I guess it's one of those moods.
Many of you know that I want to be a writer (and an editor. My yin and my yang). Now. Not 'when I grow up'--I am grown up.
But I am a very private person. Creating a blog was part of the process of opening myself up more. Not that being an (extremely) private person is bad. It's just I felt that I needed a little more honesty in my life.
Anyways, you might know that I write, but you won't know what. I'm thinking about sharing some of my 'stuff' with you all. Not for criticism. Not for compliments. Just so that it exists (Editorial note: if you'd like to criticize or compliment, I guess that's ok. Just follow your heart;]).
Before my mission, I took a creative writing course in poetry from the esteemed Susan Howe (Cliche warning: it changed my life). She has this beef with really bad religious poetry, so one of our assignments was to read and write really good religious poetry. These are some of the poems that I wrote. For your enjoyment:
Disciple
I follow the Son, his divinity trailing behind him
like echoes of a spoken prayer,
through the dust of roads and paths that twine around Judea.
We have walked ourselves into ragged shreds of mortality
though he is the Son of God himself.
He cannot stop it.
Today, he took a seed, ground it between his fingers,
released into the air the smell of mustard.
I hungered for that taste and breathed it in.
Yogi, Termites
What is not preferable to my hunger is
the sky’s warm honey color
the smell of spices in the sun
the day-old curry children placed near me.
Under this tree, I am covered with termites
and I remove myself from the world.
As the Ganges swirls around my legs
I concentrate on the contradiction
of cold legs
and a hot back bared to the sun.
Hot and cold, shore and river, belief and disbelief,
I am in limbo
unsure whether even Shiva would listen as I cried
for the key to unlock the chain holding me on this wheel.
Hermit
I am finding reverence for God
under a silver tree
in this cloister.
Spring has begun staining
its branches with color,
wood studded with buds of red,
an Easter tree.
If there were a Saint for waxing spring
these buds would be the beads
of her rosary, each a reminder
of Christ’s condescension.
Perhaps that Saint is Christ.
My illumination is an ecstasy:
I can see the sky thundering
its threats at the world and the spectators
surrounding the Savior,
a circlet of bramble on his head,
adding his own berry-red beads.
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
Soon to Come...
...this new social phenomenon called "hipsters" that we must discuss.
How do I feel about them, what is their place in society, and how do I talk to them?
Yes.
Until then (then being when finals are over. Specifically, when 30 more pages & 5 more tests are over), here is something to consider.
How many hipsters does it take to screw in a lightbulb?
You've probably never heard of it; it's a really obscure number.
(Courtesy of my coworker, Cora)
Con affetto,
Megan
How do I feel about them, what is their place in society, and how do I talk to them?
Yes.
Until then (then being when finals are over. Specifically, when 30 more pages & 5 more tests are over), here is something to consider.
How many hipsters does it take to screw in a lightbulb?
You've probably never heard of it; it's a really obscure number.
(Courtesy of my coworker, Cora)
Con affetto,
Megan
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
OMG OMG: Max Homework Saturation
I am so sick of homework. Homework can go to...hello, I have followers on here! Yay. People like me. Well, six people like me.
I have so much to say.
1. I'm sure you're all wondering how the cigarettes turned out. One of my bff's, Gary, taught me how to make my own prop cigarettes (not to roll them, duh, I learned that in Italy with my own two eyes) complete with special effects "smoke". And let me assure you, my special effect-ing was just that, special. I smoked my way through three whole fake cigarettes, asked nearly every person in the room if they wanted one (and out of 20 or so people only one accepted my offer. The rest said, "Don't you know they're bad for you?" To which I/Karen Eiffel/Hans Anders replied, "Exactly the point. Some of us WANT to die.") The murder mystery part of the evening went very well. I played my part with aplomb and I was the first one to correctly guess the murderer. I used the word "callous" (as in someone's heart is callous and unfeeling) at least 8 times, talked about death with every person in the room, flicked "ash" on people's heads, and got to say "I don't need a nicotine patch, Penny. I smoke cigarettes" at least twice. Project Stranger than Halloween=success.
2. The idea that's been rolling around in my head for a long time is this:
You know how some people want to do nice stuff for other people and stuff so they call themselves secret sisters/brothers/santas and then give foodstuffs or moneystuffs or glitterstuffs to people? (I have yet to see glitterstuff with my own eyes, but I imagine it to be made of awesome).
Have you ever asked yourself whether secret slytherins exist? Because I have. And I believe. They're just like secret sisters/santas. Spontaneous, secretive, and human, except for the one small difference. They don't do nice things, they do mean things.
For instance, I'm fairly positive someone is secret slytherin-ing me at Helaman Halls. She likes to leave messes for me to clean up, what like I'm her maid? As if. (Well, I kind of am. Potato, potato). Today I found a giant rat's nest of garbage liners. I thought, "SECRET SLYTHERIN! I WILL FIND YOU!"
Here's another one: some secret slytherin snuck into my apartment and clogged my sink and stunk the whole place up. Secretive, obviously done by a human, spontaneous, and most of all, stinky.
Do you see what I mean now? There's a whole seedy underworld of secret slytherin activity and it's trying to ruin your life. Guard and beware, friends.
3. Funniest forward ever:
Church Bulletins: actual bloopers from church bulletins. If you want to laugh so hard you cry, message me here or on fb or something and I'll forward it to you. Here's an excerpt:
"Ladies, don't forget the rummage sale... It's a chance to get rid of those things not worth keeping around the house. Bring your husbands."
"Remember in prayer the many who are sick of our community. Smile at someone who is hard to love. Say 'Hell' to someone who doesn't care much about you."
"The ladies of the Church have cast off clothing of every kind. They may be seen in the basement on Friday afternoon."
Don't forget to say "hell" to someone who doesn't care much about you,
Megan
I have so much to say.
1. I'm sure you're all wondering how the cigarettes turned out. One of my bff's, Gary, taught me how to make my own prop cigarettes (not to roll them, duh, I learned that in Italy with my own two eyes) complete with special effects "smoke". And let me assure you, my special effect-ing was just that, special. I smoked my way through three whole fake cigarettes, asked nearly every person in the room if they wanted one (and out of 20 or so people only one accepted my offer. The rest said, "Don't you know they're bad for you?" To which I/Karen Eiffel/Hans Anders replied, "Exactly the point. Some of us WANT to die.") The murder mystery part of the evening went very well. I played my part with aplomb and I was the first one to correctly guess the murderer. I used the word "callous" (as in someone's heart is callous and unfeeling) at least 8 times, talked about death with every person in the room, flicked "ash" on people's heads, and got to say "I don't need a nicotine patch, Penny. I smoke cigarettes" at least twice. Project Stranger than Halloween=success.
2. The idea that's been rolling around in my head for a long time is this:
You know how some people want to do nice stuff for other people and stuff so they call themselves secret sisters/brothers/santas and then give foodstuffs or moneystuffs or glitterstuffs to people? (I have yet to see glitterstuff with my own eyes, but I imagine it to be made of awesome).
Have you ever asked yourself whether secret slytherins exist? Because I have. And I believe. They're just like secret sisters/santas. Spontaneous, secretive, and human, except for the one small difference. They don't do nice things, they do mean things.
For instance, I'm fairly positive someone is secret slytherin-ing me at Helaman Halls. She likes to leave messes for me to clean up, what like I'm her maid? As if. (Well, I kind of am. Potato, potato). Today I found a giant rat's nest of garbage liners. I thought, "SECRET SLYTHERIN! I WILL FIND YOU!"
Here's another one: some secret slytherin snuck into my apartment and clogged my sink and stunk the whole place up. Secretive, obviously done by a human, spontaneous, and most of all, stinky.
Do you see what I mean now? There's a whole seedy underworld of secret slytherin activity and it's trying to ruin your life. Guard and beware, friends.
3. Funniest forward ever:
Church Bulletins: actual bloopers from church bulletins. If you want to laugh so hard you cry, message me here or on fb or something and I'll forward it to you. Here's an excerpt:
"Ladies, don't forget the rummage sale... It's a chance to get rid of those things not worth keeping around the house. Bring your husbands."
"Remember in prayer the many who are sick of our community. Smile at someone who is hard to love. Say 'Hell' to someone who doesn't care much about you."
"The ladies of the Church have cast off clothing of every kind. They may be seen in the basement on Friday afternoon."
Don't forget to say "hell" to someone who doesn't care much about you,
Megan
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
"No, they came pre-smoked"
My roommates are having a murder mystery party and my role is the writer, H. Christine Anderson.
I'm basing my character on the writer, Karen Eiffel, from the movie Stranger Than Fiction, and my performance will surely be fantastically depressing ("I don't need a nicotine patch, Penny. I smoke cigarettes.").
Anyways.
The issue came up that I need* cigarettes. My roommates asked me, when I told them that I need cigarettes to really access my character, if I was really going to buy real cigarettes...no comment on whether or not I was actually considering it.
So, does anyone know if fake/theatrical/prop cigarettes exist and if so, where I can get some?
Be aware that any and all information which leads to the acquisition of said objects will be rewarded by me doing a fabulous impression of Ms. Eiffel/Emma Thompson putting out her cigarettes in a kleenex she has spit in.
And possibly imitations of all her crazy death imaginings*. My death scenes will be the life of the party. Bad pun unfortunately intended.
K. so just let me know where I can buy cigarettes. Thanks.
I'm basing my character on the writer, Karen Eiffel, from the movie Stranger Than Fiction, and my performance will surely be fantastically depressing ("I don't need a nicotine patch, Penny. I smoke cigarettes.").
Anyways.
The issue came up that I need* cigarettes. My roommates asked me, when I told them that I need cigarettes to really access my character, if I was really going to buy real cigarettes...no comment on whether or not I was actually considering it.
*"I don't need a museum. I need the infirm."Good point.
So, does anyone know if fake/theatrical/prop cigarettes exist and if so, where I can get some?
Be aware that any and all information which leads to the acquisition of said objects will be rewarded by me doing a fabulous impression of Ms. Eiffel/Emma Thompson putting out her cigarettes in a kleenex she has spit in.
And possibly imitations of all her crazy death imaginings*. My death scenes will be the life of the party. Bad pun unfortunately intended.
*"I'm not in the business of saving lives, in fact just the opposite."Blame it lack of sleep. I usually do.
K. so just let me know where I can buy cigarettes. Thanks.
Kay Eiffel: [narrating] This is a story about a man named Harold Crick and his wristwatch. Harold Crick was a man of infinite numbers, endless calculations, and remarkably few words. And his wristwatch said even less. Every weekday, for twelve years, Harold would brush each of his thirty-two teeth seventy-six times. Thirty-eight times back and forth, thirty-eight times up and down. Every weekday, for twelve years, Harold would tie his tie in a single Windsor knot instead of the double, thereby saving up to forty-three seconds. His wristwatch thought the single Windsor made his neck look fat, but said nothing.
Monday, October 4, 2010
Printz of Literature
I love young adult literature. I do, I do.
Libba Bray, author of the A Great and Terrible Beauty trilogy and Going Bovine, is a funny lady. I read her GTB trilogy, and really liked it. It's dark. There are themes not suited for middle grade readers, IMO, but rather for the namesake of the genre, the young adult. It was well-written as well, something I sure do like. As I do with all the books I like, I looked her up on the internet and discovered her blog, and the fact that Libba Bray is hysterically funny and insightful. Much reading hilarity ensued.
When I came back from my 18-month world hiatus, her new book Going Bovine was on my list of books to read. It took me a while to get to it, but this summer I checked it out from ye olde Harold B. Lee library. On the cover it had a shiny gold star that said PRINTZ on it. I knew what that meant.
The Michael L. Printz Award for excellence in young adult literature is an award not nearly as old as the Newberry, but steadily making its way up in prestige. From what I've observed, it seems that the Printz award singles out titles that are well-written, mature, contemporary, and edgy (in comparison with the Newberry medal).
So I opened the book and began to read. It was dark. The hero was unlikable. The themes heavy, pessimistic. The writing was brilliant (I know it sounds trite, but it's true!).
I could only read the first third. I skimmed the rest. I wasn't brave enough to read that book. Me, a 23-year-old returned missionary who's faced down some pretty crazy stuff, could not finish the book.
Going Bovine looks at death in the eyes and spits. It looks at modern society and spits. It looks at adolescence and says, "Yeah, it really does suck." And then it adds in a bunch of string theory, a punk Angel named Dulcie, a video gaming dwarf named Gonzo, a garden gnome who just happens to be a Norse God, and combines it all in a Don Quixotan road trip. It's a narrative that gambles. And wins big. Which explains why one day soon, when I've found the courage, I will finish reading it.
The real point of this post, though, is to share a link to Libba Bray's live journal, where I hope you will follow the link to the video of LB's acceptance speech at the Printz award ceremony. It's 30 minutes long and it is both side-achingly funny and a work of art in and of itself. I know that there's some swearing, including an F-bomb, so don't watch if that offends you. I hope it won't stop you though, because the speech is seriously awesome. Go watch it and then think about it.
I can tell you now that you'll want to read the book after listening. You'll want to read lots and lots of YA lit. If you're like me, you'll even want to start writing all those ideas in your head. Ms. Bray is truly inspiring.
Enjoy the video!
Here's the link and I hope it works: Processing the Printz Experience
Libba Bray, author of the A Great and Terrible Beauty trilogy and Going Bovine, is a funny lady. I read her GTB trilogy, and really liked it. It's dark. There are themes not suited for middle grade readers, IMO, but rather for the namesake of the genre, the young adult. It was well-written as well, something I sure do like. As I do with all the books I like, I looked her up on the internet and discovered her blog, and the fact that Libba Bray is hysterically funny and insightful. Much reading hilarity ensued.
When I came back from my 18-month world hiatus, her new book Going Bovine was on my list of books to read. It took me a while to get to it, but this summer I checked it out from ye olde Harold B. Lee library. On the cover it had a shiny gold star that said PRINTZ on it. I knew what that meant.
The Michael L. Printz Award for excellence in young adult literature is an award not nearly as old as the Newberry, but steadily making its way up in prestige. From what I've observed, it seems that the Printz award singles out titles that are well-written, mature, contemporary, and edgy (in comparison with the Newberry medal).
So I opened the book and began to read. It was dark. The hero was unlikable. The themes heavy, pessimistic. The writing was brilliant (I know it sounds trite, but it's true!).
I could only read the first third. I skimmed the rest. I wasn't brave enough to read that book. Me, a 23-year-old returned missionary who's faced down some pretty crazy stuff, could not finish the book.
Going Bovine looks at death in the eyes and spits. It looks at modern society and spits. It looks at adolescence and says, "Yeah, it really does suck." And then it adds in a bunch of string theory, a punk Angel named Dulcie, a video gaming dwarf named Gonzo, a garden gnome who just happens to be a Norse God, and combines it all in a Don Quixotan road trip. It's a narrative that gambles. And wins big. Which explains why one day soon, when I've found the courage, I will finish reading it.
The real point of this post, though, is to share a link to Libba Bray's live journal, where I hope you will follow the link to the video of LB's acceptance speech at the Printz award ceremony. It's 30 minutes long and it is both side-achingly funny and a work of art in and of itself. I know that there's some swearing, including an F-bomb, so don't watch if that offends you. I hope it won't stop you though, because the speech is seriously awesome. Go watch it and then think about it.
I can tell you now that you'll want to read the book after listening. You'll want to read lots and lots of YA lit. If you're like me, you'll even want to start writing all those ideas in your head. Ms. Bray is truly inspiring.
Enjoy the video!
Here's the link and I hope it works: Processing the Printz Experience
Friday, October 1, 2010
Dichotomy of Scary, The Myth of Poe
It's been said, more than a few times, that I'm scary. Some of you can believe it, some of you can't.
This semester, Fall 2010, I'm taking an entire course on Edgar Allan Poe, the man, the mystery, the murders....ahahahahah(maniacal laughter)!
I had no idea what I'd signed up for (blond moment) because the class is called "American Authors." My section, however, is devoted to Poe. I never thought I'd study so much Poe in my entire life. The best part is being able to say "Poe" repetitiously. I lurve the sound it makes...po, po, po, po. Anyhoo, I never loved Poe, and I still don't, but I'm learning to appreciate him.
Even though he's not my favorite, I must say that the man is seriously misrepresented. 11th grade, Honors English: the teacher told us that Edgar Allan Poe died drunk in a ditch, being the hard partying type. Reality: He was found in a ditch, but he had died from a mystery ailment (one theory is that in addition to being ill, he was kidnapped by a politican's thugs, a common practice during election periods of the day, and died from exposure). Although Poe was indeed a larger-than-life figure, he wasn't the deranged man the myth of Poe makes him out to be.
But where did his reputation come from? Simply put Mr. Backstabber (whose name I forget)was a friend of Poe's whom Poe asked to write a biography. After Poe's death, the man did indeed write the biography, but chose to act out revenge in the literary form, leading to Poe's reputation.
Back to the first statement. Some people think I'm scary. Why? I have my theories.
The important thing is that I'm not scary. I am not Katherine from Taming of the Shrew. I am not Lara Croft, Tomb Raider. I am not Miss Havisham. I am not Sarah Palin (or Hillary Clinton). I am not the mousy librarian who shushes you every time you make a peep. I am not your mother.
I am me.
That being said, I have my faults. Who doesn't? I have a propensity to be very polar in my personality. I'm hot and cold, quiet and loud, liberal and conservative, free and contained, idealistic and realisitc. I can see how this causes confusion in people. Perhaps some individuals need simplicity and decide to make me one or the other extreme. The result is problematic.
There is a very decided scary element to my personality. For example, stress me out and then do something really stupid, and I'll probably say something. Or offend my sense of what is right and good, and I'll probably say something. If we get into an argument, debate, or conversation, you'd better believe that I won't agree with everything you say, and deal with it. Girl has an opinion, what now?
Now the predicament. I feel that I am not scary, because I am the person I define myself to be. I choose. And I choose not to be scary. The end. But life doesn't really work that way, does it?
Others' opinions of me do matter. They do. We live in a society where other people's acceptance or rejection of an individual almost completely defines them. If enough people think I'm scary, then I am.
I've had many conversations with trusted friends and family about this. The consensus seems to be that I can be myself, but perhaps I should temper a few of my tendencies: 1) Be nice to boys (apparently I'm harder on them than girls, which I can see is probably true) and 2) Give people the benefit of the doubt.
This week has turned into being gender neutral in my kindness and giving people the benefit of the doubt. I must say that it makes for a happier, calmer me. Experiment with "benefit of the doubt" receives two enthusiastic thumbs up.
Conclusion: I am who I define myself to be, edited a little by trusted editors. I'm okay with that.
But please, no one expect me to become voiceless in a Don Quixotan quest to make everyone around me feel all puppies, roses, and glittery happiness.
Because I am scary (and simultaneously NOT scary), I understand Poe. I really do. I understand, as he did, that in each one of us there are several possibilities, several points in our life where we change who we are, and what we do. I understand that we cannot let others define us, but we must work with the definitions they give anyway. Me and Poe, we're tight like that.
This semester, Fall 2010, I'm taking an entire course on Edgar Allan Poe, the man, the mystery, the murders....ahahahahah(maniacal laughter)!
I had no idea what I'd signed up for (blond moment) because the class is called "American Authors." My section, however, is devoted to Poe. I never thought I'd study so much Poe in my entire life. The best part is being able to say "Poe" repetitiously. I lurve the sound it makes...po, po, po, po. Anyhoo, I never loved Poe, and I still don't, but I'm learning to appreciate him.
Even though he's not my favorite, I must say that the man is seriously misrepresented. 11th grade, Honors English: the teacher told us that Edgar Allan Poe died drunk in a ditch, being the hard partying type. Reality: He was found in a ditch, but he had died from a mystery ailment (one theory is that in addition to being ill, he was kidnapped by a politican's thugs, a common practice during election periods of the day, and died from exposure). Although Poe was indeed a larger-than-life figure, he wasn't the deranged man the myth of Poe makes him out to be.
But where did his reputation come from? Simply put Mr. Backstabber (whose name I forget)was a friend of Poe's whom Poe asked to write a biography. After Poe's death, the man did indeed write the biography, but chose to act out revenge in the literary form, leading to Poe's reputation.
Back to the first statement. Some people think I'm scary. Why? I have my theories.
The important thing is that I'm not scary. I am not Katherine from Taming of the Shrew. I am not Lara Croft, Tomb Raider. I am not Miss Havisham. I am not Sarah Palin (or Hillary Clinton). I am not the mousy librarian who shushes you every time you make a peep. I am not your mother.
I am me.
That being said, I have my faults. Who doesn't? I have a propensity to be very polar in my personality. I'm hot and cold, quiet and loud, liberal and conservative, free and contained, idealistic and realisitc. I can see how this causes confusion in people. Perhaps some individuals need simplicity and decide to make me one or the other extreme. The result is problematic.
There is a very decided scary element to my personality. For example, stress me out and then do something really stupid, and I'll probably say something. Or offend my sense of what is right and good, and I'll probably say something. If we get into an argument, debate, or conversation, you'd better believe that I won't agree with everything you say, and deal with it. Girl has an opinion, what now?
Now the predicament. I feel that I am not scary, because I am the person I define myself to be. I choose. And I choose not to be scary. The end. But life doesn't really work that way, does it?
Others' opinions of me do matter. They do. We live in a society where other people's acceptance or rejection of an individual almost completely defines them. If enough people think I'm scary, then I am.
I've had many conversations with trusted friends and family about this. The consensus seems to be that I can be myself, but perhaps I should temper a few of my tendencies: 1) Be nice to boys (apparently I'm harder on them than girls, which I can see is probably true) and 2) Give people the benefit of the doubt.
This week has turned into being gender neutral in my kindness and giving people the benefit of the doubt. I must say that it makes for a happier, calmer me. Experiment with "benefit of the doubt" receives two enthusiastic thumbs up.
Conclusion: I am who I define myself to be, edited a little by trusted editors. I'm okay with that.
But please, no one expect me to become voiceless in a Don Quixotan quest to make everyone around me feel all puppies, roses, and glittery happiness.
Because I am scary (and simultaneously NOT scary), I understand Poe. I really do. I understand, as he did, that in each one of us there are several possibilities, several points in our life where we change who we are, and what we do. I understand that we cannot let others define us, but we must work with the definitions they give anyway. Me and Poe, we're tight like that.
Friday, August 27, 2010
The Many Faces Of Me
So y'all know me pretty well. Let's admit that I'm vain about my looks. I'm not high maintenance, in fact I like going all natural most days of the week (saving up my pretty days for the days that count like Sundays or days where I see potential intrigues), but I know that I'm gorgeous and I won't deny it. In fact, I'll probably remind you of it several times a week when we're having a conversation and you seem to need reminding.
In summary, I'm so vain, I KNOW this song is about me.
Pssh. Yeah. Yesterday, my vanity took a major hit. In the form of a puerile 20-year-old someone allowed a pair of scissors and a haircutting license. Shame on the person that allowed her to graduate the DATC college of beauty. I can say all these mean things now, because believe me I did not say them to her face and I should have.
I knew that we were in trouble when she started talking smack about sister missionaries. For future reference, o real friends, if you really want to piss me off tell me that sister missionaries went on missions because they had nothing better to do. I definitely didn't have anything better to do besides graduating from college and starting a promising writing career (I'm being optimistic here) and taking over the world: basically just sitting around on my butt all day. Yeah right. Anyways, by the time I got over that conversation and noticed what was going on with the preschooler wielding scissors it was too late.
The hair growing from the crown of my head was cut into a bowl shape. No subtle gradations, no framing around my face. One disgusting 3.5 inch shelf of hair that hit me above my cheekbones. The rest lay in long pieces down my neck to my shoulders. Say it with me now: #*@! that's a mullet.
Pardon my french, but I wish it had been around when I was choosing a hairdresser.
I stared at myself in shock in the mirror, and when Ms. Mulletmaster turned her back I shot withering glances at my mother to let her know that I WAS NOT HAPPY. (*You're so vain...*)
Then the hairdresser of all things poodle showed me the back, which in all fairness was pretty cute, and that was the only positive thing I could think of to say: "Yes, the back is cute. But do you think we could shorten the bottom layer a bit? I feel like the gap is a bit too big."
Do you know what she said? "The problem with doing that is if you shorten that layer, it's going to look like a mullet."
Silence. Chirping. Grinding of teeth. Mental images of me punching her in the face.
"But that's kind of how I feel about it now."
So she shortened that layer. And I was right, it did ease the overall mullet-drama feeling. Then she "blow-dryed" my hair and by that I mean she passed the blowdryer over it a couple of times and let it air dry into a hot mess.
I got out of there as fast as possible. I started yelling as soon as the door shut about how I looked like a 50-year-old from the seventies.
My mom told me to stop because she was going to pee her pants she was laughing so hard.
In summary, as I've gone through the 36 hours following my hair drama, my hair has reminded me of several different things. Here's a list.
a 50-year-old seventies mamma
a hobo version of Farah Fawcett
a poodle
a skater boy growing out his hair
a hockey player
a mushroom
someone wearing earmuffs...oh wait, that's hair. My bad.
But my personal favorite came from my sister.
"You look like a feminist. You know, the granola kind from Washington."
No offense to all the granola types out there. Or poodles.
But the truth is the truth.
Pray for my hair, friends. While you're at it, pray for all the starving children around the world too. I wouldn't want to be culpable of stealing their prayers, but I'm also in dire need. I might die from a sudden and massive withdrawal...from vanity. And despite my current fugliness, I like to think that I would be missed.
I'd post pictures, but I'm not sure how to get them off my phone and onto the computer. As soon as I figure it out, I'll post some.
In summary, I'm so vain, I KNOW this song is about me.
Pssh. Yeah. Yesterday, my vanity took a major hit. In the form of a puerile 20-year-old someone allowed a pair of scissors and a haircutting license. Shame on the person that allowed her to graduate the DATC college of beauty. I can say all these mean things now, because believe me I did not say them to her face and I should have.
I knew that we were in trouble when she started talking smack about sister missionaries. For future reference, o real friends, if you really want to piss me off tell me that sister missionaries went on missions because they had nothing better to do. I definitely didn't have anything better to do besides graduating from college and starting a promising writing career (I'm being optimistic here) and taking over the world: basically just sitting around on my butt all day. Yeah right. Anyways, by the time I got over that conversation and noticed what was going on with the preschooler wielding scissors it was too late.
The hair growing from the crown of my head was cut into a bowl shape. No subtle gradations, no framing around my face. One disgusting 3.5 inch shelf of hair that hit me above my cheekbones. The rest lay in long pieces down my neck to my shoulders. Say it with me now: #*@! that's a mullet.
Pardon my french, but I wish it had been around when I was choosing a hairdresser.
I stared at myself in shock in the mirror, and when Ms. Mulletmaster turned her back I shot withering glances at my mother to let her know that I WAS NOT HAPPY. (*You're so vain...*)
Then the hairdresser of all things poodle showed me the back, which in all fairness was pretty cute, and that was the only positive thing I could think of to say: "Yes, the back is cute. But do you think we could shorten the bottom layer a bit? I feel like the gap is a bit too big."
Do you know what she said? "The problem with doing that is if you shorten that layer, it's going to look like a mullet."
Silence. Chirping. Grinding of teeth. Mental images of me punching her in the face.
"But that's kind of how I feel about it now."
So she shortened that layer. And I was right, it did ease the overall mullet-drama feeling. Then she "blow-dryed" my hair and by that I mean she passed the blowdryer over it a couple of times and let it air dry into a hot mess.
I got out of there as fast as possible. I started yelling as soon as the door shut about how I looked like a 50-year-old from the seventies.
My mom told me to stop because she was going to pee her pants she was laughing so hard.
In summary, as I've gone through the 36 hours following my hair drama, my hair has reminded me of several different things. Here's a list.
a 50-year-old seventies mamma
a hobo version of Farah Fawcett
a poodle
a skater boy growing out his hair
a hockey player
a mushroom
someone wearing earmuffs...oh wait, that's hair. My bad.
But my personal favorite came from my sister.
"You look like a feminist. You know, the granola kind from Washington."
No offense to all the granola types out there. Or poodles.
But the truth is the truth.
Pray for my hair, friends. While you're at it, pray for all the starving children around the world too. I wouldn't want to be culpable of stealing their prayers, but I'm also in dire need. I might die from a sudden and massive withdrawal...from vanity. And despite my current fugliness, I like to think that I would be missed.
I'd post pictures, but I'm not sure how to get them off my phone and onto the computer. As soon as I figure it out, I'll post some.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
I Do Not Ogle Freshmen
One anecdote, then I’ll move on to the meat of this post.
The most awkward scene from Stranger Than Fiction (one of my favorite movies) is when Harold apologizes to Ana for ogling her (“Apology accepted…but only because you stammered”).
I do not ogle freshmen. No. Not even the ones that don’t look like they’re only 18. Definitely not the ones that pass me in the Cannon Center while I’m working. I’m more mature than that. THE END.
Now, this next part might seem a little tame to some of you, but it’s time to pay homage to one of my favorite poets, Mary Oliver. And by “one of my favorites” I mean my FAVORITE poet. And my favorite poem.
When Death Comes
When death comes
like the hungry bear in autumn;
when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse
to buy me, and snaps the purse shut;
when death comes
like the measle-pox;
when death comes
like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,
I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering:
what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?
And therefore I look upon everything
as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,
and I look upon time as no more than an idea,
and I consider eternity as another possibility,
and I think of each life as a flower, as common
as a field daisy, and as singular,
and each name a comfortable music in the mouth
tending as all music does, toward silence,
and each body a lion of courage, and something
precious to the earth.
When it's over, I want to say: all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.
When it is over, I don't want to wonder
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.
I don't want to find myself sighing and frightened,
or full of argument.
I don't want to end up simply having visited this world.
Mary Oliver
From New and Selected Poems by Mary Oliver (Beacon Press, 25 Beacon St, Boston, MA 02108-2892, ISBN 0 870 6819 5).
Hmmm. Beautiful.
*Mary Oliver-inspired moment of silence* NOW_____________________________________.
The most awkward scene from Stranger Than Fiction (one of my favorite movies) is when Harold apologizes to Ana for ogling her (“Apology accepted…but only because you stammered”).
I do not ogle freshmen. No. Not even the ones that don’t look like they’re only 18. Definitely not the ones that pass me in the Cannon Center while I’m working. I’m more mature than that. THE END.
Now, this next part might seem a little tame to some of you, but it’s time to pay homage to one of my favorite poets, Mary Oliver. And by “one of my favorites” I mean my FAVORITE poet. And my favorite poem.
When Death Comes
When death comes
like the hungry bear in autumn;
when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse
to buy me, and snaps the purse shut;
when death comes
like the measle-pox;
when death comes
like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,
I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering:
what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?
And therefore I look upon everything
as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,
and I look upon time as no more than an idea,
and I consider eternity as another possibility,
and I think of each life as a flower, as common
as a field daisy, and as singular,
and each name a comfortable music in the mouth
tending as all music does, toward silence,
and each body a lion of courage, and something
precious to the earth.
When it's over, I want to say: all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.
When it is over, I don't want to wonder
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.
I don't want to find myself sighing and frightened,
or full of argument.
I don't want to end up simply having visited this world.
Mary Oliver
From New and Selected Poems by Mary Oliver (Beacon Press, 25 Beacon St, Boston, MA 02108-2892, ISBN 0 870 6819 5).
Hmmm. Beautiful.
*Mary Oliver-inspired moment of silence* NOW_____________________________________.
Monday, August 9, 2010
How Many Megans Does It Take To Calculate Real Friends?
Hi. It's me. Blogging for a third time. Everybody look at me, I'm so cool right now.
A few items of business: First, if I'm measuring my real friends as opposed to my fake friends (parameters being facebook) 6 of my 473 friends are real. The rest are fake.
How did you measure that number, you ask?
Comments. (And maybe I didn't count right, but drop it because math is a TOUCHY subject with me. In case you were wondering 9x9 equals forty-freaking-nine and don't tell me its 81 BECAUSE I SAY IT'S NOT. See what I mean? Touchy).
So, you other 473 minus 6 friends (You do the math)ARE YOU REAL FRIENDS OR NOT? Consider this your challenge.
Second, my blog layout is boring. How do I remedy this situation? All of my other friends with blogs have awesome formats and fonts, and things that glitter and make them money. I really like glitter. And money. Any suggestions?
Third, I'm planning on running away from home for Winter semester 2011. I've been researching ways to get to Florence on this cool website called transitionsabroad.com. That site is a veritable spark to my travel fever. Add a few thousand dollars and BAM! I'd be hopping on a plane right now if I could. Anyone want to 1) run away with me and 2) fund our adventure? Make checks payable to me. I'll take care of the rest.
Fourth, yesterday I said something goofy in front of my family that I need to get off my chest. Tell me if this is not hysterical and typically me. Spenny (my little brother) was telling us yesterday about EFY. He loved it. Anyway, working in Helaman Halls I've become acquainted with the quaint habits of the EFY and sport camps students. Yeah, that means that I think that they can be obnoxious, bless their hearts. We love them anyways. Somehow in the course of the conversation I referred to them all as EFers. Sound that out. effers. Yes. That is what I said. EFY-ers...Efyers...effers. I didn't do it consciously, but my subconscious was having other ideas.
Fifth, I have a new idea for a novel. Let me back up here a few steps and talk about how I'm losing in the great Katherine Gee/Megan Gadd Writing Face-off. It's okay because Katherine is losing too. Basically, this is the idea. We have established three milestones: 10,000 words, 25,000 words, 50,000 words. Best two out of three wins the competition, buying me a plane ticket to her wedding. (It makes perfect sense in our heads). Anyways. I am stuck on my novel at 7,000 new words (meaning since the contest started) and about 15,000 total words. I need to get unstuck and soon. I don't have money to buy a plane ticket to her wedding.
But yesterday as I was sitting in Relief Society, this new idea starting pouring out of my brain into my notebook. I've never had a plot come out so fully formed. It's practically screaming to be written. And my fingers are itching to get to it.
I guess I could tell you what my two novels are about, but I probably won't. Sorry.
To all of you real friends, vi voglio tanto bene.
To all of you fake friends, meh.
:)
Third post, out.
A few items of business: First, if I'm measuring my real friends as opposed to my fake friends (parameters being facebook) 6 of my 473 friends are real. The rest are fake.
How did you measure that number, you ask?
Comments. (And maybe I didn't count right, but drop it because math is a TOUCHY subject with me. In case you were wondering 9x9 equals forty-freaking-nine and don't tell me its 81 BECAUSE I SAY IT'S NOT. See what I mean? Touchy).
So, you other 473 minus 6 friends (You do the math)ARE YOU REAL FRIENDS OR NOT? Consider this your challenge.
Second, my blog layout is boring. How do I remedy this situation? All of my other friends with blogs have awesome formats and fonts, and things that glitter and make them money. I really like glitter. And money. Any suggestions?
Third, I'm planning on running away from home for Winter semester 2011. I've been researching ways to get to Florence on this cool website called transitionsabroad.com. That site is a veritable spark to my travel fever. Add a few thousand dollars and BAM! I'd be hopping on a plane right now if I could. Anyone want to 1) run away with me and 2) fund our adventure? Make checks payable to me. I'll take care of the rest.
Fourth, yesterday I said something goofy in front of my family that I need to get off my chest. Tell me if this is not hysterical and typically me. Spenny (my little brother) was telling us yesterday about EFY. He loved it. Anyway, working in Helaman Halls I've become acquainted with the quaint habits of the EFY and sport camps students. Yeah, that means that I think that they can be obnoxious, bless their hearts. We love them anyways. Somehow in the course of the conversation I referred to them all as EFers. Sound that out. effers. Yes. That is what I said. EFY-ers...Efyers...effers. I didn't do it consciously, but my subconscious was having other ideas.
Fifth, I have a new idea for a novel. Let me back up here a few steps and talk about how I'm losing in the great Katherine Gee/Megan Gadd Writing Face-off. It's okay because Katherine is losing too. Basically, this is the idea. We have established three milestones: 10,000 words, 25,000 words, 50,000 words. Best two out of three wins the competition, buying me a plane ticket to her wedding. (It makes perfect sense in our heads). Anyways. I am stuck on my novel at 7,000 new words (meaning since the contest started) and about 15,000 total words. I need to get unstuck and soon. I don't have money to buy a plane ticket to her wedding.
But yesterday as I was sitting in Relief Society, this new idea starting pouring out of my brain into my notebook. I've never had a plot come out so fully formed. It's practically screaming to be written. And my fingers are itching to get to it.
I guess I could tell you what my two novels are about, but I probably won't. Sorry.
To all of you real friends, vi voglio tanto bene.
To all of you fake friends, meh.
:)
Third post, out.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
The voice that grates on my nerves, and other observations from my week
So, me and etiquette aren’t on a first name basis. Thanks to my mother I’m a pretty polite person, but etiquette is just far enough away that I never seem to catch up to it.
Now that I’m a…blogger (ahem)…I understand that there are niceties even in the blogosphere (so much for escaping into a world where I can express myself sans censorship). So basically, what that means is I can’t complain about people in my life that might read my blog. Dang it all. If I complain, I’ll do it with such verve and spunk and finesse that someone will surely get offended, and then I’ll feel bad, and etiquette will have once again bit me on the butt. So, I’m going to tell you a story instead.
Once upon a time, there was a girl named…Meaghanne. She lived in a dungeon near the jousting grounds of the great big castle all the nobility called the BYU and all the peasants just called the Y (and then there were all the OTHER people from UP NORTH who called it HAPPY VALLEY, but that’s a story for another day). Meaghanne was a pretty, buxom girl who had most recently lived in a charming, sunny, wonderful kingdom by the sea, where the air felt like sunshine and smelled like crisp greens. She had a good time, but eventually her time there had ended and she went home to the Y lacking in funds and looking for work. She decided to pinch her pennies by living in the dungeon, a very sensible and practical choice of which she felt rather proud being sometimes prone to bouts of daydreaming and idealism. She knew the dungeon would be dark and musty and filled with bugs that left red bites all over her every morning when she woke up, not to mention smelling like rotting onions all the time because the other people in the dungeon forgot to throw them out, but she consoled herself by saying, “What interesting people I’ll meet in the dungeon! People from everywhere, people who sing and dance, run and skip, cry and moan, laugh and tease! I do love diversity!" (Meaghanne, for all her good character traits, was sometimes a bit too optimistic). So she moved to the dungeon and quickly found a job mucking out stalls where all the knights and squires left their horses during the jousting tournaments. It wasn’t a glamorous job, but it paid her well, and she loved the people she met there, all of them that ran and jumped and sang and shouted and laughed and cried. She did love people.
But not all of them. She noticed now that she lived in the dungeon and worked mucking out stalls that at the end of her tired, crappy (pun intended) day she had little patience for a particular person(s)(and I’m not saying whether he/she/they lived in the dungeon or worked mucking out stalls, or just passed her on the street while she walked to work because that would be poor etiquette) with that particular timbre of voice, a certain jarring overtone, an incessant vibrating in her ears, a whining lean at the end, a frantic and rapid dance of syllables that NEVER EVER SEEMED TO STOP. EVER EVER EVER!
And every day Meaghanne’s irritation grew, despite her angelic nature and poor hearing. The voice of the banshee invaded her mornings. And her mid-days and her nights ‘til one day she realized it was recorded on her psyche. And now she could never escape. And she lived unhappily ever after….
Betchya’ll were waiting for a happy ending, weren’t ya? Alas, there’s no rest for the wicked (or polite).
Now that I’m a…blogger (ahem)…I understand that there are niceties even in the blogosphere (so much for escaping into a world where I can express myself sans censorship). So basically, what that means is I can’t complain about people in my life that might read my blog. Dang it all. If I complain, I’ll do it with such verve and spunk and finesse that someone will surely get offended, and then I’ll feel bad, and etiquette will have once again bit me on the butt. So, I’m going to tell you a story instead.
Once upon a time, there was a girl named…Meaghanne. She lived in a dungeon near the jousting grounds of the great big castle all the nobility called the BYU and all the peasants just called the Y (and then there were all the OTHER people from UP NORTH who called it HAPPY VALLEY, but that’s a story for another day). Meaghanne was a pretty, buxom girl who had most recently lived in a charming, sunny, wonderful kingdom by the sea, where the air felt like sunshine and smelled like crisp greens. She had a good time, but eventually her time there had ended and she went home to the Y lacking in funds and looking for work. She decided to pinch her pennies by living in the dungeon, a very sensible and practical choice of which she felt rather proud being sometimes prone to bouts of daydreaming and idealism. She knew the dungeon would be dark and musty and filled with bugs that left red bites all over her every morning when she woke up, not to mention smelling like rotting onions all the time because the other people in the dungeon forgot to throw them out, but she consoled herself by saying, “What interesting people I’ll meet in the dungeon! People from everywhere, people who sing and dance, run and skip, cry and moan, laugh and tease! I do love diversity!" (Meaghanne, for all her good character traits, was sometimes a bit too optimistic). So she moved to the dungeon and quickly found a job mucking out stalls where all the knights and squires left their horses during the jousting tournaments. It wasn’t a glamorous job, but it paid her well, and she loved the people she met there, all of them that ran and jumped and sang and shouted and laughed and cried. She did love people.
But not all of them. She noticed now that she lived in the dungeon and worked mucking out stalls that at the end of her tired, crappy (pun intended) day she had little patience for a particular person(s)(and I’m not saying whether he/she/they lived in the dungeon or worked mucking out stalls, or just passed her on the street while she walked to work because that would be poor etiquette) with that particular timbre of voice, a certain jarring overtone, an incessant vibrating in her ears, a whining lean at the end, a frantic and rapid dance of syllables that NEVER EVER SEEMED TO STOP. EVER EVER EVER!
And every day Meaghanne’s irritation grew, despite her angelic nature and poor hearing. The voice of the banshee invaded her mornings. And her mid-days and her nights ‘til one day she realized it was recorded on her psyche. And now she could never escape. And she lived unhappily ever after….
Betchya’ll were waiting for a happy ending, weren’t ya? Alas, there’s no rest for the wicked (or polite).
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
A First
OH BOY. I caved. I can't believe I finally made a blog.
Wait, what was that noise?...Apocalypse approaches.
In this moment I have nothing to say, but I'm writing this as a historic, significant first step in my life. As of today, July 28, 2010, I am a blogger. As of today, I'm one step closer to either self-actualization or self-ruination (come on, if that's not a English word yet, it should be). I'm not sure how I feel about the world seeing into my psyche, but at the same time I need an avenue for self-expression. Mix it all together, slap it on a pan, bake at 350 for twenty minutes and you get this blog. I hope we all enjoy it.
Grok that?
Good. At ease, readers.
Wait, what was that noise?...Apocalypse approaches.
In this moment I have nothing to say, but I'm writing this as a historic, significant first step in my life. As of today, July 28, 2010, I am a blogger. As of today, I'm one step closer to either self-actualization or self-ruination (come on, if that's not a English word yet, it should be). I'm not sure how I feel about the world seeing into my psyche, but at the same time I need an avenue for self-expression. Mix it all together, slap it on a pan, bake at 350 for twenty minutes and you get this blog. I hope we all enjoy it.
Grok that?
Good. At ease, readers.
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