If I Hadn't Been...

The coolest thing happened to me on Friday.

Astronomy ended and I started walking to the Wilk for soup.

…because who doesn't need soup, silly.

As I was moseying through the Bookstore trying my hardest not to run into people, I made eye-contact with a gentleman coming the other direction.  I thought I recognized him, and there was a hint of recognition on his face too.  We passed each other, and three steps later, I had an epiphany.

I whirled around to see him stopped and looking at me.

"Are you… Uncle Sid?" I asked.

"I am," he replied.

"Well Hi!  I'm Kim's daughter!" I said as I walked over to shake his hand.

We visited for a while and had a jolly good time.  Now.  Let me tell you why this was so cool.

Sidney is my great uncle—my mother's uncle.  There have only been two times in my life that I know I could have met him.  One was at a family reunion in 1998 and the other was 10 years ago when my grandpa (and his brother) passed away.  I was 7 and 12 at those respective family events—so I don't remember really meeting him or visiting with him or seeing him in real life.

How did I know who he was?  I'm just naturally awesome.  That's how.

…Not really.  I've just been working on a little family history project.  I've been scanning the autobiographies of my Great Grandma Lela and Great Grandpa Harry (Uncle Sid's parents).  As I was scanning, I was studying the pictures:

This one a little bit…

But mostly this one:

 I was studying the faces of my relatives, trying to pick out resemblances.  And if I hadn't been in the middle of this project, I could not have recognized Uncle Sid when I saw him.

It was the coolest thing.

You know you've been in college too long when...

Last weekend, I went home to visit my family.  It was a very good and much-needed visit, and I love them very much.

On Sunday, we went to my family ward, and I sat on the pew with my parents listening to the announcements in Sacrament Meeting.  A banquet for the scouts was announced for Tuesday night, and I looked at my parents who had a conversation that went something like this:

D:  Oh yeah.  I need to go to that.
M:  When is it?  Tuesday?
D:  Yeah.  Tuesday evening.
M:  Oh.  I can't go.  I have (insert whatever it was she had to do here).
D:  Oh.  Okay,  I can go by myself.
M:  >cuddles in< Sorry I can't go with you.  Bring some food home for me.

Except she didn't say "bring some food home for me."  She said "have fun" or something like that.  And I looked at her incredulously wondering why she hadn't asked Dad to bring her some food.

And then I remembered that while it is expected—and sometimes encouraged—to take food home for your roommates in college, that kind of behavior is not normal in the rest of the world.  My parents pay for their own dang food.

And it took me by surprise.

Because I'm poor, and I live in a world where free food is an incentive to do almost anything.

And it works pretty dang well.


Someday I'll grow up and not be bribed with sustenance to do things.

Oh Self Analysis...

Every once in a while, my apartment becomes a big therapy circle...

You thought I was kidding didn't you.  I wasn't.  We've been here for a good couple of hours.

We sit and chat about how we feel we are perceived, how we perceive ourselves, what things we can improve on, the works.  It's a very interesting conversation—always different, and always eye-opening.

Tonight we've all been taking surveys—most specifically the VIA Character Strengths Survey, and the 5 love languages survey.  They're great and give a lot of insight into who someone is.

My love languages survey goes like this:

Quality Time = 11 points
Physical Touch = 9 points
Acts of service = 6 points
Receiving Gifts = 2 points
Words of Affirmation = 2 points

And it's interesting.  First of all because college life is soooooo conducive to self-centeredness (for me as well), and I can never find people who want to spend quality time; and second because I feel that Words of Affirmation is the most commonly used and pointless language of love.

(That's just for me, though.  If they help you, kudos.)

I feel that Words of Affirmation is the "Sweet Hour of Prayer*" (pardon the metaphor) of the love languages.  It's the default.  It's used too much, and it's usually superficial.  ...to the point where it gets annoying.

For me specifically, the flaw with Words of Affirmation is that I believe I have a very accurate idea of who I am and nothing anyone says is going to change that.  It's nice to get compliments, but I know exactly how I look/act/am, and I already love myself.  I don't need you to tell me in order for me to appreciate who I am.

(Note: Compliments are still welcome.  Especially if it's a super-specific something because that tells me you spent some quality time (see section below) thinking about it.  A "Hey! Good job." does pretty much nothing.)

I feel much more loved when people show me they love me.  When they take the time to sit down and talk—to show me that I matter and that my ideas matter—that's what gets me.  When they want to build a relationship like I do. One that finally gets past the small talk and the superficiality, that's when I truly get to know and appreciate who they are.  I finally get to know them, and they finally distinguish themselves from the masses of seemingly similar people surrounding them.

That's when they become important to me and when I become important to them.

Okay, self-analysis done.
______________________________________________________
*For those who don't know, "Sweet Hour of Prayer" is the easiest hymn to play in the LDS hymnbook.  Because of this, it is over-sung.

Speaking of Dreams II: The Concert I Screwed Up

Last week I sang in BYU's Homecoming Spectacular with the rest of Women's Chorus.  This dream visited me the Saturday night afterward.

Now to preface this, I want you all to know that Sister Applonie is a wonderful, talented, merciful, and understanding woman, and this dream version of her is nothing (and I mean nothing) like to the real woman.

Here we go.

. . .

I'm singing in the Homecoming Spectacular with the rest of Women's Chorus.  The decorations are exactly the same, and everything is splendid.  ...Except for the fact that we seem to be singing to a poster board audience.  Seriously, I can't tell if they're alive.  They're giving us no reaction.  It's the middle of Ain't No Grave, and I'm getting super bored.  Like reeeaaaaally bored.  And hungry.  I'm pretty sure I haven't eaten anything all day.  So...

Naturally, I pull a burrito out of nowhere and start eating it in the middle of the song.

...and mid-moutful I see it.

Sister Applonie's face.

She's giving me the you're-dead-to-me look from How I Met Your Mother.

And I suddenly realize that I'm in the middle of a freakin' concert!  Why am I eating?!  And where the crap did that burrito come from?!?

I stash it quickly hoping the damage wasn't too bad, we finish the song, and we exit the stage.

But this isn't the end.  For some reason, all night I kept getting thrown together with a really-angry-at-you-because-you-ate-a-burrito-in-the-middle-of-a-concert-what-were-you-even-thinking version of Sister Applonie.  Every time she saw me, she'd give me that same look and she'd interrupt conversations with super sarcastic comment's like, "Well why don't you just go eat a burrito?"

I spend the rest of the night pleading forgiveness and trying to convince her that I had no idea why it even happened (or what I was thinking, for that matter), but it wasn't until the limo ride home (for some reason dream Abi wants to ride in a limo) that she frankly forgave me for eating a burrito in the middle of the concert.

. . .

Dang burrito!

Apparently, I've got some not-so-latent guilt about something to do with Women's Chorus...  Or maybe I just really wanted a burrito.  My mom has told me a few times about some of her dreams where she wakes up super mad at someone for something they did within the dream.  I've never had that experience (yet), but ever since this dream I have been a little wary of Sister A.  Every time she looks at me during rehearsal, I'm intimidated.  I get a little scared that I'm gonna see the you're-dead-to-me face--a face that I've never seen in real life.  I don't even think she has one!

My brain's really good at making these things up.

And it scares the livin' daylights out of me.

Speaking of Dreams I: The New Dresscode

I've decided I'm going to write about my most interesting dreams from time to time.

Buckle up.

While I was home this summer the bishopric and the boundaries of my ward changed.  I came back to an entirely different system from the one I had left, and apparently I was a little anxious about it because I had the following dream:

I am at church my first Sunday back.  I am dressed very nicely and pretty conservative.  I'm wearing a white skirt, a lovely light, pink blouse, my hair is long and curly, and I'm not wearing high heels.  Instead of walking right into the chapel, I go to the Relief Society room to check on something.  On my way back, the second councilor in the bishopric stops me to visit:

"Hello, you're new, aren't you?"

"Well, not new necessarily, but to you I am," I reply.

"It's nice to meet you.  I'm just going to warn you really quick that we have a new dress code in this ward.  You're not in compliance, but it's alright.  You didn't know.  Just for future reference, you'll have to abide by it in the future.  I'll see you later!" And he leaves me to find my seat.

Confused, I walk into the chapel for Sacrament Meeting.  As I sit, I keep hearing whispers from people, and they all seem directed toward me.  Even more confused, I try to direct my attention to the speakers.

When Sacrament Meeting finishes the bishop's wife grabs a folding chair, sets it up in front of the first pew, climbs up on it, and proclaims in a loud, nasally voice for all to hear, "Ladies!  (gesturing toward me) Once again, there is a new dress code in this ward.  It's not church-wide, but it is still very important that you abide by it when you come to church.  You all should know by now that the rule is this: your skirts must be six inches longer than your legs."

I look around me to see all the women of the ward tripping over their ridiculously long skirts, and I think heck no!  That's the stupidest rule I've ever heard!  They don't make skirts long enough to cover my knees!  Where would I find a skirt that long!  And I am not making them.  I don't have the time, the fabric, or the money.  They can shove it!  I'm wearing pencil skirts for the rest of the year!

And It Was {Spectacular}

Soooo... this weekend Women's Chorus had the opportunity to participate in the Brigham Young University Homecoming Spectacular.

And it was spectacular.  Let me break it down for you.

Nathan Pacheco.  He's fantastic.  He has a fabulous voice.  He was very, very kind to everyone.  He's handsome to boot, and just about every girl in Women's Chorus had a completely unrealistic crush on him.  You know the kind—the "he's super fantastic, famous, and on a pedestal--the movie star-style" crush. True story.  If you don't believe me, just watch this.  You'll see why.

Yeah.  He sang that song.  And I was in the back-up choir for it.  Woo!

The Cougarettes.  Seriously, if I hadn't already thought they were amazing (which I did), I do now.  They are super sweet.  They're amazingly talented.  Their dances were so fabulous.  Women's Chorus has never had so many compliments, and as if that weren't enough, they brought all 150-ish Women's Chorus members cookies before tonight's performance.  Yeah.  They're amazing.

We also got to perform with the Young Ambassadors, the BYU Philharmonic, Rebecca Pedersen, Living Legends, and a tap group.  It was just suuuuper fantastic, and inspirational.  I loved it!

The best part of the story is this.  Before the concert Sister A. told us to think of someone who brought the sun into our day today as we sang "Here Comes the Sun."

This is the story of the person who brought that sunshine.

We were backstage waiting to go on the first time.  Young Ambassadors was jamming it up on stage, and I was dancing like a hooligan backstage.  I just really like to make the lovely ladies next to me crack up.  After I'd been dancing goofily for a good while, I broke down into some serious Michael Jackson moves.  I danced the signature move for "Smooth Criminal" and the chorus segment for "Beat It."  My fellow Alto II's were cracking up, and I took a little time to break down for them just exactly how the body roll in "Beat It" is done.

I was dancing all out.  No holding back.  No toning it down.  Flailing my arms, doing body rolls and spins--for the people who don't know this already, I prolly looked like a hooliganism.  What can I say?  I am one.

About two seconds after I stopped dancing, Nathan Pacheco walks straight up to me and says, "Keep it up! You look great!" as he made his way toward the stage.

Now, I usually try to play it cool when people compliment me.  I try to pretend they didn't seriously just make my day... at least until they're out of earshot.

This was not the case tonight.

. . .

Before he was out of earshot—heck!—before he'd even completely walked past me, I wheeled around to my fellow Alto II's--my jaw on the floor, my face bright red in total stunned disbelief, while gesturing toward his back and saying in utter shock and awe, "DID you just HEAR that?!?"

How long had he been watching me dance like a hooligan?  I don't know.  All I know is I don't think I've ever smiled so much in a performance ever.  And I'm pretty sure I have talked about it most of the evening.

And that, my dear reader, was the source of my sunshine today.  Holey cheese, it was fantastic!

And I loved it.

The Flaw of Comaprison

I was going to apologize for posting so many serious posts recently, but then I looked over them and decided there is a good mix, so... no apology for you!

Here I would like to address comparison.

In the words of Elder Uchtdorf, "Stop it."

I hate the constant urge in the world to lift oneself up by shoving other people down.  I'm aware that in order to be a well-informed voter, I should have watched the presidential debates.  I couldn't stand them.  So little time was spent showing how qualified each candidate was, and far too much time was spent throwing dirt at the other person.  By the time it was over, I really didn't like anyone at all.

The thing is this: it is possible to lift yourself up while lifting others too, and if we could all learn to do that we'd probably be able to climb higher together and be happier too.

I have three examples of these comparison annoyances from college life.

Exhibit A:  I've heard a lot of people recently who have to remind themselves frequently that "everyone poops."  And they didn't tell me this in jest.  First of all, what kind of crazy weird pep talk is that?  Second, do you really feel that threatened by the people walking by you?  Third, why?  You don't even know them.  They didn't do anything to you.  Leave them alone.

Exhibit B:  "Jealous." I'm not kidding, if someone wants to instantly make me the most annoyed person in the world, I triple dog dare you to use that word.  I've heard so many girls say, "I'm so jealous of her."  "I bet she's jealous of me." "People are probably jealous of my hair." etc...  Really? Really??  Who the flip even cares?!  Why do you try to fabricate what other people are feeling?  Why does that even matter in your head?  Stop it.  Just... stop.

Exhibit C:  I was in Women's Chorus one day two years ago.  As we were waiting for class to start, one of the first sopranos walked into class wearing the sauciest bright pink top I have ever seen.  It was very, very flattering, and she was rocking it.  I go shopping in Women's Chorus.  I look around and think, I love her shoes. Oh! and her necklace.  Wow! Those earrings are awesome!  So, when she walked into the room, I leaned over to my folder partner and said, "Wow!  Do you see her shirt? She looks super cute."  My folder partner replied with a grimace, "Yeah. I hate her for looking that cute."

I kid you not.  That happened.

Do any of these situations and examples make the world a better, brighter, happier place?  No.  No they do not.  Why do they even happen?  And why do people say things like that around me?  It's not like I'm gonna look at them and say, "Wow.  Congratulations for saying the snootiest thing I've heard today! I just loved that!"

I was recently chatting about this with one of my Women's Chorus friends, and she brought up the following scripture:

Matthew 22

36. Master, which is the great commandment in the law?

 37. Jesus said unto him, Thou shalt love the Lord thy 

God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind.

 38. This is the first and great commandment.

 39. And the second is like unto it, Thou shalt love thy neighbour as thyself.

 40. On these two commandments hang all the law and the prophets.
(emphasis added)

Does anyone think God has any room in his life for A, B, or C listed above?  I can assure you, he does not, and I'm sure he doesn't want you to waste your life, feelings, and words like that.  That's not following his plan at all.

Also, the scripture says "Love thy neighbor as thyself."  Not more than thyself, not less than thyself, but as thyself.  We shouldn't have to put everyone on a relative level above or below us.  We should be able to see their value, their talents, and their good attributes while still being able to see our own.  Someone else being amazing at something does not lessen our value in any way.  We are all blessed with different gifts.  Love and appreciate others for what they are blessed to bring to the table.

How boring and awful would the world be if we were all equally and ridiculously fantastic (or horrible) at everything?  What makes us amazing is that each of us is a child of God, and He blesses everyone with gifts and abilities.  Please, don't wish others were uglier, or less talented, or anything less than they are.  Let them grow and be all that they can be.

And as you do that, commit to grow and develop alongside them.

Tall Tales VIII: In Women's Chorus

Today while I was walking out of Women's Chorus, I had the funniest experience.  The conversation went like this:

Folder Partner:  (animatedly) Did you know BYU has a tall club?

Me: Yes!

Folder Partner:  We should totally join!

Me: Yeah we should!

Girl walking in front of us turning around to tell us we wouldn't be tall enough to qualify:  You have to beee . . . (her eyes fall upon me and almost pop out of her head) . . . yooouuuu. . .

She looked super bashful, and hurried away.

I cracked up.

Yes, I'm taller than 5'10"

Yes, I qualify to be in the tall club.

. . .

I was later talking to my little brother who said, "You know.  I think someday the short people will retaliate and form a club."

I replied, "They already did.  It's called the whole university."

Ha!

An Offering of Reason

Once I was walking home from institute with a friend and a boy from her ward.  As we walked, I started discussing some car problems I'd been having.  This conversation ensued:


Her:  Well, I hope you get that figured out.  I don't know anything about cars.

Me:  Really?  Nothing?

Her:  Nope.

Me: You don't know how to jump a car?

Her:  Nope.  I don't even know how to change a tire.

Me:  Well shoot, girl!  I'll give you lessons!  You should know that kind of stuff!

The Boy:  ...and thus the need for men grows less and less.


He said that.  And I wanted to punch him in the face.

That last statement really burned my biscuits, cooked my grits, singed my whiskers,--okay, you get the idea...  . . . and I don't have whiskers. . .

I didn't say anything about it then, but I really wish I had.  Could someone please explain to me exactly how a girl knowing how to change a tire or jump a car makes anyone less of a man?  Or her less of a lady for that matter?

I personally believe--and my male family members agree with me--that it is very wise for a woman to know how a car works and have a general understanding of what to do about any problems she might encounter.  I believe it's wise for her to know which tools are which and how to use them.  Women should be capable.

Why would it ever be a good idea for a woman to be stuck in the dark on the side of the road with a broken-down car?  The last thing I'd want is to have some creepy guy stop along to "help" me with my car and have random strangers find me murdered in the barrow pit the next morning.

Okay, okay… I realize that's a pretty extreme example, but helplessness is not desirable in any circumstance and should not be encouraged.  I am not saying women should go out and seek to be exactly like men—we all have our gifts, talents and purposes—, but we need to know how to do things.

There are women who never have the opportunity to get married in this life.  Others who do lose their husbands for a variety of reasons.  Even those women who have spouses aren't constantly within their presence and can't always call upon them at a moment's notice.  And even when boys have been around to help me, I've had to teach some of them how to use their own jumper cables.

(Heck. I once met a guy who didn't know how to use an allen wrench.  Seriously?!?  It's a hexagon.  You put it in the hexagon hole, righty-tighty, lefty-loosey.  And he had a super fishy handshake.  Seriously.  ...but I digress.)

What I'm getting at is this: help when you need it is never guaranteed.  Problems with pretty much everything (including cars) are inevitable.  While it would be nice to have someone to help, no one can depend on that.  It would be far wiser to be able to figure it out by oneself.

You know.

Just in case you need to.

Tall Tales VII: Just College Stuff

Okay, so there will be two things I'll talk about in this post, and the reason being because I've dealt with them every day of my college career.

Okay, so this one is actually kind of funny.  Luckily, I sleep like the dead, but sometimes—when I'm just drifting off—Alissa-Fred will walk around my bed to get to hers and trip over my feet.  She always feels so bad, but I honestly don't mind it so much.  I'm used to having the bed drop off mid-calf.  This one's really only a hassle when I go home because this girl does not fit between a headboard and a footboard.  No sir-ee, Bob.

Even at home it's alright, though.  I just move the mattress to the floor where all the snakes and spiders can get me.  No worries.  Next problem:

I love going home because this is a non-issue there.  The shower head is adjustable so Lizer-Lou (at a giant 5'4") can make it fit, and so can I! Woo!

This is however a big problem at school.  I've never had a shower head taller than me in an apartment.  Or at a friends house.  Or at a hotel.  They really just don't exist.  And to top it all off, I also have some preexisting conditions that make this even worse.

I have a bad lower back, and I get disoriented really easily sometimes.  So!  I can't just slouch and lean to the side.  It hurts, and I get dangerously close to falling over.  (And how embarrassing would it be to be the only 22 year old I know with a hip replacement?! I mean really!)  

I literally have to bend over backwards to wash my hair.  And because I'm not just tall--I'm pretty dang tall for a girl--I have to bend over pretty dang far.

It makes hair washing a huge hassle.  And sometimes, I just don't want to do it.

Thank heaven for dry shampoo and baseball caps.

The {Actual} Demise of My Phone

Sooo a while back I posted about how I thought my phone would die.

This is the true story of what actually happened.

. . .

It fell in the sink.  That's all.  I went to check my lipstick, the automatic sink was running, and when I grabbed my jacket, the phone that was on it fell into the running sink.  The end.

Well, not the end.  It lived just long enough for me to go through and type up all the notes I've written on it.  It happened to be a very large number of notes which included:

• Random questions like why people hiccup and whether or not people with acromegaly have red or yellow bone marrow
• Note: I already know hiccups are caused by an irritated phrenic nerve that causes the diaphragm to spasm.  What I'm wondering is why it happens?  What is the function?
• This quote: "Dare to be a Mormon; dare to stand alone.  Dare to have a purpose firm; dare to make it known."
• The memory of going on a super long, shoeless walk with Hannah one Sunday.  We passed a man who told his granddaughter, "We should have a telethon so we can get these girls some shoes!"
• Lists of songs I love and movies I should buy

But my favorite part was a list of "simple things in life that make me happy." It read as follows:

watching yeast act in warm water

muddy fields - everything about them

the feeling of a clean bathroom

a full fridge

the sound of tennis shoes on concrete

rainy sidewalks

dirt and sugar beets (or any crop for that matter)

tractor grease

a good rapid

driving through nowhere at night

driving a stick-shift

old books

photographs

journals

making a stranger laugh

glow-sticks

good high-fives and handshakes

mountain bike battle wounds

fiddling with the folds in fabric

changing a lightbulb

The Post in which I Complain About Being Sick

I have a cold.

Not just any cold.  This cold has pretty much left me incapacitated for the week.  I think I’ve been to… one class.  All week.  And I fell asleep in it.  I’ve worked a grand total of five hours.  I’ve been drinking orange juice, slurping soup, popping pills, and I still feel disgusting.  Just in case you still don’t have an idea, let me describe it to you:

I’m pretty sure Satan with all his hellfire and brimstone is in my sinuses,

My face feels like its covered in the thickest, itchiest wool ever made,

And if the whole of the Black Death plague could be confined to one area of the body, I’m pretty sure that’s an accurate description of how my stomach feels.

And I’m soooo tired.

Too tired to watch a movie, but in too much pain to fall asleep.  I thought I might write in my journal, but then I realized any memory I could possibly try to pen right now would end up jaded by my current circumstances.

So I thought I’d write this little story about my sickness—a story in which I am entitled to sound a little pessimistic, and I’m succeeding at it, by the way.

I’m so sick and so tired.  And I’m so sick and tired of being sick and tired.  I’m bored stiff, and I don’t ever get bored!  I’m so bored, in fact, that I texted random people in my phone asking them to send an assassin to my apartment to put me out of my misery.

I thought it would brighten my day.  Until I realized that all the people I texted are out living lives, enjoying the cloudy, Fall day, and actually accomplishing things.

I hope that assassin comes...

I Know That Was You

Once upon a time, I was driving down a backroad on my way home from the store.

I was in mozie-mode.  Chill.  Slow.  No rush.

And it's a good thing, too.  Or else I wouldn't have been prepared for what happened next.


A chicken crossed the road.


True story.  This happens.

I stopped, and the car in the other lane stopped as we watched the chicken sprint from one side to the other in front of us.

In that moment, I was hit by the hilarious irony of it all.  I looked at the other driver who had not missed the irony of the moment, and we shared a driver-to-driver moment of cracking up together.

And then we both continued on our merry way.

And I realize it's kinda goofy, but I remember thinking, "Wow.  Heavenly Father knew that would make my day."

And He did.  Because He's hilarious.  And He cracks me up all the time.

And that when this happens:

Tall Tales VI: A Funny {Desperate} Story

For those of you who can't read that one, it says:

"All the shoes in the size 12+ section look like they've been 

taken from the lost and found at the senior's home."

True story.

There are a few things wrong with this saying and its applicability to me:

• I do not, nor have I ever needed to wear 12+
• I wear a women's 10-11
• This problem is not anywhere near as bad as it used to be

I remember going shoe shopping between the ages of 9 and 13.  My expectations were like this:

Ooo! Fun! Pretty! Happy shoes that I would love to wear!  How exciting!

After all, that's how the sections where my mom and sisters shopped looked.  Surely I would be able to find some of the same, cute shoes, right?!  We were in the same store!

When I would go to my section of the store, however, the sad reality was much more like this:

Hmmm... my only options are ages 50+.  Yay.

I mean, what the heck?!  Are the only people needing those sizes ninety-four with osteoporosis and rheumatoid arthritis??  And even if they were, what makes you think they want to wear shoes that look like that??? Comfy and cute, people.  It's possible, I promise.  But I digress...

As I've grown older, shoes my size have—happily—become more stylish.  Now my section at the shoe store looks more like the first picture.  (It is a little disappointing that most cute shoes are still discontinued at size 10, though.  I, personally, think a size larger wouldn't make them any less adorable.  Just sayin'.)

Okay, one more tale of shoe-related woes, and then I'm finished.  I promise.

Back when I was 17, I competed in the regional Jr. Miss competition.  At this point in time, cute shoes DID exist in my size.  I didn't have too much to complain about in that area.  However, that competition uncovered the shoe market's weak link, and it almost turned out to be disastrous.

Jr. Miss required all the contestants to participate in a Self Expression/Poise segment of the competition.  For this, we had to wear a pretty, formal dress, walk around the stage, and answer an on-stage question. This all had to be done in formal shoes.  You know the type.  Heeled, strappy, usually sparkly and silver, the works.

At that point in time, and I think even now, the shoe market discouraged women of my stature to dress formally.  No one sold any formal shoes in those sizes.  Apparently, none of us were ever asked to prom.  Or got married.  I guess our feet were just not allowed to be as beautifully shod as our diminutively footed peers.  Or maybe we all just liked to do everything barefoot.  It happens.

Mom and I could not find formal shoes anywhere.  We got so desperate, Mom shopped online cross-dresser stores while I was at school. YIKES!  (Please remember to clear to cookie cache!)  Needless to say, we didn't find what we were looking for there...

It wasn't until Mom discovered this part of Zappos.com that we could finally breathe freely.

That was close.  And traumatic.  And so happily resolved.

Granted, you can't see my shoes, but this was at Jr. Miss.  Which means I didn't get kicked out for lack of stated footwear. :)

This. ...happens.

Ahhh, yes.

That moment when a former beau asks you why in the world you're not married yet.

...because no unmarried woman at BYU has ever heard that one before.

Thanks, dear.

You're a sweetheart to remind me.

Haha :)  Sometimes, I crack myself up.

Tall Tales V: Tall Like a Tree :)

Case in point: My high school soccer team

Early in the season, the summer sun is so hot.

No trees + not being allowed to jump in the canal + running for two hours = a team of very, very, very warm girls.

I figured there would be no place to hide from the relentless sun when we were called over to our coaches, but my girls weren't as quick to surrender.  As we all stood listening, I could see out of the corner of my eye that every time I shifted my weight, so did the line of girls next to me.  They were using me to hide from the sun.  I had no shade, but they found some---it was created by me!  This was also the case whenever it was extraordinarily windy.

The best example, however, took place during morning practices.  Early in the morning, our practice fields were still dewy wet.  Whenever we stopped running, we all became very aware of the hoard of gnats that would hover around us.  They were itchy and annoying, and we quickly figured out that they swarmed around the highest available appendage.  In the beginning, we would all sit on the field to talk with our hands raised above our heads.  By the end of the season, everyone just stood as close around me as possible so they no longer had to raise their hands at all.  All the gnats just swarmed around mine.

It kinda made me the unofficial team mother.  Anytime anyone was uncomfortable, the girls would come flock around me.  'Twas rather nice.  For all of us.

If ever I could...

I'm on a Disney kick, and today at work I was listening to this song...

And I thought about some of the things I want to do and see in this world.

And I realized that some of them are a little ridiculous and will probably never happen.

Still...

I want to ride and elephant and a camel.

I want to stand in the middle of the Sahara where there is only sand as far as I can see.  I want to make a sand-angel and find an oasis.

I want to hike in a rainforest and stand on the edge of a (somewhat active) volcano.

I want to hike and raft through fjords and canyons.

I want to longboard on the Great Wall of China and be pulled on a sled in Antarctica.

I want to learn how to cook in a pit and make delicacies from many different countries.

I want to climb a mango tree and learn to throw a boomerang.

I want to go to an Olympic beach volleyball game or any part of the Olympics or Paralympics for that matter.

I want to pet a whale and feed a giraffe.

I want to ride a yak in the Himalayas.

I want to be scuba certified and go cave diving.

I want to kiss the Blarney Stone.

I want to learn to sing with tribes in Africa.

I want to learn languages and have friends in many countries.

And if I never have the chance to do any of those things, I'll be just fine.

But if I do have the chance, you know I'll be all over that.

This day :)

So I really like this thing called "today."
It's pretty much the best thing that ever happened to me.

Aaaand I am SO grateful for:

9 hours of sleep - yes!

rain - so lovely!

naturally curly hair - no hassel on a rainy day

sunshine (sun after rain = awesome)

Women’s Chorus - need I say more?

This blogpost - hilarious.

Sharon's jokes - SO freakin' hilarious

Eric making me pizza - he rocks.
This video Marie sent me - also hilarious

group members who actually do their projects - yes!

siblings who let me use their appliances no-charge - so great!
siblings who also make me smoothies and rock to Pink Floyd while I do my laundry - even greater!

General Conference is coming - And I'm singing in the Saturday afternoon session!
I was given two tickets to the afore-mentioned session of General Conference.

and

dancing to Michael Jackson in the kitchen

Life is so good.

Tall Tales IV: Concerts are the Worst

I'm going to introduce you to a worry you've probably never worried before:

I have had this worry every day forever.  Whenever I'm walking in a group, I always hang back.  When I took anatomy, I always shoved shorter people in front of me, and would then crane my neck over them to see the specimens and cadavers.  If I take a picture with a group, I always shout, "Back seat, middle, feet on the hump! I call it!" and bolt to the back.  Always and forever.

And when I say forever, I mean forever.

I remember going to see a ballet during a second-grade field trip.  We all got the the ginormous concert hall, and took our seats.  As the ballet started, I realized that the second graders behind me were much shorter than I was and probably couldn't see over me.  (I was taller than my second grade teacher.)

I'd been in that place before.  I hated it!  I didn't want to be the big-headed, tall person everyone hated!  So what did I do?  My little second grade self?

I slouched.

I sunk as low as I possibly could in that seat until my spine was twisted into a pretzel and my backside wasn't even on the cushion.  And I stayed that way the whole ballet long.  Could I see?  Not really.  But the people behind me could.

To this day, I relive this experience every time I go to a concert, play, or performance that doesn't have stadium-ish seating.  A couple weeks ago, I went to Extravadance at BYU-Idaho with some friends.  The floor wasn't sloped enough and the seats were all lined up right behind each other.  To make matters worse, my knees were shoved clear up into the seat in front of me forcing me to sit as straight and tall as possible.

And thus my slouchy technique for guilt avoidance was thwarted.  There was just no way.

So!  To combat the growing guilt inside me, I didn't move.  I picked where my head was going to be, and I held it there the whole concert long.  I didn't talk to people.  I didn't move so I could see around the guy's head in front of me.  I watched the whole concert like this:

Then again, so did the girl sitting behind me.  And I felt bad the whole time.  Thoughts like "She's not getting her ticket's worth..." and the like kept coming into my mind, and boy was I relieved when it was  all over.

Let's face it.  This is the reason I avoid "standing room only" concerts.

I'd feel guilty.  The. Whole. Time.

Potatoes for Breakfast

I sat down to eat a rather healthy breakfast when Hannah-Face and I had this conversation:

Me:  I actually kinda like the taste of dirt on my potatoes.

Hannah:  Are you craving dirt again...?

Me:  No...  >shifty eyes<

Hannah:  Oh Abi!

Me:  It's not necessarily a craving, I just like the taste of dirt sometimes.

Hannah:  So what you're saying is...

Me (interrupting):  What I'm saying is that sometimes I'm too lazy to wash my potatoes in the morning, and I don't mind it.  That's what I'm saying.