From the archives: January 28, 2004

Funny convo at lunch today...

So last night I had this dream that I met Ben Lewis' dad [note: Ben is my friend who is a math major], and that he gave me this math test that had all these complicated derivatives, and I couldn't do it. I told Ben about this dream today at lunch, and he commented that his dad was an artist and probably couldn't do much in the way of derivatives either.

Me: Man, what if my kids are smarter than I am? That would SUCK!
Danny: No, it would be great. In fact, I think I'll have kids right now, so they can be smart and support me in my old age.
Me: But wouldn't it suck to not be able to help your kids with school?
Chris: No, you'd just say "I can't help you with this, it wouldn't be right."
Me: That's true. That works both ways, I mean.
Danny: Well, I'll just say "Shut up! Who's your daddy?"
Chris: "Don't forget I MADE you!!!!"
Danny: "How much math do you think THAT took?"

In summary, I love my friends.

CHOOSE YOUR OWN ADVENTURE (In lieu of Christmas cards this year)

Not that I've ever done those, either.

Please download and listen to these songs while imagine one of the following scenarios:

1. We are driving together on a stretch of highway, singing these songs at the top of our lungs.
2. We are sitting by a fire, drinking chocolate soy milk and talking about politics.
3. We are knitting socks in a loft and eating fresh vegetables.

I think that covers everyone. Enjoy. xoxo

Click here to download 

My Grand Return, Dedicated to Vilja Johnson

Yesterday I was chatting with the abovementioned college friend about the fact that I have not blogged in a while. Yes, there has been the odd post, but I actually wrote those over six months ago and scheduled their release ahead of time. Haha tricked you. Anyway.

I was explaining to her that I feel it’s very important for me to keep blogging while I student teach (starting in a few short weeks WTF), because the memories and experiences of my first “real” year of teaching will be invaluable in the future. On the other hand, I articulated to Vilja, I do so much writing in grad school it’s the last thing I feel like doing for fun. I already express myself so thoroughly in my schoolwork that I don’t feel much of a need for self-expression outside of it.

Then Vilja said, quote, “Nooooo!!! Funny stories!!!!”

Dammit, she’s right. This blog is for the funny stories! So I dedicate any funny stories I write in the next few weeks to you, V. Luckily for her and maybe you as well, my recent "summer vacation" was excellent fodder for the same.

Funny Story Number 1: I am upstaged by a natural disaster

Some/a few of you may know that over the weekend, I went to New York City for a friend’s wedding. It was a beautiful weekend filled with friends, puppets (I saw Avenue Q AND the Jim Henson exhibit at the MOTMI … amazing) and visiting the ancestral island of the Wu Tang Clan. Overall, a wonderful five-day break from school. However, if I could do it all again, I probably would come home two days early instead of midnight the night before. I’m boarding the plane on the plane to Seattle right now, and something tells me that I am going to be very, very tired at my 9AM class tomorrow.

The only two things that you need to know for this story, however, is that I was staying with my cousin in Brooklyn and that the Brooklyn Bridge is currently undergoing some maintenance construction.

Oh! One other thing that is important to know for this story is that I have a thing for being hydrated, and love my water bottle as if it were my own dear child. I left it at a friend’s house last weekend and it was like a part of me was gone.

Okay, exposition over. Here we go.

Scene: Sunday. My cousin and I were walking across the Brooklyn Bridge (which is gorgeous, by the way). The construction obstructed certain parts of the view, but it was a lovely walk nonetheless.

While we were walking, I asked my cousin, “So, why are they doing construction on the bridge? Are they earthquake proofing it or something?”

“Oh no,” she said, with ironic foreshadowing. “New York doesn’t have earthquakes.”

Scene: Monday night. Said cousin and I walk to a tortilla factory/restaurant in Brooklyn and get tacos. It is a super authentic, hole-in-the-wall, INCREDIBLY delicious, cash-only taco extravaganza. Every taco I eat in the future will be compared to those. Then we went home, ate ice cream and watched The Daily Show. Crazy New York party time.

Scene: Tuesday afternoon. I am packing and realize with a minor amount of panic that my water bottle is missing. I look in all the usual places, to no avail. Then I remember I had it at the table with me at the taco place the previous evening, and concluded I must have left it there.

Walking around Brooklyn is awesome, by the way. Reminds me of Sesame Street (or maybe Sesame Street reminds me of Brooklyn?). I get to the taco place, stand in line for a minute and ask if anyone found a pink water bottle on the tables last night. Then I remember that one of the charming, authentic aspects of this taco place is: nobody speaks English. We even wrote our orders in Spanish the previous evening.

I really, REALLY need to learn Spanish, you guys.

Anyway, using hand gestures and repeating the word “water” a lot, I ask if anybody turned in a water bottle the previous night. The woman there said something about a little boy, pointed at her eye a couple of times, and we both looked at each other totally confused.

Just then, the East Coast Earthquake hit.

I grew up in the Pacific Northwest, so earthquakes don’t particularly faze me. But for all the proprietors and patrons of this establishment, who had presumably never been in an earthquake before, a 5.8 was legitimate cause for FREAKING THE HELL OUT. Everybody there started yelling, calling friends and relatives on their cell phones, asking if everybody else had felt it, etc. It was then that I realized I had lost the room. I was probably not getting my water bottle back, even if they did have it.

In a very George Costanza-like moment, while all this was going down, I asked if the woman wouldn’t mind, pretty pretty please, checking to see if they had my water bottle. She walked next door and came back a few minutes later, empty-handed, but I am positive it was to talk with the neighbors about the earthquake, and not for any other reason.

So this week I am going to buy a new water bottle. The end.

There Ain't No Room in My Cell Phone Plan for You.

My friend Aaron is pretty much a pop star. He made this video.

Aaron's been in a band for a pretty long time (Eyes Lips Eyes, nee Elizabethan Report) but he has an album coming out soon that's all his solo stuff. It's all this danceable. And I wrote the liner notes.

Also, he's one of the nicest fellas you could ever ask for. Five stars.

P.S. I don't know if this is intentional, but this video was directed by a Matt Heder, and Fresh Big Mouf's persona in this vid is very Napoleon Dynamite-esque. Coincidence?

EDIT: Speaking of coincidences, TODAY is Aaron's birthday! HAPPY BIRTHDAY BABE!

PERKS

My awesome friend Brian designs promotional posters for his and other blogs. He emailed me this the other day, saying that I didn't have to use it, but was welcome to.

Duh. I totally love it. Thanks Brian!

OMG FAMOUS!!!!!!!!

My dear friend from college has a right successful fashion blog that I recently guest-posted on. Click and enjoy, and then subscribe to her blog because she is funny and her blog is about things you probably want to know.

Freckles in April: a Modest Fashion Blog

From the archives: Jan 26, 2004

Presented without comment, with names changed to protect some of them from seeing this when they Google themselves.

(Hi Lori! Remember this paper? Miss you.)

NOTE: In case you are bad at math, I wrote this when I was 19.

"On the morning of August 14th, 2003, I logged onto my parents’ computer with a mix of excitement and trepidation. Being the unbelievably patient person I am, I had to restrain myself from grabbing the ancient purple iMac by the neck (if it had a neck, try to picture it) as it sloooooowwwwlllly chugged its way to the BYU homepage, then to the on-campus housing, than to my name, which provided a link to the name of my future roommate and her address.

My first reaction was to laugh out loud. My next was a timorous moan, followed by a surge of fear so powerful I can still recall the way my fists clenched, digging my fingernails into my palms.

“Loralee Barratt. Allen, Texas.”

Loralee. Texas. I don’t cuss, but the closest phrase that I can think to describe my feelings right at that moment is “Oh, s***.”

The next morning I went out for drinks with my best friend, her boyfriend and our World Literature teacher, mentor and former Texan Rich Sandford. He asked about my imminent departure for Utah, and I told him my roommate’s name and origin.

“Allen, eh?” Rich commented. “That’s a small town near Dallas. Near the University of Texas.”

“The University of what now?”

Rich chuckled. “Also known as the home of the George W. Bush Memorial Library. Allen’s a small town, too. She’ll probably be really conservative. Have fun.” Burt, Cori and Rich all laughed and again, a stream of panicked expletives ran through my head.

Coming to BYU was hands-down one of the scariest experiences of my life, and I have been in three car wrecks and woken up in the middle of a generally anesthetized surgery. My fears about BYU can be summed up as follows: I am politically liberal, and thus, Utah scares me. I came to BYU sight unseen, without so much as a campus visit under my belt. The stories my ward members told me did nothing to abate my fear that Utah would be isolated and narrow-minded, that my professors would be misogynistic Reaganites, and most of all, that everyone would hate me. Still, I could not deny that somebody upstairs wanted me at BYU. My other college prospects had refused to pan out for myriad financial and logistical reasons. Despite my love for all things Seattle, I had to leave the state. So Utah it was, to live with a Texan whose name sounded to me like a bastardization of an archaic Greek siren. And a Texan, no less. What would become of my political cartoon collection? My constant barrage of snide remarks about the Bush administration? For the next three weeks I bit my proverbial nails and pondered what sort of ordeal Heavenly Father had in store for me.

Loralee Barratt. Loralee Barratt. It sounded so high-maintenance. I knew that we would not get along. Well, I knew in the sense that I know that a food is disgusting before I try it. I figured our relationship would work in one of two ways: either we would completely despise each other and never speak, or we would tolerate each other’s presence and … never speak. Never did it occur to me that we might actually get along.

I took to, whenever referring to my elusive roommate, saying her name in my worst Southern drawl, My friends picked it up too, and until I left for Utah, our source of entertainment when we ran out of other material was my BYU Texan Republican roommate.

One day I checked my email and noticed a new message from a lonishia@hotmail.com. It was my roommate. Her email, which was short and completely devoid of capitalization, asked, among other things, if I was aware that we were on the Honors Floor in Deseret Towers.

“i just signed up for the honors floor as a joke. im so worried that were gonna be with a bunch of nerds.” She wrote. I am a nerd. My panic, which before had seemed slightly judgmental and unfounded, took full and horrid effect.

The car trip to Provo and long and uneventful, and when we finally arrived at the dorms, I went in unto the elevator, rode up to the seventh floor and located my new residence, 704. The room was empty, no sign of the roommate or any of her stuff. Since New Student Orientation didn’t start for two more days, I wasn’t that concerned. I took over the west side of the room, since it had a slightly bigger desk, unpacked, and slept that night at my friend’s house in American Fork. The next few days were filled with the mundane and middle school-esque goings-on of New Student Orientation, and still no roommate. I talked about her with the members of my Y Group, and we wondered if Loralee Barratt would ever show up at all.

That evening, three green Tupperware cartons, a giant black suitcase, a sewing machine and a gigantic stereo arrived at our abode, accompanied by my tall, blond, and extremely cute roommate. This was a problem heretofore unperceived: that my roommate would be much more attractive than I, that I would feel repulsive in comparison and that boys would be nice to me only in an effort to get an “in” with my hot roommate. Again with the internal monologue of expletives, although since I was now in Utah, these words were more along the lines of “Oh my hecking freak of a shoot gosh darn hot roommate.” Still, I thought a civilized greeting would be the wisest course of action.

“Hello. You must be Loralee,” I smiled my most sincere fake smile, the one I usually reserve for applying for loans or asking favors at the Washington Department of Transportation.

“Oh.” Was her response. “I go by Lori.”

The wave of relief was decidedly physical. At least she had a nickname that wasn’t Loralee. There was still the matter of her hotness, but the fact of the matter was, all my perceptions of her had been based on her name, and now I had learned that it wasn’t even her name. Lori, I figured, would be much easier to deal with than Loralee.

I didn’t see my roommate much for the next few days, since she had friends from back home that took up most of her time, and also went out on dates that lasted until five o’clock in the morning. We proved to have multiple things in common, such as a preference for loud music (although she preferred hers much later than I) and a mutual affection for my belongings. The girl borrowed EVERYTHING, and it would have bothered me except that she was equally generous with her shoes, of which she had many. She even gave me a pair of sandals she didn’t want anymore. I never wear them, but that was nice.

Lori likes to say that our roommate relationship is based on lies and deceit. That is absolutely not true, which is in itself a huge lie, because for the first month or so of our living arrangement, I was scared of Lori. She seemed so cool, and I was intimidated by her, since I am decidedly not cool. Fortunately, I had some things that she didn’t, such a computer, and Dining Plus, and the ability to use the word “good” in proper context, so I was able to be of some use to her. Thus I was able to lull myself into believing that we were on somewhat even grounds, with her social know-how and my inherent knack for owning things.

To make a long story short, Lori and I have reached a Zen-like understanding. She confides in me about boys, and life, and I correct her grammar as she does so. Lori has improved my coolness quotient significantly by helping me in my effort to wear clothes that improve my “game,” as it were. She also plucks my eyebrows and teaches me how to break-dance. It’s strange how our relationship was blossomed into the beautiful entity that it is. We laugh with and at each other, and politics rarely surfaces in our conversations, not that Lori would get upset if it did. In short, my roommate is cool, and I like her, and I’m possibly living with her next year. Who woulda thunk that a Seattle Liberal and a Smokin’ hot Texan would end up getting along so well."

Brought to you by the letter B.

I have some of the coolest friends the world has ever known. But first, inside jokes!

Those of you who have been perusing my Facebook profile of late may have noticed the scads of boob jokes that have been taking over my page in the past few days. I mean, more than usual. Here is why. The letter B is heavily, inextricably involved.

It all started with blackberries. Not the cellular device, but these:

Attractive photo of my hand brought to you by Greg.

Over the summer, Greg and Wills drove up from the Utah to visit. While they were in town, we spent an afternoon picking blackberries and making jars and jars of delicious jam that I am still working my way through.

While we picked berries and got attacked by stinging nettles, we talked about everything. This was not long after I had discovered that I had been wearing the wrong bra size my entire life. Greg and Wills are those rare, awesome kind of guys that they don't get weirded out by anything I say, so I told them the story and how much better my back felt/hotter I looked when I wore a bra that fit me properly. I even showed them the photographic evidence (clothed). I also complained about how expensive odd-sized bras are, and how I probably won't be able to afford to re-stock my lingerie drawer for a while.

Fast forward to last Saturday. My birthday. I received a package from Provo, and what do you think was inside??

TWO gorgeous, perfectly-fitting bras!! My Provo family (Wills, Greg, Justin, Chandler, Colin, Lance, Austin, Sarah, Colleen, Vilja, Ashley, and Brooke) all chipped in and sent me not only two amazingly comfortable undergarments but also cards chock full of dirty jokes! Clearly, these people know what I like. It made me a little sad to think of them getting together and telling dirty jokes without me, but at the same time, it's definitely the best way to celebrate my life. I hope they tell lots of dirty jokes at my funeral.

The cards, plus the one I got from Judith.

Here is my favorite one reproduced for your pleasure:

Dear Elisa,

Words cannot express the tender feelings in my breast. You've been such a supportive friend for so many years that this is hardly tit-for-tat. Still, these large tokens of my esteem take a load of debt off my chest. I mean it's not like I've been racked with guilt about it, but you've poured out jugs of friendly service, and this is really the best I can do, my bosom friend. I miss you loads. I thought of you while eating melons from our garden. Hope Seattle is treating you well. Hang in there.

Chandler

In fact, all the people I like are way better than the people you like. This is proof.

Also fact: my shirts are fitting better than ever. I like to think they are being held up by love.

"As strong as our faith is, with all the mixed messages attacking it, it can also become very fragile."

--Bishop Richard C. Edgely.

On Saturday, I road-tripped down to Portland with the lovely Erin. We were there for less than a day but were able to squeeze in eating Lebanese food, buying terrible movies at Deseret Book and being with the equally lovely Cassie as she went through the Temple for the first time.* It was, of course, unspeakably lovely, albeit a trifle whirlwind. But that's how I like to roll.

Erin and I were discussing some of the frustrations of life in a singles ward during the loooooong drive back, seeing as it was so rainy one could not drive at an acceptable speed. Whilst we were talking, ELC said something that stuck with me.

She said, "Some people come to church for external reasons."

The conversation went on from there, but I kept thinking about that sentence the next day during Sacrament Meeting.

I am not sure if everyone goes through this process like I do, but I have to talk myself out of leaving the Church on a fairly regular basis. It almost became a joke between me and some of my friends at BYU. "Hey, Wills, what are you doing later? Well, after you have dinner at your grandma's, would you mind talking me out of leaving the Church? Thanks, I appreciate it. Bye."

I have written before about my many intellectual struggles with the Church, which have only been made worse by my serving a mission (hilarious). Conversely, the more I struggle, the more I realize that if I leave the Church, it would all be for nothing. Well, not for nothing, but if I really wanted to leave, I would have done it already, right?

The fact is, I don't want to. And hopefully, because I don't want to, I never will.

Here's where the external vs. internal binary helped me out so much.

So, lots of people my age go to church for social reasons, to make their family happy, to find people to date, to have local support system, to have someone to go to for help when you move, etc. I don't think that's necessarily a bad thing, but it does kind of miss the point of worshipping Jesus Christ and serving others and all that idealistic Bible business. Those would be external motivators to be involved with the Church. They aren't bad, just motivated by things other than your own thoughts and feelings.

Internal motivators, on the other hand, would be introspective things like a love of God, a desire to improve, etc. Obviously, hypocrisy plays a role here as well, because some people go to Church with the goal of seeming pious when in fact they do whatever they want when no one's watching. That's more obnoxious than the kids who come to Church looking for friendly times. Thus, it is possible to have a seemingly internal motivator actually be an external one. But generally, I hope you get what I'm saying.

Here's the thing. I have NO external motivation to go to Church. I'm not crazy about most of the people there, bless their hearts. I would have a perfectly viable (and less arbitrary) social circle if I hung out with people I actually had things in common with besides belonging to the same church. My family doesn't care one bit whether or not I'm Mormon, in fact many of them would probably be delighted if I cut loose with them once in a while instead of being a Mormon stick-in-the-mud.**

In fact, most of the reasons I have for wanting to leave the Church are external ones. Get it? It's not like I don't believe in God or struggle with the possibility that the Church isn't true. When I want to leave the Church, it's because I feel so fed-up with some embarrassing policy or some obnoxious people that I feel like saying I GIVE UP. Jesus shouldn't have to put up with this crap and neither should I.

But the trouble is, He does. The trouble is, it's still true.

My reasons for leaving are external, but the things that keep me from doing so are all internal. I believe in God. I love the Book of Mormon. I love the Temple. These people are crazy, but most of them mean well. Abandoning my internal motivations for external reasons is just as immoral as doing things for external reasons when no internal motivation exists.***

Additionally, the things that I love the most about the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints are some of the most internally focused. Take family history work. If the doctrine about eternal families isn't true, do I gain anything from doing it? Nope. Don't make any friends or meet any hotties at the Fam. Hist. Library, I can promise you that.

Ditto with the temple. If this is all a gigantic hoax, no one has been hurt by the things we've done in the Temple. But no one has really been helped, either. Either these things mean nothing, or they mean EVERYTHING. Those are the things that I feel the strongest attraction to.

Here's to doing things because they're right, and not because anybody cares except God, assuming He exists.

I feel that He does.

I'm not giving up yet.

*Erin was actually going through the temple with a separate friend at a different time. But saying it up there would have messed up the narrative.

**Except then who would be the Designated Driver?

***Which isn't ALWAYS immoral. But that's a post for another day.

Truly Outrageous

Raise your hand if you remember this show:

I don't remember it super well either, frankly. But I do remember that I had a Jem Girls lunch box. I wish I still had it ... it's probably worth money.

As it true with lots of pop music, all of Jem's songs pretty much sound the same.

The other night, my pals and I were hanging out in our pajamas, eating sugary cereal and watching 80s cartoons (you wish you were this cool). While we were watching the first few episodes of this fabulous show, we started discussing the incredible music videos that punctuate each episode. Sometimes two or three per half hour!

Bob: You realize that someone actually sat down and WROTE these songs?

Me: I can do that.

Bob: Could you?

Me: Give me a topic and I will write a pop song right now.

Bob: Before the end of this episode? [note: the episode was nearly over]

Me: Sure.

Bob: OK ... um ... the Burmese conflict!

I finished it while the credits were rolling. Thelma, I dedicate this pop song to you.

The Burmese Conflict

Once we lived in peace and harmony

in our homes and with our families

But then it became hard to be Burmese

Chorus:

Yeah, it's hard to be Burmese

out in the cold, we sob and sneeze.

Western world, we're on our knees

please bring justice to the Burmese

Once the Karens and Buddhists sat down to tea

united in our love of democracy

But then the violence of the BSPP

led to political hostility

Help our people to be free!

Chorus:

Yeah, it's hard to be Burmese

out in the cold, we sob and sneeze.

Western world, we're on our knees

please bring justice to the Burmese

I think I will drop out of school and become independently wealthy as a writer of pop songs. Don't worry, I will use my wealth to take down oppressive political regimes.

Merry Mattmas.

An old friend from BYU is crashing on my floor futon this evening. He missed the first ferry from Port Orchard so he won't be arriving until after midnight. We are going to rise uncomfortably early and take the light rail to the airport/work together.

Carlos is so excited he is sleeping on the floor in front of the front porch, like he's waiting for Santa Claus.

This is why I like my friends.

Take note. In this short exchange, we have:

1. 2 bad movie references.

2. 2 mock hip hop references.

3. 1 miscellaneous pop culture reference.

4. 1 comic book reference.

5. 1 penis joke.

6. 1 rhetorical analysis of said penis joke.

7. 2 vocabulary words.

The people I like are cooler than all the people you like.

My Favorite People, Day 5: Vilja

Sorry for the blogging hiatus, once again. I have learned that trying to blog every day for a month makes me extremely grumpy. Lesson learned: Never again! Don't worry, I will finish the next two promised series for my adoring fans (?), just not in the timely manner I promised.

Ahem. Let me just start out by saying that true friends dress up like X-Men for Halloween.

Me, Jordan, Vilja. Please ignore that this is an unattractive photo

of me and focus on V's "Rogue Face."

Also, true friends let you post pictures like these on the internet:

Vilja, age toddler.

Vilja, age adult.

Vilja and I were floormates in the dorms freshman year, and by the hand of God (no, seriously) were in the MTC together for 11 weeks in the summer of 2006. This girl pretty much saved my life with her humor, cool head, listening skills, soccer playing, and Jordan's care packages. Vilja shares my love of comic books and the English language and even let me be a "special guest" in her freshman English class. Hanging with her is always a good time.

Also, she has a face anybody could love.

My Favorite People, Day 4: Ashley

Once upon a time I was a Mormon missionary in a country called Hungary.

(This is for all you nay-sayers who accuse me of making up all those mission stories

in order to sound like a more credible Sunday School teacher.)

Being a Mormon missionary is difficult for lots of reasons, but one of the really lame, migraine-inducing, massive-weight-gain-causing (Oh yeah, THAT caused it) nightmares about being a Mormon missionary is that:

1. You do not get to choose you live with and yet

2. You have to stay with that person ALL THE TIME.

Imagine how terrifying and frustrating that could be. Double the terror and frustration you just envisioned. There you have it.

Anyway, I remember taking my first companion (AKA my "trainer") to the train station on the day she was scheduled to return to the U.S. She loved being a missionary and was NOT excited about going home, so it kind of felt like taking a dog to the pound to be euthanized. I was very curious and also excited about what kind of companion was going to replace my trainer with me in Pécs. I knew her name--Sister Pollock--but that was it.

We served together for three glorious months and did not get sick of each other one bit.

I think it was because we were both converts? And because we were both silly. And because we both liked people more than meeting goals set by someone who didn't know anything about our city. We worked out butts off and had tons of fun. That's a magical combination when one is a Mormon missionary.

We visited lots of inactives, made a lot of chocolate rum balls (calm down, they were liquor-free), and listened to lots and lots of Disney music on P-day. It was with Sister Pollock that I learned that missions can be fun! Sometimes.

When I got home, Ashley had been home for a while, and helped me re-adjust to civilian life and such via constant texting. A mutual friend still refers to us as "siamese twins joined at the cell phone."

I like her because she is well-travelled.

Now she has a daughter who "accidentally" calls me all the time. But we all know it's no accident.

This child was thisclose to being named after me, if only my name were easier to pronounce.

My Favorite People, Day 3: Cori Anne

We took this photo in honor of Martin Luther King Day.

Today's subject is Cori Anne Marie Devard. She has lots of names.

She likes typography. And water.

Whenever you hear me start a story with "My best friend ..." this is who I am talking about. She and I have been friends so long it is totally pointless to explain how we met. That would be like explaining to a grain of sand the geological history of the Planet Earth.

Things Cori and I have done together:

1. Travelled to Japan.

2. Transported a goat in the back of a van.

3. Written and starred in an award-winning skit.

4. Studied belly-dance.

5. Driven my car backwards in a parking lot for over a mile to see if my odometer would reverse one mile (it did not).

6. Tied for second in a sushi-eating contest.

7. Stolen an entire pizza from the teachers' lounge.

8. Attended a VIP party at Nintendo headquarters.

9. Dug a huge 2003 into the hill next to our high school (before someone called the cops).

10. Seen Bob Dylan live.

11. Gone to Disneyland.

12. Gone to Tokyo Disneyland.

13. Skipped school to see the first three Harry Potter movies on their opening day.

14. Taken black-and-white photos of each other on the beach.

15. Snuck into a hotel to use the pool and eat the waffle breakfast.

16. Gotten locked inside the Husky Stadium after hours and escaped by climbing a fence (thus ripping holes in the crotches of our respective jeans).

17. Organized and starred in an award-winning dance performance.

18. Gone to a midnight showing of Lord of the Rings.

19. Bought baby clothes when neither of us were pregnant or even close to becoming pregnant.

20. Held spontaneous dance parties in our condo parking lot.

21. Invented a game called "green ball."

22. Attended a rained-out production of the Manti Temple Pageant (Neither of us knows how it ends, to this very day).

23. Nair-ed our legs, to less than spectacular results.

24. Walked like one million miles (literally) on the Burke-Gilman trail.

25. Always had fun no matter what we did.

Awwwwwwwwwww.

Dear Donovan and Dallin,

I know you probably can't picture your sweet-eyed Mormon mama doing some of the things I just listed above, but rest assured that she really is that cool. How lucky are you?

xoxoxoxoxo

Auntie Elisa

Guess how old we are in this picture? 17. Wait. I was 17, Cori was 16.

CAN YOU BELIEVE WE WERE EVER THAT YOUNG WHAT THE HECK

My Favorite People, Day 2: Bob Glass

To answer the question that no one has asked, I have been busy/sick the past few days, and writing anything longer than a few sentences was too hard. I am sick today, as well, but slightly more lucid, so I will venture a continuation of this quote unquote "week."

Yeah, I know I don't need quotation marks if I already SAID "quote unquote." Shut up, dude. It's my blog. I do what I want.

Ahem. Anyway.

Look! It's Bob Glass!

Bob Glass is a good friend to have, especially because he has no clue what a good friend he is. You know how people who think they are humble can't possibly be humble, but people who think they are not humble actually are? Bob Glass is like that.

Bob Glass and I met because we ran in the same circles as Pamela, David, Olivia, and other such members of the Provo Badassery. However, we were then but acquaintances. I recall him coming over a few times, and we spent a fine afternoon discussing music and listening to the crazy math-based jams of Dave Soldier, but when I left Provo I thought I would never see him again.

Then I moved to Seattle. Pow! My first day of church, who did I see? It took me a minute to figure out who he was, and another second to get over the fact that he was 1. at church and 2. in Seattle, but then all that gave way to happiness at seeing a familiar face.

I don't remember a lot about what happened after that. We went to Karaoke, and talked a lot. Somewhere along the line we started texting like crazy folks, and that is how he became one of my favorite people. He is a good person to talk to about awkward topics (code name = "Science") because he never gets shocked or embarrassed. Trust me, I have tried. He also keeps secrets. He is now my go-to guy for soul-baring, and he bears it well.

I think Bob Glass is neat. He takes good care of me and the food he makes for me when I am depressed (or just hungry) is quite delicious. Also, with him I can be myself, even if the version of myself at the time is whiny or dumb or crying over something really stupid.

It's like this, only less Southern and more Rock and Roll.

He is also man enough to apologize when he does something really bone-headed. I won't mention specific instances.

Thanks for being cool always, Mr. G.

My Favorite People, Day 1: Brooke Parker

This week's theme is pretty self-explanatory. I am going to write about some of the people I love most in the world. Obviously, since the theme lasts only a week, I will be leaving some people out. The fact is, I love a lot of people, much more than seven (-ish). I hope those who don't get featured won't take this as an opportunity to be offended. I still love you a lot. Or maybe you need to up your efforts to get on my good side, hmmmmmmm?

Anyway, let's dive into our first subject, shall we?

This is Brooke Marie Parker.

She is beautiful, but that is not why I love her.

Brooke was in my ward, the one I really really liked, when I lived in the yellow house in South Provo. Although she lived across the street from me, we didn't know each other very well into she and I ended up in the same screenwriting class Winter semester. The class was small (only fifteen people), and went fairly late into the evening, so since we were neighbors and didn't want to walk hom in the snow alone, we started walking home together. I remember feeling nervous that Brooke, who was 19 at the time, was going to think I was too old and too square to be cool. Luckily, we eventually overcame that seemingly insurmountable barrier of five years.

Isn't it silly the kind of things that seem to matter much more in Provo than anywhere else, like age? Provo is so weird.

Anyway, Brooke is basically me at whatever age she happens to be (currently 20) only cuter, smarter, more confident, less self-destructive and much more level-headed. She is the me I wish I had been, and she will most certainly grow into someone I will wish I could be. She is incredibly talented, perceptive, and fun. She is a wonderful listener and one of the least judgmental people I know. Most importantly, she allows me to (s)mother her even though she doesn't need it, and even though I usually learn more from our conversations than I am able to teach.

Brooke helped me look for Sego when he was lost for an entire evening last summer. She accompanied me on stargazing trips when I took that astronomy class that I hated. We rode bikes to our community garden, went for long walks, ate delicious food, and watched movies together even after the homework for our screenwriting class was over.

Someday, I hope to produce a child as amazing as this girl.

She is seriously the coolest.

My beautiful friend Thelma sent me this quote from Vaclav Havel and it's too beautiful not to share with the world.

"Hope is definitely not the same thing as optimism. It is not the conviction that something will turn out well, but the certainty that something makes sense, regardless of how it turns out. "

I have a lucky number.

I keep waking up at eight in the morning even if I slept very little the previous night.

Last night I was so out of it I asked my friend Bob the same question eight times. We were preparing to watch the Tick and for some reason I was really confused about whether it was a movie or a TV show.

Me: Wait. Is this a movie?

Bob: No. It's a TV show.

Me: Right. OK.

Repeat five (eight?) minutes later. He only got a little impatient, bless him.

Also, in the past two days I have lost eight pounds.

Do you love that I am such a PUPPET NERD that I recognize all the voices in this video?

Also, this has nothing to do with the number 8, but today is STAR WARS DAY and thus everyone should definitely watch The Empire Strikes Back at least once. Quick! You only have eight minutes left!!

Five Times of Many

When I Miss Pamela Yukish

1. Whenever I drive past a Village Inn.

2. Whenever I listen to Jay-Z's Black Album or anything by Tilly and the Wall. Especially this song:

It's a cool video, but maybe don't watch it at work?

3. Whenever I see a hardwood floor, especially one of darker wood.

4. Whenever I watch a movie on a Sunday afternoon on the couch in my pajamas. And that. Is. Often.

5. But when I get wax stuck in my eyelashes, that's when I long for her most of all.

I cut it out with scissors. It looks ridiculous.

Still, it's not as bad as this incident, which happened long before I met Pamela.