Sunday, June 13, 2010
This has just been a weekend for inspiration. First the marathon yesterday, now the movie tonight. I made my usual Sunday trip to my aunt and uncle's house tonight, where we enjoyed the cinematic genius that is the movie Invictus.
I wanted to see the movie when it came out, but being the poor college student that I am (and getting poorer by the minute, it feels like) I didn't. By the time I remembered that I could see it with good conscience at the dollar theater, it had already left the dollar theater. Luckily for me, however, my aunt and uncle own the movie, and decided that tonight would be a good night to watch it, which I wholeheartedly agreed to, and not just because Matt Damon is one of the main characters.
I absolutely loved the movie. It was in turn funny and sad, not to mention extremely inspiring. But I think the story behind it is even more fascinating than the movie. Nelson Mandela must be the most extraordinary person I've heard of in a long time. He spent twenty-seven years in prison before becoming the president of South Africa, and he did not use his power to attack those who had put him behind bars. If I were him, that would have been the first thing I did! Talk about amazing forgiveness.
The other thing I really enjoyed about it was the actual poem itself, written by William Ernest Henley. It must be the English major in me, but I really like when movies have a strong literary tie-in. Here is the full text of the poem, titled "Invictus":
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.
I just love inspiring literature, and I'm grateful for it. If literature didn't stir something inside someone somewhere, then it wouldn't have much purpose, really.
Friday, June 25, 2010
Marathons
Saturday, June 12, 2010
As previously stated, I am not a runner. I never have been; I think I hit my running peak during my freshman year of high school when my friend talked me into running on the track team. That was a brutal experience that I never repeated. I think I would like to be one; imagine how much more in shape I could be if I actually liked just aimlessly running around outside for a half hour or so each day. But alas, I still have no developed a taste for it. Hopefully some day. For now, I'll stick to sitting indoors and lamenting what I lack, because I find that much more satisfactory.
Just because I don't like running doesn't mean that I don't like to watch others run. Something about other runners inspires me to get up and go, though it mostly inspires my mind, and very rarely does my body follow. However, I still find it pretty cool to watch others do something so extraordinary, regardless of its tendency to leave me quite jealous. I was reminded of this strange mix of awe and envy this morning, and about seven in the morning, when I stood on the side of the road helping distribute Powerade to a bunch of runners.
See, Maren has developed this impressive ability to talk me into doing things. This morning, those things included waking up at five o'clock to be at an aid station by five-thirty to volunteer for the Provo Marathon until eleven-thirty. Oh, and did I mention it was raining for the first hour? And in the fifties for the rest of the morning? How Maren managed to talk me into it, I will never know. Maybe it was the free t-shirt that lured me; free clothing tends to have a very strong pull on me. Regardless, at six o'clock this morning, I was not a happy camper. I even texted a sleeping Skyler to vent my displeasure, knowing full well that he wouldn't reply until he woke up at a decent hour for a Saturday morning.
But, as generally happens when Maren talks me into things, the experience turned out to be extremely rewarding in the end. Once the rain stopped, the runners came through, and I'd become decent at filling the cups to a good level with Powerade, so that neither the runners nor the volunteers would end up with blue stains down their fronts, it became a much more pleasant experience. And a very inspiring one at that.
Some of those marathon runners are absolutely phenomenal; they cruised through the station (we were at mile twenty-four, meaning they had two miles till the finish, and they already run most of the race) like they'd just started the race, and I can guarantee they were running faster at mile twenty-four than I would be running at mile two. It was incredible. And there were some runners who I never would have pegged to run a marathon, but they were right up there with the front of the pack. And then there were the two barefoot runners, a guy and a girl, who came through wearing absolutely nothing on their feet and still going strong. Now that takes practice.
It didn't matter whether the runners were in first place or last - they were still an inspiration to a non-runner like me. Thank you all those runners for their inspiration. Some day I'm going to run a marathon too!
As previously stated, I am not a runner. I never have been; I think I hit my running peak during my freshman year of high school when my friend talked me into running on the track team. That was a brutal experience that I never repeated. I think I would like to be one; imagine how much more in shape I could be if I actually liked just aimlessly running around outside for a half hour or so each day. But alas, I still have no developed a taste for it. Hopefully some day. For now, I'll stick to sitting indoors and lamenting what I lack, because I find that much more satisfactory.
Just because I don't like running doesn't mean that I don't like to watch others run. Something about other runners inspires me to get up and go, though it mostly inspires my mind, and very rarely does my body follow. However, I still find it pretty cool to watch others do something so extraordinary, regardless of its tendency to leave me quite jealous. I was reminded of this strange mix of awe and envy this morning, and about seven in the morning, when I stood on the side of the road helping distribute Powerade to a bunch of runners.
See, Maren has developed this impressive ability to talk me into doing things. This morning, those things included waking up at five o'clock to be at an aid station by five-thirty to volunteer for the Provo Marathon until eleven-thirty. Oh, and did I mention it was raining for the first hour? And in the fifties for the rest of the morning? How Maren managed to talk me into it, I will never know. Maybe it was the free t-shirt that lured me; free clothing tends to have a very strong pull on me. Regardless, at six o'clock this morning, I was not a happy camper. I even texted a sleeping Skyler to vent my displeasure, knowing full well that he wouldn't reply until he woke up at a decent hour for a Saturday morning.
But, as generally happens when Maren talks me into things, the experience turned out to be extremely rewarding in the end. Once the rain stopped, the runners came through, and I'd become decent at filling the cups to a good level with Powerade, so that neither the runners nor the volunteers would end up with blue stains down their fronts, it became a much more pleasant experience. And a very inspiring one at that.
Some of those marathon runners are absolutely phenomenal; they cruised through the station (we were at mile twenty-four, meaning they had two miles till the finish, and they already run most of the race) like they'd just started the race, and I can guarantee they were running faster at mile twenty-four than I would be running at mile two. It was incredible. And there were some runners who I never would have pegged to run a marathon, but they were right up there with the front of the pack. And then there were the two barefoot runners, a guy and a girl, who came through wearing absolutely nothing on their feet and still going strong. Now that takes practice.
It didn't matter whether the runners were in first place or last - they were still an inspiration to a non-runner like me. Thank you all those runners for their inspiration. Some day I'm going to run a marathon too!
Extra Credit
Friday, June 11, 2010
I love extra credit. Chalk it up the over-achiever inside of me (which thankfully has been dwindling in recent years), but I've always loved the idea of doing a little extra work and getting a little extra padding for my grade. This is probably a result of my good-grade obsession, spurred both by my dominating perfectionism and my parents' astronomically high expectations, but thankfully this drive has also been decreasing lately. This is beside the point, because the cause doesn't really matter; the result is always the same: I love extra credit.
Today I had an opportunity for extra credit, which I'm sure you probably already deduced. Unfortunately, it wasn't the best opportunity. It was an extra credit test. Doubly unfortunately, I actually need the extra credit. My Spanish grade isn't as high as my parents would like it to be, though I consider it to be pretty satisfactory for a class of this caliber, and therefore I was forced to not really jump at the chance but rather grudgingly amble to the testing center for my second test of the week. Not a happy prospect, though I'm hoping my professor will be kind enough to at least give us points for taking it even if we bomb the test (which I have a sneaking suspicion I will).
However, just because this extra credit opportunity was a bit of a let-down, doesn't mean extra credit in general is to be frowned upon. In fact, I absolutely love it (in case you haven't already gathered that from the two other times I've used those words in this post). And, though I don't hold out much hope for the helpfulness of this particular test, I am still grateful for extra credit, and the wonders it works on my GPA.
I love extra credit. Chalk it up the over-achiever inside of me (which thankfully has been dwindling in recent years), but I've always loved the idea of doing a little extra work and getting a little extra padding for my grade. This is probably a result of my good-grade obsession, spurred both by my dominating perfectionism and my parents' astronomically high expectations, but thankfully this drive has also been decreasing lately. This is beside the point, because the cause doesn't really matter; the result is always the same: I love extra credit.
Today I had an opportunity for extra credit, which I'm sure you probably already deduced. Unfortunately, it wasn't the best opportunity. It was an extra credit test. Doubly unfortunately, I actually need the extra credit. My Spanish grade isn't as high as my parents would like it to be, though I consider it to be pretty satisfactory for a class of this caliber, and therefore I was forced to not really jump at the chance but rather grudgingly amble to the testing center for my second test of the week. Not a happy prospect, though I'm hoping my professor will be kind enough to at least give us points for taking it even if we bomb the test (which I have a sneaking suspicion I will).
However, just because this extra credit opportunity was a bit of a let-down, doesn't mean extra credit in general is to be frowned upon. In fact, I absolutely love it (in case you haven't already gathered that from the two other times I've used those words in this post). And, though I don't hold out much hope for the helpfulness of this particular test, I am still grateful for extra credit, and the wonders it works on my GPA.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Band-aid Tests
Thursday, June 10, 2010
As I stated in yesterday's post, I have thoroughly awful study habits. Whether that's entirely my fault or not . . . well that's still to-be-determined. Whether I'm doing anything to improve them or not . . . well that would be a definite no. Today's test experience just serves as further proof that I am absolutely getting no better.
I got out of class around 9:40 this morning; I studied until 11; I took my test. My comprehensive test that covered the grammar and vocabulary from the entire book. And I only studied for one hour and twenty minutes before taking it. Do you believe that I have bad study habits yet? This is pretty routine; it's how I deal with most tests, though occasionally I'll do a little studying the night before too if I think the test will be REALLY difficult.
Today was more of a 'hey, what the heck, I'm not going to study more so I might as well take it now!' test. This happens frequently in relation to Spanish class, and somehow I've still managed to pull out semi-decent grades in that subject. Anyways, I've come up with (what I think is) a clever name for my brand of test-taking: band-aid tests. I tend to believe that the sooner it's over, the better life will be, just like pulling off a band-aid. So that's the philosophy I subscribe to, and so far I'm thankful for it. It's made my test-taking college career much less stressful, though whether or not it actually is a good strategy is still TBD.
As I stated in yesterday's post, I have thoroughly awful study habits. Whether that's entirely my fault or not . . . well that's still to-be-determined. Whether I'm doing anything to improve them or not . . . well that would be a definite no. Today's test experience just serves as further proof that I am absolutely getting no better.
I got out of class around 9:40 this morning; I studied until 11; I took my test. My comprehensive test that covered the grammar and vocabulary from the entire book. And I only studied for one hour and twenty minutes before taking it. Do you believe that I have bad study habits yet? This is pretty routine; it's how I deal with most tests, though occasionally I'll do a little studying the night before too if I think the test will be REALLY difficult.
Today was more of a 'hey, what the heck, I'm not going to study more so I might as well take it now!' test. This happens frequently in relation to Spanish class, and somehow I've still managed to pull out semi-decent grades in that subject. Anyways, I've come up with (what I think is) a clever name for my brand of test-taking: band-aid tests. I tend to believe that the sooner it's over, the better life will be, just like pulling off a band-aid. So that's the philosophy I subscribe to, and so far I'm thankful for it. It's made my test-taking college career much less stressful, though whether or not it actually is a good strategy is still TBD.
Tests That Are Open For More Than One Day
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
I've found that one of the hardest things about college for me is studying for tests. I know that's a rather unfortunate thing to be hard, but at least I have a relatively good explanation to back myself up. I very rarely had to study hard for tests in high school. It's not that high school was easy, more that I retained the information better because we spent more time learning it, and teachers had study periods the preceding class rather than teaching new material up until the day before the test (like most of college professors do). Consequently, I have very poor study habits.
On top of these awful habits, most of my college tests are given during a certain period at the testing center, and are take-at-your-leisure, as long as you take it during the days it's available. Not having a set day and time to take my tests adds another wrench into my already problem-filled studying, because I've discovered that I'm relatively un-self-motivated. Without a set schedule, I procrastinate with the best of them until the last possible minute.
Having said all that, I'd like to go back on it all and say that, in this case, I'm grateful my Spanish test is open for two days. Because I am definitely not in the mood to take a comprehensive grammar test that will require hours of studying. In this case, I'd much rather procrastinate it until the last possible minute, and worry about improving my study habits at some date to-be-determined.
(Pardon the title; I couldn't think of a better - and more concise - way of phrasing that.)
I've found that one of the hardest things about college for me is studying for tests. I know that's a rather unfortunate thing to be hard, but at least I have a relatively good explanation to back myself up. I very rarely had to study hard for tests in high school. It's not that high school was easy, more that I retained the information better because we spent more time learning it, and teachers had study periods the preceding class rather than teaching new material up until the day before the test (like most of college professors do). Consequently, I have very poor study habits.
On top of these awful habits, most of my college tests are given during a certain period at the testing center, and are take-at-your-leisure, as long as you take it during the days it's available. Not having a set day and time to take my tests adds another wrench into my already problem-filled studying, because I've discovered that I'm relatively un-self-motivated. Without a set schedule, I procrastinate with the best of them until the last possible minute.
Having said all that, I'd like to go back on it all and say that, in this case, I'm grateful my Spanish test is open for two days. Because I am definitely not in the mood to take a comprehensive grammar test that will require hours of studying. In this case, I'd much rather procrastinate it until the last possible minute, and worry about improving my study habits at some date to-be-determined.
(Pardon the title; I couldn't think of a better - and more concise - way of phrasing that.)
The Cosby Show
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
I had very strange notions as a child of what my mother would and would not allow me to do. Though the notions themselves have changed in recent years, I'm still unable to accurately guess what my mother's reaction will be to certain situations. Why I'm so bad at reading her (why I'm so bad at reading people in general, really) I don't think I'll ever know. Bottom line is, I'm very bad at it.
When I was somewhere around eight years old, when cartoons were a staple on summer mornings and ice cream was only eaten with parental permission, I discovered The Cosby Show. From the first five minutes, I fell in love. Bill Cosby was the funny man from the Jello Jiggler commercials that surfaced at Christmas time, and the host of that TV show about kids and darndest things, both roles making him unquestionably lovable. This love, on top of my discovery of such an excellent sitcom as The Cosby Show, meant that Bill Cosby was cemented in my mind as a comedic genius to be revered. I had only one problem with my new-found love: my eight-year-old mind convinced itself that my mother would not allow me to watch it. I have no idea what my reasons for this were, but I must have had some, because I was absolutely convinced.
So what did I do, upstanding child that I was? I watched it in secret, of course. When my mother wasn't home, or was in the shower, or taking a nap, The Cosby Show came on. And the minute I heard her footsteps heading anywhere near the television, it turned off. I had my deception practically down to a science.
However, one day, I became so engrossed in the episode, and my mother managed to avoid all the creaky floorboards, that I didn't hear her enter the room. Her voice practically gave me a heart attack. And what did she say? "Oh, The Cosby Show. I love this show!" And what did she do? Sat down and watched it with me. I was astounded, and furious with myself that I hadn't known she would love the show. (My eight-year-old self was apparently not the smartest.)
Ever since then, I've watched The Cosby Show almost as often as it's on television, and for Christmas two years ago, I received the full box set of series DVDs, meaning I no longer have to wait for episodes to surface on those obscure TV channels that play old shows. It's been a fantastic present that I recently rediscovered during Spring term, when I've had very little else to do with my time but watch TV while doing Spanish homework. I can only stand crime shows for so long, but doing Spanish homework in silence leads to insanity, so I'm grateful for The Cosby Show, and it's role in preserving my mind. I don't believe I would have made it through this class otherwise.
I had very strange notions as a child of what my mother would and would not allow me to do. Though the notions themselves have changed in recent years, I'm still unable to accurately guess what my mother's reaction will be to certain situations. Why I'm so bad at reading her (why I'm so bad at reading people in general, really) I don't think I'll ever know. Bottom line is, I'm very bad at it.
When I was somewhere around eight years old, when cartoons were a staple on summer mornings and ice cream was only eaten with parental permission, I discovered The Cosby Show. From the first five minutes, I fell in love. Bill Cosby was the funny man from the Jello Jiggler commercials that surfaced at Christmas time, and the host of that TV show about kids and darndest things, both roles making him unquestionably lovable. This love, on top of my discovery of such an excellent sitcom as The Cosby Show, meant that Bill Cosby was cemented in my mind as a comedic genius to be revered. I had only one problem with my new-found love: my eight-year-old mind convinced itself that my mother would not allow me to watch it. I have no idea what my reasons for this were, but I must have had some, because I was absolutely convinced.
So what did I do, upstanding child that I was? I watched it in secret, of course. When my mother wasn't home, or was in the shower, or taking a nap, The Cosby Show came on. And the minute I heard her footsteps heading anywhere near the television, it turned off. I had my deception practically down to a science.
However, one day, I became so engrossed in the episode, and my mother managed to avoid all the creaky floorboards, that I didn't hear her enter the room. Her voice practically gave me a heart attack. And what did she say? "Oh, The Cosby Show. I love this show!" And what did she do? Sat down and watched it with me. I was astounded, and furious with myself that I hadn't known she would love the show. (My eight-year-old self was apparently not the smartest.)
Ever since then, I've watched The Cosby Show almost as often as it's on television, and for Christmas two years ago, I received the full box set of series DVDs, meaning I no longer have to wait for episodes to surface on those obscure TV channels that play old shows. It's been a fantastic present that I recently rediscovered during Spring term, when I've had very little else to do with my time but watch TV while doing Spanish homework. I can only stand crime shows for so long, but doing Spanish homework in silence leads to insanity, so I'm grateful for The Cosby Show, and it's role in preserving my mind. I don't believe I would have made it through this class otherwise.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
The Last Week of Classes
Monday, June 7, 2010
There's nothing more satisfying than knowing that you're almost done with something you wish had ended a long time ago, except when it actually ends. Since I still have six Spanish classes left, I only have the knowledge of the end at the moment. But that's a happy enough prospect for me!
It probably seems like I really hate Spanish, but I promise I'm not as negative as I seem. I really do like the fact that I am semi-fluent-ish (though I use that term loosely). I just don't particularly appreciate going to class to learn how to be semi-fluent-ish. After seven and a half years of going to Spanish class, I think it's understandable that I might be a little tired of it. Which is why I'm so grateful that's it's almost over! Once this term ends, I'll be forever done with Spanish class. So I'm sure you can imagine why I'm grateful for this, the last full week of classes. After this week, I have one more class, a few finals, and freedom! The prospect is extremely exciting.
There's nothing more satisfying than knowing that you're almost done with something you wish had ended a long time ago, except when it actually ends. Since I still have six Spanish classes left, I only have the knowledge of the end at the moment. But that's a happy enough prospect for me!
It probably seems like I really hate Spanish, but I promise I'm not as negative as I seem. I really do like the fact that I am semi-fluent-ish (though I use that term loosely). I just don't particularly appreciate going to class to learn how to be semi-fluent-ish. After seven and a half years of going to Spanish class, I think it's understandable that I might be a little tired of it. Which is why I'm so grateful that's it's almost over! Once this term ends, I'll be forever done with Spanish class. So I'm sure you can imagine why I'm grateful for this, the last full week of classes. After this week, I have one more class, a few finals, and freedom! The prospect is extremely exciting.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Flat Shoes
Sunday, June 6, 2010
It's quite an interesing experience to go to church alone, and something I hadn't experienced until this weekend (that I can remember). Sam and Jason were somewhere besides Provo, meaning I ended up making the trek to our old ward all by myself.
Luckily, I was smart enough to not wear heels. Since Sam and I are living in a married apartment, we decided not to move to the ward for the complex. How awkward would that be, two single girls going to a ward for newly-married couples or couples with kids. Instead we've continued to attend our old ward and try our hardest to avoid showing up on the radar.
The only consequence to these sneaky manuevers is a considerably longer walk to our meetings. The new apartment complex is right on the edge of campus, but it's on the same level as lower campus, and the ward meets practically smack in the middle of upper campus. This means that we have quite the hike to get to our ward now, the worst part being the more-than-just-a-few flights of stairs. Heels are practically impossible to wear in this situation, unless you like ending up with a mass of blisters istead of a foot by the end. Which is why I will be forever grateful for cute, flat shoes. They make situations like these much more bearable, and leave me with much happier feet, something I will never complain about.
It's quite an interesing experience to go to church alone, and something I hadn't experienced until this weekend (that I can remember). Sam and Jason were somewhere besides Provo, meaning I ended up making the trek to our old ward all by myself.
Luckily, I was smart enough to not wear heels. Since Sam and I are living in a married apartment, we decided not to move to the ward for the complex. How awkward would that be, two single girls going to a ward for newly-married couples or couples with kids. Instead we've continued to attend our old ward and try our hardest to avoid showing up on the radar.
The only consequence to these sneaky manuevers is a considerably longer walk to our meetings. The new apartment complex is right on the edge of campus, but it's on the same level as lower campus, and the ward meets practically smack in the middle of upper campus. This means that we have quite the hike to get to our ward now, the worst part being the more-than-just-a-few flights of stairs. Heels are practically impossible to wear in this situation, unless you like ending up with a mass of blisters istead of a foot by the end. Which is why I will be forever grateful for cute, flat shoes. They make situations like these much more bearable, and leave me with much happier feet, something I will never complain about.
Friday, June 18, 2010
Plan B Adventures
Saturday, June 5, 2010
When I look back at older posts, I cannot help but notice that many of them involve spontaneous adventures with various friends. And today's post is no different, because Maren and I had quite the adventure (another popular topic - anything involving Maren).
The weather today was absolutely gorgeous, one of those beautifully sunny days that has a few clouds and a bit of wind to take the edge off the heat. And what do college girls with mile-long to-do lists do on days such as these? Find a body of water and go swimming of couse! Which is exactly what we did.
This seems like a pretty-straight forward story, so why do I classify it as 'quite the adventure'? Well, let me tell you. It all began when plan A - the clear blue pool in the middle of my apartment complex - fell through, because the filter broke. On the first beautiful Saturday in weeks, of course something like that would happen. We had been so set on taking a dip in the pool that we hadn't dreamed up a plan B, and were now faced with the problem of creating one on the spot. Maren did a wonderful job of researching possible swimming spots online, and we relocated our plans to the Deer Creek Reservoir, which claimed to have boat docks, swimming spots, and a few beaches. Problem solved.
Well, not quite. We arrived at the Reservoir, paid the required entrance fee, and parked. We then proceeded to wander around the lake's edge looking for a good spot to wade in. But we didn't find one. Maren did have a rather muddy encounter with the shore when she ventured in at one point, and we decided that maybe we hadn't picked the best spot. As we trudged towards our car, we happened to find a map of the Reservoir, which informed us that we'd taken the wrong turn off to get the beach portion, and were instead in the area of the boat docks. So we relocated, did more exploring to find the perfect spot, and headed in.
The water was absolutely freezing. The rocks on the bottom were slimy. And there were nests of ants on the shore. But, did any of the matter to us? Nope! The adventure was fantastic regardless of the less-than-desirable aspects, and I'm very grateful the Deer Creek Reservoir exists so that Maren and I could have a plan B adventure
When I look back at older posts, I cannot help but notice that many of them involve spontaneous adventures with various friends. And today's post is no different, because Maren and I had quite the adventure (another popular topic - anything involving Maren).
The weather today was absolutely gorgeous, one of those beautifully sunny days that has a few clouds and a bit of wind to take the edge off the heat. And what do college girls with mile-long to-do lists do on days such as these? Find a body of water and go swimming of couse! Which is exactly what we did.
This seems like a pretty-straight forward story, so why do I classify it as 'quite the adventure'? Well, let me tell you. It all began when plan A - the clear blue pool in the middle of my apartment complex - fell through, because the filter broke. On the first beautiful Saturday in weeks, of course something like that would happen. We had been so set on taking a dip in the pool that we hadn't dreamed up a plan B, and were now faced with the problem of creating one on the spot. Maren did a wonderful job of researching possible swimming spots online, and we relocated our plans to the Deer Creek Reservoir, which claimed to have boat docks, swimming spots, and a few beaches. Problem solved.
Well, not quite. We arrived at the Reservoir, paid the required entrance fee, and parked. We then proceeded to wander around the lake's edge looking for a good spot to wade in. But we didn't find one. Maren did have a rather muddy encounter with the shore when she ventured in at one point, and we decided that maybe we hadn't picked the best spot. As we trudged towards our car, we happened to find a map of the Reservoir, which informed us that we'd taken the wrong turn off to get the beach portion, and were instead in the area of the boat docks. So we relocated, did more exploring to find the perfect spot, and headed in.
The water was absolutely freezing. The rocks on the bottom were slimy. And there were nests of ants on the shore. But, did any of the matter to us? Nope! The adventure was fantastic regardless of the less-than-desirable aspects, and I'm very grateful the Deer Creek Reservoir exists so that Maren and I could have a plan B adventure
Saturday, June 12, 2010
Concerned Friends
Friday, June 4, 2010
I don't think I've ever been more homesick in my life than I have been this past week. Why, I have no idea. Nothing specific has happened to make me homesick, except maybe seeing my brother last weekend. And nothing specific is happening next week that would cause this feeling. And yet here I am, extremely grouchy and wanting nothing more than to curl up with my elephant on my bed all night.
Luckily, I have a concerned friend named Maren, who very nicely puts up with my bleak mood. I mean, she actually wanted to hang out with me tonight, though that could have been because I made Dad's Favorite Dessert. Between the two of us, I think we managed to polish off at least a fourth of it. Which I feel completely justified about because it contains chocolate, and today is one of those days that just needs a good dose of chocolate.
I think it must have been more than the dessert though, because Maren even willing watched a movie with me. She's such a good friend. I'm grateful that I have concerned friends like her, who at least pretend to enjoy my company even though they run the risk of having their heads bitten off. It's such a comfort to know that people will risk death for the sake of my sanity.
I don't think I've ever been more homesick in my life than I have been this past week. Why, I have no idea. Nothing specific has happened to make me homesick, except maybe seeing my brother last weekend. And nothing specific is happening next week that would cause this feeling. And yet here I am, extremely grouchy and wanting nothing more than to curl up with my elephant on my bed all night.
Luckily, I have a concerned friend named Maren, who very nicely puts up with my bleak mood. I mean, she actually wanted to hang out with me tonight, though that could have been because I made Dad's Favorite Dessert. Between the two of us, I think we managed to polish off at least a fourth of it. Which I feel completely justified about because it contains chocolate, and today is one of those days that just needs a good dose of chocolate.
I think it must have been more than the dessert though, because Maren even willing watched a movie with me. She's such a good friend. I'm grateful that I have concerned friends like her, who at least pretend to enjoy my company even though they run the risk of having their heads bitten off. It's such a comfort to know that people will risk death for the sake of my sanity.
Health
Thursday, June 3, 2010
Going to the Jerusalem Center requires quite a lot of paperwork and phone calls and money, as I'm sure could be expected for such a trip. One required form was (rather unfortunately) a health release so that I will be allowed to use the gymnasium at the Center. Why I need a doctor to sign off that I can use a treadmill or run around a track, I have no idea. But it was required, and therefore had to be taken care of.
Since I'm not currently in Maryland, where my normal doctor resides, I had to make other arrangements. This meant an appointment with the BYU Student Health Center, and consequently required a physical. Gag me. I've had a variety of experiences with physicals, and I can't remember a single one that has been positive. The doctor most often had the very stereotypical freezing cold hands, and call me crazy but sitting around in a paper bathrobe that you accidentally tore the wrong way is not my idea of a good time. Then there was the year that the doctor did nothing but grill me about my non-active sex life and non-existent alcohol addiction. It was practically a zoo-ful of awkwardness.
Needless to say, there was nothing about this doctor visit that I was looking forward to, because I'm much too old to get a sticker or lollipop, and those are the only good things about a pediatrician's physical. However, I was (semi) pleasantly surprised. The physical involved no paper bathrobes or gowns of any sort, and the worst part was the urine test, which arguably is pretty bad, but still. Much better than it could have been. Beyond that, I did nothing more uncomfortable than bend over so the doctor could inform me that I had curvature in my spine.
It was possibly the least awkward physical ever. Well, and possibly the least accurate. The nurse told me I was five foot two and half, which is a blatant untruth, and that I'm fourteen pounds heavier than I was six months ago, which makes no sense since all my clothes still fit. These measurements were taken with shoes and clothes on, and yet were expected to be accurate. How that works, I'm not sure. But I don't believe them. And I'm slightly offended that she measured me so short. Oh well. At least I know the truth.
And I came away from my physical very grateful that I'm healthy, and that I don't have to spend any more time in the hospital than it takes to get a simple physical. Hopefully I can keep this up until I'm ninety-seven at least. But I'll try not to shoot that high. Maybe eighty-three is a more realistic goal.
Going to the Jerusalem Center requires quite a lot of paperwork and phone calls and money, as I'm sure could be expected for such a trip. One required form was (rather unfortunately) a health release so that I will be allowed to use the gymnasium at the Center. Why I need a doctor to sign off that I can use a treadmill or run around a track, I have no idea. But it was required, and therefore had to be taken care of.
Since I'm not currently in Maryland, where my normal doctor resides, I had to make other arrangements. This meant an appointment with the BYU Student Health Center, and consequently required a physical. Gag me. I've had a variety of experiences with physicals, and I can't remember a single one that has been positive. The doctor most often had the very stereotypical freezing cold hands, and call me crazy but sitting around in a paper bathrobe that you accidentally tore the wrong way is not my idea of a good time. Then there was the year that the doctor did nothing but grill me about my non-active sex life and non-existent alcohol addiction. It was practically a zoo-ful of awkwardness.
Needless to say, there was nothing about this doctor visit that I was looking forward to, because I'm much too old to get a sticker or lollipop, and those are the only good things about a pediatrician's physical. However, I was (semi) pleasantly surprised. The physical involved no paper bathrobes or gowns of any sort, and the worst part was the urine test, which arguably is pretty bad, but still. Much better than it could have been. Beyond that, I did nothing more uncomfortable than bend over so the doctor could inform me that I had curvature in my spine.
It was possibly the least awkward physical ever. Well, and possibly the least accurate. The nurse told me I was five foot two and half, which is a blatant untruth, and that I'm fourteen pounds heavier than I was six months ago, which makes no sense since all my clothes still fit. These measurements were taken with shoes and clothes on, and yet were expected to be accurate. How that works, I'm not sure. But I don't believe them. And I'm slightly offended that she measured me so short. Oh well. At least I know the truth.
And I came away from my physical very grateful that I'm healthy, and that I don't have to spend any more time in the hospital than it takes to get a simple physical. Hopefully I can keep this up until I'm ninety-seven at least. But I'll try not to shoot that high. Maybe eighty-three is a more realistic goal.
Friday, June 11, 2010
Overcoming Milestones
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Today I was productive. I know at age twenty that shouldn't be such an exciting thing to say, but it is, and it will be just as exciting to say at age forty-three and age seventy-six. Simply put, I find productive days exciting; I always have, and I always will.
Why was today productive? Well, because I made phone calls. I know that sounds rather boring, and maybe even a little pathetic, but it really is a bigger deal than you know. When I was younger, I had this aversion to all phone calls. It was so bad that I wouldn't even call my friends back, let alone the mom looking for a babysitter or the desperate singer who needed a pianist. As I got older, my phone skills improved, and I began to at least return my friends' calls at least some of the time (though I'm sure my friends can attest that I still haven't quite perfected this skill). Despite the improvement, I was still a wimp about really important phone calls, the ones that it was necessary for me to make. However, today I am proud to say that I have overcome.
I made a phone call to the Jerusalem Center to change my mailing address; I called the Student Health Center to set up a physical time; I even phoned the Administrative Building to ask about transferring scholarship money. I was on a roll! Too bad those were all the phone calls I needed to make, because I would have been all over any other ones too. Actually, I guess I did call my mom after this to report on everything I found out; her shock at my phone abilities was slightly insulting (she seems to think I can't leave my comfort zone and make a few phone calls, for some odd reason). Despite her skepticism, I was proud of myself because I overcame! Granted, it wasn't really a big deal; in fact, it's really almost lame in the long run, but it's a milestone for me. And overcoming milestones is something to be grateful for.
Today I was productive. I know at age twenty that shouldn't be such an exciting thing to say, but it is, and it will be just as exciting to say at age forty-three and age seventy-six. Simply put, I find productive days exciting; I always have, and I always will.
Why was today productive? Well, because I made phone calls. I know that sounds rather boring, and maybe even a little pathetic, but it really is a bigger deal than you know. When I was younger, I had this aversion to all phone calls. It was so bad that I wouldn't even call my friends back, let alone the mom looking for a babysitter or the desperate singer who needed a pianist. As I got older, my phone skills improved, and I began to at least return my friends' calls at least some of the time (though I'm sure my friends can attest that I still haven't quite perfected this skill). Despite the improvement, I was still a wimp about really important phone calls, the ones that it was necessary for me to make. However, today I am proud to say that I have overcome.
I made a phone call to the Jerusalem Center to change my mailing address; I called the Student Health Center to set up a physical time; I even phoned the Administrative Building to ask about transferring scholarship money. I was on a roll! Too bad those were all the phone calls I needed to make, because I would have been all over any other ones too. Actually, I guess I did call my mom after this to report on everything I found out; her shock at my phone abilities was slightly insulting (she seems to think I can't leave my comfort zone and make a few phone calls, for some odd reason). Despite her skepticism, I was proud of myself because I overcame! Granted, it wasn't really a big deal; in fact, it's really almost lame in the long run, but it's a milestone for me. And overcoming milestones is something to be grateful for.
The One Hundredth Post
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Today is my one hundredth post. One hundred. Can you believe it? Because I sure can't! I'm an awful journal keeper, and I was actually a little bit worried about this project when I began it; I wasn't sure I'd actually make it past day two, let alone to day one hundred. But I did. I think it's a miracle.
In case you couldn't tell, I'm feeling rather proud of myself at the moment. I'm actually sticking to one of my goals! It doesn't matter that this goal has absolutely no bearing on the important aspects of my life; I am sticking to it, and that's all that matters. Baby steps - if I can keep going with this, it will give me practice to keep going with my more important decisions. At least that's the theory. Hopefully it's a good one.
I'm not entirely sure how to phrase what I'm grateful for tonight; I guess it's my one hundredth post. Reaching this semi-momentous milestone has restored my faith in my goal-keeping ability, which I am determined to keep up for the next 265 days as well.
Today is my one hundredth post. One hundred. Can you believe it? Because I sure can't! I'm an awful journal keeper, and I was actually a little bit worried about this project when I began it; I wasn't sure I'd actually make it past day two, let alone to day one hundred. But I did. I think it's a miracle.
In case you couldn't tell, I'm feeling rather proud of myself at the moment. I'm actually sticking to one of my goals! It doesn't matter that this goal has absolutely no bearing on the important aspects of my life; I am sticking to it, and that's all that matters. Baby steps - if I can keep going with this, it will give me practice to keep going with my more important decisions. At least that's the theory. Hopefully it's a good one.
I'm not entirely sure how to phrase what I'm grateful for tonight; I guess it's my one hundredth post. Reaching this semi-momentous milestone has restored my faith in my goal-keeping ability, which I am determined to keep up for the next 265 days as well.
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Memorial Day
Monday, May 31, 2010
Memorial Day has always seemed like a rather bogus holiday to me. I viewed it as a much-needed day off of school, and felt that it otherwise had no point. However, I am happy to say that today's experience rather drastically changed my view.
Skyler's mother is from St. George, and her family has lived in and around St. George for generations. This means that several of her ancestors are buried in the St. George cemetery. Never having lived remotely close to my living relatives, let alone my dead ones, I didn't really see why this warranted an annual Memorial Day trip to the cemetery. Like I said, I never knew there was actually a purpose to Memorial Day. But to normal people, there apparently is.
So this morning we headed to the cemetery to meet Skyler's grandpa and his uncle's family. I had absolutely no idea what to expect; the only two times I've been in any cemetery (besides Arlington National Cemetery, which doesn't really count) have been for the funerals of my grandpa and grandma. I'll admit I was a bit nervous as we arrived at the cemetery, met his relatives, and began to find the graves of his other relatives. While casually strolling around, Skyler's mom mentioned to his grandpa that I'd never celebrated Memorial Day before, so this was a new experience for me. From that moment on, I'm pretty sure his grandfather made it his goal to make sure I had a Memorial Day experience I wasn't likely to forget.
He toured me all over that graveyard, stopping at graves to tell me exactly how the person was related to Skyler, and also related to the person whose grave we stopped at two graves before, and also to the cousin of the next person whose grave we were going to find. I'm pretty sure his grandpa got a little confused there in the middle, and mixed up a bit of the genealogy, because I stopped following the family tree for a while, but by the end, I'd gotten a very thorough history of Skyler's family history from the first of the line to settle in St. George to the most recently deceased. I'm convinced I know more of his family history than my own now. And though his brothers teased me about my forty-five minute history tour, I really enjoyed it. I've never lived near or even known much about my extended family, so it was neat to get a perspective from someone who loves genealogy. It also made me realize that there is a point to Memorial Day, and I'm grateful I finally learned what it is. Because taking the time to remember where we came from is always a worthwhile experience.
Memorial Day has always seemed like a rather bogus holiday to me. I viewed it as a much-needed day off of school, and felt that it otherwise had no point. However, I am happy to say that today's experience rather drastically changed my view.
Skyler's mother is from St. George, and her family has lived in and around St. George for generations. This means that several of her ancestors are buried in the St. George cemetery. Never having lived remotely close to my living relatives, let alone my dead ones, I didn't really see why this warranted an annual Memorial Day trip to the cemetery. Like I said, I never knew there was actually a purpose to Memorial Day. But to normal people, there apparently is.
So this morning we headed to the cemetery to meet Skyler's grandpa and his uncle's family. I had absolutely no idea what to expect; the only two times I've been in any cemetery (besides Arlington National Cemetery, which doesn't really count) have been for the funerals of my grandpa and grandma. I'll admit I was a bit nervous as we arrived at the cemetery, met his relatives, and began to find the graves of his other relatives. While casually strolling around, Skyler's mom mentioned to his grandpa that I'd never celebrated Memorial Day before, so this was a new experience for me. From that moment on, I'm pretty sure his grandfather made it his goal to make sure I had a Memorial Day experience I wasn't likely to forget.
He toured me all over that graveyard, stopping at graves to tell me exactly how the person was related to Skyler, and also related to the person whose grave we stopped at two graves before, and also to the cousin of the next person whose grave we were going to find. I'm pretty sure his grandpa got a little confused there in the middle, and mixed up a bit of the genealogy, because I stopped following the family tree for a while, but by the end, I'd gotten a very thorough history of Skyler's family history from the first of the line to settle in St. George to the most recently deceased. I'm convinced I know more of his family history than my own now. And though his brothers teased me about my forty-five minute history tour, I really enjoyed it. I've never lived near or even known much about my extended family, so it was neat to get a perspective from someone who loves genealogy. It also made me realize that there is a point to Memorial Day, and I'm grateful I finally learned what it is. Because taking the time to remember where we came from is always a worthwhile experience.
Rolls
Sunday, May 30, 2010
I have this thing about homemade rolls. I think I eat as many rolls as I do the rest of dinner combined when they happen to be on the menu. Don't ask me why they appeal to me so much, but it's practically an obsession; I could be completely stuffed and still manage to down at least three rolls, butter included. This means that a good rolls recipe is a staple in my cookbook.
Lucky for me, Skyler's dad was a baker at one point in his life, and he's practically a pro at anything food. So today he gave us a few tips on how to make his absolutely-fabulously-wonderful homemade rolls. The recipe itself wasn't a very big help, because it mostly consisted of a spoonful of this and a palmful of that (his dad is that much of a pro - he hardly had to measure anything!), but the tips were quite helpful. Like how to know if the dough is ready. And the more times you punch it down, the lighter the rolls turn out. Skyler and I might not have been the best helpers (we fell asleep during the rising process, and forgot to wake up to punch the dough), but the rolls were still delicious. And, per usual, I ate more than I should have. Oh well. I can still be thankful for their existence!
I have this thing about homemade rolls. I think I eat as many rolls as I do the rest of dinner combined when they happen to be on the menu. Don't ask me why they appeal to me so much, but it's practically an obsession; I could be completely stuffed and still manage to down at least three rolls, butter included. This means that a good rolls recipe is a staple in my cookbook.
Lucky for me, Skyler's dad was a baker at one point in his life, and he's practically a pro at anything food. So today he gave us a few tips on how to make his absolutely-fabulously-wonderful homemade rolls. The recipe itself wasn't a very big help, because it mostly consisted of a spoonful of this and a palmful of that (his dad is that much of a pro - he hardly had to measure anything!), but the tips were quite helpful. Like how to know if the dough is ready. And the more times you punch it down, the lighter the rolls turn out. Skyler and I might not have been the best helpers (we fell asleep during the rising process, and forgot to wake up to punch the dough), but the rolls were still delicious. And, per usual, I ate more than I should have. Oh well. I can still be thankful for their existence!
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
My Brother Carlton
Saturday, May 29, 2010
I have mixed emotions about today. On the one hand, it was tons of fun, and I had a great time. On the other, today was the last day I'll see my brother Carlton for about a year. He's going into the Navy, and he leaves for boot camp before I get home from college. So I'm grateful I at least got to see him for a few hours today.
For some strange reason, he decided to vacation in Phoenix, Arizona, for Memorial Day weekend. Why Phoenix, I will never know. It's not your typical tourist destination, though Carlton has never really been a typical person, so I guess it fits. Since I'm in St. George this weekend, we devised a plan to meet about halfway at Lake Havasu. I talked Skyler into making the approximately nine-hour round trip, and we agreed on a time and place to meet Carlton and his girlfriend.
Skyler and I had a few unfortunate occurrences during the trip there, including an encounter with a police officer and a minor detour involving a wrong turn. But we eventually made it, met Carlton and Sarah, and had a fantastic afternoon. First was lunch at a quaint diner with a furry sense of humor, then a drive to the actual London Bridge (which for some reason was transported from England to Nowhere-ville, Arizona) in my brother's red convertible mustang rental car, and finally an hour or so at a local beach. Afternoon well spent.
Besides the fact that we drove around in a convertible and I managed to work on a nice tan at the beach, the trip was a great way to say goodbye to Carlton. He's always been one of those older brothers that you see in the movies, the kind that makes you think 'man I want a brother like that.' He taught me the best way to slow dance, took me out on dates to get ice cream, and listened when I cried over hurt feelings. I always got so excited when he would come home from college or Louisiana or any of the other places he's been. Even when my part in the annual parent-wake-up-call on Christmas was as Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, and I spent the morning pulling Carlton (aka Santa) around on our old green sled, I was ecstatic to be doing something, anything, with my brothers. So it'll be hard to have him gone for real, especially to the Navy, but I know he'll be a fantastic military man. I'll just be grateful for all the memories I have with him, and hope that there will be more memories made in the future.
I have mixed emotions about today. On the one hand, it was tons of fun, and I had a great time. On the other, today was the last day I'll see my brother Carlton for about a year. He's going into the Navy, and he leaves for boot camp before I get home from college. So I'm grateful I at least got to see him for a few hours today.
For some strange reason, he decided to vacation in Phoenix, Arizona, for Memorial Day weekend. Why Phoenix, I will never know. It's not your typical tourist destination, though Carlton has never really been a typical person, so I guess it fits. Since I'm in St. George this weekend, we devised a plan to meet about halfway at Lake Havasu. I talked Skyler into making the approximately nine-hour round trip, and we agreed on a time and place to meet Carlton and his girlfriend.
Skyler and I had a few unfortunate occurrences during the trip there, including an encounter with a police officer and a minor detour involving a wrong turn. But we eventually made it, met Carlton and Sarah, and had a fantastic afternoon. First was lunch at a quaint diner with a furry sense of humor, then a drive to the actual London Bridge (which for some reason was transported from England to Nowhere-ville, Arizona) in my brother's red convertible mustang rental car, and finally an hour or so at a local beach. Afternoon well spent.
Besides the fact that we drove around in a convertible and I managed to work on a nice tan at the beach, the trip was a great way to say goodbye to Carlton. He's always been one of those older brothers that you see in the movies, the kind that makes you think 'man I want a brother like that.' He taught me the best way to slow dance, took me out on dates to get ice cream, and listened when I cried over hurt feelings. I always got so excited when he would come home from college or Louisiana or any of the other places he's been. Even when my part in the annual parent-wake-up-call on Christmas was as Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, and I spent the morning pulling Carlton (aka Santa) around on our old green sled, I was ecstatic to be doing something, anything, with my brothers. So it'll be hard to have him gone for real, especially to the Navy, but I know he'll be a fantastic military man. I'll just be grateful for all the memories I have with him, and hope that there will be more memories made in the future.
Wedding Receptions
Friday, May 28, 2010
While thinking about what to blog about for today, I realized that I was once again really grateful for St. George. It's warm, it's sunny, it's an escape from Provo (and where I'll be this weekend). Positives all around! The only problem was that St. George has already been the star of an earlier post, and that's against the official blog rules. Meaning I was left to come up with another topic for today's post. Which in all honesty wasn't that hard, because being in St. George always makes me insanely happy with plenty of things to be thankful for.
So. I finally decided on a topic that will probably earn me a fair amount of ridicule from my roommate and her fiance. But such is life. Tonight I am thankful for wedding receptions. How did I get from St. George to this? Well let me tell you.
Today's schedule was pretty relaxed. I went to class like normal; Skyler and TJ ended up at my apartment; I filled out a housing waiver so that I could BYU-legally live in my current place. We hung out for a few hours, picked up Sarah, and headed south. What I remember of the drive wasn't bad (I was asleep for a good three hours - in my defense I only got four hours of sleep last night), and we finally ended up in St. George. Where we promptly got ready to go to a wedding reception. (See the connection right there?)
I had been to all of three wedding receptions (that I can remember) before coming to college. That number has more than doubled since moving to Utah, and most of the receptions were for people I barely knew. See, when the person you visit in St. George is very popular, and has lots of engaged friends who have receptions on Friday and Saturday nights, you end up going along with him while he pays his respects. Sometimes you even end up going to two in one night. It's a very good thing that I like wedding receptions.
They're just so elegant. The bride is always beautiful, and she and the groom look so insanely happy, you just can't help but smile. The decorations are always pretty, and very creative. And the food is definitely stunning (though I generally don't eat to much; for some reason I feel weird about eating food at a reception that I personally wasn't invited to, though I can't imagine why). The food is definitely stunning to look at would be more accurate of my wedding reception experience. Everything is absolutely wonderful, and I love going. Not to mention they provide a reason to get dressed up, and I always love an excuse to do that.
While thinking about what to blog about for today, I realized that I was once again really grateful for St. George. It's warm, it's sunny, it's an escape from Provo (and where I'll be this weekend). Positives all around! The only problem was that St. George has already been the star of an earlier post, and that's against the official blog rules. Meaning I was left to come up with another topic for today's post. Which in all honesty wasn't that hard, because being in St. George always makes me insanely happy with plenty of things to be thankful for.
So. I finally decided on a topic that will probably earn me a fair amount of ridicule from my roommate and her fiance. But such is life. Tonight I am thankful for wedding receptions. How did I get from St. George to this? Well let me tell you.
Today's schedule was pretty relaxed. I went to class like normal; Skyler and TJ ended up at my apartment; I filled out a housing waiver so that I could BYU-legally live in my current place. We hung out for a few hours, picked up Sarah, and headed south. What I remember of the drive wasn't bad (I was asleep for a good three hours - in my defense I only got four hours of sleep last night), and we finally ended up in St. George. Where we promptly got ready to go to a wedding reception. (See the connection right there?)
I had been to all of three wedding receptions (that I can remember) before coming to college. That number has more than doubled since moving to Utah, and most of the receptions were for people I barely knew. See, when the person you visit in St. George is very popular, and has lots of engaged friends who have receptions on Friday and Saturday nights, you end up going along with him while he pays his respects. Sometimes you even end up going to two in one night. It's a very good thing that I like wedding receptions.
They're just so elegant. The bride is always beautiful, and she and the groom look so insanely happy, you just can't help but smile. The decorations are always pretty, and very creative. And the food is definitely stunning (though I generally don't eat to much; for some reason I feel weird about eating food at a reception that I personally wasn't invited to, though I can't imagine why). The food is definitely stunning to look at would be more accurate of my wedding reception experience. Everything is absolutely wonderful, and I love going. Not to mention they provide a reason to get dressed up, and I always love an excuse to do that.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Drive-In Movies
Thursday, May 27, 2010
Over the past few years, I have developed the rather odd habit of listening to movies instead of listening to music. Meaning that I end up "watching" a fair number of movies, most of which I have seen several times before, because it's hard to listen to a movie if you haven't already seen it. And while I listen to all these movies, I do things, like homework or clean my room. It's gotten to the point that, unless I'm in a theater, I feel like I have to be doing something no matter what the movie. That could be why I like theaters so much; it's about the only way I can watch a movie in peace anymore.
Tonight I went to a rather unusual theater: a drive-in movie. The last time I went to a drive-in, I was somewhere around twelve years old, and my friend and I barely managed to stay awake during the first of the three movies that were being shown. So I wasn't quite sure what to expect from tonight's excursion. Well, it turned out to be fantastic.
We only got a tiny bit lost on the way to the theater, but still managed to make it in time. It didn't take us long to decide on the movies to see: Iron Man 2 and Date Night. For seven dollars each, we made it into the "theater" (aka a special parking lot) and set up shop. Well, since Skyler had never been to a drive-in, and I hadn't been for years, we weren't quite prepared to spend four hours in the open air in the back of a pick-up truck. Luckily for us, we were with TJ and Amy, and Amy frequents the drive-in theater. She was prepared and then some, so they lent us a few blankets, and we made ourselves comfortable.
Well, it turned out to be the best seven dollars I've spent in a long time (or really that Skyler spent), even though I fell asleep during Iron Man 2 (I'd already seen it, so I think it's understandable). Date Night was hilarious; the truck bed was actually relatively comfortable, and the blue raspberry slushy Skyler got during intermission was very good. Night well spent in my book, even though Spanish class tomorrow will be killer. Oh well! Thank goodness for drive-in movies.
Over the past few years, I have developed the rather odd habit of listening to movies instead of listening to music. Meaning that I end up "watching" a fair number of movies, most of which I have seen several times before, because it's hard to listen to a movie if you haven't already seen it. And while I listen to all these movies, I do things, like homework or clean my room. It's gotten to the point that, unless I'm in a theater, I feel like I have to be doing something no matter what the movie. That could be why I like theaters so much; it's about the only way I can watch a movie in peace anymore.
Tonight I went to a rather unusual theater: a drive-in movie. The last time I went to a drive-in, I was somewhere around twelve years old, and my friend and I barely managed to stay awake during the first of the three movies that were being shown. So I wasn't quite sure what to expect from tonight's excursion. Well, it turned out to be fantastic.
We only got a tiny bit lost on the way to the theater, but still managed to make it in time. It didn't take us long to decide on the movies to see: Iron Man 2 and Date Night. For seven dollars each, we made it into the "theater" (aka a special parking lot) and set up shop. Well, since Skyler had never been to a drive-in, and I hadn't been for years, we weren't quite prepared to spend four hours in the open air in the back of a pick-up truck. Luckily for us, we were with TJ and Amy, and Amy frequents the drive-in theater. She was prepared and then some, so they lent us a few blankets, and we made ourselves comfortable.
Well, it turned out to be the best seven dollars I've spent in a long time (or really that Skyler spent), even though I fell asleep during Iron Man 2 (I'd already seen it, so I think it's understandable). Date Night was hilarious; the truck bed was actually relatively comfortable, and the blue raspberry slushy Skyler got during intermission was very good. Night well spent in my book, even though Spanish class tomorrow will be killer. Oh well! Thank goodness for drive-in movies.
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Tans
Once again, I'm behind. Which means that once again, I will attempt to catch up on this one-a-day goal of mine. Wish me luck. Also, sorry about the background change. Something happened to my old background, and since I know less than nothing about computer programming, I wasn't able to fix it. Hence, the new background. I hope you like it.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
I am sunburned. Not badly, not the worst I've ever been, but I am. See, yesterday was a beautiful, cloudlessly sunny day. The first day of it's kind that we've seen in quite a long time here in Provo. Which makes absolutely no sense, since two days ago it was snowing, cementing my belief that I will never understand the weather. Oh well. Since it has been so abysmally overcast for the past, oh, month, I haven't had the opportunity to do away with my horribly pale complexion that only a Provo winter can cause. Until today.
From the moment I realized that the sun would likely be shining all day (you never know when the weather will change on you in this town), I made plans to spend at least part of it out-of-doors. I've always loved the feeling of sun on my skin, and I desperately needed some after a month stuck indoors. Well, Sam informed me that she had the same plans as I did, that she would be going to our favorite little park a little ways up Provo Canyon, and that I was invited to come. So of course I did. We were only out there for about an hour and a half, but I was sleeping for at least a good hour of that time, and for the other half hour I made no attempt to do anything but lay there. Well, as I'm sure you may know, sitting stationary in the blinding sunlight at around one in the afternoon is not the best course of action for your skin. But I did it anyways. And today I'm paying the consequences.
I love being tan; the white complexion I acquire during the winter bothers me to no end, mostly because it makes me feel like I sick ghost. I hate being sunburned; the heat that radiates off my skin when it's fried to a crisp makes me want to do nothing but sit in a tub full of ice cubes. Unfortunately for me, the two go hand-in-hand. In order for me to get tan, I have to get sunburned first, because then my sunburn turns into a tan. So today, while I sit here miserably, with burning skin that hurts to be touched, my only consolation is that, in a few days, it will turn from this fiery red into a wonderful brownish hue. And I'm grateful for that knowledge, because it's the only thing that makes this misery semi-worthwhile.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
I am sunburned. Not badly, not the worst I've ever been, but I am. See, yesterday was a beautiful, cloudlessly sunny day. The first day of it's kind that we've seen in quite a long time here in Provo. Which makes absolutely no sense, since two days ago it was snowing, cementing my belief that I will never understand the weather. Oh well. Since it has been so abysmally overcast for the past, oh, month, I haven't had the opportunity to do away with my horribly pale complexion that only a Provo winter can cause. Until today.
From the moment I realized that the sun would likely be shining all day (you never know when the weather will change on you in this town), I made plans to spend at least part of it out-of-doors. I've always loved the feeling of sun on my skin, and I desperately needed some after a month stuck indoors. Well, Sam informed me that she had the same plans as I did, that she would be going to our favorite little park a little ways up Provo Canyon, and that I was invited to come. So of course I did. We were only out there for about an hour and a half, but I was sleeping for at least a good hour of that time, and for the other half hour I made no attempt to do anything but lay there. Well, as I'm sure you may know, sitting stationary in the blinding sunlight at around one in the afternoon is not the best course of action for your skin. But I did it anyways. And today I'm paying the consequences.
I love being tan; the white complexion I acquire during the winter bothers me to no end, mostly because it makes me feel like I sick ghost. I hate being sunburned; the heat that radiates off my skin when it's fried to a crisp makes me want to do nothing but sit in a tub full of ice cubes. Unfortunately for me, the two go hand-in-hand. In order for me to get tan, I have to get sunburned first, because then my sunburn turns into a tan. So today, while I sit here miserably, with burning skin that hurts to be touched, my only consolation is that, in a few days, it will turn from this fiery red into a wonderful brownish hue. And I'm grateful for that knowledge, because it's the only thing that makes this misery semi-worthwhile.
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