22 years of life

and I can die happy!

GAVIN DEGRAW wished me a happy birthday.

God Bless Twitter.

I yelped in joy.

sunrise- haven't seen that in a while

Today I hiked up the side of this mountain:

In preparation for Saturday's hike to the top of Mt. Timapanogos:

That is 12,000 ft above all of my friends at Vanguard that get to easily breathe

 in the abundant coastal air.We will start at 3 in the morning, and by 6 AM I will want to cry. But I am going to see sunrise at the very top of that monster.

Snow has melted, I took that photo in late June.

Barney Frank

I have a new hero. Shame I didn't watch the news last night, otherwise this rep. would have made it in my last blog, bolded, starred, italicized, and underlined.

rory gilmore

My childhood heroine was Jasmine. She was a princess, she was exotic, found herself an attractive half naked man to tour the Middle East with, pretty independent, not at all materialistic, and she had a freaking tiger. I wanted to be her. In fact, I was her the Halloween  of '95. To this day she is my favorite princess because she is really the only princess I would even have the faintest shot at becoming were I auditioning to be a park princess at Disneyland. side note: I am too tall to even be considered for a park princess.

In middle school I looked up to Mia Hamm. She had great legs. She also did a lot of humanitarian work, but I don't think I knew that at the time. Oh, and Mariah Carey (what happened to you, Mariah?). Lisa Leslie appeared on this list at times too. She could dunk.

heroine as of late: Rory Gilmore.

English major, acerbic wit, astounding interpersonal skills, independent, brilliant, Ivy League alumna (did you know if you say alumnus you are referring to a male?) and owner of the traveling pants.

I cried when we graduated college. I cried when we broke up with our significant others. We comforted each other in  the post-grad after shock.

It is in part because of her influence that I chose to be an English major.

I envied her (glamorized) small town life, and wished that I too could reside in a place such as Stars Hollow.

To appease these desires, fate patted my head, smiled upon me and had me move to Orem, Utah, which is one canyon drive away from Soldier Hollow. Too close to be coincidence.

So, in honor of Rory Gilmore, and to pay my respect to the woman and town which got me through my Junior year of college, I will spend this Labor Day at Soldier Hollow for the Sheepdog Competition. 

I was absolutely giddy when Christy and I drove by the banners promoting the Sheepdog Classic. I have never been so impatient for Labor Day to come around.

Cry Baby, Cry

here is something I don't understand, and maybe it is because I have no offspring, or really any children under the age of 5 that I am particularly close to, but why in the name of St. Albert the Great do people refuse to take their children to the nursery during church service?

I've worked in a church nursery, and I happen to think it is a pretty rockin' place. We have snack time, we clean up after your kids, we are forced to disinfect EVERYTHING on the hour, and if your children have even a semblance of an attention span, they get to play games, sing, and stick things on big velvet-y boards.

And babies, sure they miss out on the big velvet board and don't get to play Mother May I or Dance Freeze, but they probably have the best set up of all. Classical music plays in the background of a dimly lit room that is full of rocking chairs and snuggly things.

And on the rare occasion that there is a child who is not impressed with our services  or are just one of those really needy criers, we have a flashing neon sign that alerts you that your child, child # (fill in arbitrarily assigned number here) needs your attention. 

So why do some parents refuse to take their kids to the nursery? I mean, it's free babysitting! In fact it is better than free, a parent is technically making money off of us since aren't even charging for the snacks or entertainment we provide. Not to mention the clean up services.

...

This morning, I was a bit late to church which is not relevant I just felt like sharing, and I sat in the back right corner of the stadium (we don't have a church building, we rent out from a high school- I think this is another way the Narnians are trying to hold us back). 

I had a decent view of the pastor, and recognized some people around me, so I thought I had chosen my seat well, until... about 5 minutes into the sermon little girl with curly hair in the row behind me starts playing with my hair. Awkward. But I smile and pretend like I think its cute because people usually judge women who don't fawn over children.  Then, a child younger than the first aspiring hair stylist starts making gurgling noises, which actually was kind of cute until the gurgling became crying/ gasping/ yelling/ drooling noises. 

All of these noises are quickly followed by shushing noises which are ineffective and quite possibly more annoying than the baby noises. At least the baby has no idea it is offending people, the parents on the other hand are not only allowing this to happen, but are actually contributing to the noise.

This first set of children rile up baby #2 in the front row, and the mother quickly gets up, child in arms, and does the respectable thing of walking out. Or so I thought. But on her way out she sees unruly children behind me and must have mistaken this back section for the nursery so she plops down on the floor right next to 'em. Are you kidding me?

So I got out of this morning's service that we were reading out of the book of Matthew. And that's it. I'm sure there was more, but I will never be certain.

The only reason I can think of why a parent wouldn't want to take their kid to the nursery is that they have separation anxiety, but there might be more reasons out there. Like I said, I haven't procreated so I have much to learn.

I am actually not fundamentally opposed to people keeping their children in service with them.

If the children are quiet and I can hear the amplified voices of the preacher over the speaker- we are all good. 

I am, however, severely opposed to children who cannot keep quiet for 25 minutes being forced to stay in a room that needs to be relatively quiet. I am opposed to parents who hush or speak to their babies as if they could reason with the infant to stop being so rude.

I am even more opposed to parents who begin to play/color/sing/ or discuss global warming with their kids during service. Take it outside, buddy.

Better yet, take it to the nursery.

@jazzanddreams

If you spend too much time of your life in the in-between stage, does that really just mean you aren't paying attention to the present? Summer is over- not the actual season, though its close, and I know this because great things like Football starts soon, but what I really mean is a lot of people are heading back to school. Thought: graduating undergrad is kind of like being born prematurely. Take that, sit on it, reject it or love it.

I gave in. I have a twitter account. Follow me @jazzanddreams

I think this really has just allowed me to become a better stalker. or bounty hunter.

People say its for networking, and maybe a celebrity (or to be more precise, some celebrity's intern/agent/bitch) might respond to you. But you only have 140 words per tweet, which makes it difficult to really get to know someone or to have someone know you. Nevertheless, I have tweeted.

People should read stuff by Chekhov. 

While standing in line waiting to purchase coffee creamer, the front page of GLOBE (in the same unreliable category as the Enquirer) had posted a picture of Pres. Obama looking confused. Apparently, our President has a forged birth certificate. (GASP). He was never born. That's all there is to it.

Speaking of lines... went to Costco today per my starving family's request and saw the employee who I am sure that if we ever spoke we would be great together. I go to Costco often, not to see him-though it is a perk- but we eat a lot, and I do see him there. I imagine conversations that could be instigated but I always chicken out. Sometimes with legitimate reason, like he is working, pretty busy, too far, its raining, I need to look for food samples, it's a Tuesday, etc. But today, he had the shortest line. In fact there was a wait everywhere except that line. So you know what I did....

I went and waited in a line next to him. I wasn't feeling mentally prepared to strike up a conversation with this guy, nor was I feeling at my best. I was oozing of pheromone and sweat, and releasing parfum de wet dog from my pores, since I had just gotten back from a hike with Rusty. So not idyllic.

But I stood there. wanting to punch the woman in front of me for being so damn slow and for carting so many items.

 I would have had time to take all of my things off of the belt, back into my cart, and loaded in his line by the time this nurse-lady finished her transaction. But still I stayed put, afraid that I might interact with the guy I would like to talk to. It was horrid. Not only was I a chicken, but I looked like a dumb chicken with no depth perception.

Had a major caffeine headache today- because of the lack of caffeine (I explain that for those of you who aren't addicted and wouldnt understand the detox effects). When my Abuelita visited these last two weeks, we went to coffee daily. usually we would go to a bookstore and read, or she would read and I would do homework, for a couple of hours with our mochas in hand. I would tell her about the books that I have loved, she would tell me what she is learning from her book, or which books are demonic and shouldnt be read, and we would sit together sipping our caffeinated drinks, distinguishing ourselves from the mormon population, and truly enjoying each others company. These past 2 weeks with her were wonderful.  We bought books, and espresso, but being able to sit with her was the most valuable experience I have had in a long time.

it is also great to know that someone else in my family is an introvert and enjoys to read. I have always questioned my genealogy. 

Did you know:

My mother doesn't see a need for a bookshelf (or multiple) in the house- she does kinda like to read though. She is afraid of heights, doesnt like to hike/get dirty/ do anything that ends with 'board', doesnt like to dance,likes cooking, and is kind of tone deaf.

My dad likes to read, just doesnt do it often, is a complete extrovert, enjoys sales-networking-relationships, is a republican (most of the time), likes cooking, eats pork, and doesnt speak spanish.

On the other hand...

My mother and I are both: neat freaks (and all saturday mornings are dedicated to cleaning), we enjoy working with music in the background, like to laugh, get angry and yell often, cry when we are frustrated, love chocolate, coffee and ice cream, like basketball, enjoy camping and being outdoors, like to travel, take naps, and say inappropriate things.

My dad and I: can harmonize to anything, love our dog Rusty- and don't like lame dogs or cats, like to hike and bike, have at least attempted most sports (extreme, contact, and docile), enjoy politics,  keep up with collegiate and professional sports, hang up on people prematurely, make sarcastic comments, can be pretty lethal in verbal spats, love BBQ, and can enjoy a light buzz.

My Mistress's Sparrow is Dead is a good collection of short stories.

My kingdom for a pen

Sometimes I don't write because there is nothing to write about. Sometimes I don't write because I can't find my good pen, and I am very particular about my writing utensils. Sometimes I don't write because I am intimidated- by the outcome, by my own harsh judgement, or the critique of other good writers, namely Flannery O' Connor.

But sometimes, and rarely, I don't write because there is too much to write about.

I want to write about my grandma being here, and the entirely too massive impact she is having on my life by simply hanging out in a bookstore with me and talking about...everything.

I want to write about my mom telling me to that I am going to hell because I have a tattoo.

I want to write about my idiotic horse-dog.

I want to write short stories.

and I think I might want to write about how too close to home the novel (Julie Buxbaum's first novel, The Opposite of Love, to be precise) is rendering itself to be. But that may have given too much away already.

I'll write tonight. And tomorrow morning. Possibly here, possibly not. 

This may also be good practice for that personal statement which will be needed to get into law school. I am already starting to have anxiety concerning that part of the application. I don't know what the hell I am going to write about. I want to be impressive, and unique. But we aren't all that different, are we? And I don't want to seem pompous, nor do I want to play the martyr. 

There is a story in here somewhere, I just got to find it.

The Art of Racing in the Rain

I already told you guys I liked this book the first time I read it, which was only a couple of weeks ago, but I picked it up again.

Here are some of my favorite passages:

"The sun rises everyday. What is to love? Lock the sun in a box. Force the sun to overcome adversity in order to rise. Then we will cheer! I will often admire a beautiful sunrise, but I will never consider the sun a champion for having risen" (Stein 136).

"Let me tell you this: The Weather Channel is not about the weather; it is about the world! It is about how weather affects us all, our entire global economy, health, happiness, spirit. The channel delves with great detail into weather phenomena of all different kinds- hurricanes, cyclones, tornadoes, monsoons, hail, rain, lightning storms- and they especially delight in the confluence of multiple phenomena" (Stein 33).

"I cannot lie still. I cannot be alone with this. I need to scream and thrash, because it stays away when I scream. When I am silent, it finds me, it tracks me down and pierces me and says, "Now I've got you! Now you belong to me!"

Demon. Gremlin. Poltergeist. Ghost. Phantom. Spirit. Shadow. Ghoul. Devil. People are afraid of them so they relegate their existence to stories, volumes of books that can be closed and put on the shelf or left behind at bed and breakfast; they clench their eyes shut so they will see no evil. But trust me when I tell you that the zebra is real. Somewhere the zebra is dancing" (Stein 66).

The Edge of Love

whether embellished for mere entertainment, or diminished because of production restrictions, I became exceedingly intrigued by the life of Dylan Thomas after having watched The Edge of Love.

I vaguely remember studying the life of in a literature class, but because we spent so much time of the feet and meter of his poems, I doubt that we ever got around to actually delving into his biography.

Nevertheless, in my leisurely research I recognized some poetry, and found others that I appreciate. 

Enjoy.

Lie Still, Sleep Becalmed

Lie still, sleep becalmed, sufferer with the wound
In the throat, burning and turning. All night afloat
On the silent sea we have heard the sound
That came from the wound wrapped in the salt sheet.

Under the mile off moon we trembled listening
To the sea sound flowing like blood from the loud wound
And when the salt sheet broke in a storm of singing
The voices of all the drowned swam on the wind.

Open a pathway through the slow sad sail,
Throw wide to the wind the gates of the wandering boat
For my voyage to begin to the end of my wound,
We heard the sea sound sing, we saw the salt sheet tell.
Lie still, sleep becalmed, hide the mouth in the throat,
Or we shall obey, and ride with you through the drowned. 

-Dylan Thomas

Love in the Asylum
                    A stranger has come
To share my room in the house not right in the head,
                    A girl mad as birds

Bolting the night of the door with her arm her plume.
                    Strait in the mazed bed
She deludes the heaven-proof house with entering clouds

Yet she deludes with walking the nightmarish room,
                    At large as the dead,
Or rides the imagined oceans of the male wards.

                    She has come possessed
Who admits the delusive light through the bouncing wall,
                    Possessed by the skies

She sleeps in the narrow trough yet she walks the dust
                    Yet raves at her will
On the madhouse boards worn thin by my walking tears.

And taken by light in her arms at long and dear last
                    I may without fail
Suffer the first vision that set fire to the stars.

 -Dylan Thomas

Fit Flops

Could it be possible? Can I really get firmer, more toned legs just by wearing a flip flop? 

Apparently.

The FitFlop. --" A gym built in"... I never have to step foot in a gym.ever. again.

so you're telling me, that if I wear these sandals, I will lose weight, or at least become incredibly buff. Even if my heart rate does not go up, even if I walk at a ridiculously slow pace, and more importantly, even if I don't alter my diet at all. 

ridiculous.

I have been wearing sandals most my life, and I'm telling you, the gym is still necessary (and enjoyable).

I really think the double layered Rainbow would have the exact same effect. I mean, how different can sandals be. There are certain non-negotiable with sandals/ flip-flops, if ya change it too much ya just got a plain ol' shoe. (And) I love my rainbows.

But I could be wrong, Mischa Barton is rumored to wear these and she has got great legs.

That sentence contains a logical fallacy.

if life hands you lemons..

Clementines are grown in California. I am guessing not all of 'em, but it is a possibility. As it so happens, the clementines I consumed earlier today were indeed from California.

At one point I choked/snorted a clementine wedge. It didn't burn, as you might expect something citrus-y to, but it did however, become an annoyance. The initial reaction was to call 911 and beg for a firefighter to clear my airways, but that ended up not being necessary. I coughed a couple of times and the ordeal was mainly over. The initial fright of choking alone in my home with only my idiotic dog as a witness to my death far exceeded the severity of the actual incident.

As I recovered from my near death experience I realized the room around me began to assume a citrus-like scent. The scent dragged me back to Orange County, to Disneyland and all of the sudden I was on Soarin' Over California, passing through Napa Valley, and the fans had just wafted the "orange blast" aroma my way. At first I thought I was imagining this phenomena. Everything I saw, touched, and experienced was unequivocally clementine. 

Then it came to me: my body was making lemons out of lemonade. Though just having recovered from an almost death by clementine ordeal, my body did not want me to forever more fear the fruit. So it reminded me, through smell, how much I actually do enjoy the clementine. Having my surroundings resound with citric acid made me pleasantly calm and appreciative of nature- like wearing rose-tinted glasses. In fact, I think all of my senses might have been heightened to some degree.

Or... clementine was stuck in my nasal passage

should have had a snickers

there are only 16 people in my LSAT prep class. they are not a talkative bunch. In fact, I am pretty sure they are silently keeping track of who is smarter than whom. not the point of my story. point is, you can often hear a pin drop in class. ya take a swig of your water, and everyone can hear the liquid travel through your esophagus. sometimes this bothers me, other time I don't notice.

today I noticed.

it is becoming the norm for me to not eat dinner on class days. supper just does not fit within the schedule. i compensate by having a granola bar during the break. usually this is enough. today, sadly it was not.

thus, in this desperately silent room, my stomach begins to make gurgling, whistling, zoom-crunch-bam-pow, noises. i try to play it off, like it must be the wayward air-conditioner, or a trapped squirrel in the vents. but everyone knows it's me. they can all hear me- after all, they can't help it.

so, i very nonchalantly ignore the hurricane that is brewing in my innards and try to continue the reading comprehension problem. but, damn it all, my stomach refuses to cease its self mutilation. my guts were utterly intent on broadcasting that i am underfed on most mondays and wednesdays. 

i am sure people were staring. and judging. but i couldn't leave....that would only erase the traces of doubt that caused people to even consider that those horrid noises could not possibly be coming from a single human being, especially not the girl with the curly hair in front.

so i had to sit there, restless and flushed while my organs harmonized with each other.

bad day.

just to prove that today was a bad day, i refuse to capitalize letters that merit capitalization.