12.26.10


I found this quote typed up on another blog. I think a lot of people feel this way, have experienced this. ARE experiencing this. More people than we might realize. Me included. But I guess love will be that much sweeter when I find it because of feeling like this as I look for it. Him. I don't feel like this all the time, but sometimes, I certainly do. Anyway, this is a good quote. 

"I've found almost everything ever written about love to be true. Shakespeare said "Journeys end in lovers meeting." What an extraordinary thought. Personally, I have not experienced anything remotely close to that, but I am more than willing to believe Shakespeare had. 

I suppose I think about love more than anyone really should. I am constantly amazed by its sheer power to alter and define our lives. It was Shakespeare who also said "love is blind." Now that is something I know to be true. For some quite inexplicably, love fades; for others love is simply lost. But then of course love can also be found, even if just for the night. 

And then, there's another kind of love: the cruelest kind. The one that almost kills its victims. Its called unrequited love. Of that I am an expert. Most love stories are about people who fall in love with each other. But what about the rest of us? What about our stories, those of us who fall in love alone? We are the victims of the one sided affair. We are the cursed of the loved ones. We are the unloved ones, the walking wounded. The handicapped without the advantage of a great parking space! Yes, you are looking at one such individual. And I have willingly loved that man for over three miserable years! The absolute worst years of my life! The worst Christmas', the worst Birthday's, New Years Eve's brought in by tears and valium. These years that I have been in love have been the darkest days of my life. All because I've been cursed by being in love with a man who does not and will not love me back."

--Iris, the holiday

12.18.10

The Asians are having a party in the lounge.

The Guatemalan is cleaning, seemingly listening to the same song over and over again.

The few friends I have left who are single have all left town for the break.

It's my day off and I have nothing to do.

12.12.10

Kids know what's up. String cheese and pretzels are so good.

I talked to my mom today. That's always a good thing. We talked about my social life -- OK, OK, my lack of a social life. I believe the term she used to describe me was, "social recluse." In my defense, after I got off the phone with her two boys came over and I had a nice conversation with them. Yes, they were my home teachers, but it still counts. It does.

We also talked about maybe me going back to school. I'm up for that. I was thinking of what I could go back in -- photojournalism, mass communications (meh.), English teaching. I went online and started looking at what U of U, BYU, UVU and some other schools offer in terms of masters degrees. I contemplated English, just plain English, for about 2 minutes before wanting to barf at the thought of spending all that time with wanna-be intellectuals and people who are so proud of their mediocre writing and opinion of Hemingway and ... another early 20th century writer, that they don't realize they have no true friends and they smell of stale bread and cat urine.

I don't know why they smell like stale bread, it just came to me.

I could go back in creative writing. Though, that would probably be just as bad as English people. English masters students, not, like, people from England.

What I need to find is a masters program for English/creative writing where the people are down-to-earth, the requirements to get in don't require a 10-page research paper and a bachelors in English, and the tuition doesn't cost more than buying a new Toyota every year. Any suggestions would be appreciated. (Let me guess, in my dreams?)

Good thing I like my job and am in no hurry to leave just yet. Maybe by the time I need a change in scenery I will have found a masters program I love enough to ignore the "quirks" of the people studying with me.

The night of my birthday I realized I hadn't blown out any candles. That's kinda messed up. So the next day, I bought myself a cupcake, stuck a candle in it, found my lighter, lit the yellow stick of wax, and blew it out. Yes, I did make a wish, but as I know the rule of not telling others what I wished for, it doesn't matter to you if I wished or not, except that that's the point of blowing out candles on your birthday, right? I didn't want to get gypped of any wishes I'm entitled to, so yes, I did make a wish. You can relax now.


It was a grasshopper cupcake. Like, mint and chocolate, not bug-flavored. Why the heck do they call it "grasshopper" by the way? I guess some grasshoppers are green, but so are frogs and alligators and grass and marijuana. Well, I can see why they wouldn't call it a marijuana cupcake (they'd get a whole new set of clientele with that one) but I think an alligator cupcake is a great name.


Hey, there are only 19 days left in 2010. What are you gonna do with them? I think I'll eat some more cupcakes.

12.10.10

I grow more grateful every day for the body I have. Not just that I have a body, but that I have the body I have. Oh sure, there are things I'd like to change, but the beauty of it is, they all seem to be things within my control to change, if I will just buckle down and do the things I know I should.

I feel really good about life. Really good. About all of it. And I'm not sure where this mounting confidence has come from, but it's amazing. I used the see the faults in my appearance -- from a pudgy stomach to a crooked smile. But lately, I look in the mirror and see good things. "You're hair is looking mighty fine today, Elizabeth. And that shirt? Well, you wear it so well." (Yes, I do talk to myself.) I've heard "motivational speakers" and the-like, recommend to people (especially women, who are so apt to degrade themselves) to look in the mirror every morning and point out three good things and ignore the negative. That's great advice. But I didn't take it. Not consciously, at least. For some odd reason, I just started seeing the good. Out of nowhere. It really does baffle me, actually, because I can't track the source. Was it getting a big-kid job? Was it graduating from college? Was it the fall weather? Was it that new CD I bought? Seriously, I can't figure it out. I'm just hoping it doesn't go away, because I wouldn't know where to start finding it again.

I'm grateful I have a body of flesh and blood. I'm grateful for the flaws that encourage me to improve. I'm grateful my Heavenly Father trusted me enough to send me to earth and use this body, these feet, these hands, this mind and mouth, to do His will.

One thing that did occurr to me while pondering the source of this new-found confidence a few weeks back was the presence of the Holy Spirit in my life. It's not that I just received his companionship, but I have become more aware of it. Prophets and scripture have said that the Holy Ghost brings joy, peace, confidence and a desire to do good. Well, that's exactly how I feel.

So I guess I did find the source.

Why has it come with such force lately? Maybe it's being able to go to the temple more often. Or resolving to improve areas of my life that I've just skirted by with "acceptable" results before. And, I guess I'm growing up. Growing up seems to bring with it more responsibility, more trials and more heartache, but it also seems to bring clarity of mind, better perspective and a realization of the truly important.

No, I'm not saying I'm awesome. I'm just saying I'm understanding more how to become awesome. You know, like Moroni awesome. Or my grandparents awesome. You know what I mean.


"A strong testimony gives peace, comfort, and assurance. It generates the conviction that as the teachings of the Savior are consistently obeyed, life will be beautiful, the future secure, and there will be capacity to overcome the challenges that cross our path." 
--Elder Richard G. Scott 

12.9.10

It was my birthday yesterday. I'm 23 now. Prime number. I like prime numbers.
I went to dinner with some friends -- it was a small group, but a fun group nonetheless. (This is the last week of classes, which didn't occur to me until half the people I invited declined because of the mounting work they have to finish. Bummer.)

 Two of my roommates: Soleil and Kelsey

Me, Sarah, Thomas and Jordan.

Yes, yes I am wearing the same headband and sweatshirt that I wore last year when I went to lunch for Kyle's, Katie's and my birthdays. Totally not a conscious choice. Apparently I need to switch out my wardrobe a bit, huh? :o) 

I'm very blessed, with great friends and a stellar family. Just sayin'. 

12.6.10

Me and dad in January 1996, on my baptism day. 


Dad and Hayden on Saturday, Hayden's baptism day. Hayden is one awesome kid. He has an amazing imagination, always making up stories with strange and funny details. He's sharp too, very smart. And independent. He is also one of the sweetest boys, giving you hugs for no reason except that he's glad you're there. I love Hayden. 



I love comparison-type photos, to see how people have changed.

I don't know if this is true with anyone else, but I look at pictures of myself when I was a lot younger and I can't tell that it's me. Like the one above, I know that's me, but only because I've seen it before and I've memorized what I looked like when I was little. Comparing it to me now? Well, I'd need a picture of myself next to it to see the similarities.

Isn't the weird? I mean, I see myself more than anyone else, yet I can't remember what I look like. Ha ha. You know what I mean.

12.2.10

Conversations with God


It is late at night that I really get to know myself. I kneel -- or, rather, huddle, with face in pillow -- on my bed and address my maker as if I was opening a letter. 


"Dear Heavenly Father." 


Out of habit, but oft times sincere gratitude, I thank Him for the day. And then I commence in on the two-sided conversation, which seems all too often one-sided if I don't stop to take a mental breath.


It is during these late night talks, silently spoken on my drool-ridden pillow, that I talk things out with my maker. He has made me. He knows me better than I do, which makes sense, then, that as I talk, I'm not letting Him get to know me as much as He is allowing me to use Him as a sounding board to get to know myself. His soundingboard of eternal perspective and eternal truth does a miraculous thing: as I speak lies -- about myself, my feelings, my situation, my relationships, my plans -- they are absorbed and, if I am humble, I let them go and I am much closer to ... Him, I suppose. And then, as I speak truths, they bounce back and I am enlightened. I could say I enlighten myself, but I am no atheist, I am no fool. He is allowing me to discover the truths that have been there for eternity but have just now been allowed birth in me.


Tonight I talked with God and He asked me a question that I've been repeating to myself for the past three months: What are you doing with your life? Tonight, I told Him my answer and consequently discovered a part of the true me that has been hiding, scared to show it's face in fear of being laughed at if it were to fail to come to pass. It fears no more. I fear no more. 


What am I doing with my life? I am traveling forward, taking the first chance at using my degree in a field I love. And as I gain experience, I will take the other chances that come along, and further advance. In wisdom; perhaps. In knowledge; at least. Income; I hope. And as I do so, I hope to physically travel to a house on the beach with white curtains and blue walls. I'll wear starched, white cotton shirts and no shoes. I'll eat toast on the deck with the man I love. And maybe, if I'm feeling a little crazy, we'll even have a dog. An outside dog, of course. And there, I'll write and draw and photograph and create and love. I will love. I love now, but there I will love as I have nowhere else. 


That is what I'm doing with my life. 


-eg 
Sept. 28, 2010


You know how I was saying before that I was discovering myself through writing? This is an example of it. Last week wasn't the first time I wrote something that liberated me through my own honesty, of course not. And this, yes, is proof. It's not, admittedly, a great piece for others to read. But for me, it has become one of my favorites. Why? Because it expresses truth. My truth. You know how there's eternal truths? And scientific truths? Etc. Well, there's also "my truth," which, really, is merely when I am able to write things about myself that are exactly what I mean to write. Just like artists struggle to paint or draw exactly what they picture in their heads, so do writers struggle to express exactly what they feel. This is one instance in which I succeeded.

So that's why I wanted to share it with you. Because so often people talk and write and do things that are falsehoods. Not malicious, and most often not intentional, but all the same, they are not true representations of the person. For those who read this and care to know someone on a truer level, well, here's one opportunity. Whether you wanted to know me this way or not, I don't know, but I thought it worth a try.

11.28.10

I woke up this morning and a dull pain had spread from my head, down into my stomach, and decided to stay there. I felt like barfing and crying at the same time, but could do neither because of the dull, but persistent, pain that had latched on to my spinal chord and permeated out through my extremities.

I was going to finish that post, but I didn't, and now I don't want to, so I'll just leave it as it is.

I've discovered something. After all these years of writing, I've never been completely honest in what I record. It's like I'm writing to my sister or my mom, and even though I can tell them just about everything, it's not everything. But this past week I took a notebook and wrote really obscure things about myself and my thoughts, things that I don't talk about with others and before now haven't written about because I didn't want to explain myself, and I feared being judged or labeled as strange, even by the imaginary readers of my journal-writing. But I put those reservations aside, and let me tell you, it is liberating. Before, I was writing merely to make a record. Now I am writing to free myself. Honesty with others can be difficult. Honesty with myself, well, it can be excruciating. But I'm getting there. And even though the things I've decided to write about in this notebook of mine may be ultimately inconsequential, it has released a weight on my mind that I refused to acknowledge before, but now that is is lifted, I don't want it back.

I may not be a great writer, but something in me says I was born to be one.

I mean, look at this hair. It deserves some time in the limelight.



P.S. I ran across this quote on another blog a week or two ago. It's good, no?

"If we wait for the moment when everything, absolutely everything is ready, we shall never begin."
--ivan turgenev

11.18.10

Uh, I have another amendment to my Christmas list. An amendment to the amendment, actually (or is it addendum?) I don't want all The Beatles' albums (well, I do, but well, let me finish). I want, even more, all, or several of, Josh Groban's albums. I don't have any. And that's really a shame. So, Mom, Catherine, and anyone else wanting to bring me some Christmas cheer, here are his albums (that I would love to have in my possession):
  • Illuminations (2010)
  • Noel (2007)
  • Awake (2006)
  • Closer (2003)
  • Josh Groban (2001)
  • A Collection (2008)
Now, I realize all these Christmas list posts make me seem really selfish, self-centered, greedy, or just completely childish in how I'm overlooking the true meaning of Christmas. But if the media is correct, and they usually are, gifts are the core part of Christmas, so I'm just following the trend. I'm a trend-follower, what can I say.

No but seriously, now. I just want to make sure I don't mess this up. You know, the one time of year I can ask for things and not feel like a jerk. (But, ironically, I still do. Ha.)

In summation, the end.

11.17.10

I was standing outside with some co-workers after 8 hours of designing, editing, and talking of Harry Potter. It was so cold, and being the genius that I am, I wore flip-flops to work and forgot my p-coat. Yeah. So as we were talking, I finally jumped in during a break in conversation and said, "Well, I've gotta go. I'm freezing." And THEN, ok, this is where the story gets good, I was driving home and passed a bank with a ghetto light bulb sign that tells you the time and temperature, and guess what it said. Guess. Yeah, 0° C and 32° F. When I said I was freezing, I wasn't exaggerating. If my 3rd-grade science memorization is correct, 0°C and 32°F is what is known as "freezing." As Sid the sloth would say, "I'm-a-geniuth!" (Which, actually, is funny that I wrote that because I previously, as in, earlier in the paragraph, sarcastically referred to myself as a genius. Coincidence? ... Yeah, I guess so.)

One of my roommates is from Guatemala. She speaks Spanish. She speaks Spanish on the phone. And sometimes she switches back and forth between Spanish and English on the phone. It throws me off sometimes because, I'm not gonna lie, I totally zone out and forget she's talking when she's speaking Spanish, but then she'll say two words in English and I suddenly get really interested in what in the world she's talking about. If only I'd paid closer attention in 9th-grade Spanish. Heck, I can't even remember my Latin name that I was referred to in that class. Estefania? Esmerelda? Estefelda?

Guess what time it is? Late. That's what time it is. I'm pretty sure you knew that after reading the preceding paragraphs. Shockingly, I don't act like this in real life all the time. Just when I'm hopped up on goof balls .... or really tired. One of those two.

Peace out. Word to ya motha.

11.16.10

I changed my mind. Instead of the Bamboo writing tablet for my computer (which I wouldn't end up using nearly as often as I should) I would quite enjoy the box set of The Beatles albums. That's right, all of them. On Amazon, it's $129. I'm willing to go halfsies with someone. Talk about the most amazing rock-filled Christmas ever. :o)


P.S. In case you haven't heard, The Beatles' albums/songs are now being sold on iTunes. This is big news people. Who knew the name of a fruit could cause so much strife between enterprises.

11.13.10

I got paid yesterday. ("Just Got Paid" by N'SYNC. Wow, what a classic. But this one is even better.) Thus I felt rich. Then I looked at my credit card statement and that feeling left.

I'm sorry, can we go back to N'SYNC for a minute? They are so ridiculous, yet I can't help watching their videos. Nostalgia, I suppose. Poor Lance, the lone bass (nobody heard him), always in the shadow of lead singer and lead-looker Justin, and I'm pretty sure his managers knew he was gay long before he announced it. I mean, come on, he gets no face time in the music videos.

I won a raffle this past week. Yeah, crazy, right? I've never won. But that losing streak is over! And not by winning a George Foreman. Ha ha haaaa, inside joke. Anyway, I got a $10 gift card to Best Buy, which I used to by a gift card for iTunes which I used to buy an album by Mindy Gledhill. She's actually a Utahn and a Mormon, and I quite like her songs. They're cheerful, you know? (Click here to have a listen.)

I got yelled at tonight at work. I'm not sure how serious it was (it wasn't a very long chewing-out) but I felt kinda awkward and embarrassed and at the same time had to stifle the desire to argue back because I felt like the edits I made were justified. Instead I said, "Oh, OK. Sorry 'bout that," and looked down at the other page I was editing, my ears and cheeks red and hot and my nose starting to run from the pent up emotion I was trying to shove back down. I was proud of myself. It took about 3 minutes and I was completely fine. Last time I got yelled at on the job (a different job, 2 years ago), I cried and then laughed to try and cover it up, consequently blowing snot on unsuspecting people. It was quite an ordeal. This time, it was much more controlled. Yaaaay, Elizabeth!

And now, for your viewing pleasure, announcing
PICTURES FROM ELIZABETH'S PHONE!

Yeah, I know, right?

[The caps and exclamation points have two-fold purpose: To annoy Catherine and also to express how incredibly tired and lacking in tact and judgment I am right now. Good thing I'm not at a bar.]

 Did you get your tickets?
 Bored in The Daily Universe newsroom during the summer. Luckily Deon texted me about some way cute shoes and I was able to send pictures of my expressions to her about the shoes she bought.
 Out to eat with the family in Texas. Dad was probably embarrassed by what some of his kids were doing in a public place. OK, not probably. He was. P.S. Rafael's has the best fajitas ever.
I had a nasty cough and told Cath it felt like a troll had moved into my lung. She sent me this amazing drawing depicting my lung.
 This was my response to Cath's drawing. She said, "Oh, is that what a lung looks like?"
 I wish this was better resolution (alas, a picture of a picture taken on a cell phone doesn't do much). Cath looks like she has buck teeth. Makes me laugh every time. Ah, 1999, you were fun.
 I saw this dragon in the store and thought, "Holy crap, that's ugly. Who'd buy that?" Last week I found one in my nephews' bedroom. Ha ha ha.
 Ben sent me this. With it he wrote, "Be happy." He's such a great motivator.
 Thomas sent me this. It's a picture of me. Along with it he wrote something like, "HA HA HA HA HA!"
 One of the twins. Sent from Ben's phone.
 Twin and Rora. From Ben. Or Kelsey. I can't remember.
 Wow, another from Ben. He was bored that day, I think. This piece was titled, "Puppy riding horse riding rocking horse." It'll be worth big money one day. Just wait and see.

Another from BEN! Two puppies and a horse. A half-horse actually, which would make her a Centaur, I believe.
 Stevie sent me this. A Polaroid from an elementary school sock-hop. Wow, we were ugly. I didn't realize how much bigger I was then Stevie. And yellower.
 Speaking of STEVIE! She got Bell's Palsy this summer and thus used the gangster look quite effectively to simultaneously protect her eye when it wasn't able to blink and catch da boyz.

That concludes my presentation. Enjoy your day. I'm gonna go eat a cupcake. 

11.10.10

OK, I'm not gonna lie. I posted the 11.9.10 post past midnight, thus it was actually the 10th of November. However, now I'm telling the truth and posting this at 1:22 a.m. on the 10th and labeling it as such.

All I wanted to say is: I used to be pretty witty on this blog. Like, Catherine-esque blog witty. Don't believe me? Go back to January 2008. Do it. Click on my archive and read a couple. Funny, right? Well, I thought so. Maybe, however, I'm so NOT funny now, that my weak attempt at wit nearly 3 years ago has me confused with genuine humor.

Well, I tried. I think I just wanted to direct your attention to how long I've been posting (3 years is a long time for me to do anything, besides school, which is kinda mandatory, at least in my family). In a few posts, I will reach the big 4-0-0. Don't get your hopes up, I probably won't even realize I'm posting for the 400th time until it's past and I've wasted it on posting a lame YouTube video or simply telling you to look at my photography blog. (Which, by the way, you should do. Here's the link, for your convenience. http://ahjunkphotography.blogspot.com).

Well, good night. I have to work tomorrow, so I should probably get to bed within the next, uh, 4 hours or so.

11.9.10

I took some photos today.

Head here to read a little and see more pictures.

11.5.10

I don't understand how people can stand to be doctors, with all the blood and guts and who knows what else.

I don't understand how people can choose to be police men or army men or any occupation where you may not come home, and you accept it as your way of life.

I don't understand how numbers can excite people to the point of becoming an accountant. How incredibly dull that seems.

And then I hear someone say, "I don't understand how you can enjoy poetry. Or write. I'd hate writing for a living. I hate writing. I'd rather not."

And then, suddenly, I understand all that I didn't.

-eg

Christmas List.

it's never too early to post a Christmas list, right? ;o)

 sketch book. not hard bound.

 Bamboo computer drawing tablet. 

small knife. like my brothers'.

bbc's 2009 "emma"

conair hair brush.

old navy black hoodie. size: large. i think they only sell them online now. 

 iTunes gift card. any amount. 

 "phineas and ferb" dvd. any. 

sweater/cardigan. preferably without embroidery work.

isn't this necklace rad?! found here.

Oh, I almost forgot.

11.3.10

I get the bulk of my inspiration at night. Have I told you that before? Sometimes it's quite convenient, as I like to stay up late. Other times I wish it would wait until morning, as I am just drifting off to sleep and I can't muster the desire to get out of bed to write things down. (Unfortunately this happened just last night and I thought, very distinctly, "I will remember in the morning. I will. How could I forget?" Well, past-Elizabeth, you forgot.)

Speaking of past- and future-Elizabeth's, I was thinking today about my future self. I think I'll just keep getting better. At least that's the hope. That's the plan. And to my future-self I would say something very cliche, like, "I knew you could do it."

Sometimes I wish a future-Elizabeth would come back in time and tell the present-Elizabeth something equally cliche, but infinitely more comforting. Something like, "It'll all work out. You don't have to worry about a thing." And yet, if I wish a future-Elizabeth would come to me in the present, and I know what she would say, a part of my present-self must know what she'd say is true now. I mean, the past-Elizabeth's know it's true. But, that's just it: All these Elizabeth's, they're one person I suppose, but all very separate too. Always changing, always being reborn -- and not just in the spiritual sense, which I am, but reborn in so many other ways as well.

I guess the point of all this is just to express this desire within me, at least the present-me, to know the future. It would be grand, wouldn't it? But, just like most of the thoughts I have, I have a counter-thought. And this time the counter-thought to knowing the future is, how utterly lacking in mystery life would be if the future was known in the present.

This, my friends, is what I was referring to as my late-night inspiration. It may seem nonsensical to you, but to me it is an unloading of my soul. Uploading, maybe, since this is the Internet. It has to be done, or else things just get too crowded and my hard drive gets bogged down.

(See what I did there? I distracted you from the melodramatic reference to "my soul" by comparing it all to technology, something so not-poetic it counters anything overly-prosaic I may have said.)

I'm sorry if you were expecting pictures to accompany this novel. Not today. Just words.

Good night.

-eg

p.s. When you work at a place that always refers to tomorrow's date as "today," things can get confusing. See, "today's" newspaper is actually tomorrow's. We just design and print it today, thus the reason tomorrow is actually "today." Get it?) But I think I got the date right. It's November 3. Yep.

11.2.10

Today I voted. The second time in my life that I've done that, excluding voting for 5th grade class president and where we should go for our family Christmas break-dinner. I researched the candidates and the Utah constitutional amendments, so I felt justified in taking an "I Voted" sticker. Not those who ignorantly vote for whomever their finger lands on while standing at the machine DON'T deserve a sticker, it just seems like they don't deserve it as much. Or, they should have another sticker that says, "I Voted ... But only so I could get this sticker."

I was gonna tell you who I voted for, but that would be like telling you what I wished for when I blew out the candles on my birthday cake. It'd just be wrong. Plus, if I told you, then those people wouldn't get elected. ... Wait, that IS how it works, right?

After leaving the polling station, I had nothing else to do. That has been happening a lot lately, and will continue to happen since I work at either 2:30 or 6 p.m. That's a lot of daylight to kill. So, I drove up to the base of Y-Mountain with my camera. I started up the first switch-back with no intention of going past the next bend, but my boredom got the better of me, so I just kept going. Mind you, by "kept going" I mean I decided to hike to the top, not that I didn't stop quite often to catch my breath. I always forget how stinkin' steep that trail is and how incredibly out of shape I am. But I made it! I always do. And it felt amazing. There's just something about physical exertion that can't be beat. Couple that with a gorgeous autumn day and a spectacular view, and well, my friend, you've got the recipe for awesomeness.






I have a few more to show you.
Click here to go to my photography blog.

10.31.10

Happy Halloween! 
[That's a Mario pumpkin, obviously.]

10.26.10

My bad. Day light savings doesn't end for another couple weeks -- November 7, actually.

Which means, my clock is even more messed up than I thought.

Oh, p.s. Happy Birthday Scotty and Aurora!

[I was going to post pictures of them on their original birth day, but apparently I don't have them on my computer and my dinner break is almost up. Maybe later.]

10.25.10

I woke up at 9 o'clock this morning. Except, it was really 10:45. Not only did I forget to set my clock forward an hour for daylight savings being over, but apparently it also decided to be lazy and slow down another 45 minutes. I honestly don't know how that happened. I wrote the other day that I thought I'd taken up smoking in my sleep as evidenced by my wicked nasty cough. If that's true, then I also have taken up messing with electronics in my sleep as well. ... Nah, that's just ridiculous.

It is cold here in Utah. Windy too. The leaves are nearly all yellow, red, orange, brown -- anything but green. It smells like autumn and mixed with that smell is this feeling that something is incredible is about to happen. It overwhelms me at times, and I can't place it. I can't figure out what it means or where it's coming from, unless it's coming from the leaves and the cold and that smell. That smell. It can only be described by the feeling it infuses into me, and that, unfortunately for you, is indescribable. It is good though. Very good.
[OK, so I took this photo today and the leaves on these trees are green still, but that doesn't negate the fact that's it's cold (there's snow up on Y Mountain) and it smells. Like autumn. And stuff.]

I want to watch "You've Got Mail." There are summertime movies ("Sandlot," for example) and there are too many wintertime movies to even begin to name them all (I like "Little Women," "While You Were Sleeping" and "Elf" quite a lot), but not too many movies can be classified as "autumn time." But Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks walking the streets of New York City and saying lines that are permanently affixed to my gray matter? That is an autumn time movie.

I bought a shower curtain today at the dollar store. Two of them, actually, because, well, they were only a dollar. I never realized how much I loved the dollar store until I actually started paying close attention to my budget. OK, OK, that's a lie. I never really had a budget before. Ha ha haaaaa, man I'm a failure.

I read blogs. But mostly I look at them. And I've noticed, a lot of bloggers post blurry pictures. It's like, "Here's a picture of my best friend's daughter. Isn't she cute?" And you think, "Well, maybe. Except I can't see her. She seems to have been running away from you at the time your shutter opened." Yet some how, they make it seem "artistic." Boo. It's not. Learn to use your flash, for crying out loud.
[Look. A not blurry picture. This is my brother's car. He's selling it. Just so you know.]

I've decided to start recording written depictions of the people I encounter at work. They are fascinating, in both appearance and action. I've spent so long at a university filled with, albeit nice people, very homogeneous. But now I have a whole newsroom filled with people so different than myself, I can't help but write down what I observe.

10.22.10

Notes:
  • I moved into my new apartment today. My roommates are really nice. But judging from the history of this area I know live in, I may or may not be buying me some mace and a knife. I've seen West Side Story enough to know how to use the knife, and I'm pretty sure mace is just like spraying PAM. Hey, maybe I could just carry PAM around with me. Less expensive, I think. Well, the Western Family kind is.
  • Do you think you lose weight by coughing? I've heard laughing can be a great calorie burner. I've been coughing so much that my sides feel like I've been doing crunches all day, and the middle of my chest, where my ribs connect, feels like someone hucked a softball at it. I've gone to two movies this week (yay dollar theater and dates!) and, well, you know that guy you always dread sitting by, the one with the sinus problem or the phlegmy cough? Yeah, I was that guy (girl). Sorry, strangers. My bad. 
  • I love food. I hate how expensive it is. 
  • Elizabeth = Champion of Dr. Mario. Challenge me, I dare you. I will conquer. 
  • Tomorrow = farmers market. So. Excited. Apples, pumpkins, 50-60 degree weather. Mmm, yeah.

10.19.10


I went up in the canyon this weekend. By myself, which is how I like it. Who better to share one of my favorite things with then the person I know will enjoy it as much as myself?


It was beautiful. I find many places beautiful and worthwhile, but I think the canyon is at the top. It is so quiet up there in the mountains.




[Do you like how I lead this post off with a picture of myself? What can I say, I AM worth looking at. Especially in high contrast black and white. Am I right? Or am I right? Right, right, right, righ, ri...]

10.18.10

I think I bruised my throat from coughing.

And I think my co-workers -- probably the whole newsroom -- hate me for coughing.

All. the. time.

I don't think of myself as a cougher. You know, when you get sick, you have common symptoms that occur more often than others. With me, it's a sore throat and a really gross, stuffy nose.

Not coughing.

But this time, it is.

All. the. time.

Sometimes it comes suddenly, like I'm choking on a cheeto. Other times, it's a tickle in my throat that results in self-inflicted coughing fits. And other times, I suddenly feel like I can't breathe, so my body automatically reacts and there I am again, bent over at my desk with my nose in the crease of my elbow, eyes watering, as the invisible germs going spewing into the atmosphere.

I think I bruised my throat from coughing. I didn't think that was possible.

10.16.10

I started a new job this week. It's at a newspaper. A big-kid newspaper, as some would call it. It looks (the newsroom, that is) like the movies, I suppose. Old furniture, old computers, stacks of books and papers, horrible lighting in a sketchy break room with a rank fridge and over-priced vending machines. The people vary in age and race (OK, basically all white) and religion (Mormon and Jack-Mormon, I believe are the majorities). Unlike the movies, however, the people are not all gorgeous. (I mean, have you seen "The Soloist"? Robert Downey, Jr., even as a scruffy and beat up columnist, is good looking. And don't eve get me started on Robert Redford and Dustin Hoffmann ["All the President's Men"], James Marsden ["27 Dresses"], Josh Duhamel ["When in Rome"], Alexis Bledel ["Gilmore Girls"] and the list goes on). But I think I'll fit in because of all these "normal" looking people. (Don't get me wrong, there are some very good looking people there, I was just trying to make a point).



While we're on the topic of movies and newspapers, do you notice how Hollywood romanticizes journalists? Seriously, reporters, journalists, copy editors -- whatever you want to call these people who work in dingy newsrooms -- do not have the best jobs in the world. Looking at how Hollywood presents it, though, they'd have fooled me. So, I guess what I'm trying to say is: Do not trust Hollywood. Not with your future career. Especially not with men. And not with living in the big city. (Man they make it seem awesome, huh? I have my doubts. Give me the beach, the forest, even the prairie or a suburbia, and it'd be better than a big city for livin'.)

Maybe in the near future I will write more about this topic of journalism and my involvement in it. Not for your sake, poor readers, but for my own enjoyment, I guess. Like how I was tricked by the aforementioned Hollywood into entering a career I didn't completely understand, and now doubt whether I want to continue in. (Although, please, don't tell my boss that. I like my job now. I'm just considering the future.)