The Common Denominator is Me

Hi. My name is Becky. I'm your new roommate, and three things you should know about me are I'm mean, I'm bigger than you, and I enjoy making people cry.

I am about to share a piece of information that isn’t news to anyone who has lived with me, but has come as quite a stinging slap to me:

I suck as a roommate.

I’ve always operated under the precious delusion I was the one being put upon. Year after year, I would end up with a new batch (sometimes up to 20 different roommates in one year) of girls, and I would think to myself:

These people are seriously flawed.

List of Grievances

1. Loud
2. Dirty
3. Lacking in Musical Talent/Expression (You wouldn’t think this would be a factor, but my roommates are/were privy to my unveiled venomous musical criticism. I’ve been downright insulting.)
4. Demanding
5. Temperamental
6. Hormonal
7. Rude
8. Ignorant
9. Unstable
10. Not Very Bright
11. Cantankerous
12. Possess a Myopic Perspective
13. An Intrusion on My Space
14. Incapable of Changing The Toilet Paper Dispenser
15. Insidious
16. Temporary

Naturally, I never once fell into any of these categories. I have never been culpable.

Unfortunately, the years are passing, and I’ve started to see a factor in my roommate failures: The Common Denominator is Me.

Tell Us How You Really Feel

Disclaimer: The following is a gripe-fest against football. Please feel free to either amuse yourself by reading this “misguided/embittered” girl’s blog or click the x button.

A few Saturdays ago, I was asked by a friend if I wanted to attend BYU’s homecoming football game. Before she could even tell me the price of the tickets ($35, BTW), I said with the smuggest tone I could muster, “No. I hate football.” In truth, I have not always held the sport with such distain. But, after working for the BYU Grounds Crew for five years, with four of those years spent exclusively on the turf of Lavell Edwards Stadium, my perspective was forever tainted.

Here are few of my reasons.

1. It takes several dozen employees working year round and hundreds of thousands of dollars to sustain a playing field which is only used twelve times a year.

2. Football is a flawed game. It rewards bulk (juiced-up muscular, fat, guys) and downplays endurance (Hello! Players only play offense or defense). Consequently, contenders only have to be good for essentially half a game.

3. Reinforced individual narcissism has never been so rampant among so many undeserving. Numerous football players, because of their elevated physical and social status, would often justify poor behavior just because they could get away with it. I realize this qualm is true of many athletes, but please remember, I also took care of soccer, baseball, softball, lacrosse, track, and rugby fields. I was never treated poorly until I dealt with football players.

4. Hockey, Ultimate, and Soccer are totally ignored in this area of the country, because the beefbrains of the West don’t want to watch sports that require them to maintain their attention span for longer than 60 second plays. When you can watch a replay of a sequence three times before the next time the ball moves, you’re watching the wrong sport.

5. The Average Game Times—Ultimate: 1 hour 15 minutes. Soccer: 1 hour 30 minutes. Hockey: 1 hour forty five minutes. Football: 3 hours. Do you know how many things you can accomplish in three hours? I wrote this in less than one, so you do the math.

6. I’ve seen men put their marriages in jeopardy, because they were addicted to watching College football. “Jeeze, man. Uncle Rico still lives in a trailer, and you’re 37 with a beer gut. Go run or something.”

7. It cost $35 dollars to attend a BYU football game. It costs $2 (student price) to see a hockey game. Let me ask you this, “Where are you most likely to see more blood?”

So there are my reasons. Take ‘em or leave ‘em.

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Have you ever wished to live two lifetimes?

 

I’m not suggesting I want to live longer. I’m saying I wish I lived two separate lives.

 

Recently, I spent a week in Fort Fraser, Canada. It’s one of my favorite places (although, the natives would spell that “favourite places”). And while I visited, a part of me longed to stay permanently.

 

I’ve always felt this way about Canada. When I was a teenager, I spent many collective summer months in the southern provinces. During these visits, I would fantasize about someday marrying a Canadian Mounty/Cowboy/Rancher/Farmer.  I even researched becoming a Canadian Citizen.

 

However, my life’s course has taken a far different direction than my adolescent dreams envisioned. My hopes of affordable academic pursuits (Ph D in English) and staying near my family (Millers, Elliotts, and Holladays) are only possible when I am here in my homeland.

 

Therefore, my heart remains split in two.  The greater part is content to stay in the high desert mountain plateaus of Utah and Idaho, or in the deep green rolling woods of Missouri.

 

But the lesser portion longs to be in a snow-bent birch grove on the edge of British Columbia’s Nechako River. There it would patiently stay with the hope of seeing a moose rise from the river.

Talking about music is like dancing about architecture. –Elvis Costello

Recently, I have acquired a goldmine of Bluegrass albums through the wonderful Salt Lake City Library System, and this good fortune has sparked a blazing emotional fire.

I am moved, as they say, to speak.

I realize by attempting to discuss or describe a subject that many consider arbitrary (Music is a constant; but from a certain standpoint, it doesn’t hold a specific value beyond personal opinion.), I might turn a few people off (Especially when I’ve come forth with every intention of paying homage to a “twangy” genre of Southern mountain music.). Nevertheless, if for no other reason than to articulate or solidify my own personal regard for the significance of Bluegrass, I wish to explicate and inform.

Bluegrass is a variety of American Folk music that first became popular during the 1930s and 1940s. Its greatest influences are Irish, West African, Scottish, Welsh, and English traditional music. Immigrants from these nations and cultures settled the Midwestern plain lands and round top ranges of Southern Appalachia: It is here their posterity brought Bluegrass to life.

The content of the genre, as can be said for all genres of music, is varied and eclectic. However, the best of its storylines center on the plights of poverty and lost or won affections. Additionally, indicative of most European immigrants that came to this fertile nation with absolutely nothing—their connection to the land is palpable in their songs about mountains, farm fields, and plains.

Most Bluegrass pieces are arranged to include the following six acoustic instruments: fiddle (violin), mandolin, upright bass, banjo, acoustic guitar, and the dobro (resonator guitar). Sometimes artists choose to venture beyond this grouping (Listen to Crooked Still. They add a cello, and it’s gorgeous.), but in general, these are the staple instruments of Bluegrass.

In addition to the specific set of instruments, it is also important to consider the arrangement of the music itself. Harmony is the key to all happiness with Bluegrass. Even relatively unsophisticated songs will include a “tenor/descant” line that inlays the melody with a golden value. This quality is a drug for me. I am addicted.

Bluegrass is the staple of my musical nourishment, and I often feel alone in my feast. If you have a strong love for this country, a thriving connection to nature, an appreciation for intricate and flawless harmony, and affection for the occasional banjo, fiddle, or mandolin solo, I suggest you sample from a few of my favorites below. They’re yummy.

(Please forgive YouTube's Crap Quality)

1. Alison Krauss & Union Station (“Oh, Atlanta”, "Take Me for Longing")
2. Dan Tyminski (“Man of Constant Sorrow,” “Carry Me Across The Moutain”)
3. Nickel Creek (“The Lighthouse,” “This Side,” “Doubting Thomas”)
4. Rhonda Vincent ("Heartbreaker's Alibi," “Fishers of Men”)
5. Wailin’ Jennys (Bring Me Little Water Silvy)
6. Crooked Still (Ain’t No Grave)

Change Is Good. Especially When You’re a Lard.

Name: Becky

Age: 27

Height: 5’ 6”

Weight: 195lbs

Weaknesses: Dr. Pepper, Cherry Coke, Chocolate of any Kind, Chicken Burgers, Sugar, Buffy the Vampire Slayer

I have recently rediscovered an indisputable truth—breaking a bad habit and replacing it with a good one is freakin’ HARD.

What brings this up? Well, I just turned 27, and I also hit 195lbs on the scale.

When was the last time I was this heavy? Seven years ago, during my sophomore year at college. That wasn’t a good year for me. I was depressed; I had no friends, and I was convinced school existed for the sole and expressed purpose of torturing me (I had not yet discovered my true literary calling). I had also discovered the joys of eating whole loaves of French bread, followed by Mountain Dew: Code Red chasers.

Naturally, my body dealt with my eating choices the only way it could—I got very, very heavy.

What stopped my rapid descent into the abyss of fatty? Well, three things, really. First, I met Jemima, who utterly abhorred all things soda and chocolate (She hadn’t eaten any in years, when I met her.), and she “encouraged” me to give up the crap food (More like, I quit eating crap food to impress her.). Two, I began running and playing sports. Three, I declared myself an English major. These life choices changed my life—I got friends, I was playing sports again, and I had a purpose. I dropped my weight to around 170-180lbs (The lowest it got was 167; but I had pneumonia, so I don’t think it counts.).

So what’s the matter with me now?

Ironically, school and work have taken over. I sit at my cubicle-ish “battle station,” located at my place of employment, like a veal bull-calf waiting for execution. I just eat and sit. Well, sometimes I sit and eat. But you get the idea. Then I drive four blocks home, where I do more of the sitting and the eating. Mind you, my sitting is not idle. I am doing homework or reading. But the only muscle I’m exercising is my brain. The rest of me has slowly metamorphosed into a lard slug thingy.



You see my problem?

Actually, I’d rather you not.

So here comes the regimen:

1. I need to complete a cardiovascular activity at least once every other day.
2. Absolutely NO soda of any kind.
3. Go to the temple at least twice a month (Yeah, I know this one doesn’t have anything to do with losing weight, but as long as I’m writing a list, right?).
4. No Buffy past midnight (This one is particularly hard to do, since Buffy is like milk or chocolate: I always want more. Also, I don’t usually start watching until around 11:00 pm because of homework or school.).
5. Go to bed before 12pm; get up before 8am (I know it sounds easy to do, but I am a true night owl. Unfortunately, my preferred sleeping schedule—bed at 2:00 am, up at 9:30—is not conducive to a healthy, productive lifestyle.).

Change has to start somewhere. Here's where I start.

Where in the World is Becky Doodle?

It’s been a long time…

A very long time.

I guess I owe everyone an explanation.

Remember at the beginning of the summer when I said I wouldn't have time to blog? And remember right after I wrote that "disclaimer" I proceeded to write consistently every week for about two months?

Yep...me too.

Then July and August hit, and I saw every last free moment get sucked away from me right before my eyes. School finally started to have deadlines.

What’s happened since I last wrote?

(This list was not necessarily written in order of importance.)

1. “The Beast” was damaged in a hit and run. She still works, but she definitely not gonna win any prizes for beauty (Not that she would have before)—her handle bars are a bit wonky (not dangerously) and she’s got a few more “character” chips on her paint and framework.
2. I finished 20 pages of my thesis.
3. My best friend Jemima moved to Arizona.
4. K got married.
5. My parents and my Floridian cousins visited me in Utah.
6. I completed more than 50 pages of academic writing (NON thesis) in less than 9 weeks.
7. I participated in the Park City ultimate tourney.

I can’t think of anything else. But I tell you what…it’s been “fulled up” here.

Want to know a list of things I learned?

1. I can only write when I’m cold and when the room is entirely silent. What did this mean for doing schoolwork at home in my A/C free house? I didn’t spend much time there. I am a firm believer in finding a “room of one’s own.”
2. I didn’t think it was possible for me to love motorbikes anymore, but I’ve found them to be the most addictive distraction on the face of the planet. Hopefully, in the next year or two, I’ll be upgrading from my Beast to a bike more conducive to my interest and needs. I’m researching the Kawasaki KLR—a duel sport “thumper.” If you don’t know what that means, don’t worry…I will definitely be talking about this again.
3. I’ve discovered that Steve McQueen just might have been the most BS-free actor on the face of the planet, and I’m really starting to appreciate his work on a deeper level than when I was younger.
4. I love Thomas Hardy’s poetry.
5. I love Rudyard Kipling’s poetry.

The King is Dead

 

“I want someone to say it, Becky. I want the most influential person—someone with respect, clout, money and power—to say it: ‘The GREATEST pop singer the world has ever known has died, and we should mourn his tragic life.’”

 

My sister said this to me last night in reaction to all the crap that’s been written about Michael Jackson’s death, and it struck a chord. She’s right. His music has had a profound effect on my life. Michael Jackson’s “HIStory” album came out when I was in the 8^th grade (1995), and I listened to it until my ears went numb. I worshipped and adored the words and unsurpassed quality and poetry, and I was compelled to discover Michael’s previous decade of work. He was beautiful.

 

Unfortunately, though his art was matchless, his life was a damn mess.

 

Roger Ebert said in his eulogy:

 

“We have all spent years in the morbid psychoanalysis of this strange man-child. Now that he has died we will hear it all repeated again: The great fame from an early age, the gold records, the world tours, the needy friendships, the painful childhood, Neverland, the eccentric behavior, plastic surgery, charges of child molestation, the fortunes won and lost, the generosity, the secrecy, the inexplicable marriage to Elvis's daughter, the disguises, the puzzling sexuality, the jokes, and on and on.

 

I have no idea whether Michael abused the children he "adopted." It is possible those relationships were without sex; he seemed frozen at a time before puberty. Whether he touched them criminally or not, it is easy to see what he sought: To create, with and for these Lost Boys, a Neverland where they could imagine together the childhood he never had.

 

His father Joseph was known even then as a hard-driving taskmaster, and was later described by family members as physically and mentally abusive, beating the child, once holding him by a leg and banging his head on the floor. Michael confided to Oprah that sometimes he would vomit at the sight of the man.

 

Mixed with that was perhaps a lifelong feeling of inadequacy, burned in by the cruelty of his father. That might help explain the compulsive plastic surgery, the relentless rehearsal, the exhausting tours, the purchase of expensive toys, the giving of gifts.”

 

I am now filled with a sense of loss, and even more, a sense of compassion. Michael was a mysterious, lonely, sad, and strange creature. I’m inclined to believe he spent his entire life attempting to regain and/or heal an utterly devastating and shattered childhood.

 

I refuse to demonize or reduce him to a “pot shot” joke. I also refuse to believe he was a sinister creature.

 

He was the GREATEST pop singer the world has ever known, and I mourn his tragic life.