'm sure going to try...

Knocking His Halo Right Off

Boy and Me.

Happy Halloween!!!

A World in Six Words

When asked to write a full story in six words, legend has it novelist Ernest Hemingway responded: "For Sale: baby shoes, never worn."

Earlier this year, many contributed their own six word stories to a compilation entitled, It All Changed in an Instant.

Many famous names left their six word mark: Gloria Steinem ("Life is one big editorial meeting"), to author Frank McCourt ("The miserable childhood leads to royalties"), to actress Molly Ringwald ("Acting is not all I am").

Now, Hint Fiction shares stories of a slightly longer word count--entire lives wrapped up in twenty-five words or less.

j. j. steinfeld wrote:

"Before their wedding, Gino revealed he was adopted. Eugenia admitted she was adopted too.

"I was a twin, Gino added.

Eugenia said, So was I."

jenn alandy wrote:

"His wife calls while we are in the hotel room. 'Yeah, I'm enjoying my time without the kids,' he says. I stare at my feet."

marcus sakey wrote:

"He held her crepe-paper hand and summoned an autumn day, sepia and smoke, and dancing, and music that sounded nothing like the beeping of machines."

What's your story in twenty-five words or less?

Just Pray

Pray for the people of Indonesia; the volcano erupted again. And while you're at it, pray for the people suffering from cholera in Haiti, and the families of the Mexican massacres, and the families enduring the weather in the Midwest, and the hearts of the government officials both in office and running for office, and all of the people in the Middle East, and those down to their last dollar who don't believe there is anything left to be thankful for this holiday season. Well, it'd probably just be safe to pray for us all at this point.

Snow!!!!

It snowed in the valley last night!!!!

Snow always reminds me of one of my best friends going completely bazurk a few years ago at the sight of the first snowfall of the season. She's from England, where there isn't much snow, if any at all.

Most of my life I've disliked this cold, wet stuff. But I realized I really just didn't like walking through it to school every day.

I'm excited for the winter wonderland this year!

Do you like snow?

where am i going?

I ask myself this question all the time. 

Sometimes I'm referring to tomorrow. Sometimes I'm referring to my emotions. Sometimes I'm referring to the salvation of my soul. 

I've heard it said, the best way of knowing where you are going is to understand where you've come from. Well, maybe that isn't said; maybe I just made it up. I don't remember. But still.

If this were truly helpful, how to I go about understanding yesterday? 

When I was young, maybe somewhere around eight years old, I remember standing in front of a small crowd. I was in a line with other boys and girls around my age, and I had a red balloon tied to my wrist. I watched the air-filled plastic ball float up and down with every slight lift of my wrist. And I waited. Each boy and girl took their turn answering questions about him or herself. I don't remember why, but we just were. One of the questions--the only one I can remember--was, "What do you want to be when you grow up?" I had an answer. I didn't have to come up with it, and I didn't hesitate when sharing it. "I want to be a mom." I was so sure of that fact. And I didn't really worry about changing that answer. I loved my answer. It was true. 

Years later, I was faced with another question: "What classes do you want to take that will help you prepare for your future career?" My answer was less sure. I thought I wanted to be an attorney, but I didn't quite understand the complicated factors surrounding the becoming of one. But my mom helped me figure out what my options were, and I signed up for some classes. I felt content with my answer. And I was excited about the possibilities. 

Things didn't work out so well with my high school law training. Truth was, I hated the teacher. Bigger truth was, the teacher hated teaching. And I was faced with a new question. "What school would you like your ACT/SAT scores sent to? And what major would you like on your application?" I panicked. I really hadn't a clue. I didn't know I could write "undeclared," so I asked my mom what I should put at the top of my test. I had picked the school I wanted to attend, and my mom encouraged me to put "pre-communications" as my major. She said I had been interested in it earlier, but I honestly didn't know what it even would entail. I felt passive about this answer. But I knew I could just change it later. 

A lot of things have happened since then. A lot of yesterdays have passed. 

The future is always scary and always complicated--the complications are just different. 

I don't worry about whether I've put my shoes on the right feet anymore (and according to Tabitha, I'm pretty good at that whole "left-right thing" now), and I care so much about having someone to sit with during lunch. 

I still don't know where I'm going always, but I have a pretty good idea of where I've been. I know that I've at least survived the past, and things work out somehow eventually. 

I know I come from a God who loves me. And I know I want to get back in the end. 

It's Nothing Personal

I don't know if you've noticed, but I don't put a whole lot of personal information about my life on here. I tend to gravitate to long divulging rants of my deep, inner thoughts--which, naturally, isn't personal. Sometimes I wish I could go back to the time no one read this blog, back to the time when I posted all of my secrets here--on the world wide web--because it was private. I would talk about roommates, boys, and coworkers without the slightest risk of their finding this site. But now things are different. Yet, something inside of me still wants to gossip with you--tell you everything. I want to giggle about boys (or rather, boy), vent without guilt, and dream without limits.

*Biting bottom lip* .....think I should just spill?

Well, if you're making me. :)

Okay, so, here's the update on my life:

I've been dating boy for about three or four months (we don't really know...).  Boy has liked and chased me for quite awhile longer than I cared to notice. I played the games, worried about what boys thought, and racked up the free dinners for years; but when boy came into my life, my focus was wholly elsewhere. I had decided to serve a mission for the LDS church, and I had already begun packing my bags for an adventurous summer in New York (possibly leaving to never again return). I was still quite okay with the pleasant company and free dinner boy offered (he was a million times better than some of the other crazies I'd been dealing with.), but ironically, my journal entry the day of our first date simply says, "Today I've truly decided to serve a mission for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. My heart is burning, and I am ready to go. I know it is the right thing for me." ....Yeah, DAY OF our first date. Kinda funny.

Anyway, I went to New York (and loved it SO much! ...hoping to go back some day), and, as you saw before, boy came out to visit me. (That was only after two months of talking every day, including an 9 hour conversation on Skype.)

Wow. It sounds like I'm announcing my own engagement or something. I'm kind of freaking myself out. So, let me add here, that is NOT the end of this story... *phew* maybe I shouldn't talk about boy on here. I may get myself into trouble.

Before I drag more sappy details out, let me say, I was still in missionary (or potentially taking a job with Nat Geo TV in New York) mode, and didn't really feel anything for boy. He was sweet and all, but it's hard to make feels come that simply don't exist on their own.

So, boy tried harder and harder. And I came back to Utah. My papers are still unfinished. And I turned down two job offers for Nat Geo TV.

Now, I'm working as an American Sign Language interpreter, taking piano and voice lessons, fixing my little sisters' hair, and running carpool for my mother--all while living in the basement of my parents' house. Not really where you dream of being when you're 22, huh? But it works. Well, it more than works. I'm really quite happy with it all--most of the time.

(Oh! I'm also helping my mom with her business, starting a business of my own, and writing a novel. And I get to come home to hot meals from my mom every night!)

Yet, my never-ending itch to go and do still sits at the base of my neck, and I don't know if I will be here much longer. I haven't the slightest clue what my future holds at this point (that was entirely unacceptable a month ago), but I'm learning to embrace the adventure.

I look at women in their 30s and then 40s and think, "One day I'll be you." Then I shutter and try to think of something else. Growing up is really scary. Children think you know a whole lot and that everything works out by the time you're as "old" as I am (goodness, my little sister told me I should be married by now, and asked me what was wrong with me!!!). But sometimes I'm not old, sometimes I'm still young. And sometimes I'm content not making grownup decisions.

So, bring on the adventure! And let me live every day to the fullest! That way, by the time I reach my 30s and 40s, I can feel satisfied and pleased with my life.

Maybe I really shouldn't write ultra-personal posts. I'll only get myself into trouble. My only point was to inform you that I'm happily dating and happily working. Life is {mostly} good.

Life in the Fast Lane

I drive fast.

Faster than I should, I know.

I also say things about other drivers, things that aren't always nice. But I tell myself it's okay because the windows are up and they can't hear me.

I've always lived my life as full as I can. I pack so many things into my schedule, sometimes I do too many things to allow myself to enjoy any of them.

I want to live a full and active life, but I want to enjoy it as well.

It's such a hard balance.

Do you ever feel pressured to do more than you can? Do you ever wish you were capable of living with sleep as an option? Do you ever just stop and notice the ladybugs?

Times with Tabitha {and friends}

Donna is the proud mother of five girls and two boys--Mikey and Hyrum.

One day, Donna grabbed Hyrum and gave him a great big hug.

"Who's my good boy, Hyrum? Who's my good boy?"

Sigh.

"Mikey is."

-Hyrum, my 5 year old cousin.

Times with Tabitha {and friends}

"We're going to sing 'Up on the House Top!'"

"You're not going to sing up on the housetop, you're going to sing up on the stage."

-Julie and Mark, now aunt and father, said over 40 years ago.

Times with Tabitha {and friends}

"Mom, if Shelli's name is really Michelle and we just call her Shelli for fun, is my name really MicJulie?"

-Julie, said 40 years ago when she was a little child.

Times with Tabitha

At the ballet, I took Tabitha down to look at the orchestra pit.

Upon our return from this adventure, brother asked,

"How did you like the orchestra pit?"

"I like it just fine, but don't call me pit."

-My (now) 8 year old sister.

Want that Hurts

Have you ever wanted something so badly, the very thought of it causes your head to spin and stomach to churn. It shouldn't, the thought should be exciting and invigorating; but with each glimmering mental image of my self actually obtaining said want, the thought is quickly smothered by my fear of failure. "What if I can't?" Oh, I want this so, so, so, so much. I happened upon a job profile of some random woman today who's resume was basically my wish list. I admit, I envied. I coveted. I wanted from the bottom of my soul. I craved so deeply, the intensity of suction at the bottom of my stomach nearly turn my body inside out. Ahhhhhh! What do you do when you want something this much? What do you do when you risk falling flat on your face? What do you do when it will take several years to just get there, and then you still might fail? What do you do when you feel you'd have to risk everything, but if you succeed, it'd all be worth it? Yet, if you fail......... If all the hard work, the years of effort and tears, and your pride all get dashed to pieces, is it still worth it? Should I try in spite of the risk of failure?

I want it so much, even my toes are tingling with desire!!! ahhhhhhhhhhh!!!!

Times with Tabitha {and friends}

"Teacher, I'm sorry, I can't read this paper for the class."

"Why not?"

"I just can't read your handwriting."

"Kira, it's typed."

- Kira, an 8 year old friend.

Times with Tabitha

"Josh, I want you to hurry up and kiss your girlfriend. I want to be an aunt as soon as possible."

- My 7 year old sister.

Today is a Good Day

I just decided it will be so. Which means, it will be so.

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