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.