Thursday, February 19, 2009

Exposing My Soft and Squishy Underbelly... and Other Tales

I know that I may appear to be a coarse and unfeeling little blogger, but the true is... I'm a sucker for a nice story. Like this one that I found during my daily perusal of sport headlines. I mean it didn't make me cry or anything (lie), but I thought it would be a nice one to share.


Last summer, the Utah Supreme Court made a ruling that is now under attack. I just spent about ten minutes trying to explain the situation here, but I just can't do it justice. Basically, the ruling opened up rivers to the public for legal activities, live fishing, even if the river runs through private property. As long as you enter the river at a public access point, you're golden. Anyway, now a bunch of old rich dudes are trying to get the ruling overturned, and we just can't let that happen! My brother-in-law, Dallas, explained the whole thing a lot better through a Facebook group. Join in and support the cause, especially if you're from Utah!

Really. Join the cause.


Will someone please explain to me how it is that Chris Buttars was re-elected as a state senator? I mean, yes, he does support raising minimum wage and that's just great, I appreciate that, but come on! A year ago, he said the following about a bill he didn't like, "This baby is black, I'll tell ya. This is a dark, ugly, thing." Nine months later he's got the votes for another four years. Whiskey tango hotel?

And then yesterday, he said, with regards to a gay rights bill, "I believe the whole thing is immoral. What is the morals of a gay person? You can't answer that, because anything goes. So now your moving towards a society that has no morals." I know, right? It doesn't matter what your beliefs are about homosexuality, or the family, or morals, or whatever this particular bill was about, what he said was just plain wrong. Not okay at all. I don't even know what to say about it, it just gets me so steamed. You don't judge an entire group of people based on a tiny sliver of knowledge you have about them, no matter how strongly your beliefs are about that sliver.

Honestly, I do not understand how the people of West Jordan can put up with him! He must have some dang good bits of legislation up his sleeve for them to want to keep him around. I'm talking no taxes for everyone and Christmas once a week good. There's gotta be something like that keeping him around. Although maybe it's just because the alternative is (gasp) a democrat! (Dun, dun, dun!). Oh, the horror!


A word of advice: if you are in the Business Management program at BYU-Idaho, on the summer-fall track, and you come to Provo for winter semester to find a job, the best place to look is not the School of Family Life Internship Fair. I'm just saying.


There really needs to be a candy niche for St. Patrick's Day. Without one, the next candy after Valentine's Day candy is Easter candy. And this is bad because Easter candy is my favorite candy in the world. We're talking Cadbury Creme Eggs, Cadbury Mini Eggs, Reese's Eggs, and more. And Easter this year isn't until April 12th! That's almost two months of me passing Easter candy galore on my way to work every stinkin' day! Not to mention the fact that last year we discovered the pure and unadulterated goodness of deep-fried Cadbury Creme Eggs. This is not good. Oh no, this is not good at all.

Good thing Wii Fit is on it's way to my house.

Tuesday, February 17, 2009

A Lifetime of Fatigue

It was hard to get up this morning. I (sort of) woke up at 4 AM, checked my alarm, and decided in my half-awakened state that 6:30 was a completely irrational time for me to get up. This sort of thing has happened in the past - usually resulting in me setting my alarm for 9ish AM, or possibly later. Most fortunately, this did not occur this morning (especially since Lewis didn't set his alarm at all), and the more reasonable time I settled upon was just 1/2 hour earlier - 6.

I use the term "fortunately" very lightly here. Truth be told, when my alarm went off a full forty-five minutes before I was ready to even consider getting up (6:30 with a 15 minute snooze) I was mad as all get out. Sure, it meant that I was able to get up in time to be where I needed to be when I needed to be there. But, shoot. It sucked.

It was mostly so miserable because of the realization I came to this morning, after this horror of the alarm occurred: this is never going to end! I get up and go to school every morning with graduation at the back of my mind - after which I can sleep in again, right? Wrong!

This pattern of waking up super early is never going to end.

You see, I am going to be a teacher. As you may know, I am currently doing an internship at an Elementary school (unrelated to the teaching thing). I arrive at the school sometime between 7:30 and 8 every morning. By the time I get there, most of the teachers have already been there for at least a half an hour. Which means that when I'm (finally) done with college, I will start a job which requires me to be out and about even earlier than now!

Well, what if I decide to spend a few years at home to raise my kids? Will I get to sleep in then? Not if my kids take after me, I won't. I remember getting up as a wee one and participating in my mother's early morning seminary class. What the heck was wrong with me? I mean, really! I had the chance - for just the short period of time that was my childhood - to sleep in. To enjoy my bed and the comfort found there. And I miffed it. Odds are good that my children will miff it too. Dummies.

Now I understand why my parents tried to get us to go to bed at 9 every night.

I thrive on weekends. Weekends are when we can sleep in and relax in bed and get up at our leisure. Nothing is dictated by a blaring alarm. Even after we wake up, we can just chill underneath the covers and maybe surf the introwebs, all from the comfort of our own bed (thank goodness for laptops!) I love it. It's the best thing in the world. Until Lewis decides it's time to get up and takes all the covers with him. Jerk.

Thursday, February 12, 2009

Facts of Life

I saw a sign today advertising a "Poetry Jam" on campus. At first I thought it was really stupid. How does one jam to poetry? It just didn't make sense.

Then I saw that the event was part of Black History Month. And that made think it was okay for it to be a Jam.

Does that make me a racist?

Tuesday, February 10, 2009

I Rebut That, Good Sir!

Dear Lewis,

I admire your willingness to stick to your guns. However, my dear husband, you have proven nothing.

You based your argument on the felicity conditions of a date. The problem with this is that felicity conditions are entirely subjective. True, according to your personal felicity conditions, what we did together at the TCU game could be considered a date. However, such conditions were decided upon just this evening as you wrote your response. You picked the conditions that fit your argument right then and there - how are we to trust that as reliable?

Your evidence - not proof - is circumstantial at best. According to Wikipedia, circumstantial evidence is "a collection of facts that, when considered together, can be used to infer a conclusion about something unknown." In a court of law, circumstantial evidence is usually corroborated by a witness' testimony. You will find that the witnesses are on my side. Mary understood that you hoped this would be a date, but that it was not. Aaron - that guy I gave my number to, my old home teacher and a very good friend who was also not interested in me - didn't see it as a date. Kelson obviously didn't see it as a date either! I'm sure you hoped it could have been a date, even planned for it to be a date. But the execution was just a shade too sloppy, and we were left with a nice hang-out with a group of friends. I guess I just don't understand how someone can be on a date and not know it.

But it's okay, babe. You can hang on to your subjective opinion and I'll hang on to mine. It keeps things interesting. Or spicy, as Phyllis Lapin-Vance might say. in any case, I appreciate you giving me a second chance, since in your mind I was such a horrible date. I do hope you find my actions justified in my continued understanding that I was not on a date.

Your loving wife,


My Next Next Vacation

For our next big vacation, Lewis and I are going to Disneyland! Wooooo!!!! I'm really excited!!!!! Yay! Okay.

During my surfage of the introwebs, I came across this:

Yeah, that's a freaking hotel room! And it's camouflaged! The concept is simple, one that's been used for years. The unit is covered in reflective material, so it looks like it's a part of nature, cause it reflects the trees around them. Many high-rise skyscrapers in big cities employ the same trick, so they wouldn't look like such eyesores. Except for the fact that all they reflect is other skyscrapers, so the part about reflecting nature is kinda moot, but you get the idea.

But this one is actually in nature! Not only that, but it's in Swedish nature! (I think. It was designed by Swedish architects anyway, but the article didn't say where the hotel is actually located.

Yes, there are a few problems. But look at it! Worth it? I think so!

So, if Disneyland is our next vacation, I vote that this should be our next next vacation. Okay, maybe next next next next, after Thailand and Kenya.

And if not that one, any of these will do. Especially numbers 2 or 6. Technically none of those are hotels, but I'm sure we could charm the owners into making an inexpensive exception.

Sunday, February 8, 2009

Our First Date

For my first date with my husband, we doubled with some friends (the same friends that introduced us, no less) to see a movie. The movie we saw was Beowulf in IMAX 3-D. I remember what I wore, what we talked about in the car, even where we sat in the movie theater. I even held onto the ticket stub! After the date was over, Lewis kissed me for the very first time.

My memory of our first date was lovely and unspoiled until a few months after the fact when it was tainted by Lewis' unfortunate misconception.

You see, for some inconceivable reason, Lewis got the impression that our first date was one week and one day before we saw Beowulf. Let me make something perfectly clear: Lewis is wrong. He believes that for our first date we went to the BYU-TCU football game (hereafter: the TCU game). This was not a date. Again, Lewis is wrong.

The facts are these:

* Lewis asked me to go out on a date with him for the night we saw Beowulf.

* Lewis offered to let me and my roommate sit with him at the TCU game, because he had better seats than we did.

* Lewis picked me up and drove just the two of us to and from Beowulf.

* Lewis drove both my roommate and me to the TCU game, and drove us plus my brother home. I sat in the back.

* Lewis paid for my ticket to Beowulf.

* I paid for my own ticket to the TCU game.

* Beowulf involved two couples, clearly paired off.

* Our group at the TCU game involved a variety of individuals.

Now, I will admit that Lewis does have a compelling argument as to why the TCU game was our first date. He says that he put my keys in his pocket (I don't remember this, but I believe him when he says this occurred). He also says that he bought me hot chocolate (this I do remember). Both of these things were very thoughtful. I probably didn't bring a purse in which to put my keys, and I was undoubtedly cold, so hot chocolate would have warmed me right up. But these thoughtful actions do not a date make.

Also, we saw Beowulf on November 16th, 2007 - exactly nine months before our wedding day. Why would anyone want to take that lovely connection away?

The TCU game: not our first date.

Thursday, February 5, 2009

Organ Donation

I saw a guy on campus carrying one of these:

And I immediately thought about those coolers to carry recently harvested organs in. But then I thought, oh wait, the cooler probably just has his lunch in it. However, as I continued along my way, I noticed the guy start heading towards the MARB... the basement of which is used to dissect cadavers.

It is possible that my, um, theory was helped along by this past week's CSI: Miami.

Monday, February 2, 2009

What a Load of Crack

Here I am, minding my own business as I head down to grab a snack from the vending machine. I turn the corner and - Wham! - I get a face-full of butt crack.

I have seen waaaay too many butt cracks in my day. It all started when I was a park attendant at WaterWorks WaterPark at the ripe old age of 14. It was my job to man the slides. Basically, I would tell people when they could go down the slide, make sure they didn't go down headfirst (I had a few bribery offers), and measure small children to make sure they were tall enough. Hard work, I know. Well, this may come as something of a shock, but a lot of people don't wear swimming suits that fit them well enough. And the crack will make an appearance whether your swimming suit is too big or too small - all you have to do is sit down on the top of the slide, right in front of me.

Once the summer ended and the pool closed, I got no respite from butt cracks. Low-rise jeans were the new thing - none of this high-waisted junk. I admit it. I prefer low-rise myself. Not only do I find them more comfortable (I don't like the feeling of a waistband around my bellybutton), but I think I look better in them. Unfortunately, some people took low-rise to the extreme. There's a healthy balance when it comes to low-rise: they can be low enough to be considered low-rise, but high enough to both hold in any fat you may have riding on your hips, and completely cover your stinking butt crack!

If I had to choose, I would pick a swimming suit butt crack over a low-rise jeans butt crack. A little bit because swimming suit crack seems slightly more understandable than low-rise jeans crack, but mostly because I still can't get that image out of my mind from 11th grade English class. Whenever the girl in front of me sat down I'd get not only an eyeful of her crack, but of whatever sparkly g-string she elected to wear that day. And she had a nasty habit of leaning forward a lot in her desk, causing even more of her cheek separation to appear.

Can't these people tell that they're flashing their glory to all the world? I mean, come on, you can tell when your crack is on the air. It's a different feeling than just when just your back or midriff is showing. It's...draftier, somehow.

Before I get back to the crack I had the privilege of viewing today, a little side note: haven't butt cracks gone out of style? I mean, there was a day when no man, woman, or child could keep their eyes virgin, but haven't jeans regained a little bit of waistband? Or am I just writing from the sheltered bubble that is BYU, where long shirts and tank tops are the ish?

So today's hot plate of crack: this girl was sitting on the floor (maybe that's why most of the desks here have full backs - nary a chance of glimpsing a sliver when you're covered by hard plastic from neck to knee), schmoozing with a young fellow I can only assume was her boyfriend (she kept rubbing his leg) with her crackity-crack on display for the whole Student Center. Directly to her left was a whole slew of wall, with the dual feature of fixing her modesty and providing an undoubtedly more comfortable seat. She was all slouched forward-like.

Other recent crack attacks:

-Walking home from work last summer, a guy cut me off on a bike. Bent over the handlebars, it was unfortunate to see that both his too-big jeans and and undies were slowly slipping down his derrière.

-With the new all-sport pass system, our football tickets were in the same spot every game, rather than rotating like in years past. Our seats weren't bad. I wouldn't have minded moving up a few rows down and a few seats over, but not bad. However, what was bad was the fact that we were surrounded by the same people every game including, but not limited to: the guy who complained about every play and every call and usually got them wrong; the guy who said how many yards the ball was moved and always got it wrong; the girl who talked to her friend the whole time, didn't look at the field once, and made her boyfriend leave at halftime (or was it the other way around); and the guy who needs to buy longer shirts and higher jeans. Six games, six crack sightings.

-While we chilled on the beach at Cabo, a drinking game was going on which included running out into the ocean, switching swimming suit bottoms with your significant other, and racing back. One of the contestants (who happened to sit at our dinner table every night [this was on our honeymoon cruise]) not only broke his girlfriend's bikini bottom, but did not hold it on very well. In this case, swimming suit crack was not better than low-rise jeans crack. Thank goodness his back was to us the whole time.
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