My Past Life Revisited, Or, Things I've Learned in the 8 Hours I've Been Home

Intro: Katie and I pulled a Home Alone 2 today, running through SLC International to arrive at our gate with a freshly debarked plane awaiting us. We made it on through an act of Angels. Bags checked at 2 pm, sprint through security, at the gate by 2:15, the time our flight was scheduled to take off.

1. My mother still threatens my life every time I ride in the car with her. Her four-accident-per-year average is no accident. (Punny!)
2. My dad still thinks he knows what's best for me.
3. Politics is a subject I must still avoid when it comes to convos with the parentals.
4. My parents, despite their political closed-mindedness, are slowly branching out into hip foods, i.e. sushi, French cheese, quality breads, and prosciutto. Thank you, Costco taste-testers.
5. My dogs love me just as much as I thought they did.
6. The Bay Area is still my home. I still weep at the sight of it. My parents' home is still my anchor. I may not be the same person I was when I moved out of this place, but coming back here still grounds me like nothing else.
7. Although the idea to move back home is tempting, it's not what I want. It's not who I am.
8. I don't hate Utah, but I do miss living in a place where I can anonymously be Mormon. Meaning, I can live in a place where people don't assume I'm Mormon just because most other people are.
9. I miss sharing the gospel. I miss serving the Lord, acting as an instrument in His hands in spreading His truth. Did you know a replica of the first edition of the Book of Mormon is now sold in Costco? Did you know a book by a former FLDS church member/polygamist's wife is being sold only a few pallets away from our sacred scriptures? I am increasingly convinced of the divine calling my generation has to stand up for truth, to speak out against naysayers and live our lives in a Christ-like way. We have an obligation to dispel rumors that harm our Lord's name and His gospel's reputation. I forgot this these past few months being back in Utah. I mustn't forget it again.
10. My circadian rhythm has never left Pacific time.
11. I am more like my dad than I think.
12. I am less like my dad than I think.
13. My mom still makes better Christmas sweets than your mom does.
14. My mom is a near saint. She epitomizes love and service. She is of faith, of intelligence, of beauty and testimony. I want to be like her.
15. Grandma and Papa are gone, Robert's on a mission, Branky's in Vegas, and Jack and Diane are back east. This means our Christmas Eve dinner is down to the five Ruefenachts. Luckily my parents had the foresight a few years ago to include the Stevens (half of the legendary Stevenachts coupling). My dad invited some of his single, elderly patients, and my mom invited people from the ward, plus the missionaries. All in all, family is what you make it. Family is just as much bond as it is blood. Family is love.

And on that note, I must retire to bed so I can hit the stores early tomorrow!

Much love to you all, sincerely and truthfully.

Buy my face!

For real. Right here.

A blessing, a rebirth.

My life in this altered state continues. I'm hoping for a rebirth when I go home tomorrow, when finals are over.

Today is my last at Reagan Academy. I'm sad. Yesterday was my most torn-up day though. I left the school and called Alex sobbing. That lasted until I got off the phone with my mom, some 30 minutes later. These kids are too precious, too important. Dante wrote me a tender goodbye letter, reminding me of my promise to come back to Reagan if I ever quit my new job. He even used a colon correctly! What an amazing boy. Aspen wrote me some notes too. The others don't seem to care as much, though I'm sure they do somewhere. My young friend Karl was the most dear. Tuesday I asked him what he wanted for Christmas. He looked at me with his little cherub face with that trademark eye twinkle and pointed down to his shoes. He wants new shoes for Christmas. What child wants shoes for Christmas? This one does. Yesterday he said to me, "You are my friend teacher. Yes, you are my friend." After tearing up I returned the sentiment and helped him make stars and glasses and cyclops eyes out of pipe cleaner. This job was too great. I will miss it so much.

One last final tonight. Two more pages to write. Then I will be reborn. Merry Christmas!

One two ready go.

Today is a day too dark to acknowledge. I got a full seven-or-so hours, but that doesn't change the fact today is drearier than any other day yet. Perhaps not really, but it seems like it. Hitting snooze a few times may have helped me, but it didn't encourage the sun any.

I just noticed I only have two Rudolph cards left. Rudolph from the stop motion classic. What am I to do? I've been sending Christmas cards on these things for years! I guess the time has come to stop sending Christmas cards. There's no possible way I can find these cards or anything cooler ever again!!!! Ha! Just kidding. I just found them here.

I haven't been my usual loving self lately. I'm sorry about this, but I don't know what snapped me out of it so I don't know how to snap back in it. But I think perhaps, at the end of January, I will be fine again, because by the end of January I will have settled into my new job, which is what I think is probably the root of all this anxiety and tension building up within me. I'd say more, but this is posted on the Internet after all, and it could get into the WRONG HANDS!!!

Mucho amore,
Lisa

Love--it changes everything. (Hands and faces. Earth and sky).

Tonight I find myself regretting, something I don't often do.

I realized earlier today that I regret not majoring in music. I regret not practicing harder and pushing myself. I gave up on my talent. Sure, I still use it all the time, but I am so out of practice. I feel out of place and alien. Remember how Iris would always let me conduct the choir during rehearsal, and sometimes even during performances? Remember how Stephen Hatfield had so much faith in my potential and wrote that letter to the School of Music telling them why they had no choice but to let me in?

It feels like a different life. I remember those days with a fond indifference, meaning, I am not sure if I am still that person. I was so focused on that. I was so built up and confident. But you get rejected a few times and who wouldn't give up on themselves? I majored in something easy, my secret mistress, and now I feel just as unfocused about that as I do my music.

Please someone, find my confidence and give it back. It's been missing lately. I know--I will find it myself! By doing the things I love and know make me feel good because they make other people feel good too! That always works!

(Do you think it's funny how I start writing about my seemingly endless despair and then talk myself out of it by the end of the entry? I do).

Today Dante found out I'm leaving Reagan Academy. He bawled. He sobbed. He clung to me and wouldn't let go. We are going to e-mail each other until he forgets me.

A big rig passed me as I drove home tonight. This big rig was only the front though. Only the cab. Those always look so weird to me, like a headless horseman only reverse.

I am not sure why I do this, but sometimes when I'm around certain people I get shy and withdrawn. I guess you could say intimidated. I was once voted "Least Intimidating." I am not sure if this is still true. What I mean to say is that certain people intimidate me, and certain occurrences intimidate me. For example, I am increasingly intimidated by people who are predisposed to judge me (think about it and you can figure out who these people might be). I realized this today as I worked on my final intaglio print, which is all about my anxieties and trappings. Some highlights include: taxes, a 9 to 5, the boss man, failing myself and others, selfishness, the future, adult responsibility.

I am always surprised at how much more I still have to learn about myself, but I am rarely surprised with what I find.

If they only knew.

A review of mine just appeared on the PC Mag homepage. All well and good, except that I just googled myself and people are irate about it. Apparently the software is buggy as all hell and is incompatible with previous versions of the software. I wrote the review in mid-September when none of this was really known and before the product had been released--cry me a river! It was still buggy when I used it even without syncing it to a previous version, and the editors changed my rating, so don't get mad at me. Our reviews aren't always directed toward the expert users. Anyway, it's not fun to read about how stupid people think you are. I haven't felt this shunned and rejected since the third grade. I'll get over it.

My college career is over in five days. Through a strange turn of events, I ended up deciding to keep the job at ABC. It was between that and the Herald, which has a 3-11 pm work schedule. I decided it was more important for me to commute and work regular hours than not commute and have no social life.

I want to run away.

Hello Twilight.

It's hard to know what's wrong when nothing's wrong.

Sold to the lady with the bouffant.

When I was a little kid, my mom gave me a bracelet. Her mother had given her this same bracelet when she was a little kid. The bracelet was 14 karat gold. It had little loops linked together for the chain, and a medallion with a treble clef hanging from the chain. It was a beautiful bracelet, and I loved it. That's why my mom gave it to me. (I knew it was gold too. I'd seen some cartoon character bite into gold and have it not leave teeth marks, so I bit into the medallion to see if it would escape teeth marks too. It didn't. I was too young to know). I never wore the bracelet; it merely sat in my jewelry box with all my other jewelry. It was too special to wear.

Time passed and I more or less displaced the bracelet from my mind. It was still a treasure--a gift from my mom--but it didn't garner the same fascination.

The summer before leaving home for college, I had a huge garage sale. There were four or five different sellers on our driveway, and we saw half the town come through our yard that day. It was a fast-paced, consuming day. I hardly knew what I had sold since we had designated one money changer.

I was in my room that night counting my money when my mom came in my room. "Why did you sell the bracelet I gave you?" she asked. I had no idea what she was talking about. Which bracelet? I sold a bracelet you gave me? "You sold my bracelet with the treble clef on it," she said. My heart collapsed into a near attack. I thought back through the day it was so confusing I couldn't remember what I'd sold which old lady had asked for what how much do you want you want how much I didn't remember. But I remembered that old lady. I remember her holding the bracelet and me not looking closely enough and not realizing until then. I sold my mom's gold bracelet for an insignificant portion of its actual worth. I sold it. I sold it. I sold it.

I sold a little piece of myself with it.

So sorry I only talk about myself but I know nothing of the stranger on the other side of the water.

What is it about snow that incites thought? The types of thoughts that only come from long conversations with oneself. The thoughts that surface only through repetitive elements: for me it's the hissing of shower water, the whirring of air through the vacuum, the polka-dotting of the rain, and the frozen time of falling snow.

My involuntary focus on nostalgia continues. I'm convinced now it's happening for a purpose; it's happening because I need to write these things down. I haven't been doing that. I need to. I may never think of them again.

My best friend when I was in second grade was Melissa Jones. She had long blond hair. I don't know where she is now. She lived down the street from our school. Her street was out of a storybook, shaded and protected by oak trees and mulberry trees. Her backyard was really big, overwhelming as the ocean. It was bedded with blue grass (that's what her mom called it). One day at the end of my second grade year, I was walking with Melissa to her house after school. We had frequent playdates. I always looked forward to them. But today was different. Today I knew something, and I knew I had to tell her. The walk seemed slower today, like the news I had to deliver somehow contained the key to altering time. The longer I waited to tell her, the longer the sidewalk stretched on. It finally burst out of me: "Melissa, I'm moving after this year. I won't be going to Sequoia anymore." She started crying. I started crying. We were each other's first best friend, and now we wouldn't have each other anymore.

We wrote one letter to each other after I moved. She sent me her third grade school photo. I probably sent her mine. That was the last time I ever talked to her.

I want a hippopotamus for Christmas.

I've been offered two out of the three jobs I applied for. I accepted one, I'm getting back to the people about the second when the weekend's over, and the third I should know next week. I want the third. It would be the best job ever. I'll tell you more about it when I get it, I guess.

My friend Marcus has kept me pretty up to date with his BFA show since he started the concept. The show is titled "Thought I Knew Him" and deals with the intricacies of human relationships, whether strangers or friends. The concept is excellent I think, and one that isn't necessarily easy to pull off. Marcus reigned in poetry and vignettes from his friends and sculpted pieces to match the poetry. I wasn't sure how it was going to work. Alex and I went to Marcus' show opening last night; it was my first time seeing the show. There is only one other art show that afforded me the emotion I felt last night. It was at the Art Barn in Salt Lake. I was with Capree. But it was this artist from Utah State, a woman, and she manipulated the female form in different ways, and organs. She was motivated completely by the human body. That show moved me. So did Marcus'. I wrote in Marcus' book that, "It's not rare that I love an art show--I love art. But it is rare that the show loves me back. Your show loves me back." Even now as I write this, I am crying, because love is not an easy emotion to forget or handle carelessly. Leaving Marcus' show--walking out of the HFAC--I viewed the people who I might normally think are annoying as friends. As people I knew. I used to view the world this way. I still do from time to time when I am really happy, but I am too stressed to be really happy (for the most part, I am really happy nonetheless).

I haven't been writing as much lately because I've been stressed. Stressed with finding a job I really want (remember: I have one I don't want). But not writing causes me more stress.

Alex and I drove up to Saltair last night to see Iron and Wine. It was a good show. It was also snowing the whole way up and most of the way back. Snowing to the point you could hardly see the car in front of you. I've never felt this before, but there was one point, while we were driving I-15 north through Lehi, I felt like we weren't moving. The snow pelted the car at the same speed, at the same angles. The cars remained equidistant from one another. "Look at the billboards on the side of the freeway," Alex said, but it was no use. I was lost in space and time, trapped in this optical illusion. I couldn't shake it, so I just shut up about it and drove on. I didn't like it.

I have spent almost two weeks without my dear iPod, and I must say, the world is not ending. I am not completely miserable. I just don't listen to music as much.

If I could turn into an instrument this exact second, I would want to be a flute in a trio of flutes, because three is always better than one when it comes to flutes. A chorus of flutes is one of the most beautiful sounds on Earth.

If I had a breakdancing name, it would be "Split Ends," because that's what my hair is full of.

Well, I am back from my Hawaiian escapades. Highlights include swimming with giant turtles, seeing a whale, beating up the ocean, getting beaten up by the ocean, tanning, reading, losing my iPod, swimming until sunset, catching a cold, hanging with Katie and Michael, driving in our rented Jeep--top down, sun up, exploring a jungle full of wild roosters, driving a one-lane road along the north coast of Maui, swimming in natural rock pools right next to the pounding ocean, eating Spam for the first time.

I would write more, but I am going to an art show of my friend who is no longer my friend.

Psychotherapy--me, mom and daddy.

I have a tendency to freak out at things that don't really warrant freaking out. Maybe they do. I'm not sure. This week, I was offered, and I accepted, a job as a web producer at ABC-4 in Salt Lake City. Accordingly, I've been sorely depressed since.

I'm not sure at what point I'll be fine with growing up, or at what point transitions won't paralyze me.

I once had a broken heart for two-and-a-half years. I won't tell you who did it (if you've known me long enough, you'll know). Just know that it's not broken anymore. But I remember when I would go back home and see the places I associated with him, and how horribly it would rip me apart. Oh, how desperate I became. Desperate and wounded. I went from in love to in despair so quickly. As they say, the first cut is the deepest.

I was putting away clean socks this morning, when I flashed back to my childhood. I remember sitting on the floor as my mom dressed me. She was adept at rolling up our socks, bunching up the heel all the way to the toe in her hands so we could easily slide our feet in.

I've been remembering many more things about my childhood these days. It think because I equate graduating college with entering adulthood. I don't know why I'm so scared about it.

Please tell me it's not as scary as I think it will be.

She's nobody's fool.

Well Active Little Peanuts, since my mom is in a meeting and Alex is at work, I guess you'll all be the first to know that I interviewed for a job yesterday as a web producer and designer at ABC-4 in SLC, and the webmaster just called me with an offer! It feels pretty good. You know, being competent enough to land a job and all.

What is funny is that the song that came on my iPod right after I talked to the dude at ABC-4 was "Telstar" by The Tornadoes, which is a really dreamy sounding, instrumental Britpop song. So basically it was like living a dream sequence from a cheesy b-movie. I often think of my life like a movie, and I look for nice shots and complimentary lighting and where I'd use music and which music I'd use. That's why I like my Super 8 class, because I just like filming every day, ordinary things. Beauty in the mundane is what I'm all about.

I leave for Hawaii on Sunday. I am so excited I can't focus on anything else.

I have so much I want to write about, but I'll do it later.

Deja vu (minus the frilly accents).

It just dawned on me that I am really old. (Of course, this fact dawns on me once every four months or so). I know this because I constantly think about the future. I think about opening an IRA, a 401K. I think about insurance benefits and nutrition. I take a daily multi-vitamin. I prefer staying home more than going out. I decorate my room in my head, and then redecorate it. I bookmark the furniture I want to buy. I consider a commute to work a fact of life instead of a hardship. My Christmas list is composed of practical, useful things that I would otherwise buy myself. I like my parents; moreover, they are my best friends. Luckily I haven't broached the subject of lawn integrity. This would send me over the edge, from my 20s to 30s, faster than the starship Enterprise transporter.

I have a hitting problem. Mainly, I hit Alex because he tickles me all the time. I try to explain to him that if he stops tickling me, I will stop hitting him. So far he hasn't stopped tickling me (I am disastrously ticklish), so I am trying the reverse order.

I like reading my own blog. I was reading some of my July 2007 entries just now, and I am fascinated. I'd forgotten so many things about New York. I'm so glad I wrote them down.

Go on eating your dinner.

Today I got the hiccups while I was helping in Mrs. Parker's class. One of the students I work with tried to scare them out of me. It didn't work. He pounced from the side so I caught his entire attempt in my peripheral. Alas, my hiccups ensued. But Dante. Dante was sneaky. He crept away from our table on the premise that Mrs. Parker wanted to talk to him. I sat there, casually helping the others, when Dante pounced on my back like a lynx. I turned to look at Dante (now rolling on the floor laughing) in a haze, not knowing whether to be horribly upset or in a complete fit of laughter. Mrs. Parker was in hysterics. She'd been watching the whole thing, and she thought it was genius.

Sure enough, he scared the hiccups out of me.

I used apples during math class earlier in the day to teach the kids halves, fourths and eighths. Luckily Thomas was absent, so we each got a whole apple to ourselves, and luckily, Gabi wanted the Granny Smith, Chalise wanted the red apple, and I wanted the yellow one. We all traded one slice with each other so we could try each apple. Boy, did the girls delight at the way my face prunes up when eating a Granny Smith! (If you didn't know, my face massively prunes up when I eat Granny Smith apples). They giggled 'til the cows came home. We have too much fun. I will probably get fired for having too much fun.

I am watching Hotel Rwanda (strike that--sobbing through Hotel Rwanda), and it's scaring the crap out of me. Probably because the US has broken into civil war before, and I wouldn't put it past us to do it again. Probably because the US can profess to be peace-keepers and peace-makers and lovers of humankind until the end of the earth, but until we stop provoking and start preventing and protecting, I will never believe it.

All I Want is One More Chance.

I don't think I told you, but I was called as a Relief Society teacher.

My ward didn't hesitate in throwing me in. I was called two weeks ago, Stake Conference was last week, and tomorrow is my teaching debut. The topic: Joseph Smith. The LDS prophet I know least about and, up until I started getting to know him, have felt the most skepticism toward.

My attitude tonight is completely different than it was a week ago. Last week I was still pretty indifferent, still naive to the greatness of his ministry as prophet. This week, I can't get enough of the guy. If you have never read anything about this great prophet, check out www.josephsmith.net. My favorite quotes: "God has created man with a mind capable of instruction, and a faculty which may be enlarged in proportion to the heed and diligence given to the light communicated from heaven to the intellect; and . . . the nearer man approaches perfection, the clearer are his views, and the greater his enjoyments, till he has overcome the evils of his life and lost every desire for sin; and like the ancients, arrives at that point of faith where he is wrapped in the power and glory of his Maker, and is caught up to dwell with Him." (said just before he died at Carthage Jail). AND, from Parley P. Pratt, one of Joseph's apostles: "It was Joseph Smith who taught me how to prize the endearing relationships of father and mother, husband and wife; of brother and sister, son and daughter. It was from him that I learned that the wife of my bosom might be secured to me for time and all eternity; and that the refined sympathies and affections which endeared us to each other emanated from the fountain of divine eternal love. . . . I had loved before, but I knew not why. But now I loved—with a pureness—an intensity of elevated, exalted feeling."

Despite my newfound admiration for the man, giving a 20-minute lesson on him seems like a mini eternity.

Graduation looms ever closer, and I become ever more skittish and antsy. I wonder when it will end. (Will it?)

Last night Alex and I went bowling with Britt and Brett and Regan. I always love bowling until about halfway through the game. It's around that time I remember how ridiculous I look with my fingers mangled inside a grease-slathered, 8-pound orb. (Not to mention how pitifully I run up to the lane, throw the ball, sulk back to my seat after rolling two gutters, etc).

We went to Red Robin beforehand. We've been going there a lot lately, both because we like it and because they've advertised a delicious-sounding blueberry pomegranate limeade that I was desperate to try. The first two times we tried, our server Ben, who waited on us both times, informed us they were out of limes. Last night, we found out Ben was putting one over on us, because our server Josh promptly revealed that though they did have limes, they were out of both blueberry and pomegranate syrup. I was devastated. However, Josh redeemed himself by listing all the syrups sitting on the bar. The raspberry limeade--not so good, but the mandarin orange limeade was better than the blueberry pomegranate limeade could ever even dream of being. So there.

And lastly, why hasn't winter come yet?

Ahe Lau Makani

Funny happenings of the week at Ronald Reagan Academy:

• Thomas throwing himself to the floor in angst, pretending his Crayola markers are attacking him.
• Thomas lacing his eyelids with stickers.
• My three math students believing I have a fairy in a film canister. It's actually a "device," as Gabi calls it. Alex brought it to my house, also claiming it was a fairy.
• Seventh-grader Adam telling me sheepishly, "You look really nice today, Miss R.

Job search: continues. I have some leads. Those leads have my resume. We'll see what happens.

I leave for Hawaii in 9 days. Well, first we go to San Diego for a day. Then we leave for Maui the next morning. I am going to snorkel the whole time. It's been years since we last went to Hawaii, since sophomore year of high school. We always stay on Maui, at Napili Bay, in a condo there. It's one of the only places in Hawaii that has 3-bedroom condos, a necessity for the eight of us who'll be there this time. The last time we went, my parents had five, disgruntled, ungrateful teenagers. Becky was a junior, me a sophomore, Robert an 8th grader, Katie in 6th, Michael in 4th. Becky had just spent a week in Oahu on a band trip, so she caught a connecting flight to Maui. She was too cool for us then. I remember when we met her at the Kahului Airport in central Maui. She always had an attitude then, a bad one, but it was worse this day. I was intimidated by her. I didn't like her. We didn't get along. She was too pretty; I was too indifferent. We clashed. Robert and Katie were easy-going enough, though Katie always found a way to throw a fit. She was a temperamental child. And then there was Michael. Michael, the babe of the family. The darling, perfect, mistake-proof angel. He was a chub back then, and his agenda for our week on the beach was to sit six inches from the TV and watch Pokemon.

My dad erupted more than once on this trip. "I rented you snorkeling equipment, and you haven't used it once!" (Me and Robert). "You don't come to Hawaii to sit by the pool!" (Becky).
"You can watch Pokemon at home!" (Michael). "I didn't pay five thousand dollars for you to sit your keister in front of the TV!" (also Michael). "Stop blaming other people!" (Katie). "We are never coming to Hawaii EVER AGAIN!" (everyone).

I guess Dad figures it's been long enough that this memory has been burned from our minds, that we're mature enough, and friends enough, to behave civilly. I think he's right. I only wish Robert could go.

I forget which time it was we went to Hawaii--I think it might've been the last time--but I'll never forget what happened. Robert and I had just gotten chewed out by our dad, so we were bummed. We walked to the nearby market. He bought a root beer. I bought a Nantucket Nectar. We carried our libations in paper sacks, pretending we were hobos escaping to our beds on the beach. When we got to the beach, only the locals were there. I remember one of them. He was young, in his 20s. His board shorts hung precariously off his darkened hips, his dreadlocks swaying like ocean waves. He was BBQing. Robert and I found a spot further down the beach, one far enough away we felt alone. In silence, we gazed out toward the Pacific and the setting sun. We sat this way for a while. Probably fifteen minutes. Suddenly, in unison, we both gasped. Out in the sea was a whale, breaching, perfectly centered in the sun. It breached a few times, but never as gigantically as its first jump. Robert and I looked at each other, understanding we'd just been privy to a rare, one-time showing of nature's most carefully made film.

This simple memory is why I can't wait to return.

Letter to No One

Dear No One,

I couldn't help but notice how sad you were tonight. You acted happy, but I know that act well. I hate seeing you sad. It reminds me of times I'd rather not think about. Times when I knew you better. Times when you were even more sad, and I was sad too because you were sad. You were mean to me when you were sad. (I never said that. You did).

I felt so bad being happy when you were sad. I was uncomfortable. I wanted to go to you and hug you and kiss your cheek and give you hope. Maybe you don't need hope. You probably don't.

I feel horrible knowing how I felt when I saw you. Wondering what you felt. Remembering how I felt about you. I thought it was all a lie. It might still be. I think it always was for you, and you just led me along. I forgot you easily. You make me forget easily.

I think I saw you watching me. That made me feel horrible too.

I feel horrible saying that I miss you. Sometimes I do. Sometimes I don't. Mostly I want to know how you are, to talk to you like I used to. But things aren't that way anymore. I'm not the same anymore. I don't think you are either.

Sincerely,
(insert name here)

Love me the way I love you.

When I was a little kid, I really loved Ernie and Bert from Sesame Street. I love Ernie the most. Ernie had the greatest laugh--a wheezle, I will call it, because he wheezed and cackled. Ernie sang the best songs. "I'd Like to Visit the Moon," "Imagine That," and of course "Rubber Duckie." Ernie was always a tried and true friend and never had anything mean to say about anyone. Ernie was a little bit of a bum, seeing as how he didn't have a job, but Bert wears the pants in that friendship anyway.

I got Bert and Ernie dolls for a present at my second Christmas. My parents have pictures of how happy I was. Granted, it's not hard to please a little kid, but I was beaming. I continued beaming all seven years I had these dolls.

They went everywhere with me for the space of those years. Well, Ernie did. Bert had to stay behind a lot of the time because two dolls was one too many. But we played and we laughed. Mostly, Ernie liked to snuggle with me in bed. He was a good friend.

By the time my dolls died, they were scuffed and worn. Ernie's left arm hung limply and uselessly at his side, the stuffing long since departed. Bert fared a little better, since he didn't play with Ernie and I too often. Despite the poor physical shape, they still emanated the same energy, and made me feel as happy as I did that first Christmas we spent together.

Before we moved into the house my parents live in now (summer of 1993), my mom had a big garage sale. For some reason, she decided Bert and Ernie needed to move on, and there was nothing I could do to change her mind. There they sat, with all the stuffed animals I didn't care about, like pawns. Like useless, poly-blend throw-aways you win at a carnival. Bert and Ernie were not that to me. They never could be. So I sat at the money table with my mom, all day, pondering what life would be like without Bert and Ernie, angry with her for telling me my most prized possessions weren't worth the move.

Anyway, I am going to see Busdriver and Daedelus tonight, and I am really excited. I'm excited for Alex to come with me too, because he will meet my best friends Capree and Brady. Yay!!!

Yesterday I felt like running away. I haven't felt like that in a long time. I didn't run away though.

I can't believe it's almost November. I can't believe I'm done with college in a month-and-a-half. Gulp.

Open/closed.

I woke up on the wrong side of the bed today.

Actually I went to bed on the wrong side too. I went out at 11 last night when I should have gone to bed. I didn't go to bed until 12:30, hence the wrong side.

Today I'm on the wrong side because I'm just plain tired. When I get really tired, I get depressed. The whole deal. Sinking pit in the stomach, hole in the heart. It's only temporary, but it sucks nonetheless.

I've got a great job lead for once I graduate. It starts in January--perfect timing--and it's at the SLTrib. Now all I have to do is apply and snag the position! Piece of cake, I hope.

I've always loved being around kids, but I think I've got the best group ever as my students. First there's adorable young Thomas, with his penetrating blue eyes and tender smile. "Thomas," I said to him the other day, "thank you for being so good today." He replied, "Just doin' my job."

Then there's Dante, the autistic genius. He's drawing a comic and he drew me into it. My character is Rock 'N' Roll Woman. I wear red shoes and have light purple skin. I shoot lasers out of my eyes, and I control robots and make them good guys. He made a Monopoly board game based on a book we just read. It is better than the Milton Bradley version.

One of Dante's classmates, Miranda, sets up a shop on her desk. Yes, like a store. She sells paper and metal things that she makes, and the kids buy them from her with money they make out of paper. The other day, she set up shop during class. Mrs. Parker, her teacher, got upset with her and told her, "Class time is not the time to sell things." Sulking, mouth turned impossibly downward, Miranda gently turned her sign from "Open" to "Closed" and put her wares away.

Anyway, I'm going to nap now.

Running around, somewhere.

This is me and Alex at the Grand Canyon. Cute, eh? (Yes, he is).

It is winter in Utah. At least for tonight. I'm not sure how I feel about it yet. I love winter because of how the sky glows a dim reddish-gray, and how a fresh layer of snow glitters like a movie star's smile (except snow is free of charge, and I doubt any movie star's smile is). I think, mainly, I should just ignore the fact there will be three inches of snow on the ground tomorrow morning, at least for tonight, at least after the hour of midnight. Before then, I have enough battery to maintain my usual optimism. Past this hour, however...

I failed to mention I got a job as a reading aide at an elementary school in Springville. It entails a bit more work than I thought it would. I had a vision of reading to little kids, helping them sound out words phonetically, assisting them on schoolwork their teacher gave them. Instead, I write lesson plans and teach the students new concepts. I'm not sure how I feel about it yet, other than the fact I feel unqualified.

Have I told you I'm going to Hawaii for Thanksgiving? I'm looking forward to it.

I am almost done with those vampire books. You know, that series that is apparently doing better than Harry Potter (I doubt it). It started out good enough, but I'm on the third book, and I tell ya--it's getting downright ridiculous. Werewolves, vampires, a human girl caught in the middle. Vampires and werewolves fighting, peace treaties, eternal life, vampires that don't drink human blood, insanity. Doesn't make sense. I'm committed to finishing the third book, which I'm a fourth of the way through, but I'll be glad to finish it.

I'm going to refrain from committing to anything else for a while.

It bothers me how people speculate and spread rumors based on these speculations. People should mind their own business.

I am the luckiest woman I know.

Welp, it's settled.

I'm staying in Utah after graduation.

Maybe I'll explain it better later, but right now, that's all that really matters.

Tonight Alex and I went to a timeshare presentation, and we got a free vacation--all-expenses paid--to Anaheim. Pretty rad. And we got lots of free Coke (a-Cola).

Then he had me drive home because he lost his glasses and couldn't see the road very well. And then I was driving down Timpview and I hit a deer. Or the deer hit us. All I know is that I screamed and kept pumping the clutch because I couldn't find the brake. (It will be funny in T minus 3 weeks).

Also, I have to be at work in seven hours, which means I have to get up in six. GROSS!

I'm a weird fish.

Every once in awhile, maybe once every month or two months or so, I get really scared. My heart beats like a drum, creeping up into my throat until it's beating more from my esophagus than my rib cage. My limbs twitch, not from a caffeine-induced high from my daily Diet Coke, but from nervousness. I start feeling melancholy and sad and confused.

Today I am nervous. Today I am scared. Today I am melancholy, sad, and confused.

I could tell you why, but that would be redundant. I've already told you.

My biggest fear used to be the dark. I have always been afraid of the dark. But now it's the future. Almost every day, someone asks me what I'm going to do with my life, when I graduate. My first response is, "I'm going to get what I want," which is how Kelly responds to that question on "Shoes," my favorite YouTube video. This one isn't a very acceptable response, however. Alex has started answering for me--she wants to work for the BBC. And I do. But do I? What will I have to give up to work for the BBC? Am I even qualified to work there? Am I qualified to work anywhere?

Working at PC Mag told me I am. I am competent, able, hard-working, and an asset to the team. Okay. But I read job qualifications on online job postings and I think, I'm not good enough for this.

So which is it?

Staying in Utah is another issue. There's only one reason I'd stay at this point, but talking about that makes me sick to my stomach with nervousness. At least today it does.

I think the important thing to remember is that you can blame different things for your mood for days on end, but those things that caused your mood aren't going to help you get better, so it's best to not think about them and just think about yesterday when you were happy. At least, that's what I do.

I have no fires under my bushel anymore.

My apologies for the two-week hiatus. I don't normally go that long without writing, but I've been busy.

I am typing this entry from my new Macbook Pro. Yes, I finally bought one. It is convenient because my old laptop was a beast and made a hissing noise when the fan got going. Not too attractive when you're trying to inconspicuously surf the Web during class. But this new computer is quieter than a baby breathing. Now I just need to find free software. And adjust to having OS X as my main OS.

I am rarely intimidated by anyone. I remember being intimidated by older kids on the playground when I was little. I remember being intimidated by my dad when I did something wrong. But I am rarely intimidated by my peers. This has unfortunately changed, as five people I recently met all scare the congeniality out of me. Whenever I see them, I want to dart into a corner and stare at the wall until they leave. I think it's probably just SAD spilling over.

Things: Going well. My relationship with Alex is officially the least troubled relationship I've ever been in (as indicated by the fact I enjoy his company more and more versus my usual tendency toward feeling annoyed).

School: I dropped my doc class, which broke my heart, and my Living Prophets class, which didn't break my heart if you've read earlier posts. The subject matter was fulfilling, the teacher was a knucklehead. But Alex wants to make my documentaries with me, making them our documentaries. Hopefully he is better behind the camera than I am, because I just have good ideas.

Thanks to my newly opened schedule, I now have time for a part time job. I've interviewed at a non-profit, a photo studio and a charter school. I feel increasingly inadequate, however, because while I am overqualified for the aforementioned jobs, I am more qualified for a job in my chosen field, yet there are none to be had in these parts. Frustrating! I must move.

I have been dreaming about New York lately. I was in New York in my dream last night. I keep trying to remember smells and people and places, and it's all slipping away. It's discouraging. I look at my old photos, clinging on to the memories like a baby to its blanket. But my synapses must be damaged, because I mostly just remember how much I want to go back.

It seems like every time I talk to my mom, she brings up my "situation" come January. How I need to make enough money to support myself. Where I'm going to live. My answer is always the same--the same as it was in a subsequent post. "I don't know yet, Mom. Things are up in the air. My decision depends on a few things." "Well, keep your options open," she says. "That's exactly what I'm doing," I say back.

I was going to post a photo of me and Alex, but I got lazy. Maybe next time.

I am going to be a wind chime when I grow up.

Every day, at least one person asks me what I'm going to do when I graduate from BYU this December. My latest retort is, "I'm joining the Marine Corps;" however, this statement confuses many and convinces none.

Perhaps my main response is that I want to work for the BBC. Accordingly, I recently began researching UK work permits, visas, and even citizenship (though I would most likely work in the US as they have numerous entry-level jobs here). Today an acquaintance of mine (who often makes known his desire to move to Europe) asked, verbatim from GTalk, "why are you doing all this when you don't even have any sort of job in or offer or anything from the bbc?" I found his comment rather obtrusive. I say, "Why not?" I also say, "Why do you care?" and lastly, "What right do you have to judge me and my paltry amount of research when you moved home the day after graduation? At least I have a goal."

The truth is, I have no idea what I'm going to do with my life in three months, and it doesn't worry me in the least. I'm going to get a job that I think helps the world in some way, and I'm going to live somewhere. But I don't know where that's going to be, and I don't know exactly what job I'll have. I don't think it matters. I don't think it should matter to all these people who keeping hounding me either. (Earlier today I thought it would be very nice to be a wind chime, specifically the wind chimes outside my bedroom window. Or maybe a rain cloud. I also think it would be nice to be some kind of bird).

At any rate, fall is here, but I am going to time travel back to summer. The window in my family room is jammed open and it's freezing. Funny how cold fall seems after a warm summer, and how hot spring seems after a cold winter.

We are invading Iran within the next year.

Hey there, Georgy Girl.

Last night Alex asked me how we got so lucky. I'm not sure how. Right-place-right-time, I guess.

Anyway, we really do like each other, and it's fun, and normal, and completely, fantastically functional, and he has become one of my actual best friends (even though I say everyone is my best friend) in the space of two weeks. Remarkable!

Today I rode my bike to school and I listened to old British invasion on my way there and back. The sun warmed my face and I sang out loud, and people looked at me funny, but I don't care because it was a completely beautiful moment. I love fall, but I am really going to miss summer.

Today in Media Literacy, we discussed a New Yorker article we were all supposed to have read about "24" creator Joel Surnow. He's a self-proclaimed "right wing nutjob," and counts various members of the Bush administration (Karl Rove, Dick Cheney plus wife and daughter, and Tony Snow among the ranks), as well as Rush Limbaugh, Barbara Streisand and Bill Clinton, as avid fans and supporters. The article specifically highlights the grotesque amount of torture depicted on the show--a total of 64 torture scenes in the first five seasons alone. The article talks more about American soldiers, and how they are so conditioned to use physical and psychological force as a means to an end coming into the armed forces--before they've even begun training--that trainers are having a difficult time reconditioning them. And guess what? They all cite "24" as one of their favorite shows.

The thing that really startled me about the conversation in class was how a) people were in major disagreement about whether the show has a liberal or conservative slant (for the record, it is intensively conservative, as proved by Surnow's intense right-wing views), and b) the fact that most people in that class would say "Torture is wrong and unethical," yet they watch and support a show that upholds the opposite. I think most Americans in general would say they disagree with torture, which has been proven ineffective time and time again, yet their actions repeatedly discredit this view. As for the confusion surrounding the show's political slant, it only proves that most people have no idea what values and ideas either political party really upholds. No surprise there, considering we watched a clip of John Stewart the other day in class which pitted an interview of Rumsfeld denying he knew where the weapons of mass destruction in Iraq were with an interview of Rumsfeld saying he knew exactly where they were--so even though there was concrete evidence right in front of these kids' faces, they still refused to believe Rummy's a liar.

My soapbox ends here.

Mi-Me-Mi-Mo Magical Dream

Yesterday I stepped on a screw that was sticking out of a board. It punctured my foot. It hurts, but not as bad as the time I stapled my thumb. And to think, I thought that Miss Valencia thought I was a good student, and that's why she let me skip class to staple papers! What a treat for my naive, second grade ego. Speaking of Miss Valencia, after I moved to a different school after second grade, Miss Valencia would write me letters so I didn't miss my old school too much. If you had a birthday during the school year, she would spank you with her paddle (it sounds bad now, but keep in mind this was 1991). She taught us how to sew, and we made dinosaur mobiles out of the dinosaurs we sewed. We made volcanoes out of plaster and put baking soda and vinegar in them so they erupted. We brought chicken bones from home and put them in a block of cement so we could pretend to be archaeologists. She taught us cursive. We made dinosaurs out of clay and had them fired in a kiln. I cried when we learned borrowing because I didn't get it, so she stayed with me during recess to work one-on-one. She had a curly black afro (she was white) and big round glasses and always wore sweatshirts with iron-on applique. She also had cats.

Last night Alex and I went and saw a play at the Hale Theatre in Orem. It was really good. So good two old couples in the audience didn't laugh at a single joke. (Granted they were probably deaf).

Speaking of Alex, we kind of like each other.

Yesterday I cleaned out the shed and I found my ceramic eagle statue that my dad got me at Cabela's. I set it on my desk. The significance of the eagle can be found in a previous blog entry, or here.

The thing I like about my roommate Tess is that she always helps me with things, like cleaning the house and doing the dishes. She leaves me notes and sends me texts and calls me to tell me where she's gone to and when she'll be back because she knows I start worrying otherwise. Today she went to hike Mt. Timpanogos, and even though I already knew that's what she was doing today, she left me a note anyway with the addendum, "I'll be back before dark." I just opened the refrigerator, and there was a bowl of tomatoes from the garden with a little note sticking out that said, "Lisa For Your Salad," because she knew I was making a salad for dinner at my sister's today. She's just all-around thoughtful.

Fin

The Hills Are Alive.

I don't know how they found me. They meaning my high school alumni association. I got home from school yesterday, and I saw this gold piece of paper sticking out of my mailbox. It couldn't be, I thought. How did they know my address? That gold color of paper is reserved for one thing only, and that's correspondence from my high school. No one likes that color, so no one uses it. I remember in elementary school, when the teacher would pass around handouts, that yellow color was the one that no one took. If there was a green or pink alternative, you bet those were gone first. But maroon and gold were the colors of the Las Lomas Knights, and they'll haunt me forevermore.

If I could have any accent, it'd be one from the Bronx. Da Brawnx. Instead all I've got is hella good, cuz you know that word comes from the Bay Hizzy.

I was supposed to go to a class at 8 am this morning. I went to bed early--11 pm--and set my alarm for about 7:15. The alarm went off and I stayed in bed. 8 am class?! Gross! The only reason I'm taking this particular class is because I want to learn AVID, an editing software. But really, I'm auditing the class, so who cares if I'm there anyway? So I don't learn AVID. I'll probably regret it someday, but not today! Oh no! I slept for ten hours!

Phil and I were going to leave for LA tonight, but I bailed because I have a ton of homework. I'm really sad.

Yesterday I woke up with a canker sore the size of a nickel in the back of my mouth. Today I woke up and I'd say it's about the size of a quarter. I am in a lot of pain, and if you see me around Provo/Orem/Salt Lake in the next few days, I might only mumble a hello.

So. The stupidest statement of the semester has already been issued. (Considering it happened on the second day of class, I'm hopeful for repeat performances). I was in my religion class and we were talking about sustaining our church leaders, and particularly, how it's rare to see an opposition. My teacher played us a clip of a General Conference session from 1980. He prefaces the clip with the comment: "Three femme-Nazis opposed President Kimball..." Femme-Nazis. I thought references to the most evil fascist group of all time should be reserved for a historical context. Apparently a few factions have survived. At any rate, we watched the clip, which wasn't anything special. Elder McConkie got up and said, "We'll meet with you after" yadda yadda. Then my teacher says, "Yes well, these women weren't in good standing with the church anyway, so basically their comments didn't count. It was something about...hugh...wanting the priesthood or something. You know, the normal sort of thing."

Offenses committed:
1) Reference to evil fascist group that automatically and unjustifiably brands the women as insane.
2) The fact my teacher assumed these women weren't in good standing, perpetuating the negative reputation he gave them.
3) Touting off a woman's desire to hold the priesthood as trite and insignificant.
4) Being an idiot in general.

Tonight I'm going on a date with Britt. We're going to see Jerry Spinelli, author of Stargirl, in Salt Lake City. I'm not sure which I'm more excited for: the prospect of having Spinelli sign my copy of Stargirl, or the fact I'm going on a date with Britt. Too bad Jaren's not coming too, eh Britt?

A Babysitter's Club Confession.

Dear Diary,

Tonight I went on a date with Alex. It was really fun. At first I wasn't sure if it was friend fun or hunk fun, but by the end of the night I realized it was both. I thought it might be awkward, but it totally wasn't. Alex is really cool. He is funny and he laughs a lot. He likes really good music, and he knows about a lot of things, and that makes him really smart. It turns out we have a lot of the same friends, which is really funny, because I don't think I've ever seen him before in my life, except for last Saturday when I met him, and then tonight. He just dropped me off at home. It's 3:30 am. I mean like, that's how much fun we had. We had sushi for dinner, and then we crashed a Boy Scout jamboree up in the mountains. Then we met up with friends and went deep into the Uintas to have a campfire and watch the stars. We saw a gazillion shooting stars. We laughed so hard all night, and it was like, the best ever. I can't laugh like that with too many people.

Anyway Diary, I am really tired and I have a lot of homework this weekend. Homework sucks! Ohmigah, did I tell you about that creep who stalked me coming home from school today? It was the worst ever. I was riding my bike, and he seriously followed me forever. I glared at him and he finally left me alone. But crazy, huh? Guys are so gross.

Okay, I'm really going to bed now.

Love Lisa

Shove it up your sweater.

It's official: My car is a Utahn. I got the plates today. I went with the arches, considering "Ski Utah" is a behavior I've successfully avoided these past four years.

School. I'm on Day Three. No class tomorrow. The first time you attend a new class is a high pressure time. Forget the syllabus--the first day of any given class is good for one thing only: to scope out the dudes and babes. Each semester I have high hopes that one of these dudes will fall in love with my mug, and I'll fall in love with his, and that'll be that. But that never happens. Inevitably, I take the classes with puny, fresh-off-the-mish punks who freak out at the mere sight of a girl, let alone talking to one. This is the story in my documentary film class. Then there's my Super 8 class, where I already know half of the dudes. My Media Literacy class would be okay, except that I've TA'd a fourth of the kids in that class, and the majority of the dudes are actual doods. I just added my Living Prophets class today so there's still potential, but I'm soured by my previous eight semesters of slim pickings.

I think I am going on a hunt for Sasquatch soon. I say this because he's been coming up in conversation a lot. First, my friend Nick invited me on a Sasquatch hunt last week. Second, Jim, Marcus, Regan, Laura and I were all talking about Sasquatch tonight. Jim knows someone who watched his dog being eaten by Sasquatch, and my dad has seen him up in the Uintas.

The girl who sold me my sip at 7-11 today said to me, "I remember you from the other day when you were in here. I don't think too many people can pull off a Monroe piercing, but you could do it." "Heh heh. Okay. Thanks," I said hurriedly.

Today in Media Literacy, Professor Cutri gave us all three Post-It notes. He said a word and we were supposed to write the first thing that came into our heads. First he said "Mexican." I wrote "hispanic," because I grew up calling Mexican people Hispanics. 24 out of the 40 people in the class wrote "taco" or "food." (An entire, thousands-of-years-old civilization, and they could only think of Del Taco). A few people wrote "dirty." About 12 wrote "illegal immigrant." Then Cutri said "homosexual." I wrote Chelsea, the notoriously gay neighborhood of New York. Most people wrote "gay." A small faction wrote "gross." Someone said "San Francisco." For some completely un-humorous reason (at least un-humorous to me), this elicited laughter from the class. I believe one person wrote "sinner." I wonder how many people were lying. I'm going to wager at least two-thirds of the people who wrote gay lied, because I think the word "fa****" (I loathe this word) comes to a bro's mind much more readily than the word gay.

The saddest part is that I don't expect anything else.

I'm a hopeless __________.

I'm on Day Two of my last semester of college. I am neither excited nor bored, enthused nor distressed, expectant nor passive. This idea of "grades" is weird to me. I would rather get paid for my work than pay to work.

Campus is slightly lonelier now. I feel so old and cynical. (I've always felt old and cynical).

I have a date Friday night. Dates make me feel awkward. (Formality makes me feel awkward).

I would like to say that I looked very cute today. Grey Pumas, cuffed dark jeans, ruffly plaid blouse, St. Anthony medallion, red flight bag, and green coat. What is funny about my outfit is my St. Anthony medallion, which I found (or rather stole) off Sullivan Street, my favorite street in all of New York. It was just lying there on the steps of the Shrine of St. Anthony Catholic church (located at 154 Sullivan Street, NY-NY 10012) and, thinking it was the coolest thing I'd ever seen, I snatched it and snuck it into my pocket. None of this is too weird, considering the long-held "Finders Keepers, Losers Weepers" mantra I've subscribed to, but what is weird is the fact that the beloved St. Anthony is the patron saint of lost and stolen articles. Some lowly priest lost that medallion, and I stole it. Where's St. Anthony now?

My neighbor who lives downstairs, Roger, is a smoker. I know because his back porch is right below my bedroom windows, which are almost always open, so I breathe his secondhand regularly. I am not okay with this since it's hurting my chances of living 'til age 95. What I am also not okay with is Roger's habit of coughing, snorting, curdling, hocking, and loogeying his phlegm on this back porch every morning when he wakes up. Not only is it disgusting, but also it is a most unpleasant alarm clock.

Today was Regan's birthday. He didn't tell me until we got back to my house, and as we embraced he said, "Happy Birthday Regan" and quickly scampered to his car. I turned, a quizzical look plastered on my face. I feel like a real schmuck.

I am allergic to the letter Y.

It's a Saturday, school doesn't start for four days, yet I'm writing this from a computer lab in the Wilk at BYU. I promised myself that this semester I would look into people's hearts before I became annoyed with them. I promised myself I would be nice and shirk off people's ignorant comments. I promised myself I would get to know people before I decided whether I liked them or not. I've been on campus a total of ten minutes, and so far I haven't succeeded. I am just as annoyed with this place as I was when I left it in April. It's going to take some brain re-training.

On a side note, the girl sitting next to me is on an Air Supply fan web site--this one, in fact. Yes, Air Supply. The band that sings "All By Myself."

The other day I was driving up to Dave's, and I was caught behind a school bus. I was being patient. I stopped the perfunctory distance allotment behind the bus and its flashing lights. I waited as all the children laughed and cheered and scurried home to watch their afternoon cartoons. I also scrutinized these children, our leaders of tomorrow. These children were perfect clones of their adult counterparts. There were young boys, outfitted in plaid shorts, white K-Swiss and abercrombie kids t-shirts--bros-in-training, release date TBD. There were a few edgier kids, sure-fire My Chemical Romance devotees starting this time next year. There were the band geeks, lugging their person-sized trombones and tubas. Then there were the geeks. Oh, lowly geeks. As a child, you almost don't have a choice whether you're a geek or not, since so much depends on how your parents dress you and what they buy for you. I was a geek, but it was my choice, because my older sister was very popular. I chose my station. I remember reading a few years ago about how in times of affluence, people dress their children like themselves. This started in the Renaissance; any painting you see of the aristocracy of that era surely depicts the adults and their miniature counterparts in identical clothing styles. We've seen this the past few years also, as five-year-olds wear mini skirts and numerous adult stores have launched children's lines.

Yesterday, my dad, my brother-in-law and I went ATVing up in the Uintas, some of the most gorgeous terrain I've ever seen. When I was a sophomore in high school, I took one of those career tests, and it told me to be a park ranger. A) Because I am a good oral communicator. B) Because I love nature. The yearly salary initially discouraged me from this path. For some reason, I was under the illusion journalists actually made money. Anyway, my dad tried to go up this steep hill on his ATV. I conquered it with minimal difficulty, but my dad panicked and ending up revving--in reverse--into a tree. The ATV was fine, but we had to tow it out. Later he got stuck in a mud puddle. Whenever I saw my dad in the distance on his little green ATV, I pretended he was Yoshi and I was Luigi, and we were in a MarioKart race, and I sang songs from "The Sound of Music" at the top of my lungs the whole day, because the Uintas start looking like the Alps. (When my Great-Grandpa Walter Ruefenacht came to Utah from Switzerland in 1910, he wrote home and told everyone to come to Utah because it "looks like the Alps").

Rory and I invented the term "Cougster," which refers to BYU hipsters. They ride cruisers and wear cut-off shorts and Vans and American Apparel t-shirts. They bathe more frequently than hipsters, but only because they go to church on Sunday. Also, they host dance parties.

I am really excited to move away in four months.

Perfection

I don't know what I did to deserve my life. Maybe it was because when I was really little I would steal my baby brother's bottles out of his crib while he napped for my old sister, because she asked me to. Or maybe it was because one time my brother ran outside, naked, his underwear on his head, and I was down the street playing with the "big kids" on the street, and when they laughed at him I defended him. Or maybe it was because I thought pouring salt on slugs, or shining the sun onto caterpillars through a magnifying glass was a horrible and inhumane thing to do, and I wouldn't stand for it.

Today is my birthday, you see. I am 22. When I was a little kid, I never really had parties. I have a late summer birthday, and every one of my friends was always off on their last vacation before school started. The last time I tried to have a party was when I was 11. It was the summer between 5th and 6th grade. My only friend who was in town was Stephanie Ferguson. The two of us and my mom went to Fresh Choice. I sort of liked Winnie the Pooh at the time, and Stephanie gave me a fake silk vest that had Winnie the Pooh all over it. Let me just say that the second I laid eyes on that vest was the second I stopped liking Winnie the Pooh. That thing was hideous, and there was no way in hell I would be caught dead wearing it.

Needless to say, this attempt at a birthday party was my last.

My dad's been giving me a hard time for weeks about this BBQ I had tonight. He wanted me to be home with the family on my actual birthday. I recounted this story to him, about how I just wanted to party with my friends on my actual birthday since I never did as a kid. I don't think he really understood why I had to have this BBQ. It was just one of those things I had to do.

But tonight was one of the most perfect nights of my life. I was surrounded by my dearest friends (minus a few key members, plus the entire New York gang--I miss you guys so much), all joined together by good food, good conversation, and love. As Jesse Rex Tucker put it, it felt like what I picture heaven to be like. All of my worlds collided tonight, and I watched as my friends mingled and talked and tightened our web of love. Pure joy is a good way to define what I felt. Pure joy mixed with pure beauty mixed with pure, perfect love. It transcended earthly emotion. To feel so unabashedly loved by these people and to declare my love back. I'm pretty sure I beamed. I like it when I beam.

I also like being in love with nothing and everything, which only happens when life is good to me. Too good to me in this case.

Mama, Don't Take My Kodachrome Away.

Here are a few of those Kodachrome photos I promised you.

The East Coast girls are hip. I really dig those styles they wear.

I am not sure how it happened, but I think I might have turned into a prep.

My suspicions started a few days ago when I got this coat from Banana Republic for my birthday. It's sassy, but it's khaki. I've often avoided khaki for its resemblance to flesh tone, as well as its immediate association with Dockers and the "business casual" aesthetic. Granted, this lady looks like a dork, and I look more like Agent 99 when I wear this coat, but khaki should be reserved for safaris and jungle expeditions only. What am I thinking?!?!

Then I went to the Gap with my mom, and I got two blouses. Blouses--fine, but the fact I have a tag touching my skin that belongs to the yuppiest brand known to mankind has caused a rash on my neck. Granted, it's completely psychosomatic, but it's the Gap, People! They made the jumper popular! They desecrated Audrey Hepburn! They mass market shoddy construction! Their store is called the Gap!

I think the deal was sealed when I left my room this morning sporting a snazzy skinny jean, red shoes (as usual), one of those Gap blouses and my trench. The outfit was blazing, I'll tell you what. I looked hot. But as soon as my mother saw me (my mother who has tirelessly berated my choices in fashion since junior high, my mother who's asked me more than once "why I can't just dress normally," my mother who said in June "Well, you certainly don't dress like the rest of the family"), she said, "You look so preppy! It's nice."

I just about puked.

Moving along, my parents' town is full of high school hipster scum. The H&M-bargain-bin-slumming, riff-raff type of hipster. There's a stank throughout downtown Walnut Creek because of these kids. As my friend John says, "We will look back ten years from now and regard the hipster movement as distastefully as we do the 'hair metal' movement of the '80s."

I sure hope he's right.

My life doesn't stop getting better.

1) My dad bought a slide scanner from B.H. (on 9th Ave. in NYC! It's a huge camera store. I would always go there after work. There and Strand Books or Academy Records, all within walking distance of work. Man, I miss midtown!!) So on Thursday, I spent my whole day scanning Kodachrome slides of my dad and my grandma and my aunt. (I'm going to post some once I can get them into Photoshop and resize them. They're all currently too large to post). I can't even remember a day that good. Kodachrome photos are so beautiful; they make me cry. The colors spark this emotional fuse inside my body that few things can ignite: mainly just Kodachrome, shooting into the sun, and...
2) Debussy. I've been practicing the piano a ton since I got home, primarily Debussy. "Arabesque #1" (or is it #2?) and "Reverie" and my theme song "Girl with the Flaxen Hair." Debussy definitely does it for me. Not so much when I listen to other people play him though, just when I do. Other people don't understand how he wanted his pieces to sound at all. You really have to put your soul into your playing when you play Debussy, or you just sound like you're playing Clementi or some boring composer from the classical era. For the record, Debussy is also my favorite to sing. Forget jazz--Debussy wrote some of the most gorgeous art songs for piano and voice. Maybe sometime I will sing my favorites for you.
3) Yesterday I took Phoebe (my mom's dog) on a walk around the Lafayette Reservoir. It's a place I frequented as a child: BBQs, walks with my dad, flying kites with my dad, fishing with my dad, a Christmas picture on this tree that grew horizontally for a little while so it's a big, airborne bench now--you get the picture. But last night it was just me, Phoebe, my Holga, and Katie and Kimba running. I started out on the path, the setting sun trickling through the trees on the far hill. Suddenly, I heard someone call out my name. "Lisa!" shouted a vaguely familiar voice. I turned, and it was Ms. Krug, my French teacher from junior high. I couldn't believe she remembered me. "I remember all my students," she said. She reminisced about my talents in French, what a natural accent I had, how she still shows my "Un Jour Dans Ma Vie" project to her students, and they ooh-and-ah at it, asking if it has to be that good. I say this not to brag, but to point out how good I once was at French. Now I can hardly say "My name is Lisa." I've been wanting to get back into it, I told her, and she told me to read translations of Mary Higgins Clark's books. Great idea! So I'm ordering some off the Canadian Amazon. I told her I'm moving back to New York, that I want to work for the BBC. She beamed. "I always knew you'd do something really cool, " she said. I like to think it's cool too. Ms. Krug provided my first exposure to international affairs, though indirectly. She adopted a girl from Nicaragua--Marita. She is seriously the coolest teacher I've ever had. And I think I was supposed to see her, because she confirmed for me all the paths I'm considering.
4) Today I spent the day at my grandma's house, packing up the last of her things. I packed up boxes and boxes of old postcards she'd written to my great aunts. Photos ranging from the 1910s of my grandpa and his gorgeous sisters, to the 1980s when my parents married. Anyone who knows me knows I am fascinated by all things old, and especially old photos and the people they immortalize. I found a wedding photo of Grandma and Papa. Neither is smiling, but they both have a glimmer of satisfaction in their eyes. They are a smashing couple, impeccably dressed. It's a black and white photo, but it looks like my grandma is wearing red lipstick to match her fiery red hair. I wish I'd gotten her red hair.

My dad has decided to nurture my love for photography, so he let me keep two old cameras I found among the remains: a 35mm point-and-shoot Kyocera with a Carl Zeiss lens, and an Olympus SLR that has a few lenses with it.

Right before I started writing this, I was playing Guitar Hero 2, and I played "Sweet Child O' Mine" on expert, and I scored over 300,000 points! I didn't think that was possible, but apparently I rock really hard.

The photo booth photos I posted are from Coney Island, the Wednesday a week before I left New York. That's me and Megan, and then me and Megan with Phil and Dan. Some of the best times of my life. I crave New York so very much. I think I am making a trip there in October, because I cannot comprehend a life that doesn't include a future with that glorious city.

My brother and sister are awfully crabby these days. My sister because she's stressed about going to college. An understandable fear, of course, but she'll be in Provo with me and our older sister and her family, so really she has this amazing, pre-assembled safety net. I didn't have that. I had my sister, who I was not close to at all, and Tom. Then there's Michael, who, at 16-almost-17, feels like my dad thinks he's stupid. This is not the case, but as a hormonally tumultuous young man, he can't seem to shake that feeling.

I know I'm past my teenage anxieties and mood swings because I think my parents are funny now. I used to think they were idiots--the stupid kid. My dad was acting like an idiot today, but the funny kind of idiot. And I just, I, I love them so much. I keep thinking back to when I was a little kid and it feels so recent. I was looking out my grandma's living room window today, watching my brother and dad working outside, and I had a flashback to when I was a little kid and we'd come to my grandparents' house every weekend to play in the pool that had this giant black octopus made out of tile at the bottom and in the yard and maybe do some yard work. And I felt like a kid today. I felt so young and so naive but at the same time so mature and ready for adulthood. It was the oddest feeling.

Life doesn't stop getting better.

It's time for a revolution.

My mom's dog is the stupidest dog ever to walk the face of the earth. Her name is Phoebe. She's a one-and-a-half-year-old black and tan mini dachshund. She likes chewing on things. Bones, dehydrated bull testicles (her favorite), green bones shaped like toothbrushes. My shoes. My stuffed animals (granted, their purpose is only to deal me a dose of nostalgia). My brother's video game controllers and memory cards. Phoebe is mostly stupid because she pees in the house, even after she's just gone to the bathroom outside. She will only pee on green rugs and green grass. She just pooed in the hallway that leads to my bedroom. My mom won't yell at her, but I will, so now Phoebe runs under my bed where I can't reach her every time she does something wrong. I seriously hate this dog. She is 11.14 pounds of mischief and loathing.

Home is good. Tonight I attended a Relief Society recipe night with my dear mother, who serves as RS president. Most people I talked to were astounded by a) how great my hair looks, b) how great I look, and c) with the fact I am not engaged, not married, not dating anyone, and no closer or further away from serving a mission than I was the last time they talked to me. So what if people my age from my home ward are engaged? So what if girls who are younger than I am are "beating me" in serving missions? (Granted, this comment was made by the mentally-ill woman in my home ward. I slyly retorted, "Well, I didn't know I was in a race with them, so they're not really beating me.") The pressures of 20-something Mormon culture never cease to disgust me. I don't know why the lot of us "rebels" haven't started a revolution.

(For the record, I've always found my home ward brothers and sisters to be very fair, understanding, and altogether supportive of my chosen path. Tonight was a rare occurrence as I was surrounded by a handful of women I did not know, and now don't care to know any better).

Alas, home has been very nice. A cool high-70s/low-80s, sunshine, Guitar Heroes 1, 2, and '80s, Kevin's copy of Moonshadow. Not to mention my dear mother spoils me rotten.

My favorite times have been riding in the car with my brother Michael. Windows down, radio blasting Dio's "Holy Diver." I also enjoyed my walk with Katie and the dogs last night. I saw Ryan running on the trail. Ryan my ex who I saw in New York a few weeks ago. Then today I saw Sloan. Sloan my first love. I randomly see him every time I come home. It's odd.

lies, lies, lies

This morning is the first morning I feel very homesick. I've had a fun few days in Utah thus far, with minimal grieving, and lots of joyous reunions. (Of course, I've been staying inside as much as possible, because this way I can fool myself into thinking New York is outside). But this morning I want to go home. Luckily I'm going to California tomorrow. That sort of counts.

I watched the meteor shower last night. Phil, Cade and I went up to my special spot in the mountains and watched it. It was really cloudy. That was disappointing. But we still saw some meteors, and I came back to my sister's house and watched it some more and saw some of the hugest meteor streaks I've ever seen. A few streaking across the entire sky. I want to ride a meteor.

I have been kissed by two boys since I've been back in Utah. Well, one is more of a man. The other is a bit more of a boy. I can tell one is more of a man because he's not intimidated by my maturity, the level of which is rare to an almost-22-year-old. The boy is. "How are you so dang mature, Lisa?" he asked me yesterday. But I've always been this way.

I saw my old friend Colin at an art opening I went to with Phil on Saturday. For about two years, Colin and I hung out all the time. We were really great friends, until one day last year. I'm still not sure what happened. I was living with Margaret at the time. I was messing around at home with Thayne, when Colin, Margaret and Joey come in. Thayne and I left soon after, not because they came home, but because we were headed somewhere. A while later I was looking through my myspace friends and noticed Colin had deleted me--not his profile, just me. By that time, we didn't hang out much anymore and I was over it. I never knew what happened, what I did. But then I saw him Saturday. I was so surprised. This is a kid who swore he'd be in Utah for only three years, to get his MFA and get out. I figured he was long gone. Yet here he was. I called out his name a few times. I know he heard me. He completely ignored me. He was wearing a cowboy hat.

I had a satisfying laugh about that one.

Yesterday morning I had a dream that someone came into my sister's house through the front door while I was sleeping. I yelled, "Who's there?" in the dream. I heard the door close again, and the person seemed to be gone.

Then yesterday after I got home from church, I noticed the front door was unlocked. I found this odd, considering I've hardly used it since I've been here, and I'm an obsessive compulsive door locker, and no one else has a key. Anyway it was weird because I dreamed it and then it happened. Get it?

My parents and my friend Tom's parents have been plotting our marriage for years, since the beginning of my BYU career. He lives in Arizona now though. Yesterday my mom called and told me I should probably go to Phoenix to visit him. "I'll bet now that they're not in the same town, they'll realize how perfect they are for each other," his mother said to mine at church yesterday, among many other silly things.

YAY!! I am listening to Pandora, and a song from "Once" just came on! Happiness abounds.

And so it goes.

Normally I wouldn't dare quote Vonnegut, so I added the "And."

But so it goes, Friends. I leave New York today. You all know I'm sad. You all know I'm nervous. I'll spare you.

This summer I earned a young man's affections in Provo. I'm seeing him tonight. My outlook on love and relationships is objective these days: if it works, fine--if it doesn't, it wasn't meant to be. Some of the stupidest mistakes I've ever made have been wasting my time with guys who I knew either a) weren't good enough for me, or b) just weren't compatible with me. Those days are over. I am almost 22, for crying out loud!! My marrying days are almost over!!

I had an interesting dream the other night. It's rare I remember a dream in the first place, but even rarer I remember a dream with this much symbolism.

So you see, I was sitting by a window. I think it may have been in my bedroom in Provo, but I never saw the whole room. But this bug--this big blue and black bug--kept flying in the window. It had a long metal skewer-like beak coming out of its mouth. It kept flying toward me, and after a few good looks I realized it was not a big blue and black bug, but a big blue and black hummingbird. I was holding my left hand out, palm facing down, and inexplicably, the hummingbird kept poking its long, syringe-like beak into my hand. It hurt! I would grab the hummingbird each time it did this, removing its beak from my tender skin with a quick swoop and thrusting the bird out the open window. But the bird always came back, and each time it came back, it poked my hand in a new place, and each time I thrust it out the window, it came back. After about seven rounds of this, the bird finally disappeared. I'm not sure where to. I thought it was over, until I stared at my delicate hand. Simultaneously, each hole the hummingbird had made began streaming blood--the reddest, silkiest, most intoxicating blood you've ever seen.

Having such a weird dream, I turned right to a dream dictionary to diagnose my crazy mind. Apparently, dreaming about your hands represents your relationships and how you connect with the world. Specifically, the left hand symbolizes a person's graciousness and feminine, receptive qualities. Injured hands denote an attack on your ego. Blood on your hands signifies guilt. This all makes sense because a) I am a woman, and b) a friend called me on something the other night, saying they were a little disappointed, and that bruised my ego, and c) I feel guilty pretty much all the time, mostly for stupid little things, but it's still a valid emotion.

The hummingbird suggests that small ideas or concepts may possess great potential or power. It also indicates flighty thoughts and frivolous ideas (aren't those two completely contradictory?) Alternatively, it may be a metaphor for one's inability to commit to a relationship. (These definitions all fit me pretty well). Though something I'd like to pursue in the future, the idea of marriage at my young age really bothers me. I am much too independent. I mentioned the hummingbird was blue and black; these colors happen to be the color of a sweater I bought here in New York, so I'm leaving that one to coincidence.

Windows signify bright hopes, vast possibilities and insight--all accurate, considering my recent job offers.

Anyway I have an hour before I need to leave for the airport, so I guess I'll see ya.

I was meant for the city.

Right now I am listening to Sonic Youth and packing. Sonic Youth because they fill my heart with an inexplicable happiness, even on my shoddy laptop speakers. Packing because I have to leave New York.

I have four bags--a suitcase and duffle bag to check, plus a carry-on suitcase I bought today for $15, and my laptop bag/purse. When I arrived in New York City, I had about 100 pounds of stuff between two suitcases and my laptop bag. I'm not sure how much I have now, but the new suitcase I got basically only holds the 27 albums I've bought here, plus a few normal-size books, and Geoff's book. So that excludes everything else I've bought while I've been here. Not to mention the ten pounds of PC Magazines I have to keep because they contain my bylines. I'm trying to stuff clothes into the perimeter. I'm trying to stuff anything I can into the perimeter really. Bloody hell.

I'm using my dad's backpacking packing mantra, which is: "Every ounce counts." My dad is one of those crazy backpackers whose backpack for a week-long, 50-mile trip weighs six pounds before food. Yes, six pounds before food. So basically I am throwing away anything possible. Papers, pens, almost-empty bath products, shoes, lacy underthings--even my favorite polo shirt (sure, it saw me through four years of college, but it's full of holes. Too bad I'm such a sentimental sop, and a pack rat. It's a horrible combination. I don't recommend either habit). Of course, I have perfected the clothes roll, which is a major space saver. And I brought stupid stuff when I came out here, like nuts from Costco, and soap. (I haven't used soap since the sixth grade. I use body wash. I think I took my dad's other motto, "Be Prepared," a little too seriously). So yeah. I'm hoping I can throw away enough that I can keep enough, if that makes sense.

As for my sanity, it is slowly leaving me. I grow increasingly sicker to my stomach, which means I'm not eating, which means I'm going to die in two weeks or less. As I've told everyone who's asked, I am zero percent excited to leave New York, which means I am 100 percent nervous to go back. I've already made it clear to most of my friends that if I don't call them this first weekend I'm back, it's nothing they can help--I'm just grieving.

Okay really I'm just pretending about all this drama queen stuff. Sort of. Ten percent pretending.

I love being alone.

I am sick of touching strangers. I touch them all the time, every day. On the subway. On the sidewalks. In the grocery store. In restaurants. Waiting in lines. Lines! When I first got to New York, I was overwhelmed with all the standing in lines I do. I would joke, "When people ask me what I did in New York, I'm going to say I waited in line!" I'm used to waiting in line now, but I still don't like touching strangers. Luckily I'm pretty good at maneuvering my body through tight spaces without touching anything, like the tweezers in Operation.

I've decided to make a big change in my life. It's going to affect some people. I'm not sure if they'll like the change, but I will. Sometimes you have to do things for yourself. I've learned a lot of things about myself this summer.

My dad has this phrase--his catchphrase, I guess you could call it, but he directs it toward me exclusively. A few months ago, I was struggling with certain things, and my dad said to me, "Fly with the eagles, Lisa." I didn't take this to heart. He bought me a ceramic bald eagle statue from Cabelas, and when he gave it to me, I laughed. It hurt his feelings. We fought about this. We always fight when he knows I'm struggling. Last night I was talking to my mom and I told her, "You know Mom, I've been flying with the eagles all summer, and I'm not going to stop." She called me a few hours later as I was falling asleep to tell me that Dad was proud of me. "Why?" I asked. "Because you told me you're flying with eagles. He asked if you really said that, that you were flying with eagles like he said, and I told him you'd really said you were 'flying with the eagles.' He was so happy you'd said that."

I have really amazing parents. One of my lifelong goals is to be as good of parents as they've been.

It's funny how our emotions change as we get older. When you're a kid, you really only feel happiness and sadness. I'm sad because my fish died. I'm happy because I'm eating a popsicle. Those are really the only realities. Once you hit puberty, you've added maybe 30. Awkwardness, self-consciousness. By the time you're an adult, you've added hundreds of emotions to those initial two. Confusion, betrayal, depression, elation, jubilation, annoyance. Life grows more complex, but we grow better equipped to handle it. At least that's the goal.

Tomorrow is my last day of work. I'm going to play Nintendo Wii and Guitar Hero all day.

I am nervous to go back to Provo. My life is no longer there.

I am happier than I've been in a very long time. Genuinely happy. Full of peace and joy. My life is on a very good path.

What can you do? We're through.

I predicted accurately that Tuesday would be a good day. First, I e-mailed a guy from this Web site I just reviewed that's based in Lindon, UT: footnote.com. The site has a partnership with the National Archives and a few other libraries, and they're digitizing EVERY document in their holdings. (There are about 9 billion documents in the National Archives alone!) At any rate, I sent along my resume, inquiring if they had any open positions I'd fit into. I got a quick e-mail back saying, Yes! We do! And it's only part time work, which is exactly what I need! It's not a sure thing, but it's at least out on the table. I was so happy. Then, one of my editors at PC Mag asked if I wanted to do some freelancing once I'm back in Utah. Heck yes, I do! Then Phil and I played Marry Boff Kill for three hours and laughed and hollered and had a blast. My favorite option Phil gave me was Billy Corgan; he had an upside-down mouth, suffered from seizures every 30 seconds, and he was a highlander. Genius!

Last night I went to Coney Island with Megan, Phil and Dan. We rode the Cyclone! Phil and I rode it twice! Once again we laughed and hollered and had a blast. We ate at Nathan's. We took photos in the photo booth. We played Marry Boff Kill. Megan and I started our stop motion short film. Yancy was sad he couldn't come too. So were we.

Tonight after work I bought a white dress. Then I went record shopping (go figure). Then I went to a guitar shop that had the most beautiful collection of hollow bodied Gretsch's, and the guys who worked there just sat and played a different guitar whenever they wanted to (keep in mind they're playing $3,000-and-up gems!!). Then I relaxed on a bench in Washington Square Park for awhile. There was a man playing guitar and singing songs, and he was VERY good. He started playing the great love song "I'm Gonna Sit Right Down and Write Myself a Letter," which he must've known is one of my favs thanks to Sara Vaughan. The last line of the song says, "I'm gonna sit right down and write myself a letter and make believe it came from you." As he sang that, I turned to look at him, and he sang that last line to me! It was so cute and I threw my head back and tossed my hair and grinned a big grin as I do when I really think something's funny, and he fell in love with me right then and there. Then I saw "My Best Friend," aka "Mon Meilleur Ami." It wasn't as good as I'd hoped.

All I know is that if adulthood is anything like this summer has been, I've got a great future ahead of me.

Make sure you listen to this.

Here is a list of my favorite songs that are so beautiful they make me cry.

Jussi Bjorling--"Morgen"
Gavin Clarke--"Never Seen the Sea"
Yann Tiersen--"La Terrasse"
Chet Baker--"I Get Along Without You Very Well," "Little Girl Blue"
Loney, Dear--"Where Are You Go Go Going To?"
Daedelus--"Muggle Born"
(Smog)--"I Feel Like the Mother of the World"
The Moody Blues--"Nights in White Satin"
Nina Simone--"Wild is the Wind"
Petula Clark--"Downtown"

Stupid Stupid-head!

Today is a good day. I feel it in my loins. Loin is a weird word. It makes me think of pork. I don't like pork.

Last night I met up with a friend and his brother, and Lani (bless her heart--she won an extra day in New York because her flight got canceled) at Pepe Rosso, my favorite Italian restaurant in all of New York City. I've mentioned it before. It's that place where all of Italy congregates, with a few French and Spanish stragglers. It's great!

Well, we had just barely sat down when my friend's brother blurts out, "Man, I couldn't believe those Cheney kids at BYU this year." Lani and I look at each other straightaway. He does not want to get into this, I think. "I couldn't believe those kids had such disrespect for that political office. If Bill Clinton came, I would respect him." Poor argument, Buddy. You and your conservative comrades proved that wouldn't be the case my freshman year at BYU, when former White House press correspondent Helen Thomas was booed during a forum in the Marriott Center. If kids can't handle a liberal journalist, they sure can't handle a full-fledged liberal politician! At any rate, he continued, saying, "I think it's okay for the women to protest. But the men who protested? What a bunch of sissies! Liberal men are so girly." I looked him straight in the eye, my jaw gaping, and clarified: "You really think liberal men are effeminate?" Yes, he confirmed. "Conversely, do you think being conservative makes a woman more manly?" Yes, he confirmed. We hashed it out over Cheney for a while. He couldn't grasp why any Mormon wouldn't like Cheney. I brought up the unethical things Cheney's done, his inappropriate behavior, his questionable company ties, and all this kid could do was roll his eyes. Apparently being Republican is more important to him than being Christ-like. He asked if I would ever vote for Mitt Romney. I said I don't want a Republican John Kerry for president. But he's Mormon! So what? I don't like him. Are you pro-life? I didn't answer. Gay marriage? You don't want to get into this, I said. I debated whether or not I should tell him I'm pro-marijuana legalization. I'll bet 95 percent of Mormons voted Republican in the last election, he said. Take Utah County, for example. At least 95 percent, and that's a pretty good judge of Mormons, he said. My jaw dropped again. 80 percent at most, I said. I think most Democrats in Utah only vote that way to be different, he continued. They just want to be independent, you know, they don't want to fit in. This kid! He drew from extreme upon extreme as his examples, and each time I countered him with truth. And to think he's in law school! I kicked his trash. By the end of our conversation he was stammering "I don't knows" and stuttering and rolling his eyes. But hey--I've spent four years debating knuckleheads like him, so I'm pretty pro.

There are some huge idiots in this world, my friends. Let's take 'em down.