just a shallow thought

I sat glued to the television on Monday night. The nation waited to hear how to survive, what to do without a job, who to trust about the stimulus, and where to go next. I listened deeply. But, the shallow Annie won out.* The incessant thought nagged at me then and reemerged on RiteAid's makeup aisle today: "Does he wear makeup? Does he use ProActiv (watch out Jessica Simpson)? How else could it be HUMANLY possible to get such pristinely, clear skin?"

*The Warren Harding effect lives on and we might as well admit it. We all know that if he revealed the product name...we would fly to the store to buy som'that.

After getting your braces tightened you must not consume:
a) Chewy, sticky foods
b) Hard foods that can sever brackets
c) Crunchy things that get stuck in between wires
or
d) All of the above

So a few days ago my braces were tightened, making it impossible to eat anything and everything that I usually snack on each day. Eventually I figured out that you can still eat all of the forbidden foods, it just hurts a lot. Despite the hurt, I'd munch through the pain, conquering what dear Dr. Richard's had stated as impossible. This kind of pain was physically. As in-
Pain, noun.
1) Physical discomfort caused by illness or injury. 2) A feeling of marked discomfort.

After a while, I have become a master at fighting through the pain to eat the food I want.

However, today I felt a different kind of pain. That is, pain in the heart. But I wasn't crying for me, I was crying for Ryan Gosling and Rachel McAdams. Or, Noah Calhoun and Allie Hamilton. As I sat in the basement all alone, I watched the story of a boy and a girl who fall in love one summer, and then fall in love all over again. The Notebook had me crying so hard that after a while I was numb to the fountain of water that was flowing down my face. The story isn't sad, it's actually quite happy. But for some reason, I only felt sadness. And I am wondering how it is that we can feel for people that we haven't even met. That we can feel for a story that isn't even real. That we can feel the pain, joy or happiness that we ourselves aren't even experiencing.



(The answer is D)

yellow flag

The Granola Vampire has been trying to take me to Sizzler. I refuse to go. I may take up rock climbing just to prove to him that I don't belong there. I deserve Cucina Toscana. Or OneWorld Cafe at the very least.

Dear Wilbur*

Since Valentine's Day is just around the corner, I thought I'd take this time to apologize about a certain day long ago on the fourteenth of February. We were in fifth grade and you had finally summed up the courage to tell me that you liked me. After months of sacrificing your turn to give me another chance at serving the ball in P.E. volleyball, after weeks of your name appearing on my family's caller I.D., and after days of your friends confronting me and asking me who I liked, you finally told me what I already knew. As the days passed happily by, I realized that Valentine's Day was coming up, and that I didn't have a clue if I was to give you something special. My friends were of no help, and so I eventually decided that I would give you one extra chocolate than I was giving everybody else. Just one.

Arriving to school that day with my box decorated with lacy hearts, I hesitantly pulled out my homemade Valentine cards. Everybody received two chocolates, one pin, and a card saying, "You're Just My Type." But you got three chocolates, a carefully made pin, and beautifully decorated card. Deciding that I'd give you your Valentine when you were not looking, I quickly smashed the present into your box (not nearly as pretty as mine), and ran off to tell my friends what I had just done. By the time I reached my own box, your present was already there; a huge bag of sweethearts wrapped with the prettiest bow I had ever seen. I remember there was a note attached, but I can't quite recall what was written. All I remember was the wave of sadness that washed over me because I had only given you one extra chocolate in the shape of a heart. However, that feeling did not last long when I saw that you had given two other girls the same Valentine as me. I then looked on the candy with disgust, and vowed never to eat a sweetheart again (however, the promise broken that very day). Instead of eating your gift, I ate a whole pack of gum that Carter* had given to me. That would teach you never to give three girls the same Valentine, especially when you told a certain girl that you liked her.

Now comes the part I regret, and the part where I should have apologized. Because on that same day, I chose Carter to be my Valentine. Not you. And to top it all off, Carter was your best friend and I consented to being his Valentine right in front of you. Your heart was broken, and so was mine. Because really, I wanted you to be my fifth grade Valentine.

Love,
Naomi

*name has been changed

“In vain I have struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you."

Elizabeth's astonishment was beyond expression. She stared, coloured, doubted, and was silent. This he considered sufficient encouragement; and the avowal of all that he felt, and had long felt for her, immediately followed. He spoke well; but there were feelings besides those of the heart to be detailed; and he was not more eloquent on the subject of tenderness than of pride. His sense of her inferiority— of its being a degradation— of the family obstacles which judgement had always opposed to inclination, were dwelt on with a warmth which seemed due to the consequence he was wounding, but was very unlikely to recommend his suit.

Yes, my dear ladies of the Yale Theatrical Society, this is the site where Elizabeth Bennet first rejects the seemingly arrogant Mr. Darcy.  Right here, at Stourhead where I stood a mere few days ago, is the same place where Keira Knightley stood for the new Pride and Prejudice.  Even if the new movie is not the epic that the A&E version has become, walking around these large stone pillars is something I'll never forget.  I know that you girls, being the literary experts you are, can appreciate the beauty of this moment.  

Saltwater Sandals and Stonewashed Jeans

In first grade I was in love with a boy named Trevor. Looking back, I'm pretty sure the only reason I liked him was because my best friend liked him, too, and she had pink saltwater sandals. I loved pink saltwater sandals. My mom bought me white. Sometimes she took them off under her desk, and sometimes she got in trouble for it. But, she was my best friend nonetheless. She liked Trevor and that was enough.

Trevor wore black stone washed jeans and a caramel-colored shirt with green paint splashes on it -- the kind of paint-splash shirt he could have made himself in one of those paint spinney-thingies. He was good at kick-ball, had a killer smile and a bowl cut. He was a nice boy and the teacher liked him. Sometimes, just by happenstance, I got to sit by him during spelling tests. I signed my name in my own "cursive" at the bottom of his paper when I got to correct it, resisting the urge to leave a heart at the end of Martha in red pencil. I was somewhat smarter than he, but I was OK with that. He never had to stay in from recess. That would have taken him out of the running most definitely.

We would exchange longing glances from across the room all throughout the day, and every night, I was convinced he snuck out of his house to come peek in my window while I was asleep. Much too young to take such lovelorn journeys on our own, I imagined his sister accompanied him. In anticipation of such visits, I would leave my bottom blind open just enough that he could see me sweetly slumbering, dreaming of him. To ensure such a dreamy state, I would fall asleep thinking, Trevor. Trevor. Trevor. Turning to my right side, I pulled my hair around my ear, clasped my hands as if I was praying and tucked them under my ear. I tried as hard as I could to fall asleep with a smile on my face. Trevor. Trevor. Trevor. Left leg crossed over right, I was determined not to move. I imagined what I looked like through the window. I imagined I looked oh so lady-like and demure in my Lanz flannel nightgown. He was bound to take one look at me, with my endearing (and hopefully enduring) smile and fall even more helplessly and hopelessly in love with the girl who knew "cursive" in first grade. How could he not?! I slept like an angel. Or, so I thought.

I would awake each morning to my alarm clock and find my nightgown up around my waist, hair resembling some sort of bird's nest, and a bed that looked like Max from Where the Wild Things Are "let the wild rumpus start" atop my bed in the moonlit hours of the night. I was devastated and determined; determined the remedy my nighttime ritual. So, night after night, I'd climb in bed, curl my hair around my ear, press my hands in praying position and fall fast asleep to thoughts of a boy in black stone washed jeans.

Last night I slept with my hair down. When I pulled my comforter up to my chin, it was tightly wound in a black elastic as it always is. But, in a moment of nostalgia, in some sort of gesture to the past, I slipped the elastic down my straight hair and set it on my nightstand. I pulled it all to one side, turned over to face the wall to the right, tucked my hands between my cheek and my pillow and tried not to move.

I have no idea where Trevor ended up. I was madly in love with Brad by the time Leopard's Lair soccer started in the Spring. I remember the timing so well only because Brad's dog chewed through my yellow soccer socks, and, instead of being mad, I was a bit giddy his dog picked my socks over my best friend's. (She liked Brad, too.)

Isn't it true...that fashion trends come back around? The latest J. Crew catalog has girls and guys with pegged jeans. My brother has been wearing black jeans since fall. They're not quite the stone-washed variety, but they're close. I'll keep my eyes out for the next Trevor. Until then, it's blinds closed, and hair up.

Home Sweet Home

I am honored to be a part of the YTS. Unfortunately, my writing can't hold a candle to the other members, but I will give it a go. The first thing I have to let everyone know is: PARTY AT MY HOUSE IN THREE WEEKS! I truly mean house. Our offer on this house was accepted yesterday, and we will close in a few weeks. I am so excited to have my own house. Actually the house is a bonus, its the garage, and dishwasher I am most excited about.

The house is in Daybreak. It is a neighborhood in South Jordan that was modeled after the Harvard/Yale area. Most importantly, there are not a lot of stucco houses. It's mostly brick and clapboard. There are tons of parks, a swimming pool, hot tubs, a fitness center, temple, basketball courts, sand volleyball courts, and more. We have been looking for a house in the area for almost two years and are excited to move.

Yale Avenue holds so many dear and fond memories. One of my favorite's was when Romney and I were skateboarding (on Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles boards) down Yale. OK, confession. When we skated down the street, we sat on the skateboards. It was way more fun than standing up. I got the bright idea to go down backwards and ended up wedged under Mr. Stirbas Toyota Camry with a broken collar bone. I later ended up purchasing said Camry that so kindly snapped my collar bone. I will never forget Gypsies, Pioneers, and Bob Ross. All of these are fine Yale Avenue memories.

Until next time