Words Right Outta My Mouth.

I never thought I'd say that Dr. Seuss is able to express things better than I am. Don't get me wrong. I love his books, but they weren't exactly created for clarity. Simplicity definitely, but that's not the same thing.
Anyway, today was the day that Dr. Seuss gave me words [Thanks!] See what happened was my friend Ammon is leaving for him mission soon and he said, "Oh the things that I will miss..."
For some reason that instantly brought to mind Dr. Seuss's "Oh! The Places You'll Go!" It seemed to apply in his situation, or at least that one line did, but then as I read it through I realized it's just generally a great poem to get me through what I am going through. Hello! College 2,000 miles from my family is not a small step. I love them (and am anxiously looking forward to Saturday when I get to be back with them again.)
So, to me this poem/ book/ story/ whatever you want to call it is about my growing up story right now.

Thanks Dr. Seuss. How did you know?

Oh! The Places You’ll Go!
by the incomparable Dr. Seuss

Congratulations!
Today is your day.
You’re off to Great Places!
You’re off and away!

You have brains in your head.
You have feet in your shoes.
You can steer yourself any direction you choose.
You’re on your own. And you know what you know. And YOU are the guy who’ll decide where to go.

You’ll look up and down streets. Look’em over with care. About some you will say, “I don’t choose to go there.” With your head full of brains and your shoes full of feet, you’re too smart to go down a not-so-good street.

And you may not find any you’ll want to go down. In that case, of course, you’ll head straight out of town. It’s opener there in the wide open air.

Out there things can happen and frequently do to people as brainy and footsy as you.

And when things start to happen, don’t worry. Don’t stew. Just go right along. You’ll start happening too.

Oh! The Places You’ll Go!

You’ll be on your way up!
You’ll be seeing great sights!
You’ll join the high fliers who soar to high heights.

You won’t lag behind, because you’ll have the speed. You’ll pass the whole gang and you’ll soon take the lead. Wherever you fly, you’ll be best of the best. Wherever you go, you will top all the rest.

Except when you don’t.
Because, sometimes, you won’t.

I’m sorry to say so but, sadly, it’s true that Bang-ups and Hang-ups can happen to you.

[And then some of the less clear stuff. Basically it's about those Bang-ups and Hang-ups.]

No! That’s not for you!
Somehow you’ll escape all that waiting and staying. You’ll find the bright places where Boom Bands are playing. With banner flip-flapping, once more you’ll ride high! Ready for anything under the sky. Ready because you’re that kind of a guy!

Oh, the places you’ll go! There is fun to be done! There are points to be scored. There are games to be won. And the magical things you can do with that ball will make you the winning-est winner of all. Fame! You’ll be famous as famous can be, with the whole wide world watching you win on TV.

Except when they don’t. Because, sometimes, they won’t.

I’m afraid that some times you’ll play lonely games too. Games you can’t win ‘cause you’ll play against you.

All Alone!
Whether you like it or not, Alone will be something you’ll be quite a lot.

And when you’re alone, there’s a very good chance you’ll meet things that scare you right out of your pants.

[And then some more stuff ]

And will you succeed?
Yes! You will, indeed!
(98 and ¾ percent guaranteed.)

Kid, you’ll move mountains!
[blah blah blah. I promise it's good, just not the point I'm going for.]
Today is your day!
Your mountain is waiting.
So…get on your way!





p.s. If anybody happens to find this book and wants to pick it up for me I am more than willing to pay you back.

I have writer's block

Well, I mean, I can't actually write what I'm supposed to be writing. It's called a Great Works Response. I've seen this movie three times. I know what it's about. I know the context. I know what I should be saying, it's just that when I go to write it I have some major issues. Which is why I'm pretending to write about something completely separate. Maybe eventually I'll work my way into that other paper.
Let me tell you, next semester is not allowed to be fun. I basically have classes all day and then I'm thinking about getting a job. Yes, I am insane. Most likely certifiably so. Would you like to drag me to an asylum now? Which one? I'll walk there myself. Especially if it meant I would not have to do that lame paper.
Fine. I'll just write something about it.

Nope. I tried. Epic failure. Well, maybe not epic. There was no cool music playing in the background or anything. Mostly just a regular type failure then.

Oh well. I quit. Night.

My last response for Writing

(To understand this response, you have to know that Dr. Brown was my ninth grade Honors Lit. teacher. Let’s just say he was not my favorite.)

Dear Dr. Brown,
You gave us books. I read them. You lectured for hours. I took notes on your opinions. Essay time? That’s when regurgitation was a good thing. Yes, I realized your vanity was to my benefit.
After escaping from your class we would occasionally meet. Once you finally remembered which “Ms. Prestwich” I was, you backhandedly told me I was not good enough. Thanks so much.
Despite our apparent distaste for each other, I did learn one thing from you. Teachers love to hear exactly what they have said. Well, at least it got me through high school. Now, as I finish my Honors Writing class I can tell you a great thing. You were wrong. In this class I have had the chance to come up with my own topic, do my own research, write my own opinion, and use my own voice. I am good enough on my own.
What students need to know most is that writing is not about telling people what they know they want to hear. It’s about telling them what they never knew they wanted to hear. Maybe you should think about teaching that.
Your sincere student.

Basically, nobody could possibly understand how good writing this down felt. I've actually considered sending it to Wylie Brown himself. I don't know though, it might ruin the lives of my sisters, his future students.

Over Dramatic and Loving my Uncle. How's that combination?

For my honors writing class we had to write a personal narrative. Thing is the narrative had to show how we grew somehow. Nothing was coming to mind, so I just sat down and wrote how I was feeling. I had just spent a few days with my Uncle R and when he left I was in a tizzy. Those feelings became this personal narrative. Admittedly some of the details are very made up and I honestly doubt whether I grew from this the way I pretended I did, but I wrote it ok. So here goes. [And I actually prefer my rough draft, but for some reason I decided to post the final copy. Maybe some day I'll merge the two.]

The Great Divide

Cookie crumbs on the table: that’s what brought the tears that were hanging in the corners of my eyes. They weren’t even the “I’m so happy, there are stars in my eyes” kind of tears. They felt more like the “hold it back and try not to sniffle” kind. These stupid cookie crumbs on the stupid table almost made me cry: and stupid me just sat there staring at them.
But D's don’t cry. That’s what my uncle had taught me. He reminded me time and time again. “Scientists have done studies on it,” he would say. “They just can’t make us D's cry.” My mom is a D; she doesn’t cry. Yet here I am, all P, all emotion, all the time.
Uncle R, Robby Ray as I like to call him, can be a very humorous man. He’ll try to pull a smile out of anyone if he thinks he can. I’m sure he is just trying to put a smile on my face when he says that he can’t cry because of his genes. A whole family not being able to cry is a ridiculous concept, but the truth is I’ve never seen him cry despite all I’ve put him through.
I first realized I could confide in him about the time I started considering myself a mature young adult. I hadn’t seen him since I was barely a double-digit, but that one day my family got to spend with him over Spring Break reminded why he was my mom’s favorite brother. He felt so much of what the people around him were feeling.
From that point on, I dragged him along every bumpy road I traveled down. When I was fighting with my friend C he knew and offered advice. When my mom was getting frustrated with me over scholarship applications he knew and said that was just part of life. When I was nervous about a dance competition he knew and he encouraged me every step of the way. When I was feeling low, angry, upset, or distressed he knew and he prayed for me.
Uncle R left the cookies for me along with a can of ginger ale and a bag of almond M&Ms. He left three things for me and then he left. Sitting alone in the kitchen of my dorm I thought about the M&M bag sitting, a crumpled mass in my closet. I saw the ginger ale can sitting empty and purposeless, alone in the blue recycling bin beside the blue couch. Empty, purposeless, alone, and overshadowed by the blues. In that moment I thought I knew how the ginger ale can felt. Luckily I speedily realized that feeling akin to an inanimate object was just a touch over dramatic.
I say luckily because that’s about the time L walked in. I’d call her another inmate here in the prison that is our basement dorm, but we have not committed any criminal acts—yet. Anyway, she’s too maternal to do anything so extreme. She’s that one apartment mate who everyone has. She makes sure the dishwasher gets loaded, started, and unloaded. When I leave a mess in the bathroom sink, I will hear about it from her and I will clean it up because she says so. If we have dorm meetings, she initiated it. She knows I call her “Mom” because of her neat, precise, orderly tendencies. Luckily I was done looking with sympathy at that can. Her motherly radar would have tracked it and she would have asked me what was wrong. I did not want to admit there was anything wrong with me.
L proceeded to bang around the kitchen in a lunch time mad dash. I could understand that. I should probably be doing the same. Instead I just snarffed down a couple of those cookies, completely neglecting my own nutrition.
Those cookies in and of themselves were not worth the discretionary calories—one of the many things Mother L is concerned about—but the story behind them, that’s what made them taste sweeter than hot cocoa on a white winter evening.
I was going to Colorado for a dance competition near Rocky Mountain National Park. Uncle R’s family lives nearby in L-town and volunteered to be my cheer squad for the weekend. Then Sunday he brought me the full eight or so hours back to Heritage Halls. Monday he started his job search here in Utah.
The week before I took my flight to Colorado, Robby Ray asked me to bring him cinnamon bears from the candy counter in the bookstore. I had two sacks ready to pack in my suitcase when I started reminiscing about the weeks I had spent there this summer. That’s when I hatched the plot, a bargain.
I was holding his precious baby bears for ransom unless he could produce the oatmeal chocolate chip cookies we had spent many a midnight sharing. He’d pour two glasses of milk. I’d pour my issues on him. Eating cookies and sharing how I felt with someone was a win for me. I’m not sure how he felt about it.
Victory was sweet: the victory of confiding in someone and the victory of my bargain working. He packed a large bag of those cookies in our snack box and gave them to me once we reached BYU.
Unfortunately the celebration was short lived. Once again the tendrils of my emotion wrapped around me. Those cookies no longer meant I was a victor. They meant Uncle R had gone back to Colorado. They meant I was stuck here in my kitchen. They meant I had to face real life again without hearing his advice or seeing him stand side stage cheering me on.
“Hey K. What’s up?”
What? Me? Nothing’s wrong. Why do you want to know? “Nothing really. Just came back here for lunch. How ‘bout you?”
“Pretty much the same.”
Good, no awkward confrontations. I thought L had noticed I was barricade in the corner. Two walls, the table, and my knees pushed up against my chest kept me protected from something. I’m not sure what. Perching there like that seemed to make things a little better though.
“I thought I’d clean some dishes while I was here,” Mommy L said. “Do you have any for me?”
“I already took care of mine.” I certainly didn’t want her to know I hadn’t really eaten anything substantial.
“Oh, ok. I think I’m gonna heat up one of my freezer meals. What did you eat?”
Is she suspicious? “Just stuff I had around. You know, whatever.”
“Mhmm.” She probably mumbled something I should have listened to, but we were both too absorbed in our lunch time ponderings to hold a decent conversation. She was debating whether to wash dishes or microwave the carton of penne pasta first. I was losing my mind somewhere near the Great Divide.
That’s where I suspected Uncle R was at this point: the Great Divide. When we were driving over that landmark in Wyoming along Highway 80 I asked him what it was. He has taught me so many useless facts, but somehow I never grow tired of them. I now know that Long’s Peak is on the Colorado quarter, a butte is a hill where there shouldn’t be one, and the Great Divide is the line east of which all rivers flow to the Atlantic Ocean and west of which all rivers flow to the Pacific.
When I had seen a bicycle named “Great Divide” on my way back to the apartment it reminded me of three things: a Peter Breinholt song that Uncle R loves, staring at the cloud shadows as we drove over it, and the fact that I was no longer anywhere near the Great Divide or Uncle R. The Great Divide had a piece of me and I didn’t know when I would next see that piece.
Not knowing is probably the one thing that upset me most. Looking back at those cookie crumbs, I thought about how having an uncle from Colorado meant he was rarely a part of my life for the first fifteen years. I thought about how in the past three years I had grown to let him be my friend and mentor through the many emails in which I divulged all the things I was facing that I didn’t feel like I could tell anyone else. I thought about how I never knew when the next time I would see him would be and this case was no exception. Those cookie crumbs reminded me that the little communication we kept up was not the same as sitting across the table from each other sharing a plate of cookies. If we both sat at his kitchen table for an hour and said nothing I would consider it an hour well spent.
Well, I was sitting at a kitchen table, but it wasn’t Robby Ray’s table and the time I’ve spent staring at specks of cookie dust isn’t exactly what I would call time well spent.
I allowed myself to look up from the crumbs and across the table at L. I guess she had noticed the incline of my head and the fact that my eyes had not left that small area of the table because she was looking back at me. Her eyes caught mine and would not let them go until I said something.
“These are the cookies my uncle left.”
Her face twisted into a confused look as she turned her head to the side. “Oh?” she said politely. And… she politely kept in her mind.
“I miss him already. A lot.”
“Really? Why?”
What? Does she really want to know? “I guess I just depend on him for a lot. I tell him basically everything.”
“Yeah, you talk about him a lot.”
You listened to that? I chuckled. “I guess I do. Well, you know how he takes me hiking and how I tell him everything and how he helps me through stuff.”
“Mhmm. And how this weekend was the first time he’s ever seen you dance?”
Wow, she really has been listening. “Exactly. When I spend time with him and then we have to leave, it’s just hard for me to adjust to for a while.”
“I understand.”
I was in surprised. She had been listening to everything I said and she was willing and trying to help. I could confide in someone.
L spoke again. “Oh, I almost forgot. You probably didn’t hear about Enrichment.”
“Nope. What are we doing?”
“I think they said something about get to know you games. Are you coming?”
Ten minutes before it would have been easy just to say, “No,” and move on, but I was slowly realizing something. There were people here in my ward family that I could talk to who would listen. While they weren’t my real family, they did want to know me. Some of them, like L, really did care what I had to say and how I felt.
“Yeah. I’ll be there.” If I was going to overcome those cookie crumbs Enrichment was a great place to start. As that point I was able to stand up and sweep the crumbs and the self pity away. My mind was finally ready to return to Happy Valley after its trip to the Great Divide.

Gonna copy my Uncle

This is a short...well it's not really a whole story yet, but I'm bored of it, so I probably won't write anymore on it. I posted it on facebook already, but I think it will be easier to find here.


"Two seconds!" We all know it's never two seconds, but that's what I said. "Let me finish this yogurt and then we'll be out the door."
Of course, in my rush some sloppy pink goop slipped off my spoon and onto my jacket. I gave my sister a pleading look. She nodded her head signaling that I had time to change.
I jumped over the cat and flew up the stairs. I knew my sister Ansley wanted to have been gone ten minutes ago, so I hurried for her sake. Personally, there is no way I could care less about impressing these people. I would probably never see great Uncle Corwyn and his daughter again, so what did I care. But that wasn't dear, sweet Ansley Olivia's style. Everywhere she went she looked perfect, acted perfect, was perfect. Being less than fifteen minutes early would put a huge damper on her image.
"Melissa!" My first name is Zoey, but my dad decided he wanted me to be called by my more proper middle name. Ansley tended to agree with him. As for me, I didn't find that there was anything proper about me. Why should my name be the exception?
I looked around the room and grabbed the first sweater I saw. This black turtle-neck was not the most comfortable, but there is much worse in my closet. Sheesh! Hand-me-downs.

When we were halfway between Akron and the middle of no where Ansley declared, "We're here." Well of course I had wanted to say that we're always here dummy, but Mother had warned me to be on my best behavior. Ansley didn't really like taking me with her to places. Apparently I frustrate her. Of course, I can understand how any twenty-four year-old can tie herself in knots when dealing with a fourteen year-old. Our brains just work too fast for them. But, I had promised that I would behave. Instead of my pointedly sarcastic remark I said, "Oh. What a charming little town," regarding the gas station, two cafes, four empty parking lots, and a few unlabeled buildings dabbled about on Main Street. When Uncle Corwyn said he was in the area, this is not at all what I had in mind. Especially not with me and Ansley being the only ones to face this strange beast, but Brendan's hockey team made it to the regional level and hockey is one sport which requires parent super-vision. Well, that's what dad said. I think he just wanted any excuse to get out of this. Corwyn wasn't even his uncle. Mom, on the other hand, tried to get off work, but there was no possible way her boss, fondly called "Tank," would let her off for a second weekend this month. So, it was me and Ansley facing this creature alone. Luckily for my sister and her big fat reputation we made it to Middle-of-Nowhere-ville twenty minutes early in spite of the delays I somewhat accidentally created.

Finding the restaurant called "Brigid's Italian" proved to be a challenge. First of all, who names an Italian restaurant a French name with an Irish spelling? And probably more importantly, it had to be one of the unlabeled buildings rather than the cafe with cheesy neon signs. Fortunately for us, Neon Sign Cafe employees were more than happy to point us in the right direction.

Ok. Like I learned from my fantasy games, step one to facing the unknown: break down a door. Or in this case just open it and hope that it doesn't creak so loudly that we have the whole four tables holding six people staring at us. Not a big deal, right?
Uh, wrong. I quickly looked inside the Plexiglas door, scanned the miniature doll-house style room. "Alright, I saw him. Can we just go now?"
Ansley was on her toes though. "Are you sure? Which one is he?"
Well I was concentrating on the cute little room, not the occupant's faces. As I stuttered out a plausible answer I was shoved into the door. Luckily it opened with little force, or I would have made one ugly print on the glass with my face.

Here we go. Step one.

Here's the Plans Captain Stanley.

After I've lived in my loft apartment and found the cure for cancer, what I really want to do is adopt some Latino children, move to suburbia, and open a dance studio.

Why adopt Latino children? Well, they're cute and they need adopting. Ok, there really isn't a good reason for this one. It just sounded nice.
Why move to suburbia? For the sake of my Latino children.
Why open a dance studio? Because, as much as I love science and stuff my life wouldn't be the same without dance. That and I definitely want to work with children doing something they enjoy.

So here's the more detailed version of the plan.
I loved it in Colorado. I spent a week or so in Loveland and, go figure, loved the area. It's an hour from Denver, an hour from mountains, an hour from basically everything. It has a cool old timey downtown area, which would be perfect for my dance studio. There's a lake and real parks and stuff that would be great for spending time with my Latino chilluns. Oh and there are just enough trees to remind me of Georgia. Of course the fact that I have family out there is a plus, but who knows? They may not be there by the time I'm ready to settle down and I'm ok with that too. It's just such a great place.
As for my dance studio, I'll be focusing on Irish dance, which means I'll need a TCRG. I'll probably get that while I'm curing cancer. I definitely want to get enough training to where I can teach other World dance styles too. A partner in crime would be nice. Maybe somebody who could teach more mainstream dance styles, like ballet and jazz and...yeah. Mainstream. I'm also hoping that some of the biological stuff I plan on studying will help me with body stuff I could give classes on. You know like how to eat right, what muscles to you need to work, injury prevention. Cool stuff like that. If not, I'll probably end up studying that stuff anyway because I think it's pretty gol durned important.
Weekends will be spent hiking with my little ones. [That's probably why Colorado is the most 'in shape' state. Good hiking and walking and biking...and other stuff] Of course some weekends will be reserved for supporting my dancers at competitions.

Oh ok, I think I'm done now. Since nobody actually reads this it doesn't even matter that the ending is quite abrupt. Or that the spelling stinks. Where'd my spell check go?

True Ramblings of a PseudoTeen

This is something I wrote a while ago and rediscovered recently. Not like anybody reads it, but whatever. I intended to post it anyway. Here goes.

I call myself a pseudoteen because I never have behaved like a 'normal' teenager. I think I would have gotten bored of that step anyway, so I skipped it. I don't know whether that means you should be jealous of me or feel sorry for me. Personally? I'm ok with it. I'm not a big fan of drama, or what adults call 'drama' in teenage life. Sure, I've always had a flair for the dramatic, but I know that I'm just being ridiculous, almost like I'm acting. [Wow, drama! Imagine that word actually meaning something!] Where I have a problem is when people actually believe what they're saying.