Jz- (To L. throwing away a 1980's cell phone.) Fine! Throw away history! Archaeologists won't know about us!
Jz- How do you ask a customer politely if they're stupid?
M- What!
Jz- I mean...it's not like I can say, 'D'ya need the little bus or the big bus?'
M- ( Blink.)
J- I have a band aid on my bellybutton.
S- Kudos to you! Thanks for not making me bleed out the ears.
M- I'm naturally inept, anyway. I'll be a cat lady. With no cats. This is okay, because I was told it's the new single.
8.29.2006
8.28.2006
He Answers
I admit it. Before my mission I was quite naïve and (in self-denial) very closed minded. Everything I needed to know, I thought I knew. In short, pride ballooned by pretty head, and the good Lord knew it needed some deflation.
The deflation began my second night at the Mission Training Center (MTC). After two days of constant scriptural study, a sobering realization of my ignorance caught me by the throat. I lay in bed, heart beating mad against my chest, and all I could think was, Eighteen months. Eighteen months of this? What have I done!
Horror of the situation threatened to suffocate me.
In three weeks I would leave the MTC. In three weeks I would start talking to complete strangers about the gospel…the gospel of which I suddenly was unsure of; the gospel of which I (now recognized) hardly knew! I squeezed my eyes shut and began blurting out the most helpless, panicked prayer of my life.
God answers prayers.
The next day a group of us missionaries assembled in one of the main conference rooms at the MTC, and President So-and-So started to review the Plan of Salvation. No words can rightly describe the extraordinary burning joy that encircled me during that meeting.
I knew, without doubt, I was where I needed to be. Sure, I didn’t know everything (and I still don’t) but that is what studying is for; that is why we have questions; that is why God answers prayers.
Fear vanished, and a sweet clam took over.
During the course of my mission I learned many things. One of those things surprised me, and still surprises me. On many occasions I had the opportunity to teach the gospel of Jesus Christ, but many other times (More than the first, I’m sure.) I had the opportunity to simply serve. It was never anything huge: yard work, making a dinner, helping unload groceries. But this service brought to surface my own capability to love.
I began to recognize people on the streets as more than people on the streets. They became my brothers and sisters, and as my love for them grew, so did my understanding of the gospel and desire to serve. Even in times of distress, when ridicule, persecution, and abuse faced me (quite literally in the face) from indifference and hate, I found that instead of returning anger for anger I only felt a sense of empathy, some sorrow, and more love.
The last night of my mission I lay wide awake in bed, just as I did at the MTC. The difference was, instead of fear, I felt an immense sadness that my mission was over. No one, unless they have been on a mission, can know how exceptionally hard it is—physically, emotionally, spiritually—but they can never know, either, how the reward of love, growth, and moments of sheer happiness makes all the adversity entirely worth while.
“Would you do it again? I mean…after all everything you went through, you told me about…Would you do it again?” someone asked me.
“Yes,” I answered without hesitation, “Because God answers prayers.”
The deflation began my second night at the Mission Training Center (MTC). After two days of constant scriptural study, a sobering realization of my ignorance caught me by the throat. I lay in bed, heart beating mad against my chest, and all I could think was, Eighteen months. Eighteen months of this? What have I done!
Horror of the situation threatened to suffocate me.
In three weeks I would leave the MTC. In three weeks I would start talking to complete strangers about the gospel…the gospel of which I suddenly was unsure of; the gospel of which I (now recognized) hardly knew! I squeezed my eyes shut and began blurting out the most helpless, panicked prayer of my life.
God answers prayers.
The next day a group of us missionaries assembled in one of the main conference rooms at the MTC, and President So-and-So started to review the Plan of Salvation. No words can rightly describe the extraordinary burning joy that encircled me during that meeting.
I knew, without doubt, I was where I needed to be. Sure, I didn’t know everything (and I still don’t) but that is what studying is for; that is why we have questions; that is why God answers prayers.
Fear vanished, and a sweet clam took over.
During the course of my mission I learned many things. One of those things surprised me, and still surprises me. On many occasions I had the opportunity to teach the gospel of Jesus Christ, but many other times (More than the first, I’m sure.) I had the opportunity to simply serve. It was never anything huge: yard work, making a dinner, helping unload groceries. But this service brought to surface my own capability to love.
I began to recognize people on the streets as more than people on the streets. They became my brothers and sisters, and as my love for them grew, so did my understanding of the gospel and desire to serve. Even in times of distress, when ridicule, persecution, and abuse faced me (quite literally in the face) from indifference and hate, I found that instead of returning anger for anger I only felt a sense of empathy, some sorrow, and more love.
The last night of my mission I lay wide awake in bed, just as I did at the MTC. The difference was, instead of fear, I felt an immense sadness that my mission was over. No one, unless they have been on a mission, can know how exceptionally hard it is—physically, emotionally, spiritually—but they can never know, either, how the reward of love, growth, and moments of sheer happiness makes all the adversity entirely worth while.
“Would you do it again? I mean…after all everything you went through, you told me about…Would you do it again?” someone asked me.
“Yes,” I answered without hesitation, “Because God answers prayers.”
8.25.2006
More Office Talk
“Pluto is no longer a planet. I heard it on the news this morning.”
“What...!”
“It's true.”
“Why...why did you tell me this? I mean. I was happy not knowing.”
“Was Pluto your favorite planet?”
“This is all very disturbing.”
“Yes. Very disturbing. For more reasons than one.”
“If you're happy and you know it calp...”
“Sing it one more time. I dare you.”
“What are you? The human Ken doll?”
“See this raised eyebrow? It's directed towards you.”
“Hey! Come see! You're getting a ticket!”
“What!?!”
“Yeah. You over parked your broom.”
“You were a runway model? Oh! Come on, show me a little Zoolander!”
“You look great today! Did you finally come across a brush and makeup?”
“You don't think I'm good looking?”
“I didn't say that.”
“I put aside money for a good looking fund each month.”
“A what?”
“G.F.L.”
“I've heard it all.”
“She had her fifth colonoscopy.”
“That sucks.”
“Yeah, but this time she didn’t have to drink that nasty stuff. Instead she had to consume forty pills in, get this, two hours.”
“Poor girl! I don’t know what would be worse?”
“I say the liquid. That stuff is rancid. Trust me. I know.”
“What does it do, exactly?”
“Err...it’s a laxative…”
“Oh. So cleans you out?”
“Yeah, but not just cleans. This stuff is mega powerful. It polishes, too.”
“What...!”
“It's true.”
“Why...why did you tell me this? I mean. I was happy not knowing.”
“Was Pluto your favorite planet?”
“This is all very disturbing.”
“Yes. Very disturbing. For more reasons than one.”
“If you're happy and you know it calp...”
“Sing it one more time. I dare you.”
“What are you? The human Ken doll?”
“See this raised eyebrow? It's directed towards you.”
“Hey! Come see! You're getting a ticket!”
“What!?!”
“Yeah. You over parked your broom.”
“You were a runway model? Oh! Come on, show me a little Zoolander!”
“You look great today! Did you finally come across a brush and makeup?”
“You don't think I'm good looking?”
“I didn't say that.”
“I put aside money for a good looking fund each month.”
“A what?”
“G.F.L.”
“I've heard it all.”
“She had her fifth colonoscopy.”
“That sucks.”
“Yeah, but this time she didn’t have to drink that nasty stuff. Instead she had to consume forty pills in, get this, two hours.”
“Poor girl! I don’t know what would be worse?”
“I say the liquid. That stuff is rancid. Trust me. I know.”
“What does it do, exactly?”
“Err...it’s a laxative…”
“Oh. So cleans you out?”
“Yeah, but not just cleans. This stuff is mega powerful. It polishes, too.”
8.23.2006
Pure Luck
Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans. John Lennon
How many people do you know, by the time they’re twenty three, have:
1. Had nine eye surgeries.
2. Had four other unpronounceable surgeries.
3. Been ran over by a pioneer handcart.
4. Been sliced by a nail hanging out of a pioneer handcart.
5. Fallen out of a pioneer handcart.
6. Survived three potential deadly car accidents.
7. Been stuck in an elevator twice.
8. Endured a wacko stalker.
9. Been through two car chases.
10. Been bit by three poisons spiders and lived to tell the tale.
11. Was baby-sitting when someone broke in.
12. Managed to escape the company of a literal paranoid, schizophrenic, psychopath without getting shot or stabbed, though the possibility was high.
13. Had a hippy jump on the hood of their car at a stop light like Spider Man.
14. Had a curse put on them, twice.
15. Has had four broken bones.
16. Has had five different sprains.
17. Been stuck in the middle of nowhere.
18. Been stuck in an MRI machine.
And that’s just a few examples.
They say I have bad luck. Maybe it’s good luck though…surviving all of that.
How many people do you know, by the time they’re twenty three, have:
1. Had nine eye surgeries.
2. Had four other unpronounceable surgeries.
3. Been ran over by a pioneer handcart.
4. Been sliced by a nail hanging out of a pioneer handcart.
5. Fallen out of a pioneer handcart.
6. Survived three potential deadly car accidents.
7. Been stuck in an elevator twice.
8. Endured a wacko stalker.
9. Been through two car chases.
10. Been bit by three poisons spiders and lived to tell the tale.
11. Was baby-sitting when someone broke in.
12. Managed to escape the company of a literal paranoid, schizophrenic, psychopath without getting shot or stabbed, though the possibility was high.
13. Had a hippy jump on the hood of their car at a stop light like Spider Man.
14. Had a curse put on them, twice.
15. Has had four broken bones.
16. Has had five different sprains.
17. Been stuck in the middle of nowhere.
18. Been stuck in an MRI machine.
And that’s just a few examples.
They say I have bad luck. Maybe it’s good luck though…surviving all of that.
8.21.2006
The Scar
We all have scars.
Some are physical. Some are emotional.
They come in all shapes and sizes. A number of scars we don’t even notice or recall when or how they came to be. Other scars we pride ourselves on surviving, rather it be from a paper cut or really bad breakup, while certain scars…
Certain scars go under rug swept and are rarely spoken about. They are the most risky. Sometimes they haven’t even healed, or are just too delicate to touch. These scars are the engineer’s of personal barricades; the assassin of any sort of relationship; the pollution of well-being.
They are that which we cannot let go.
Despite my Scar, you stick with me. Maybe because you were here when it happened, when the world spun out of control and everything, it felt, went to ruins. You were a quiet comfort to the deafening chalk mask, and resilient to the false rumors swimming around me.
“This too shall pass,” you said, and kept a steady hand to my shoulder.
Even our scrap (a few years later) didn’t lessen your loyalty regarding this wicked Scar. (You have always been more forgiving, another example in which I do well to remember.) And whenever the Scar breaks surface and badgers me, you help me reason it through, laugh it out because that’s what best friends do.
You knew before I did that I’d survive.
You knew I’d come to see the Scar, not as a dictator, but a maker of personality and a burner of dross.
It has shaped me. It continues to shape me.
It reminds me that the person I was is not the person I am.
And I am grateful for the Scar.
Some are physical. Some are emotional.
They come in all shapes and sizes. A number of scars we don’t even notice or recall when or how they came to be. Other scars we pride ourselves on surviving, rather it be from a paper cut or really bad breakup, while certain scars…
Certain scars go under rug swept and are rarely spoken about. They are the most risky. Sometimes they haven’t even healed, or are just too delicate to touch. These scars are the engineer’s of personal barricades; the assassin of any sort of relationship; the pollution of well-being.
They are that which we cannot let go.
Despite my Scar, you stick with me. Maybe because you were here when it happened, when the world spun out of control and everything, it felt, went to ruins. You were a quiet comfort to the deafening chalk mask, and resilient to the false rumors swimming around me.
“This too shall pass,” you said, and kept a steady hand to my shoulder.
Even our scrap (a few years later) didn’t lessen your loyalty regarding this wicked Scar. (You have always been more forgiving, another example in which I do well to remember.) And whenever the Scar breaks surface and badgers me, you help me reason it through, laugh it out because that’s what best friends do.
You knew before I did that I’d survive.
You knew I’d come to see the Scar, not as a dictator, but a maker of personality and a burner of dross.
It has shaped me. It continues to shape me.
It reminds me that the person I was is not the person I am.
And I am grateful for the Scar.
8.16.2006
Vent
Have you ever had a day where you just need someone to listen? Where you just want to talk, talk, talk, and talk because there are a zillion things going on, good and bad…and if you could just have time to let it all out, you know you could breathe again?
When you open your mouth to speak you realize that everyone else is just as busy (busier) than you are, and to exhaust your piled feelings is a waste of their time or an interruption or of little concern. To vent your thoughts will be pathetic; you may come off sorry and selfish, and that isn’t what you intend at all. So what you do…
So what I do…is write. Right now. This very second. I write.
And those thoughts spill out onto the page freely and secretly.
When you open your mouth to speak you realize that everyone else is just as busy (busier) than you are, and to exhaust your piled feelings is a waste of their time or an interruption or of little concern. To vent your thoughts will be pathetic; you may come off sorry and selfish, and that isn’t what you intend at all. So what you do…
So what I do…is write. Right now. This very second. I write.
And those thoughts spill out onto the page freely and secretly.
Office Talk
“I feel like I’m talking to you in the future.”
“I hate them. I hate them. I hate them. Hate, hate, hate. Purple passion hate.”
“Nevermind. I'm pregnant and drugged.”
“Do you want someone to break their kneecaps? I know people who know people who have people. It's true.”
“I hate them. I hate them. I hate them. Hate, hate, hate. Purple passion hate.”
“Nevermind. I'm pregnant and drugged.”
“Do you want someone to break their kneecaps? I know people who know people who have people. It's true.”
8.13.2006
A Little Off
"So I'm a little left of center; I'm a little out of tune. Some say I'm paranormal, I just bend their spoon." Michelle Branch
I'm weird about things.
For instance: I won't touch a magazine or book in a waiting room in fear of catching some incurable disease. I compuslively check the curling iron before leaving (four to five times, mind you) just to make sure it's really off and the house won't set on fire. I only own red and pink nail polish. I Lysol my office desk every two days. I am an organized, prompt employee, but outside of work I am shamelessly disorganized. It's impossible for me to sleep with socks on, and no matter how hot it is I sleep with a blanket. I let the milk drip from my spoon before eating my cereal because I only drink milk with cookies. I think better when my pen has blue ink, not black, and I only write on college spaced paper.
I could go on...
But I'm suddenly realizing exactly why I'm single.
I'm weird about things.
For instance: I won't touch a magazine or book in a waiting room in fear of catching some incurable disease. I compuslively check the curling iron before leaving (four to five times, mind you) just to make sure it's really off and the house won't set on fire. I only own red and pink nail polish. I Lysol my office desk every two days. I am an organized, prompt employee, but outside of work I am shamelessly disorganized. It's impossible for me to sleep with socks on, and no matter how hot it is I sleep with a blanket. I let the milk drip from my spoon before eating my cereal because I only drink milk with cookies. I think better when my pen has blue ink, not black, and I only write on college spaced paper.
I could go on...
But I'm suddenly realizing exactly why I'm single.
8.07.2006
"Off with his head!" – William Shakespeare, King Richard III
Do you ever have those moments where the world is spinning out of control? All is flailing and thrashing, howling and rumbling, and somewhere in the midst some ogre with a staff is screaming, “Off with his head!” (Technically, for me, it would be, “Off with her head!”) You stand completely befuddled, like you’re at a crossroad with a zillion signs pointing every which way, and you’re unsure of which way is right. The urge to stamp your foot develops. You want to raise a fist and holler back at that unruly ogre (life), “No! No! Off with your head!” Instead…
You stop.
You. Just. Stop.
You’re standing a little numb; you’re suddenly oblivious to the hullabaloo. The whirring and whirling don’t matter, because you have stopped. You have stopped and noticed the sign that says, “Hey. Take a breath. Take it easy. Just smile.”
And you do.
And it doesn’t make things okay. It doesn’t make the commotion stop.
But the ogre becomes more manageable, and a lot more friendly.
You stop.
You. Just. Stop.
You’re standing a little numb; you’re suddenly oblivious to the hullabaloo. The whirring and whirling don’t matter, because you have stopped. You have stopped and noticed the sign that says, “Hey. Take a breath. Take it easy. Just smile.”
And you do.
And it doesn’t make things okay. It doesn’t make the commotion stop.
But the ogre becomes more manageable, and a lot more friendly.
7.28.2006
A Riddle
This thing all things devours:
Birds, beasts, trees, and flowers;
Gnaws iron, bites steel;
Grinds hard stones to meal;
Slays kings, ruins towns,
and beats the high mountains down.
What am I?
7.24.2006
Leaving Italy
Italy was everything and more. I found that I was perfectly happy in Venice. When we left, that ripened city growing smaller and smaller, the taxi boat bumping and speeding over the waves, something inside of me knotted in pain at saying goodbye. Shani and Savannah had tears; Kamree moaned in gloom; the boys looked tired and ready; I was quiet. In several hours, Europe would be a memory-- a dream, even. Vacation vanished; the ho-hum of life appeared, and the only reminisce of Italy lay in Venician glass bracelets and beads, fine hand-crafted masks, painted postcards, and amateur photographs.
I think of how similar life is to leaving Italy, so much of it bottles into our soul in the form of memories that in time fade and become distant. Memories are brought to life again by pictures, by journals, by storytelling, by smell, touch, sound, and so much of it makes me smile.
I think of how similar life is to leaving Italy, so much of it bottles into our soul in the form of memories that in time fade and become distant. Memories are brought to life again by pictures, by journals, by storytelling, by smell, touch, sound, and so much of it makes me smile.
7.18.2006
The Adventures of Professor DeBark and El Rich
A long time ago, back in high school, we were studying creative writing in English. One of our assignments was to create a very silly story. This evening, going through some old folders of mine, I came upon that very silly story. It's odd that I should still have such a thing, but out of pure embarrassment and entertainment, I present to you that story written several years ago:
Far away, deep in the African jungle, is a little hut. It is made of fine bamboo, and the one square window on the left corner is covered with tiger hide. Though quaint and cozy on the outside, this hut is a disorganized mess within. Old journals, quills, spilled ink, and several empty Coca Cola cans rest in cluttered piles about a thin, straw mattress used for a bed. It is on this particular day, being unusually hot, that we hear an assortments of "wow" and "ah, yes" and then the hut door flies open.
"I've found it!" exclaims the famous archeologist Professor Xander DeBArk, and a flutter of animal sounds breaches the area as if in applause.
It was his assitant, on El Rich, an elevated, slender, redhead that was less exuberant in the archeologist's announcement. Brushing a hand down the front of her cheetah print garb, Eli raised an uncertain brow, stating, "What is it exactly you've found, Professor DeBark?"
"What is it exactly? What is it exactly? What is it exactly, Miss Rich?"
"Err...yes. That would have been my question."
Professor DeBark moved from the hut entrance, the door slamming behind as more jungle creatures scurried about their feet. With a flip of the hand, a small map was pressed in front of the assistant's face. This time both eyebrows raised as El removed the map from the Professor's hands to examine it herself. It was an old map, hand drawn with some type of yellowish ink, not to mention horrid handwriting. After turning it upside down, sideways, and right side up, El gave up. She handed the diagram back to the professor.
"I'm afraid, she uttered, "Very afraid, that you'll have to explain this to me."
"This, my darling assistant, is none other than the map of lost treasure."
"Oh yes. I should have known. The old treasure map ploy."
"You catch on quickly, Miss Rich."
Professor DeBark rolled the map back up and tapped the end of El's nose with it. "I see great things for you, Miss Rich. One day you might be as famous a sme, and half as smart."
El only blinked. Perhaps the excitement was too much.
Professor DeBark disappeared back in the hut and then reappeared with a small suitcase, his sun umbrella, and the map. El stood, hand on her hip, haed to the side, as she said, "Let me guess, we're going to follow the treasure map through the jungle, possibly get eaten by varoious animals, get kidnapped by untamed natives, almost get sacrificed to a rock god, escape by a thread-- and then find the treasure, which was actually found years before?"
"Correct!" he pinched her cheek. "You're the wise one, you are!"
"Right. I'll get my stuff."
The professor and his assistant set out thirty minutes later to embark on the dangerous treasure map ploy. Professor DeBark led the way through a swampy area, El Rich at his feet (less exuberant, as always).
"Must you hum that blasted tune?" asked El, ready to smack the professor upside the head as he began his forth inning of the Scooby Doo theme.
"It keeps one motivated, El!" he breathed, "Come along, now. I insist you join in!"
"Scooby, Scooby Doo where are you..." sang the assistant against her will.
"Scooby Doo? What is this Scooby Doo?"
Professor Debark and El Rich came to a stop, startled to see before them a gangly monkey. A glangly monkey that could speak!
Professor DeBark pushed his spectacles higher on his nose and leaned down to the creature to take a look. "Curious. Very, very curious. Hmmmm."
"Do you have a name?" asked El.
The monkey, wide eyed looked to El and gave a toothy grin. "Eloc! Eloc the monkey!"
"By George," El exclaimed, "how extraordinary!"
"Extraordinary!" exclaimed the monkey, and with a flash of movement stole the map out of the professor's hands. "Map! Map! Treasure map!"
"Ah," clicked the professor, "so you know the lost tresaure map ploy, too?"
Eloc hooted and squawked about to say yes, and then handing the treasure map back to El, he climbed up a tree and hung upside down. "You're going the wrong way."
"We are?" exclaimed both the professor and assistant in unison.
Elock pointed left. "To the towers of Macka Macka you must go!"
"Macka Macka?"
"Macka Macka! Macka Macka!" squeaked Eloc, and disappeared back into the jungle.
The professor whislted, "Curious. Hmmmm."
"Very curious," finished El.
And that, my friends, was all that I found of that very silly story.
The Adventures of Professor DeBark and El Rich
Far away, deep in the African jungle, is a little hut. It is made of fine bamboo, and the one square window on the left corner is covered with tiger hide. Though quaint and cozy on the outside, this hut is a disorganized mess within. Old journals, quills, spilled ink, and several empty Coca Cola cans rest in cluttered piles about a thin, straw mattress used for a bed. It is on this particular day, being unusually hot, that we hear an assortments of "wow" and "ah, yes" and then the hut door flies open.
"I've found it!" exclaims the famous archeologist Professor Xander DeBArk, and a flutter of animal sounds breaches the area as if in applause.
It was his assitant, on El Rich, an elevated, slender, redhead that was less exuberant in the archeologist's announcement. Brushing a hand down the front of her cheetah print garb, Eli raised an uncertain brow, stating, "What is it exactly you've found, Professor DeBark?"
"What is it exactly? What is it exactly? What is it exactly, Miss Rich?"
"Err...yes. That would have been my question."
Professor DeBark moved from the hut entrance, the door slamming behind as more jungle creatures scurried about their feet. With a flip of the hand, a small map was pressed in front of the assistant's face. This time both eyebrows raised as El removed the map from the Professor's hands to examine it herself. It was an old map, hand drawn with some type of yellowish ink, not to mention horrid handwriting. After turning it upside down, sideways, and right side up, El gave up. She handed the diagram back to the professor.
"I'm afraid, she uttered, "Very afraid, that you'll have to explain this to me."
"This, my darling assistant, is none other than the map of lost treasure."
"Oh yes. I should have known. The old treasure map ploy."
"You catch on quickly, Miss Rich."
Professor DeBark rolled the map back up and tapped the end of El's nose with it. "I see great things for you, Miss Rich. One day you might be as famous a sme, and half as smart."
El only blinked. Perhaps the excitement was too much.
Professor DeBark disappeared back in the hut and then reappeared with a small suitcase, his sun umbrella, and the map. El stood, hand on her hip, haed to the side, as she said, "Let me guess, we're going to follow the treasure map through the jungle, possibly get eaten by varoious animals, get kidnapped by untamed natives, almost get sacrificed to a rock god, escape by a thread-- and then find the treasure, which was actually found years before?"
"Correct!" he pinched her cheek. "You're the wise one, you are!"
"Right. I'll get my stuff."
The professor and his assistant set out thirty minutes later to embark on the dangerous treasure map ploy. Professor DeBark led the way through a swampy area, El Rich at his feet (less exuberant, as always).
"Must you hum that blasted tune?" asked El, ready to smack the professor upside the head as he began his forth inning of the Scooby Doo theme.
"It keeps one motivated, El!" he breathed, "Come along, now. I insist you join in!"
"Scooby, Scooby Doo where are you..." sang the assistant against her will.
"Scooby Doo? What is this Scooby Doo?"
Professor Debark and El Rich came to a stop, startled to see before them a gangly monkey. A glangly monkey that could speak!
Professor DeBark pushed his spectacles higher on his nose and leaned down to the creature to take a look. "Curious. Very, very curious. Hmmmm."
"Do you have a name?" asked El.
The monkey, wide eyed looked to El and gave a toothy grin. "Eloc! Eloc the monkey!"
"By George," El exclaimed, "how extraordinary!"
"Extraordinary!" exclaimed the monkey, and with a flash of movement stole the map out of the professor's hands. "Map! Map! Treasure map!"
"Ah," clicked the professor, "so you know the lost tresaure map ploy, too?"
Eloc hooted and squawked about to say yes, and then handing the treasure map back to El, he climbed up a tree and hung upside down. "You're going the wrong way."
"We are?" exclaimed both the professor and assistant in unison.
Elock pointed left. "To the towers of Macka Macka you must go!"
"Macka Macka?"
"Macka Macka! Macka Macka!" squeaked Eloc, and disappeared back into the jungle.
The professor whislted, "Curious. Hmmmm."
"Very curious," finished El.
And that, my friends, was all that I found of that very silly story.
7.17.2006
Office Talk II
“Where are my flowers!!”
“I speak American!”
“It's better for you. It's better for me. And I won't yell so much.”
“They like to do things without reporting it to us, so I went and told them why that wasn't okay.”
“Is that why you're wearing red? Power color.”
“Naw. We don't do dumb things in this office, like staple our fingers...”
“Kyle, you have feelings?”
“I started out as a child.”
“She just used the word par! I love it!”
“I speak American!”
“It's better for you. It's better for me. And I won't yell so much.”
“They like to do things without reporting it to us, so I went and told them why that wasn't okay.”
“Is that why you're wearing red? Power color.”
“Naw. We don't do dumb things in this office, like staple our fingers...”
“Kyle, you have feelings?”
“I started out as a child.”
“She just used the word par! I love it!”
7.13.2006
My Wish
(To a friend....[emphisis added])
I hope that days come easy and moments pass slow,
and each road leads you where you want to go
and if you're faced with a choice, and you have to choose,
I hope you choose the one that means the most to you.
and if one door opens to another door closed,
I hope you keep on walkin' till you find the window,
if it's cold outside,
show the world the warmth of your smile,
more then anything, more then anything,
My wish, for you, is that this life becomes all that you want it to,
your dreams stay big, and your worries stay small,
You never need to carry more then you can hold,
and while you're out there getting where you're getting to,
I hope you know somebody loves you, and wants the same things too,
Yeah, this, is my wish.
I hope you never look back, but you never forget,
all the ones who love you, in the place you left,
I hope you always forgive, and you never regret,
and you help somebody every chance you get,
Oh, you find God's grace, in every mistake,
and you always give more then you take.
but More then anything, Yeah, and more then anything,
My wish, for you, is that this life becomes all that you want it to,
your dreams stay big, and your worries stay small,
You never need to carry more then you can hold,
and while you're out there getting where you're getting to,
I hope you know somebody loves you, and wants the same things too,
Yeah, this, is my wish.
Rascal Flatts
I hope that days come easy and moments pass slow,
and each road leads you where you want to go
and if you're faced with a choice, and you have to choose,
I hope you choose the one that means the most to you.
and if one door opens to another door closed,
I hope you keep on walkin' till you find the window,
if it's cold outside,
show the world the warmth of your smile,
more then anything, more then anything,
My wish, for you, is that this life becomes all that you want it to,
your dreams stay big, and your worries stay small,
You never need to carry more then you can hold,
and while you're out there getting where you're getting to,
I hope you know somebody loves you, and wants the same things too,
Yeah, this, is my wish.
I hope you never look back, but you never forget,
all the ones who love you, in the place you left,
I hope you always forgive, and you never regret,
and you help somebody every chance you get,
Oh, you find God's grace, in every mistake,
and you always give more then you take.
but More then anything, Yeah, and more then anything,
My wish, for you, is that this life becomes all that you want it to,
your dreams stay big, and your worries stay small,
You never need to carry more then you can hold,
and while you're out there getting where you're getting to,
I hope you know somebody loves you, and wants the same things too,
Yeah, this, is my wish.
Rascal Flatts
7.05.2006
Bad Combinations
The following are examples of bad combinations:
Plaid with lace.
Peanut Butter with Pickles.
Me, on the forth of July, with a lighter and thirty sparklers.
Plaid with lace.
Peanut Butter with Pickles.
Me, on the forth of July, with a lighter and thirty sparklers.
7.03.2006
How Evil Are You?
| You Are 14% Evil |
 You are good. So good, that you make evil people squirm. Just remember, you may need to turn to the dark side to get what you want! |
7.01.2006
To a Dear Friend
Dear K,
Do you remember the quote you gave me by Herman Melville?
“Real strength never impairs beauty or harmony, but it often bestows it. And with all things imposingly beautiful, strength has much to do with the magic.”
You said it reminded you of me. The praise was sincere, I knew, because of all we discussed that semester. I was grateful. I am still grateful.
Melville’s quote is something I kept close to me during my mission. It is something I often think about when studying the scriptures; when life comes crashing down like a guillotine. That, and Viktor Frankl.
He said, “Everything can be taken from man except the last of all human freedoms…to choose one’s own way, to choose one’s attitude in any given circumstance.”
But as powerful as these quotes are, there is one still that keeps me always afloat, that distils me, that reminds me of faith and hope.
It was the darkest day of my mission. For the first time, I didn’t know if I could do what I was there to do. This feeling was overwhelming, consuming, and I did not think I could go on. That night, when I prayed, I explained to the Lord that more than anything I wanted to be there, but I just didn’t believe I was capable. I explained the current situation, my many faults, etc.
I sat in quiet reflection afterward. My heart was heavy; I was not strong; my attitude was giving up to self disappointment.
And then I picked up my hymn book.
I sing like a dying cat, but hymns always bring comfort.
I opened to hymn 85. How Firm a Foundation. It was the fifth verse that immediately caught my attention. I hardly began reading it before tears filled my eyes.
My eyes skipped down to verse seven.
Tears that had been pitiful and bleak turned into tears of comfort and understanding. The warmth of the Spirit quickly wrapped around my heart, and I knew no matter the situation, the Lord was by my side. He told me so through the beautiful words of a favorite hymn.
I must always choose my attitude, how I will approach life’s uncertainties, but I know more than I know anything else that the Lord is my strength. He is the one that turns my dross to gold.
Always,
Your friend and student,
Mckenzie
Do you remember the quote you gave me by Herman Melville?
“Real strength never impairs beauty or harmony, but it often bestows it. And with all things imposingly beautiful, strength has much to do with the magic.”
You said it reminded you of me. The praise was sincere, I knew, because of all we discussed that semester. I was grateful. I am still grateful.
Melville’s quote is something I kept close to me during my mission. It is something I often think about when studying the scriptures; when life comes crashing down like a guillotine. That, and Viktor Frankl.
He said, “Everything can be taken from man except the last of all human freedoms…to choose one’s own way, to choose one’s attitude in any given circumstance.”
But as powerful as these quotes are, there is one still that keeps me always afloat, that distils me, that reminds me of faith and hope.
It was the darkest day of my mission. For the first time, I didn’t know if I could do what I was there to do. This feeling was overwhelming, consuming, and I did not think I could go on. That night, when I prayed, I explained to the Lord that more than anything I wanted to be there, but I just didn’t believe I was capable. I explained the current situation, my many faults, etc.
I sat in quiet reflection afterward. My heart was heavy; I was not strong; my attitude was giving up to self disappointment.
And then I picked up my hymn book.
I sing like a dying cat, but hymns always bring comfort.
I opened to hymn 85. How Firm a Foundation. It was the fifth verse that immediately caught my attention. I hardly began reading it before tears filled my eyes.
When through fiery trials they pathway shall lie,
My grace, all sufficient, shall be they supply.
The flame shall not hurt thee; I only design
Thy dross to consume, Thy dross to consume
Thy dross to consume and they gold to refine.
My eyes skipped down to verse seven.
The soul that on Jesus hath leaned for repose
I will not, I cannot, desert to his foes;
That soul, though all hell should endeavor to shake,
I’ll never, no never, I’ll never, no never,
I’ll never, no never, no never forsake!
Tears that had been pitiful and bleak turned into tears of comfort and understanding. The warmth of the Spirit quickly wrapped around my heart, and I knew no matter the situation, the Lord was by my side. He told me so through the beautiful words of a favorite hymn.
I must always choose my attitude, how I will approach life’s uncertainties, but I know more than I know anything else that the Lord is my strength. He is the one that turns my dross to gold.
Always,
Your friend and student,
Mckenzie
6.30.2006
Wanting is Good
I have expensive taste. I don’t mean to, but it’s like natural instinct. You can place me in front of three objects that are pretty much alike and I’m bound to choose the most expensive.
It’s not that I’m a snob.
Though I might be.
I've never actually bought something from my favorite store because of how outrageous the prices are, but...
I want it! With a white shirt underneath. I want it.
It’s not that I’m a snob.
Though I might be.
I've never actually bought something from my favorite store because of how outrageous the prices are, but...
I want it! With a white shirt underneath. I want it.
6.29.2006
The Shortest Personality Test Ever
| Your Personality Profile |
 You are elegant, withdrawn, and brilliant. Your mind is a weapon, able to solve any puzzle. You are also great at poking holes in arguments and common beliefs. For you, comfort and calm are very important. You tend to thrive on your own and shrug off most affection. You prefer to protect your emotions and stay strong. |
6.28.2006
The Art of Teaching
When I was a little girl a teacher told me I was stupid.
Being a child, still discovering the world and trusting those older than me to guide and teach, I took what she said as truth. Shortly after this incident I had great disdain for school, specifically in reading. There was no point in me learning something I was too stupid to learn, after all.
By the fifth grade, though my parents did all in their power to help and cheer me along, I had no desire to study or be taught. They were my parents; of course they didn’t know I was stupid! They were completely bias to the situation.
Mr. Durrant is the one I have to thank for a turn around. To this day, I think of my fifth grade teacher as a man of great devotion. He never gave up on me, and certainly never let me give up on myself.
A lot of recess that year was spent in doors at my desk, Mr. Durrant by my side, helping me to read. I never appreciated it back then because, heck, I was ten and wanted to be out on the jungle gym, but now I am filled with vast amount gratitude.
My sixth grade year started fresh and wonderful. Not only did I love to read, and now read at a seventh (almost eighth) grade level, but I had taken a deep interest in writing. One day my teacher asked what I wished to be when I grew up. When I told her I wished to be a writer, she said, “No dear. That will never happen. Focus on something else.”
Dreams stopped after that, and writing was shelved. I focused on something else.
Finally, my Junior year of high school came. A lot of time had passed. I quietly wrote poems and short stories and essays, but never shared them beyond a friend or two, and managed to turn in most English writing assignments dreadfully late, knowing the teacher would pass it to an aid and never read it themselves.
One day during my English literature class, Mr. Snell passed out paper and number two pencils and with a funny smile said, “Okay. It’s kind of like a pop quiz to see what you know about writing. I’m a writer, and I like to read other people’s writing. You have ten minutes to write about anything. Do it.”
He had a reputation for being a spunky, crazy sort of guy, and I agreed with it fully. This was English literature, not writing! Still, I jotted down something or other during those ten minutes.
Mr. Snell walked around, poking his head over the top of our desks, reading what we were writing with nods and “hums” and “interesting” and “hmmm”. When he came to my desk, I turned red. When the man pulled my paper out from underneath my pencil and called the class to attention, I turned absolutely scarlet.
“This,” he said, “is what I’m talking about people.”
And then Mr. Snell read whatever it was I scribble to the entire class.
I was humiliated.
After class, he gave me back my paper and said, “Mckenzie, you do realize what a talent you have? Don’t give up, kiddo.”
I was gratified.
The next year I even took two creative writing classes, and I never felt so happy when my teacher informed me that I was the best student she ever had in the course. It was humbling. It was a realization that maybe all my silly jots and squiggles could one day be something.
I look back on all of this with wonder and awe. The influence of an educator is great, while the influence of a real teacher is priceless.
Being a child, still discovering the world and trusting those older than me to guide and teach, I took what she said as truth. Shortly after this incident I had great disdain for school, specifically in reading. There was no point in me learning something I was too stupid to learn, after all.
By the fifth grade, though my parents did all in their power to help and cheer me along, I had no desire to study or be taught. They were my parents; of course they didn’t know I was stupid! They were completely bias to the situation.
Mr. Durrant is the one I have to thank for a turn around. To this day, I think of my fifth grade teacher as a man of great devotion. He never gave up on me, and certainly never let me give up on myself.
A lot of recess that year was spent in doors at my desk, Mr. Durrant by my side, helping me to read. I never appreciated it back then because, heck, I was ten and wanted to be out on the jungle gym, but now I am filled with vast amount gratitude.
My sixth grade year started fresh and wonderful. Not only did I love to read, and now read at a seventh (almost eighth) grade level, but I had taken a deep interest in writing. One day my teacher asked what I wished to be when I grew up. When I told her I wished to be a writer, she said, “No dear. That will never happen. Focus on something else.”
Dreams stopped after that, and writing was shelved. I focused on something else.
Finally, my Junior year of high school came. A lot of time had passed. I quietly wrote poems and short stories and essays, but never shared them beyond a friend or two, and managed to turn in most English writing assignments dreadfully late, knowing the teacher would pass it to an aid and never read it themselves.
One day during my English literature class, Mr. Snell passed out paper and number two pencils and with a funny smile said, “Okay. It’s kind of like a pop quiz to see what you know about writing. I’m a writer, and I like to read other people’s writing. You have ten minutes to write about anything. Do it.”
He had a reputation for being a spunky, crazy sort of guy, and I agreed with it fully. This was English literature, not writing! Still, I jotted down something or other during those ten minutes.
Mr. Snell walked around, poking his head over the top of our desks, reading what we were writing with nods and “hums” and “interesting” and “hmmm”. When he came to my desk, I turned red. When the man pulled my paper out from underneath my pencil and called the class to attention, I turned absolutely scarlet.
“This,” he said, “is what I’m talking about people.”
And then Mr. Snell read whatever it was I scribble to the entire class.
I was humiliated.
After class, he gave me back my paper and said, “Mckenzie, you do realize what a talent you have? Don’t give up, kiddo.”
I was gratified.
The next year I even took two creative writing classes, and I never felt so happy when my teacher informed me that I was the best student she ever had in the course. It was humbling. It was a realization that maybe all my silly jots and squiggles could one day be something.
I look back on all of this with wonder and awe. The influence of an educator is great, while the influence of a real teacher is priceless.
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