Se7en Things to Do

They're lofty... but I've got SEVEN weeks, to accomplish SEVEN goals, and yeah... it's possible.  Thanks Clark!

1.  Re-create my own moon landing in the desert of Arizona... with Blake... because it was his idea.

2.  Become a conspiracy theorist and an idea stealer... simultaneously.

(Two birds.  One stone. Catch 22)

3.  Watch all 250 TED talks and then give a speech about it.

4.  Finally have an established relationship status on Facebook that shows up on mini-feed for all my friends to see and ask about with the aid of inquisitive (and ever-adorable) emoticons 

5.  Learn Fergies "My Humps" in American Sign Language and then teach it to all the deaf Young Women in my ward as a service project

6.  Drive around town asking as many joggers as I can find if they need a ride

7.  Memorize and entire episode of Friends and, changing only inflection of voice, communicate an entire day by only using the memorized dialogue start to finish... at work.

7b.  Get fired.

Wish me luck.

Linear Tension

It seems like in the last twenty years or so that lines of good and bad, clear and confusing, do's and don'ts have become so blurred that we don't know what is good for us anymore.

After the wall fell down and the cold war had finally come to a close, America had one, maybe two years of blissful peace.  The bad guys and the good guys became friends.  The fear of communism and nuclear holocausts had been squelched.  Why didn't it last though?  Why didn't my generation ever get to experience this?  Why didn't America--and the world--follow the universally heard sigh of relief with decades of happy peace?  Because the clear enemy had been blurred and people got scared. 

For almost fifty years, we--along with most everyone else--knew who the good guys were, and who the bad guys were.  They even had a name:  communists.  It was great.  "You stay over there under the banner of 'bad' and we'll stand over here under our banner of 'good,' we'll flex our nuclear arms at each other (that we both know we won't use) and at the end of the decade, we'll shake hands and call each other and talk about Berlin."  Those were the days.   

Now things aren't quite so easy.  With the consummation of the cold war came an identity crisis for America.  Because what is Batman without Joker?  Nothing.  He's just an overly manicured stud in a ridiculous costume rescuing attractive women from burning buildings.  Well we have firemen for that.  No one likes a good-looking hero unless he is saving the world.

Finding a Bad Guy

So we had to find a new arch nemesis and his name is terrorism, and he's about as abstract as Pollock. He doesn't have a country, or even a clear definition.  In fact, the definition of terrorism stands as "a person who terrorizes or frightens others."  So, by definition, my Professor when she told me the only way I was going to get a B in her class was to get a 100% on my final, was committing terrorism.  Well put campus on code red and invade the Ricks building.  

The point is, is that I miss the good ol' days of the cold war.  Worldwide tension that came served like a chilled drink with a side of better economics.  A world where batman is sexy and useful, but most of all, a world where the lines between good and bad are as clear as a curtain... maybe even one made out of iron or something.  

Blog Tog, Blag Tag

So... I've been "blog tagged" by my friend Jonathan. Here's the mission shall I choose to accept it: 3 joys, 3 fears, 3 goals, 3 random facts; 1 girl; 1 blog; no tomorrow.  

3 Joys:  

1. A well-placed f-word (not from me, but maybe in a movie or something)

2. Sweet, sweet revenge

3. Free laundry, otherwise known as the "on your honor" dryer in my house that runs without actually insterting quarters, but instead provides a bin where the "honesty" quarters are kept. I think I found some lint and a couple nickels in there once. (sounding pretty righteous so far. Thanks Jonathan.)

3 fears:  

1. Waking up with a dead centipede in between my fingers... again

2. That I might someday take my blog tag seriously, thus revealing my true, less-likable personality

3. That someone might make me choose between performing an interpretive dance to Vitamin C's graduation song in front of my peers or death and then that I'll choose death.

3 goals: 

1. To find a man who knows my mind as well as Google: no, that's not what I said but yes, that's what I meant.

2. To run again. At all.

3. To be the face that starts World War Three: eat your heart out Helen of Troy

3 random facts: 

1. I don't usually do the dishes unless someone is watching.  

2. When I was younger I went into business with myself selling grocery store candy bars for five dollars to my neighbors. My first client asked me what I was selling them for. I said church. He didn't buy any. I learned two lessons from this entrepreneurial experiment: a. Growing up middle-class with a thirst for tamagotchis turns children into liars and b. lying about church turns neighbors into Anti-Mormons.

aaaaaand...

3. I love Jonathan Griffith!

Free as a Caged Word

I understand the anxiety of trying to impress a person in conversation by means of an extensive vernacular. Oh how I understand. Sweaty palms, slacked jaw, numb mind. Saying a multi-syllable word with which you aren't familiar, then the gamble of questioning it out loud. Because of this stress in our lives, we have began (and by began I mean people have been doing this for centuries) to take the safe route to solve this problem by securing our words with the safety net of cliches.

Theory: If the word has been used before in a sentence, by a credible source, then at least I know that context is correct. Thus, a cliche is born.

Examples: "Sweating profusely*", "consummate a marriage", "defy gravity."

Sweating is not the only thing we do profusely. In fact, not even bleeding is enough of a breakaway. Profusely is something that is poured out, almost in excess. So, yes, I sweat profusely when I run more than half a mile, but I also apologize profusely to my roommate for running in her shirt.

Consummate: The poor word has been trapped by drunk twentysomethings in divorce court after a weekend in Vegas. "Have you consummated your marriage?" Such a beautiful word, pigeonholed by sex. I can't say I consummated my homework (meaning completed or made perfect) without some sort of unfortunate misunderstanding.

I defy anyone who may read this to find those words whose wings have been clipped by their own cliche, and imprisoned by their own idiom to free the words whose potential reaches far beyond divorce court and gym clothes.

*Thank you Blake Surratt

So Do You... Like Me?

The beautiful Summer semester of 2008 is unfortunately coming to a close. Final grades permeate our thoughts, work wants to know if we can stick out the seven week break and relationships need to be determined.

As a TA, all three of these points of stress are wrapped into one, but specifically, the latter. I love being a TA, and I'm really enjoying my "mentor teacher." He is flexible with the hours, appreciates my work, and doesn't just use me for my immaculate paragraph body either. He values my PowerPoint's. I think he really likes me.

The awkward question is inevitable, though. At some point, I am going to have to ask him if he wants me to be his TA next fall. How am I supposed to approach this? I'm an English major--my words don't work too good out loud--I thought an email would be better, but figured it would be kind of tacky. Do I lay it out there, tell him I think we are a great match, that I want this thing to last until Christmas? That's a very vulnerable position in which to put myself. What if he doesn't feel the same way? Should I move on to the more challenging, but mysterious Brother Allen, saving myself from humiliation and beating him to the punch?

I'm not the only TA suffering from this problem either. A few of the girls won't be here this fall, but are returning in the winter. How do they ask their mentor teacher to wait for them? "I understand that you need a TA while I'm gone, but will you be available for me when I get back from home?" All these questions, right at the time of finals. Of course.

If ever there were a time to have the ability to read the mind of a man.

Insert Dam(n) Joke Here, Marathon

Breakdown of the marathon:

Mile 1: Overly-joyed, overly-loud overly-white people celebrate the kick-off and first mile in one, large Mormon battalion.
Mile 2: Children lined the road and gave us high fives. For the first time in a while, I want kids. The crowd thins out
Mile 3: The twins set a pace that I follow... hard breathing gives way to chest pains, chest pains give way to side-stitches and side-stitches give way to me setting my own pace and making Jane Kristine and black and turquoise dots in the far distance.
Mile 4: Just got passed by sexy mom, not feeling too bad though.
Mile 5: It's getting pretty warm: I take off one of my shirts.
Mile 6: Sexy mom lifts up her shirt to wipe her face. I put my shirt back on.
Mile 7: Not able to have kids even if I want them anymore.
Mile 8: My arm is bleeding? How and when did that happen?
Mile 9: Just got passed by a grandma... still feeling alright. She's pretty fit.
Mile 10: There's human hope, there's eternal salvation, and then there are the mile 10 oranges I just ate.
Mile 11: Just got passed by woman twice my age and BMI.
Mile 12: For humility's sake I pick up my pace.
Mile 13: I've forgotten what walking is like.
Mile 13.2: FINISH at 2hr. 11 min. How am I ever going to accomplish anything without groups of people applauding me at every 10 minute interval?

Looks like I've peaked at 22!

Cruel Irony

Sometimes the hardest questions in life are answered by ourselves.  Sort of like when I asked, or rather, posed the theory that romance is difficult to harness, and then followed it with a public testimonial of my poor habits of hygiene... on the internet.