I hate math.
I hate math's guts.
I wish math would go away and leave me alone.
I am supposed to go and take a stupid test tomorrow and it's going to tell the whole world how stupid I am at math and then everyone is going to point and laugh at my stupidness and I HATE STUPID MATH!!!
I would like to pause and take a moment to offer my sincere apologies to any math lovers. I know in my mind that math is beautiful and logical.
It's also stupid.
About half an hour ago, as I alternately glared at my ACT prep book and attempted word problems, Paul came in to check on me. I think I'll work out, he said. Want to work out with me?
Of course I responded that I can't work out because I HAVE TO STUDY, and he said okay, whatever you want, and I then I got mad because I really wanted to work out but I was up to my earlobes in STUPID MATH and how is that fair, that he gets to work out and then he's going to look great plus he's smart, and I'll be STUPID AND FLABBY FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE.
Go ahead and work out and get all buff, I said. I'll just stay here and get more stupid.
He smiled at me.
So I said are you laughing at me? You think this is funny? I'M NOT GOING TO BE ABLE TO WORK OUT FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE!!!
He said he wasn't laughing at me, but I could see him biting his lip.
Then he grinned and said it's just that I can see you being....well, you, and I love you.
Bah.
Stupid math.
Saturday, June 21, 2008
Sunday, June 15, 2008
dad
I first med my dad when I was born, and we've been friends ever since. (I'm just going to pretend like my teenage years never happened, okay?) Every time I talk to my dad I love him a little bit more, and I loved him quite a lot to start with, so.....you do the math. Which, by the way, he is really good at. I really, really love him. Here are some of my favorite things about my dad:
1. He loves the Lord. He always, always wants to be found doing the Lord's work, and I can't think of one instance when he hasn't been. No fanfare, no big deal to him. He sees work to be done, and does it.
2. He loves my mom. Really, really loves her. I asked my mom once what were some of the things she loved about my dad, and she told me that when he looked at her, he had the kindest eyes she had ever seen. Ever since I heard her say that, I try to take close-up pictures of him. See? Kind eyes.
2. He loves me. He loves all of us kids, but for now I'm going to be nice and selfish and just talk about how he loves me. He has always wanted a strong relationship with his children, and knowing the importance of communication, would make time each Sunday for a father-daughter chat. By the time I was a teenager I was of course obligated to find this tedious and dorky, but really it was pretty awesome, and I'd like to start a petition to overturn this mandated crabbiness for teenagers. Now that I'm grown and away from home, he writes me letters. Can you believe that? Letters, with spiritual and fatherly council that never fails to uplift and inspire. Each letter ends with him expressing his love and gratitude for his family, and.....yeah. I'm pretty close to crying right now.
3. He wants to be riding a bike when he's 90. You know what? I totally think he will. Every morning, my dad does four things: reads his scriptures, writes in his journal, says a prayer, and goes for a jog. Man, I love that. I want to be more like my dad.
4. He forgives people. I was not a nice teenager. I yelled. I slammed doors. I glared. Yep, there were several years when I was not very pleasant, but never has he made me feel bad. He's just happy when people change for the better, you know?
I have like a million more things, but then I'd be crying buckets and that might scare Paul, so I think I'll end here.
Dad, I love you. Maybe someday, I'll be more like you. I sure hope so.
Friday, June 13, 2008
a near miss
Today I almost, ALMOST got pooped on.
There are two worlds: One in which we blissfully lunch at the park, hatless and carefree, and the other world where we cast nervous glances at large gatherings of fowl and recount our bitter war stories. Phrases like "Oh, that could never happen to me", and "lucky for me I have invisible bird poop repellent with me at all times" are so easily rolled off the tongue, but of course we have no immunity. Only a staunch belief in our invisible bird poop repellent.
As I sat on the park bench enjoying the sun and thinking of prospective names for my hypothetical future offspring, I was an inhabitant of the first world, and happy to be so. Moments of tragedy are never anticipated, and this was no exception. A split second was all it took for the, er, dropping, to splat onto the park bench, soiling the hem of my skirt.
My life flashed before my eyes, I tell you.
That is perhaps an exaggeration. Maybe my life did not in fact flash before my eyes, but I was certainly reminded of how fleeting life can be, and how we must be certain to make the most of the moments we are given and if I may say, the outfits we wear, as we can never really be sure if this will be the last time we are to enjoy wearing that cute little number we have pulled from our wardrobe.
I now stand before you (well, I'm not actually standing, but I think it sounds kind of more powerful than "I sit before you") a changed woman. A woman who has been spared the misery of bird poop on her hair, and I am determined my life shall be better for it. I of course regret that Skirt was not spared, but I pledge that Skirt shall not have been soiled in vain.
As I consider how my life will be changed and improved as a result of this experience, I must be honest that I am really coming up with nothing here. I mean, I'm really not a hat person, plus they mess up my hair and I do love a good blow-dry. I'm also not an advocate for violence directed at pidgeons, however careless they may be about where they choose to relieve themselves, so there seems to be absolutely nothing to be done beyond the usual savor-every-minute stuff.
I think maybe I'll just go home and hug my clothes.
There are two worlds: One in which we blissfully lunch at the park, hatless and carefree, and the other world where we cast nervous glances at large gatherings of fowl and recount our bitter war stories. Phrases like "Oh, that could never happen to me", and "lucky for me I have invisible bird poop repellent with me at all times" are so easily rolled off the tongue, but of course we have no immunity. Only a staunch belief in our invisible bird poop repellent.
As I sat on the park bench enjoying the sun and thinking of prospective names for my hypothetical future offspring, I was an inhabitant of the first world, and happy to be so. Moments of tragedy are never anticipated, and this was no exception. A split second was all it took for the, er, dropping, to splat onto the park bench, soiling the hem of my skirt.
My life flashed before my eyes, I tell you.
That is perhaps an exaggeration. Maybe my life did not in fact flash before my eyes, but I was certainly reminded of how fleeting life can be, and how we must be certain to make the most of the moments we are given and if I may say, the outfits we wear, as we can never really be sure if this will be the last time we are to enjoy wearing that cute little number we have pulled from our wardrobe.
I now stand before you (well, I'm not actually standing, but I think it sounds kind of more powerful than "I sit before you") a changed woman. A woman who has been spared the misery of bird poop on her hair, and I am determined my life shall be better for it. I of course regret that Skirt was not spared, but I pledge that Skirt shall not have been soiled in vain.
As I consider how my life will be changed and improved as a result of this experience, I must be honest that I am really coming up with nothing here. I mean, I'm really not a hat person, plus they mess up my hair and I do love a good blow-dry. I'm also not an advocate for violence directed at pidgeons, however careless they may be about where they choose to relieve themselves, so there seems to be absolutely nothing to be done beyond the usual savor-every-minute stuff.
I think maybe I'll just go home and hug my clothes.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
finding my funny
Sometimes I feel like I don't have anything to say.
Most of the time I have a good deal to say. I like to look for the joy in life. I enjoy finding the laugh, especially when the laugh is tucked away inside the un-funny: monsoon rains on the way home from work, trying unsuccessfully to have a baby, cranky patients at work. There's a laugh in there, I just know it. When I find the laugh, I feel like I have something to say.
Sometimes, I don't.
Sometimes, I don't want to find the laugh. I'd rather lick my wounds, along with an ice cream cone and some chocolate pudding. Chocolate coated grief. Mmmmmmm. Nummy.
I just laughed a little. There we go, there I am. I knew I was in there, somewhere.
How come? How come sometimes the laugh is right there, all fizzy and sweet and ready to spill over, and sometimes hiding?
Buried underneath late bedtimes and early mornings, and ninety five degree weather and going back to school and will I disappoint someone and am I ever going to be a parent, there's a laugh, I just know it.
Thinking..........thinking.........
Hmmmmm.
Maybe some bits of life are not funny. Some bits are difficult and even slightly rotten, and you know what?
I think that's okay.
I'm just going to save up laughs like they're food storage. A good laugh can keep for years, you know. I'll just pack them away, with the best ones right on top, and make sure they're good and ready for my next Cranky Time. So, the next time I find myself up against an un-funny Character Building Experience, I'll just use some recycled funny.
I've got my little brother squirting Kool Aid out his nose, a four year old quizzing me about my eating habits, and Paul making silly faces. I've got Dad asleep at the kitchen table, I've got my outfit for the first day of seventh grade, puffy paint and all.
That's good stuff, man.
I think I just found my funny.
Most of the time I have a good deal to say. I like to look for the joy in life. I enjoy finding the laugh, especially when the laugh is tucked away inside the un-funny: monsoon rains on the way home from work, trying unsuccessfully to have a baby, cranky patients at work. There's a laugh in there, I just know it. When I find the laugh, I feel like I have something to say.
Sometimes, I don't.
Sometimes, I don't want to find the laugh. I'd rather lick my wounds, along with an ice cream cone and some chocolate pudding. Chocolate coated grief. Mmmmmmm. Nummy.
I just laughed a little. There we go, there I am. I knew I was in there, somewhere.
How come? How come sometimes the laugh is right there, all fizzy and sweet and ready to spill over, and sometimes hiding?
Buried underneath late bedtimes and early mornings, and ninety five degree weather and going back to school and will I disappoint someone and am I ever going to be a parent, there's a laugh, I just know it.
Thinking..........thinking.........
Hmmmmm.
Maybe some bits of life are not funny. Some bits are difficult and even slightly rotten, and you know what?
I think that's okay.
I'm just going to save up laughs like they're food storage. A good laugh can keep for years, you know. I'll just pack them away, with the best ones right on top, and make sure they're good and ready for my next Cranky Time. So, the next time I find myself up against an un-funny Character Building Experience, I'll just use some recycled funny.
I've got my little brother squirting Kool Aid out his nose, a four year old quizzing me about my eating habits, and Paul making silly faces. I've got Dad asleep at the kitchen table, I've got my outfit for the first day of seventh grade, puffy paint and all.
That's good stuff, man.
I think I just found my funny.
Saturday, May 31, 2008
Monty Python - Spam
I have some thoughts I have been collecting, in little bits, and sometimes quite big bits, that I would like to share. I have not had time to organize all the bits, however, and not wanting to be remiss in my blogging duties (Paul will laugh when he reads "duties") I thought, geez, I better post something. But, what could I post? I mean, it hasn't yet been confirmed that I'm actually getting the Nobel Peace Prize for International Chocolate Consumption (what? I've been to Paris.) and I didn't want to jump the gun by making the big announcement prematurely. So, what then? I figured the next best thing to announcing I've won a Nobel Peace Prize would be Monty Python on the origin of spam.
Friday, May 23, 2008
Week 1- Robert Muraine The Great- So You Think You Can Dance
Yessssss! So You Think You Can Dance is back!!!! Could I be any happier? I think not. Check out this guy- I don't quite understand how he does what he does, but I think it's pretty awesome. Yep.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
for your consideration
I need a new bathing suit, because the one I have now makes me look like a nun. Or, what a nun would look like if she wore a bathing suit. Do nuns wear bathing suits? Anyways, I can't decide. I have gone back and forth for two days now, and I need to break the cycle. Can you please tell me which one you like better? I think I'm leaning a little more towards the gingham one, but then the minute I resolve to purchase that one, I change my mind again and think I like the polka dot one more. Geez. This has to stop! Please help, okay? Just make up my mind for me. Awesome. I knew I could trust you.
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