tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-229336632024-03-13T13:55:40.936-06:00All My Gettings"...with all thy getting, get understanding" Proverbs 4.7aleahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07433827353031591799noreply@blogger.comBlogger315125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22933663.post-49570534086019193652012-11-14T19:58:00.000-07:002012-11-14T19:58:20.084-07:00Avec moi, le delugeI collect toy version of Noah and his ark. No, really, stay with me here. This has been going on for a few years now. Largely, I'm tickled by the fact that so many of them exist. I mean, after all, the Flood was essentially the mass murder of 99.99% of humanity. And yet, we have miniaturized it and molded it out of plastic for kiddos to amuse themselves. Well, kiddos and at least this one adult. (I'm an adult, right? Like, I voted a few weeks ago, and own a car, and pay my own rent. I'm not still a whippersnapper, am I? Will I ever not wonder about this?)<br />
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My latest two acquisitions are pretty stellar. One for being imponderable. The other for being adorable. (Actually, if we go back to the my antepenultimate acquisition, we get the "Noah tree". Which is what it sounds like, as much as Noah tree can sound like a thing. It's a wooden shape with three limbs perpendicular to a base off of which hang twinned pairs of animals. And a helpful "Noah's Ark" sign. I'd post a picture, but last time I tried to move it the pieces scattered everywhere and I despaired for the continued existence of zebras after the 40 days and nights when I momentarily could not find them.)<br />
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So, the first one is weird because it's marketed as a Noah's Ark toy, but...well, let's just jump to image, shall we?<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbErpDigAP_lg0hqZf5D6vrnPh5UMCUE3ikcQXTvBAc13Xl1OE7tM44Lu1lQ73SQXFo2Pf7esBm9CGLSYNAQiACo87pLSZzr6Itik4j-G4A6WWtYhLkgyUWDox5zanPtI8fXWN/s1600/fullnoah.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="285" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbErpDigAP_lg0hqZf5D6vrnPh5UMCUE3ikcQXTvBAc13Xl1OE7tM44Lu1lQ73SQXFo2Pf7esBm9CGLSYNAQiACo87pLSZzr6Itik4j-G4A6WWtYhLkgyUWDox5zanPtI8fXWN/s400/fullnoah.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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There are no pairs of animals here. Nor does Noah have a wife. Instead, we get this random assortment of critters. It's not so much Noah's ark as Noah's menagerie and petting zoo (as there's a weird mishmash between tigers and pigs, elephants and horses, giraffes and cows). What's even better is Noah himself. Now, I know we might not know when <i>precisely</i> the Flood went down, but it was before the 19th Century, wasn't it? Because Noah sure is rocking the late century French sailor thing, even down to the brass buttons and salty beard. </div>
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I don't even really know what to do with this guy. But he's also pretty unsure, with those shifty eyes, always looking off to the side. He's a suspicious one. Though, I mean, if you were alone on a boat with this motley crew of animals, wouldn't you be giving side-eye to the tiger? You know he's got something up his sleeve. Plus, the pig and the giraffe have been grousing a lot and this guy is dangerously close to having a mutiny on his hands. If he had hands, that is. Though is sailor even the right profession here? He kinda looks like a train conductor, doesn't he? I guess a boat is just a train that goes on water. </div>
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The only way I can comprehend this weird thing is thus: the toy came in a box with only Chinese characters on it. So, it was produced in China for...the home market? The Chinese diaspora? I don't know, but I think that might explain it. Because, these Chinese clearly aren't "getting" the whole "the animals, they came in they came in by twosies twosies". But can you blame them? </div>
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My other one is less inexplicable. Well, I mean, it's still sorta strange (see above: destruction of all of humanity is a plaything). This one is a hollow wooden egg in the shape of Noah the freakin' GIANT. Look at him!</div>
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He's so big that a 300 cubit long ship is like a kitten in his hand! But, he's so big, you see, because all those animals fit inside of him. Precious. And no, I don't use that word just because Sapphire's heroine is also, ahem, large.<br />
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But I love this one! Egg shaped animals would have made getting them on the boat and storing them so much easier! Just throw them into some cartons and you're ready for your long journey. Plus, you've got those cute, but unclear animals over to Noah's left. They sorta look like cats, but that doesn't really fit the whole African animal theme. So, maybe meerkats? Do meerkats have whiskers? I think the fact that I can't really tell the shape of whatever it is thanks to the egginess compounds the problem. Seeing this one made me wish I owned a nesting doll version of the ark. You could start with the ship and go down to something teeny like a mouse. It'd be amazing. Somebody should make that. And then give it to me. Because, I clearly need more things in my life. Especially arky things.aleahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07433827353031591799noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22933663.post-72846453733241586662012-10-20T17:22:00.002-06:002012-10-20T17:22:23.500-06:00Small subversions
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There was a moment, a very brief one,
in this past General Conference that could have massive, powerful
repercussions for Mormon gender equality. It has absolutely nothing
to do with mission service, however. Unlike many of the exuberant
huzzahing for the lowered age for sister missionaries, I am not so
sure this will move things in the direction I'm angling for. Although
it will probably increase the number of sisters who do serve and it
does, potentially, re-write the life plan for women, the mission
experience does not exactly promote equality. Indeed, the difference
in ages and service length for sisters sends clearly a message “Women
and men are different. Fundamentally.” Also, the fact that sisters
will serve under men who hold the priesthood and are either younger
than they are or roughly the same age cements a cultural model of
women submitting to male priesthood authority, regardless of other
factors that might cause reluctance. Don't get me wrong. I don't
think the mission age change is a plot to enslave women. I'm just
suggesting that it might be the ground zero for a <i>plus ça change</i><span style="font-style: normal;">
moment.</span></div>
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<span style="font-style: normal;">But
not all is this bleak. There was a story offered in conference that
needs to be heard. Over and over and over again. President Eyring
<a href="https://www.lds.org/general-conference/2012/10/where-is-the-pavilion?lang=eng" target="_blank">told the story</a> of being offered a job that would take him away from
his position as president of Rick's College. He uncertainly tried to
suss out what to do. In three sentences, Eyring completely confounds
the “preside” paradigm. The quote in full is:</span></div>
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<span style="font-style: normal;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-style: normal;"> </span></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-style: normal;"> My
wife, sensing this, had a strong impression that we were not to leave
Ricks College. I said, “That’s good enough for me.” But she
insisted, wisely, that I must get my own revelation.</span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-style: normal;">The
importance of this story is hard to overstate. Eyring was willing to
accept, without question, the revelation his wife had received.
Revelation not just on her life, but specifically about his
professional decisions. It is only through her urging that he moves
beyond this to ask for himself. If this a model of male presiding,
I'm not really sure what “preside” means since he neither goes
ahead nor trumps. What it sounds like more is equal partners, where a
woman can receive revelation </span><i>and expect it to be honored</i><span style="font-style: normal;">.
Eyring did not brush aside this prompting given to his wife. His
priesthood and maleness gave him no special avenue for answering
questions about his family's life. </span>
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<span style="font-style: normal;">Sure,
this is a tiny thing. But small things are often the most subversive.
President Eyring is not standing at a pulpit and agitating for female
ordination, or radically re-writing the view of the celestial
economy, or anything nearly so drastic. But, he has undone so much
with so little. He has, through his seemingly sincere humility,
toppled a paradigm of submission to the male head of household. </span>
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<span style="font-style: normal;">This
story will probably get lost over time. It'll be forgotten,
especially in light of the other exciting announcement of the
Conference. But I agree firmly with Plato that stories will save us,
if we just believe them. But, in order to save, they have to be
remembered. And so, to this end, I want to make sure this story gets
heard all the times I can possibly raise my voice with it. The hope
for a better, brighter future is found in three sentences. Sentences
that, in a few years (God willing), will look a whole lot less
exceptional and more like the way things should be. And, are. In
time. Urging patience is frustrating and I know radicalism has a lot
of proponents with a lot of good rationales for their approach. But I
say it's worth celebrating small moments of hope. Otherwise, it's too
easy to get drowned in bleakness. So, it may not be good enough for
all of us, this little story. But it's not nothing. And it should be
heard constantly. After all, it's stories like this that change
structures more than any forced-upon structural change could ever
hope to do. </span>
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aleahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07433827353031591799noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22933663.post-38119235709392049222012-07-18T18:20:00.002-06:002012-07-18T18:20:19.930-06:00Schweppes straight up<br />
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About a month ago, on Father's Day in
fact, my brother's former mission companion came to our house for
Sunday dinner. After the meal, while we sat around chatting, he
mentioned to my brother that he could not remember the last time he
went to a house where water was all that was offered. He wasn't
saying this to imply a lack of hospitality. Rather, it was genuine
shock at the plainness of our beverage options. He is more accustomed
to soda or juice being on hand for the biggest meal of the day.
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Of course, growing up in my household
water was what we had period. Even now, when I go out to dinner, I
always hesitate a long, long time before ordering a drink. A couple
of years ago, when I was working a real person job, I became somewhat
more profligate in my tastes and would regularly order a soda with
the many, many lunches I went out for. But I've fallen out of that
habit once again and now am once again the “just water for me,
thanks” type for everything. It's not merely my cheapness, though,
at work here. I genuinely prefer water, a fact that stumps some
people, I suppose.</div>
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I had been thinking about the soda
situation in my family recently also, as I order a ginger ale (no
ice) on my plane ride home to Utah. This option was born not a little
from nostalgia for traveling with my parents. Though we may have not
spent money on soft drinks, my parents have invested a not-so small
fortune in the pursuit of regular trips. The regularity of these
jaunts have instilled in me a constant itch to travel, despite how
weary the actual traveling makes me. For a large number of these
trips, we flew as a family. On these plane trips near and far, I
observed my parents' standard drink orders. Since my parents are
Mormon and water was all that flowed in our home, it was a rare
occurrence to see them order anything else. But, the soda and juice
is included with airfare, so they let loose.</div>
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My dad's drink of choice was always
“ginger ale, no ice”. Getting onto a plane still brings to mind
the distinctive flavor of that soda pop. I was distressingly old when
I realized that ginger ale was a thing available outside of the
fuselage of a 747. I'm not sure what the no ice had to do with,
though I would guess it has to do with my dad's dislike of super cold
drinks and a way to game the system (no ice means a lot, lot more
soda in your cup).</div>
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My mom's standard order was “tomato
juice and water”. The water was to thin out the juice a little bit.
Have you had tomato juice? It's a strange, almost mealy drink. The
water really does help. As a kid, I ordered the same a few times,
figuring she must know what's good, right? I was wrong (and somehow
managed to forget this between orders). Tomato juice is neither
refreshing nor particularly delicious. Or wasn't. I now occasionally
am struck with cravings for it, my body probably aching for some
nutrient tomatoes are notoriously rich in. But, ordering this was
also built around the idea of limited options. The two adults in my
life ordered precisely the same every time. Maybe that's all there
is? The same thing could be said about trips to the Old Spaghetti
Factory as a kid. The meals there include a salad. For years and
years, I got the salad with blue cheese dressing, since that's what
the whole family did. I loathed blue cheese*. But, that's what was
ordered and that's what I ate. Not knowing there was a choice is
probably a fundamental problem for me, as I'm more keen to be part of
the pattern than an outlier.
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But, really, I share this story not to
point out the potentially oddity of these choices. Rather, the fact
that getting on a plane stirs these memories so strongly highlights
the way nostalgia haunts me at every turn. It's not that the world is
short on new experiences, or that I'm debilitated by homesickness
regularly. It's just that I take such comfort in the unchanging
memories like these. There's nothing so nice as knowing someone so
well that you know what they're going to order for complimentary
beverage service. Which is all to say, I'm not so much a passionate
romantic as I am a cozy habitualist. And so, if you're curious, I'm a
water man even on planes these days. And, I'll always forget to say
no ice and then curse myself for it. Next time we travel together,
remind me request the room temperature agua, ok?</div>
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*I've since seen the light and love a
pungent blue. </div>aleahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07433827353031591799noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22933663.post-8594286722813887792012-05-29T14:48:00.001-06:002012-05-29T14:48:15.204-06:00I have brought you an iris today<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Memorial Day means irises. Specifically, the irises that grow in parents' backyard along the fence next to the raspberries and across a little stretch from the zucchini. Raspberries, irises, zukes, tomatoes and apricots are the crops of my memory, the things that it seems like my mom and dad have always grown. Or had always grown. There's no more apricots and it seems like a couple of years there wasn't much to see among the irises, but perhaps I simply did not notice what was always there. The irises are blue, yellow, and purple. They always seemed to burst from nowhere, creating a sudden splash of color in mid-May. But what I really remember about them is taking them to the graves.<br />
<br />
Both sets of my grandparents are buried in the same cemetery in suburban Salt Lake. The two graves are literally a stone's throw from each other, on two patches divided by the narrow cemetery road. Because the cemetery in question does not allow raised headstones, driving past it most of the year makes it appear like a set patches of grass. Yet a few weekends a year, it becomes a hotspot of activity, the graves attracting flowers, flags, pinwheels and other tokens of remembrance.<br />
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Every year, for Memorial Day weekend (generally early evening on the Sunday), we would go visit these graves. We took irises and, in years past, gallon milk cartons that had been cut open as makeshift vases. The irises would be propped up in the carton and the carton held in place by a bent hanger staked to the ground. Part of this ritual is also the sprucing up of the headstone. My dad would get down on his knees to cut back the grass and brush aside the clippings that have obscured the names.<br />
<br />
Because three of my grandparents passed away prior to my memory, these annual trips is the most concrete interaction I have ever had with them. Because I do not remember them being around, it's hard for me to feel much at visiting their graves. These stones mark, essentially, strangers that I owe my existence to. Yet, I know little of them. The one grandparent I do remember, my mom's dad, raises more complicated feelings for me. I remember him well. Visiting his grave does not make me sad or wistful, particularly. But it does call to mind frequently random memories. One of the more frequent ones that appears in my brain is the time my family and he were in the small mining town in western Colorado where he oversaw a mine during his working years. One night, he called us all to the front room. When I got there, he pointed out the moon, how huge and bright it looked that night, a full moon in a place far from city lights. That was the whole reason he called us in. When I say a sense of wonder is one of the most important personality traits, this is the kind of wonder I mean: being so struck by something that you must share it, even if it's the moonrise.<br />
<br />
Without fail, we would run into some other contingent from the extended family also visiting the grave at the same time. There are usually a brief encounter, but it's always rather cheerful, a strange juxtaposition with the setting, I think. I mean, is the annual trek one of mourning? One of more positive remembrance? I'm not sure what my parents and their siblings, the children of the bodies lying beneath our feet are feeling. But the habit holds a comforting marker of time for me. Like all traditions, it feels right simply through repetition. Before leaving the cemetery, we take a photo of our group. (How many of these pictures do we have? 10? More?)<br />
<br />
This year, I was not in Salt Lake for the holiday. It's not the first time I've missed the cemetery trip. But, I know my family went. And, they took irises, a change from recent years when pre-potted flowers were carried in. Being away, I'm glad to know that the tradition continues. Especially with the irises.aleahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07433827353031591799noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22933663.post-46658198079613496172012-05-14T18:07:00.002-06:002012-05-14T18:07:25.671-06:00Nearly imperceptibleMormons are thin on the ground here in central New York. It's as if, once they were gathered to The Ohio, they've never really made a comeback. This is a bit of a change for me as I've lived my entire conscious life in locales with large numbers of Mormons. Granted, I don't really notice this all that much, apart from going to church at my branch and there only being fifteen people in sacrament meeting. But I do notice it because the closest temple is now 70 miles away. I realize this is paltry for some areas of the globe, but back home in Zion, I could get to nine temples by going that same distance.<br />
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Now, I'm not a particularly regular temple attender. I've never really much understood people who go every week or who hold that up as a symbol of their righteousness. But I do enjoy the temple and having the option of just popping over on a whim might be nice. Or, like that one time, when I didn't plan ahead and found that the Jordan River temple was closed, so went to Oquirrh Mountain, only to learn they were booked solid. Thankfully, Draper was right there for me to make use of. In other words, I prefer being spoiled.<br />
<br />
But, this whinging aside, I did go to the temple last week. My semester's over and I've got some free time and I figured, why not? I actually had a lovely time there, as well (which is typical, but not guaranteed. I'm fickle, ok?) I also had a little thought strike me. The background for this thought actually comes from one of the papers I just finished.<br />
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In a sloppy, poorly argued piece, I wrote about the overlaps between a novel and a memoir by mid-20th century Mormon author Virginia Sorensen. At one point in the memoir, talking about the landscape of northern Utah, she talks about the need to "look sharp for color in this country." It's true. There's a lot of beauty to be found in the desert, but you have to have an eye for it. This is also true, I suppose, of southern Utah, where the overwhelming red rock may trick you into not looking closely for fine distinctions.<br />
<br />
This need for sharpness was on my mind as I waited for the session to start. I was looking around the room at about the twenty or so of us. We were all wearing white. The party line on this has to do with purity but also with all being alike. As a matter of fact, just earlier that same week, I had explained to a classmate about the white clothing as a symbol of unity. But, as I waited, I noticed we weren't all the same. There were differences. Shirts had different cuts. Ties had different patterns. The dresses had varied trims. Different fabrics appeared in various outfits. They were all white but there was a great variety if you looked sharp.<br />
<br />
This lead me to think that the point of these clothes might not erasing disunions at all. Rather, they're a symbol of how we can be, as B.H. Roberts suggested, "united in the essentials and tolerated in the nonessentials." Being Mormon can be hard if you feel like you're a bit outside of what everybody else is and expects. But maybe, just maybe, the temple clothes are trying to look forward to a heaven where the richness of difference is there but largely goes unnoticed, not because it's not valued, but because it's just so obviously a part of the intention that it gets set aside to get down to the work.<br />
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I realize this isn't a particularly profound insight. And I'm sure some with disagree with my rosy view of it all. But, it was the sort of idea I needed then. And will probably continue to need for a long, long time.aleahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07433827353031591799noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22933663.post-51965674918041047982012-04-15T21:25:00.002-06:002012-04-15T21:25:48.972-06:00I never used to go to bed earlyMy brothers and I have a running joke. Well, we have a lot of them (all three of us are, after all, rather fond of the texting). But, in particular, we have one that has been going on for a while now. I assume my older brother started it. Not only because it pre-dates my younger brother's return from his mission, but also because my older brother is much, much more clever than I will ever be.<br />
<br />
The joke goes something like this: one of us will text about something delicious we are eating. Pictures are optional, but encouraged. The one receiving the text will reply with "send me some!" Of course, this works best for items that, clearly, cannot be sent through the post (ice cream, delicate baked goods, meats). That is, in fact, the extent of a joke. It's probably funnier with repetition. Or context. But, you get the idea.<br />
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At any rate, a while back, my older brother texted me about madeleines. These guys are so delicious and so tricky to define and raise so many questions. Are they cake? are they cookie? Why don't more local stores sell these? Why do they also remind me of how much I've failed to do in my life?<br />
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So, when he told me he had bought some recently, I replied "send me some!" And, you know what? He did. Two whole containers, which I have yet to finish, three weeks on. It's nice having a supply of madeleines on hand. Few days are so bad (at least in my ridiculously cushy, yet occasionally frustrating life) that they cannot be solved by scalloped baked goods.<br />
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I offer photographic proof that I, in fact, have pretty much the greatest brother ever (And, yeah, I'm pretty easy to win over. Just send baked goods). Also, one of the things I love most about this package is that it contained no note, no explanation. If I didn't recognize my brother's handwriting from the box, I'd have mystery madeleines on my hands (which, of course, wouldn't stop me from eating them still).<br />
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<br />aleahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07433827353031591799noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22933663.post-77221344188071779362012-03-21T13:34:00.000-06:002012-03-21T13:34:49.048-06:00Getting Confronted For ItSo, I actually really like country music. I have no shame in this fact. One of the reasons I like it is the space and voice it offers for its female singers to be angry and disappointed without sounding shrill or whingy. And, what's more, it's done this for a long time. Also, I'm not a fanboy of hers, but I do like Reba well enough.<br />
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However. And this is a big however. For reasons that still elude my imaginings, Reba decided to cover Beyonce's "If I Were a Boy". If this already weren't strange enough, both were singles with their own music video. Beyonce's, though "conceptually similar to American comedy film <i>Freaky Friday</i>,"* actually seems to be a sort of clever take on the song and its message. Reba's however, is just here in a green dress. Not sure what, precisely, the message there is. Which is weird, because if there's one thing Reba is <i>not </i>afraid of, even a little bit, it is the story music video. I mean, you've seen "Fancy," right, where Fancy is in a car driving to her childhood home? Or even better something like "Every Other Weekend," in which neither of the two singers ever appear? So, really, I've no idea what's afoot here (other than maybe something about her life being empty because he's not paying attention to her in the right ways). But, you should probably watch both and puzzle this out with me.<br />
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*I love Wikipedia, not least for statements like this.aleahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07433827353031591799noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22933663.post-73734551499254213612012-02-03T19:31:00.002-07:002012-02-03T19:31:49.860-07:00Unwavering supportI am a total brand loyalist. About some things, at least. For instance, I have used the same deodorant (Old Spice, french scent, solid) since I was about 16. I prefer, if ever possible to only write with Zebra Sarasa gel pins (they are retractable and the tube is thinner and thus more pleasant to hold). My toothpaste is Crest Regular Paste (which, irritatingly, has packaging identical to the mint gel version, a fact I learned to my distress when I was home over Christmas). If I could, all my shoes would be Børns (though, obviously I'm not too loyal here, as I'm regularly drawn to the purchase of other shoes, though they almost all LOOK like Børns, so that's something). In the soda department, my cola is Coke, no questions asked. I have probably told more people to buy <a href="http://www.mec.ca/AST/ShopMEC/Packs/ShoulderBags/PRD~4004-126/mec-small-carry-all-shoulder-bag.jsp">this bag</a> than many employees of MEC (and, in fact, have been directly involved in it being purchased for my mom, my sister and my brother. It really can hold an amazing amount of stuff. Seriously). On my trip home, I packed my three favorite pairs of pants, and realized they were all Banana Republic AND managed to buy two more pairs from Banana while I was home.<br />
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In other words, I am a pretty good target for advertisers. If you give me a product I like, I will continue to buy that product for years and try to convince others to buy it, too. I can be very enthusiastic about things that are, generally, not all the exciting, so my fervor is not necessarily hampered by a boring product (I really ought to be more embarrassed by the number of people I have urged to buy Benefiber, for example).<br />
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So, today, when I saw El Monterey frozen burritos at the grocery store, I got so excited about them that I had to buy an eight pack. However, it was only when I got home that I remembered that I don't actually have a microwave. Apparently my thrill outweighed my logical functioning. Which was surely also hampered by going to the store right after the gym in the morning without eating (this fact also explain my purchasing of Little Debbie snack cakes and Hostess Cupcakes).<br />
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It turns out you <i>can </i>cook the burritos in the oven, but it takes almost 30 minutes. Who is capable of planning their hunger that far ahead? I certainly am not. So, I might just have to break down and find a cheap microwave. Of course, I'll also have to magically get more counter space, too, if I do. But, it'd really be a shame to let those burritos go to waste. And, hey, maybe I'll find my preferred small electrics brand in the process, too.aleahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07433827353031591799noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22933663.post-34653736760474501572011-12-06T16:51:00.001-07:002011-12-06T17:13:07.222-07:00Duo of Don'tsMy friend <a href="http://alsoke.blogspot.com/">ke</a> first introduced me to the idea that literature makes us feel less freakish alone according to, like, somebody famous (cite, ke?).* I agree with this, though usually it tends towards large, meaningful insights. But, maybe also trivial things. Like, finding my peculiar gastronomic aversions repeated in a novel. I know, I know, nobody normal hates celery and onions. It's crazy talk. OR IS IT? Check this passage from <i>Remembrance of Things I Forgot </i>(not a great read, but moderately entertaining):<div>
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I definitely feel a little less freakish and alone now and will the next time I try to explain to someone that, no, celery doesn't just taste like nothing.<br /><div>
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*Also, this is exactly what my friendship with ke does, too. Makes me feel less freakish and alone because there's somebody so simpatico in the world.</div>
</div>aleahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07433827353031591799noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22933663.post-37899060247313316442011-11-22T10:34:00.001-07:002011-11-22T10:42:31.998-07:00The tag doth protest too much, methinksMarshall's now sells bow ties. This is both great (cheap purveyor!) and slightly distressing (they're <i>that</i> popular now?). Also, this diminishes the chances that I will not, in fact, turn all my liquid assets into haberdashery. I mean, it's bad enough that I just had to buy yet another tie rack to accommodate my bow ties. Surely I do not need a discount enabler. So far, I've only bought two, which I think shows remarkable restraint. I should treat myself. With something other than yet another bow tie.<br />
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At any rate, I got the first tie home and then noticed the tag on it. It claims three things about the accessory I just bought, to wit:<br />
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That's right: Relaxed. Colorful. Cool. I'm pretty sure that only the middle adjective there is objectively true. Though, I suppose it is more relaxed than, say, black tie. Yet, most people do not, I think, associate bow ties with the free-and-easy set. </div>
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But, what do y'all think, does the tie I'm wearing there actually count as Relaxed. Colorful. Cool.?</div>aleahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07433827353031591799noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22933663.post-2166685328686493912011-11-15T18:46:00.001-07:002011-11-15T18:57:34.764-07:00Dear WegmansSo, I'm a fan of your grocery. No, really. You've got class, as they say. Plus, your prices are generally lower than Price Chopper, which is nice but also delightfully ironic. I mean, sure I could without the brick floors. You do realize that people are pushing shopping carts over that, right? You do know the sound that shopping carts make on bricks, don't you? It feel sometimes like I'm not so much pushing a cart as standing along side a rocket launch.<br />
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But, I'm getting off-topic. Here's the thing: chewy brownies are, for lack of a better term, a thing. Thanks to the world of box brownie mixes, there's a standard for what "chewy" brownies are like. They are dense. Moist. Fudgy. They taste almost, though not exactly, undercooked. If you'd like, I'll make you a pan and let you try them. Why do I bring this to your attention and offer you, a corporate supermarket, a basket of home-baked goodies? Because, clearly, you are misinformed.<br />
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You see these "Fudgy & Chewy Mini Brownie" you sell? They are neither fudgy nor chewy. The crumb is all wrong. They're also quite dry. In fact, I'm going so far as to claim they're actually not brownies at all. They are topless mini cupcakes. And I say that as a lover of both the fudgy and the cakey brownie. But you're not dealing with cakey brownies here. No, these are straight up chocolate cake.<br />
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I'm rather disappointed in you. Not least because chocolate cake doesn't really go well with the ice cream I bought. I mean, yeah, cake and ice cream is a classic, I get that. But if I what I really want to do is create a sort of fudgy-orangey composite in my off brand creamsicle ice cream, cake just isn't going to cut it.<br />
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So, please, from here on out, please rename this product so that others do not fall prey to the lie. Because, this time, it's cake. The brownie is a lie.aleahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07433827353031591799noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22933663.post-82293950796365478602011-11-12T23:01:00.002-07:002011-11-12T23:21:30.572-07:00sic semper procrastinantibusA couple of Sundays ago, I turned the corner onto my street to see that, almost overnight, the leaves had turned. One tree in particular sported leaves that I'd never seen before. The green didn't turn that bright Crayola five-crayon red. Nor did they fade into that washed out yellow that reminds me that everything, everywhere ends while also hinting that, at least this time, it's all temporary. No, instead, there was an entire tree full of white peaches.<div><br /></div><div>Do you know this fruit? Its skin is almost, but not quite bright white, but not mixed enough to be called cream. The top, though, is a rich, vibrant red and, right where the two meet there's a faint halo of yellow. That is what the leaves looked like. An entire 30-foot tree full of them. I thought, I should grab a picture of that, but I was coming home from Church and was snacky.</div><div><br /></div><div>I had the same thought the next couple of days as I turned home again after my jaunts to school or out shopping. But I couldn't get my act together to snap a photo. Then, last Sunday, they were...gone. As in, Saturday night there were some on the ground, but it was still mostly full but the next afternoon, not a single leaf on the tree. I missed my shot, it seems.</div><div><br /></div><div>But, this post isn't entirely about Autumn foliage, though I could go on and on about it. This missed photo op reminded me of that situation where you think, "I should talk to so-and-so, it's been a long time." And then you don't, and then it becomes a longer time and then that makes it awkward. So you put it off, which means a longer time and even more awkward. And then, eventually, it gets to the point where it's just too much to try and connect without bringing up the weird gap, which there really was no reason for. And then, if you're me, you remember that you don't even really have a good excuse for taking so long. In fact, even if you did touch base, you'd have so little to say that it'd make you wonder about what, precisely, you ARE doing with all that time of yours.</div><div><br /></div><div>Which is kinda what I'm feeling like about my blog here. I've never been a super prolific poster, but then I dropped off and I tried feebly a couple of times to get back in the game, but never really seemed to be able to. But, I'm going to try and keep going. After all, <ahref="http: com="" 2011="" 10=""><a href="http://purplepetra.blogspot.com/2011/10/im-not-dead-i-feel-fine-i-feel-happy.html">Petra</a> really wants to save endangered blogs. And I have a hard time saying no to her. Well, no to anybody, but especially to people who I still, after years, am eagerly trying to impress. </ahref="http:></div><div><ahref="http: com="" 2011="" 10=""><br /></ahref="http:></div><div><ahref="http: com="" 2011="" 10="">So, I'm going to be posting stuff, I reckon. I warn you, though, it'll be pretty mundane, as my days are almost indistinguishable and go like this: Sleep in later than I would like. Go to class. Come home. Read something that I understand only about 40% of. Question my decision to do grad school. Burn dinner. Watch five hours of Netflix. Stay up too late.</ahref="http:></div><div><ahref="http: com="" 2011="" 10=""><br /></ahref="http:></div><div><ahref="http: com="" 2011="" 10="">It's not a wild and crazy ride around these parts, that's for sure. But I'll make it look snappier. And funnier. And much less tv-riddled. Or, at least, that's my Thanksgiving resolution. </ahref="http:></div>aleahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07433827353031591799noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22933663.post-36044931305835569332011-11-11T17:19:00.002-07:002011-11-11T17:21:27.979-07:00Happy Armistice!<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMTSqF8KsfOrmrREQqr6Re6Se7gzwnPEL5M_A16HBAIfc9RyHtYWdwwZcbUssE-yUXM9jtAhUMGjsWuloDK_4k2vtgULo7tPkPTEqltO1-fGMvf5vlpDxi7G_6a4mys_3lTAxP/s1600/Photo+27-1.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 144px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMTSqF8KsfOrmrREQqr6Re6Se7gzwnPEL5M_A16HBAIfc9RyHtYWdwwZcbUssE-yUXM9jtAhUMGjsWuloDK_4k2vtgULo7tPkPTEqltO1-fGMvf5vlpDxi7G_6a4mys_3lTAxP/s200/Photo+27-1.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5673897513659593922" /></a><br /><br />So, it's a homemade (tatted) poppy. And it doesn't really look much like a poppy at all, other than the red and the vaguely flower-like quality to it. But there you have it. <div><br /></div><div>Oh, and I know I've kinda fallen off on here. But I'm coming back. Promises. </div>aleahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07433827353031591799noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22933663.post-50748815795020341912011-08-19T06:46:00.002-06:002011-08-19T06:51:42.465-06:00Donner und BlitzenWhen my sister and I were in Kentucky, she kept demanding that she get to see a thunderstorm before we left. Not wanting to disappoint her, nature obliged. In spades. Instead of a thunderstorm, we got Noah-like rains as we drove down to Nashville. It was really a bad scene, with absolutely no visibility and constant radio warnings of the current location of the storm and the direction it was heading. Unsure of what to do, we pulled off the freeway and waited it out. We felt much better when, after pulling off, we say even locals had the same idea. It passed relatively quickly and we got on our way.
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<br />Last night, here in Elyria, OH, there was another thunderstorm. I had not, however, called it down from the heavens like she had done. Instead, I was fitfully sleeping in my hotel room when a long, bellowing rumble of thunder woke me up at 1:00am. This is bad, especially considering I had finally coaxed myself to sleep a half hour previously. The storm was not nearly as drenching as the one in Kentucky (at least it didn't seem so from my room), but it was loud. Mercy, was it ever loud.
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<br />This post, then, is to say this: Thunderstorms, you're on strike two. Keep your nose clean or else you're out. For good.aleahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07433827353031591799noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22933663.post-46998874898271545992011-08-09T10:41:00.003-06:002011-08-09T11:41:41.548-06:00looking backward, looking forwardI am currently one week either direction from pretty serious milestones in my life. Last Tuesday, I hit the twenty year mark as an official member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. It's strange for me to think about how little I remember of that actual day. Though, I remember much more about that day than I do about the day four years later when I was ordained to the Priesthood. These events didn't really stick in my brain. I'm not sure what that says about me. I mean, part of it is just that I don't have a particularly strong memory for personal events. But that's not entirely true. I remember quite well my ninth birthday party, or the birthday where I was given two fish as a present by my older sisters (though I could not, in fact, tell you which birthday it was).
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<br />My life has not passed away as it were unto me a dream, but I am a lot hazy about details. Things get better later on. I remember quite well being ordained to the Melchizedek Priesthood. I came home the night before from my summer at Berkeley with blue hair. My bishop practically demanded that I dye it out before standing up to be voted on by the congregation, something that still bothers me. I also remember other spiritual events quite well. A random evening reading the Book of Mormon, my patriarchal blessing, a particularly powerful Sunday School lesson. It's these events, the minor ones, the ones that we don't mark with a family meal or a lot of hubbub that have most knit me into being a Mormon. Which is not to say that 20 years ago, my dunking and confirmation had no impact, just that I'm alright with not remembering the details. God was in those details. That's all that matters.
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<br />My other milestone, the one coming up in a week, is one I'm not really looking forward to. Next Tuesday, my little Honda Civic and I will get on I-80 East and head out of Utah. About four days later, we will (god-willing) roll into Syracuse, my home for at least the next two years.
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<br />When I was applying for grad schools, all the possibilities seemed so shiny and alluring. Then, I got some rejections, so that shut down some choices. Then, some acceptances. I made a decision largely based on financial pressures, and am still unsure if it was the right one. Regret, even preemptive regret, is a constant for me. I'm not sure about moving 2,000 miles away. I'm not sure that I'll survive those winters, with their 120 inches of snow. I'm not sure I'll be able to hack the whole grad school thing. I'm not sure I'll even still like studying religion when I start doing it for realsies. I am sure it'll be hard meeting new people. I am sure I'll be stressed about money. I am sure that new places means the chance for new problems. I am sure that I'm going to miss so, so much about Utah. My family. My friends. My jobs. The comfortable familiarity of the roads and the restaurants and the rocky horizons.
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<br />I don't doubt that I'll survive. That it's not the worst decision in the world. But, man, it's going to be hard to drive away in a week. Here's hoping the drive goes well and the future better. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go back to silently panicking about my lack of preparation.aleahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07433827353031591799noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22933663.post-90972207901567339152011-06-25T16:03:00.004-06:002011-06-25T16:51:46.983-06:00Money's for spendingI. cannot. stop. spending. money.<br /><br />Here's the scenario. Because it's summer, I have more time to work. Because of that, I get these kinda astoundingly large paycheques. Well, large for me, not large in absolute terms. I sort of know that I should be saving this money in preparation for that whole moving-across-the-country-and-not-having-a-job situation. But, I can't do it. I just want shiny things, instead. Or soft things. Or pretty things. Or candy. My spending habits are reaching alarming levels.<br /><br />To be fair, I've probably only spent about $300 in the past week. But still.<br /><br />It started with these shoes, which I actually bought two weeks ago:<br /><br /><div><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 231px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 196px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5622283564526841442" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXU_w3K-tM8wIm1K2mg_keORPfof6459q7_DXYJUXry_5jlToCs4M2tNc1ryjJm8Ue8t1uhFnppZSvB8mpx7dBhqkh4uTlcMPCuYh0tpfU3P4HSwcDeA4n8xZtiMd93sitWa1y/s320/1332895-p-2x.jpg" /></div><br />I was actually looking for a pair of black semi-casuals. I definitely did not need more brown shoes. But they were on a good deal! Slash, I could totally become a much less formal person, right? <br /><br />Next up was my purchase of more bow ties. I don't even want to talk about this, so we'll just move on to the Red Balloon toy sale. Once a year, the store holds a sale where everything is 20% off. My nephew has a real obsession with this brainteaser thing I have and I was hoping to find something similar for him to play with when he visits my house. I found something. But I also found a large plastic bee, a card game, and a set of regular plastic playing cards. I restrained myself on some things, but not enough, clearly. <br /><br />Then, last night, my friend twisted my arm while inside Banana Republic to buy two v-neck sweaters. This brings my total count of that type of clothing up to 29. Twenty NINE! Of course, I'm now bound, practically, to buying one more so I'll have an even thirty. Granted, they were crazy cheap for wool and cotton/cashmere, but still. Oy.<br /><br />After that, the same friend totally was no help at keeping me from buying art prints. Art! I don't even have walls! I bought two prints from Pretty Little Pixel at the Arts Festival. You should check out one of the ones I bought <a href="http://prettylittlepixel.com/artwork/2028979_SALT_LAKE_CITY_NAME.html">here</a>. I can justify this because I'm leaving Utah soon and this will be a cute little reminder of my hometown. See, this is how it works in my brain. This is part of the problem.<br /><br />Then, today, I thought about that ark. The one I posted about <a href="http://allmygettings.blogspot.com/2011/02/not-so-much-flood-as-really-big.html">here</a>. It wasn't for sale last time I checked, but I went back today and it was. Goodbye, 125 bucks!<br /><br />Then, I almost, almost, almost, almost bought these <a href="http://cgi.ebay.com/Otter-Cufflinks-Fine-English-Pewter-Gift-Boxed-/360331877482?pt=UK_JewelleryWatches_MensJewellery_Cufflinks&hash=item53e5741c6a">cufflinks:</a> <br /><div></div><br /><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 180px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5622289141467760338" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD3nn4ytFd675X1mfyXByEy_RWXs4PW6r9Xa8PxFQ0d_SruJUU5qcuc_h8nZcQ5UATGD7-4-hxMGmJXSG2oLB9ZXD6M8DbSdVkjImyuCktXUHUTDzKzcFS-o0KnQR0C0fTC2ln/s200/%2521CBLtq%2529QBGk%257E%2524%2528KGrHqZ%252C%2521lQEz%252B0SS5cDBNGloR4Ykg%257E%257E0_12.jpg" /><br /><br />I mean, otters? Cufflinks? Me? It's a perfect storm. However, I don't have a French cuff shirt. Or I didn't. I bought one on my lunch break. But, I still haven't bought the links. Which is silly. What am I going to do with the shirt without any cufflinks. But, I just can't bring myself to spend this money.<br /><br />Which, I guess indicates I can stop spending money. But only for a minute. I'll probably cave by tomorrow and buy them. I need someone to stop me. Forcibly remove my cards form my posession, give a strict allowance, scold me for spending these money. Or, alternatively, I need to completely rework my approach to personal finances and be ok if my account doesn't have that huge, ridiculous cushion that makes me feel comfortable. I am perplexed and sickened. <br /><br />But, as a bonus, I am perplexed and sickened around pretty things at least. And I've had some tasty food, too. So, maybe you shouldn't stop me. Not yet. Give me a couple more weeks, then you can start reminding me that I don't have a place to live yet in Salt City or that moving is going to cost more than I'm expecting or that I'm going to be working less than I am right now later in the summer because of family stuff. Or, you could just let my interal monologue do that. He's pretty good at beating me up over things like this.aleahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07433827353031591799noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22933663.post-11796047095344944092011-06-13T17:44:00.002-06:002011-06-13T17:55:17.114-06:00A sartorial eulogy<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal">Up until about two years ago, I hadn’t worn jeans for probably seven years or so. Nor had I bought a pair since…ever? I think it’s true to say that I’d never bought a pair of jeans, but if I had, it was years and years previous. <o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">My aversion to wearing jeans is sorta complicated. Part of it is that I don’t find denim all that comfortable a fabric. It’s stiff and heavy and never dries if it gets wet (the last a real problem for spill-prone people like me). Also, jeans are what cool kids wear and me, definitely being not cool, figured it’d be better to not even try. Since, lack of effort is cool, right? Also, at age 17, I had a job at which jeans were first discouraged and then, with a slight promotion, explicitly prohibited. I also tend to only have one register of clothing, that of an oxford and chinos, with the recent addition of a tie. I like feeling like I’m dressed for practically anything I might find myself in. I am neither overdressed for casual scenarios nor underdressed for that awkward moment where you walk into a restaurant and realize that the clientele is a bit more done up than you anticipated. I'm dressed for work and for the theatre and for just flaneuring about town. And we all know how tricky it is to be constantly prepared for those last-minute debutante balls you get invited to.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Of course, I’m not dressed for all occasions. Chinos and oxfords don’t really make for the best duds if you need to suddenly run a distance or dash through tangled underbrush. Though, the only imaginable situations in which I’d be doing either of those on a whim are grounded either in emergencies or the apocalypse. Which is to say, if they arise, my habiliments will <em>probably</em> be the least of my worries.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">But, two years ago I needed a pair of jeans. I needed them because I was attending a demolition derby. Of course, being me, the obvious spot to shop for these jeans was Banana Republic. I actually managed to find two great pairs of jeans for a combined total of under 30 bucks and had a delightful conversation during checkout with the girl ringing me up.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">It went something like this:</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Did you find everything?”</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Yep, just needed the jeans. I don’t own a pair and I’m going to a white-trashy event, so I clearly Banana was the best choice for that.”<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“What, are you going to a demo derby or something?”<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">“Um, actually? Yeah.”<o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">So, I’ve owned these jeans for the last two years. I’ve worn them somewhat rarely (purchasing them did not really answer my other neuroses mentioned above), but I really like them. A lot. I think they’re flattering and, well, isn’t that a sufficient reason for liking them? I suppose they fall more on the comfy side of things, too. So, imagine my sad face when I discovered they have a hole forming. In the crotch. I don’t think I’m tough enough or sufficiently disheveled to pull off the ratty look. I’ve tried looking for new jeans the past few times I’ve gone out shopping, but nothing’s the same. None can live up to my now deteriorating pair. It looks like I’ll be going back to my pre-jean days.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Farewell, jeans. I’ll miss you. </p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p> <!--EndFragment-->aleahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07433827353031591799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22933663.post-160888982998497902011-05-28T16:02:00.004-06:002011-05-28T16:13:22.086-06:00Why I should not be allowed to work in public serviceI sometimes, like regularly, have a problem with saying things that I probably should have kept to myself. I worry about this a fair amount, but obviously not enough to do much about it. Which means I keep blurting things out without thinking. Fortunately, they rarely get me in trouble. Take today, this conversation at work today while helping a woman probably around my mother's age select a book on cd. We were walking towards the section of books on cd because she wanted one that was available for pick up today.<br /><br />Me: "What kind of books do you typically like?"<br />Her: "Oh, all kinds. I like silly books. I just finished one that had a bit too much of a mystery. I don't like things with too much horror. [beat] Nothing that will keep me up at night."<br />Me, glancing a couple of titles by Jackie Collins: "Well, I see we have some Jackie Collins books, but those might keep you up for different reasons."<br /><br />At which point, thankfully, she laughed. And so did I. Then, I turned beet red. I'm guessing my propensity for blushing in these sorts of scenarios is what saves me from being a creeper. Because, I'm not a creeper, right? And, blushing is always charming. At least, that's how I'm going to imagine it.aleahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07433827353031591799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22933663.post-27455479521279228792011-05-16T17:42:00.003-06:002011-05-16T17:45:56.341-06:00So much straw<div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal">I have, ever since I stumbled on them and nearly died from cuteness, been looking for an excuse to buy one of <a href="http://www.etsy.com/shop/StAnnesPixies?ref=top_trail">St Anne's Pixies</a>. But none ever arose. Or rather, I couldn't justify to myself the expense.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">But look at them! They are so adorable!</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Which is to say that the graduation gift from my brother, and assembled artfully by my sister, is pretty much the greatest thing ever. Behold:</p><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 239px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw_BdmxQFaTP7lPkQ7qBy7tDTkREDZPY7UYaY_2tt8uPCTgh-TglZ39-O7k71mf6IYP9D2ha6KnCN95nodI7uBQUg5LAPSE4S5bg7atNvh9Iqkqc41XZ0mtosbqAOBcAGx-MXe/s400/IMAG0032.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5607464270858557362" /><p class="MsoNormal">That is St. Thomas Aquinas, patron of (among other things) scholars*. The little sign in front is a purported quote of his. After spending years and years pouring all his energies into attempting to intellectually argue for the existence of God, he had a vision of some sort. He stopped all his work right then. When asked why, he said, "It seems like straw to me." Or, since he was a Catholic priest in the 13th century, he said (or was reported as having said--did peeps honestly just speak Latin to each other?) "mihi videtur ut palea".</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Seriously, can you imagine anything better? He is totally getting pride of place in all my future interior decorating.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">*There is not, to my knowledge, a patron saint of the over-degreed. But this is pretty close.</p> <!--EndFragment-->aleahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07433827353031591799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22933663.post-83815104933575939682011-04-06T16:43:00.004-06:002011-04-06T17:26:28.344-06:00Come, Let Us AnewI have a tendency to misread things pretty astoundingly. Such as <a href="http://allmygettings.blogspot.com/2006/06/doctrinal-implications-of-misparsing.html">this</a>. Another example is in the hymn "The Spirit of God". I always heard the line "the knowledge and power of God is expanding" to mean God is gaining new knowledge and power. I'm guessing that the standard way of reading that one is that people's knowledge of God and his power on the earth, thanks to righteous restorationists, is increasing.<div><br /></div><div>But I like my reading. I like it because it points to this awesome idea in Mormon theology, that God might not have all the answers. That he might still be learning. That there really might not ever be any end to truth. This idea is one of the gladdest tidings from Cumorah imaginable.</div><div><br /></div><div>I forget that there's glad tidings at all a lot of the time. I get mired down in this and that frustration, these and those irritations, reminders of how I don't fit in and, in the words of another hymn, "many a conflict, many a doubt, fightings and fears within, without". But, there's so much that's good and beautiful and true in the gospel. So much.<br /></div><div><br /></div><div>These musings were sparked, in part, because today is Mormon New Year. 181 years ago, a little group of people got together with only hazy notions of Mormon ideas, mostly centered around a book that this dude claim he translated and a desire for a total restoration of Christianity. They officially formed a church, re-baptized people and started down a path that would lead, very directly, to today. To me here. Not that I'm a culmination of anything, but still.</div><div><br /></div><div>I have my ways I mark Mormon New Year. You have cupcakes for Jesus. I wear a t-shirt proclaiming some sort of positive Mormon message. I spread the news of the holiday in general. You greet others with "Art thou a brother or a sister?". But this year, I'm going to do something a little bit different. I'm going to make some new years resolutions. </div><div><br /></div><div>In a way, this is like another tradition my family has, the Jesus stocking. Every Christmas Eve, my family gathers to read the Luke 2 account and then write down, secretly on 3x5 cards, the gift we're going to give to Jesus that year. These cards get put into a tiny, soft white stocking that is hung alongside all the other ones. I typically don't remember what I write down and am always sorta surprised the next year when I see what I had promised (because, purpose is but slave to memory). Not that surprised, though, since my card has said roughly the same thing since I was about 13. </div><div><br /></div><div>I'm not really sure I'll remember much better the resolutions I make in April than the ones on December 24th or early January. But, I think it's a good idea. And one that will help me live up to the hope I have to someday be the person whose knowledge and power are expanding. Maybe it'll happen. Maybe.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>aleahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07433827353031591799noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22933663.post-87497557912922959332011-03-08T21:01:00.006-07:002011-03-08T21:46:54.070-07:00Flat, fat and puffy<div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>The day before Lent, if you're from the Mediterranean or South American worlds (or even other parts of Continental Europe), means a raucous good time fueled by alcohol. If, however, you're from the the British Isles, it means pancakes. Because that's, apparently, how you tie one on in England. Knowing me, it should be obvious which manner I choose to celebrate in.<br /><br />So, here's my breakfast from today:<div><br /><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4cLKIzKoAwjMLrtDylnO8TvxRA33l5jzYrja-ed5xH6jEUD7X3On9aIqgVIebCo8s9mPIA8DIqUWMSk7uJVxsp9OpWXjz_1vhqv8E66P9GoXLmi8Yox5lXoFKoiyQBjyMvnM_/s320/CIMG1024.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581935813557680690" /><br /><br />Growing up, we rarely had regular pancakes. I'm not sure why this is. Instead, we typically ate "flat pancakes". That's what my family called crepes. My parents excel at making these paper-thin and perfectly browned, something I have never been able to manage. My dad seemed particularly skilled on this front (he is also preternaturally talented at slicing apple very, very thin. Translucent, even.) I remember flat pancakes with incredible fondness. Getting them right as they came out of the pan, slathering them in butter and liberally sprinkling with cinnamon and sugar and then rolling them tightly. I could eat them as quickly as they could be made.<br /><br />In later years, I learned, somewhat alarmed, that people put other things on crepes. I have tried this a few times, but neither jam nor nutella nor anything else satisfies me in quite the same way that the blend of pliant pancake, runny butter and crunchy sugar does. It never occurred to me that eating crepes with the regularity that we did may not have been typical, in that way that whatever your family does when you're young seems wholly natural.<br /><br />Regular pancakes, or as my family called them fat pancakes, have always left me feeling slightly disappointed. They're not crepes, is really their problem. They are also much more work than what we ate even more regularly than crepes: puffy pancakes. I understand other people call these German pancakes, but I prefer the description of the peaks and valleys created as if by magic while they bake. There was always, at least in my mind, a sort of strategic battle for the corners of the pancakes, where the edges were crispiest and the butter pooled under the fold. Getting that piece was a little taste of heaven. And doing so required pacing yourself so that you'd be gong for seconds at the ideal point to take it without looking greedy.<br /><br />Puffy pancakes, I'm pretty sure, were the first thing I ever made on my own. There are, therefore, ground zero for my love of making food. I remember vividly discovering that the recipe for flat pancakes and puffies was identical (6 eggs, 1 cup flour, 1 cup milk). Back then, it seemed like a beautiful lie. How could the same materials produce such obviously different products? I'm still not entirely sure how this works, but it does. Which is why every time I make a batch of puffies, I am always awed when I pull them out of the oven.</div><div><br /></div><div>For me, then, puffies are a wonderful way to kick off Lent. I'm saying, "Here, God. Here's the eggs, and flour and milk of my soul. It's not much right now. But, take it. I'm sure you'll make it into something delicious and magic." Here's hoping that's true.</div>aleahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07433827353031591799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22933663.post-71258113747861885592011-02-11T16:20:00.004-07:002011-02-11T16:28:35.456-07:00Not so much a flood as a really big stockpot<p>Of the many, many things I like, there are some common themes.<br /><p>I like things made out of wood. I like things that are described, accurately, as "miniature". I like toys. I like Noah's Ark.<br /><p>So, what if there were something that combined all of this? Well, dear reader, behold:<br /><br /><br /><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 266px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5572576416658539282" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhyQ_b94VsckkGXAXow4qX2TpCgI4qTiKAniCcK7mtKrpCZv0cx8XWyN1AisiL3T076elghhlh7-8S2GY8qDjwEzLvkq58YZnXX_wIKZZNUiFK0HxF_ZO_XvRWPQiL1pA_mBN-y/s400/il_570xN_190565455.jpg" /><br />It this were also somehow scented of rising yeast, I would probably die upon contact with it. From sheer pleasure overload.<br /><br />It is from Etsy. Since somebody should buy this for me you can do so <a href="http://www.etsy.com/listing/61129849/miniature-noahs-ark">here</a>. Or I could just buy it for myself. Except that I keep spending money I don't have. And, spending 125 bucks for one toy seems a bit excessive compared to the 10 buck books I keep buying (as if I need more books! Sigh...) [Also, the Trojan horse is totally adorable, too!]aleahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07433827353031591799noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22933663.post-17245281632941910382011-01-26T17:45:00.003-07:002011-01-26T18:02:17.203-07:00Bro-versationsMy older brother and I text a fair amount. I mean, not a crazy lot, but more than the average bear. We're not in the thousands of texts per month category. Yet. But, it'd be weird to go a day without sending a few messages back and forth. Part of the reason why we text so much is that I find him totally hilarious. I'm not sure what he's getting out of the deal, but me? I'm enjoying myself. For instance, I give you the following two exchanges. I think I might post some of these sort of regularly, not least because they are awesome. But also, my phone can only hold, like, 12 texts so having them here will lighten the electronic load while keeping them in remembrance. I'll try to avoid ones that involve complex, acronym-riddled inside jokes. <div><br /></div><div><b>Me</b>: I just had a Little Debbies Snack Cake for breakfast. Because I am a champion.</div><div><b>Bro</b>: Did u wash it down w/ a cold beer?</div><div><b>Me</b>: Actually, used the leftover diet coke from mcd's yesterday.</div><div><b>Bro</b>: Nice! Isn't it cold in just wife-beater though?</div><div><br /></div><div>And just from yesterday:</div><div><br /></div><div><b>Me</b>: Surely pitas are not beyond the limit of a reasonable grocery store? Why do you not carry them fresh market?</div><div><b>Bro</b>: Hahahah. U r such an eltist! Just have meat and spuds!!</div><div><b>Me</b>: Am making lentils and potats in coco milk...i am not helping my case am I?</div><div><b>Bro</b>: Hahaah. Is your beret color coordinated w/ bowtie?</div><div><b>Me</b>: Please. Am wearing a top hat. Obviously.</div><div><b>Bro</b>: And tails?</div><div><b>Me</b>: Tails are out this season.</div>aleahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07433827353031591799noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22933663.post-67052540563517020872011-01-22T00:21:00.003-07:002011-01-22T00:26:41.978-07:00Ideal morningscape<div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>Every morning since late December, I wake up to this:<div><br /></div><div><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicixKVXgNCBGAHHCdR9cRlBQ5uuIRvssUx-OkTxmygHGDKnX7kW33CnDEzImT7Kdh4uWDo-dylyWvqQAnL3JwKB4b3HxxsC3RO5zwU206NC9e_btC2XXTjhreOKdp5A7G93IcO/s400/wordless.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5564907162570432482" /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>This image (thanks, mediocre camera and bad photo skills!) doesn't really do it justice. But it's got these lovely textures to it, including the white, which is soft and flannelly. Just like repentance should be. Wait, what? you're saying, repentance? Yep. It's a version of the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wordless_Book">Wordless Book</a>. And also one of the best Christmas gifts I've ever gotten.</div><div><br /></div><div>Thanks, <a href="http://alsoke.blogspot.com/">friend</a>!</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div>aleahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07433827353031591799noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-22933663.post-41056343085693256712011-01-18T08:33:00.002-07:002011-01-18T08:47:33.992-07:00Wearing my personality on my collarOn Saturday, I bought six more bow ties. Six! This brings my total up to 32. Which means, even on the longest month, I could wear one a day without a repeat. Of course, I have yet to reach the magical 52, which would make it possible to wear a different one every Sunday (though, since there are two Sundays that are conference and at least two more that are freebies, i.e. Stake Conference, maybe I only need to hit 48?).<div><br /></div><div>I love bow ties. Not only does it blow mind of other people that I could master the knot, they also allow a handy shortcut into understanding my personality. For instance, just since Friday, people have pointed to my wearing of a bow tie to indicate the following:</div><div><ul><li>I must be Mormon</li><li>I have bad taste</li><li>I have aspirations to academia</li><li>I am a pretentious jerk</li></ul> For this last one, all it took was my friend to make the claim and then stare meaningfully at my bow tie when asked what would give him that impression. It's so convenient that I can broadcast these things about myself nonverbally. It saves everybody so much time. And don't worry if you're about to connect me and bow ties and some other trait. It's all true.</div>aleahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07433827353031591799noreply@blogger.com0