All My Gettings

Unwavering support

2012-02-03T19:31:00.002-07:00

I 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 this bag 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.

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).

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).

It turns out you can 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.

Duo of Don'ts

2011-12-06T16:51:00.001-07:00

My friend ke 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 Remembrance of Things I Forgot (not a great read, but moderately entertaining):

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.

*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.

The tag doth protest too much, methinks

2011-11-22T10:34:00.001-07:00

Marshall's now sells bow ties. This is both great (cheap purveyor!) and slightly distressing (they're that 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.

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:

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.

But, what do y'all think, does the tie I'm wearing there actually count as Relaxed. Colorful. Cool.?

Dear Wegmans

2011-11-15T18:46:00.001-07:00

So, 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

sic semper procrastinantibus

2011-11-12T23:01:00.002-07:00

A 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.

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.

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.

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.

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, Petra 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.

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.

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.

Happy Armistice!

2011-11-11T17:19:00.002-07:00

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.

Oh, and I know I've kinda fallen off on here. But I'm coming back. Promises.

Donner und Blitzen

2011-08-19T06:46:00.002-06:00

When 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.

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.

This post, then, is to say this: Thunderstorms, you're on strike two. Keep your nose clean or else you're out. For good.

looking backward, looking forward

2011-08-09T10:41:00.003-06:00

I 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).

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.

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.

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.

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.

Money's for spending

2011-06-25T16:03:00.004-06:00

I. cannot. stop. spending. money.

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.

To be fair, I've probably only spent about $300 in the past week. But still.

It started with these shoes, which I actually bought two weeks ago:

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?

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.

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.

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 here. 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.

Then, today, I thought about that ark. The one I posted about here. It wasn't for sale last time I checked, but I went back today and it was. Goodbye, 125 bucks!

Then, I almost, almost, almost, almost bought these cufflinks:

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.

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.

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.

A sartorial eulogy

2011-06-13T17:44:00.002-06:00

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.

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.

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 probably be the least of my worries.

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.

It went something like this:

“Did you find everything?”

“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.”

“What, are you going to a demo derby or something?”

“Um, actually? Yeah.”

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.

Farewell, jeans. I’ll miss you.

Why I should not be allowed to work in public service

2011-05-28T16:02:00.004-06:00

I 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.

Me: "What kind of books do you typically like?"
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."
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."

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.

So much straw

2011-05-16T17:42:00.003-06:00

I have, ever since I stumbled on them and nearly died from cuteness, been looking for an excuse to buy one of St Anne's Pixies. But none ever arose. Or rather, I couldn't justify to myself the expense.

But look at them! They are so adorable!

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:

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".

Seriously, can you imagine anything better? He is totally getting pride of place in all my future interior decorating.

*There is not, to my knowledge, a patron saint of the over-degreed. But this is pretty close.

Come, Let Us Anew

2011-04-06T16:43:00.004-06:00

I have a tendency to misread things pretty astoundingly. Such as this. 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Flat, fat and puffy

2011-03-08T21:01:00.006-07:00

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.

So, here's my breakfast from today:

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Not so much a flood as a really big stockpot

2011-02-11T16:20:00.004-07:00

Of the many, many things I like, there are some common themes.

I like things made out of wood. I like things that are described, accurately, as "miniature". I like toys. I like Noah's Ark.

So, what if there were something that combined all of this? Well, dear reader, behold:

It this were also somehow scented of rising yeast, I would probably die upon contact with it. From sheer pleasure overload.

It is from Etsy. Since somebody should buy this for me you can do so here. 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!]

Bro-versations

2011-01-26T17:45:00.003-07:00

My 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.

Me: I just had a Little Debbies Snack Cake for breakfast. Because I am a champion.

Bro: Did u wash it down w/ a cold beer?

Me: Actually, used the leftover diet coke from mcd's yesterday.

Bro: Nice! Isn't it cold in just wife-beater though?

And just from yesterday:

Me: Surely pitas are not beyond the limit of a reasonable grocery store? Why do you not carry them fresh market?

Bro: Hahahah. U r such an eltist! Just have meat and spuds!!

Me: Am making lentils and potats in coco milk...i am not helping my case am I?

Bro: Hahaah. Is your beret color coordinated w/ bowtie?

Me: Please. Am wearing a top hat. Obviously.

Bro: And tails?

Me: Tails are out this season.

Ideal morningscape

2011-01-22T00:21:00.003-07:00

Every morning since late December, I wake up to this:

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 Wordless Book. And also one of the best Christmas gifts I've ever gotten.

Thanks, friend!

Wearing my personality on my collar

2011-01-18T08:33:00.002-07:00

On 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?).

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:

I must be Mormon
I have bad taste
I have aspirations to academia
I am a pretentious jerk

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.

Just enough

2010-12-23T18:22:00.002-07:00

You wouldn't think you could turn to New Era for an example of a beautiful poem. Or maybe I wouldn't. But at any rate, below was a contest winner back in 1991. It feels right and true to me, in addition to also being simply lovely. Kudos, Mary Lynn Bahr, kudos.

The Comforter

They say the fire falls swiftly,
Breaking adamant hearts, neatly
Dividing joints and marrow
For sterile reassembly.
Pure, molten personality
Will cool into new symmetry
As crimson years bleach into snow
And melt out of memory.

I kneel and cringe, expecting
Ecstasy and quickening,
Ambush by wrestling angels,
Annunciation that compels
Belief. Tonight only snow
Falls, half an inch, just enough.

Pancakes with syrup traps

2010-12-15T17:10:00.003-07:00

I could never really believe The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. It wasn't the presence of fauns or the magical furniture that transported kids to a world where it was always winter but never Christmas. It wasn't even the talking Lion and the silly story of him dying and coming back to life (as if anybody could believe something like that). But, I was willing to accept those things. Suspend my disbelief and all that. What I could not look past was the Turkish delight.

Edmund sells the entire world out for the treat. However, in real life, Turkish delight resembles nothing as much as it does squishy, solidified perfume. Nobody (and I mean nobody, even British children on wartime rations) would do what he did if Turkish delight were on offer. Other sweets, sure. But waffles? I would sell my own foot for waffles. Seriously. I love them. That's what the White Queen should have lured him with.

Which is what this story is leading up to. My mother the other day threatened that we should change our Christmas breakfast tradition. "Have something new this year," she suggested. See, from well before when I was born, my family has had what we call strata every year on Christmas morning. It's a breakfast casserole with eggs, cheese, bread and cream of mushroom soup. So many happy memories are tied up in strata: being too distracted by presents that I had just opened to eat any of it, learning that mushrooms are not gross, having everybody around on Christmas morning, all eating the same thing year after year . So, even if I were not the most change-adverse person I know, I'd be appalled that this tradition is under attack. This, people, is the true war on Christmas.

However, my mother followed my whinging question, "what do you mean 'something new'?" with the phrase, "maybe waffles." Oh my goodness. My culinary weakness. My achilles intestine, if you will. The suggestion, though probably false and most certainly not likely to happen, created a real inner crisis for me. Is it better to keep with traditions of tasty food or buck them for the holy grail of breakfast breads? I'm sure the contortions of my soul were evident on my face. Which is why my protesting, "Naw, I think we should stick with strata" probably didn't sound too convincing.

So, family, if you come over on Christmas morning and find that waffles are on the menu, I'm sorry. My hand was forced. The flesh is weak. I was tempted beyond that which I was able to bear. And, if you're too upset to eat yours, I'm sure I can find them a happy home.

Squirt me twice, shame on me.

2010-12-06T17:26:00.004-07:00

After my very cheap, but nice and shiny water bottle from Walmart broke on the second week of my using it, I decided to upgrade a smidge. I shouldn't have been too shocked that three dollars does not ensure that your water bottle straw will actually be functional. But I was. I hate it when I turn out to be cheap rather than thrifty.

However, I was delighted when I found this guy at Target for under ten bucks (paying more than ten dollars for shaped plastic designed to hold water strikes me as borderline insane). He's so pretty. It's like drinking from a giant sapphire! He's not quite as big as I would have liked, but he still gets the job mostly done. And, considering the fact that I am never more than probably 100 yards from a drinking fountain, I will probably survive with his low capacity. Though I did have a moment of panic during the BlizZion panic about being stranded in my car all night by the side of the road with only this scant bottle to ensure I staved off dehydration. [Yeah, I know there would have been ample snow around me and that snow is somehow water and probably potable AND that dying of dehydration over the course of one night is unlikely, but still!]

So, I'm pleased with him for the most part. Except. Three times now I've flipped the little nozzle to take and drink and water has come gushing forth from the straw. Not a little water, a LOT. All three times, I've been sitting down, holding the bottle over my lap. Which means, it's looked like I was a candidate for the medicine whose suggest that your over-active bladder is getting in the way of your pursuits like attending live baseball.* Which you know, you can't really say, "my water bottle just exploded all over me!!!!" when someone looks at you askance and then notices that the very water bottle is still in your hand, decidedly un-exploded.

I'm sure somebody sciencey could explain how these times were always after the bottle had been sitting for a while during extreme temperature changes (like overnight in my car). And that water somehow gets sucked up the straw by "physics", that darkest of the dark arts. And somebody more rational would learn, after the first time, that you should always unscrew the when first using the bottle for the day. But me? I'll stick with this: a blogpost where I complain about a problem and/or laugh at myself for how astounding dumb I can be sometimes. I mean, who can't work a water bottle, for heaven's sake?

*Herpes medication=kayaking; bladder issues medication=watching baseball. What does that mean?

No, this is an epic fail.

2010-11-20T17:29:00.003-07:00

So, Katy Perry, while you probably live a pretty wild and crazy life, I’m guessing nothing you did “last Friday night” actually counts as an “epic fail”. Likewise for those of us who lack the money and fame to really fail spectacularly. As such, below are some situations for which the term “epic fail” is actually appropriate. Most others, turns out, are more just “quotidian fail”. Please advise.

A guy in a secret valley promises you eternal life if you stay awake for seven nights. But, you fall asleep right then and end up snoozing away the entire week.
There’s a gal you’ve been sweet on for ages. But she’s still not over her last lover. Then, one day, she agrees to marry you if you can best the other applicants for her hand at an archery contest. Not only do you fail to string the bow, you also get hacked to pieces when the lover you assumed dead mysteriously shows up right then.
Despite proving your fidelity to your husband by walking unscathed through fire, people talk. Who knows what you really got up to on that island? Your hubby, wanting to set a good example, gives you the boot. So, you’re forced to raise his two sons in the forest dwelling of a scribe. After they’re grown, they get to go back and live with their dad, but you do not.
There’s a monster that terrorizing your kingdom. You manage to kill it, but in doing so get mortally wounded yourself.
You fall madly in love with a visitor to the land you rule. However, he’s got other things on his mind and, despite seeming to be really into you, ends up splitting right after you go all the way. The fact that he eventually founds a city that will utterly destroy your kingdom is just more salt to this wound.
For some reason, you want to marry this girl who can throw a boulder further than you dreamed possible. Your best friend manages to make himself invisible and help you convince this lady to marry you. But, your wedding night take a turn for the unromantic when she ties you up and leaves you alone until dawn.
You think the best way to get back at your father-in-law for humiliating you is to beat your wife (his daughter) and leave her for dead. Since this is sort of not cool, he challenges you to a duel. And you lose.

Like a rabbit, but more quavering and jumpy

2010-10-31T11:51:00.000-06:00

I don't do scary. Not even a little bit. I fundamentally do not understand the appeal of going to one of those commercial haunted house things (I have never been. I will never go. End of story.). Or intentionally viewing a horror film. I'm far too nervous about my everyday life to add additional fuel to the fire of my fears (pyre of my paranoias? conflagration of my concerns?). Some people don't believe me. They assume I'm just sort of nervous, that these things don't affect me that much. Or that I'm like most people who say they don't like horror films but they watch them anyways, squealing and panicking and then letting it go the next day. For me, the uneasy feelings don't dissipate with a new dawn. Or ever, for that matter. In case you might not believe me, here are three examples to show just how little I can handle the frightening.

1. Last fall, in my hell class, we spent a day talking about the horror genre. Not watching any movies, mind, just talking about them. Even this circle of remove wasn't enough to insulate me. The class ended and I realized my jaw hurt really badly. Turns out, I had been so uptight I was clenching my jaw the entire fifty minutes. All just because we were only talking about scary things.

2. I can't ride Indiana Jones at Disneyland. It makes me too nervous. Even the approach, through those purposefully darkened faux caves sends my heart rate soaring. This last September, my nephew wanted to go on the ride when I took him off just the two of us. So I did it, all the while trying to keep my breaths very calm and digging my fingernails into my palms. Then, the only way I can stand the actual ride is to close my eyes the whole time. And I do mean the whole time. I tried opening them once and instantly regretted it. Should I point out that my nephew is six? And that it's probably just about his favorite ride? That's right, I can't handle something that doesn't even make a six year-old flinch. Relatedly, I'm pretty sure hell for me would be having my eyes forced open while riding the Halloween version of Space Mountain. Not over and over again, just a few times, really.

3. I am addicted to Bejeweled Blitz. Like, a lot. Well, the last week or so they themed it up for Halloween. I could handle this for the most part. Except, the usual clinking sound when you start a new game was replaced with one of those throaty, evil laughs so commonly used by ghouls and other nasties in old timey horror works. Without fail, every time I'd click to start a new session (which is really quite often), I'd feel my insides tighten up. And it would usually take a good ten games before the slick feeling went away. All from one creepy laugh. A creepy laugh that was a surprise in neither timing nor quality.

Yeah, see? I really am that timid. Pretty sure if I ever have to face anything really terrifying I will die of fright. After, of course, wetting myself and crying a lot. Let's hope that my worst nightmares stay safely far, far away.

Over and over and over and over

2010-10-08T13:33:00.003-06:00

You know how you find yourself senselessly using the same word over and over again? For instance, you could go a really long time without hearing or even seeing the word comport. Then, one day, you wake up and use it four times (aloud--the silent times are countless) in just a few hours? All of a sudden, the word seems so apropos. And even when it's strictly not, you use it in hopes that nobody will call you out on it. (See, for instance, the time I referred to re-frosting a cake to "palimpsesting" it). But then, you start realizing how often you're using it and feel foolish.

This happens all the time to me. Surely, I'm not the only one (c'mon, a guy's neuroses out and tell me it happens to you, too.) Of course, when it does, I then start using a series of less and less common synonyms for the word. So, if you start hearing me say "appropriate", "in keeping", "harmonize", "cohere", and "befit" in the next little while, just remember, it's only because I can't help myself. And hey, at least my addictions come without too many side effects, right?

Death, despite being proud, inspires a good verse

2010-10-05T10:43:00.000-06:00

Because I'm deeply strange, I sometimes collect things that I think would make excellent eulogy components. Like, stuff to quote on the occasion of the death of a loved one. I suspect this has something to do with the little Puritan preacher living inside my brain. You know, the guy who sees Jesus everywhere and wants to make everything a sermon. That guy. For instance, Hayden's Those Winter Sundays? Tragic magic.

So, I'm adding a new one to my list. I came across it in a compilation of Kay Ryan's work. Check it out:

THINGS SHOULDN'T BE SO HARD

A life should leave
deep tracks:
ruts where she
went out and back
to get the mail
or move the hose
around the yard;
where she used to
stand before the sink,
a worn-out place;
beneath her hand
the china knobs
rubbed down to
white pastilles;
the switch she
used to feel for
in the dark
almost erased.
Her things should
keep her marks.
The passage
of a life should show;
it should abrade.
And when life stops,
a certain space—
however small —
should be left scarred
by the grand and
damaging parade.
Things shouldn't
be so hard.

Be prepared (with ties)

2010-10-04T17:19:00.006-06:00

This Priesthood session of conference marked the 15th year I've been attending them. I haven't missed a single one of those sessions. Even when I was living in Edmonton and getting to the chapel it was broadcast to meant taking a light rail and then two buses and leaving home an hour and a half beforehand and then skipping out during the final song so I wouldn't have to wait an extra hour for the bus.

But, I almost didn't go last Saturday. I didn't get a very good night's sleep on Friday. I went to work on Saturday and felt hazy and fuzzy and generally in no state to pay attention for two hours while sitting on a hard chair. Also, I have so much homework all the time, it seems. So, y'know, seriously solid reasons, is what I'm saying.

I did end up attending, though (and glad of it, too). I went because my sister called me to let me know my brother-in-law was at a loose end, what with his family being away. She wondered if I wanted to head out there and go with him. And, for a bonus, we'd get to go to dinner afterwards! She hesitated, though. The phone call took place just after five, meaning I'd have less than a hour to make it across the valley.

"You'll probably need to go home and change..." she started, as we were figuring out the arithmetic of getting me there. Then, she realized who she was talking to and said, "wait. No you won't."

See, one of the many benefits of wearing an oxford everyday and keeping a tie about my neck or the spare one in my car. Not only do I look super trig all the time, I'm constantly prepared for any church function! I'm not sure this is what the Boy Scouts were trying to teach me, but, hey, it served me well here.

If only I drove something less bland and sensible!

2010-09-10T16:54:00.003-06:00

The lot I park in almost every day perplexes me. It is a fairly sizeable lot, divided among spots for faculty passes, student passes and economy passes. For the most part, the areas make sense: faculty are closest to the buildings, then the student passes, then the economy passes.* However, at one place, along the sidewalk, there is a row of faculty stalls, then a row of student spots then another row of faculty ones. It's like a sandwich. And for no reason that I can ascertain. Those faculty spots that are farther away from most buildings are not closer to any other buildings. Unless you count the buildings across the nothing-to-sneeze-at-road, which at any rate has a parking lot of its own right next to it. These faculty places are just there, being under-utilized and mocking me whenever I happen to get to campus after 8.30 and discover that I've missed the window of finding a parking place. Show up at 9.00 and you're suddenly debating whether you can, in fact, fit between those two Hummers that only left about three-fifths of an actual space in the one remaining spot.

But, the real issue is this: I am a bit, (ok, ok a lot) flighty sometimes. I make a lot of really simple, truly maddening, and thoroughly avoidable dumb decisions every day. Often without realizing it until much later. So, twice now in the semester, I've been walking towards my car only to see it parked in a faculty spot. Not only parked but there all by himself, standing out like a Hawaiian shirt in sacrament meeting. My heart speeds up. I start cursing myself out. I hope against hope that the lot was not scoured and maybe, just maybe I won't have a ticket.** I keep walking...and realize it's not my car. Well, it's my car (same make, model, and color) but not my actual car, the one I drove to school that day. My car has been both times safely in the student zone.

Now that it's happened twice, I'm hoping I'm savvy to it. But, probably not. Apart from making dumb missteps, I frequently make the same ones time and time again. Because, I mean, really, what's the point of ever learning anything useful, right?

*These economy spots, though, are scant, which surely leads purchasers to wonder about the wisdom of trying to save some money.

**I'm not fully unfounded in my fear of tickets for failure to understand parking regulations. Since coming back to the U last fall, I have gotten one warning and two tickets because I am incapable, apparently, of figuring them out.

For a limited time, your subscription also includes a 50% chance of type 2 diabetes!!

2010-09-01T16:26:00.004-06:00

I am not the kind of person who buys groceries on amazon. However, I am the kind of person who can successfully, on my own, consume one of those largest (four pounds or so, right?) bags of peanut m&ms in less than a fortnight. Without even breaking a sweat, so to speak. That I have not yet ballooned to 300 lbs can probably be positively correlated with the effort required to actually acquire the candy. Because, frankly, dragging my sweet tooth everyone in the industrial-size wheelbarrow it requires is exhausting.

Thus, the idea of subscribing to get a supply of candy seems like total magic to me. For instance, you can subscribe to get a monthly bag of Haribo Gummi Bears. Of course, in my case, I'd probably need more than one bag. In the words my brother stole from my mouth, "Five pounds is awfully small." Though, really, I'd prefer if I could get my candy weekly.

Also? They are claiming that white gummis are flavored like pineapple. I'm pretty sure that's a lie. And lastly: Haribo's slogan rhymes the world over. Isn't that adorable?

Tie-saster or not?

2010-08-11T15:21:00.003-06:00

One of the potential costs of putting together a bag of clothes to take to the gym the night before is that you don't have that final glance in the mirror before entering the public sphere. I mean, maybe (read, probably) most folks are better at visualizing what a final ensemble will look like. However, I can barely pair a tie and a shirt, let alone make sure the pants and shoes all coordinate. I usually need the last check over to make sure I don't look like I've just escaped some sort of group home.

So, sometimes tie-shirt combos seems like a brilliant idea at midnight, in the haze of inattention and near-food-coma from late night Taco Bell. And then the next day, I get ready to tie my tie, see myself in a mirror and think, "huh, that's an odd decision." Of course, at that point, I'm already late for work and don't really have many options other than just acting like I meant it all along. [That's what most bold fashion is, right? The stance that what you've got rocks, regardless of reality.]

All this leads up to this: gingham and snails. I'm not sure that it works. I'm also not sure that it doesn't work. So, I present it for you. Thoughts?

*Also, taking this picture made me realize my tie has been on upside down ALL day. I am mortified right now.

a poem for Wednesday

2010-07-28T20:15:00.001-06:00

At some point, I'll get around to reading the Poetic Edda. Then, I can share some neat story that ties together Odin and poetry (he's the god of the poets) and the fact that Wednesday is named after him. Or maybe I could tell you about my conversation with my brother in which he argued the second half of the "Poetry is Necessary" bumper sticker must have been missing. According to him, the neccesity of poetry is somewhat questionable.

But. Instead of doing all that, I'm just going to share a poem from Anne Carson on this Odin's Day. I think it's beautiful. And it's almost true. Or is it true? I can't quite decide.

My Religion

My religion makes no sense
and does not help me
therefore I pursue it.

When we see
how simple it would have been
we will thrash ourselves.

I had a vision
of all the people in the world
who are searching for God

massed in a room
on one side
of a partition

that looks
from the other side
(God’s side)

transparent
but we are blind.
Our gestures are blind.

Our blind gestures continue
for some time until finally
from somewhere

on the other side of the partition there we are
looking back at them.
It is far too late.

We see how brokenly
how warily
how ill

our blind gestures
parodied
what God really wanted

(some simple thing).
The thought of it
(this simple thing)

is like a creature
let loose in a room
and battering

to get out.
It batters my soul
with its rifle butt.

Part of growing up

2010-07-28T09:54:00.002-06:00

Growing up sometimes means some really unpleasant things. It means paying taxes to register your vehicle. It means working full-time. It means big decisions. It means responsibilities. It means grappling with the exceptionally frustration experience of, to steal a phrase, finding someone interesting who's interested. It can really be a whole string of yuckiness.

But, it also means that you can eat McDonalds whenever you want and you can buy yourself Super Mario Galaxy 2 at the drop of a hat. These don't necessarily make up for the rest, but they sure don't hurt, either.

I bid 9 no trump

2010-07-10T15:15:00.005-06:00

A couple of weeks ago, my friends and I learned how to play bridge. It may come as no surprise that my secret identity, that of a middle-aged woman, loves the game. However, I just learned that my shaky understanding of scoring had a major hole in it. If one team wins a game, BOTH teams start over at zero with new under the line points. (don't worry, that's not to make sense to you unless you score bridge). Also, it's pretty ridiculous, this scoring thing. I mean, seriously: look at my crib sheet.

And, as best as I can tell, that's the simplest way to present it. But, even still, it's so delicious.

by any other name

2010-07-08T10:07:00.000-06:00

I have a very common first name. Pedestrian, even. No really, it's been in the top ten in the US since WWII. Since I grew up around a bunch of other people with this name (among other reasons), I go by a shortened form of my name. A shortened form that is not really all that common this side of the Atlantic. To make matters more confusing, it is a homophone and its spelling is not readily apparent.

Here's what this is leading up to though: giving my name as restaurants. Whenever I have to put my name on a wait list, I hesitate. For much longer than is normal. Should I give the host(ess) my nick name, even though it usually throws them off and/or launches me into a conversation I'm sick of having? Oh and requires me to spell it and/or suffer a look of “what the...?” Do I give them my given name? If so, do I go with the full version that only my little brother uses or the typical American short form that I was called until I was about 18? In this pause, of course, I start feeling all silly and awkward, because, really, how hard is it to COME UP WITH YOUR OWN NAME?!?!

Of course, I could also use an alias. But, I know I would make a terrible spy, as I've tried the alias thing only to have forgotten the name I gave. It's not so pleasant having someone come up to you and saying, “Excuse me, aren't you the name we've been calling for three minutes?” And that really nails the coffin. Oh, I'm too dumb to even know my own name and then I can't recognize it.

My last name would be an option, but I have this annoying tic of always giving my last name, spelling it, and then giving it again. It comes from my father. Well, obviously my last name comes from my father. But I mean this style of providing it. Specifically from hearing him provide his name over the phone. I guess Philip Larkin is not lying, after all.

So, here's what I'm getting at. If ever I go to dinner with you: take charge. give your name. I've got other neuroses to focus on, thank you very much.

Alea Otterson III

2010-07-07T15:03:00.004-06:00

You know, I spend a lot of my time feeling like I really am a snappily-dressed sea otter trapped in a human's body. So, my sister's gift of the print above for me? It's totally perfect. I now need to find an appropriate frame, which will be quite a task. Do you see how trig he is? I'm sure he'd be offended if I skimped on his housing.

Also, the artist, Ryan Berkley, writes really clever descriptions of his works. Check them out here.

Time is not my friend

2010-06-14T09:37:00.001-06:00

I am a notoriously late person. My friend’s are so acquainted with this tendency of mine that I no longer need to even text them “I’m going to be late”. Instead, I send off the message “You’ll never guess what I’m about to say…” at the time we’re actually supposed to meet. It’s not a habit I’m particularly fond of, but then again, I’m not really being all that proactive about fixing it.

One thing people claim you can do to improve your punctuality is set your clocks ahead. Of course, this is silly. Because if you know how far ahead they are, you just do the arithmetic and it doesn’t solve anything. But, I do set my clocks ahead. Trick is, no two are set the same time ahead, so I’m not in sync. My watches (yes, watches. I like to accessorize, ok?) are some variation between three and ten minutes fast. Actually, this one does help a smidge, as I’m never sure which watch is on the ten-minute end and which is a smaller gap.

My car clock runs 17 minutes ahead of schedule. Which, for someone like me, can be taxing on math skills. “Let’s see….it says 6.42, but it’s 17 minutes fast so that makes it…” Sums and differences are not something I’m particularly speedy (or adept) at. To make matters worse, this clock also sometimes runs faster (up to 20) or slower (down to 13). I’m not making this us. That clock is a shifty character.

One of my alarm clocks (because, yes, I also need multiple ones of them to urge me up in the am) is set two hours earlier. The reason here, though, is simple. If you have to wake up before 6, it’s sometimes nice to fool yourself into thinking you’ve set your alarm for 7.48, not 5.48, right? (Speaking of weird time things…I never set an alarm for an increment of five minutes. It stresses me out).

Also, though, I’m around clocks that run on time all day long. My cell phone, for instance, automatically updates its time. Or I’m a computer. Or I’m in an office or class setting with prominent clocks. So, I can’t get very far away from the correct time. So, all these efforts to trick myself are wasted.

But, really, what’s this post about? Two things. First, I am a deeply neurotic person. Second, I’ll always be late. But my apologies for the same are always very timely. In fact, let me apologize now: I’m sorry for keeping you waiting. It'll happen again, but I don't mean anything by it.

Dear Lady Gaga

2010-06-08T20:48:00.002-06:00

I know, I know, you're a lie and you kill everyday to make it true. But does this killing actually go on in crematoria? Because, your new video for Alejandro is trying really hard to invoke the Nazis. Ok, sure, whatever. The problem, though, is it's also trying to invoke the end of the world and the very 17th century idea of religious ecstasy. So, you're doing a lot of things. Check.

But, it's not quite Nazis, is it? Just like it's not quite steam punk. Or not quite post-apocalyptic. Or not quite Evita on steroids. Or not quite Counter Reformation with a huge dollop of sex. Truth be told, I feel mostly like the video is just that: not quite.

Also, for a song that is, ostensibly about the complicated relationship everyone feels towards intimacy of the physical stripe, your metaphors of that intimacy could be less...blunt? I mean, isn't the simulated sex that goes nowhere and where you're the dominatrix a bit...obvious?

Don't get me wrong. I like your stuff. And it's interesting. And moderately entertaining to watch. But, I think you ought to be careful. You're almost to the point of de trop. And de trop for Gaga fans is saying a lot.

Love,

alea

Yes, I know

2010-06-06T22:48:00.000-06:00

I often feel like God is very present in my life without being there in a really helpful sense. You know, the same old complaints: unanswered prayers, complicated answers, timing issues, prayers answered in ways we don't like, life that seems tobe heading towards total bliss and ends up falling apart. That sort of thing. Today seemed like a particularly strong day for that.

And then, this evening, He sent me a thunderstorm. I don't mean he sent it specifically for me. But I got to experience it. It was the most amazing display of lightning I've ever seen. But, it wasn't the cloudburst of destruction that brilliance like this can come with. In fact, it was just barely sprinkling. And the thunder was far enough away that it was just a distant rumble. Low and solemn and peaceful.

I can't really do justice to what it looks, sounded and felt like. But, in part, it felt like God picked up and squeezed. Hard. I was in awe. I was comforted. And, as usual, I was reminded that hey, maybe somebody up there is watching out for me.

Ladies and gentlemen of the jury

2010-05-21T16:15:00.004-06:00

If you ever want to feel like you obviously live a pretty boring life, you should be involved in a jury selection for a DUI case. I was yesterday, and I learned that I’m actually in a bit of the minority for 1. never having been cited with driving under the influence, 2. not knowing anybody particularly close to me who has, 3. nor knowing anyone who’s been injured by a drunk driver, 4. not discussing in grisly detail the work of my law enforcement relatives (ok, so I don’t even have any law enforcement relatives, so I couldn’t even get to the discussion part) and, 5. (oddly for Utah, I think) belonging to a religion that prohibits the consumption of alcohol.

But, boring, apparently, can also lead you to being selected as a juror. Well, boring and dressing respectably. I really should have gone with my gut instinct to bring the stack of Watchtowers and wear the shirt with a giant “Jehovah-God is Watching!” As a result, though, of chinos and a tie, I was selected to determine whether or not someone else did something illegal. I guess I could have been like the one woman who admitted that she thinks anyone who drinks EVER shouldn’t have a license. But, really, either that’s a crazy reach for being excused or she sort of freaks me out. Though, she freaks me out less than the woman who believed one is guilty until proven innocent. Because, y'know, that's a good sytem, right, South America?

This system of administering justice is totally ludicrous, right? A bunch of strangers are summoned. A small set of them (26) show up. Then, four are selected and they get to make a decision that has pretty serious implications for someone else. It’s weird.

The trial itself was sort of meh. Though, I wish I could have pulled aside the defense attorney and told him, “Look, dude, your whole ‘the defendant is being painted evil just like Severus Snape’ is not as convincing nor as clever as you clearly think it is. Also, did you seriously just call dui investigations “a witch hunt”?” In his closing statement, he also placed a lot of emphasis on the fact that there was no Intoxilyzer test. Of course, that was dumb, because why draw attention to the sketchiest fact of our client’s investigation? And, also, the legal limit of alcohol doesn’t matter if your client was intoxicated beyond the ability to control the vehicle.

To be honest, I'm not sure this woman really had a chance. I know, I know, she was presumed innocent, but her actions were super sketch, as was her testimony. But, I did manage to help get her off the hook for failure to yield to pedestrians. Which I'm sure she feels just great about.

Daily Spoils

2010-05-11T18:51:00.003-06:00

Things I returned home with today which were not in my possession at the start of the day:

A new, Mormon-themed board game
A copy of D'Aulaires Norse myths (one of my goals for the summer is to become passingly familiar with Asgard and its inhabitants)
A library copy of the soundtrack for the musical Billy Eliot. It's not my story, but it's a good one, regardless
An id badge for my new job
A clean bill of criminality
A clearer sense of how to tackle Games Mormons Play, a paper in progress
Plans for getting sushi in a little bit

Apparently, I have successful days. Sometimes.

Curling up

2010-05-04T21:39:00.002-06:00

It is not odd that, upon placing the last period on my last paper of the semester, I decided to do something totally frivolous. I've earned, in my estimation, a bit of fun. What is odd, though, is that my choice of fun is to curl up with a book that has been described, variously, as "beautiful, shocking, and sad", "heart-breaking", "harrowing" and as having prose that "amplifies the isolation..that each character seems to inhabit".

I am so ridiculously excited for this. Here's hoping it lives up to those reviews.

His heart was merry with wine

2010-05-03T10:37:00.002-06:00

Dear alea,

Remember how for the past three weeks, you've been hemming and hawing about your final paper for Ugaritic? The one in which you were supposed to categorize and discuss the use of "heart" in the Hebrew Bible? Of course, you do. It's cast a pall over practically everything. Sifting through the more than 700 verses containing the term seemed overwhelming. You couldn't focus on it for more than about half an hour without wanting to run away and hide.

Well, turns out, you shouldn't have taken so long to get started. Because, there is a possibility that you were having so much fun writing last night that it got to be 1 am before you knew what happened. You had to forcibly remove your computer so you could get some sleep. Seriously, you're absurd. This topic is awesome. And you get to say things like "well soused" and "heart foreskin". You should have seen that coming.

Please advise.

-alea

inner vessels

2010-05-02T20:08:00.004-06:00

When I have a house, or rather any space that I can decorate, I'm going to hang up somewhere two small-ish frames. I'm picturing something like 8 inches square. Inside each will be a quote. One will be "Νίψον ανομήμα, μη μόναν όψιν", a Greek palindrome which means "wash your sin and not only your face". It's found on a fountain outside Hagia Sophia, which I desperately want to visit. The other will be from the Bible. It's in Joel 2.13

"קרע לבבכם ואל-בגדיכם" ("rend your hearts and not your clothing").

Also, I kinda love the idea of the former in a bathroom and the latter next to a closet.

I realize these are sort of weird to hang up and see everyday. But I love them so much. I love this idea of working on the inner person rather than the outer one. And I think someone (not me, probably, but surely, someone), could do something really cool with Greek and Hebrew typography that would make them really cool.

But, yeah, until that point, it'll just have to suffice to have them running through my head over and over again.

καὶ ἡμᾶς ἂν σώσειεν

2010-04-26T22:14:00.003-06:00

Every time, without fail, during finals I have this two weeks of total panic. It's not necessarily panic about projects and papers, at least not explicitly. In fact, it's obviously about that but that's not what I focus it on. Rather, I feel panicked that I'm totally wasting my life. I mean, learning about Hell is fun, for sure, but what does it really matter? That is, who does it help? It doesn't cure cancer. It's not building better cities. It doesn't even make lots of money.

So what I am doing? Enjoying myself, sure. Making myself feel less freakish and alone. And, eventually, maybe I'll be able to teach some of this to other people and make them love it. But that does seem minor, doesn't it?

Then, of course, Plato comes to my rescue. In my Greek class, we were reading a little selection adapted from the Republic. Socrates says, "And thus, my dear Glaucon, the story is saved and it will save us if we believe it."

And just there, I remembered why I care about these sorts of things. Stories save us. Whether you buy into eternal salvation or just a humanist approach, stories are at the core. The stories we read, the stories we hear, the stories we create. All of it is story. And there are people who hold onto these stories. And I want to be one of them.

Oh, no, please, go ahead.

2010-04-14T20:35:00.003-06:00

I have this conversation at least once a day.

"So, what are you studying?"

"Religious studies."

"Oh, interesting. Like all religions or do you have a specific emphasis?"

"Not right now. But I'm hoping to do graduate school in religion and literature and probably drift towards popular culture and religion. Mostly newer forms of Christianity, too"

And then the person goes on to tell me about the axe they have to grind in regards to religion. Or a religion. Or God. It's like the mere mention of religion makes people feel like they can unload on me. I don't mind it, mostly because nothing is expected of me and, often, I can see they have some sort of point. But still.

I imagine this will only get worse as time goes on. Though, I guess it could be worse. I could be expected to give out free medical, legal or tax advice. So maybe nodding while someone tells me that organized religion is the worst idea man has ever come up with isn't too much to endure.

My secret shame

2010-04-09T15:55:00.003-06:00

I'm not a foodie. Not even close. I like the taste of things like Cheetos and peanut M&Ms way too much and I sort of think it's ridiculous to tuck into a meal that looks more like an exaggerated Easter hat than food. Don't get me wrong. I like tasty things very much. It's just that I can't really seem to care that chocolate A is made from beans that only grow once every 4,000 years and were roasted with nothing more than the thought power of Buddhist monks. The effort put into listening to such descriptions almost makes me lose my appetite.

That said, I can't really just admit that I'll eat anything. Because I do need to keep my snob cred up. So, what it boils down to is that I make fancy-ish things when I have people over for dinner and when I'm alone, I eat a meal of plain, cheap spaghetti. Or, and here's really the point, an entire can of this:

That's right. I love Dinty Moore stew. I'm ashamed to admit this. I mean, even the can alone calls up images of flannel-wearing yokels who can't even be bothered to use a can-opener and so need a pop top instead. It's weird that this would be the limits of my shame. I'm fine telling people I love cheap tuna (instead of Albacore white), or that baking with margarine doesn't make *that* much difference in a lot of things. But, telling people I like cheap beef stew is, apparently, too much.

Until now. Now you all know. And I'm not going to be embarrassed by it any more. And I'm not even going to go on to defend myself by telling you the ingredients and how maybe it's not such a bad food item after all*. I'm just going to let you all know: I had Dinty Moore stew for dinner a couple of nights ago. And I loved it.

*Oh, some of you want to know, don't you? Well, here they are: Beef Gravy (Water, Beef, Tomatoes [Water, Tomato Paste], Corn Flour, Salt, Modified Cornstarch, Caramel Color, Sugar, Flavoring), Potatoes, Beef, Carrots.. See? Other than supicious "flavoring" and sugar, it's all real food! I had no idea.

Things I have a crush on

2010-04-05T23:26:00.002-06:00

1. This:Thanks, Helvetica, you're the best.

2. Actually, her name's Marina. And she quotes Yoda.

3. The idea of anise-flavored seven minute frosting. But, I am still (sadly) seeking a vehicle for it.

4. Clytemnestra. Yeah, the woman who killed her husband, Agamemnon. I'm pretty sure she's a tragic hero. And c'mon, Aggie had it coming.

5. Ties. Wearing one every day is the Best. New. Years. Resolution. Ever.

6. Misquoting Lady Gaga's sketchily attributed quote that "Art is a lie. And I kill every day to make it true."

A caveat

2010-04-02T14:27:00.004-06:00

If you're the kind of person who needs a consistent flow to your conversation, the kind of person who holds no truck with digressions, under no circumstances should you ever accept a group chat invitation involving me, ke, and Annie. It will drive you to the brink.

Oh these legs? They're mostly just for show

2010-03-30T14:23:00.002-06:00

My gym membership expired. And I can't bring myself to renew it. Mostly because it seems ridiculous to pay 300 bucks when there's a perfectly good (ok, an acceptable) gym on campus. That is free. Or rather, that I've already paid for in that mess of student fees. (And, if we're being picky, I haven't even paid for it. Uncle Sam's paid for it. I'll be paying him back at some point, though).

At any rate, I'm torn by losing my gym membership. The treadmills there are nicer. It's part of my routine. I could, theoretically, take to swimming again. The people who go there are more in my fitness level than those that use the university one. But, my main problem is this: they have a parking lot. right. next. to. the. entrance.

I realize this is absurd. I'm supposedly going there to exercise, so parking close by shouldn't be a concern. I should be willing to walk and boost my workout a little. But, it's so handy. And I'm so lazy. And, if I do have to park somewhere far away and trudge to the gym on campus what, precisely, am I expected to do with my gym bag all day? Cart it around? What does the universe think I am? A mule? Somebody with a reasonable level of energy?

The problems I face are so overwhelming. But my stinginess-slash-debit-style-living really make the purchased membership not an option. So tomorrow, I'll be trying out parking far away from the gym. And, I'll even try not complaining about it. It's times like this that I really miss those regular, substantial paychecks that whole working full-time thing leaves you with.

vlogrop: The Believers

2010-03-21T12:11:00.004-06:00

I've been moaning for a long time that I haven't been blown away by a book recently. Granted, my reading was curtailed dramatically. So I guess I shouldn't have expected the few ones I did manage to read to blow my mind. But nothing stuck.

And then, Petra suggested The Believers by Zoë Heller. I knew Ms. Heller from her What Was She Thinking?, a book I thoroughly enjoyed. However, The Believers was more than enjoyed. I adored it. So much.

The characters are all irritating. Unbelievably self-involved or self-hating or otherwise grating. I wanted nothing more than to sit Audrey, one of the main characters, and slap her. She's a mother of three adult children, a woman of strong socialist leaning but little engagement who has been astoundingly disappointed by life. But, does she really need to be so difficult all the time?

That said, I identified with her. Not in the sense that I saw myself in her but more in the way that I got, to some extent, where she was coming from. Which is why the novel is so good. The characters are awful, but you're intrigued, not in a voyeuristic way, but a humanistic one (almost sympathetic at times) in what they do and the choices they make.

However, beyond the individual human dramas, the novel is a nice exploration of the gap between the things a person says they believe and they way they actually act. And the process of losing your faith but sticking with it regardless.

This review really doesn't do justice to the book. Just go read it. Right now. No, faster.

Lady of the House

2010-03-18T18:28:00.002-06:00

Dear Jeannette Rankin,

I know you've been dead for nearly 40 years now, but I have something to confess. I totally have a crush on you.

Yeah, that's right. I just can't get over the fact that you were the first woman elected to Congress. In 1916, nonetheless. Women in other places were fighting for the right to cast a ballot, and your home state of Montana sent you to DC. [Props to Big Sky Country, too for that one].

But, aside from being the first, you stuck to your guns. You voted against World War I. You weren't alone, but it wasn't a very popular stance. You lost some support and got voted out. That's too bad. But then you helped found the ACLU. So, there's something else I like about you.

When you were re-elected in 1940, you promised to stay out of war. And you did. After Pearl Harbor, you cast the only dissenting vote. I cannot imagine what that felt like. And even if World War II seems to have been a good idea in the long run (probably?), I love that you didn't give in, claiming you "refuse to send anybody else" to war. I want to ask you how you had the gumption to do it.

However, why am I posting this love letter to you today? Because today I came across this quote of yours: "You can no more win a war than you can win an earthquake." Sigh...perfect. Just perfect.

Love,

alea

Happy St. Patrick's!

2010-03-17T12:02:00.003-06:00

My whole house smells like corned beef. I have green jello chilling in the fridge. In one class I went to this morning, somebody already smelled like beer. And I'm sporting a new tie picked out with the help of a friend last night.

Sigh...I love holidays.

The liberal arts, simplified

2010-03-15T15:33:00.000-06:00

The distinction of a degree in the humanities is something everyone should aspire to. While other fields might actually prove useful, none prove as capable of making everyone uncomfortable. For instance, at your next family reunion, inform your extended family that you’re about to get a degree in art history and just watch them writhe and try to come up with something non-condescending to say.

But, why waste thousands of dollars and several years toiling at it to end up with little more than piece of paper and a crisis about what to do with your life? Instead, everybody can have all the benefits of a humanities education without ever taking a single class! All you have to do is the following:

Memorize Plato’s Allegory of the Cave. It forms the basis of everything critical anything.
Become passingly acquainted with Freud. We humans want sex. And death. And we’re messed up because of our parents. And cigars are not, in fact, ever just cigars.
Understand, glancingly, feminist theory. Men oppress women. And have always. Women must reclaim their own space. You should probably read “The Yellow Wallpaper”, too.
Embrace postmodernism. Truth doesn’t exist. There’s no single, secret meaning to be found by all. Everything can be broken to its constituent parts.
Know some stuff about Jesus. People wrote about him. And then painted him. And set up a church to him in Rome. Uh, then some other stuff happened.

Sure there are other things you’ll need to learn if you really want to be a humanities type. You’ll have to learn to watch movies and then say things about them. And, you might have to learn to write a coherent paper. But, pretty much, get those five things in a row, and you’re just as prepared as any of us to enter the scholarly discourse. Congratulations!

I can make it, I can make it. Oh, I guess I couldn't.

2010-03-11T13:20:00.004-07:00

There are some things that are just bad ideas. For instance, if you are driving to Vegas on Friday, it's probably not the wisest to completely break the side mirror on your car a few days prior. Just probably. I mean, in one sense, it would make the drive more entertaining. Not that I'm speaking for experience or anything...

I wish I could say that backing into a garbage can Monday was a low point in my driving record. But that would be a lie. I've backed into other things before. Including once backing into another car in a parking garage. I pulled back into my space and jumped out to check the damage. In doing so, I somehow locked my car. With the keys inside. While it was still running. This was ten years ago (gosh, have I been driving for that long?) and so before the whole expectation-of-a-cell-phone thing. I had been at a doctor's appointment, so I had to go back into the office and call my mom to have her come drop off a key. That's up there with my dumbest moments ever.

The mirror is completely off. It's dangling, the surface shattered (do I get seven years of bad luck in this case?) from the side of my car. It looks so pathetic, I'm almost tempted to snip whatever it is that's holding it at all and just leave nothing there. But since I don't really understand anything about anything, it seems like taking sharp objects to a car part might be a bad idea.

You'd think that, four days afterwards, I'd be starting to get used to not having that mirror. That I wouldn't, every time I glance that way have a few seconds of panic wondering what happened to my mirror. But, you'd be wrong. Every. single. time. Sigh...it's getting old.

And now, here we are on Thursday. I leave tomorrow. The repair shop swore up and down the mirror would be on Wednesday. No such luck. Nor have I heard from them today. Which means that taking my car to Vegas is right out (I just don't trust myself to not do something dumb without the benefit of a mirror. My record in a car with all safety features doesn't give much confidence). It also means that my already pretty strong distaste from repairmen has another grievance to chalk up.

Fortunately, I'm going down with a friend. So, we'll take her car. But, I still have to get to Provo. Maybe I'll just plan it so I never have to merge right. Because nothing says, "we're on a schedule" like taking an hour and a half to get down to Utah County because you can't leave the far right lane.

he's not heavy, he's my brother

2010-03-03T22:00:00.003-07:00

Brothers are great*. I have two of them, both of whom are the awesome. Though, for totally different reasons. My younger brother is hilarious and knows everybody (seriously, you can't throw a stone in this town without hitting somebody he knows). And was voted Prom King for goodness' sake. But this post isn't about him. It's about my older brother.

My older brother makes fun of me mercilessly. It is, after all, part of his job description. He's the one who started the jokes about whether Canada had electricity, the internet, running water and so on when I moved there. He kept asking me when I worked at the jail if I'd gotten shived yet. He teases me for living in Utah. He pokes fun at me for quitting my job and going back to school. Basically, you get the idea. I don't take any of it too seriously, because I know he doesn't mean it. Well, I hope he doesn't.

He also sends me video clips that are hilarious, even if completely random. And pictures of various absurdities he comes across. Like signs informing the public they are not allowed to urinate on city property. Or, in discussing t-shirt ideas, he sent me this, "Eat Meat Sparingly....unless that would be inconvenient, then just eat meat whenever you want". And he mocks Footprints every chance he gets. So, he's not just funny at my expense, but funny in general, you see.

But, really, what he's great at, what made me want to write this post is as follows. There's a few librarian jobs that have been popping up in the Salt Lake area. I texted him asking if I should apply and ditch the whole graduate school idea. He replied, "Yes. Obviously. We must ALL lead lives of quiet desperation, not pursuing our dreams."

So, y'know, even though he tells me I'm ridiculous for going back to school and pokes at me about the additional debt, he still gives really good advice. And, y'know, is supportive or something.

In word, thanks. That's all.

*Sisters are great, too. Yeah, that's right, I didn't forget you guys. :)

I may have a problem

2010-03-01T20:57:00.003-07:00

I have a weakness for paisley. Given the various things in the world I could be/am addicted to, this isn't so bad. However, I'm beginning to wonder if, at some point, I will pass the limit of the number of paisley ties any one person is allowed to own. I just bought another one and well, I think the picture below says it all.

But, if being able to go almost two weeks without repeating a paisley tie is wrong, I'm not sure I want to be right.

buoying spirits unawares

2010-02-21T00:45:00.003-07:00

I go back and forth on the whole idea that people are often the answer to our prayers unintentionally. Not that I expect a theophany every time I ask for something. It's just, well, it seems too coincidental. And also sort of self-centered. It seems likely that people just do things regardless of what we need or want. To assert otherwise sort of makes me uncomfortable.

I say that, but then sometimes things happen that make it seem like maybe there really is a God who engineers even tiny, inconsequential stuff.

To wit, I've been having a sort of rough patch. Nothing serious, just a run of kinda lousy days and some little prickly bits, too. Like failing to turn in the electronic version of a paper that was already done. Being given work tasks that make me feel sort of clueless. Getting a speeding ticket. Stuff that just sort of sours otherwise uneventful days. It's the sorts of thing that aren't that out of the ordinary but which, for whatever reason, feels moderately overwhelming at the time.

But then, in the last couple of days, someone I just met told me they'd heard good things from one of my professors about me and someone whose life I've envied practically since we met (it's soooooo cool. honestly) told me that she was, in fact, jealous of my life. My bland, sort of frivolous life.

These are dumb things really. Tiny things. And these people have no idea the difference they made. But, they did. For a little moment there, I was reminded that, hey, maybe things just seem a lot worse than they actually are. It's weird the power small things can have. And, whatever the source of these interactions, I'm so, so, so grateful for them.

Insupportable

2010-02-11T13:47:00.003-07:00

My Hebrew professor, in discussing the etymology of some words has been known to contemptuously spit out that the root comes from "the Indo-European storehouse". He's not exactly a purist, but I can see the problem. Why borrow words from a system that doesn't really meld well with your own? Especially when these words aren't particularly complicated semantic undertakings. Though, some languages like to borrow. It's what they do (I'm looking in your direction, English. You're pretty much willing to invite any morpheme into your bed, aren't you?)

So, that said, borrowing a word here and there doesn't seem like such a problem. But, what if you're Greek? And, say, it's the 5th Century and you've created small things like drama and democracy and vase painting and Classical architecture. Why on earth, when you were smoothing things out like this didn't you bother to regularize the word for "to carry"?

Remember how you guys did the Golden Mean? And even went so far as curving parts of the Parthenon so it'd look straight? Yeah, you have a thing for order. That's cool. But, seriously, order begins at home.

For those of you reading who don't do Greek, here's how the verbal system works, at least theoretically. When you learn a verb, you learn six principal parts, related to different tenses. This is partly because ancient languages are needlessly complex at even their most regular bits, but also because the rules are sort of mishmash and it's generally easier to just memorize things.

So, a nice, regular verb looks like this:

παιδευω, παιδευσω, ἐπαιδευσα, πεπαιδευκα, πεπαιδευμαι, ἐπαιδευθην

Even not reading Greek, you can see this guy "παιδευ" sort of hangs around and gets stuff added to it.

Then, there's φερω, the word for "to carry". No real problem there. But then you look at the other forms which come out:

οἰσω, ἠνεγκα, ἐνηνοχα, ἐνηνεγμαι, ἠνεχθην

WTF? Three DIFFERENT roots? Sure, just pull anything you want out of Proto Indo-European. That's a good choice. Oh, and while you're at it, could you chose one root that likes to lose part of itself sometimes? That'd be swell.

I hate you sometimes, Classical Greek. Sometimes, I think you should die in a fire. Or, y'know, at the hands of the Romans. You pick.

At Oran like elsewhere

2010-02-10T21:27:00.003-07:00

I spend way more intellectual energy and effort on carefully my crafted Facebooking than I really should. The curating of photo albums takes a good deal out of me. I. must. be. funny. And status updates are (generally) reserved for something rather clever*. They don't always have to come from me. In fact, a fair amount of the time, I just take a quote of some sort and tweak it.

However, on days like today, that pretty much beat me up for no good reason, I'm stuck. All I can think of are things from Camus, Sartre or the gloomier works of Graham Greene and Julian Barnes. Not particularly cheery, eh?

This leads me to wonder if these fancy degrees I have slash am working on did anything worthwhile other than giving me more beautiful ways to describe my dissatisfaction with my life. A life, btw, which is ridiculously good. I guess, if that's really the sum total of my education, I should wait for someone who chose more wisely and studied something useful to make a time machine. Then, I'll just go back in time and tell 18 year-old alea to pitch it all and go for the accounting degree. Then I'd be happy.

*Or, what I find clever. Because I amuse myself. And no one else.

Cheetos and starbursts are totally a meal

2010-02-09T16:56:00.002-07:00

My sister works an irregular schedule, with several days of very long shifts and then a block of time off. According to her, this contributes to her eating patterns being Pavlovian. That is, without the cues of working, she loses track of the need to eat. She’s, obviously, not bothered by this. However, some of the rest of us can be. Because, see, we go to visit her when she’s not working and (if you’re me) are too timid to admit that you need food.

What’s weird, though, is that, left to my own devices, I’m not a very good eater. I don’t think my eating is Pavlovian, though. I think it’s social. If other people are around, I eat. If not, I don’t. It’s not that I avoid eating. It’s just that it doesn’t seem to happen. Sure, I snack. I nibble. I maybe even nosh a little bit. (Oh, let’s be honest, I’ll munch on some chips or consume some candy). But I don’t eat.

The fact that, periodically, my body decides that taking in calories in any form is beneath its interest doesn’t help my tendency to suddenly realize Sunday night that I have, in fact, gone two days without eating anything. The thing that usually gets me to realize this is trying to figure out why my head should be hurting so much.

On the plus side, this method of eating really cuts down on the grocery bills. On the downside, my body hates me. But then, I see this as some appropriate payback for all the times it’s decided it didn’t want to play nice.* I think, though, it's probably in my best interests to get out of this bad habit and, y'know, learn to take care of myself.

*Naturally, I refuse all blame from those situations.

You know what this envelope needs? A better taste

2010-01-26T17:24:00.003-07:00

I don't actually mind the taste of envelope glue. In fact, I sort of like it. I'm always a little bit sad when I buy stamps now because they only sell self-adhesive ones. But, if I did find the taste of envelopes unsatisfying, I'd probably buy myself some Mmmvelopes. These little guys TASTE LIKE BACON!!!

I'm a big fan of bacon. A huge one even. I almost cannot get enough of it. That said, I'm totally buying some of that bacon salt. If it really works, I'm guessing that my non-bacon-sensing taste buds might atrophy from lack of use.

Of course, Bacon Salt is, I fear, one minor step away from the obvious trajectory. To wit: Squeez Bacon.

Reader, I died.

2010-01-20T16:45:00.003-07:00

Life in the 19th Century was rough. Want proof? Look to the Brontë family. Patrick Bronte managed to outlive his entire family. By six years. No, no, wait for it, it gets better (worse?)

Patrick marries Maria in 1812, she dies less than 10 years later, having given him six children. Of these six, the two eldest die in 1825 (of consumption). The youngest three all die within 10 months of each other in 1848/49. Of course, all three died of some respiratory ailment. Because that's what people did in Victorian England (see above). Especially, if like Branwell, the son, you were an opium addict. I'm curious how Charlotte felt, out-surviving every single member of her family except her father. Apparently she got over it enough to get married. And pregnant. AND THEN DIE. Yep, she died with child, less than a year after her wedding.

Even better than all this is the fact that the sisters were never considered to be the success stories of the family. All the family's hopes were centered on Branwell. Then, of course, he seems to have either lost or stolen some money from his railway job, had an affair with the mother of the pupil he tutored, and became an alcoholic. So, maybe his death isn't so tragic. Well, it is tragic that it all had to happen at once to this family. So much dying. All over the place.

Sheesh, how did anyone survive in Victorian England?

Also: why did no one tell me that William James and Henry James were brothers? Doesn't that seem a bit excessive to have that much century-later impact birthed in one family?

Day 3, some bullets

2010-01-13T15:51:00.002-07:00

I'm back in school, which is actually a pretty good thing. Now, all that extra mental energy that for the past month I was directing at myself can focus on other problems. Y'know, important things like Greek participles and learning a Tai Chi short form. A few things have been happening to me. Not enough for a whole post each, so instead, I present the highlights of my first three days.

My Greek prof is in his mid-sixties, I'd guess. But, he fist bumps. This happened on the first day when he put out his fist for me and I wasn't quite sure what he wanted. But, I went in for the bump and yep, that's what he was after. I'm not sure if the fist bumping makes him quirky/awesome or just sort of pathetic/trying too hard. He, does, also, though, wave to us. Like a little up-down of the fingers. This is more bizarre if you know he does this at random times. And that we meet in a seminar room which is just a big table. So he waves across the 3 feet. He also, though, does pitch accents when reading ancient Greek, which pretty much forgives everything.
I'm taking directed studies from the Hebrew professor. He sort of intimidates me (and by sort of, I mean, I feel super awkward and dumb around him). But, I bumped into him on campus yesterday and he handed me three bow ties. "Pick two," he said and then walked off. He's given up wearing ties and had told me last semester that I needed better ones. I didn't expect him to personally remedy the situation, though.
I find it so adorable, Sociology, that you think you can act like a social science when you want and then pretend you know what you're doing in the humanities world. You talk about experiments and data and hypotheses and then move on as if you understand deconstruction. I really don't know what to make of you. Also, how, precisely are you not anthropology?
I was in a class that was going to be horrific. On the first day, we were assigned a group. A group that would discuss questions together every. single. class. AND would be doing a group project together. The same group all semester. But, I found out it was waived with some transfer credits.
Of course, finding this out and getting this to actually happen has proved a headache. The adviser for languages and literature seems particularly useless. And, I feel like I'm going to get sucked into a catch-22 because the transfer admissions won't accept transfer by classes from previous degrees until approved by the adviser and the adviser won't approve them until the transfer admissions accepts them. Good thing they make everything so smooth and easy.
I'm not able to take Star Trek. I feel sort of glum about this, but as a bonus, the directed readings will provide me, I'm sure, with an endless supply of funny stories.
I'm always reminded the first few days of class that I'm such a snob. Like, in my institute class where one irritating guy said he was going into business and I thought to myself, "Of course you are." Or a guy in another class casually let it slip that he lived in Israel and Chile and San Francisco. So, you know he's cool, right? I probably shouldn't be allowed around people.

Truth

2010-01-06T17:28:00.003-07:00

Dear Jessica Hagy:

You speak (er, draw(?)) the truth so often. And yet this one feels particularly correct.

Thanks for that.

Neither here nor there

2010-01-05T23:50:00.002-07:00

I have a very complicated relationship with the notion of traveling. On the one hand, I love it. There's new places to see! Adventures to have! Friends and family to visit! On the other hand, there's bags to be packed! Planes to be boarded! Time to be consumed by simply waiting! Money to be spent! Fears to be had about overstaying your welcome! New places to navigate! Foreign bathrooms and beds and furniture to negotiate! It exhausts me even thinking about it. But it also exhilarates me.

I think a large chunk of the problem is that I'm a list maker. And, getting ready for a trip always makes me feel like I should make a list of things that need to be accomplished before I leave. Inevitably, these lists are too long and I get to feeling overwhelmed. Then, I make lists of things to do where I'm going. Then I make lists of things to pack. Then it's a list of books to bring. And, before you can say "all aboard", I'm buried in piles of bullet points. On top of all of that, the world stubbornly refuses to cease moving forward while I try to get these things done. So, I'm still expected to work, even though I have laundry to get done. Or celebrate a friend's birthday even though I haven't packed (and of course, I have to make cupcakes for said celebration).* Of course, I also need to send in conference registrations, buy textbooks for classes, trim my beard, make a few major life decisions and so on and so on.

Clearly, I lack perspective. These things can wait (most of them). And the ones that can't can be accomplished. And, people invite me to visit them (or consent to let me visit them) because they like me (right? people aren't just too nice to say no, are they?) and so, I shouldn't worry about messing up on the trip. But, I can't shake the panic that sinks in about 48 hours before I go anywhere and which lingers as a sort of queasy uneasiness for the entire duration of any vacation.

One of the things not helping for this trip is that I'm coming back the same day that school starts. Thus, missing the first day of my Greek class. Since this is a different prof, I can't even rely on the semester of quasi-good graces I built up. Leaving Phoenix at 6.30 in the morning also sounds a bit like hell. And, it's decisions like this that remind me that I make dumb choices when I'm traveling. I frustrate myself so much sometimes.

So, I have all these bad things floating around, but every single time, I love the trip. Seriously. I have a great time regardless what actually happens and even if I get only five hours of sleep in three days. That's why I keep coming back to the idea of going places. It appeals to me much more than it irritates me. But, still, gosh, I wish this journey coming up overmorrow were finished already. Doesn't it realize I have a trip to Alaska to worry about?

*Note to this friend: I actually really do want to celebrate your birthday with you tomorrow. I just feel stretched, but I still know what's what, if you will. And I'm mostly being absurd.

Not for the belly

2009-12-30T16:36:00.002-07:00

So, Mormons can't drink coffee. Or tea. Nowadays, there's solutions to this conundrum (diet coke for the pep, herbal tea for the cold, Pero for the fun creamers, and so on). However, pioneers weren't so lucky. They had to be more...creative. I guess they were desperate times, but did they really need to try soaking and then drinking every conceivable plant and grain?

From a website I was scouring for ideas for the Utah Party that I may or may not be having: Barley Coffee (roasted then ground), Barley Water (just boiled and strained), Rice Water (ditto), Sage Tea, and Toast Tea (burn bread, crumble, cover in hot water).

I'm disturbed by these ideas. Also, doesn't it seem sort of wasteful to use grains for making a drink? Didn't these people have to eat flowers for a whole winter or something?

Though, if all that was waiting for you on a cold winter's night in Utah was a steaming cup of rice water, I can maybe understand why all the pioneers look so grumpy in photographs.

since I lack the will to say no

2009-12-29T13:48:00.005-07:00

About a year ago, my sister asked me to run a 5K with her. A group from her neighborhood was doing it, since that decreased the entrance fee. I agreed, with a bit of trepidation. Exercise and me don't along much. Couple that with the fact that, prior to agreeing to this, I couldn't run more than three-quarters of a mile without wanting to die/having my lungs refuse to function and you might see why it didn't seem so keen. But, I pulled it together and got it done.

I realize that a 5K isn't really much to write home about, but I was pretty proud of myself. Sure, I was a bit deflated when I saw a girl from my ward just afterwards who, after hearing how long it took me said, "Oh, good, at least I beat someone". That was completely tactful. At any rate, though, I've been keeping up running more or less (a lot closer to less the last few months, though).

So now, I have a new goal. Well, not really so much a goal as an order. My friend is prepping for a marathon*. With that in her sights, she's convinced me to run a half marathon with her this spring. So, I've four months to get myself prepped for 13.1 miles. This only seems totally unreasonable, right? I feel like posting this here will force me to be a little bit more accountable about this promise I was coerced into. And, hey, it might be a little bit fun. Or something.

*this seems unwise to me. The first guy who ran it died!

Sometimes

2009-12-23T15:02:00.001-07:00

Christmas can look really magical. And delicious.

Fail, England, Fail.

2009-12-22T14:16:00.003-07:00

Dear England

Sure, you may have beaten them at two World Wars and your men may live longer than theirs, but man, when it comes to Christmas, the Germans really won, didn't they?

They gave us Christmas trees and nutcrackers and gingerbread houses. And, pretty much all the fun traditions. What, precisely, was your contribution to Christmas celebrations? Victorian ghost stories. Seriously? That's all you've got? Yeah, I know a lot of Christmas traditions don't make sense but this one in particular is sort of baffling. What, exactly, is the connection? Way to drop the ball there, John Bull.

Though, while we're on the subject: could you pass the word along to America and suggest we start doing crackers? That'd be great.

Thanks and loves,

-alea

Can you do that?

2009-12-21T15:45:00.004-07:00

I have this friend, ke, with whom I have been known to do a little cooking. Sometimes, though, I doubt her choices. She has these crazy ideas, see. So I'm hedgy and iffy and then, when it turns out she's actually a genius, I'm amazed. I really should learn to stop doubting her.

In specific: cumin whipped cream*. It doesn't seem like that should be allowed, does it? But, it is. And it's delicious atop roasted carrots with anise. Even if roasting carrots and then chopping them into fine dice is enough to almost drive me mad. Seriously, though, savory whipped cream needs to be more plentiful in my life. I'm not entirely sure how I've managed to live this long without it.

So, uh, thanks, ke, for not listening to me when I make icky faces about your food ideas. You're the best--even if you didn't let us go to Carhenge.

*part of me want a hyphen in this string somewhere. Not sure where. Or why.

Think of the fall combinations!

2009-12-12T00:36:00.003-07:00

I'm about 99% convinced this pan wouldn't work. At all. But it's so adorable. I wants it. I needs it.

I could then make pumpkin-flavored, acorn-shaped mini-cakes and literally produce the culinary equivalent of fall.

the poem about which I should have written my math paper

2009-12-10T23:19:00.002-07:00

Lace

Bent over
the open notebook--

light fades out
making trees stand out
and my room
at the back
of the house, dark.

In the dusk
I am still
looking for it--
the language that is

lace:

a baroque obligation
at the wrist
of a prince
in a petty court.
Look, just look
at the way he shake out

the thriftless phrases,
the crystal rhetoric
of bobbined knots
and bosses:
a vagrant drift
of emphasis
to wave away an argument
or frame the hand
he kisses;
which, for all that, is still

what someone
in the corner
of a room,
in the dusk,
bent over
as the light was fading

lost their sight for.

Eavan Boland

I already want to die

2009-12-07T21:05:00.000-07:00

A WINTER STORM WARNING FOR HEAVY SNOW AND STRONG WINDS REMAINS IN EFFECT UNTIL 4 PM MST TUESDAY.

THIS WINTER STORM WARNING IS FOR THE SOUTHERN WASATCH MOUNTAINS, WESTERN UINTA MOUNTAINS AND WASATCH PLATEAU.

BY LATE TUESDAY AFTERNOON 1 TO 2 FEET OF SNOW IS EXPECTED.

Look, I'm cool with the winds. I can cope with the freezing temperatures (I can just put on my tuque and all problems are solved). But the snow? I can't stand it. It should stay in the mountains if at all possible. Or, alternatively, all our roads should have hot water running underneath them. Surely that can't cost too much, can it?

The end is near

2009-12-05T13:41:00.004-07:00

It's finals time. And therefore, I have lost all sense of proportion. That is to say, all my usual skills at time management and reasonable goals have flown out the window. This happens every time. Sometimes, my response is to decide at midnight that I need to start baking, and then baking for four hours straight. Another semester, I read something like 10 novels in one week, rather than doing my homework. In others, like this semester, I start watching a lot of tv (though, this time, it's tv on hulu, which is even more dangerous, since there's so much more of it. Oh my gosh, so much more of it).

The bad part, of course, is that I'm still two weeks out from the end of tests and papers. Which means it could, conceivably, get more and more absurd. My five hours of sleep a night might pare down even more. And life will be a hazy, irritating blur.

However, my loss of rationality isn't limited to the fact that I find ingenious ways to waste hours upon hours. No, I'm also adept at taking on way more than I could ever possibly accomplish. For instance, a couple of days ago I made up my to-do list for the end of the semester. Amidst things like "watch WALL-E" and "Islam faith report", I included this gem: Abstract Algebra.

Yep. My plan, apparently, is to learn all of abstract algebra in order to write my final literature and math paper. It can't be that hard, right? I mean, it's just math, after all. Totally straightforward. And, hey, the paper's only a third of my grade.

Ugh. I. am. so. screwed.

Benefits

2009-11-17T22:32:00.003-07:00

Sometimes people ask me why I went back to school. In fact, they are often baffled, wondering why I'm not ready to move on to the next phase of my life. But, I have three very valid reasons now to point to:

1. I get to write a paper on WALL-E. And, because of this, I get to use the title "He was compacted for our iniquities"*.

2. Next semester, I get to take an entire class, three credits worth, on Star Trek: The Next Generation. Not as cool as, say, Disney, but still spiffy.

3. I don't have to hassle with requesting time off or dealing with a schedule for the trip to see the Northern Lights that is currently in planning stages.

Sure, there are some minor inconveniences. Like homework. And not really making sufficient money. But, hey, I'm enjoying myself. That's the most important thing, right?

*I am convinced that the vast majority of my education is just better preparation for clever titles. That and having something to say at cocktail parties.

My completely scholarly review of the first half of A mind of its own: A cultural history of the penis

2009-11-02T18:25:00.001-07:00

Ow. Ow. Ow. Owowowowowow. WHY???!?! Ow.

Will you be my wordfriend?

2009-10-28T00:33:00.002-06:00

Word crushes are completely inexplicable.* Some words just reach out and grab your heart and refuse to let go. But, like all crushes, the attraction evaporates eventually. You may have been sweet on the word despondent for months when you suddenly hear it again and realize it's just a sad that's been to finishing school. Or maybe you've spent the last year telling everyone why they need to make sure their vocabulary includes ignominious, only to become slightly embarrassed by it.

Of course, these crushes can wax and wan. Or you can just smile wistfully when you hear a word that you were enamored with and had forgotten. Like when you suddenly find yourself in the perfect situation to use quidnunc. Even still, these are former flickers of the intensity of your passion. Fond memories, nothing more. Which is sad, as it reminds me how fleeting everything really is.

But, one of the things I learn about studying languages is that you get to have all sorts of crushes. For some reason, these ones stick around longer. I still love normalerweise just as much as I did at first. Then, there's אבדוק (evdoke)† in Hebrew which will not be moved from my attentions. And, today, I hit upon my first crush in Greek. Well, my first real crush. I had a bit of a flirtation with ἐπειδή (epayday)‡, but it's not lasting. The word that's stolen my heart is ἁρπαζόμεθα (harpazohmaytha). It means “we snatch for ourselves” or “we are being snatched”. I've been saying it over and over again to myself. Fortunately, not aloud. Sadly, I doubt I'll get nearly as much use for this once and I will for either normalerweise or אבדוק, both of which are in my everyday speech. But here's the fair warning: I may start making up situations in which first person plural passive snatching is required. After all, love is a verb, isn't it? I've got to let this word know just how keen on it I am.

*What's that you say, you don't have crushes on words? What, are you some sort of normal human being that doesn't think about these things? Whatever. Words are important.
†"I'll check"
‡Since, because, when

it looks like we're fresh out of turpentine, so...

2009-10-15T14:50:00.002-06:00

I'm pretty sure that, if Death has a taste, it might be something like the following recipe:

Sauerkraut And Clam Juice Cocktail

2 Oz. Sauerkraut Juice, cold
2 Oz. Clam Juice, cold

1 Teaspoon Grated Horse Radish
Salt to taste

What, precisely, is sauerkraut juice? And why, exactly, would anyone ever drink this?

victory will be mine

2009-10-14T23:18:00.004-06:00

I am absurdly competitive. This might surprise some people who don't know me all that well. They're thrown off the scent by the fact that I'm almost cripplingly adverse to conflict and by the apparent lack of anything resembling drive or ambition in my life. But, put me in a game, doesn't matter what game, and I want to win. Badly. I don't cheat, but will do anything within the rules to be the one wearing the laurels at the end. And, I talk a lot of trash, even when said trash has been proven to be a totally inaccurate depiction of reality.

I have three things that save me from being the kind of win-hungry jerk you hate to play games with. First, once the game components are packed up, the emotions from the game are gone. My push to win doesn't spill over into other aspects of my life. It stays neatly on the shelf to be unpacked the next time we play. Second, I'm a good loser. I don't mope, break egg timers or come up with my lame reasons why I lost. Usually, I just make fun of myself. And lastly, I'm nothing approaching a master of games. I lose. A lot. And often. Winning is by far the exception. In fact, my sister, brother-in-law and I have a theory that it is impossible for me to win a game in their house. And we have quite a load of data to base that on. So, you see, this aggressive streak of mine is all in good fun and rarely harmful to relationships.

At any rate, my competitiveness explains why today, instead of reading the approximately 300 pages I need to polish off before Monday or even getting started on my math and literature paper that has me paralyzed or devoting as much time as I should have to planning my sister's cocktail party, I spent a half hour besting Twirl's score at Bejeweled Blitz. Of course, now I have him to accuse when I fail my classes. Since, after all, the most fun game of all is the blame game. And, I'm dashed cunning at it.

Where does it all come from?

2009-10-13T00:10:00.004-06:00

I support nasal irrigation. Pretty much entirely. A few years ago, I was diagnosed with mastoiditis. This, naturally, led one doctor to ask me where in the third world I contracted it and several others to not really believe me when I told them. It's basically periodic sinus infections in the behind the ear cavities. Though, that doesn't really describe the pain brought on by it. It would sneak up on me, this pain. At its worst, I would be struck and be brought to tears. Tears! By a sinus infection.

Various remedies were undertaken to make me not burst into tears in the theatre while watching a romantic comedy (which really happened). I took large doses of antibiotics (and probably created some various super bugs of my own). I got my deviant septum repaired. I had CAT scans. I started taking absurd amounts of garlic and vitamin C at the slightest hint of infection (which was better than my previous approach, which basically consisted of moaning and cursing and hoping it'd pass soon*). None of these really worked. I mean, the antibiotics cured the infection, but after a couple of weeks. And the surgery, as far as I can tell, was sort of a wash.

But, the magic of squirting water and salt up your nose cannot be overestimated. It's great. Sort of weird at first, but the benefits (almost one-day turn-around on sinus infection), are great. There is one really unfortunate side effect, though. Turns out, the sinuses are sort of circuitous. And, they can hold water. So, after irrigating, the next two hours result in my turning my head one way and water gushing out my nostrils. And then, I bend over and more water. And not a little. I can't believe how much one cup turns out to be when it drips from your nose.

Fortunately, I do this at night. So nobody sees the Niagara that results. And, even with the awkward, unexpected drizzlings, I still get behind nasal irrigation. Everybody should do it. Everybody.

*Which is pretty much my approach to all personal problems.

I know I had them recently...

2009-09-23T16:00:00.003-06:00

I am not on the top of my game today. I left the house without my wallet. Which isn't too much of a problem, except I need it to clock in so that I get paid. Moderately important. Plus, what if I need food between school or lace or lace and home? or what if I get pulled over? and so on and so on.

But, the mere forgetting of my wallet isn't what suggested to me that today might need either a fast-forward or a do-over. I rushed home instead of going to my institute class in the one flexible hour I have. I pull into my driveway and, then start frantically looking for my keys. I unzip my bag. They're not there. I unzip the larger pouch. Also not their. I feel in my pockets. I start wondering where I could have possibly put them.

Then, I realize, uh, they're in the ignition. Yeah, that's right. I'm awesome sometimes. Good thing I'm not in charge of something important. Because I'm pretty sure I'd lose it or kill it. Or both.

Praxis is so over-rated

2009-09-16T17:19:00.003-06:00

I love being back in school. So much it takes my breath away. I mean, basically, I get to spend my days reading really cool things and then sitting around discussing them. Yes, I could do with fewer insufferable types in several of my classes (though, the line between insufferable and interesting is a hair's breadth of difference*). And yeah, I could live without the feeling that I'm a naughty ten year old which I daily experience in my Hebrew class. But overall, I can't get enough of it. I love learning that Ancient Greek lacked fricatives. Or that African-American churches were among the first to ordain females. Plus, I can't get enough of ridiculous things like hearing "that depends on your reading of both Bush and Aeneas" or "that is why you should never agree with anything".

The stories are great, but the actual content, that is what I'm learning, is much trickier. My friend Twirl asked after one of the first days of school what I learned that day. I was completely at a loss. It's not that I'm not learning anything, it's just...well, it's complicated. I mean, I could jump into a discussion of how Paul shows evidence of an afterlife where only the good survive. Or one about the nature of symbolic math. Or maybe about dageshing verbs because nuns want to disappear. The problem is that these conversations can't really just start and end like that. The things I am learning are not, sadly, sound bite worthy.

I imagine this is how all fields are when you get to near-graduation levels. But, other fields are more reality-based. That is, they map onto the world in a way that makes learning new things about them actually useful. Us humanities types, though, are ivory tower at its best. We talk about things seemingly for the mere reason of talking about them. We don't care if we can actually do anything, just that we can think about things. And, bonus points for the person who thinks the strangest.

It's nice being back in a place where my obdurate desire to find a context for every minority reading, my ability to soak up new vocabulary words like a sponge, and my skills in deconstructing are pretty much signs of absolute success. Sure, as my sister pointed out to me this weekend, I'll probably be in school until I'm in my mid-thirties, but really, why shouldn't I be? It's all I'm good at. I think I'll stick around as long as I can, thank you very much.

*and it's difficult to see a hair a midnight

Dear Persons Responsible for the Resurfacing of Foothill

2009-09-09T17:50:00.002-06:00

Look, I get that road construction is a complicated matter. These roads need fixing. Any sort of work is going to impinge on traffic. I am not, at least yet, the center of the known universe. However, don't you think you could have planned slightly better? Timed your project a bit differently? Maybe over a semester break? Or during the summer? Or not at the same time that you, or a cooperative agency*, has made 13th East into a disaster? Because, I'm not sure if you know this, but there are a lot of people who daily make a trek to the University of Utah. Y'know, that big group of buildings sort of east of downtown? The place that employees more Utahns than all but three other entities? And has about 28,000 students?

I only ask these questions because you made me late to class this morning. It had absolutely nothing to do with my sleeping in slightly and then dragging my feet to get ready. Also, if you continue said project, I may have to switch buses on the day that I ride public transit. And the thought of having to get up at 6.45 in order to catch a 7.15 bus makes me want to cry a little bit. Plus, I need that extra sleep to adequately deal with the hour-long scolding that my Hebrew class turns into.

But, since we're in this mess, please hurry.

thanks!

alea

*Who actually is responsible for non-interstate road construction? Is it the city?

Plus ça change...

2009-09-03T16:02:00.003-06:00

I'm not the kind of person who generally, as a rule, enjoys change. Usually, even something minor like my parents junking the car that I drove all through college or painting the walls of my childhood kitchen bright blue is enough to make me more than a touch despondent. These sorts of things bother me, the uneasiness and lack of consistency. If things change, it means they're not stable and, if these trivial things change so easily, what about the bigger things? I mean, it's ridiculous, obviously, to compare a hunk of metal or a design choice to anything major. I realize that, but still, there's a worry that sets up shop at the back of my head every time even a minor difference appears.

Which is why I'm even more disoriented by the last couple of months. I have undergone a dizzying number of alterations over that time period. Even the most dramatic-appearing ones (that of quitting my job or of going back to school) are just a part of what appears to be some sort of drastic life overhaul. Some things, naturally, aren't my choosing (not that I'm opposed to them, but more I didn't have the only say in the matters, if you will). But it's not the nature or even the number of changes that makes me feel uneasy this time. Rather, I'm out of sorts precisely because I'm not out of sorts. Quite the contrary: I'm remarkably happy.

I don't do content well. I do discontent and malcontent splendidly. I'm also pretty adept at unsatisfied and unfulfilled. And I can suck it up or grit my teeth with the best of them. But, to crib Michael Cunningham, against all odds and expectations life has burst open and given me pretty much everything. I should probably just, at least for this moment, allow myself to enjoy what's going on. To not fret about how it'll all fall apart, or worry about what will happen when suddenly a different set of changes sends me spiraling in a direction I never intended or even want.

I can't do that, though. I haven't the practice. And it disrupts my whole personal narrative. But, for the moment, I'm going to try. Really hard. And just accept that things can, in fact, work out for me beautifully.

Is there a level above full-time?

2009-08-18T14:42:00.003-06:00

My maternal grandfather used to give my brother a hard time pretty regularly about the number of credit hours he was taking at university. See, my grandfather was superhuman and once did something absurd like 24 quarter hours at one go. Ok, that statistic is actually a fabrication. I have no idea how many his record was. But it was high. And anything less was a shame worth poking fun at. It's a weird way of looking at education, not really caring about what the courses were, just the sheer volume. But it's also a beautiful way of framing it, too, as a quest for lots and lots of knowledge regardless of the content.

Gramps, the only grandparent I knew, passed away just before my senior year of high school. So, he wasn't able to give me a hard time about my enrollment. Not that he'd have much room to criticize me. The lightest semester I ever had was 13 credits. But that one doesn't really count, because that was 13 credits of independent study via correspondence course. My lightest load when actually in school was 18 hours. And my last semester of BYU, I took 21 credit hours, comprised of 8 different classes. And I don't remember being all that busy. Granted, four hours were religion courses (which, by the way, were not required, but seemed interesting) and four was ASL 101, the Platonic gut course. But, still, that's a lot of hours in a classroom.

I bring all this up mostly to make myself feel like the prospect of taking 20 hours this fall is not completely crazy. Because a. I've done it before, b. it'll make Gramps proud of me and c. it means I get to take a class combining math and literature. Math and literature? I'm squealing with excitement over the prospect. Plus, they're most humanities courses. Which, if you're quirky and can write half decent you can pass without even trying. [Dear people studying real things in school, like physics or engineering or even English, you're dumb. Don't you know they'll give out degrees for watching movies? I have one of them!]

Oh, but warning's fair for the people around me: when it turns out that jumping into third year Hebrew after five years of studying the language is really short-sighted or I discover that I've lost all my writing skillz or I want to kill myself that first week in December when I'll inevitably have to write something like 150 pages worth of papers in 10 days, you're going to hear me moan about it. When you do, just start asking me funny stories for my professors and I'll feel much better. Or, alternatively, give me a list of baked goods to produce. I'm never more productive in my life than when I'm totally snowed under with coursework. And, hey, if I fail at school this time, I can always go back to being an adult, right?

Nell Gywn redux

2009-08-17T09:29:00.002-06:00

Things that I am generally good at:

Fitting things I have recently read/heard into conversations
Getting people to talk about themselves
Flirting
Selecting good presents

Things that I generally fail at

Keeping myself productively occupied for 40 hours a week
Relationships of all stripes
Sticking with projects beyond my level of interest in them
Being serious even when seriousness is required

Now, I don't really believe in reincarnation, but I'm pretty sure I was either meant to be, or already was, a courtesan in a royal court somewhere.

Trying to flap the unflappable

2009-08-05T09:41:00.002-06:00

So, a couple of days ago, I had to call and talk to a financial aid person at the University of Utah. This conversation ensued:

financial aid guy: Have you filled out the FERPA release online?
me: No, I don't think I have.
fag: Alright, go ahead and log into your Campus Information System and you'll see a link in the middle of the screen that says FERPA. Let me know when you've found it.
me: Ok. [moments later] Found it.
fag: Great. Go ahead and enter a PIN there and then, if you want to list anyone else to give them access to your information you can. If you have, say, a parent or a wife you want to be able to call and get information.
me: That's awfully heteronormative of you. How do you know I don't have a husband?
fag: Oh, yeah, if you have a life partner, feel free to put them in there.

I proceeded to laugh and assure him that I was joking. But, I was impressed how quickly he could come up with "life partner". Though, I wonder, also, is life partner really equivalent to wife? I mean, marriage licenses aside, doesn't it seem like it would take longer for someone to become a life partner, perhaps years, rather than the minutes it takes to make someone your wife?

Also, a fair warning to all future customer service people: if you keep me waiting, I will try to make things slightly uncomfortable for you. I know, I know, it's not your fault, but it'll mostly be through jokes like this. So, really, no lasting damage.

Things you should do

2009-07-30T10:18:00.002-06:00

Hire Alicia Pol for any graphic designing you might need. (I keep laughing about the Downey ones)
Read this poem and be awed. (thanks, Annie!)
Gain a pretty accurate insight into how I feel all the time courtesy of thelatest xkcd.
Listen to the Not my Job with Neko Case. And laugh. Seriously, it's one of the funniest things I've ever heard.
Read The Post-Birthday World. Sure, it's almost 550 pages long and is mostly about snooker (as in the table game), but I really want to discuss it with someone. I'm not sure it was good, but it got me thinking.
Go see Adam. It's a limited release, but it's making the rounds now and it's amazing. I saw it at Sundance (because I'm just that hip). It's one of the best movies I've ever seen. Plus, Rose Byrne! Hugh Dancy! Amy Irving! What more could you want?
Fall in love with the music of Blind Pilot.
Develop some sort of life plan. Then, feel the relief that washes over you. And, hey, if it doesn't work, you can always just move to Portland, right?

Who needs sleep?

2009-07-28T11:16:00.003-06:00

Flying, for some reason, makes me inexplicably crave Taco Bell. Perhaps this is my body's fond memory of landing in Denver at 10pm only to be told that my connecting flight was canceled and I would be spending the night in a hotel. Night, here, of course, was generous. The flight they got me on left Denver at 6 the next morning, so I ended up having something like four hours of sleep after being shuttled to the hotel and getting berated by the Delta customer service representative who claimed that, without a confirmation number, there was no way in the world to make sure I was booked on the early flight. But, before leaving the airport, my stomach demanded food and I ended up eating Taco Bell. Thus, perhaps, boarding a jet triggers some Pavlovian response.

I discovered this craving pattern recently on the airplane rides between Zion and Newark. I was flying out to visit some friends of mine, a married couple who have been living for the past two years in that area and are slated to move to California at the end of the summer. I know it's cliché to talk about conversations picking up right where you left them with friends, even after long periods apart. But, this too was re-discovered for me this weekend. Before the trip, I was a little bit nervous that things would be awkward or at least stilted. Compound this with my inherent panic about demanding too much of someone's hospitality and you can imagine how uptight I was when we touched down.

But, my fears were totally unfounded. The trip went smoothly. My friends and I did, in fact, pick up right where we left off. Even after over a year of not interacting in person, there's still this unbelievable comfort in each other's company. And I was overwhelmed, as I generally am, how these incredible, smart, funny, and generally awesome folks deign to put up with me.

As the trip for me was mostly to see these two, it was a rousing success. Though, it didn't hurt being adjacent to New York City and re-sampling some of things she has to offer. However, a trip based on lengthy conversations and shared jokes, doesn't offer a lot to report on what I actually did.

There is one story, however, worth sharing. As part of his role as trek pa, my friend R. had grown a beard. Apparently his ward is not so cool that he has, in fact, kept it on post-experience. On Sunday, we went to church. In priesthood opening exercises, during visitor introduction, Twirl & I (he sports a goatee and burns, me a full beard) stood up. Following us, another ward member introduced his son, who also wears a beard. He said, "This is my son, visiting from Salt Lake. As you can see the hairstyles out there are quite a bit different." So now, this ward is clearly under the impression that beards are making a comeback out west. I can just imagine the articles in style-forward, Mormon-centeric hot spots, arguing for a return to the gentility of days of Brigham with full beards on every cheek. Though, alongside ads for KneeShorts, these urgings might not make many strides. Oh, plus, there's the whole sticking point about the BYU Honor Code being, oddly, some form of starting point for appropriate displays in matters of appearance.

At any rate, the trip? I was for it. Now, when can I go somewhere again? Montreal, Atlanta, Minneapolis and Omaha, I'm looking in your direction. Any time you want to start wooing me and convince me to come see you, I'll be glad to entertain the idea.

Seek learning, as long as it's practical

2009-07-21T08:52:00.002-06:00

Every year, a couple of days before the 24th, the Days of '47 holds a float preview at the South Towne Expo Center. The large room is turned over to shiny, sparkly earnestness. I love going so much. You get to walk right around the floats, try to figure out what the organizers were thinking when they put Africa on the globe backwards and, based on this year's event, can even get a totally incomprehensible double-dog-headed travel pillow for free. The fact that almost everyone was carrying one around proves that people will take anything that's free, no matter how absurd.

Every year BYU puts together a float. This year they went with "Catching the Vision of Freedom" as the play on the theme "Catch the Vision". Around the float, which consisted of a giant Y and the Carillon Tower, they had words. I think they're supposed to be a comprehensive list of things one can study at BYU to reel in freedom.

They were:

Engineering
Education
Law
Management
Science
Technology
Athletics (right, this isn't something you study, so maybe I misunderstood their intent?)

Notice anything missing? At first, I thought it was a space consideration, but then realized that Law, Management, Science and Engineering were all repeated on the float. It's nice to know that the planners of the float somehow managed to forget about half of the fields offered at the school, including five of the ten most popular majors. Magic, really.

Dear pre-teen boys who are in the locker room of the gym the same time that I am

2009-07-17T10:35:00.004-06:00

Alright, I know that you're trying to be tough and just having a good time, but really, do you need to be so noisy? Or run around so much? And, it's very evident you can turn the showers on. I assume, therefore, you also realize that to turn them off, you just turn the knob the other direction.

While we're discussing showering, those soap dispenser are fun, aren't they? But you know what's not fun? Stepping out of the shower clean and dry and then being caught in the crossfire of a soap fight.

I get machoismo and wanting to fit in, I sure do. But may I suggest that telling your friends, "come look now, I'm really naked," while in the shower is perhaps not the best way to be thought of as not-gay?

As for the being naked, that's sort of awkward, right? So the use of the bathroom stalls to change makes sense. But, maybe you could try to dry yourself off a bit before stepping in? I don't know if you've noticed, but the floor there has some weird low spots. And all that water you've brought in makes the whole area a sort of tide pool situation.

Oh, and that time you removed my pants from the locker while I was showering and put them in another one? Hilarious. Next time, why don't you go for the shoes, too?

Lastly, the shrieking? Can we please do without the shrieking?

Much appreciated,

alea

you were so ugly before that haircut

2009-07-14T08:27:00.003-06:00

I usually don't spend much time thinking about my body. Well, thinking about it in a sort of aesthetic way. I spend an inordinate amount of time wondering why it doesn't work like it should. Particularly when not working like it should involves some confusing inability to consume food or inexplicable pains in very inconvenient locations. However, of late, I've been forced more to think about my body as something else.

The first suggestion of this is the number of people who have mentioned my weight. Over the past months, it's true that I've lost some heft. Nothing major, about fifteen pounds or so. And everybody, it seems, is noticing. Which is good, I suppose (even if I wasn't really working on losing weight). I totally get the impulse to compliment someone on this. But, the flip side is that it makes me wonder how fat they must have thought I was before. So, it's sort of a double-edged thing to point out, non?

Also, this morning, I got up early to renew my drivers license. Things went smoothly, until I went to sit for my picture. There were a few others in front of me, so I got to hear the guy taking them ask politely if the person would like another photo taken. He seemed willing and friendly about it. But it was a quick question that almost everyone brushed off and he let drop. Then, my turn came. And here's what happened:

"How does that look?"
"Oh, yeah, that'll work."
"Really? Are you sure? I can take another one."
"Oh, no, no, we're good."
"It's really no big deal. It'll just take a second. You sure?"
"No, I'm fi-"
"Seriously, let's just do another one, shall we?"

The gentle, amicable questioning had turned into a bullying. A sort of "man, that is a terrible picture. And trust me, I work at the DMV, I know bad pictures." So, he took another one. One that looked almost identical to me but, thankfully, was acceptable to him. Maybe, though, he just realized it wasn't going to get any better.

I'm uncomfortable having these sorts of things brought to my attention. I suppose I could always just really let myself go and then dare people to comment on it. It's one solution, at least. Or, alternatively, I could just learn to take compliments or not overthink. But, c'mon, we all know that's never going to happen.

my personal problems are mostly described with homophones

2009-07-09T14:31:00.003-06:00

I recently took a little bit of umbrage when my friend informed me that she can't, for all my talk, imagine me being much of a jerk. At least, to someone's face. I know, this isn't the sort of thing most people spend time fretting about. After all, being told, basically, that you're nice isn't an insult. Plus, I seem to do a pretty bang up job of making people mad at me, so the "compliment" seems disingenuous at best. Plus, there's the whole issue of my being nice without its elusive complement of goodness.

I think it struck me so much, though, because there are two things I've been trying to deal with recently in my life. The first is my knack for compartmentalizing various aspects. Giving this one a room over here, shoving that one in a box, being person A at location Y and person B at site Z, etc. Which, I'm clearly not solving very rapidly, as I'll going to just ignore it to move on to the other. The second is my complaisance.^*

Part of me thinks this is a virtue. It's a good thing to be willing to bend, to be flexible, to allow room for the needs and desires of others. It's a positive, not being difficult or put out when things don't go your way. Another part of me, though, the slightly more cynical part (read, most of me), is worried that I'm setting myself up for a pretty spectacular failure. Or maybe I'm already there, which would explain a lot of the collapsing in the interpersonal arena I've seen of late.

There's times and places where one should stick up for themselves, should be willing to put their desires and feelings first. It's self-preservation at its most basic level. And, apparently, I lack the drive for that.^** Fortunately, most situations my pleasing nature has landed me in have diffused and defused without an inordinate amount of suffering. And, I'd like to think that when it becomes more than just a slick, sick feeling my stomach, I'd be willing to post boundaries and stop trying to please anybody else but me.

Ideally, I suppose, there'd be a balance. But I'm no good at half-measures. I'm an all-or-nothing kind of guy. Or rather, I haven't the foggiest of how one goes about making oneself less tied to the fickle whims of others with still interacting with anybody. It's so much easier, also, to just become the person that someone else is looking for. There are few things messier than finding out something about someone that makes you wonder if you should hate them for it. So, see, my not being myself means I'm saving all you that unpleasantness. Isn't that thoughtful of me? Don't you love that about me? (See, I can't help myself!)

I still need to process all this and decides where my lines should be drawn. It's a pretty major overhaul I'm considering right here. And I'm not sure the benefits outweigh the costs. But, (to crib some clichés) at the end of the day, I'll never know till I try, right? So, if I suddenly seem to be fighting really bizarre territorial and alpha dog battles with you, now you'll have a guess as to why. I probably don't mean most of it. Except when I do. The new me, I suppose, is just going to be a bit more difficult to get along with. Please advise.

*True story: I've been a bit addicted to the use of the word complaisant recently. I've replaced my usual "I'm easy" with a casual "I'm complaisant" when asked opinions. Part of it is sort of a litmus test to see if the person I'm writing to knows that I don't actually mean complacent. Most people have failed. It's like Derrida's différence v. différance, but much less clever. And, y'know, in English.

**Not too surprising, given the fact that, come the Apocalypse, I'm turning my face the wall and dying. I'm no mink, what with their exceeding tenacity of life.

Road Trip for the Insane

2009-06-25T12:40:00.003-06:00

Hey, alea, what's this map here?

View Larger Map

Why, that's the trip my friend ke and I are planning. Sure, some people might think it's a little bit crazy to try to to visit Yellowstone (just glancingly), Little Bighorn, Devil's Tower and Mount Rushmore on one trip. But, don't worry, we've got a whole three days to make it happen in.

Um, this may kill us. I'm not too soothed by the fact that google maps clocks the driving in at 1 day, 2 hours, either. Good thing we're young and hearty, right?

This Unhappy Bliss

2009-06-18T21:52:00.004-06:00

So, a couple of days ago, I sort of stumbled onto Ivri Lider, an Israeli pop star. What I like about him (apart from the fact that he writes about breakups and if there's a better language for sounding ugly and hateful towards someone than Hebrew, I've not heard it), is how his music seems to be entirely at odds with itself stylistically. That is the lyrics and the tone of the music are mismatched.

For example, I give you Beyaxad Mipaxad:

So, it sounds nice and peppy, right? Well, as you see, the title translates to "Together from Fear".

And the lyrics are:

We're together from fear
the mother of night below
we got out to the big garden
that your father waters before sleeping

We're together from fear
there's pictures of kids in our well-kept apartment
Two people together alone
That your mother cleaned for Shabat

We grow up and resemble our parents a little bit more
We buy a television and don't speak about everything
If only I could
Tell you about all the things you regret
And how much I wanted to give a tad more of myself
Like the kid who slept next to me

We're together from fear
What your father bought and your mother analyzed
We go traveling in Europe
We try not to fight automatic love

We're together from fear
In morning, mother puts
an empty plate on the kitchen table

We grow up and resemble our parents a little bit more
We buy a television and don't speak about everything
If only I could
Tell you about all the things I regret
And how much I wanted to give a tad more of myself
Like the kid who slept next to me

So, yeah, not exactly all that happy.

If you want more, check out this music video. Kind of beautiful, sort of haunting, and also more than a little bizarre.

quiche2

2009-06-09T16:47:00.003-06:00

If somebody loved me, they could so easily show it to me.

Just buy me this.

It meets almost all my standards for kitchen gear. Firstly, it miniaturizes something. Secondly, it turns soemthing round into something square (I'm actually a touch suspicious of square tart shells. Wouldn't there be seam issues?). And, lastly, it's distinctive, which is to say completely and totally unnecessary but charming nonetheless.

Besides, I'm sure my mini-loaf pan, my tiny silicone bundt jello molds and my madeleines pan could use some more company...

Nobody was intended to get hurt

2009-06-05T09:34:00.003-06:00

Yesterday was one of those days where I just felt thwarted. Sort of a collapsing of every aspect of my life all at once. My work in the morning was sluggish and unproductive. Then I taught in the afternoon, only to be ridiculously unengaging. And, for various reasons, I had a slick, sick feeling most of the day.
But then, a sister invited me over to have what may be the best cookies in the world. And a friend invited me to see Up, which was practically perfect in every way. And another friend stayed on the phone for over an hour with me, cheerleading and commiserating and planning a dinner party that includes miniature felafel. It's weird, and deeply reassuring to me, that my calls for compassion, either broadcasted loudy or sort of quiet and sideways get answered so immediately.

I was thinking yesterday a lot about this quote from Children of Men in which Theo, the main character, is being told he didn't mean for the old woman whose car he stole to die:

No, he almost groaned, I didn't mean it. I didn't mean to be a selfish son, an unloving father, a bad husband. When have I ever meant anything? Christ, what harm couldn't I do if I actually started to mean it!

And yeah, while that's true, it's also amazing to sit back and think about all the good that can be done by people who mean it, too. And today's much better. I've got a to-do list and some recipe research to undertake and a reason to buy teeny tiny tart shells. All in all, I think I'm for today.

2009-06-01T17:41:00.002-06:00

problem: life as a grown-up is relentlessly disappointing.

solution: candy for dinner!

I guess there's just one problem left...

2009-06-01T11:42:00.002-06:00

In two days, my little brother will be dropped off, rather hastily, in Provo. Because the MTC is the only place more concerned about pandemic influenza than I am, his family won’t be allowed to come in. This is a plus and a minus, given the fact that Called To Serve may or may not have been crafted specifically as a kind of tear-inducing emotional torture. On the other hand, having some sort of ceremony seems almost necessary for the reality of it all to hit.

Since watching him open his mission call, I’ve been cycling through a whole series of emotions. But now, I’ve finally settled on the fact that, above all else, I’m sad. I’m really going to miss him. It’s not that I don’t realize that he’s doing a good thing. Or that serving the people of Thailand will be invaluable for him. I’m just being selfish and petty that I won’t have anybody to ask me if I’ve already watered the cats.

Or anybody to fully appreciate when the ground sloth makes his appearance in Kentucky in a couple of weeks. I’ll miss getting random texts about dulcimers and books preparing people to die. I’ll miss being reminded that I’m twenty-five years old when I act particularly childish. I’ll also miss seeing his brain implode, rapidly, when I try to explain some theological position I hold. Like all good brothers, he amuses me and infuriates me in pretty equal measure. He’s a good guy, too, something that’s become more apparent the more adult-y he’s become. It’s weird to try and imagine holidays and even weekends where he’ll be only a thought and not a physical presence.

I’m sure the two years will fly by. I mean, I’ve been out of library school for two years now and I cannot believe how short his stay at BYU felt. But still, it’s hard to think of him leaving and me having such little contact with him. He'll be missed, probably much more than he realizes.

calculus of failure

2009-05-26T12:24:00.003-06:00

If all the world can be described mathematically, I'd like to know the equation for figuring the following out. If a student comes into the library and opens a bottle of soda whose carbonation overflows and sends sticky sugar water everywhere, what is the likelihood that this will take place while they are holding a book that was acquired by the library the very same day? Include, if possible, the cost of the book in both dollars and staff time.

Infinitesimal, I would imagine. Regardless, it happened here today. Ugh.

We doubt not our fathers knew it

2009-05-21T12:39:00.003-06:00

A couple of weeks ago, we celebrated Mothers Day. This, of course, meant that roughly ninety percent of LDS sacrament meetings made reference, at some point, to the story of the stripling warrior and the faith they learned from their mothers. This is fine and well, though sort of sad that Mormons can't come up with other scriptural moms to talk about. Maybe Hannah could make an appearance? Or Rachel, if only to highlight the fact that she basically colluded with her son to dupe her husband. Maybe next year.

But there's still hope. We have Fathers Day in a month, and there's dads aplenty to talk about. Here's some examples I'd suggest for anyone asked to speak this year.

Lot. A good dad knows that protecting men of God sometimes requires you to make some tough sacrifices. Of course, the same daughters also make some tricky decisions of their own.
Jephthah. A good dad knows that promises to the Lord must be kept. No matter how personally painful
Aaron. A good dad knows when you shouldn't support your kids in bad decisions. You only need to mourn for those who don't get what's coming to them.
Noah. A good dad knows how to fairly deal out punishments.
Isaac. A good dad doesn't play favorites, and offers all his kids the same opportunities and blessings.
Abraham. A good dad knows that is first responsibility is to his wife, no matter how hard that is for the children.

I'm sure there are others I missed, but this should get you started.

(Actually, the story of Lot is much less horrific if you believe in Joseph Smith Translation. In that telling, the men of Sodom demand both the holy men and Lot's daughters. Lot refuses to give up either party to the wicked intentions of the men of Sodom. That is a good dad, especially since the men of Sodom right before demanding the daughters told Lot they'd treat him even worse than they were intending to treat the holy men.)