Camping Trip, Part 1

So Becca and I went camping Tuesday night to Mt. Charleston. It was really fun. I drove and Becca tried to dump water out of the passenger side window and sprayed the window and herself. That made the trip more fun.

Then we set up camp. It looked real official. We took our dumb dog but she was miserably afraid of the fire, so we had to tie her to the grill. I felt a little bad but that wore off after an hour of incessant whining.

We were all kinds of excited to prove that we could build a fire and cook a dinner and survive like real women. It took a little while to recall all that junk they forced us to learn from Church-mandated girls' camp, but we got that fire going. I made Becca call me lord of the flame for the rest of the evening.

She had to use my dad's extraordinarily dull hatchet to chop up some of the firewood we bought and make kindling. Then I made fire like a pro. We were totally awesome.

Then we cooked dinner, which was hot dogs and beans. We even boiled water to make hot chocolate. It was the quaintest campsite ever. I made Becca take a picture of my pie tin and I photographed the hot dogs being turned into dinner.

Then we tried to make s'mores, but our hershey bars had melted during the incredibly hot car ride up the mountain, so we stuck then in the cooler and they froze all funny and by then we were too tired to make them anyway. It was a great night.

Later that night we used Indy as a space heater in our tent while we watched Prince of Persia on my laptop. Aside from a midnight visit to the pitch-black, non-flushing toilets (where Latrine Man lives), it was an uneventful night. Breakfast is always harder to make than dinner, so I won't go into that whole affair, but we got home safe and sound and made ready for our desert camping trip that next night.

It's Not About The Religion

"My major concern with moving it [the location of the Muslim center] is that the headline in the Muslim world will be Islam is under attack in America, this will strengthen the radicals in the Muslim world, help their recruitment, this will put our people — our soldiers, our troops, our embassies, our citizens — under attack in the Muslim world and we have expanded and given and fueled terrorism," he said.

This was the response Imam Rauf gave to the idea of moving the Muslim center farther away from the location of the 9/11 terrorist attack. I found his words mildly threatening and don't much appreciate him saying that he has to keep the center in a controversial location to prevent Muslim extremists from attacking Americans out of rage. This IS America, right? We have the freedom and intelligence to believe, think, act, and feel the way we want without fear of vicious attack from those who would impose a different belief on us. This is not a struggling country, or one mired by a regime. We are strong and independent and accepting of ALL religions--Christianity included--and not just the religions that are currently the most politically correct. So whether you agree or disagree about the current location of the planned center, everyone can agree that cowing under a threat of attack is not something Americans did in the past or believe in today.

We should be welcoming to other religions, yet strong in our Christian beliefs. We should do away with the ignorant fear of the Muslim religion in our country as it does no one any good and is a danger to many. But we should also make darn sure we are not so "understanding and open to new ideas" that we forget the ideals on which we used to stand firm. We built this country on righteous principles, and those principles ring true today and forever, if we could only remember and keep them. It's one thing to love our Muslim brethren, and another thing to throw away our own beliefs and embrace Islam.

What I see happening today where religion and political correctness are concerned is the same kind of reverse discrimination that we've all endured before. Women were not equal in the workplace, so now they get all kinds of advancements and benefits in the name of forced equality. Blacks, Hispanics, Native Americans, and any number of other ethnic groups and minorities were discriminated against so now they have an easier time of it when they apply for promotions, scholarships, and grants. That is not equality. And neither is America bowing to the Muslim religion or any smaller, extremist faction of that religion. We do not back down on our principles to appease angry, threatening people. We do not allow them to scare us into submission the way the extremists do in their own countries. We know how great our country is, and it's high time we stop apologizing for it. You hear that, President? Stop bowing to other princes and apologizing for our capitalism or democracy. We're amazing!

That nutjob pastor and his 50 parishioners are simply wrong in their threat to have a burn-a-Koran day. We all know that. But I'm certain that many people, myself included, feel the way they do: that America has done enough to tiptoe around sensitive religions and that maybe our viewpoints should be respected first in this country. Those crazy Floridians are frustrated, and I am too, but our frustration is not at the teachings of the Koran--it's not about the religion--but at the leaders in this country who do not put America first in their policies and actions, and at those in other countries who try to force us to our knees with political correctness. We cannot allow America to become mockable or disrespected. We have a legacy to uphold, after all.

Shortest and Longest Trip *Ever*

Wow, I'm tired. Here's what happened last night.

Around 9:30 (Utah time) I bought a bunch of junk food at a gas station while filling up so I could stay awake on my way back home. Josh likes to drink energy drinks to keep him awake, but for me, it's always been chewing. On the way up I took down an entire bag of sonic ice. It was glorious, but I also had to have the heater on the whole way up. On the way back down, it was chips, twizzlers, and bubble gum. I learned that nothing is as effective as ice.

I made it to Fillmore before I just had to pull over or die, so I pulled over. I figured I'd sleep for maybe 30 minutes and then jump back onto the interstate. At 12:32 am (my time) I woke up completely frozen and stiff. It was flippin' chilly outside! I forgot that Utah gets cold at night even during the summer, so I was completely surprised by how miserable I was as I straightened the seat and turned the car back on.

From there, it was almost a straight shot home. I stopped in Cedar City to gas up at the Love's. I love Love's because it's huge, brightly lit, and always busy. It makes me feel a little bit safer to be around a bunch of strangers. But this time, Love's was totally empty! I was afraid the store was closed, but luckily it wasn't. I think it was around 2 or 2:30 so nobody was in it but me and a couple of creeper guys. I bought a cup of ice and hurried outta there.

On the way back to the interstate, I switched on my dying phone and listened to one of the most hilarious voicemails I've ever heard. I hope Rachel decides to blog about Jonathan's Ambien experience last night, because he drunk dialed and started singing and slurring on my answering machine. It made me just cry, it was so funny.

Then my phone died. That sucked.

The rest of the trip also sucked. I get really bored while driving long-distance and that makes me sleepy. The ice kept me going until after the gorge, and then I just kinda had to suck it up for the last stretch. So I did, but it felt like the longest trip in the world. Once I got into town around 5 (my time), I filled up one last time just to make sure my mom had a full tank before I returned the car. Rhonda's a thirsty beast, btw.

Anyhoo, then I plugged in my phone and collapsed into bed. And I'm still tired. The End.

Marriage Shouldn't Be This Tough

So more drama over more reception plans tonight. I was so tired of explaining and arguing and explaining some more (my mom especially needs a lot of explaining for her to understand), that I tried to convince Josh to let me just cancel the whole stupid thing. He tried a "compromise" and said we could maybe have one in Utah and none in Vegas. Like that wouldn't piss off everyone I know. I hate receptions; I hate everything about them. I just want to marry some random dude--why do we have to throw an expensive, stressful party over it? Gah!

Night of the Endless Receptions

So yesterday at 5:00 a.m. I woke up very startlingly from a terribly vivid nightmare. I don't often dream, I rarely remember them, and this is the first nightmare in recollection that featured me as the helpless victim to a crime. I am never the victim in my dreams.

Anyhoo, this awful, horrible, frightening nightmare woke me up at 5:00 a.m. and I was so shaken from it that I couldn't get back to sleep. So I stayed away for the next five hours, got ready for work, and left at 9:30. I got stuck at work for an hour and a half longer than I normally am because two walk-ins wanted to be fitted. I was ecstatic to dress them because I LOVE fitting men for tuxes, but that meant Becca (my ride) had to wait a really long time in the back sewing room for me to finish helping them because I couldn't leave the manager there by herself. That sucked for Becca and I felt so bad that it kinda sucked for me too. Then it really sucked for the both of us when we tried to get onto the 15 and found out there was a horrible accident on Sahara (there's always an accident on Sahara) and it was rush-hour and we weren't moving. We didn't move for about an hour but then we got home in 45 min after that, so it was all good, I guess.

The point of my rambling is that work was very long and busy and I had been up for a very long time. I was tired and my feet hurt and I could have eaten an entire horse (not the meat because that's gross, but all four of his horseshoes, easily) by the time I got home. Good thing I found out that three of my family's friends had their receptions that night.

So instead of sitting down and taking off my shoes, I wolfed down some food and raced out to Rhonda, where I was whisked off along with my parents and a couple-a spare sisters to the first reception.

The three receptions were all very nice, but at each one I spoke with at least two people who asked me if I was getting ideas from all the reception set-ups. Not really, I thought. Why would I want to use someone else's ideas? What--did they think I'd be calling up the groom the next day to find out if I could borrow their twinkle lights? Maybe I should have brought a notebook and jotted down some themes, I don't know. I thought I was there to offer my support of the new couple, but I guess not. I was supposed to be working. Don't they know that's Bob and Nicole's job? Goodness.

IOU

Dear Becca,

You made a bet with me that I couldn't clean our entire room by myself. You even bet me ten bucks that I couldn't clean it. You went to sleep laughing at my pathetic attempts to make a dent in your huge piles of unorganized laundry and your stack-o-stuff in the closet, on the desk, on your dresser. Well you're quite literally snoring in bed right now, and I'm sitting in a perfectly spotless room. I took a break to talk to Josh, but other than that, I sorted, organized, and filled two trash bags with all kinds of your junk all night. By the way, you're a full-fledged packrat. Some things are meant to be thrown away--trust me. Just let go of those old achievement days awards. You were ten. Times have changed.

I even made time to organize my mail and change my sheets. My laundry's washing right now and I think I'll take a shower before trying to go to bed. You're gonna be surprised when you wake up. Don't bother looking for those popsicle sticks; I threw them away. You'll thank me in a couple of weeks when you realize you never use them. You're welcome.

You owe me ten bucks.

Blue Badge of Stupid

So at work last Friday I was walking through the wedding dresses to get to the front desk, and the racks are positioned really close together, so I was squeezing through rather quickly to avoid getting claustrophobic. I was going so quickly, it seems, that I failed to notice the rack of bowties hanging up on the wall, the one with hooks that jut out two inches. My arm noticed them. It took a few days, but I finally have a gigantic bruise on my left arm. It's seriously huge and kinda awesome. After Bertha you'd think I'd be extra cautious. Nah. I like my badges of stupid.

Tuxedo Trials

So Josh picked me up after work on Saturday and we drove to Men's Wearhouse to rent him a tux before racing to Allyse's reception an hour late. I know, I know: I work at I&A Tuxedos, why did I go to Men's Wearhouse? Well, I shopped around a lot and did some rather exhaustive research on tuxedo rentals, and MW was the most satisfying. (I&A certainly has more quality items in a wider variety, but their prices show for it.)

Anyhoo, Josh let me pick out silver accessories instead of yellow because they look more wedding-ish and will match a yellow boutonniere really well. He looks great. He let me pick out the tuxedo-style laydown shirt. He let me pick flat-front instead of pleated pants (he'll look more flattering in flat-front, being so thin). He let me pick the 2-button notch, satin lapel, Calvin Klein, super 100 tuxedo jacket. He let me pick the shiny tuxedo shoes and the long tie over the bowtie. He let me pick the solid tie over the diamonds, and the herringbone vest over the dots (he tragically shot down the paisley--that would have looked incredible). He let me choose everything but the cufflinks because he thought if he asked for cufflinks, they would charge him extra. Silly Josh. I'll call tomorrow and ask them to add the silver, pearlized cufflinks to the outfit.

I'm so glad Josh picked out a tuxedo that complements him so well. He has great taste.

Reception Schemes!

So I was blogging two minutes ago (it's always feast or famine when I write: first I write nothing for two weeks and then I blog a bunch) and I thought about all the reception stuff we've got going on. First off, I haven't yet given up on convincing Josh to just elope with me. He's still adamant that he wants a reception, but it's totally acceptable to send out marriage announcements and a few, carefully selected sealing invitations without tacking a whole reception onto it. I know it's rude to deny good, kind friends the opportunity to celebrate with us and wish us well on our life journey or whatever, but the effort, expense, and ordeal of putting on a reception has never seemed worth it to me. I've lived through all of my sisters' receptions and known throughout all that it was never, ever worth it. When you witness your kind, sweet role models turn into sobbing bridezillas, you see the error in wedding receptions.

Anyhoo, because Josh has yet to see the light, here's what we've done so far:

We're both working on our guest lists. As I mentioned in my last blog, I have to completely revamp my list. It will most definitely exceed my invitation limit. Must make more invitations with imaginary money.

We picked out our wedding playlist from my iTunes. I had 6.9 hours of wedding music for Josh to sift through and choose what he liked but then I accidentally erased it. Smooth, genius. So we chose songs together. I'm actually listening to the playlist right now, a comfortable 2.2 hours of 90s cliche love songs. Good stuff, wedding music.

Our sealing room was booked months ago. We got the big room that seats 60, so 30-ish couples are gonna be crammed in there with us. I have to consult my parents to determine which people would be most offended by not being invited to the sealing. Everyone and their dog (Josh, my parents, Heather, the rest of my married sisters, my dog Indy...) shot down my wish for only our parents to be present. A private, sacred ceremony is not to be. Ah well, who needs it? (Lone violin playing mournfully in the distance...)

We have our table decorations! A little borrowing here, some small purchases there, and they are done. Flowers to be added at a later date.

Location! Backyard is officially nixed after Nicole and my mom stressed the fiasco of parking space. Our neighborhood has a zillion cars (the house on the corner alone has four cars perpetually parked near it) and no space to put them on, so our neighbors might lynch my parents if we tried to squeeze an entire wedding party onto the streets. My mom goes tomorrow to scope out other outside locations. A few backyards are available, and I'd love to have an outside reception because then we can light real candles. Hooray!

Rachel will make cake. I'm not sure if I'd prefer cupcakes. They seem easier. Nobody really likes cake anyway.

Dress is purchased. Silly thing is gonna cost more for alterations because I have a surprisingly squat torso and remarkably round "birthing" hips. I simply baffled the seamstress at my fitting, which always does some good things for my self esteem. I go back in two weeks to check on the progress and see if there's something to be done about my poor body shape. Or rather, something to be done to the dress to conceal my body shape. Whichever. Semantics.

Invitations are made. Depending on whether we need to make more or not, we should be sending out the beautiful, hand-crafted works of art (all made by The Amazing Bob, of course) at the end of the month. They're actually really simple because we designed them that way, and I just love them.

I think that's it. What else is there? Outside decorations? Nicole's job. Food? Mom, Nicole, Rachel, Bob. Lights? Bob. Speakers? Rachel. Photography? Bob and Dad. At this point, I think it's safest to step back and watch the womenfolk work. They don't need my interference anyway and frankly I'm afraid of stressing them out. I'll just focus on making the guest list and saving up honeymoon money.

40 days to go.

Allyse's Reception

Holy crud! I haven't posted since the end of July. I suck at this.

Here's life now:

Allyse is married. Hooray! People kept coming up to me at the reception to offer their condolences that she beat me at getting married. Apparently it's significant that my younger sister married six weeks before I did. Good to know.

My mom's family met Josh. Josh met my mom's family. Despite the comically dramatic differences in height, I think they all are a little more comfortable with each other. That's good. Don't my aunts look just like my mom, Josh? They all laugh the same too. We call them the three witches.

I got a lame blister on the back of my foot for wearing heels for the lame two hours of the reception. Lame. But the shoes were gorgeous, so it was a labor of love. Or a beauty is pain thing. I forget which cliche I'm trying to relate here.

The people that showed up for the reception opened my eyes to the scope of the number of people we're gonna need to invite to our own reception. Not that I don't want to invite simply everyone, mind, but I thought it would be presumptuous to send invitations to vague family friends or people I haven't seen since I was ten. Apparently it's rude not to. I forgot just how many family friends we knew in old wards that would fully expect us to invite them to our humble reception. So we may have to make some more invitations, darn it.

Chocolate fountains are DELICIOUS! I was against them because of how messy they are (reference note here to Heather's reception), but as I was poison-checking all the food, I couldn't believe how awesomely awesome molten chocolate is. How could I have forgotten the awesomely awesome awesomeness of liquid gold? Must rethink reception food...

So basically the whole night was busy and crowded and lovely. I'm so happy Allyse and Richard could have such a nice reception. And I learned a lot about the junk I'm supposed to have planned. This is yet another reason why I don't want a reception. (Ironically I'm having two. Why, God?) Planning is dumb and expensive and stressful.

Thank heavens for sisters who like crafts and stuff. I'll just sit back and let them plan the reception of their dreams.

Try This On For Size

So while I'm working very minimally for Jennaleigh Bridal (also affiliated with I and A Tuxedo) I have to memorize a whole buttload of information about measurements. I know how to take in or let out a sleeve or a pant leg, and I can measure men for shirts and pants. But the real memorization comes into play when we get to the jacket. Do you know how many jackets there are? Like, thirty. And they each have their own subtle differences that I'm supposed to understand and separate by price in my head. Bah. So I figured while I have to memorize all this information, I might as well educate you guys. Suckers.

The classic tuxedo has a few distinct qualifications: it has a satin lapel and is made of either worsted wool, super 100 wool (lighter, more breathable, and more expensive wool) or a silk and wool blend (for striped suits). The pants have a satin stripe down the outseam and typically come with pleats, but for some reason this is embarrassing for European customers, so we also carry flat-fronted pants. (They like no room in their pants. It's really uncomfortable and weird to dress the European tourists.) The shirt is either a 400 wingtip shirt or a 200 laydown collar shirt. Laydowns look just like any other dress shirt except that we insert studs in the button holes and every shirt is designed to hold cufflinks. The 400s have a stiff straight collar that bends slightly at the edges. Jonathan wore a 400 with a 2-button notch jacket for his wedding (the Centennial, as far as I can tell). There's also the Mandarin shirt, which has a button covering at the neck and the collar stands straight up an inch high. It looks Asian-ish and is popular for proms.

Now then, the jackets. We have dozens of kinds and I can tell you where almost all of them are in the store. I think. But I'm not gonna write all that down. I just wanna get down the different kinds. There's the shawl, which has a a smooth, unpointed lapel that ends in 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, or 6 buttons, depending on whether it's single-breasted (462), double-breasted (1001), or carries extra buttons somewhere (Positano, Alpha, DBDB, or PSDBB). The Dimension II is a double-breasted 1001 with an extra layer of shawl. It's a little odd.

The Verdi, Mirage, and Apollo are 3/4-length jackets with Mandarin collars. We reserve the extra long 3/4-length jackets for extra tall men. The Bohmen would look very nice in a 3/4 jacket, like the Cannes, Matrix, or Napoleon, which are long jackets, but with a lapel. The Matrix has a crazy checkered pattern on the lapel, and the Mirage has no lapels or buttons and also comes in striped. The Cutaway is a 3/4-length jacket that tapers to the back and can come in grey. British guys getting married love to wear that one, because they like to wear colors other than black for weddings, so we carry grey, latte, ivory, and white in a lot of our styles.

An old-fashioned style is the Peak design, which is like a notched lapel except one of the notches extends farther than the other one. A reverse peak is found only on the Napoleon. Then the most common style is the notch. The only difference between the Centennial jacket and a regular jacket (standard 1- or 3-button notch) is the satin-lined lapel. The Centennial has two buttons, and it was designed on the 100-year anniversary of the tuxedo company that designed it. It's a remake of the original James Bond tux, which I think is pretty cool. We also have the Savoy, which has a velvet trim along the lapel, and the Jaguar, which has these really suave stripes running down it. I like the C20 Shiny, which has some sort of sparkly material added into it, so that it glimmers a little. We call it the Vegas tux, because tourists love the glamour it adds when they're under a lot of night light. It also shows up really well in pictures. Then there's the C82110, which is a claiborne, so it's really expensive. The Nuvo II has three layers of lapel, and the Phoenix is my favorite because it is super light and has a much thinner lapel than any other. It looks great on tall thin men. Josh would look fantastic in it.

Anyhoo, there are a lot more, but I just realized how boring this blog is, so Ima stop here. We also have around 370 wedding dresses from sizes 2 (0) through 52, with the largest selection between 8 and 16. Prices range from $150 t0 $1000 and we also sell gowns for around $1400. But they're coutoure dresses, so they're made in Spain by one of the best designers, hand-stitched, and designed to order, so I don't wanna hear whining about the price. When I told my boss I spent about $200 on my own wedding dress, she almost choked on her trail mix. Yup. I can't even rent a dress that cheap at Jennaleigh.

Anyway, that's an idea of the kinds of tuxedos and dresses we carry. I imagine almost no one read this whole blog because it's surprisingly boring, but I'm posting it anyway because, well, I took the time to write it. At best, it was a nice review of the things I'm supposed to be remembering. Next time, maybe I'll detail how we clean returned dresses. That's a nightmarish tale of scrubbing and OxiClean the likes of which no one has read before. Maybe I won't scare you guys with that kind of stuff. I don't know.

Status Update

So I officially suck at blogging, because I haven't posted anything since my now-fully healed bruise, Bertha the Magnificent, was born. That's crazy. Let me catch you all up.

I've discovered a new show, Rookie Blue, that's pretty cool. Watched all five episodes in one night. I am one week from finishing my last class from CSN, and then I'll have a diploma. Yippee. Technically, I should leaving for class right now, but I didn't finish my outline and bibliography for my third speech, so I'm staying home to finish researching, and then I'll deliver my speech tomorrow for 90% of the grade. I slept in this morning when I set the alarm for 3 and woke up at 5 instead, so I didn't have time to finish researching.

I have a currently healing burn spot on my left thumb. My thumb has a dark brown spot between the two knuckles and some of the skin is starting to bubble and split. It's two parts cool, one part icky. I earned it from steaming eight dress shirts at Jennaleigh last week. My other thumb and my middle finger on my left hand are also shedding dead skin from previous burned spots. I don't think I'm getting any better at steaming.

I work three days a week at Jennaleigh and an imaginary amount of hours at Carls Jr. They hired me, but I have yet to be called in, so basically I just work at Jennaleigh. It's really difficult work because I have to keep memorizing the millions of jackets we carry and the different sizing of pants and shirts. Josh is an L 6-7 dress shirt. Just in case you were wondering. I'd love to work more hours because it's stressful not to be working, but basically I'm just grateful I have any job at all. I like to be busy, even if my boss is insane and really mean and treats everyone like they're idiots. Working is worth it. Plus I get paid every week, which is kinda cool.

I got a speeding ticket on my way home from class last Wednesday. That sucked. $190 will go to the court next week when I have to go downtown to pay it. The cop cut me a break and knocked the ticket down a hundred bucks by claiming I only drove 10 miles over instead of 20. Thanks, guy. I'm thinking I might just hire a lawyer to take care of the ticket. They can get tickets reduced or waived most times. I looked up a couple of firms and I have to call to find out what they charge, but if it ends up being cheaper than the ticket, then Ima go for it.

My mom has agreed that she will dedicate most of tomorrow to helping me create a lace-up for the back of my wedding dress because I really want one and the dress didn't come with it. That should be really boring and home ec-ish, but it'll be cool when it's done. I wish I sewed better, but it's like cooking: if I'm too good, then I'll feel like I'm destined to stay at home and cook and sew and that grates on me. So I remain mediocre at both skills and strive to gain excellence in academic pursuits instead. My sisters think I'm retarded, but I can't help it, and what do they know, really? Every last one of them loves staying home and cooking for their husbands. Ugh.

I've been really lax about working on my novels, but I think I'm gonna pick that up again once school is over. I should probably file for graduation sometime soon. I think I'll go look that up now. Hmm. I hope they don't force you to walk, because there's no way I'm paying for a cap and gown for a community college. My dad says they require you to participate in graduation ceremonies because otherwise no one would go to those things. I don't see how that's a bad thing. If they tell me I have to, I'll fight it. I hate you, CSN. You tricked me into taking one more class, and I'd punch you in the face if you had one.

Anyhoo, that's life. Things are good, if a little boring. I wish something cool would happen like Josh would come down this weekend and I could give him the present I've been dying to show him for weeks. That'd be sweet. But I can only dream...

Big Bertha the Bruise

So I lost my makeup bag. It sucked, cause I had to use my mom's makeup on Sundays for church., and while I'm super grateful, (thanks, Mom!), it was still difficult for me because my mom uses a very monotone palate of brown. I can't do brown. I do every other color, but not brown. And I am a firm believer that lipstick should be colorful, not...brown.

Anyhoo, Stephanie found my bag hidden underneath the downstairs bathroom sink. Awesome. She was so happy to give it to me that she chucked it across the room to me. Since she didn't give me anything resembling a heads up, I noticed a flying blue bag out of the corner of my eye and caught it before it hit the floor...well, my knee caught it. It hurt.

I don't think Stephanie took into consideration how heavy makeup is. Especially hooker makeup, which is the only kind I know. I now have a giant bruise on my knee. I shall call her Bertha for her great size. She shall be known throughout the land as the finest bruise there ever was. And she will do great things.

Lisa the Awesome is Awesome!

Story's going well. Major points in the plot are coming together. Still a lot of danger to insert to make the storyline more thrilling, but it's going well. I'm super excited to be writing again! Huzzah!

Families and Feminists

Josh and Rachel looked through their "next blog" list to find out what other blogs were similar to theirs. That's cool, I thought. I'll try it. So I next blogged my way through half a dozen extremely boring family blog posts. Ugh. Family blogs. One of them was a crazy Christian woman who couldn't go three sentences without talking about Jesus. That's fine and all that she's proud of her faith, but it'd be really cool if all her sentences were related to one another and not randomly thrown together. I was getting pretty dejected over these lousy family blogs when I came across a feminist doula. Awe. Some. Now we're getting somewhere. This lady was super cool and had the same standpoint on breast-feeding as half my family. Plus she just got her masters in public health. I liked her.

So my blog may be similar to a bunch of boring old families with lots of pictures of the kids, but at least me and my pal the doula are similar, too. Stay strong, sista!

Lowered Expectations Make For Great Viewing

So my sister Emily and I have a time-honored tradition of going to the midnight premiere of the latest stupid twilight movie and quietly mocking it amidst the general screams and cheers of girlish fans. We enjoyed the past two experiences greatly, with much shared laughter. But this time, upon taking our seats, we were unable to laugh more than a few times. We barely snickered at the plot. Taylor Lautner was bare-chested fewer than ten times. Edward stopped looking painfully at Bella and started to actually say things. Even Bella was less annoying. We were so prepared for sheer idiocy (reminiscent of the terrible New Moon ordeal), that we were able to be blown away by the final movie.

Eclipse wasn't half bad. Of course, by movie standards I'd give it a C+, but by twilight standards, it gets an A. When you walk away from the laughable teenage sexual angst of New Moon, anything resembling substance suddenly seems like the greatest film ever made. Eclipse was just such an experience. Yes, it was overly long and the Bella/Edward scenes could have been cut in half, but the exciting action and the thrilling music score made for an enjoyable experience. Emily and I even agreed that we might rent this movie from a redbox at some point in the distant future. It was that not-sucky.

Employed Again!

So today I started training for my two new jobs. The first one is for Carl's Jr. I get to be the cashier because my new boss says she wants my winning smile out in front of the customers. Yippee. Then I drove 45 min downtown (behind the Bellagio, just past the Palms) and started training on shirt variations and sizing at this bridal and tuxedo renting place that caters to the casinos. I learned how to steam shirts, raise and lower hems, lengthen pants hems, package gowns, and measure men for tuxedos. Did you know that the pants are meant to start at a man's waist and not his hips? That's news to me. And also that you're supposed to leave a finger's-space in the collar after you measure it. Guy's shirt measurements are crazy weird. And women are worse.

But anyway, I'm pretty excited that I have work. Hooray! And next Monday I start school again. So long story short, when I applied for graduation at the community college two years ago, I was already at BYU, and the registrar's office totally sucked and never returned my calls. After a few semesters, I tried to contact them again, but I was confused because they kept claiming I had a class missing. Because CSN really, really sucks, I could not get ahold with an actual person to find out why I couldn't graduate or what class I was missing. So a couple of weeks ago, I walked into CSN's Cheyenne campus and spoke with a counselor (coming in first thing in the morning and still having to wait an hour). She told me I was missing a communications class and that I couldn't file for graduation without it. So I signed up for the class this summer.

I guess that wasn't really a long story short, but I am pretty excited that I'll have some sort of degree from somewhere. I've been telling everyone that I have an associate's in poli sci, but until the end of July, that's not necessarily true. So I've really got to buckle down, because even though summer classes are crazy short (my course is only 4 weeks long), they're super intensive. I've got class four days a week. And two new jobs. Finally, I'm productive again! Hooray!

Plus I got a new pair of work shoes today. So I'm pretty happy.

Summer Update

Did I tell you guys my family has a **GARDEN**??!! It's so pretty! We planted herbs and peppers and sunflowers and a whole buttload of other vegetables and flowers and stuff in this varied mixture of useless and useful plants. It is the coolest thing in the world to see the sunflowers growing taller than the corn stalks. The only downside is that we don't have sprinklers installed yet so we have to water them by hand twice a day and there are THREE TIERS of crap growing out there! That part really does suck. The back of my neck is sunburned. :(

In other news, I'm learning the cello. I'm on day 5 of practicing. I know I'm holding the bow wrong because my right hand keeps cramping up, but I can't remember the brief lessons I paid for, like, four years ago, so I can't remember all the things I "learned" back then. Oh well. Rachel1 is learning the violin so together we squeak through a few hymns every night. It's been hilarious to watch our family wince at our screeching. My parents have always been especially positive about music education, so they're 100% supportive of our sudden, random interest in string instruments. After years of trumpets, mellophones, French horns, flutes, oboes, bassoons, saxophones, clarinets, trombones, and pianos, they have to act really supportive over Rachel's and my new hobby. Even if it kills them, which it probably will--inexperienced cello players can burst ear drums. It's unholy the sounds that a bad cellist can create.

I'm also losing my summer tan early this year because it's too hot to read outside. Blah. Oh well, pale people are attractive too...in Japan. Seriously, though. My friend Lisa is half Japanese and extremely pale, and when she flew to Japan, people on the street stopped her frequently to touch her face and arms because she was so white. It's apparently very attractive there. Did you know those Japanese masks they make contain bleached bird poop? That's kind of cool. My old gate teacher told me that. Don't remember much about the Jason project or the Mars project anymore, but I remember the Japanese bird poop masks. It's crazy the things you remember, right? Or don't remember, as the case may be. As the case always friggin' is.

Anyhoo, that's what's going on in my life right now. What's new with everyone else?

Moving Pains

Boy did we move a lot of stuff today.

I love Rachel's house because it's so elegantly designed and furnished. I admire a lot of her tastes and styles, and have enjoyed living in her beautiful home. But dang, she has a lot of stuff!

Apparently her unique style comes with a lot of fake plants and candle holders and table decorations and all sorts of stuff that is just crazy. So when we packed five boxes of dusty ornaments and wall frames I hadn't ever noticed before, we were absolutely exhausted. We had climbed all over the house, pulling down ornaments from all kinds of inaccessible areas, and sneezed our way through piles of stuff.

Now I'm sore all over and covered in dust, but there is a large pile of neatly stacked, ridiculously heavy jumbo boxes in the living room, and the house looks that much emptier. Congratulations to us. I'm taking a nap now.

The Only Sugar-coated, Dipped-in-chocolate Cereal That's Kid-Tested And Kid-Approved!

I just now ate my first ever bowl of Cookie Crisp. Do you remember those? The nasty-looking, impossibly-sweet mini cookie cereal from the 90s that had all mothers shaking their heads before the commercial could point out the "nutrition" facts? That cereal. I didn't even know they still made that cereal, and I've never had it before tonight. It's actually really gross. Tastes sickly sweet and slightly sour at the same time. I also probably shouldn't have eaten it at 2 in the morning, but I was hoping to crash from a sugar rush to make me sleepy and allow me to fall asleep. Thirty minutes later and I'm not feeling the effects yet, but I remain hopeful.

Anyhoo, eating that awful blast from the 90s made me think of all the cereal commercials I grew up watching, and I started wondering about which of those cereals are still around. Froot Loops and Lucky Charms are still kicking, even though they're impossibly sweet. But if Fruity Pebbles still sells, then those two cereals look like Oats and Bran by comparison. Remember the rice krispie treats cereal? Where there were chunks of rice krispie treats and you apparently just added milk and called it a cereal? Man, I wanted to try that cereal so badly as a kid. Now the very thought of it makes me want to throw up. Or maybe that's just the Cookie Crisp talking.

I loved the Apple Jacks commercials. Those are the ones where someone would always point out that it doesn't taste like apples. I guess the cinnamon flavor validated the title a little, but just because cinnamon and apples go well together (in a pretty decent pie, that is) doesn't mean you should point out what the cereal DOESN'T taste like to defend a pretty pathetic brand name. I love Honeycombs, too. Even though I think they still shoot commercials featuring that insane crazy hairy thing (what IS that thing?!) who really, really wants Honeycombs, the cereal itself isn't half bad. But I can't even buy Trix, because those mean, nasty kids who never shared their cereal even though the poor rabbit really wanted to taste it have ruined the taste for me forever. I feel like if I buy a box of Trix, I'm paying out to those mean, non-sharing kids and making the rabbit suffer more. I used to cry over that stupid commercial because I felt so bad for that stupid made-up character. Any product who airs a commercial that makes me cry is blacklisted forever. No Trix for me.

I just realized something. Maybe Trix uses a rabbit character because rabbits come out of hats as a magic trick. That kinda makes sense. But then why is the cereal shaped like different kinds of fruit? I don't know anything. I'm talking cereal at 2:30 in the morning. Maybe I should pick this up another time, when I've had a chance to sleep.

So moral of the story: Don't support the illegal hunting of endangered animals. Or something.

Sometimes Cliches Are Awesome

So I watched Avatar last night when I couldn't sleep. Man, is that a long movie. I heard a lot of things about that movie, mostly comments of derision about how similar it was to a plethora of movies. Having seen it, I can agree with a few of these comparisons:

-It is Dances With Wolves, except in space.

-It is Pocahontas, except in space.

-It is Atlantis, except in space.

And I liked it. Yes, it was cliche and the ending was predictable, but it was predictable in that the story line followed a natural order of progression in a way that I happened to be able to anticipate. So that's okay. And really, why is it such a scandal to make a movie that is similar to other stories? All fiction exaggerates the human experience so that the audience can see things from a different perspective. That's why fantasy is all one big cliche copied from Lord of the Rings. But we don't criticize new authors or screenwriters for writing a new version of Cinderella or whatever (well, we do, but they keep writing them anyway). And you know what? Ella Enchanted was great!

So yes, Avatar was yet one more version of true love for two impossible characters (except in space), but it was a new variation of the same story that has been around since before Romeo and Juliet and that will never ever die. And so I say, good job, James Cameron, for only putting a hint of non-pushy environmentalism in your story and keeping your screwed-up politics out of the story line. I appreciated your effort. And I appreciated the cliche.

Ann Barlow, I'm Talking To You!

Dear Ann,

I tried very hard to go to sleep tonight. I went to bed at a very reasonable hour, hoping to get a phone call that never happened. Then I decided I would try to get some sleep. Ha.

Instead, I found myself inexplicably reminiscing about our awesome spring together in Provo. Remember when I would pace around the room at night while we talked about how dumb France is and how awesome England is? And remember when I basically ate everything in the kitchen and you came out and had a bowl of ice cream while we looked through all your facebook London pictures? Remember when we went out to get frozen yogurt at the hippie place where you can chew on the biodegradable spoons?

You were by far my favorite roommate ever and each night as I lay here frustrated with my inability to rest, I keep thinking back on those nights of shared restlessness. Thanks for staying up with me. You're the best.

Sincerely,

Camilla

Why Does Every Blog Have To Have A Title?

So last night (in another fit of insomnia) I was desperately looking for things to do. I let the dogs outside to go play and sat on the swing in the dark for a little bit to enjoy the warm darkness. It got creepy, so I brought them inside and made me a graham cracker-with-nutella midnight snack (closer to 1 am, actually). Made me more awake. I watched a tv show. Nothing.

Then I dragged my computer out to the couch and started typing on it. Occasionally I work on these children's stories that I've been writing forever because writing is cathartic and children's stories are awesome. Maybe one day I'll really finish one and try to get it published (I feel like Family Guy's Brian all the time because of this). And the most amazing thing happened when I started writing. No, I didn't go to sleep. That would be silly. But I did have the most amazing brainstorm. I outlined four novels. Four. And proofread some fifty pages of an already started novel. And added more to it. It's so funny to me that I enjoy editing my work more than I do creating it.

So although I got virtually no sleep again and now have a dull headache, I did have a ton of fun writing and outlining for a few hours last night. Maybe I'll do that every night and not have to worry about tossing and turning in the dark, trying to get to sleep when clearly my body doesn't want to. I'm not even tired anymore. I don't remember what it's like to be tired, cause I'm always in this constant state of restlessness. Man, I miss working. At least then I knew how to be tired all the time.

...Sleeeeep...

So I don't know what's come over me, but I've been having the hardest time sleeping lately. This past week I haven't been able to go to sleep before 2 or 3 in the morning, and I am not happy about that fact. You see, I talk to Josh every night before he goes to sleep (at an old-man hour, naturally) and usually I can just fall asleep after we talk because I've got nothing else to do. Well lately my mind has been just buzzing with all kinds of thoughts and I can't make it shut up enough to slip into unconsciousness. For the past six days I've been sleeping in until ten or so every morning to make up for the late falling-asleep hour, but yesterday completely took the cake.

You see, last night I went and saw Glee Live with my sister (Rachel1) and we grabbed some In and Out (twss) afterwards. So it was around midnight when I finally got to talk to Josh while I ate my animal-style fries. That was all fine and dandy except that Josh was super tired (again, old man sleeping habits) so we didn't talk long. Then I was stuck with a body that was practically vibrating with energy from the sugar and grease I'd just consumed. Not. Awesome. I watched a LOT of tv last night.

I woke up at 7 this morning since we have church at 8. But I only fell asleep at 5:45 this morning. And I can't take a nap because my brain won't shut up. FML.

You know how zombies are supposedly really into eating brains or whatever? And how they wander around towns groaning, "Braaaaaainssss....braaaaainnnnssss..."? You know what I'm talking about? I'm pretty sure they became zombies because they couldn't get enough sleep and they wander around bemoaning the fact that they can't get their brains to shut up.

I think I'm a zombie.

The Real Manifest Destiny

When I was taking night classes at the community college and absolutely hating every single one of my political science professors (all lousy liberals) AND their bigoted grading curve, I'd come home every other night just exhausted and dejected. After a full day of work and then three hours of liberal politics, I was exhausted from work but mostly from arguing my viewpoints with my professors and fellow classmates. Nobody liked me in my classes, and that's not a big deal or anything, but it is disheartening to stand alone. I'm not saying I was right (although I felt I was) in what I said, but I thought it was crucial that the other students knew there was an alternative to the things (lies) my professors spouted in every class.

Well one night I came home especially weary and just about ready to give up. I felt like stupid John Adams during the second Continental Congress when nobody wanted to listen to his high-pitched whiny voice anymore because he opposed practically everything they addressed. I had just about made up my mind to shut my mouth for the rest of the semester and just let my teachers say what they felt like saying without fear of disagreement. I was just tired of it all.

That night I walked into my parents' bedroom where my dad was watching one of Ken Burns' amazing videos on the Civil War (titled The Civil War, I believe). My dad was on the bed, watching the TV and my mom was sitting in her rocking chair, reading. She put her book down when I came in and we exchanged a few words, probably me letting her know I was home and all that and her asking about my class that night. Well I wasn't about to confess that I was mentally defeated by my idiot teachers, so I just shrugged and tried to brush off the question when I caught a few of the words being read on the TV. I turned to listen and to my amazement (and my parents', who know how rarely I tear up) I started crying. This is what I heard on the TV:

"Our movement may be one of a few days duration and full of pleasure--and it may be one of severe conflict and death to me. Not my will, but thine O God, be done. If it is necessary that I should fall on the battlefield for my country, I am ready. I have no misgivings about, or lack of confidence in, the cause in which I am engaged, and my courage does not halt or falter. I know how strongly American Civilization now leans upon the triumph of the Government, and how great a debt we owe to those who went before us through the blood and suffering of the Revolution. And I am willing--perfectly willing--to lay down all my joys in this life, to help maintain this Government, and to pay that debt."

I have no idea how widely publicized the Sullivan Ballou letter is, but when I heard Ken Burns' narrator reading a passage from his letter to his wife, Sarah, I felt the reaffirmation I needed. In the clearest, most elegant language I have ever enjoyed, Major Ballou (a !!*lawyer*!! and public servant all his adult life) expressed his complete faith in the United States and his willingness to fight to the death to preserve its sacred mission. He understood that God's hand was in the War, and that those who struggled so willingly to create this nation during the Revolution deserved the justice of having that nation preserved at the hands of its descendants. This is exactly, one-hundred percent how I feel about America. I know this country is and always was given by God to those who would honor it and, to the best of their understanding and ability, keep it honorable.

Perhaps because of how dejected I was feeling that night and how ready to give up on everything with school and politics and my stupid, idiotic professors, I was more open to feel the words in Ballou's letter, and it has resonated with me ever since. Reading it again today I found myself still able to cry over his perfect, powerful testimony of patriotism. Sullivan Ballou understood what was expected of an American.

And I will never forget.

Musings from Soylent Green

So after reading Jonathan's blog, wherein he encouraged his readers to watch Soylent Green right away, I did just that. I went online, found a free streaming of the movie, and watched the 94-minute film. Here's the most important thing I got from the film: It's no wonder feminism expanded so rapidly in the 1970s.

I mean, seriously. Yeah, the movie didactically tried to make us as humans feel both responsible and guilty for global warming, overpopulation, waste, and pollution, with perhaps the hope that we might change our evil ways as humans and learn to live as the deer do (probably among the deer, too). I'm sure at least one person took the message in this novel-adapted-to-film and responded by setting their car on fire, doffing their clothes, and screaming out passages of Silent Spring to shocked motorists waiting for the light at a freeway off-ramp. But I'm not here to write about all that tree-hugging stuff, cause there is something in that awful film that I feel even more strongly about.

I'm not a crazy feminist. I just happen to be a feminist and crazy...at the same time...no connection between the two. And the pro-male attitude in this film was not only blatant but rather appalling. Now I understand that when we look at history, we have to look at it through contemporary eyes, or we might be prone to cast unfair judgments on the people of the age. That being said, ho-lee-crap. The anti-feminism in that movie was so obvious, it made me cringe and actually heavily distracted me during the film. Twice I paused the film to begin typing a blog, but I decided to watch the entire thing before casting judgment. The ending certainly did not justify the unfair portrayal of women in this movie.

Here are the offensive events that I can recall from the movie:

Charlton Heston plays a rough cop in NYC who lives in a dying society, so, sure, he's a bit jaded. We see that by his actions during a murder investigation. While questioning associates of the deceased, he goes about the ritzy penthouse, stealing anything he sees as valuable. That gives us a fair idea of the kind of character he has. And I don't know if we're supposed to sympathize with him, or hate him (I hated him) or just pity the sad, sad state the world was in, but he was what he was and that is not the point.

The murdered man was very wealthy and rented a fancy penthouse complete with whore. I think her name was Shirl and she was actually a contracted part of the apartment, which is why most of the men in the film called her and her associates "furniture girls". I hate when people call grown women girls, but that is the least of the offenses within that phrase. She seemed perfectly okay with the terms of her employment and indeed, her lifestyle.

So Shirl stays in the apartment with a bunch of other whores while she waits for a new tenant to take over rent, residency, and her. One day Charlton Heston comes a-knockin', supposedly because he has some follow-up questions, but when he sees all the furniture girls comforting each other around the apartment, he takes someone's glass of alcohol, steals one of their cigarettes and then commands Shirl to talk with him in the bedroom. No one stops him or even protests as he dominates the apartment.

Very matter-of-factly, Shirl goes into the bedroom and, at his command, answers his questions while undressing and getting into the bed. After all, for a hired whore, this is just day-to-day business, and it means nothing to her that a man who has no authority over her actions (since he is not a tenant of the apartment and therefore not the renter of the "furniture") commands her to sleep with him. She does so without complaint.

Meanwhile, the landlord comes bursting into the apartment, finds all these women in there, and begins shouting for them to get out, the harlots. He punches one in the stomach, slaps another, pushes another, basically causing all the women to helplessly begin sobbing like children since obviously it never occurred to any of them to fight the douche, even though he was vastly outnumbered and a coward besides. No, nothing happens until Charlton Heston, fresh from his "questioning", comes out of the bedroom in his rumpled clothes and confronts the landlord, who immediately calms himself and apologizes for creating a scene. Charlton, like the very great hero he is, claims that he called all those girls into the apartment to question them and the landlord backs off, but not before Charlton walks around to the beaten, sobbing women and threatens the landlord that any of these "girls" might press charges. After examining one bruised woman's face, he shrugs and says, "Maybe not." Well, thank goodness Charlton Heston made the decision not to press charges FOR the furniture girls, so now the landlord can rest easy! I guess it wouldn't occur to any of the women that they could press charges withOUT the permission of a sexed-up, crooked cop.

Anyway, the fun continues and lots of dumb investigating goes on where Charlton Heston discovers more and more about the murder and its ties to the Soylent Corporation. He's getting too close, so his commander tries to make him sign a form, giving up the investigation. Heston refuses because he has just enough honor about him to refuse breaking the law. Riiiight. If he had given up, there would have been no movie, but nothing about Heston's character up to this point has proven that he would have had any qualms about signing that statement. But moving on.

Later, Heston's on riot duty, trying to calm the hordes of hungry people who came to collect their food rations on the day that a large shipment of soylent green didn't come in. Anger ensues, a mob forms, pushing against the police, and one angry citizen keeps trying to take a shot at Heston. Because of all the people, the gunman misses Heston twice, hitting two women instead. Of course. It's okay to accidentally shoot a woman, as evidenced by the fact that once those women drop, no one pays them any mind, including the movie audience. Luckily, the gunman later gets squashed by a "scooper"--a giant bulldozer used to scoop up people and dump them into the back of truck and out of the way.

Well things are going badly for Heston, so he seeks comfort in Shirl, sleeping with her again, letting her bandage his ankle when he gets injured, etc, etc. He's about to leave when she confesses that she doesn't like to be alone because it frightens her. He doesn't care, so she tries to entice him with real food, with soap, and then with a hot shower, which finally grabs his attention. Sleeping with a beautiful woman for nothing isn't enough for Heston--she's got to promise to rub him down after a hot shower first. I just love that she--as a piece of unfeeling furniture--begs him to stay with her when she's supposedly indifferent toward all men who aren't renting the apartment. I loved it even more when Heston was persuaded to stay only on the condition that she make him a big breakfast in the morning. This scene may be my very, very favorite.

Well, I promise I'm almost done with my list of grievances. Stuff happens, Heston gets closer to the impossible truth that "Soylent Green is made from people!" And as he's chased by bad guys, Shirl suddenly completely changes her personality and inexplicable develops a connection with the scuzzbag cop who slept with her repeatedly. She talks to him about running away together and he shuts her down with the excuse that there's nowhere to go. She asks him not to call her furniture anymore (you'd think he would've stopped that ages ago, but maybe he hadn't disassociated her from the refrigerator or the sofa or the other pieces in apartment yet. After all, he was busy being a crooked cop) and he surprisingly complies. Hooray! It's true love!

Close to the very end, Shirl meets the new apartment tenant, who is interested in the apartment and to a lesser degree, her. He asks her, "So tell me: are you fun?" We don't hear her answer, but the look on her face expresses her dislike of the new tenant. How dare he treat her like that! Yeah, right--when did she start caring about how she was viewed by men? She personally admitted multiple times that she had been "with the apartment" for "a long time". She was attached to the apartment by contract and it suited her just fine before the rugged cop raped her and hypothetically made her think more highly of herself.

So Heston's being chased by gunmen from the Soylent Corporation, and he knows he's going down. So who does he call? Shirl, of course. Somehow in between fornicating with the "furniture", he grew feelings for it as well. Completely inexplicably out of character. So he calls her and tells her to stay with the apartment forever, because the people who take over those ritzy places can afford real food, whereas the poor have to eat the soylent green squares. She protests, saying that she wants to run away with him, but he commands her to stay, so of course she promises. I would've thought that with her sudden transformation from submissive doormat to willing harlot, she would've grown enough spine to fight for the things she wants in life. But maybe it was too soon. She was just barely getting to hate the new tenant, after all.

Then Heston gets beat up real bad and is carried away on a stretcher, professing to the masses that soylent green is people. The end.

Well, I feel edified, how about you? All of these interactions with the women in this lame-o movie (and Shirl was the only significant woman--there was one other woman in the main cast, but she had, like ten lines) just oozed with male dominance and authority. And it was all a silent assumption, like the audience was supposed to be just as accepting of the way women were portrayed, treated, and how they behaved in the film as the men were in the film itself! H-E-DOUBLE-OTHER-LETTERS NO! I am more upset over the world as it was in the 1970s than over the preachy, false, exaggerative message of the movie! So for those of you who don't believe in radical feminism (myself included), we can probably admit that the feminist uprising of the 70s may not have been the absolute solution to male chauvinism, but it was better than leaving things the way they were: completely--wrongly--one-sided.

Awk. Ward.

I have applied to two thousand bjillion jobs from three different states and five different cities over the past four months. So when I got a call from a very professional-sounding woman who mumbled the business' name, I had no idea what it was about because I can't remember all the places I've applied for. Turns out, it was a phone interview. Crap. So she asked me if I had a few minutes for her to ask a few questions and I complied (I'm not working, what else do I have to do?). She asked me why I chose that business to apply to. Well how should I know? I don't know what the business is! "What makes you qualified for the position you applied for?" Could you be any more vague, professional-sounding lady? "Um, I'm uh, dedicated to working hard...and I" ...like to sound like an idiot on the phone! Gah!

After her painfully awkward questions in which I could only answer vaguely, she said from what she's heard, she'd like me to come in for an official interview on Friday. That's great and all, but if "what she's heard" is impressive, then she must be used to a lot of idiots. But what am I saying? I have an interview on Friday! It only stinks because that'll get me in SLC way, way later than I had planned. But how can I turn down the promise of work?

Over-Sensitivity Is My Absolute Favorite Part of This Politically Correct World

BAH!!!!!!!

Virtue Is A Virtue

I went to institute with my sisters the other night, and although I haven't been to an institute class since I was taking night classes at the community college, I rather enjoyed myself. Not only did I meet a bjillion people I haven't seen since my awful experiences in high school (who all wish us felicitations, btw, Josh), but I got to listen to my old seminary teacher, who is *awesome*. It was an incredible lesson, too, as evidenced by the fact that I didn't start writing a new chapter for my great American novel like I had planned to do. Instead, I actually took notes with the notepad I brought along. I was mighty surprised by that.

Anyhoo, the lesson was about the signs of the times (which, incidentally, is a direct phrase out of Doctrine and Covenants, section 6-something). Out of the 51 signs of the Second Coming that Elder Bruce R. McConkie pulled from the scriptures, 30 of them are good things and 21 are somewhat more threatening (but really, how bad is it if the evil places are buried in the sea? The earth has to be cleansed for Christ!), which is way more of the good signs than I realized. One of the bad things was that the hearts of men would fail them, and as President Benson explained, this is both a physical and a spiritual occurrence, as people would grow weary with the world and give up on life and sometimes even kill themselves. I couldn't believe it! People would actually kill themselves because they don't feel hope anymore? I know I've been sad and discouraged again and again, but there's always the hope that things'll improve, right? So it's impossible to be sad forever.

At least, that's what I think. But President Wilson (my awesome teacher) explained that people lose hope all the time and that there are twelve things he knows of that will change people from being discouraged and depressed to being hopeful and happy again. Now, up to this point, I've been writing all of this stuff from memory, which if you know me, is flippin' impressive because I don't remember anything. But President Wilson has always been able to teach in a way that allows me to retain the information (which I'm positive is one of the Lord's tender mercies toward me, since afternoon seminary basically saved my butt during those awful, awful, awful high school years), so I think I can remember most of the twelve things. (I also wrote them down, but I'm not gonna go get my notebook.) We were encouraged to pray, repent, read the scriptures (these are obvious), be healthy, exercise, serve, work, listen to good music, have good friends, and then a bunch of others that I don't remember right now. The one I want to draw attention to is listening to good music.

When I heard that, in my head I thought, well crap. Before you get all judgy judgerson on me, understand that I don't listen to crap. I listen to what I feel is quality music. But perhaps there is a random swear word, and sometimes (mostly) the rhythm or beat is harsh and overloud, and perhaps the singer tends to scream rather than croon. But it's quality music just the same. And although I have been spending these past days trying to be always found working or serving or having good friends and all that, I don't think I can give up my music. Some of those bands got me through the twice alluded-to hellacious years of high school.

So I know that I need to clean up my act in all facets of my life, but if music happens to be one of the last things I focus on changing, then can I help that? I mean after all, even Ben Franklin felt that his 13 virtues could only be mastered one at a time in a rotating 13-week stretch. Attaboy, Benny--I'll follow your advice.

It's A St. Patrick's Day Miracle!

So I just got back from Mesa, where my Uncle Chris got married (congratulations, Chris!). I'd never witnessed a civil wedding outside my own sister's, so it was kind of neat to see Chris and Kellie take communion and have a harmonizing duo sing songs of togetherness and love and all that right in the middle of the ceremony. The reception was beautiful and everything afterwards, but the real party was later on that night when the whole gang went back to my Aunt Jennifer's house. Cause they had a margarita machine.

Sometimes it's hilarious to be Irish, and my extended family did their heritage justice last night. Everything's funnier, louder, and more enjoyable when most people are just a little bit tipsy. Thanks, Bliven family! It was fun to see you all again!

And, Josh--they're very keen to meet you. Good luck. ;)

On the drive back home, I discovered that my iPod touch's applications, which for some mysterious reason have never worked, suddenly started working. Now I can play useless games and light up the screen like a flashlight (I promise that's a real app--it can also flash strobe lights of red, green, and blue). It's a Christmas miracle! Speaking of which, why do we isolate miracles that occur around Christmas as Christmas miracles? Are Christmas miracles more important than miracles that take place on an regular days?Maybe it was a Thanksgiving miracle, but it just took us a while to notice it. Or do miracles even occur on regular days? If it's a non-Christmas miracle, do we call it just a plain-old "miracle", or does it have a title, like "non-holiday-denominational miracle of average importance"?

I don't know what I'm saying. But, um...oh yeah, my iPod works. And...I love drunks?

Why am I writing this again?

For Kristina

I am so sorry I haven't posted on my blog. You'd think, what with all my lame-o free time, I could find a moment to update my own blog. Apparently not.

Anyhoo, I was reading an article in my mom's one and only magazine, Woman's World, and I came across this little jewel:

"My Guardian Angel: A Cuddly Little Ball of Heavenly Love"

I won't insult/nauseate you guys by typing the entire article out, but the gist of the content detailed a woman's search for consolation after losing her mother. She pined for her mother, which is understandable, and asked her mother to send her a guardian angel to comfort her. We'll call this sad woman Sheila. Sheila thought to adopt a puppy. And this is where the first of a slew of little "miracles" came into her life. As she puts it, "For months I'd been thinking about adopting a pet--probably a puppy, I figured. So when I suddenly got the urge to search local shelters for a kitten instead, no one was more surprised than me. Yet the feeling was so strong, I just couldn't resist it."

Pardon my cynicism, but *really*? She just couldn't help herself? She just *had* to get a kitten instead of a puppy? Why, that must be her mother, sending her a guardian angel! And no one else was more surprised than she, huh? Isn't she the only person in charge of the decision? And doesn't that mean she is the only one *not* surprised by the decision?

Sheila went on to describe how her son picked out the kitten at the shelter, and the shelter workers had given the kitten the name Angel. Coincidence? Of course not! That's miracle number 2!

Sheila elaborates: "Without mentioning the kitten's name, I showed the picture to my little nephew, Kyle.

"'What do you think I should call her?' I asked.

"'Angel,' he chirped.

"I had to laugh. 'Why?' I asked.

"'Because she looks like an angel,' Kyle replied. And in that moment, goosebumps danced across my skin--for while I'd always been more of a 'dog person,' my mom had adored cats." Of course, she had. And that was miracle number 3, for those of you who are keeping track.

Then Sheila describes how the first few days with Angel were heavenly, which is just lovely. Good for her. But Sheila was not satisfied. No, she still wondered if her mother had sent "this little Angel" to her. Cue M4 (miracle #4), and this one's a doozy:

"Thank you, Mom, for this Angel, I whispered. And in that instant, a white dove landed on a branch right before me!

"Stunned, I gasped. For until now, I'd never seen a white dove anywhere in real life--and somehow I knew it was a sign that Mom was at peace now, and that she truly had sent me this fluffy little Angel to remind me of her love, all the way from Heaven!"

Wow. I know it's cruel of me to belittle Sheila's means of comforting herself after her mother's passing, but I just hate misguided beliefs like white doves and cuddly kittens. Shortly after my brother died, my uncle thought he'd pay a psychic to read my mother and myself. Thinking I was too young, perhaps, to have a deceased sibling, the psychic completely missed the mark and told me I was thinking about college and traveling abroad. Well duh. That's what *every* fifteen-year-old thinks about. Then the psychic told my mother (after learning from my uncle that my mom's son had died) that every time my mom heard a knocking at the door or window and nobody was there that it was my brother trying to contact us. I don't think I've ever forgiven that psychic for being so blase about my own personal trauma, let alone my mother's.

And so, my good friends and fellow bloggers, this is why I scorn Sheila's heaven-sent kitten. There are no guardian angels, no invisible spirits knocking at the window, and no tangible white doves descending at the behest of departed souls. This world is what it is, and the next world is what IT is, and people who try to combine the two are just deluding themselves. Unless, of course, they're psychic. Then they're just trying to help you contact your family from beyond the grave. Or was it, trying to make some money? I must be too busy thinking about college and traveling abroad to remember properly.

Joining the Ranks of the Gainfully Employed

So the census called me yesterday. Or rather, a man who worked for the census called me from Provo yesterday to ask me if I were really interested in becoming an enumerator. I answered in the affirmative. Now I'm an enumerator.

The work itself probably won't start until May, but in the meantime, I have training next Tuesday-Friday. I'm worried about the location. It could be in Vernal, Roosevelt, Duchesne, or Provo. And I have no way to get to any of those places. I hope everything works out and I can actually go.

Also, I start my free-lance writing next Monday. Hooray! It'll be awesome to pad my resume with an actual writing gig, even if it's a do-it-yourself website that I'll be working for. I just finished a book called "The Help" that I keep thinking of when I think of this newest job. The book takes place in the 60s where this wannabe white writer who lives in Mississippi got a job at her local newspaper, but the only position they would give to a woman was this cleaning column. Well, the girl had never cleaned because she lived on a working plantation, so she had to go around asking advice from black maids around town. There was a bunch of civil rights in the book, but I only think about the white girl, because I'm kind of cheating the same way she is. I don't know how to insulate an attic or make my own cleaning supplies. For every article I write, I have to actually research the answers first and then try not to plagiarize my words. It's gonna be fun.

Anyway, I am so grateful that these jobs came. Hopefully I'll be able to get another job here in Vernal to supplement my paycheck. Then I can save up and go back to school! Hooray! *sigh* I miss school. I tried to sign up for spring classes, but BYU requires immediate payment for independent study classes. Grr. A short-term loan would really go a long way in this case. But anyway.

And after training next week, there's Disneyland! Hooray!!!!! I LOVE DISNEYLAND!

But first work. :)

Let Them Eat Cake

Cupcakes are the most delicious things in the WORLD! I wouldn't ordinarily say this, considering how there are Kit Kats and British chocolate and devil's food cake also in the world, but in this case I believe I can safely boast that the cupcakes at the Cocoa Bean have been sent to Provo to bless my life.

I first tried a magical chocolate-y cupcake in Rexburg when I went to visit my awesome friend Ann (Shout out to you, Ann! That weekend ROCKED!). Then I bid the beautiful shop adieu and cried my way back to Provo.

But who could have imagined that a mere semester later, the cupcake business would have boomed enough to allow for a new branch to open in Provo? That's right, ladies and gentlemen: Provo has a new shop in town. And it's name is cupcakes.

So last night, upon making a very, very, VERY too-short visit to Provo this past Saturday and Sunday, one of the coolest people ever (you know who you are, Rachel Penelope Bohman!) suggested that we stop at the cupcake place and view a brief glimpse of heaven.

And we did. Ahhhhhhh, manna from heaven couldn't have been as wonderful as the chocolate raspberry confection that I split with my fiance. In fact, manna was probably worse than what we ate, since that stuff is supposed to be disappearing-and-reappearing bread. Isn't it? Or something like that? Wait, was it bread-ish? I can't remember now...

In any case, I'm writing this blog at 6:19 in the morning because I am wide awake and yet dreaming of delicious magical cupcakes. I guess my point is that the Cocoa Bean is beautiful.

And the Old Testament is confusing.

Greetings From Utah's Armpit!

So Josh helped me move up to Vernal yesterday. It was a fun car ride, and even more fun when we got there and could actually walk and move around. Weather was good, roads were good, it was a surprisingly easy trip. And...well, I guess I have nothing to report. I'm here. I'm tired. I'm going to bed.

P.S.

Job hunt starts tomorrow. Wish me luck.

Big Brother

So I'm pretty sure Facebook knows that I'm engaged, because all the ads along the side are about wedding parties and dresses and caterers and designers and on and on. Stupid facebook, convincing me to post my life on it and then trying to sell me crap because it knows my situation. Facebook is worse than Big Brother, because it sits there, silent, and waits for us to come to it and give it everything it wants. There's some kind of evil genius to that idea.

P.S.

As soon as we were back in the car, Josh asked if he could call his best friend, because of course once you propose to a girl, you've just got to tell somebody, right? Even if that girl is still in the car and listening to everything you say. He called his buddy Josh and they congratulated each other on being super cool guys, and I was just smiling and shaking my head, because he is just so darn cute sometimes. When we got home, my family was at the table and they got really quiet, waiting for me to admit what I'd gone and done to myself. So I smiled and showed them my finger. My sisters dove into our leftovers while my mom asked me lots of questions that I don't remember.

Then Emily walked in and asked what all the fuss was about. Apparently no one had bothered to let her know what the significance of Josh coming to Vegas was, so when I told her I had gotten engaged, she absolutely didn't believe me until she eyed the ring on my finger.

"Nobody tells me anything!" Oh, Emily.

My Turn, I Guess

Jonathan, Rachel, and Josh have all posted their engagement stories, and it occurred to me that maybe I'm supposed to do the same, so here goes:

Josh asked my dad for his blessing on our marriage the Sunday before, and during the conversation he suggested that Josh come down the next weekend to surprise me and propose. There was a suspicious gap in conversation that both my dad and Josh wouldn't explain to me when I asked about the phone call, so I was mildly suspicious at that point. The next day, Josh became hellbent on getting a car asap, and although it was something we had talked about, I was amazed by how quickly he went through with the entire process. A couple of days later, he had a car and was talking about all the trips to Vegas he'd be able to take. Clue number two.

Josh and I talk on the phone every night, and every night last week, he would bemoan the fact that we couldn't see each other in person until I moved back to Utah. By then, the hints were getting a little silly. I get it, Josh -- you're coming to surprise me!

Finally, Thursday night came, and I was trying to milk Jonathan for information on when to expect Josh. He wouldn't give me anything. If I don't know when to expect him, how can I get all "gussied up" for when he comes? Well, Friday rolled around, and I was leaving to go pick up my sister from school, but I left the house with the express instructions that I was to be informed the minute Josh arrived.

Of course he just had to come when I was out of the house. Not ten minutes after I had left, my sister Rachel(1) gave me a call and cryptically let me know that a certain someone had rolled into town. Well of course he was there already, because I was out running errands and hadn't even bothered to change out of my pajamas or do something with my hair. That should have been my clue that Josh would inevitably arrive.

So I hurried home after Josh had left the house, still trying to surprise me by arriving after I got back. I ran upstairs, changed and pulled my hair back, and ran back downstairs in time to pull open the door and see Josh leaning up against one of the pillars in front of our door. Man, I love that guy.

So we hugged and I pulled him into the house and everyone was all happy and smiley and junk. We basically sat on that couch together and talked with the family for the next several hours until the rest of my family got home from school and work. My parents were pleasantly not surprised, as were all my sisters. Except for Emily. She was, in fact, the only person in the entire house who was not expecting Josh to be there. Thank goodness for her obliviousness; she makes the secret all worth it.

So then we went to Carrabba's for dinner, which was absolutely delicious even though lobster is sick and lemon bread pudding tastes weird. The entrees were magical and I loved the ice cream that came with dessert. And the ice cubes were soft, so I could chew them without hurting my teeth. Incidentally, does it bother you, Josh, when I chew ice? It's not really appropriate in public restaurants like that, and the waitress did kept giving me a look... But it was my engagement night! I should be able to chew ice if I want to.

Anyhoo, Josh let me drive his new car to the restaurant, which was suh-weet! I really like the control of being the driver, and so letting me drive put me in a ridiculously good mood. I think Josh planned that so that I'd have to say yes. As we were pulling out of the restaurant, Josh said it was up to me to decide where we went next. Yeah, right. Like I'm going to be in charge of the date? I didn't think so.

I couldn't think of anything, so I asked him if just going home was all right. He readily agreed, which was disappointing, because how was he supposed to propose if we just went home? I couldn't be proposed to in front of my family -- that'd be just awful! So I quickly rethought, and asked if we could go see the fountain show at the Bellagio first. He agreed. If you ask him now, he'll tell you that he was just about to suggest it when I brought it up. Uh-huh. Okay, Josh.

So we drove to the Bellagio and walked through the garden area first. They had changed the decorations for the Chinese New Year, and although I'd forgotten my camera, I did have my cell phone, so I took a couple of pictures. And they are SO pretty! Then we went outside to look at the fountain, where Josh cleverly suggested we view it from behind, where far fewer people stand and where we'd be offered more privacy. The show started almost right after we got there. I had forgotten to check the time to see when it would start, but apparently Josh had been thinking about it since we got there. He's good at details like that, you see, which is one of the reasons why marrying him is a smart move -- he can be my personal rememberer!

I just think Italian anything is romantic, right? So when he let me choose the restaurant, I chose Italian. And when the music started for the show, it was a tenor singing this beautiful and obviously Italian aria. Instead of the water shooting jets of water as high as they could go and crashing down with powerful thundering sound, the water flowed gracefully in gentle arcs until the song was over. That was just beautiful. Of course, the entire time I was watching it, Josh was craning his neck right and left and behind us, looking for a good spot to propose. I just kept my head directed at the water and let him do his thing. This was his night, after all. I just had to stand there and say the right words when the time came.

After the show, which ended surprisingly quickly, we waited where we were for a little while so the ten or so people could finish taking their stupid pictures. I was hoping the entire time that Josh wouldn't suggest we leave, because the area was surrounded by dark, enclosed foliage, and it was really very beautiful and private. It was the perfect spot to propose, and I couldn't think of any other place that would serve better. So while I couldn't "suggest" anything to Josh because he was in charge of proposing when and where he wanted to, I was holding my breath that he would just have patience to wait out the tourists so we could have our moment.

A few of the tourists must have decided to live there, because they would not leave for anything. So Josh finally suggested we move on. I was a little disappointed so my legs moved kind of sluggishly, as if they were just as unwilling to give up the perfect proposal spot as the rest of me. That only meant that we moved really slowly away from our vantage point of the fountains. There were two or three people walking past us, when Josh slowed down next the railing that separated us from the water, and where the garden surrounded us on the entire other side.

This is the moment, I thought. Especially because Josh said something like, "Now that I think of it..." and got down on one knee. He pulled the ring box out of his pocket, where he'd been keeping it all night. He was even afraid to take off his jacket at the restaurant in case the ring box fell out. The only problem was, now that he was on one knee, it was apparent what he was going to do and he couldn't slow down or turn back. The next step would be to open up that ring box and propose, but the ring box was actually inside of another box, and that larger box was a little tricky to open. Now that Josh was kneeling, and now that I was standing there waiting, it was like we had to hurry up and do this thing before people came by and noticed us. Thinking back, I don't know why I was so concerned with getting it over with before people came along, but it mattered to me in the moment, so I was grateful that Josh was able to tear that first box off and open up the second to reveal the truly gorgeous ring that I picked out a month ago.

He said, "Camilla, will you marry me?"

I smiled and said, "Yes."

That's it. Then he stood up, I asked him to put the ring on me, and we hugged and kissed. But only one kiss, cause it's supposed to be romantic, and not gross, to get engaged. Then we walked back to the car in the absolute most blissful state.