Wednesday, December 14, 2016

We Just Have To Wait

Oh, hello little blog, it's been almost three years, has it? So long that even your styling is out of style. But I just wanted to tell you something that it seems I always have to be reminded:

Lately, I've been a bit consumed with my trials and tales of woe. Some of the things happening fall into that category of, "That could never happen to me." But apparently it can and the accompanying trial of faith has been distressing.

Yesterday, it seemed as though these problems would never go away and I would be left to deal with them for quite a long time. I was sad. I was in denial. I was mad. I was straight. Up. TICKED.

Then a friend invited me to go to the temple and at first I thought, "Hmmm, no thanks, I would like to stay here in my stewing pot of selfishness," but that's when I knew I needed to go. At the temple, I finished a lot earlier than my friend so I had quite a while to wait for her in the lobby. I must have looked particularly grim because at one point an older man walked past, saw me, and stopped dead in his tracks.

With all the happiness and surety in the world, he said to me, "Smile! It's not so bad! We just have to wait."

I felt like someone punched me in the gut and then there was the inevitable crying. It was exactly what I needed to hear. It took me a good while to realize that he simply meant that it's not that bad to have to wait in the lobby, but the context in which I heard it is best summarized by Elder Holland:

"Some blessings come soon, some come late, and some don't come until heaven...but they come."

So blog, if I never write on you again, at least there is this happy note to end on.

Update: I didn't have to wait long. :)

Sunday, December 15, 2013

the good, the bad, and the worst

the good. 
little sister returned from her 18-month long mission in Russia. hashtagreunitedanditfeelssogood


the bad.
when people verbally speak in hashtags like i just did. like people i work with. i hope they are reading this. i can hear you in the other office bein' all, "hashtagbye", "hashtagletsgofillupourmugs". jimmy fallon and jt have created monsters.


the worst. 
i've got red in my ledger (quick, name that movie) and there's no getting it out. that's right, my friends, i'm officially enrolled in a BYU class. pleh, pleh, pleh. i had to do it to fulfill a prerequisite for one of my USU MBA courses. shameful. i suppose i should say i've got the wrong blue in my ledger. it's all downhill from here. hashtagnooffensetomybyufriends hashtagexceptnotreally hashtagaggielife


ps - know it's really supposed to be #hashtag, but i'm going for added effect on my hashtag rant. 

Monday, October 7, 2013

Of Victories and Not-so-much-a Victory

First, a victory. Second, not so much a victory.

Victory: Creeping into my mother's room without waking her up after she had fallen asleep to retrieve my toothbrush that I had left in her bathroom. SUCCESS! The Mama has super sonic hearing like all moms do...except, her's is super sensitive because she spent many years listening for my brother sneaking out in the middle of the night or sneaking in after he probably thought he successfully snuck out. Brother, you should know that she always knew. 

Anyway. The point is, I got in, retrieved aforementioned toothbrush, and got out. Normally, it goes like this: I open the door as silently as humanly possible. I turn my head to listen if she is sleeping/lightly snoring. Do I hear it? Sometimes yes, sometimes no. Either way, I determine that she is asleep because if she was awake, she would have asked me what I wanted or what I was doing. It is then that I slowly open the door just enough to slip in, but not too wide because there is a certain point where the hinges squeak. Then the tip-toeing commences...have you ever seen a 25-year-old tip-toe? Just image something out of Looney Toons and you got it. It's about ten feet from the bedroom door to the bathroom door therein. EVERY TIME, I get about five or six steps in when out of the darkness comes, "What do you want?" or, "What do you need?" or "You left it downstairs," because she usually knows exactly what I am there for and exactly where I left the misplaced item. 

The tip-toeing desists, shoulders slump and I either hurry to retrieve the misplaced item from her room, or do an about face and find the misplaced item exactly where she said it would be. But this time...THIS TIME! I did it! This particular night had come after a long, stressful day for her...I cracked the door, perked up my ears, heard what was definitely a person sleeping, entered, retrieved, and exited! But I got ten bucks that says after she reads this, she'll tell me that she did actually hear me, but was too tired to ask what the crap I was doing sneaking into her room at 1 am. Showing up in your parent's room in the middle of the night at 25-years-old is much less adorable than at three or four-years-old.

Not so much a victory: Sometimes when I am home for the weekend, I'll take a shower in my mom's room because I'm too lazy to go downstairs. So, I had just gotten out of the shower, grabbed the towel off the counter, and about the same time, I heard a loud crash:
Audible sigh, hands out, head thrown back, staring at the ceiling.
Then, as I was scootching back to clean it up, I swung the towel around and...plop! "Ahhhh!" But naturally, instead of immediately pulling it out, I took a photo...NATURALLY, like one does in this type of situation.


I struggle...pretty significantly. And remember, I had just stepped out of the shower...so this all happened while I was...well...it was not my most glorious moment, let's just say that.

That all happened on Saturday...and in the wee hours of Monday morning...I received the following:


HAAAA! I could not have asked for a better ending.

Wednesday, September 25, 2013

Oh nice and....

It is impossible for me to feel sad or mad when I turn on my phone and get greeted by the round, chubby, squinty face of #ohniceandchubbybaby. The end.

Monday, September 2, 2013

Grumpy Old Lady Downstairs

Have just finished moving for the 15th time since I moved away from home seven years ago (21 moves in my entire life). I used to be a pro mover...until I stayed in one place for almost three years and accumulated A LOT of stuff. Not so much pro mover now, since I have to tote the entire spectrum of furniture and other grown-uppy things.

Am sad hapa. Lived alone for the last three months, and it. was. glorious. Apparently, at 25, I consider myself an adult who is too old for roommates. My mother just tells me I'm spoiled. She's right, you know, most singletons my age still have roommates. I've just never been a chummy, be-besties-with-all-roommates-always, kind of gal.

So, I moved from my lovely one bedroom apartment across the hall to a two-bedroom so I can get a roommate to split rent and bills. Now, I live below a family who walk and close doors SO loudly. I have no idea how anyone can walk with so much gumption.This isn't even to mention the 80 children they have. You guys -- I am the grumpy old lady who lives downstairs. The kids were outside throwing a ball against the wall of my apartment, and would occasionally hit the windows. After about a half hour, I went to the window, pulled up the blinds with equal gumption as the walking patterns of their parents, and tried to open the window.

Embarrassingly, I couldn't get the window open, and the children just watched me with wide eyes as I struggled. Finally, I gave up, and all I could do was stand there with a serious look on my face and shake my head with a threatening slowness. They continued to stare, so I said loudly, "Don't throw the ball against the wall! You keep hitting the window!"

They stared.

"Did you hear me?"

Silent nods.

I pulled the blinds closed and went back to unpacking. Minutes later - thump....thump...this time on a different wall...the main entrance. I squinted my eyes and trudged over to the front door and looked out through the peep hole. There they were.

Thump...thump...giggle giggle.

In an attempt to not earn a (worse) reputation for myself on the second day in my new abode, I opened the door at what I hoped was a normal speed.

They stared.

"Kids, can you  not throw the ball against the wall, please. It's very loud in here," I said in my sweetest voice.

More stares. Silent nods.

"Thanks!" I squeaked in a high pitched voice very unlike myself. They went away and I continued unpacking.

My parents have always told me I am more mature than my years, but I bet they didn't realize I'm actually an 80-year-old trapped in a twenty-something year old body.

Thursday, August 22, 2013

truth.

“The hardest period in life is one’s twenties. It’s a shame because you’re your most gorgeous, and you’re physically in peak condition. But it’s actually when you’re most insecure and full of self-doubt. When you don’t know what’s going to happen, it’s frightening.”

Helen Mirren,quoted in Esquire’s “What I’ve Learned”  (via thatkindofwoman)

Thursday, August 1, 2013

A Demonstration of Coolness

So there I was....I had just landed at our nation's airport in Washington D.C., where there had very recently been a substantial rainstorm. The runway, roads, and sidewalks were still wet, puddles here and there. My dear friend, Bobbi, and I had just made out way out of the airport to the rental car area where I would pick up my very first rental car (it WAS as exciting as I expected it to be). As we exited the indoor moving sidewalk and stepped onto the outdoor stationary sidewalk, my eyes beheld a group of men with leaf blowers blowing the asphalt.

That's strange, I thought, and then it hit me, ah, they're drying off the sidewalk so people don't slip. (You can see it coming, can't you?)

After practicing some caution on the particularly slippery asphalt, I started talking to Bobbi, my mind forgetting the ground upon which I tread. And then it happened, in front of Bobbi and the three men -- I slipped, knew there was no saving it, no room for grace, and fell - my belongings went flying and I landed on my butt. I looked up at Bobbi, who I knew was trying not to laugh, bless her - so I started laughing instead. I could not get over the irony (is that the appropriate use of 'irony'...I can never tell?).

Then, because I knew I would not be able to stand again without slipping, I rose to my knees and shuffled/crawled to safety like a person who can't stand up on ice after they've fallen skating. Bobbi turned back to the group of men starting toward us, "It's good, we're good." I turned back only briefly, put up one hand as if to say, "It's all good, guys, happens all the time." I regret that I did not take a bow.

Pride bruised? Never. After 25 grand years of falls and flops, it doesn't really phase me anymore...except when it does...which is often, like in front of people I will undoubtedly see again...like during my college graduation ceremony. Yeah, that happened. Have I ever told you guys that story? No? Well, that, my friends, is a story for another day...

As I stood, I looked at my wet, dirty knees and shirt, "Bob...I'm gonna need to do some laundry tonight." It was only day one.