Just in case you were wondering...

...I do have a brain.

AND it's human.

My sole motivation at times.

I love this Mormon message. Sometimes it's the only thing that keeps me going. I love the prophets. I love the gospel. I love my Savior. Through him, I can be and do things beyond my physical capacity, things I know I could never do on my own. Through Him, all things are possible, for as President Thomas S. Monson says, "Whom the Lord calls, the Lord qualifies." This I'm learning. We can do this thing called life. Enjoy!

Keep your arms, legs, and cooties to yourself.

There I was, walking to school one day in the early morning, walking at the same pace as a fellow on the other side of the street. He first started out whistling, and my reactive thought was something along the lines of "it's way to early to be that happy." Then the whistling turned into something of a cough. A cough of the wet crackly sort. The kind in which you can perceive mucousy nasties threatening to emerge if any more gut is used behind the sputtering.

"Ew," was my next thought.

Pretty soon, a couple sneezes are being intermixed with such coughs. I couldn't bring myself to glance over, but I'm pretty sure I could see the germs projecting forward, emanating all kinds of ooze and bacteria even with a whole street separating us.

"Yuck," was the only thing occupying my brain.

Next thing I know my ears are being assaulted by the sounds of a nose sniffing in all kinds of garbly goop with great force, followed by a hefty attempted outward intestine flinging blow.

"Gross," permeated through my mind. I found myself subconsciously walking a bit faster.

Combining all 3 is a euphemism for toxicity, deadliness, contagion, and all things noxious. This is only something sweet nurturing mothers taking care of pure and innocent sickly children should have to experience. I'm not a mother, and he is no cute, unassuming child, and I wished he hadn't shared that experience with me. I could have done without that onslaught of my senses. Please, it'll be best for human-kind if you just stayed home tomorrow.

Please excuse my French.

Here's the thing. I can't tell you how many problems I've had with my data for my thesis up to this point. If something can go wrong, it most definitely will, and multiple times over. I can't tell you how many times I have ripped DVD recordings of sessions to the computer, or how many times I have exported videos to however many different formats. I can't tell you how much data has been lost because people don't know how to run technology (let's just say we learned to handpick our volunteers), or how many angry pop ups telling me I can't do what I'm trying to do I've had to figure out. I can't tell you how many times I've contacted our computer really literate genius to help me out of my latest bind. In fact, I'm pretty sure he tries to avoid me now. Most of all, I can't tell you how much stress and the number of headaches this has caused.

With that said, my latest and greatest thought process: "Theses" sounds a mighty lot like "feces." Working on my thesis is like working on, well, crap. I thus deem the striking similarity appropriate. a+b=c. Really the only simple thing about my thesis so far. Therefore, from here on out, I will only be working on my "fece."

But it's okay, because I just bought these shoes on a really great sale online. I next to never impulse buy. In fact, I'm really good at talking myself out of buying things. These splendors, however, I completely 100% bought on pure impulse, and it felt good.

I couldn't say it better.

There I was, sitting in class today, very much zoning out, when it occurred to me that this is exactly how I feel:

Just when I reach the point to where I just barely don't understand, I'm suddenly thrust in and forced to do it. It's a whirlwind, let me tell you, and it's pretty terrifying at times, and all I want to do is shove my dragging heals into the ground and say, "Now wait! What is it I'm supposed to do?!" The only thing I can't quite relate to from this clip is the "that was fun" part, or the "I really enjoyed that" feeling. The only feeling I have is that my Eastern Australian Current is going to be a little bit longer than theirs.

Good riddance to Nasty Cat and all that he stands for.

I know I've written a lot about my living arrangements as of late, a bit too much so in fact, but I felt as though, at the very least for myself if not for you, my fellow readers, the story was in need of some closure. Thus you need not wait with baited, yet disgusted breath any longer, because I'm sure you have been, for I give you the final (I promise, last one) installment of the yellow brick house.

I'll try and make this as concise as possible (Mostly to prove to myself that I can. I always find it funny that a large portion of my posts are a little bit long and wordy. What was that? You don't really find that terribly funny at all? I guess just talk to me and when our conversation ends in 2 minutes because I have nothing left to say, you'll see the irony. Ah, I digress.). Please compare and contrast, but mostly just contrast the following two photos:

My OLD house when I returned from home in Washington, in which time a whole new level of calamity and repulsion occurred:

Ew, but alas, goodbye old, and HELLO new! Ahhhh, finally. Relaxation.

I like it hot, hot, hot.

I've been working on a couple of different posts the past couple of days, and, wanting a really knock out awesome of a post, I was not fully satisfied with either one of them. After last night, however, all things are set aside until my first clubbing experience is relayed (yes, I've now gone completely out of control :)) A Latin club, in fact. Because I'm such a Latin dancer?

Okay fine, I'm no dancer by any means. Especially when it comes to that whole hip shaking thing. It's been a slow learning process, but I can just barely get by in Latin dancing these days as long as the steps are simple and the partner is a strong male leader who knows what he's doing.

With this in mind, some friends of mine talked me into going to Pirate Island, a supposed fun land of Latinos and dancing. I get there to find out, lo and behold, it's a club. New experience for me, I like new experiences (that's what I've been trying to tell myself lately). I get to the front door, where the ginormous bouncer dude gruffly asks for some ID. Hm. Right. ID. This is a club. I sheepishly mutter that I left it in the car as I begin to turn around to go get it, until Gruff Bouncer Dude pathetically looks at me and chuckles disparagingly, "You're over 18? Go on ahead." Wow, does my naivete really show that much? Whatever, I walk in.

I start out the night dancing with a nice array of fellows. One such fellow continues to ask me to dance on multiple occasions, but he doesn't really know what he is doing, I don't know what he's doing, or myself for that matter. Turns out when neither of the dance parties know what's going on, a rather awkward drawn out moment of time is created. Needless to say, I avoid him the rest of the night.

One particular fellow approaches me and swiftly whisks me onto the dance floor, and that's about where the whisking stops. It's difficult to whisk when my right foot immediately turns into an extra left foot. This weird Latino waltz dance thing is no salsa, or merengue, or anything I've ever attempted. All I know is that a lot of unnatural little up and down bouncing motions in addition to some fancy footwork are involved which are attempting to take me all around the dance floor. Whatever that is. I glance up to see my friends continuously laughing at me from their booth. This doesn't seem to help matters seeing as this requires me to look up from my awkward feet, and the next swift movement I'm accomplishing is a stumble and some stepping-on-his-foot action, in addition to some tripping in other fashions.

Most of the time the fellows smirk and slightly chuckle at my feeble attempts to be a Latin dancer. Once in a while, when I am really feeling it and actually accomplish something correctly, and maybe with some style even? I would receive a nod and smile of approval, and if I'm really lucky, they'll encourage me with a surprised "good job." My friend keeps trying to tell me that for a white girl, I actually do really well. Pah. Funny joke.

At one point in the night, I find myself suddenly dancing with one fellow, whose busting out some major dance moves, and quite literally dances circles around me. This kid is not fooling around, and this goober of a gringa attempts to shake what her momma gave her and groove with the beat. Either I am surprisingly really not as bad as I've always envisioned and he is satisfied that I can keep up, or the entertainment factor is just too good to give up (I have my suspicions), because one dance leads into another, which leads into another, which leads into another. I find myself in a spiraling trap of dances seeping into each other. I can hardly tell when one song ends and the next begins thanks to the astounding similarity of beats in Latino music, and my inability to speak or understand any changes of Spanish lyrics. I am stuck.

At various points, Certain Young Fellow keeps trying to converse with me and ask me various questions. With his thick accent. Over the loud, pulsing music. Something about where am I from, am I Mormon, where do I live, yadie yadie yada, I have no idea. Stop trying to converse with me amidst this insane music. And what?! I don't speak Spanish?! Something about his name? What was that? Carlos? No? Pedro? What? Pedralsko? Bah. Impossible. Just smile and nod. Pretty sure he sees right through that one, but whatever. Either way that becomes my tactic for the rest of the night.

Lesson of the night, the smile and nod tactic does not always work to ones advantage, since next thing I know I'm being led off the dance floor to the bar area. Oh dear, this could be bad. What was it I just unknowingly agreed to with the oblivious smile and nod? I haven't seen anybody with any kind of alcoholic beverages of any sort, but, uh-bu...he speaks to the tender of the bar. 2 waters. Complete relief. Dodged that bullet, and why yes, I am quite tired and thirsty, thank you.

He continues to keep trying to talk to me, but it's all just going over my head. Can't understand a word. Appropriate, normal responses are kind of impossible due to the complete lack of understanding of the question to begin with. I'm mainly just trying to figure out how to break away and find my friends again. Next thing I know I'm being questioned if I came with a boyfriend as Young Fellow's phone is being thrust into my hands wanting something about a phone number. Completely in a daze, not sure if I heard right, or wondering what exactly to do, I cowardly type in my 10 digit number that will, quite actually very much connect him to my very phone indeed. Why did I do that. Why didn't I just tell this completely unfamiliar probable girl-phone-number hoarder who I'm not even exactly sure of his name no? I was caught off guard I guess? My naivete overtook me once again maybe? I don't exactly know, but I still find myself in a state of utter confusion and uncertainty, and I'm finding a great deal of humor in it all really. I guess all I know is: first comes the passing of the phone numbers to complete strangers, then comes the skanky clubbing clothes. Watch out world, this gringa is burning up and taking the world of clubs by fire. Oh wait, that's just my sunburn I've collected.

Rappaccini's Daughter

Don't ask me to watch your plants, gardens, animals, or houses while you leave town. Just don't do it. It's just better for all of us. I'll most likely neglect your flower, flood your plant, lose your dogs, kill your rat, and forget about your single fish, but all done with the best of intentions.

Probably about 10 years ago, a family friend left their rats with us to take care of. They came home to dead rats. Growing up, some neighbors frequently had me take care of their animals while they left. They had everything from dogs and birds to mice and various sea creatures. Needless to say, they came home from one particular vacation to a dead hamster and a Beta fish gone belly-up.

The very worst, however, happened my senior year of high school. A couple in my ward, in all confidence, asked me to water their beautiful flower gardens, and take care of their 2 dogs they had raised from the puppy state, and probably considered them family. There were very specific directions for me to follow while they were away, and everything was going well until I wrapped the chain around the wrong pole to keep the dogs in the kennel, and came back the next day to find the kennel door swinging in the wind and two missing dogs. Now, maybe it's just me, but in my noticing I've found people tend to get a little more attached to dogs than a fish or a rat. People tend to get a little more protective of their dogs, and care a little more if they are dead or lost. With this in mind, I panicked. After tossing and turning in attempt to sleep in the backyard in hopes of them returning, scouring the town in a fanatical search, and calling the pound to report them missing, all accomplished with no results, I finally resorted to calling the couple to break the news...ooooor allowed my dad make the dreaded phone call. Turns out, if we had waited just an hour to make the call, the pound would have called saying two dogs matching our description were turned in, and what our friends wouldn't have known wouldn't have hurt them. Needless to say, the two dogs were indeed the blasted dogs I lost, and after a ride with two large, grown, excited canines in the back of a suburban peeing and shedding uncontrollably, they were safely returned to their rightful kennel, and I was never asked to house sit for the family again. I'm pretty sure we're all okay with that.

Although not the greatest, the latest is actually still in my possession, and I am counting the hours to which it is no longer my responsibility. My sister left for over a month, and I was placed in charge of several plants. The 6 flowers my little niece had planted and was growing are now down to 2 wilty, measly twigs on which it seems bugs have been feasting, and the plant that was received after our Grandma's funeral was found on multiple occasions flooded with murky, green, questionable looking water every couple of days, never quite soaking in or evaporating. I finally figured out it was in direct line of the sprinklers, and I can only hope I figured it out in time.

This seems to be something that can't be helped, but exceedingly fatal nonetheless. Just call me Rappaccini's daughter. So, all this equates to, if you leave me with anything to take care of while you leave town, you will come back to find it in a state less than healthy. It may be past the point of no return. You may not be so happy.

Mail can't be killed. It's about the only thing I can be trusted with. I'll stick with mail.

Shots of progression

I've recently rediscovered the realms of the continuous shot setting on my camera, and turns out I've had a lot of fun with it. They're not the most aesthetically pleasing pictures, but I just like them. What can I say, I'm easily amused.

The step-by-step of rock skipping: I took this one several years ago, but it still remains a classic favorite.

The Finger: Just look for it, you'll see what I mean. This is only 4 of a sequence of 8 - all movement revolved around the same little girl with the same fixation.

"Ah Yeah! Did you just see that?!": Facial expressions - my favorite.

"Plan B": This is a shorter one, but for background, he's trying to rip a shirt. You've got to give him credit for not giving up.

My recent favorite is rather long and involved and may or may not involve something of an obstacle course and an older adult sibling sister that may or may not have preference as to whether or not it is shared. You're just going to have to take my word on it. It's epic indeed.

As promised.

There was a point in time in which I found a certain level of charm in this house I live in. Why else would I have moved in? I didn't recognize the deception in the lure of the charm in which it uses to draw people in.

The first thing I notice upon first pulling up to move in: Weird green chair sitting out front. Much to my dismay, it wasn't temporary. It's still there, almost a year later looking very old, weathered, and germ infested.

The next thing that assaults me as I walk in: It's alright, I can pretend like this is cool and retro.

Those are lights. Pink and purple ones.
I turn around and alas! Cute dress hanging on the wall! And it still hangs on the wall!

Back to my room: Those are glow in the dark stars somebody painted over rather than just take them off. Classy, or just trashy? I've pretended long enough.The kitchen contains this nice ever growing collection of yarn art from D.I. It's all made from yarn, like from the 70s, and this is just one wall.

And in case you needed a closer glance at the wallpaper, voi-la. Flower power anyone?

A few months later, this head shows up, and never leaves.

As all of these treasures pile up in this little house, I learn to quit asking questions. Whatever, I can deal with some eccentric decor, but meanwhile, the house begins to crumble. Literally. And this is where my tolerance begins to disintegrate as well.

Cause and effect: a leak in the roof leads to a bowing effect in the ceiling, which leads to crumbling plaster to the floor, complete with mold and other living cultures.

Electrical problems. One of them being the front porch light literally exploding every time we try to put in a new light bulb. Makes for a very dark entrance when coming home at night. Very dark indeed.

Our food is taped into our refrigerator. If that's not the height of ghetto, I don't know what is.

This is only the beginning. I would say come see for yourself, but please don't. I'm highly embarrassed of this house with the growing piles of filth and scum due to the nonfunctional vacuum cleaner and broken dishwasher. Mysterious and very legal looking mail comes for our landlord that lead us to wonder when this nonsensical house is going to foreclose. Let's just say the "charm" has worn off, mostly replaced with pure repulsiveness. Especially ever since the new ant tenants have moved in. My contract can't end soon enough.

Gotta love them neighbors.

The front room in my house has a nice big window looking out to the street, and here's the thing, I have some...interesting neighbors. As a result, sometimes weird things are witnessed on the other side of that window, and quite frankly, I haven't missed cable TV with this neat window-screen replacement. I find my lovely neighborhood equally entertaining.

Prime example: yesterday evening. It was a pleasant evening. Sunny and warm with a slight breeze. Wearing an apron and listening to some tunes, I was happily busying about my kitchen cooking and cleaning up. As I glance out the window amidst my meddling, I see a white haired old man walking a couple of dogs. The smoothness of this man's walk made me give it a seconds more thought, resulting in a double take, followed by a blatant stare, and finally a little snicker and big smile, for what I was beholding as I stared out my window was more than just an old man walking a couple dogs, but rather an old man, possibly in his early 80s, grinning from ear to ear cruising down the street...on Rollerblades...pulled by two small poodles, and completely loving life. I walked away from that window slightly happier myself.

While I'm on the topic of those that pass by, I must discuss the woman that frequents our property almost on a daily basis, and by almost I mean sometimes it's just once a day. To paint the picture (and not to be rude), this woman, whom none of us have ever actually met, large in stature, wearing big baggy dresses, and usually accompanied by her young son and husband comes by at the very least once a day. As I look out the window, I see the small family approaching, pause on the sidewalk, look all around the yard, crouch down and wiggle their fingers as they call in high pitched voices. The first time I saw them, I hadn't the faintest idea of what they were doing. I figured our neighborhood had reached a new height of bizzaro. Then I saw nasty cat come scampering out, showing his ugly face. Good heavens. They're coming here to see nasty cat?! You already know how I feel about that. Lately this family has been feeling a bit more comfortable and ventures their little way right into the yard, picking that nasty cat right up and then passing him to the little boy. Rather then take nasty cat home with them like we beg them to every time we see them, they'd rather just show up the next day to fill this nasty need of thiers. It's beyond me, but whatevs.

This encounter would seem significantly stranger if we weren't already accustomed to watching complete strangers pausing at the steps of our house as they walk by to take a seconds gander. Sometimes they even give into the urge to take out their phones and snap a quick picture? Oookay? Our house is neither extreme in its ugliness or cuteness. It doesn't make any sense, but it's just the existing state of affairs.

Along with its unique characteristics, this little street of mine has its fair share of mystery as well. Just a couple doors down is what I like to call The House of Dies Drear. It's a small white house with pleasant lattice work along the front siding. Upon first inspection to any average joe in passing, it seems like a typical house. Not until further assessment over the span of several months does one realize how atypical it really is. I've walked by this house literally hundreds of times, and I feel as though there is just something off about the whole thing. They're hiding something in there. There are about 5 mailboxes attached to the house, and 5 trashcans aligned neatly in a row on the street every Wednesday, and sometimes there may be a little light on in one of the rooms upstairs, indicating that there are multiple apartments in which people reside in within this house, no? But after 10 months of living next door to this residence, and after incessant running back and forth past this house multiple times a day, I have seen only one person, singular, within its property. Never have I seen anybody come or go from its dwelling. It's as if nobody lives there. It just sits, creating small changes from day to day of its own accord. Part of some eerie underground railroad? Hiding some kind of hidden treasure from the peoples of its neighborhood? Ghosts? Whatever it is, it's mysterious indeed.

In addition, right next door is a run-down, abandoned, old shop/building. I like to call it the pit with the pendulum. The only things that inhabit this dwelling are cobwebs, gloom, screams lost to the darkness, and what I can only imagine as foul play. When I first moved into this little house I call home right next door to this eerie hollow, I wondered if I would be engulfed into this horrifying pit and go missing one day, never to be seen again. It gave me the heebie jeebies. There are no windows, and only a few doors that remain perpetually locked. Nobody ever knew what was inside, and nobody ever saw anything come or leave. It's obscurity was so mysterious. That is until I walked by one day to notice the door unlatched and propped slightly ajar. With a slightly racing heart, moist palms, and a bit of unease, I went...inside. Unsure of what I would find, I was happy to have my roommate with me. With a gasp, I stepped inside and found...nothing. No lurking monsters. No murder axes. No kidnapped children. No aged skeletons. Just some supplies to start the clean up process. Quite frankly, the mystery, tension, and exhilaration that the building once held for so many people vanished in an afternoon, and I was a wee disappointed. Now it's just a dumb old trashy building.

And just so you don't think my house is above the rest of the neighborly street, it's just as shabby as ever. It fits right in with the others. The inhabitants of this house, however, maybe not quite so peculiar. At least I'd like to think so. It's what I tell myself at any rate. Anywhobody, stay tuned for the special treasures that can only be found in the yellow brick house with the green chair.

Lesson Learned, the Second Go-around: A short history of the locks of love, or lack thereof.

The wee hours of the morning are meant for sleeping, not awakedness. Otherwise weird things might just happen, things you may or may not have done had you been more fully on your mettle (I just learned that phrase. I had never heard it before. It's kind of strange, so I had to use it), things you may or may not regret in the morning. This I have learned, now multiple times over. How was I to know though? I was never warned about this. I was always taught different consequences for staying up and out too late. Allow me to explain.

Way back in high school, I sported these swoop bangs, as noted in this picture:

I enjoyed those for a couple of years, until my second semester of college, at about 2:00 in the morning to be exact, when I asked my roommate to simply trim up such swoop bangs. After the scissors were out, the hair was cut, and a mumbled oops from roommate was heard, I ended up with these:

After a couple days of grumbling, and many days after the fact, a few laughs, I decide bangs aren't so much my thing, and begin to grow them out...

...and grow them out some more.

After a couple of years of this, I decide to try my hand at swoop bangs once again, and turns out, I was overall pleased with the outcome.

And well, one thing led to another and I find myself with these as a result of another late night:

Striking resemblance? Yup, I know. Thought I would have learned my lesson the first time around? Me too. Hopefully next time I'll remember to just go to bed. Until then, the grow out process begins once again.

***All photos were used for the sole purpose of demonstration. Please excuse any blurriness or weirdness.

My Fave-Day: Seabiscuit

Allow me to take you back with me to the Jeppsons, not quite two years ago, to the weekend in which Seabiscuit came into my posession. It was this weekend I took on a great responsibility. It was this weekend I inherited a life changing potted plant from my brother-in-law, which had been given to him in his days of singlehood, along with the instructions that if he were to keep it alive for a year, he would be ready for committment.

All these many years later, I find Seabiscuit in my own possession. Mike, needing to get rid of it, but unwilling to part with the beloved plant to the trash, passed it on to me on a weekend visit with the very same instructions once given to him. I hesitated. That's a lot of pressure. I've never been one for keeping much of anything alive. Not only would I be dooming myself in taking on such a responsibility, but I knew of Mike's attachment to the blasted plant, and I would be the cause of great disappointment felt by all parties if I were to kill it.

As I got ready to leave at the end of the weekend, I found Seabiscuit brought down from the ceiling hook, cleaned up, and sitting by my stuff to be taken to the car. I guess I really had no choice in the matter. With a big gulp, and a warning to not be disheartened if I kill it, I took the plant, assured that Seabiscuit was impossible to kill.

To my surprise, I took great care of Seabiscuit. I watered him on a regular basis, and even got people to watch over him when I left town. Other plants came and went, all of them strugglling, all of them ending in the trash, but Seabiscuit remained resilient, and I was feeling pretty good about myself at this point.

I hit around the 8 month mark, and I was feeling more and more committed with each day Seabiscuit flourished. The weather turned nice as Spring crept along, and I decided to place the cheery potted plant outside. The weather, however, is a fickle matter, something I didn't take into account, and much to my horror, I woke up one morning to find Seabiscuit a heap of crippled, brown, crusty rubbage. Turns out plants don't do so well in nights that freeze over as the sleeping, unsuspecting humans dream away. Plants left outside are not quite so resistent and secure on such nights.

In my frantic dismay, I watered it incessantly. "These crispy leaves just need a little more water," I would tell myself as I poked and prodded the rotting compost, unaccepting of the fact that I had killed the supposedly unkillable plant. When water didn't work, I turned to fertilizers and plant foods, but to no avail. I had done what Mike had assured me was not possible. I had killed Seabiscuit. I was disappointed, but mostly, I knew Mike would be disappointed...that is, IF Mike ever found out. He would tell me it was okay and that he really didn't care, but what's the sense in telling him. I knew better, and thus I stuck with the philosophy that what he doesn't know won't hurt him. I never did tell him. In a last ditch effort before I could aknowledge the fact that was staring me in the face, I clip the single remaining semi-green sprig from Seabiscuit, plopped him in a glass of water, and waited and hoped for roots to grow.

After much care and anticipation, roots did indeed grow, and after not potting it soon enough, roots fell off and died, and starting from square one yet again, roots grew back. The process was arduous indeed. Fast forwarding to today. This very day, I potted my first plant ever, and Seabiscuit is reaquanited with a pot once more. He looks lovely, and I think...I hope he'll pull through. It was a little rocky there for a while--a bit touch and go, but Seabiscuit remains.

Proof.

I would say go me, but I'm not sure I deserve that, but it's even potted in the friendship pot my roommate gave me. How could something not thrive in something as happy and cheerful as a friendship pot? It was my fave-day today, and not because my day was that awful, and for any of you that know my family on any level know that that's a big deal.

Creature of Habit

Seriously. I've turned into just that, a creature. I've always been one for routines. I'm all about routines. I like their predictability and foreseeable outcomes. They allow me certain aspects of my life I can count on every time. It's my way of feeling like I have control of my life when, let's face it, I really don't, especially during times of commotion, change, unrule, and upset. Routines are good. I like routines.

I've noticed as of late, however, that such routines have turned into something far more than just the mundane practices of life. They've morphed themselves into something more--weird quirky habits.

• I use the very same bathroom stall every single time at school.


• I've become obsessive over making lists, and then promptly lose the lists, thus creating the need to make more lists.


• I go to and from my house the very same way every time when there's about a billion other ways I could go.


• My morning and nightly routines resemble each other exactly from day to day. Every part of the process is carefully crafted and has a very specific purpose for being in its particular place and time in the sequence.


• Showering: Shampoo my hair first. Wash my body while rinsing the shampoo out (That's right, simultaneous action). Next, apply conditioner to my hair. Whilst waiting for my hair to condition, accomplish any necessary shaving. Rinse out conditioner. Rinse out and hang loofah. One last rinse of the hair, and turn off the water, lower the shower trigger and wait for the last little gush of water out the faucet. The routine feels so utterly incomplete without that gushing. That could quite possibly be the most important part. Lastly, open the shower curtain from left to right. Never right to left. Shower routine complete.


• I use disgustingly similar words when people ask me what I study. Question: "What is your major?" Answer: "Communication Disorders." And since the majority of people don't really know what exactly that means, I add, "So like speech pathology and audiology." Wait for the awkward smiling and nodding of faked interest..."It's fun, (short pause with a shrug of the shoulders) I like it." Said in attempts to fill that so often uncomfortable pause, and there you have it. Word for word.


• The right zipper is zipped counterclockwise to meet the left zipper on the leftmost side on my backpack. Every time.


• To save face, I shall refrain from continuing, but you get the idea.

That's it. I've diagnosed myself as severely habituated. I've turned into a drone. Too many of my routines have turned to a new extreme of a strange and eerily repetitive nature without my realization. It's like a song stuck on repeat that won't turn off. Yuck.

Needless to say the past week I've made a conscious effort to use various toilets throughout the day, and have especially avoided the inner tendency and extreme urge to use them in any kind of pattern. Watch out, next week I may just zip up my backpack to make the zippers meet in the middle...but then again, just thinking about that makes my nose wrinkle. Baby steps.

Bemused and Befuddled

What good does a pair of glasses with only one ear piece do? I had the opportunity to find out and ask the boy using the computer next to me in the library. Alas I did not. I remain confused.

What is so appealing about anything that's less than good for you?

What question could possibly need to be answered so urgently to hold the whole class up and make them late I could not say, especially if I quit listening.

I wonder if all missing socks are stashed away with Waldo and Carmen Sandiego.

What on earth is so distracting in the bathroom that it remains occupied for so long at the exact moment I need it the most?

Why there are handicapped parking spots at Gold's gym is beyond me.

How is it possible to have no idea what you're doing, yet still manage to do it?

I can't comprehend how listening to your iPod/car radio for your neighbor 10 blocks away to hear is worth the resulting repercussions of blowing out your cochlea and ruining your hearing for the rest of your life.

I'm not so sure how the next few years are going to pan out so much.

Where is the black abyss of my computer where it hides 25 page study guides and other important documents that were saved 176 times over?

Feel free to shed any degree of light on any of the above topics.

Near Dilemma

Perfect cure for nervous energy: a nice run on a nice day. Tired and coming back sooner than later. Attempt-to-walk-through-front-door-result: walking into front door as door unyieldingly resists push. That's me. Yup. Unbeknownst to me...locked. Hm. Side door I purposefully unlocked? Attempted. Indeed locked as well. Oh dear. Remain calm. Ring door bell. Anybody actually home? Nope. Not a soul. Bang on door and yell. Still no soul decides to emerge. Keys? On my bed. Which is in room. Which is in house. Which is locked. Phone to call somebody? With keys. In my room. In locked house. Does no good. Other options? Pester neighbors to let me use their phones to call roommate with key. Just kidding. Don't know phone numbers. New idea: sit on front steps and wait for somebody to come home. Bleh. Boring and lame. Time is of essence. Must be another way. Windows! Brilliant...hopefully. Window #1: locked. Window #2: unlocked. Slides open upon resistance. Eagerness and delight swell. Next step: through the window. Just barely too high for accomplishment. Hmph. Cinder block? Maybe, but what else. Wander around exterior of house in search for much needed booster. Bike, not stable enough. Big huge would-be-helpful bin, but full of junk. Rock climbing shoes! Don't exist on these premises. No good. Quick break for an allergy sneeze attack. Carrying on. Wait. What? Could it be so simple? A little ladder? Indeed! Drag to window. Climb up. Shove over sized body into said little window. Slightly scrape back in the process. Avoid falling on roommate's bed with dirty shoes and sweaty body. Quick fist pump of celebration. Penetration of locked house: Complete.

Mommy wow! I'm a big kid now.

I just made me some macaroni and cheese. I used Seattle Space Needle noodles. Not only do I eat the crust of my bread now, but I actually prefer it. I rode a bike with no hands for about 5 seconds the other day--a personal record. I don't use bumpers when bowling, even though it would not necessarily always be that way if I had my choice. I successfully parallel parked today for the first time since before my driving test. That was over six years ago. Rather than just avoiding using it altogether, I finally brought myself to stick my hand down the dark and mysterious kitchen sink to retrieve the foreign object from the garbage disposal for the first time. Big gulps. I can stay composed and walk outside in pitch darkness without breaking into a nervous run. I got accepted and I'm going to graduate school. Bigger gulps.

I didn't know I had it in me.

Sitting, Waiting, Wishing

Sitting in front of the mailbox. Waiting for the mailman to come. Waiting to come home to an envelope from one of four places, or do I dare say, four envelopes from all four places sitting on my kitchen table. Sitting at my computer waiting for the much too anticipated for notifications to come. Waiting to make future plans that are really in the not so distant future that are demanding to be made yesterday. Wishing for the arrival of acceptance or rejection letters. Wishing, in a strange sort of terrifying way for at least one, just one acceptance to graduate school.

This has been my life for the past month. The anticipation will be the death of me.

I love my house.

It's a cacophony of water droplets leaking from every possible faucet throughout the house.

It's a tiny clink resulting from that of a tin bowl catching water from the leak in our roof every time it rains. We've got a whole symphony.

It's the sound of nasty cat, scratching around in our roof/attic/unexplainable area above our heads. I have absolutely zero idea of how it got up there, or exactly where "up there" is since nasty cat is nowhere to be found there, but it adds a nice mix to the percussion of the falling of the water globules.

It's a nice electrical problem creating a nice strobe light effect as the electricity in any given room flashes out, just to flash back on as we switch the breaker box. Drying my hair may be interrupted many times, but at least there's a nice disco atmosphere through the process.

It's the explosive water spewing--no, flooding from the tap in the kitchen and the resultant dance and squeal while trying to make it stop. It just adds to the rave ambiance.

It's the toilet that won't flush from either 1) plumbing problems, 2) a broken flusher, or 3) water turned off by the city for various other dance moves of girls prancing around with their knees squeezed together hoping the toilet will be working. Soon. Just in case the other dance moves were not to your satisfaction.

It's the outrageous heating bill that only results from pitiable insulation that you must pay to get into such an uncontrollable party.

It's the furnace that goes out to control the heat of this party.

It's one of a kind.

It's the one.

It's the only.

It's the yellow brick house.

It's where I live.

Meh

Please meet the friendly neighborhood stray cat that now resides in the home of the people that live in the basement of my hosue. I call it Meh, and only with a grimace. I have one problem with it, and one problem only. It's still alive.

I have never liked animals, I will never like animals, and nor will I pretend to. As mentioned, we found this cat as a stray when we first moved in, and I found it disgusting beyond all belief, although it seems I am the only one that thought so. It was skin-y. Not just skinny. You know the kind, where the flesh and fur is just hanging down off the bones so you could reach out and grab a handful of solely furry skin if you felt like catching fleas. The fur was thick and matted, scary to the touch (not that I touched it or anything. Good heavens, I did not touch it.), let alone to look at. In addition, underneath what would have been the tail had it existed resided a nasty, strange, brown clump that mysteriously resembled something of dry fecal matter tangled up in its fur. I wanted to throw up when I saw it.

Before I could take care of this pesticide myself, my lovely neighbors below me took matters into their own hands, and I gradually noticed the cat plumping up little by little, getting less timid, and I soon heard the faint sound of a bell tinkling with every bound of the animal, which required a double take, hoping my suspicions would not be confirmed. A bell? On a collar? Oh dear. A collar. Suspicions confirmed. Next thing I knew, I was being disturbed by a maddening yowl coming from my front porch, and a furry ball darting in the house every time the door opened. I found myself attempting to coax it out from under my bed, or calling to my neighbors to come retrieve their own vermin. I didn't worry too much. I didn't think it would survive the winter. Especially when it was left to fend for itself over the cold and snowy Thanksgiving and Christmas break when everybody left.

Alas, it's still alive. I only regret I didn't call the animal shelter when I could.

Guilty Pleasures

I may or may not have just spent a wee portion of a class period and the past hour plus indulging in this:

http://www.cheekykitchen.com/ (Delicious food, fun cooking, and amazing photography--three things dear to my heart. I couldn't stop.)

and this:

http://www.tastespotting.com/ (A bottomless pit to a vast array of food blogs and websites. I may never emerge again. I will practice self control. I will practice self control. I will practice...)

You may have already been aquainted with said websites, but all I can say is this may become a problem for me. So if you're slightly strange like me and delight in this kind of thing, please enjoy; however, I warn you, I was allowing myself one more page to drool over for an hour. And that was just for today. Now, if only I could channel such attentiveness and fixation to my textbooks I was planning on reading during that hour.