River

I get obsessed with songs, and it's almost a guarantee that you'll find a select number of songs with hundreds of plays on my itunes playcount. This is one of those songs. I love Joni Mitchell. I love that she dated James Taylor. I love that he covered their breakup song. I just love it all.

I often wish that I had a river that I could skate away on.

Blog, What?

It turns out that I haven't written on this thing in over a month.

It also turns out that this is my hundredth post on this here blog.

Talk about high expectations.

Life is so normal right now, and besides the fact that I'm choosing to go to bed at 10:30 rather than attend a Halloween party, I'm pretty much that same old crazy person.

Today, I asked to play with the child again. It's been over two months since I last saw him, and boy have I missed that kid. We filled our afternoon with leaf piles, Chick-fil-a, and some early Christmas shopping. It was a blast.

And other than that, I don't really have much to report. I might decide to post some of my fiction on here pretty soon, provided that I revise it some and make it acceptable for young readers. (ha. yeah right.) I'll also try to do something more exciting so that I can actually make a solid - or solidly informed - post. In the meantime, check out some bad lipreading. It'll make you smile.

Mitt 2012. Stuff the Ice Chest.

(Oh yeah, I'm still planning to vote for Mr. Obama.)

The Art of Gift Giving

There is nothing more satisfying than finding that perfect something for another person. I love giving gifts, and I'll gladly celebrate birthdays, wedding days, and even a random Tuesday in order to present someone with the perfect present. Maybe I want to be the Martha Stewart of gifts, choosing and wrapping each one ever so carefully, hoping that the recipient knows just how much love is behind each crease of the brown paper packaging (tied up with string).

I have had gifts backfire on me. There was that one time in high school when I made my best friend a scrapbook of our adventures together, and her lackluster enthusiasm broke my heart. There was also that time earlier this summer when a birthday present for a certain someone resulted in him avoiding me for weeks. Whatever the outcome, though, I still try to find something meaningful for the people who mean the most to me.

So, with limited funds and a stunted imagination, I went out today to find a birthday present for my friend Tyler. It was a challenge that I feared, mostly because my previous gifts for him have just seemed to appear in front of me. Then, it happened again: the perfect gift presented itself to me, and I had no choice but to hurry and buy the awesome handcrafted magnifying glass to show Tyler how much he means to me on his 22nd birthday.

I know it sounds tacky, and maybe I'm making more of this than there really is, but I just can't help the fact that I love surprising people with something that says, "I'm glad to know you." So, if you've gotten a gift from me (even if it was way lame), know that it's because I care about you. And, if you haven't ever gotten a gift from me, sorry. I'll try better next time.

New York State of Mind

My affinity for the Big Apple began in 2000, when I had a layover in the Newark airport. I remember looking out the windows facing the Hudson and seeing the Statue of Liberty and these two massive buildings taking up the skyline. I even took a picture, but my 30mm makes the twin towers look like toothpicks, rather than the behemoths that they were. I never got any closer to them than that, but I felt a connection with the City, and I knew I'd be back to visit before long.

Well, that trip didn't come until 2008, but in those eight years between, something changed inside of me. My love for New York grew exponentially after September 11, and I quickly became the high schooler with an absurd amount of NYC paraphernalia. I spent countless hours looking at pictures, reading stories, and learning all I could about the city, and I feel like I know it better than I know my hometown. In the (very) short amount of time that I've spent in Manhattan, I feel like I've come to a place that makes me whole. That city is my city.

No amount of words can do justice to New York City. It is dirty and crowded, beautiful and energizing. The people are unlike any other, and I found a renewed hope in mankind as I wandered the streets, talked to the NYPD, and sipped chai from Balthazar's. I could spin my short time there into a novel, but suffice it to say, I love New York.

So, as I've shed tears today for that tragic day ten years ago, I am forever grateful for my New York State of Mind. I reverence those whose lives ended that day, but I know that the City - in all of its imperfect history - has made me who I am today.

How to Write

A good friend texted me today to let me know that he'd been reading my blog. As shocked as I was to realize that people actually read this stuff, I'm even more shocked that I haven't written in over a month. Sorry to you three readers; I'll try to be better.

I'm currently auditing a graduate fiction writing class at the university. (Auditing: a fancy way of saying that I have to do all the work without a grade... but I don't have to pay for it!) Well, as my first creative writing class, I'm starting to see just where I lack in terms of my writing abilities. I don't have a knack for stories (other than my own), and I'm not cut out to think of an original or eye-catching plot that will leave my readers debating their own existential dilemmas. In fact, the one line I've written so far describes crickets chirping, and I'm pretty sure that's the response I'll get from people trying to workshop my stuff. Whoops.

Nevertheless, I'm bound and determined to try my hand at fiction writing. Maybe it's because I promised myself that I'd have a novel to one-up Stephanie Meyer. Maybe it's because I'm a glutton for those red marks all over my papers. Really, though, I think it's because I know somewhere inside myself, there's a story that's itching to be told.

I've just got to find it.

Highlights

Here are the high points of my week:

Yelling at the child to "Ford the river!" when we were at the park. The river was more like a babbling brook.

Watching two-ish hours of The Nanny on a Friday night. Fran Drescher needs no other explanation.

Discussing with a three-year-old the ins and outs of gingerbread cookies, pierced ears, and the meaning of life.

Sharing my vast knowledge of Restoration Hardware and Pottery Barn. Only Nate Berkus could outshine me.

And on that note, I wish you all a good weekend.

Not a Tourist

I just returned from an incredible trip to Washington DC, and I'm trying to remember all of the moments when I thought I should blog about this. It turns out that my map reading skills far surpass my memory at the moment, but I'll still share a thing or two I learned during my week-long adventure.

I spent Sunday afternoon at the National Zoo. It was a perfect day.

I pride myself on looking like a local rather than a tourist. I spent way too many years sporting a fanny pack and a bewildered look on my face, and I'm here to say that confidence and a good pair of casual sandals can do wonders for any traveler. It makes me giddy when people ask me where to find things when I'm on vacation. It happened at least three times this past week, and I proudly shared my semi-useful knowledge of the city in order to help my fellow traveler.

A portion of the Berlin wall on exhibit at the Newseum. This side faced West Germany. The other side is completely clean.

I'm always impressed by the amount of fun I have when I travel by myself. This time was no different. I stayed with my good friend, Alex, but we only really saw each other in the mornings and before bed. All the rest of the time, I wandered around the many museums and monuments of DC, not once thinking that I would rather have someone with me. I did things at my pace, skipping the exhibits that didn't interest me, and spending extra time in the places that did. I also spent as much (or as little) money on things that I wanted, and I never felt bad for making someone go out to eat somewhere that was a little more expensive. I cannot emphasize enough the joy I find in traveling alone. I'm sure it's not for everyone, but I encourage you all to find a little alone time the next time you go somewhere. It's good for the soul.

A view of the Capitol, complete with Canadian flags...

From interesting (and creepy) men, to the cute little girl who sat next to me on my flight home, I'm most convinced that traveling helps to open my eyes to the other 6 billion people with whom I share this planet. We're all so different, and I'm reminded of that as I leave the homogenous land of Utah and see the diversity of another city. I'm so grateful for the opportunities I've had to see this country. I don't think I'll ever get tired of seeing the world.

Midday Confessional

Confession:

I'm not feeling very philanthropic at the moment. Actually, it's been more than a moment, and I don't know which is worse - the fact that I don't care about people, or the fact that I don't want to care about people. It seems that my harmonious feelings only extend towards those that I don't live with/by/near, and I can't manage to love those people with whom I interact most closely.

Case in point: you tell me about someone in Africa who has AIDS, and I'll gladly send you a $10 check to help the cause. But, you tell me that I have to clean one more of my lazy roommates' dirty dishes, and I will break something.

Also, as a self-proclaimed democrat, I'm supposed to be all about using the government's dollar to help out the less fortunate. I'm all for universal healthcare, and I'm (mostly) grateful for the welfare program, when it's used wisely. That said, I overheard some people talking about unemployment and disability benefits today (and these weren't people with disabilities), and I wanted to scream at them. If I can find not one, but two low-paying jobs in order to make ends meet, why can't you find a way to get your butt out from under the playground and to workforce services? Literally. They were sitting under a playground. It's frustrating for me to see people abuse the system that I work so hard to accept. I would happily fight for the rights of the underrepresented or misunderstood, but I won't stand by and watch people abuse the system.

There you have my rant. I'm done sticking my neck out for people who refuse to return the favor, and I'm definitely done serving those who cannot show their appreciation for my service.

The end.

These Days.

These days I'm struggling to figure out what I'm still doing up in Logan. Without air-conditioning, a solid 9-5 job, and a worry-free living situation, I'm pushed to escape the confines of Cache Valley and make something bigger of my life.

These days I sleep with ice bottles in my bed. I might have temporary numbness in my lower appendages, but at least I'm not roasting.

These days I'm counting down to my trip to DC. Only seven days till I'm on a jet plane headed for our nation's capital.

These days I watch Christmas movies to remind myself that we only have six months left to complete all our shopping and wrapping. Actually, the Christmas movie is The Holiday, and it's mostly due to Jude Law's attractiveness that I'm watching it. Oh, and the fact that it's snowing. Have I mentioned how warm I am at the moment? Snow is a beautiful sight.

These days, I'm grateful for the little things, and I'm going to keep plugging along until I get to where I want to be.

Pounding.

No, I haven't beaten my roommates.

I'm not even referring to my heart and the many recent crushes I've developed.

I have a new hobby, and I'm hoping it sticks.

I've taken up running.

To those of you who know me, this probably isn't very newsworthy. I like to profess that I'm athletic, without ever achieving said athleticism. If I don't have to prove it to anyone, it doesn't really matter how many minutes it takes me to run a mile. I can claim to be an Olympic marathoner, but then we'd know I'm lying. Instead, I mostly stick to "running." Notice the quotes. I say I do it, but I don't really. I walk. Dawdle. Admire beautiful gardens. Never break a sweat.

Then, about two weeks ago, I decided to make a fresh start. I set a goal to run every day in the month of June, and let's just say that I'm fifteen days strong! I don't go super far or super fast, but I've seen myself improve immensely in just two weeks. I don't dread it anymore, and I'm actually grateful for those twenty minutes each day when I can go pound some pavement. It's a privilege for me to push my body. With how stagnant my life has seemed lately, running is one of the few things that makes me feel like I'm getting anywhere. Literally.

So while I take to the streets in my running shoes, I'll let my steady breath and my beating heart be my guides. Who knows how far they'll take me.

Venting.

If cleanliness is next to godliness, then I live with the spawns of Satan.

I got back today after a (beautiful) weekend with my family. I'll readily admit that my parents' house is not recognized as the spic-n-span house on the block (sorry mom, I know you read this), but it doesn't usually reek of rotting.

That was my "Welcome Back to Logan" scent tonight.

Well, instead of flipping out (as is my nature), I calmly took out the garbage in hopes that the smell would leave. I arranged my flowers and put away my food before walking past the sink. There it was. The smell. Someone had left rotting dishes in the sink for (at least) the past six days. Once again, I remained calm, as I turned on the water and started washing all of the disgusting dishes. After 25 minutes, I could finally breathe again, and it took another 15 minutes before the kitchen was completely clean.

Now, I'm not trying to prove that I'm the best roommate on the block. I can be bratty and snarky and a bit of a pain. But, I DO MY OWN DISHES. I don't expect other people to clean up after me, and I certainly don't allow myself to live in squalor out of sheer laziness. These people don't understand how to keep a house, let alone how to be a respectful roommate.

So, tomorrow we're gonna have a little "Come to Jesus" talk. They will know that the smell of rotten Spaghetti-Os is enough to make someone gag, and they'll know that the next time they leave dishes in the sink for over three days that they'll end up in the dumpster. I don't care if I end up in the hall-of-fame for the meanest roommate ever, at least my picture will be up in the cleanest roommate hall-of-fame as well.

Random Goodness

Here's a brief smattering of my life at the moment:

I just painted my nails. They look absolutely gorgeous, and they'll definitely complement the outfit I have picked out for my sister's wedding.

My sister is getting married. I'm so happy for her and her wonderful fiance. They're so in love, and it's a beautiful thing to watch.

I'm trying to plan the next segment of my life. After this summer of nannying and playing house at my tiny apartment, I think I'm ready to move on to bigger and better things. We'll see where the wind takes me.

I set my sights to travel to DC this summer. Hopefully everything works out so I'm able to go.

I've found lots of wonderful people to fill my social calendar this summer. In addition, I think I've overcome the social funk that happened for the first couple of weeks after he left. Since the two of us hardly talk anymore, I'm staying busy with people I love just as much. Yay!

Life is good. Summer is on its way. I'm a happy girl.

Carefully Caring

Here's a confession about myself:

I care a lot.

I've known this for a long time now, and it continues to get me into trouble, but I just haven't figured out how to give into apathy (unless it involves annoying 18-year-old roommates). Whether it's those silly plants in my front room or a friend that I rarely see, I think my heart might hold too much too dear, and it shows. Most of the time, I feel like my caring might come off a little heavy-handed, and I leave people feeling overwhelmed by an overload of affection. I don't mean to do it, and I definitely don't expect reciprocation, but I also hope not to scare people off by my levels of adoration. There are times when, instead of making me a better friend (like I want it to), my care leads me to be a worse friend than some people deserve. No one wants to feel smothered, and I'm learning that I need to let go in order to let people be my friend, too.

Just know this, if you consider me a friend, I take that title as an honor and privilege, and I will do just about anything necessary to show you that I care about you.

But please, tell me if it gets to be too much.

Tidbit

For the past two weeks, I've had so many ideas floating around in my head and absolutely no clue how to tie any of them into some fantastic balloon-animal of thought. Thus, the night beckons me, and I'm here to spill something on the screen of this blog. Hopefully it's worth reading.

Summer started a little over a week ago, and I'm getting into the swing of things as I adjust my social life to fit this town when it's vacated of its resident students. There is much less traffic, shorter lines at Cafe Rio, and a general emptiness that leaves me a little sad at times and very grateful at others. I've reestablished a lot of great friendships that I let fall by the wayside during the semester, and I'm glad that these people are willing to overlook my social neglect in order to listen to my nightly rants, sing Broadway with me, or just drive around looking for mischief.

Tonight, I did all of the above.

While I knit my way into a dizzy stupor, Tyler and I drove down to Ogden so that he could purchase a new CD at FYE. Actually, he had a coupon to get the CD for free, and we figured that the cost of gas wouldn't affect the end price too much. Plus, how often do you get to sit in the car with one of your best friends, just talking and laughing about all sorts of stupid stuff? My ghetto impersonation is a lot better after taking lessons from Glozell... I mean Tyler. Also, my love of Magnums has returned with their arrival in the good ol' U.S. of A. I'm planning to eat my weight in gourmet ice cream this summer. I'll just have to make sure to do lots of hiking so that it doesn't show.

And with that, I encourage you all to buy your own box of Magnums (no, not the condom), and have a great day!

Major Weeper

I think it is assumed that all girls cry a lot. I don't generally fit the stereotype, although I have been known to shed some tears at awkward/unusual times. I used to sob every week when I watched Extreme Makeover: Home Edition. There were those Disney fireworks, and also that one time when I told my mom about Of Thee I Sing. I acknowledge that my emotions can sometimes get the best of me, but I don't (usually) burst out in tears when overcome by emotion. I'd like to think of myself as more of a screamer than a crier.

Maybe I was wrong.

Today, I got choked up not once, but twice. The first time was at school as I read Love You Forever to one of my students. The second was as I arrived at my second job and sat down to check my email. Maybe I'm pregnant. Maybe I have too many raw onions floating around my life. Maybe I need to get a grip. Whatever the cause of my silly emotional outbursts, I know that it felt so good to let those tears stream down my face as I said a silent prayer this afternoon. I'm sure that I'll go back to my normal, screamy self within a couple of days. For now, though, I'm going to embrace the tears.

Out of Control

Thank you hormones for acting out last week so that I may enjoy the high-on-life feelings that I'm having this week so much more.

Seriously. Last week was so bad. I know when I'm going crazy, and I hate every minute of it, yet there's absolutely nothing I can do besides ride it out and hope that I don't sabotage too much in the midst of my hysteria. I can't even tell you how many times I nearly had a mental breakdown, and my journal entries will go to prove to a saner me just what a whack job I really am. Fortunately enough, the late-night phone calls, the hours of girl talk, and the pint of Haagen Dazs in my freezer helped me pull through quite nicely, and I'm back to normal this week.

It's the last week of school, and the last week of whatever has been happening for the past two months of my life. He moves back to Alaska next Tuesday, and I'm not entirely sure what will become of us as we continue our lives 3,000 miles away from one another. We've avoided talking too much about what comes next, and I'm left to soak up every minute we have over the next seven days. I want to make sure that I'm the only girl he thinks about when he's up in the cold white north. (I don't actually think it's all that cold or white right now, but I thought I'd say it anyway.) I know that I'll be doing a lot more things by myself, and I'm prepping myself for that twinge of loneliness every time I need a little him in my life. It'll all be fine, though, and I'll tell myself that a million times over the next sixteen weeks.

Thus concludes my ode to normal hormones. I can handle one week of crazy as long as the rest of the time is like this.

Currently

This is the state of my life:

- Staying up too late. Always.

- Spending almost all my time with him.

- Watching countless episodes of Top Gear and laughing my head off at all of the silly antics.

- Finally going grocery shopping after nearly two weeks. I can now eat at home again.

- Cursing the never-ending cold in Logan, and remembering with utmost fondness the two days that I just spent in warm southern Utah.

- Sleeping. Now.

Shoe Love is True Love

There was this time that I wore a new pair of sandals in Las Vegas, and I got some lovely blisters on the top of my feet from the thin straps. Ever since, I've had some lame-o scabs on the top of my right foot, and I feel like explaining them every time someone sees me with my feet exposed. (Which is all the time. Also, I feel like I need to explain why my feet sometimes turn all purple-y and splotchy, even though that's no one's freaking business.) Well, after the initial shock of wearing a new pair of shoes, I usually put them away in my closet for a couple of weeks in hopes that my feet will change dimensions and that the pain they caused will no longer be an issue the next time I decide to wear them. (Case in point, the awesome bronze flats I scored in Cali, but which have only been worn once in the past month.)

Today, I donned the cutesy sandals for another dose of summer foot exposure. It's true that my sausage-like feet probably shouldn't be seen outside of a nice pair of orthotic shoes and ted-hose, but I insist on painting my toenails and putting on a cute pair of sandals as soon as the weather gets above 60 degrees. And today, I just kept staring at my feet. I cannot even begin to list how many times I thought about my adorable sandals and and the way that my feet weren't freezing (or throbbing with pain). Then I thought about Sperry's, and I probably spent a good amount of time at work looking up the different varieties of boat shoes and which ones I like the best (the red ones, two holes, always Sperry's).

I have an unhealthy relationship with shoes. I don't care if they give me blisters or if they don't really fit at first. A good pair of shoes will outlive any initial impression I have of them. They'll be able to handle my rejection after the first wear as a test of our relationship, and they'll prove themselves over time to be more loyal and comfortable than I could possibly explain. Oh, shoes. With you I can be so fickle and forgiving. Thank you for always keeping my feet on solid ground (unless you're moon boots, in which case, thanks for doing the exact opposite).

Spring!

Turns out that I'm coming down with whatever illness he had last week. So lame. I'll make the best of it, though, and thank the heavens that next week is my spring break. I foresee lots of Einstein bagels, park adventures, and a resurrection of my photo career from last summer. I'm a pretty fabulous photographer, when the subject in question is a little boy with autism. It's pretty helpful that he looks angelic, even if it's not quite an accurate portrayal of just what a handful he can be.

It finally decided to be warm in Logan, and I'm looking forward to the longer days and open windows of the next few months. I realized that I was nicer today, too, as if the weather might actually affect my mood. Hmmmm. Let's just say that whoever gets to know me in the middle of winter (bless his heart) has to wade through a lot of crap before uncovering the happy-go-lucky, summer-lovin' Emily that begins to emerge right about now. It always surprises me just how happy I am to be rid of winter and on to the other glorious (and warmer) seasons.

More to come: baby animals, bicycle rides, and a return to the cooking/homemaking fiend that I can really be.

A Good Thing.

Over the past four weeks, I've become accustomed to going to bed much later than I should. I justify the sleep deprivation with the fact that I have a social life, something that I feared no longer existed for me in this town. I'll spare you the details of all my late nights, but suffice it to say, they're spent mostly with one person doing a lot of one thing. You draw your own conclusions.

Well, he's sick. And it turns out that people who are ill need a lot more sleep than the usual 5-6 hours that we were going off of. For the past four nights, I've had to gather my wits at 10:00 and realize that it's not necessary to stay awake for another 4 hours. In fact, I can go to bed before midnight in order to escape all those "You look tired" comments from my coworkers. I'll readily admit that this little illness has been the best thing that could have happened to my sleep patterns.

So, while I pray for him to get better (and soon), I'm also very grateful for the added sleep that I'm getting. It's a good thing.

It's Been an Adventure

I seem to produce the best blogging in moments of absolute boredom. If that's the truth, then right now I should be writing a masterpiece, full of insight and intrigue, and sure to make you giggle.

The ten-day blogging hiatus has gotten the best of me, and for some reason all of my profound thoughts left with the snow that slowly melts outside my apartment window. I'm here to write something, although I'm not sure where it will go, yet.

You all should know that I'm a sucker for adventure. A long time ago, I decided that the only life I wanted was one where I could say, "I did that." I remember starting a savings fund so that I could return to Disney World when I was fourteen. I don't think I had a very good concept of the impracticality of that goal, but fortunately I didn't have to end up riding Small World by myself, as a teenager.

There were also the times that I decided to go to Europe, alone. I maintain that those experiences were the most influential times of my life, and I wouldn't trade them for anything. I've also made a point to see as much of the United States as I can, and I'm slowly ticking places off of my eternally-long bucket list.

But that's not all.

Adventure happens right here in my backyard. It happened two weekends ago when I got locked out of my apartment and had to spend the night at the apartment of the guy I like. I have adventures walking home from work in giant blizzards and torrential downpours that create puddle-lakes. Any given moment is an adventure in this one wild life of mine, and I'm learning to make the down times just as influential and substantial as the crazy times.

So, tonight, this blog is my adventure. I'm using my words to go someplace new; join me if you dare.

The Soundtrack of My Life

For the past week or so, I've woken up each day with a different song stuck in my head. Sometimes it's a return to middle school and a little bit of "What Would You Do?" Don't mess. I know all the lyrics.

Yesterday morning it was another nostalgic moment with my friend Nelly and his "Ride Wit Me." (Okay. I never claimed to have great taste in hip-hop hits.)

This morning, I decided to really class it up with Cee Lo Green's "Forget You." I fully admit to loving this song, and it really helped me start my day off on the right note.

Psychoanalyze all you want, but I'll attest to loving no more about these songs than their catchy beats and semi-offensive lyrics. And it helps to start my morning with a dance party and a little bit of ghetto gracefulness.

Disease Addendum

I feel like the post I made earlier needs an explanation.

I talked to my mother right before, and our conversation left me feeling a little bit irritated. You see, growing up in another generation gives someone a completely different view of dating and marriage, and my mom was just trying to come to grips with why my dating life seems to lag at times.

She wasn't saying that there was anything wrong with me, but after I hung up, I still felt like I had been hit by a plague. I wrote the synopsis of my "disease" - singleness - and posted it in a desperate attempt to find a cure.

It turns out that the only cure is time, and I'm willing to wait as long as I need to find someone worthy of my love.

So no, I'm not contagious. You needn't run away in fear. And, I most likely won't bite... unless provoked (just kidding). I'm completely happy the way I am, and I'm not worried at all about the label of 'single.'

It just means I'm not planning to settle for less than the best.

Here are the symptoms:

• I dress like a girl.
• I brush my teeth at least 2 times per day.
• I shower... daily.
• I usually eat three meals, though they aren't always the best.
• I speak my mind.
• I have an expansive vocabulary.
• I am tall.
• I have a broad sense of humor. Some may even call me witty.

The diagnosis:

• I am 24 and unmarried.

There is something out of place. I can't tell you what it is, but I'm sure that one of the symptoms above is the cause of my painfully obvious disease.

Please, I'm begging you. Help me find a cure.

i am emily.

"Do you know what you are? You are a marvel. You are unique. In all the years that have passed, there has never been another child like you. Your legs, your arms, your clever fingers, the way you move. You may become a Shakespeare, a Michelangelo, a Beethoven. You have the capacity for anything.” - Henry David Thoreau

I copied this quotation from a tumblr thread that I spent two hours reading last Saturday morning.

Tonight I watched "i am sam" while I knitted what is sure to be a magnificent creation.

And then I thought, I need to blog.

So here I am, trying to join two seemingly disjointed thoughts into a coherent post. This is the post where I once again explain the beauty that comes in uniqueness. For the past few days, I've decided to slink back in my shell. I've started apologizing for things I should never be ashamed of. I've decided that being me isn't good enough, and I've tried to decide exactly what portion I want to portray in order to get people to like a particular version of myself.

Tonight I had a phone conversation with my sister in which I explained this particular dilemma. I told her that I cannot believe that people would want to be my friend. I am never surprised when people I care about decide not to care about me, because I don't necessarily deem myself "worthy" of their love.

When she questioned my self-esteem, I assured her that I love myself so unconditionally that some might find it annoying. I think I'm the greatest thing since sliced bread, but I probably won't believe it if you think so, too.

It's an interesting paradox, and I'm not quite sure I can explain the way I feel about my professed unworthiness.

I just know that, like Sam Dawson, I am extraordinarily unique, and no one can do Emily quite like me. So, I'll continue to do just that, and maybe someday someone will understand the intensity, loyalty, and love that I have.

I think that's a wonderful choice.

(500) Days of Me.

(The following is an extremely self-centered post. You've been warned.)

Have I ever mentioned how I want to be Zooey Deschanel when I grow up?

Well, I do.

In a half-hearted effort to be more like her, I cut myself some bangs. I rock them, and they definitely help me fill out some of the prominent facial features of Miss Zooey. Now, I just need to work on the rest of her trademarks:

First, I need some jumpers or other 50s-esque attire.

This uber-expensive dress from Kate Spade should do the trick.

I've got the bicycle, the bangs, and the guitar-playing best friend.

I could probably use some fans, or a random cult following, but I actually prefer my anonymity.

And last but not least, I'll need some signature dance moves. Currently, my style is something between the mashed potato and the jerk, but it's a work in progress.

I'll definitely keep you posted on my 500-day transformation from Emily, the quirky girl with bangs, to Emily, the quirky Zooey Deschanel lookalike with bangs.

Oh Life.

While I drove back up to Logan after a weekend-end excursion in Salt Lake City, I got caught in a freak rain- and snowstorm that scared me a little and made me extremely grateful for the soothing effects of the radio.

After I got tired of switching between Usher and Peter Cetera, I decided to change the station to NPR, and I drove the last 40 minutes listening to the news about Egypt, the Superbowl, and this little thing called life.

I heard Liz Murray on the BBC, and her story removed me from the blizzard in Sardine Canyon and took me to the streets of the Bronx. Her memoir, "Breaking Night," is something I need to own, and her story was exactly the thing I needed to hear on my scary drive. Nothing seems scary after hearing about her life, though.

How can someone take a set of hellish circumstances and turn them into powerful lessons of love and forgiveness? How am I so self-consumed that my life has yet to make anything half as beautiful as what Liz has made?

Coming from two drug-addicted parents, Liz spent most of her childhood watching her mom cash the welfare check only to buy heroin and cocaine. She watched her parents shoot up in the kitchen, and even though she went to bed hungry, she knew that they loved her. By the age of 15, Liz was homeless on the streets of New York City, and only after watching her mother die of AIDS was she able to take a hold of her life - her right now - and create a future different than the prescribed destiny of hopelessness.

She went to high school.

She went to Harvard (with a $12,000/year scholarship from the NYTimes, no less).

And now, she's creating a world where people can discover that homeless does not equal hopeless.

What a crazy thing this life is. I'm so grateful for people like Liz Murray, who help me understand the big picture. Someday I want to be a teacher at the Broome Street Academy, and I want to let everyone know the power that responsibility, respect, and love have on every single life.

The Bridal Faire

I added the -e to fair to give it more of a renaissance feel. Did it work?

Today I had the opportunity to attend my first bridal fair. I went with a friend - who is as single as I am - and we had an overall good time seeing all of the commercialized venues for wedded bliss. Mostly, I wanted free food and swag, and I managed to walk away with a stomach full of wedding cake and a purse full of advertisements.

The best/most awkward moments came when we tried to decide what to tell the vendors, who wanted to know about our "special day." Lauren moved a ring to her wedding finger, we made up fake fiances, and we even questioned the lesbian idea for a couple of seconds. When it all came down to it, though, we decided to tell the truth.

No, we're not engaged.

Yes, we were only there for the goodies.

The looks of condescension definitely made me feel good about stealing two cakes from a couple of booths, but overall, most people were pretty nice to us. And when one lady asked me if I had a date picked out, I let her know that I did indeed, but that I was just hoping that the groom got the memo for September 14. Ha.

Wow. Just wow.

I got this email today:

Dear Students,
We have two request for interrupters.
One is from the Logan School district. They need someone who speaks Mandarin Chinese. If you are interested please call xxxxxxxxxx.
Second, we need someone to help the missionaries interrupt Marshallese for a family they are teaching. If you are interested please call xxxxxxxxxx.
Thanks,
The Logan Institute

I responded as such:

Dear Institute,

I'm just writing to inform you that I won't be volunteering to interrupt anyone. I think that interrupting is rude, and I don't appreciate you asking us to do something so un-Christlike. Also, I can't interpret for you, either, because I'm not fluent in Mandarin or Marshallese. Good luck finding someone to do this job for you. In the meantime, I'd brush up on your fluency in English.

An Institute Student

Am I going to Hell for this? Probably. Does it feel good to let stupid people know that they should learn to spell? Definitely.

The Post-High School Dance

I'm sure this post will step on somebody's toes, but I never claimed that I didn't have two left feet.

As a 24-year-old single gal, I'm fully aware of the crazy things that young girls do for love. I've even been a victim/perpetrator of some of the craziness, but I feel that the past few years have mellowed my taste in whirlwind fairy-tales. If anything, the thought of having a chick-flick-esque romance leaves me rolling my eyes instead of swooning.

That's why I was so glad to leave the era of the high school dance. I never really loved the big hurrah that girls (and guys, for that matter) make out of an awkward evening, but in Utah it is an especially big deal. You can count on people asking each other at least a month in advance. The asking goes beyond a casual phone call and, "Hey, are you free this Friday?" No. We have to outdo ourselves, making elaborate (and expensive) gestures to let the recipient know just how badly we want to go to the dance with them. Then, we wait for a reply, which makes a three-letter word into a three-hour charade, with girls unwrapping hundreds of Starbursts just find the one chewy candy marked yes.

Gag me.

Well, I haven't thought much about high school dances since, well, high school. I thought they were a thing that I could leave in that era of bad fashion and 10:00 curfews. I was wrong.

I'm sitting in my bedroom right now as my (freshman) roommate prepares for the dance tomorrow. They're cutting hair and primping, talking about how they asked their dates and how they have yet to find the perfect dress. Her bedroom is filled with balloons, and I'm filled with sorrow at the way my life continues to mimic high school foolery. It makes me sad that she still hasn't left high school. More than that, it makes me sad that, no matter how hard I try, I can't escape it, either.

Life is so much better than those three years I spent inside the Bingham bubble. I'm so glad to be done with the dances and the drama, and no matter how much you paid me, I would never go back. I acknowledge that life will always be a little bit like that awkward prom date, but I hope that I can make something better out of my experiences than that poofy ball gown and dinner at Chuck-a-Rama.

{Even Molly Ringwald agrees on the awkwardness of high school dances.}

Suck that Marrow

"I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, to live so sturdily and Spartan-like as to put to rout all that was not life, to cut a broad swath and shave close, to drive life into a corner, and reduce it to its lowest terms, and if it proved to be mean, why then to get the whole genuine meanness of it, and publish its meanness to the world; or if it were sublime, to know it by experience, and be able to give a true account of it in my next excursion." ~Henry David Thoreau

I stole the quote from my favorite blog. You know, the one I mention in every single post. Anyway, as I went through my daily repertoire of internet reading, I realized that there are so many people out there (and even more whom I haven't yet found/blog-stalked) who don't understand the marrow sucking process of living fully. I see countless women (and plenty of men, too) who wish their lives away, pretending that things were better in the past or that they will be better in the future. Needless to say, this empty living is the exact opposite of how I want to approach my life.

I've seen the meanness of life. I witness the cruel injustice of fate every single day, and it makes me more determined to suck the marrow of my life. Maybe that little boy in my class can't talk or move, but his eyes inspire me to live. My classroom alone holds the weight of a million unfulfilled dreams, and I'm determined to shake the dust off of my littles, and let them know that it's okay to get back up after they fall. The marrow is sweetest when you understand the work that comes with it.

My life is a tribute to all of the incredible opportunities that arise when you dream. More importantly, I am living proof that marrow suckers don't just dream. They do. It's work, and it's sucks (literally) to suck that marrow sometimes. Don't give up, though. Life is grander, more beautiful, and more worth it than anything you've ever known before.

Suck it up.

Single and Snarky

My past few posts are more cynical than I'd like to admit. As a self-professed optimist, I maintain that life is only as great as I can argue it. That being said, I like to allow a healthy level of cynicism in order to gain perspective. And as of late, I think that my general angst has allowed for some deep reflection, healthy motivation, and a general push in the right direction.

I've also been contemplating where I want to take this blog. As I said in my last post, I'm not like most other Mormon mommy bloggers out there, namely because I'm not a mommy. I don't have any recipes for canning your own baby food, and I most definitely couldn't tell you where to find a spouse. So, maybe I'll market my singleness - my fresh perspective on what it's like to be a single woman in a society where you only matter if you're married.

A couple of days ago, I found this beautiful song online. Nellie McKay says it better than I ever could, and so I'll let her tell my story for me.

I celebrate and revere motherhood. If you read past the last few cynical entries, you'll find that I'm pretty much destined to be an elementary school teacher or a mom with a minivan full of children. While I understand this intrinsic need to bear and nurture life, I also fight against the societal norms that rank my worth on my ability to follow a Martha Stewart recipe.

I want to do it, have it, be it all, and in the process, I want to tell the world that I matter and that my single voice can rise above the chorus of screaming children (and their parents).

And no, I cannot stand Danielle Steel.

A Self-Indulgent Post

Today was a complete waste of life. I slept too long, accomplished too little, and discovered that I owe oodles in back taxes. I'm hoping for a change of tides tomorrow, with a promise of jobs and friends and fulfillment galore. If that's not the case though, I'll indulge in a little blogging to keep my mind off of reality.

This cyber outlet for my many different rants is just that, an outlet. I use my blog to spill, just like I use my journal to chronicle, my planner to organize, and my toaster to toast. I'm a huge proponent of blogs and the ways they help us understand the zeitgeist of a whole slew of individuals. That said, I think that that the majority of blogs are petty and narcissistic. Who are we kidding if we think that the world really wants to know the kind of cheese we prefer or the way our hair looked when we woke up this morning? This is one of the many reasons that my posts tend to shy away from the journal-entry type and lean toward the philosophical. I know people couldn't really care any less to know about my new shoes, so I leave those details to myself.

Granted, my all-time favorite blog combines daily minutiae with deep world views. It takes talent to paint life with everyday beauty, and I appreciate seeing a life that doesn't try to make me jealous or full of pity. There are plenty of those "do it- have it- want it-all" blogs out there, and when I'm feeling really masochitic, I'll visit a few, just to reaffirm my taste for well-written, poignant, and semi-selfless blogging.

There you have it - a blogging paradox. I want people to read about my life, while maintaining that my life is nothing worth reading about. I want to remove the self from the most self-inflicted space on the internet. Well, besides facebook, that is.

Out with a Bang.

Once again, I approach the blogging world as my clock nears 2:00 am. Even though my room is spinning and I'm feeling the adrenaline crash of the past few hours, I can't put my mind at ease until I've divulged all of my random warblings to a listening audience. As I put together the pieces of a scattered day, I am left with a beautiful collage of my myriad adventures in a land called Logan. And, as I wake tomorrow, I know the skiffs of snow will provide additional opportunities for me to cherish.

Today started with a completely normal routine at work. Other than my free lunch and an explanation to my $100 bonus, nothing too surprising happened. I didn't get my hair pulled, though, and no one sassed me; those things always equal a good day.

After spending another four hours at my afternoon job, I felt like the night had to provide some excitement to punctuate my rather bland day. I planned an evening with a coworker, and we set off to watch a show at the on-campus performance hall. While I'm not sure if she hated it, I had an incredible time, and I'm further convinced of the beauty in expressions of the human spirit.

Music moves me. Dance stirs me. Theatre gives my life a much-appreciated perspective.

And it was there, amongst the elderly Yahtzee-playing crowd that I realized that I didn't want to be anywhere else than listening to Audra McDonald sing "Stars and Moon."

Now, as I finally succumb to the warm blankets and soft pillow cradling my head, I'm ever grateful for the beauty in my life. I'm grateful for friends who punctuate my life with loud laughter and unforgettable kindness. I'm astounded by the way that my dreams continue to come true, and I know that wherever I go in life, I'll always shoot for the moon.

And with that, I say goodnight.

Filling the Bucket

I'm involved with Daily Challenge from MeYouHealth, and today our challenge was to share five things from our bucket list. While I've never actually compiled a list of the things I want to do before I "kick the bucket," I'm always dreaming up new things that I want to do before I die (or, better yet, before I turn 25). In most ways, I think I'm very fortunate to have accomplished so many things that are on others' bucket lists. I'm a pretty lucky girl, but my luck won't keep me from dreaming up new and greater things to do with this one life of mine. Here are some recent goals:

Write a book. My dad swears that it'll be the next book he reads (which really means that he will be illiterate for a very long time), but I'll be sure to publish something worthwhile. Just give me ten years, and I'll have something better than Twilight for you to put on your bookshelf.

Attend the Summer Olympics (more specifically the 2012 Olympics in London, England). I would love to see the tennis at Wimbledon or the marathon through the streets of the most beautiful city on earth. I'm already signed up to purchase tickets when they become available in March.

Have a family to love, play with, cook for, teach, and love some more.

Own a house in Carmel, California. It doesn't have to be this one, but I'm not too fussy.

Kick an 8-foot ceiling. This has been one of my quirky goals since I was in high school. Last time I checked, I'm about an inch from my target.

There you have it, my current bucket list. Perhaps I'll kick the bucket at the same time I kick the ceiling. That would be pretty remarkable.