The World According to Becky

Pancakes at Midnight and Pizza for Breakfast: Modern-day Balms of Gilead

2012-02-03T21:24:00.003-07:00

Life has given me some incredible opportunities to stretch and grow, as of late. Most of the situations I can’t really discuss in much detail, because they are not necessarily my stories alone to share; but I will say this, I am humbled by Heavenly Father’s careful hand with our hearts. He holds them with the delicate and healing touch of an omnipotent surgeon, cutting when he must, but knowing just the right moment to tenderly massage them back to life.

I also find myself in awe of His ability to time the meeting of things, ideas and people. As I have stood to help lift another, I find myself surprised to look up and find a hand reaching out for mine when my strength is all but spent. Whether it’s chatting it up all night making pizza with my cousin-in-law, only to eat it the next morning for breakfast, or hanging out at my BF’s house and, while I’m busily babbling about my world of cares, she’s making pancakes at midnight: A soft couch, a warm meal, and a listening ear are my balms of Gilead.

Thank you, my loved ones. You are my strength.

Oh, and Sara…congrats on the new home! It’s been a long wait. You and Morg deserve it!

Absent Mind: A Study of An Adult with ADHD

2012-01-25T20:13:00.003-07:00

This has been a busy week for me.

Sunday: Lost my brand-effing-new iPhone (PS I LOVE IT!). Took me two hours to find it. Thought it was in my BF’s car, but because my mind was racing and I didn’t find it right off, I just left. Guess where it was two hours later (After I went back to my apartment to search, and after I enlisted the help of other people, and after I searched several levels of parking garages)? In my BF’s freakin’ car. [Simmer] What the hell!?!

Monday: Lost my keys.

Tuesday: Ran out of gas (Thank you again BF for rescuing me in the snow and sleet. Too bad it was so late at night. I would have bought you something from Mrs. Baxter’s Pastry Shop, 'cause that's precisely where I ran out).

Wednesday: Found out my rent check for January hasn’t cleared, and I’m wondering if I sent it at all. Oh, and I can’t find the receipt I got when my bank issued the cashier’s check. It’s going to be a long time in the bank tomorrow, because I also have to get next month’s rent in the mail.

Okay. Are we seeing a pattern here?

Can I even tell you how many times I’ve lost my keys, wallet, cassette player/CD Player/ipod, phone, and Leatherman/Gerber in the last two decades?

My brain is an effing nightmare. And you know what’s worse? I’m totally self aware, and I still can’t seem to help myself. It bothers me exceedingly.

“So what are the general symptoms of people with ADHD?” you might be wondering.

Here’s me.

Predominantly inattentive type symptoms may include:
 Be easily distracted, miss details, forget things, and frequently switch from one activity to another
 Have difficulty maintaining focus on one task
 Become bored with a task after only a few minutes, unless doing something enjoyable
 Have difficulty focusing attention on organizing and completing a task or learning something new or trouble completing or turning in homework assignments, often losing things (e.g., pencils, toys, assignments) needed to complete tasks or activities
 Not seem to listen when spoken to
 Daydream, become easily confused, and move slowly
 Have difficulty processing information as quickly and accurately as others
 Struggle to follow instructions.

I’m not saying I’m not appreciative of the mind I do have. It is very good with information I deem pertinent: literature, film, critical essays & music. I just wish, for once, I wasn’t my own worst enemy when it came to keeping track of things.

PS Girlyman, my favorite band, is putting out a new album in a month. I'm SO happy. It's like an early birthday or late Christmas.

Things Change

2012-01-19T20:30:00.005-07:00

I think it’s fairly idiotic to suppose a change in the calendar year could possibly alter a person’s entire outlook on life; but I gotta say, since 2012 started twenty days ago, I feel like the glacial wall surrounding my heart has come crashing down in an abrupt “we-should-all-be-freaking-out-about-this-metaphorical-global-warming-because-the-seas-are-rising” kind of way. (Does that metaphor even make any sense?)

To put it in more understandable terms: I feel a lot better about life these days, and sometimes, I cry a little about it.

What’s different?

Have I suddenly met “The One” (AKA “The Eternal Sucker”)?

No.

Have I gotten into grad school? Landed a better job? Decided to join the Peace Corps?

No. No. And I’m thinking it over (Though, probably not. Can you imagine a $7,000 a year paycheck? Or living on nothing but beans and rice for two years? I know people do it for missions, but there’s a reason I never went on one of those, people).

I can only say this much: There is a reason for it all.

What is that reason?

I haven’t the foggiest. But here’s something I do know. In the last month I’ve found hope in unexpected places: new friendships, stronger connections in old ones, and reasons to keep believing that my life isn’t such a waste. I have no idea what I’m doing, but I have a sneaking suspicion somebody else does.

Am I no longer lonely? Frustrated? Restless? Confused? No. I’m still all of those things, but I’ve discovered an indescribably precious truth: Things Change.

P.S. To the person responsible for a story about an elephant named Georgina and a leopard named Leopard: Until the day I die, I will never be able to express how much our adventure meant to me. It made me remember possibilities are only limited by the mind.

(Winter Shots)

2011: The Year from Hell

2011-12-20T00:20:00.007-07:00

It’s been a rough year folks.

One might assume because I spent most of it gallivanting in foreign lands and dropping a small fortune on gear and toys that I’ve been living in the pink. Well, let that be a lesson to you boys and girls: Toys are just toys, and loneliness feels just about the same no matter where you are.

To add insult to serious injury, for the last six months of 2011, with exception of a few bits of journal and one or two essays, I haven’t been able to write—not even my nonsensical blog entries. I think the answer to “why?” is pure and simple: I lost my swing. When I didn’t get into the PhD program, and I was left sort out the answer to “what now?” an asphyxiating fear crept into my life. Proverbially speaking, I’ve just been standing here in the tee box, staring stupidly at the ball, terrified to miss my next shot (I hate golf; but the analogy works). The game won’t start, because I won’t hit anything.

This has been nothing short of infuriating, because my spectators (family), my coaches (mentors), and my beloved teammates/opponents (closest friends, the ones who really push me to be better) keep looking at me expectantly. Their eyes are unwavering, and everyone seems to have same words on the tips of their tongues: “Do something, for hell’s sake!”

Rather unexpectedly, I managed, after almost six months, to get these words to form sentences. Which may leave you wondering, “What’s changed or changing?” My answer to that is simple: “How should I know?” I think I’m just tired of watching other people play. I’m under no delusion this blog entry is evidence that I’m cured. But it does prove I’m still capable and inclined to try my hand at a proverbial game of putt-putt.

In all honesty, I’m at a loss. Got no man. Got no children. Got no school. Have no purpose. The only thing I do seem to have is a wicked, smart-ass tongue and a penchant for creatively wasting time.

The sooner this year ends, the effing better.

PS

I’ve got more pictures. Apparently, misery loves a canon camera.

(Salt Lake City Public Library, AKA Becky's Secular Temple)

(Donut Falls, Big? Little? Cottonwood Canyon, UT)

(Brandi Carlile Solo Concert, Flagstaff, AZ)

(Sunset over the Salt Lake Valley, I think I was on Grandeur Peak)

(Random Winter Hike. I LOVE WINTER!)

Writer's Block (Ergo the Pictures)

2011-10-03T18:39:00.017-06:00

(Grand Teton National, USA)

(Yellowstone National, USA)

(Bowron Provincial, BC, Canada)

(Bowron Provincial, BC, Canada)

(Antelope Island State Park, Salt Lake City, UT)

(Somewhere in Montana, USA)

(Mt. Robson, Canada)

(Jasper National, Canada)

(Banff National, Canada)

(Glacier National, USA)

The Great Outdoors

2011-07-05T19:55:00.021-06:00

I decided to keep a Journal for my adventures this past weekend. If you want a closer look at the pictures, click on them.

Enjoy!

July 2, 2011

7:30

Jeanine’s in town this weekend. She decided to invite her in-laws and the Holladay family up for a camping trip in American Fork Canyon. Naturally, an invitation was extended to me as well.

Shots taken while coming out of American Fork Canyon. Hurray for me finally figuring out photography water settings. Pretty effects, no?

The ride up here last night was filled with such intoxicating alpine smells and visions splendor that I more than once lifted up the visor on my helmet to howl at the sun kissed rocks in the canyon. I must have sounded like a freakin’ lunatic.

The plan today is to descend the canyon and head south to Goblin Valley. I have a craving for some alone time, and I suspect I will succeed in getting it. On to the red rock!

13:30

I’ve made it to Price, UT—so I’m more than halfway. My arms are burnt to a bloody crisp. I know I should probably put some lotion on, but I stupidly left my supply inside my tied luggage.

The ride has been beautiful, if not somewhat uncomfortable. Such is life in the saddle, I guess. The sky and rock combinations have been very distracting: everything here looks like Maynard Dixon Painting wanting to break free.

Somewhere between Price and Goblin I encountered what used to be a gas station with a bunch of llamas in front of it. It was too funny to miss getting a couple of shots. Aren't those expressions priceless?

16:00

I’ve touched down in Goblin. It’s hotter than hell. I’ve spent the last hour looking for a way to sneak into the park. No such luck. Looks like I’ll have to pay the $7 to get inside.

The "Slot" I stayed in.

Despite this monetary setback, my surroundings are incredible. I parked the bike in a quasi-slot canyon, and the silence and shade are doing wonders for me. My arms are still bacon strips, but the fluorescent blue sky and red rock are magnificent. I hope to camp in this slot later tonight.

18:00

Life works out. I came into the park and there was no ranger at the entrance. Looks like I’ll get the shots I wanted for free. Sweet.

It’s weird seeing the “goblins.” They look slightly smaller than I remember them being. Maybe it’s because I haven’t been here for five or six years, and Jaime and Kami aren’t here to tell me tall tales and angsty stories to make the surroundings magically come to life and swallow me whole.

July 3, 2011

Sometime late night/early morning…

I waited out the sunset in Goblin Valley, and I got some pretty amazing shots. Then I came back to the “campsite,” and that’s when all the trouble began. (I thought it was a little too convenient that the perfect site, with the perfect pile of free wood, and the perfect view was available without any hassle at all.)

Pretty sweet set up, right?

I built a fire, started listening to some Brandi Carlile, and wrote a letter to Jaime (the kind I always used to write her when we were living together—chalk full of silliness, secrets and vows of friendship). It was getting kind of late—about 11:00—and I thought it was time for me to hit the sack.

As I started walking away from the dying fire, I heard what could only be described as the sound of an insanely rabid cricket beast thingy. Then the logical thought occurred to me, “That sounds a bit like a rattle snake. [Pause] Nah!” I grabbed a stick from the fire and walked over to my air mattress, about twenty yards away. There didn’t seem to be anything wrong, so I forgot about it.

The stick that saved my life.

A few minutes later, I set up my camera to attempt some star trails before I went to bed (this task was not as successful as I might have hoped). I turned out all the lights, and then I heard the most terrifying sound I’ve ever heard in my life coming from a foot away. It was made very clear to me by my sense of self preservation that I was not dealing with a beast cricket after all. There was in fact a rattle snake slithering underneath my tripod, when I turned on my headlamp. Before he could properly coil, I grabbed the fire stick from the ground and aimed for his neck. I hit him as hard as I possibly could, and then I crushed his head for good measure.

"George" didn't make it.

Looks as though I’ll not be getting much sleep tonight. I really need to buy a tent.

12:30

I was correct in my prediction: I didn’t get much sleep last night. Between the burnt purple arms, the balmy warmth and the warranted dread of death by snake, I maybe got three hours of sleep.

I was then politely awoken by five hungry ravens this morning at approximately 5:30. They were busy picking off the bats that were flying directly above my head. It was a bizarre scene: bugs flying around, bats chasing them, and then ravens chasing the bats. Talk about observing the great circle of life first hand.

The sunrise as I left Goblin.

I made it to Capitol Reef a few hours later, and let me just say now, “What a freakin’ disappointment.” The ride from Goblin to the park was prettier than the park. Oh well.

The top two were in the middle of nowhere. The last is Capitol Reef.

It’s been a pretty eventful weekend, so I guess I can’t really be all that disappointed. Besides, there are many more adventures to be had before this summer is done. I'm so lucky to live in Utah!

Parting Clouds

2011-06-30T17:16:00.004-06:00

1. First, please forgive my long overdue post. I’ve been suffering from what could only be described as a “life block.” Things are looking up, though. I’m not sure what has changed exactly (not the situation…that’s for sure), but I think having good people gently urge me to reengage with my existence has certainly helped (Jaime, Seth, Kira, Sarah, Sara Lyn & Sister King…I love you all).

2. I’ve recently taken up photography (see the pics above and below). It’s been fantastic. I’ve even managed to procure a pretty cool granola for a teacher. Poor thing (born in ’87) thinks the ‘60s were the best decade of the last century. Good decade for music, but bless her heart.

3. Speaking of the last century, I’ve been listening to a lot of '80s music as of late. I caught the U2 concert a month ago, and it sparked a frenzied return to all things related to the decade of my birth.

Thankfully, I’m not the only one. Jaime’s been in town for the summer, so I’ve had some great opportunities to really unabashedly praise and enjoy my favorites.

One song in particular has taken over. In fact, it was even recently covered by the beautiful Brandi Carlile and released on her live album this past April. She described what inspired the cover:

“Recently I was sitting around in the privacy of own home [. . .] learning “Eternal Flame.” I’m not afraid to admit it. I was learning it because I thought it was funny. I was also learning “Total Eclipse of the Heart.” And while I was having this guilty pleasure ‘80s reprise moment, I was reintroduced to a song that sort of broke my heart the first time I heard it without any instrumentation: “Forever Young.”

Brandi's Version

The Original by Alphaville

Lyrics:
Let us dance in style, let us dance for a while
Heaven can wait we're only watching the skies
Hoping for the best but expecting the worst
Are they gonna drop the bomb or not?

Let us die young or let us live forever
We don't have the power but we never say never
Sitting in a sandpit, life is a short trip
The music's for a sad man

Can you imagine when this race is won
Turn our golden faces into the sun
But praising our leaders we're getting in tune
The music's played by a madman

Forever young, I want to be forever young
Do you really want to live forever?
Forever, or never

Forever young, I want to be forever young
Do you really want to live forever?
Forever young

Some of us are like water and some are like the heat
Some are a melody and some are the beat
Sooner or later we’ll will be gone
Why don't we stay young?

But it's so hard to get old without a cause
I don't want to perish like a fading horse
Youth are like diamonds in the sun
And diamonds are forever

So many adventures could happen in a day
So many songs we forgotten to play
So many dreams are swinging out of the blue
If we let them come true

Forever young, I want to be forever young
Do you really want to live forever?
Forever, or never

Forever young, I want to be forever young
Do you really want to live forever?
Forever, or never

Forever young, I wanna be forever young
Do you really want to live forever?

Does anyone have any incite on why this song affects me so?

4. Three more weeks and I’m going to Canada! For the past few years I’ve been planning a canoeing trip to the Bowron in northeastern BC. Looks like it’s finally gonna happen. Tickets are purchased, I have almost all of my gear, and I am so stoked!

5. I’ve written five new songs in the past two months. Impressive, no? Misery is a muse. Also, I’m trying to find a way to put samples up for anyone who’s interested, so stay tuned.

A Grief Observed

2011-04-23T19:16:00.005-06:00

It’s been one week since I found out I didn’t get into the Southern Studies Ph. D. program at
UARK (University of Arkansas).

I think I’m ready to discuss it, now.

Day 1
It was late in the afternoon, when I received my rejection letter. I was on the phone with my sister, lamenting that I hadn’t yet received anything from the school. She tried to comfort me with words of false hope. “You may not get an acceptance letter, but you’ll definitely be an alternate.” Then I opened my email, while still talking to her, and I read this:

Later that night, I stared at my bedroom ceiling and prayed to understand.

I felt nothing but cold silence.

Day 2
I came into work the next morning, and my boss decided he was going to yell at me for something that hurt his exorbitantly large ego. After I escaped from his office, a chilling thought came into my head: “There is no escape for you, now. You are just like everybody else: stuck in a job that will slowly dull your senses and crush you ability to dream.”

Tears streamed down my face. I ran to the office bathroom, and turned the faucet on to muffle my sobs.

Day 3
I wasted this entire day. I didn’t do one lick of homework for my Spanish class. After all, what was the point of Spanish, now?

I then decided to get a little crazy with my credit card. I went to eBay and bought the following list of items:

1. IPod Touch (64gb)
2. An Optimus Nova+ (a white fuel backpacking stove)
3. Macbook hard drive upgrade and Ram
4. Keen Hiking Sandals

The IPod was actually a compromise. What I really wanted was an IPhone, but I couldn’t justify paying $100 a month for an effing phone. Next was the stove. I’ve wanted one of these for three years. You can use any fuel…ANY FUEL…with this stove. Then there was the ram and hard drive upgrade. I needed those in order to upgrade my OS (my computer was working on an OS from ’06). Lastly, the sandals. Let’s face it. Keen are kind of like a JEEP: they look pretty, they’re overpriced, and you can get them dirty.

Like I always say, “Nothing dulls the brutal ache of failure like blowing a bunch of carefully saved cash.”

Day 4
I sang “I Stand All Amazed” for the Easter program. It was pretty cool.

I took a four hour nap.

The iceberg started to thaw in my heart.

Day 5
A relapse of terror and anger caused an afternoon whine fest. I felt a profound conviction that I had somehow been robbed by having faith in my dreams and faith in God. What bothered me most was I had gone emotionally bankrupt betting on the one thing that you shouldn’t be afraid to bet on: yourself.

Day 6
With an upgraded Macbook and a spanking new IPod, I found a scripture and conference app made by the church. I started reading every talk given by Jeffrey R. Holland in the last 5 years.

Here are my favorites:
“Broken Things to Mend” April 2006
“The Only True God and Jesus” October 2007
“The Ministry of Angels” October 2008
“None Were with Him” April 2009
“Safety for the Soul” October 2009
“Place No More for the Enemy of My Soul” April 2010

The most important quote came from the first talk:

“I speak to those who are facing personal trials and family struggles, those who endure conflicts fought in the lonely foxholes of the heart, those trying to hold back floodwaters of despair that sometimes wash over us like a tsunami of the soul. I wish to speak particularly to you who feel your lives are broken, seemingly beyond repair.
To all such I offer the surest and sweetest remedy that I know. It is found in the clarion call the Savior of the world Himself gave. He said it in the beginning of His ministry, and He said it in the end. He said it to believers, and He said it to those who were not so sure. He said to everyone, whatever their personal problems might be:
‘Come unto me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.
‘Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me; for I am meek and lowly in heart: and ye shall find rest unto your souls.’”

Day 7
Life resumes.

I began studying for finals. I also began to prepare for two trips to Canada. I bought my tickets, and began collecting the proper gear (another use for my soon to arrive white fuel stove). I even signed up for a university taught GRE prep course.

I don’t know what’s going to happen to me now, but I’m compelled by my will to keep fighting and keep seeking after hope.

Faith may be the one thing I get out of this whole copious mess of paper cuts and vinegar.

The Tragic Phantom

2011-03-02T17:21:00.003-07:00

I really like this Antonio Banderas version. Who doesn't like a Phantom with a Spanish accent?

The original. Who can knock it?

I thought about including a Gerard Butler version, but it made my ears bleed.

I was twelve when I first read Gaston Leroux’s The Phantom of the Opera. I’ve been thinking a lot about this story lately, and I decided to read it again. My impression of it remains the same. For me, the Phantom was always the misunderstood hero of the story. Born deformed, shunned by society, captured by a traveling circus to be a freak show performer: the Phantom had an unforgivable childhood. When he grows older, he becomes a contractor for an opera house in France. There, he secretly builds himself a home in the foundations of the structure, where he lives for many lonely years.

One day, a beautiful chorus girl named Christine comes to work at the opera house. The Phantom is immediately smitten. He sees what no one else does, an incredible talent in the rough. So he begins to sneak to Christine’s dressing room under the guise of the “Angel of Music,” a completely fictitious ghostly apparition, so that he can teach her to sing. Christine, a saintly, beautiful twit, accepts this charade for two reasons. First, before he died, her father told her the story of the “Angel of Music,” a fantastical creature who teaches little girls how to sing; and since Christine’s the sort of person who still believes in fairytales, she’s convinced that she is literally being taught how to sing by this “Angel.” Secondly, Christine finds herself attracted to the Phantom and his musical genius.

For a time, the tutelage of Christine comes along grandly. Then, on the night of the old manager’s retirement, Christine performs and surprises everyone with her newly honed talent. Raoul , a childhood friend of Christine’s, sees her perform, and his affections are renewed.

Naturally and understandably, the Phantom becomes jealous and angry with this new competition. Not so understandably, he decides to abduct Christine, and he takes her to his underground home. Once there, she pulls the mask from his face, and she sees his true appearance. He is heartbroken and terrified that she will leave. He tries to keep her, but after two weeks, he realizes he can’t cage her. So the he lets her go with the promise she will wear his ring.

Once released, Christine goes to Raoul and they decide to run away together. However, Christine feels sorry for the Phantom, and she decides she will sing for him once more. The Phantom overhears their plans, and he is furious. He captures Raoul and another character called the Persian, and he locks them up. When Christine comes to the Phantom, he threatens to destroy the opera house if she does not agree to marry him. In order to save everyone, Christine makes the promise; then she kisses the Phantom. This gesture of kindness overwhelms him. He admits he has never been kissed before, not even by his own mother. He is ultimately softened. The Phantom then releases Christine and Raoul, and the story ends with the Phantom dying alone.

I imagine most people haven’t read this version of the story, which reads more like a less tragic version of The Hunchback or even Frankenstein. Nevertheless, I think it’s important to recognize the differences between this and the recent stage and film versions. In the novel, the Phantom is a dynamic character: he’s an incredibly dark creature, but he secures redemption by choosing to sacrifice his own happiness for the sake of another. Perhaps that is why I am so deeply disappointed with the musical. Its Phantom is a seducer, and he never learns his lesson. So while the music is beautiful, I think Gollum just about sums up my feelings on the Andrew Lloyd Webber adaptation: “Stupid fat hobbit. You ruins it!”

Inside the Actor's Studio with Rebekah [Insert Last Name]

2011-02-24T18:11:00.004-07:00

While I await news from the University of Arkansas-Fayetteville (I spent most of December and January preparing materials for my application), I've watched a lot of Inside the Actor's Studio with James Lipton (Heaven bless You-tube. PS Watch the new Colin Firth episode). I like this show, because it takes a high brow approach to what is essentially a low brow interest: movie stars telling all. People Magazine eat your heart out!

In any case, at the end of every episode, Mr. Lipton asks his guests a series of questions. The questionnaire, as we are reminded every episode, was the brainchild of French television personality Bernard Pivot. In any case, I thought it might be fun to answer it.

What is your favorite word? Ethereal

What is your least favorite word? Tintinnabulation (tinkling)

What turns you on? Intelligence

What turns you off? Obvious, Stinking Mendacity

What sound or noise do you love? The sound of cicadas at dusk.

Which sound or noise do you hate? I adamantly dislike any erratic, grating, or jarring sound: i.e. clinking dishes, the sound of chewing/slurping, a jack hammer, sneezing, whispering during a lecture/meeting (especially, one I’m conducting), and loud explosions of any kind.

What’s your favorite curse word? (This one’s incredibly salty, so if you’d like to skip it, PLEASE do).

I like any combination or variation of the word “shit”, although I find I’m quite partial to “shite” (the UK variant) and “shiza/scheiße” (the German variant). “Oh, sweet shit in a bucket,” “shit for brains,” “great hurling shit balls,” “[he/ she] shit bricks,” “[he/she] is bat shit crazy,” and “I woke up feeling like a parrot shat in my mouth” are all favorites, though rarely, if ever, used by me.

What profession would you like to have? Professor

What profession would you not like? I would hate to be a door-to-door vacuum salesman or a personal assistant to a corporate banker/CEO.

If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates? “See. I told you it was gonna be hard; but you insisted, and I obliged.”

The Year of Our Lord Two Thousand and Ten

2010-12-25T09:24:00.005-07:00

I know I’m a complete goober for not writing these past two months, but seeing as it’s the end of the year, I think it only fitting that I write a “Best of” list.

Top 10 (Quasi-chronological) Memorable Experiences of 2010

1. This past January, on my way home from the Mangy Moose Bar in Jackson, Wyoming, I saw my very first real life, in the flesh, bona fide moose. Well, actually it was two moose: a mommy and a baby. Also, when I was in Canada, this September, I saw an adolescent buck moose in a field. So, essentially, I saw the whole “family.” I am one lucky ducky.

2. This June, I drove 1,000 miles on my motorcycle to the Telluride Bluegrass Festival. I saw and met amazing artist, and I learned that Bluegrass Hippies really are the most gracious and generous bunch you’re ever likely to meet.

3. Most of the summer was spent writing my Master’s thesis. Then, this August, I successfully defended it.

4. I survived my first semester of Spanish, this fall (I know that doesn’t sound like much to the rest of you, but languages might as well be advanced O-chem to me).

5.I saw the Ice Fields, in Alberta Canada. I just have to say this: they are the most beautiful natural edifices I have ever seen (And that’s saying a lot, considering I’ve been to Yosemite, Yellowstone, Glacier, Teton, Redwood, Reiner, Zion, Bahia Honda, Arches, and Bryce Canyon US National Parks). Nothing I’ve seen in North America, thus far, has impressed me as much.

6.This November, I finally visited the Ozarks. They are beautiful!

7.My “bunny experiment” was a complete success! My does dropped nine healthy baby bunnies this Thanksgiving.

8.A few weeks ago, I graduated with my Masters.

9.Two Saturdays ago, I was licensed to carry police grade pepper spray (OC spray). That’s 18% capsaicin. Let me give you some idea about how hot that is. A bell pepper is rated 0 on the Scoville scale. A Cayenne Pepper is rated 30,000. Pure capsaicin is rated 16,000,000. In order to get a license, they spray the OC directly into your eyes, and then force you to perform tasks. I’ve included a video for your amusement. My sister has seen it at least five times, and she thought it was hysterical.

10. Favorite Five Films: Winter’s Bone, Hereafter, The King’s Speech, Easy A, Inception

Everything Has a Price

2010-11-05T17:59:00.005-06:00

Eight years ago, I walked into my favorite English professor’s office and said with more enthusiasm than conviction: “Sir, I want your job! What will it take?”

At the time, I was getting a “B-” in his class; so he could just as easily have belittled me straight out of the room. Nevertheless, he kindly, but honestly stated what it would take. He gave me this list.

1. Acquire a working knowledge of a classic language.
2. Achieve acceptable GRE Scores.
3. Attain a stellar GPA.
4. Maintain an inexhaustible love for reading and writing.
5. Accept the unavoidable 6-8 more years of school after the BA.

After he gave me this helpful but seemingly insurmountable inventory of requisites, he expressed that he was less than wholeheartedly excited about my chances. Who could blame him, really? At the time, my GPA was in the toilet. I didn’t have a language. I was incredibly intimidated by the GRE and thought there was no way I could take it. And as much as I loved to read, my writing was in dire need of a coach.

Flash forward. I am now finished with my BA and MA. And after years of working on the list, I feel much better about numbers three, four, and five. Nevertheless, these past few months, dealing with numbers one and two, have been particularly heinous exercises in self-torture.

I hate Spanish.
I hate studying for the GRE.
I hate it when I can’t find my keys when I’m already 5 minutes late to work.

I wish the golden nuggets of knowledge in these areas would be given to me at the same speed everything else is.

In any case, I take my GRE on Tuesday. Pray for me my loved ones. Pray for me in my foolish aspirations.

(Like all things involving ambition, I must pay the high price to visit those heavenly stars.)

Different, But Not Less: Temple Grandin

2010-10-20T14:28:00.005-06:00

“I do not cry easily at the movies; years can go past without tears. I have noticed that when I am deeply affected emotionally, it is not by sadness so much as by goodness.”—Roger Ebert

Although I cannot say “years go past,” without me crying at the movies, I can say, in all sincerity, that I agree with Roger: “When I am deeply affected emotionally [by a film], it is not by sadness so much as by goodness.”

This past weekend, I watched a film about a remarkable woman named Temple Grandin. Grandin was born in Boston, Massachusetts in 1947. She hadn’t learned to speak by age four, and subsequently, Temple was diagnosed with autism. Awareness and studies on autism at the time were nonexistent, and Temple’s parents were told by psychologists that she was a “childhood schizophrenic.” Consequently, they were encouraged to institutionalize her.

Trailer

Temple’s mother, Eustacia, a Harvard-educated woman, would not accept this advice. Instead she hired tutors to work with Temple on a daily bases. After learning to speak, as well as acquiring a variety of necessary life skills and coping mechanisms, Temple headed to high school. During this time, Temple began the several decade-long process of unlocking her neurological abilities: She came to understand that she processed the entire world through an incredible catalogue of pictures.

A few years later, encouraged by positive experiences on her aunt’s ranch as a teenager, and after graduating with a degree in Psychology from Franklin Pierce College, Temple decided to pursue graduate work in Animal Science at Arizona State University. This is where she began some of her most important work to date. Out of earnest desire to change inhumane slaughter practices in the cattle industry (She literally could perceive what a cow felt when held in a slaughter yard, due to her unique visual and emotional understandings), she designed revolutionary stockyards. Half of the entire country’s slaughter stockyards are now equipped with Grandin’s more humane designs.

She once said concerning this subject:
“I think using animals for food is an ethical thing to do, but we’ve got to do it right. We’ve got to give those animals a decent life and we’ve got to give them a painless death. We owe the animal respect. Nature is cruel. But we don’t have to be.”

Aside from her enormous contribution to the cattle industry, Grandin is also one of the rare cases of autistic individuals who are cognizant and aware of how differently they perceive the world. Consequently, she has played a huge role in autism education and activism in the past two decades.

The Actors Discuss Temple

Perhaps what touches me the most about Temple’s story is her genuine goodness. After surviving a most likely torturous childhood and adolescence, and after overcoming incredibly difficult challenges, she went on to exemplify her mother's philosophy: Temple was different, but never less.

I am moved beyond words by this woman and this film.

"Questions, Comments, Concerns." Wait. I Have All of Those.

2010-10-13T17:24:00.006-06:00

It’s been awhile.

Forgive me.

There are various items I wish to discuss today. Mostly, they’re unrelated; but I feel compelled to address them, because they are presently significant topics of personal interest and preoccupation. Besides, I rarely see or speak to any of you as often as I should, so I think it’s about time I play catch up.

First, I have returned from my third consecutive annual Canadian Wilderness trip. I think my older sister may be right when she suggested I stop going up there: It only depresses me.

I should explicate.

Currently, my life is focused on a plethora of worrisome pursuits:
1. Preparations for post grad programs (i.e. studying for the GRE, taking Spanish, weighing my options on where to apply)
2. A job that is wildly underwhelming
3. My solitary life (I live for no one but me and that is utterly depressing some days.)
4. Anxiety and insecurities based on performance in these areas and concern over what that implies about my future

Ultimately, when I’m in Canada, none of these variables exist.

A Typical Day in the Canadian Wilderness:
1. Get up next to a platonic, though well-loved, bedfellow
2. Go to the kitchen, get a glass of mint tea, and receive a hug and a kiss from a grandfather figure
3. Head out to the day’s tasks with a team that is well-organized, efficient, and sincerely aware, encouraging, and appreciative of all members’ contributions to the day’s workload
4. Return at the conclusion of a long, though satisfying, day of work to a stack of tangible results
5. Spend the evening conversing with interesting and enjoyable friends
6. At night, look up at the stars that are a clear as city lights, and discuss the mysteries of the universe with a best friend
7. Go to bed feeling completely satisfied

Real life rarely works this way.

I guess I'd have to admit if I lived in Canada permanently, it wouldn’t take me long to get bored, miss my books and my family, and ultimately, I’d want to come home. But I think you understand why it sucks so bad to have to come back.

The second subject I need to discuss is sad but brief. Monday night, my cute, but ailing hairless rat, Charlie, had to be put down, due to an eye infection that had gotten out of control. His eye was bulging, and he looked like he was in a lot of pain. So I decided that it was cruel to keep him alive. After I “did the deed,” I felt tremendously sorry for Charlie and myself. RIP Charlie.

Next, I wish to officially announce my retirement from club Frisbee. I’m sorry that it’s come to this, but I think my last post really nailed one of my biggest weaknesses: I tend to think I can do everything. This is a marvelous fallacy, and I can no longer afford to indulge it. Besides, as per usual, I’m B-R-O-K-E.

Lastly, and on a less dour note, is anyone else excited about Halloween? I have one title for you: Addams Family Values. Check it out. You will pee your pants.

No, You Can't!

2010-09-07T11:43:00.003-06:00

Recently, I’ve been feeling a lot of pressure—mostly, from myself and the highly misguided society from which I originate—to be and do everything.

I often hear the following dialogue in my head:

Me: I want to play sports.
Highly Misguided Society from Which I Originate (HMSFWIO): Okay.

Me: I want to be a great scholar and spend all my days in the library.
HMSFWIO: Do it.

Me: I want to be the perfect Mormon and never make any mistakes. Not ever.
HMSFWIO: Jesus did it. We don’t foresee any major issues with you achieving a similar level.

Me: I want to get a perfect score on the GRE.
HMSFWIO: You’re smart. So despite your shortcomings in the testing department, it shouldn’t be much of a problem.

Me: I will do well in all of my language studies.
HMSFWIO: You betchya.

Me: I will maintain healthy and balanced relationships with every person I meet, and I will never take a single soul for granted, because I will always have the energy to be my best in every moment of the day.
HMSFWIO: Naturally.

Me: I will always treat myself well, and I will never be sad no matter how lonely I get.
HMSFWIO: Of course.

Me: I can be and do everything.
HMSFWIO: In the words of Obama, “Yes, you can.”

*************
Have you ever heard such an obscene load of bull in your entire life?

I submit you have not.

I’m not saying I can’t be the things I need to be. I’m saying I need to stop focusing on the things I don’t need to be. I think that’s one of Satan’s favorite lies with me. He’ll show me the possibilities, and then he trips me up in the greedy details. If I can have one piece of pie, why can’t I have ten? He's sneaky. It’s hard for me to accept that’s not the way it works.

Here are a couple of good reminder scriptures.

“Do not run faster or labor more than you have strength….Pray always, that you may come off conqueror; yea that you many conquer Satan, and that you may escape the hands of the servants of Satan that do uphold his work” (D&C 10: 4-5).

And…

“And see that all things are done in wisdom and order; for it is not requisite that a man should run faster than he has strength. And again, it is expedient that he should be diligent, that thereby he might win the prize; therefore, all things must be done in order” (Mosiah 4:27).
Also…

“Peace I leave with you, my peace I give unto you: not as the world giveth, give I unto you. Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid” (14:27).

Vivo la Vida Loca!

2010-08-30T13:01:00.005-06:00

Less than two weeks ago, I was shaking hands with and receiving congratulations from my master’s committee, as I had successfully defended my thesis.

A week ago, today, I received word that I had officially graduated from Weber State.

Fast forward seven days: I am now a student at Salt Lake Community College.

Forgive me, but that’s one hell of a demotion.

I have only myself to blame, really. As a student at BYU, I diligently avoided all language coursework outside of ASL (In my defense, I did successfully make it all the way up to ASL 402, before I stopped. How many kids do you know went that far in a language for which they never received a minor?). And BYU did not, at the time, require students to learn a classic language (derivations of Germanic, Latin, or Greek), to graduate in English. So I graduated and happily avoided learning a foreign tongue.

When I “Got into Weber,” I meticulously looked at the fine print, and realized, once again, I would be given a pass on the foreign language, as their requirements only stipulated that I had to have a BA from another university (If I had gotten a BS, I would have been required to take the language). They assumed if I had a BA, I had already learned my classic language (which would be true if I had graduated just a few years later from BYU).

Whelp kids, I’ve reached the end of the line. I can’t go one step farther in my education without studying a classic language. In order to successfully complete a Ph. D., I must acquire a third option for communication.

So let’s review. If you’ve completed your BA and your MA, and you don’t want to be hit up by any of your previous institutions for graduate tuition, where’s the best place to pick up language credit? That’s right, kids. You go back to a junior college, where you can still enroll as a non-matriculating student, without penalty.

So instead of peers who are professionals, I am now surrounded by students who barely graduated high school and have a permanent look of lost or, worse, vicious little puppies, with pins poking through their faces and black eyeliner.

"Yo necesito tu el lapiz y tu la sangre. Ahora!"

I can only say there’s one perk to going “back to high school,” as it were. I heard a phrase this morning that I haven’t heard in almost a decade: “There will be extra credit.”

Can you believe that?

PS BTW, I'm learning Spanish. I could cry.

Masters Becky & Joss

2010-08-23T18:54:00.010-06:00

In today’s post I feel compelled to discuss two subjects.

First and foremost, last week on Thursday, I successfully defended my Master’s Thesis. And this very morning, my grade was posted…as was my Master’s Degree.

Here’s my transcript:

Isn’t it pretty?
(You'll have to click on it in order to read it.)

I’m getting buzzed just looking at it.

Secondly, and on a completely different topic, I have just recently learned Joss Whedon, My Beloved Secular Humanist Master, will be directing the upcoming Avengers film. If you are unaware of the significance of this choice, allow me to infuse a little context into your world.

There have been or will be five “prequels” leading up to the Avengers film: Iron Man, Iron Man2, Hulk, Captain America, and Thor. The creation of these films has not only pleased the legions of comic fanboys out there, but with the massive success of Iron Man and Iron Man 2, people who have never taken an interest in the canon of comic books are starting to pay attention.

(Joss, as embarrassing and inappropriate as this sounds, is my grown up Bopper pin-up boy!)

The information that Joss would be directing is exciting to me for a variety of reasons.

1. I thought with the untimely death of Dollhouse, Whedon may be forced to lay low for a little while. This proves the death of his most recent television series is not the end of his career by any stretch of the imagination.

2. This project will give Joss the opportunity to really expand his horizons. For the last two decades, he’s had to make do with measly budgets and okay, b-grade, or unknown actors. With this next project, he’ll be working with Robert Downey Jr., for crying out loud.

3. I’m excited to see what he does with such a large cast in film format. He’s always done well with large ensembles in TV-speak. This is a real change, and I’m eager to see what develops.

That being said, some of you may be wondering why I’m even talking about this. I’ve spent a lot of time wondering how to approach the subject of Joss Whedon. It’s hard to explain to people who are not sold and devoted fans, such as myself. Why would anyone care about a moderately successful sci-fi/fantasy, writer/director, whose greatest claim to fame was a couple of late 1990s, early 2000s television shows: one about a rail thin, ditsy vampire slayer, and the other about a crew of space cowboys who speak Chinese?

The only true evidence I can offer is simple but profound. Joss Whedon writes stories that express the innate questions all people have about the human condition. More importantly, he continually approaches subject matter that explores issues of ethics and pushes his audience to think beyond the fantasy or genre. He is a revolutionary artist, and I love him.

(If you’re interested, please read one of my previous posts on Buffy: Television=Brain Liquefier)

Conversations with Dead People

2010-08-14T09:22:00.006-06:00

Next week on Thursday (August 19th), I will be defending my 60-page thesis (Topic: Twentieth Century Cowboy Myth).

The feeling is surreal.

Since June 1st, I’ve toiled endlessly, with little or no contact with the world outside of writing and research. It’s been a grueling two and a half months, and I find myself horribly disoriented now that the ride is over.

My room is in shambles. My life is proverbially disheveled. And I keep looking for my laptop, only to discover the one task I have left is to check my e-mail incessantly. (BTW, it’s loaded with nothing but spam...Balls! Also, why did it comfort me to check my e-mail so frequently when I was writing my thesis? Nobody ever wrote to me. And with precious few exceptions, I never wrote anyone either.)

Now that it’s over, I cannot deny a part of me just wants to shut off to anything but Buffy and Pop Fiction Novels for a week straight. But I refrain, because the strict discipline of my life during this period keeps pounding the same question out of my brain: “What do we do now?”

Should I take a few days off (not of work, but of tasks)? Should I rebuild my room? Should I begin studying for my GRE, right away? Should I sit down and write some music?

What would you do?

I think what I’m suffering from is the giant chasm of disconnect fostered by months of “alone time” and endless hours of conversations with dead people (like John Wayne or Ford, and Owen Wister, author of The Virginian).

I thinks it’s time I rejoined the land of the living.

One Terrible Movie

2010-07-12T16:05:00.005-06:00

My Dear Sir Yardley,

In spite of the dozen or so perfectly good reasons (all of them having to do with much neglected thesis pages) to ignore your request for me to see Clash of the Titans, I have foolishly yielded based on the following reasons:
1. I Love my sister (who persists in her silly, but genuine affection for you).
2. I thought it would amuse me.
3. You might finally cease your insistent queries (Have you seen it yet? Have you, have you, have you? But WHY NOT?).

As you assured me Sir Yardley, there were numerous reasons to hate this movie. However, I have neither the time nor the patience to discuss them all. Consequently, it is my intention to categorize and discuss the highlights of awful.

1) Unforgivable Misuse of Talent
a) I want to know what argument they used to convince the usually lovely Liam Neeson to take a role in this movie. “Okay…you’ll be playing Zeus. First, you’re gonna rape this woman, who will subsequently be killed by her jealous husband, but not before your infant bastard son (i.e. demi-god Perseus) is cast into the ocean, only to be found and adopted by a family of simple fishermen, who will later be killed by your brother Hades. Perseus will hate you, and eventually, and rather idiotically, declare war on you, because he will have miraculously deduced you are the one to blame for his family’s death, as well as the sea’s lack of fish. At the end of the movie, after Perseus saves you, banishes Hades, and has killed the enormous Kraken, you will give him a rousing speech about how it’s bad to be bad, and killing people is wrong. You will also assure him it was you who left the mysteriously anonymous gifts that ultimately enable him to trap Hades and nearly kill you. You will then bring back from the dead his five-minute, demigod girlfriend, whose name I can’t remember. After that, all will be forgiven. Trust me. You’re gonna love being in this movie!” Apparently, Mr. Neeson is not as smart as I thought he was.
b) If he’s not careful, the enormously talented and interesting Ralph Finnes is gonna get type casted as the oiliest bad guy in the history of film (please see his other work as Voldermort in the Harry Potter films and as the serial killer in the Hannibal Lector prequel, Red Dragon). His role as Hades made me shake my head with disappointment.
c) Sam Worthington is a likable actor, and I loved his work in Avatar. I think, however, he needs to take a break from action films. Terminator Salvation and Clash of the Titans just about killed me.

2) Idiotic Plot/Characters
a) Please see section a) of point # 1.
b) There were two heroines who have ten lines between them. Both nearly die hasty, melodramatic deaths. I can’t name either one of them.
c) There are at least half a dozen seemingly important supporting characters whose names were said once or not at all. As it usually is with this sort of script, they all die.
d) There’s still no explanation for the 300-year-old, neon blue-eyed, charcoal people or the random severed hand that turned into a 50 ft scorpion.

3) Terrible, Terrible FX
a) The effects for the cities looked awful.
b) The effects for Medusa were wretched.
c) Zeus’s body armor looked like something from The Neverending Story.
d) The flying daemon bats from the sea were cool, but you never get a clear picture of them.

4) Random quotes and thoughts that came to mind as I watched:
a) “We don’t have any fish. Let’s kill the Gods.”
b) Perseus’s only gift is the ability to get really pissed off. He’s a lame demigod.
c) The Kraken is apparently male, because Medusa can only kill men, and her head kills it.
d) “Shhh…be vewy quiet. We ah hunting Medusa.”
e) Marching in single file, through a lava pit, wearing nothing but a kilt seems like a bad idea.
f) Sam Worthington’s kilt is too high, and makes him look as if he’s wearing a skirt.
g) Everyone in this film has a different accent. There were three confirmed Brits, a dozen Americans with crap voice lessons, one Aussie, and one unconfirmed Canadian.

I hope you are satisfied, Sir Yardley, because I will never watch this movie again.
Until next we meet,
Becky

I Think There's Something Wrong Here...

2010-06-30T12:04:00.003-06:00

I would like to take a moment to uphold the above video, "Safety Dance," as evidence that all the pot, booze, and sex people were abusing during the 60s did have a negative effect on the adults of the 80s.

If you don't believe me, please consider the following:

The "Literal Version" might be a little funnier:

The Bunny Song

2010-06-14T10:29:00.003-06:00

My roommate found this song on the internet and said, "It reminded me of you and your bunny-killer ways."

Who knew that Veggie Tales would be responsible for such a production?

I love the asparagus.

"I don't want to tell a joke that is funny. I just want a plate and a fork and a bunny."

I'm So Happy! It's Like a Birthday Present to Me.

2010-06-11T12:08:00.003-06:00

So my Flyers ended up loosing the Stanley cup. And I spent a good day in mourning over that. But things are looking up. First, my Official Reebok NHL Flyers ballcap came in the mail this morning. And two, Sarah Mclachlan has released a new album after a seven year hiatus. The above is the video for her first single: "Loving You is Easy."

If you want to listen to the whole album, go to Facebook and type in her name. Become a fan. And click on the album tab. My favorite song is "Bring on the Wonder." It reminds me of some her earlier work. In particular it reminds me of her 1991 song, "Mercy."

So life is still worth living, even though my favorite hockey team came just this close to winning it all.

The Crazy Life

2010-06-02T14:38:00.011-06:00

Forgive my incredibly sporadic entries, these days. I’ve been working on my thesis and an independent studies course. With a quota of 25 academic pages a month, my motivation for writing anything else is flattened like a penny on railroad tracks: I’m spread a little thin.

That being said, I thought I’d share a brief list of recent interests and activities.

1. My beloved Flyers are in the Stanley Cup Finals, and I must say I’m not only surprised, but as proud as a momma they’re doing so well. Even better, the Pens were eliminated a full two rounds before my boys. (Sadly, I think I’m almost as happy the Pens failed as I am the Flyers are succeeding. What does that say about me?)

2. I’ve finally put my money where my mouth is: I am raising meat rabbits. This experiment was inspired by a great desire to refrain from eating processed meat. I’ve been fairly vigilant these last six months. Unfortunately, man cannot live by bread alone, nor should he. So I decided to begin raising bunnies, or as I like to call them: furry chickens. This way I know what they’re eating, how they’re treated, and the process by which they met their maker.

(There's not much going on upstairs.)

A lot of people have expressed concern I won’t be able to follow through with the last part of my experiment, i.e. killing them. But I’ve taken careful steps to alleviate possible problems in this regard. First, they live outside. Secondly, I haven’t named them. And thirdly, aside from the daily feeding, watering, cleaning, and handling (once in the morning and once at night, five to ten minutes each time), I spend very little time with them. To be quite honest, from what little time I have spent, I’m not nearly as excited about the six of them as I might be with six rats. Ultimately, their vacant expressions and skitterish personalities make it a lot easier for me to imagine them in my oven one day.

3. I’ve finished my independent linguistics course with an “A,” and there is nothing more for me to complete in my masters program but my thesis. If you had told me when I first started I’d be done two years to the month I began the program, I would have called you a liar. I feel very blessed.

4. In two weeks, I’m headed to the Telluride Bluegrass Festival, in Telluride, CO. It’s the first time ever for me to see the following: Alison Krauss and Union Station, Court Yard Hounds, Chris Thile, Left Over Salmon, Victor Krauss, Jerry Douglass, and Bela Fleck. A pig in poo could not be happier.

5. I've discovered:

I'm in love with him. I really am.

Mental Junk Food

2010-05-14T12:06:00.005-06:00

Do you ever find yourself enjoying things you know are mental junk food?

Even when I know they're the proverbial equivalent to a twinkie, I still find myself periodically indulging in favorites like the Twilight series (films and books) and Greys Anatomy.

It's pathetic, really.

For awhile I was free of Greys. The writing was TERRIBLE, due to botched contract negotiations with starlet Katherine Heigl (First she was hallucinating a dead husband, then she had skin cancer, then she developed a brain tumor, then she married Kerev, and finally she just faded off of the show: they didn't have the decency to kill her). Now that she's gone the writers are free to get back to what they do best: creating marshmallow, cavity-causing, soap operatic fluff. And do I stop myself? No.

I am ashamed.

As for the Twilight series...I'm a grad student in English: I KNOW in my innermost soul this stuff is crap. Yet I read and watch just the same.

My one question for all of of this is. "Why? Why, why, why?"

I Don't Need This Crap...But I Want It.

2010-04-21T14:51:00.007-06:00

Have you ever found yourself coming across an item you don't need, but for some reason you cannot talk yourself out of wanting it?

The latest addition to my "I Don't Need This Crap, But I Want It" List is called a Utilikilt.

Yes. That's right. For $250 I can look like a girl: man-style.

Here's a list of Pros and Cons.

Pros:
1. I could legitimately justify spending fifteen minutes a day fantasizing about living in the forest with the rippling William Wallace (I'm not even Scottish, but I'm sure the kilt will buy me into a clan, somewhere).
2. With a neutral color, I could potentially wear it to work, daily, for the rest of my life, and never be worried about breaking the feminine dress code.
3. Button up or dress down with t-shirt and sneakers: This kilt looks flippin' AWESOME.

Cons:
1. For the price of one kilt, I could pay for approximately one-half of my entire current wardrobe.
2. I'd have to wear shorts with it (I just couldn't risk falling bum-over-tea kettle without a back up plan. Besides, what if I wanted to climb a tree?).
3. I know it would give me a more authentic look, but I just don't know if I can stand NOT to shave my legs.

I realize I'm alone on this particular item, but does anybody else feel this way about something this ridiculous?

A Quick Word on Greg Laswell

2010-04-19T18:09:00.004-06:00

One of my favorite alternative artists, Greg Laswell, is launching his latest record on May 5th. In celebration, I decided to add a play tab to my site.

If you like mellow (well...generally), piano driven alternative music, I suggests you take a listen. A few of my favorite titles are:

1. Take Everything
2. My Flight
3. Come Clean
4. In Front of Me
5. Off I Go

Go ahead. Who's it gonna hurt?

I’m a Confederalist

2010-04-06T14:55:00.003-06:00

As of late, I’ve been reading a lot of Civil War novels, in lieu of what I should be reading: Victorian period literature (I find I never read WHAT I’m supposed to, WHEN I’m supposed to. It’s the curse of an English Major).

When I was a kid living in Philadelphia, and I first learned about the Civil War, it seemed like a no brainer: of course the Union was in the right. But as I’ve matured, become more informed, and spent most of my teenage years in the South, I’ve discovered there was a lot more to it than the issue of Slavery.

What makes me Federalist?

1. The United States would never have realized its full potential if the South had successfully and permanently seceded: “A house divided cannot stand.”

2. I have tremendous conviction Abraham Lincoln was anointed of God to lead this nation. His push for the Union and his emancipation of slaves, if nothing else, made his cause just.

3. I have two great, great uncles who served in the New York Federalist regiment, and I feel a kinship to them. (Both, incidentally, served in Gettysburg, and both survived.)

What makes me Confederate?

1. I realize slavery was a horrible and unjust construct, and I’m glad the Union succeeded in abolishing it, but I definitely have sympathy for the Confederacy’s resentment towards the Federal Government. The Government, unless there is a strong possibility the laws of God or the Constitution will be violated, doesn’t have the right to control a state if the majority of that state doesn’t believe in what the Government is pushing. For a contemporary example, if 38 States of 50 don’t want socialized medicine, and the Government still somehow pushes the legislation through, there’s a problem. As far as I’m concerned, you want money for schools or for an army? Fine. But when the Government starts ownin’ the banks, people start talkin’ ‘bout socialized control, and I’m told half my paycheck is going to lazy asses with five welfare babies, I start thinkin’ about pullin’ out a HUGE Confederate flag, myself. Charity is for the weak, not for the lazy and weak-minded. (Wow! That went someplace entirely unexpected.)

2. The South is by far the superior culture. PERIOD. Who wouldn’t want to preserve it?
Southerner to strangers: “Hi y’all. Did you eat? Well, come on in. I’m sure glad to know ya.”

North Easterner to family member: “Get the hell off of my doorstep, unless you’re here to give me that money you owe me.”

Maybe I’m just crazy, but I feel sympathy and alliance to both.

Wouldn't Take Nothin' for My Journey

2010-04-01T16:12:00.010-06:00

I looked out the window this morning, and this is what "Spring" had for Salt Lakers. Yep. That's my backyard covered in snow.

At first I thought of the Seven Brides for Seven Brothers' song: "June Bride, Reprise."

LIZA, SARAH & DORCAS
March comes in like a lion, what else?
Still the snow never melts.

LIZA & ALICE
April showers will come, so they say.

LIZA
But they don't, and it's May.

Then I could just hear my cousin saying, "That's why I moved back to Florida."

After that, I took another moment, stared at the mountains, breathed in the cold wet air, and I thought to the myself, "Well, Sara Lyn, I'll always wish you were here. But I wouldn't trade these grand peaks of the North or the red rock of the South, if it snowed until August, and I never saw the ocean again."

Wet Cat Day

2010-03-29T15:32:00.004-06:00

This picture describes my basic mood, today.

1. I was turned down for a job I really wanted for political reasons that had nothing to do with me.

2. I have interest in a boy who has no interest in me (After three dates, I was left with the distinct impression all I’m gonna get outta of this is another mooching friendship. And just to make it perfectly clear: I am NOT the moocher).

3. My freakin’ motorcycle parts are still on backorder. I’ve waited three weeks for them so far, and I’m told I’ll have to wait another two weeks for the parts to even get mailed. I am NOT pleased: It is warm enough to ride NOW!

4. I’ve got three weeks to write 27 pages. I am so screwed.

5. I have a cavity.

6. I ate ham yesterday. I haven’t had a piece of processed meat in almost three months. I am ASHAMED. If I had been a good girl, I would have cooked the elk steak that’s in my freezer. I know I haven’t discussed this in great detail, but I’ve attempted to maintain a processed meat FREE diet, due to a moral protest I have against the four main meat processors in this country. If you’d like to learn more, watch this video:

7. My Truck is still leaking oil! There’s a crack in one of the engine valve covers, and I’ve already spent $400 replacing two gaskets and an engine electrical cable.

8. The pace and loneliness of my life is starting to leave cracks in my heart. I’m scrabbling to plug the holes, but sometimes I find my heart leaking through my eyes.

Viral Death

2010-03-17T16:34:00.002-06:00

It’s That Time of Year

I don’t know what it is about late winter/early spring, but this seems the time of year I’m most susceptible to experiencing what I have affectionately named: The Upper Respiratory Viral Death from Hell.

Last year I wrote a very funny post on the subject: http://rebekahspeak.blogspot.com/2009_02_01_archive.html

Out comes my usual arsenal:
1. Airbourne—grapefruit flavor (I’m not entirely sure this isn’t a placebo).
2. Orange Juice—at least a gallon
3. Sudafed—the real kind, where you have to show an ID to get it
4. Ibuprofen—generic, by the bottle full
5. Aloe Tissues—sometimes saving the skin underneath my nose is worth the extra money
6. Caffeine—usually in the form of a Sobe or Diet Coke (oooh…with maraschino cherries. Yum!)

What makes you feel better, when you feel like dying?
I’m open to suggestions.

Pepper Potts in the Desert

2010-03-16T15:50:00.012-06:00

Last week on Wednesday, I went through my habitual routine of puttering through the KSL ads [online local classifieds] in search of used motorcycle deals. I never really have any intention of buying anything on these excursions. I just like to read and dream about things that will take me years to acquire, if ever.

However, on this particular occasion, I came across something that made my jaw drop and my fingers race for my cell phone.

St. George, UT
USED KLR 2005: $1500
10,000 miles
Sun-faded Fairings [the plastics that cover the bike]
Good Mechanical Condition

Let me put this into a little bit of perspective for you. KLRs from 2004-2007 go for $2,500-$3,000. So naturally, you can see why I was excited.

In spite of my initial worries over impulsive shopping and the possibility of a scam [KSL has recently fallen victim to those kinds of listings], I finally dialed. The ad had only been up for a half an hour, but the owner said he already had a couple of offers. I told him I had cash in hand, but I couldn’t make it down to St. George until Saturday morning. He finally agreed to hold it, when I told him I lived in Salt Lake and was willing to transport the bike myself. We agreed to meet at 7:00 on Saturday morning.

Thus, an adventure began.

Friday night, after work, I got everything ready to go. I packed my sleeping bag, one of my many blow-up mattresses, a brand new mattress pump [thanks, Mom], a lantern [thanks for that too, Mom], a thermos of piping hot tea and oatmeal water [minus the water, Mom also], two boards for getting the bike into the truck [thanks, Professor Cheney], and tie downs for the trip back [Mom]. (Obviously this trip might not have been possible were it not for my Mother and Father’s excellent taste in camping equipment and gear, and their admonishing advice on always coming prepared.)

I left Salt Lake at around 20:00 (8:00 pm), drove four and a half hours, and decided to bunker down about 20 miles outside of St. George city limits. I figured I wasn’t paying for sleep in a hotel, when I could get sleep for free in the desert.

I pulled off at a ranch exit, and as I set everything up in the bed of my truck, I couldn’t help but feel excited. Here I was in the desert, on my way to possibly becoming the owner of my very own KLR. The air was warm; the sky was full of stars; my life felt full of possibility. I took off my shoes, crawled into my sleeping bag, and felt certain that sleep and opportunity were fast approaching.

Then a hoot owl hooted. He wasn’t more than thirty feet from my truck. I was pretty tired, so stupidly, I tried ignoring him. Unfortunately, he didn’t stop until two in the morning. That’s right about the time the coyotes got going. I decided to leave at about 6:00, with a grand total of three hours of sleep.

There’s a lot to be said for “free” sleep.

I arrived at the guy’s house early. Everything in his front yard (camper, cars, the house itself) had a “For Sale” sign on it.
He never said, but the set up reeked of divorce or lack of work. And since he said he would have been at work were it not for the sale, I assumed divorce.

It also didn’t take me long to discover why he was selling the bike for such a small price tag. After looking at it for a few minutes, I had a laundry list of replacement or upgrade to-dos.

Battery $45
Oil & Filter $45
Shift Lever $45
Back Tire $100
Brake Pads $120
Chain $120

It needed roughly $500 worth of “get into fighting shape work.”

I also had a list of things I needed for the bike regardless of how much I had to pay for it.

Lowering Links $200 (KLRs are built for taller people)
Valve Adjustment $200 (For peace of mind)
Doohickey $300-$500 (Kawasaki engineering flaw…I’d have to replace it, anyway)

The idea of getting the bike so cheaply did have a few perks, however. I could afford to license, title, and register it for a much cheaper price. I also realized I could slowly do the upgrades, while waiting for spring, summer and most like early fall to arrive.

It didn’t take much more “thinking about it.” We put her into the back of my truck, and I drove the whole way, wondering how I would make this project work for me.

She’s at the shop right now. She’s still there, waiting for her slew of initial work and aftermarket parts to arrive.

I’ve decided to call her Pepper Potts (Iron Man Reference for you fanboys out there), because she’s red, and she comes from a piping hot desert.

PS The Beast will soon be sold. I’ll be sure to write a solid obituary when she finally goes.

Troubles in Idaho

2010-02-04T18:21:00.002-07:00

A few weeks ago I went for a visit to the Utah neighboring states of Idaho and Wyoming. I’d been planning this trip for a little over a month—ever since I found out there would be a Brandi Carlile concert in Jackson, and realized that I could also conveniently check out Idaho State’s English Ph. D. program in Pocatello on the way.

The visit to Idaho State turned out to be a huge disappointment. I was hopeful about the program, because it meant that I could stay close to home for my Ph. D. and enjoy the benefits of in-state tuition (Idaho and Utah have reciprocal funding programs).

Alas, it was not meant to be. I was told I was a very viable candidate, but the recession had all but stopped any opportunity for additional funding. Tuition would be around $6,000 (in-state), and living expenses would be about $8,000—$14,000 of debt a year with no guarantee of a job in the Arts after graduation is NOT an option. I would finish the program with approximately $60,000 of debt. To put this sum into perspective for myself, I started to count how many BMW motorcycles (the most expensive motorcycles on the market) I could buy for that kind of money, and the total came to three—two new and one used, fully loaded BMW GS1200 Adventurers.

In addition to the bad fiscal news, I was also told the Ph. D. program at ISU would not even prepare me to teach in a level one research school (BYU, U of U). If I earned my degree there, I would only be able to teach at two-year institutions. I can already do that with my Masters.

Consequently, my future plans in Idaho came to an abrupt end. I am currently considering alternative, slower-cooking possibilities.

Thankfully, to drown my sorrows, I went to the Mangy Moose Saloon, located in Jackson Hole, Wyoming, to see Brandi Carlile sing some good old-fashioned folk-rock. It was wonderful.

Even better, the Mangy Moose was euphoric. I’m not sure how many of you know I am a Moose Nut, but I was up to my eyeballs in the gift shop. I got a Mangy Moose shirt, mug, bumper sticker, and even a pocketknife. It was pathetic how little control I had. I was a very happy camper.

However, the most exciting event of the night actually happened on the way back to Idaho Falls, where my copilot and I were staying the night. It was approximately 1:30 in the morning, just as we had driven over Moose Creek, when we saw something huge in the road: a Moose Cow, with baby in tow.

Can you freakin’ believe it? What are the chances? “On my way back from the Mangy Moose, as I was driving over Moose Creek, I nearly ran into two moose, at 1:30 in the morning.” You have to smile at the coincidence of it all. I was tickled pink.

A Face Only a Mother Could Love

2009-12-15T12:28:00.003-07:00

When I was a freshman in college, I went through a deep funk. I couldn’t manage to pass any of my classes (One aspect of my life that has definitely changed over the years), and my love-life was a wasteland (Another aspect of my life that hasn’t changed at all).

To console myself in my misery, I decided I would buy myself a rodent friend: a hamster.
So I went to the local pet shop on Main Street in Provo (I think it was called “Jay’s Jungle, and I’m fairly certain it’s still there), in search of a brainless fur-ball. Unfortunately, when I arrived, I discovered three cages full of mice, two cages of feeder rats, and not one blessed hamster in the whole stinkin’ store.

Useless!

Be that as it may, I would not be deterred: I had just purchased a $10 ten-gallon tank from off a Wilk-board advertisement and bought nine-hundred pounds of cedar shavings. I was determined not to leave the store without a friend. So I went back to reexamine the mice and rat selections.

The mice were pitiful, with their blind stares and pink albino eyes. I became totally uninterested.
Then, I looked at the rat cages.

I stared for a long time.

First, I saw two rats licking each other’s faces and cuddling together to stay warm, and I thought how bizarrely endearing they both were, if not somewhat disgusting. Then a little black-hooded boy popped his head up from out of a mass of others eating from a communal food bowl. He was smaller than the others, but he looked curiously straight up at me.

I bought him five minutes later.

I was obsessed with Jackie Chan movies at the time, and I wanted to name him something Chinese. My roommate’s fiancé spoke Mandarin (I didn’t realize at the time, Jackie Chan was from Hong Kong, where only Cantonese is spoken), so we named him “Way-ba” or “tail.”

Wayba was something special. His disposition was sweet, and he was smart. He learned tricks, and he would sit on my shoulders for hours while I wrote papers or talked on the phone. He was the perfect friend, and when I would cry, he would lick the tears from my face. He was not unlike a very, very small dog.

I kept Wayba for two and a half years. During that time, I moved three times. He handled it well. For a while, he even lived at my sister’s apartment, when an unreasonable roommate would not let me keep him in the apartment (Neener, a best friend, would hide him during winter cleaning checks by rapping his cage up like a gift for a day or two).

When he died in the spring of 2003, my heart was broken. I don’t think, with exception of one dog I had, I ever loved an animal more.

I took his little body to the mountains, and buried it in Rock Canyon, after digging a more than adequate hole in the sand stone with a pick axe I “borrowed” from BYU Grounds Crew.

I tell this story, because after two years of being petless, and almost five years of being ratless, I’ve been looking into the possibility of some new friends.

Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!

2009-11-16T22:55:00.003-07:00

(You can have this baby for a song and a cool $800.)

A number of years ago, in the midst of unfocused undergraduate boredom, my best friend Jemima and I got what she called, “a scathingly brilliant idea.” We would plan a trip to Europe.

I wanted to visit Belgium, because I had friends living there at the time, and she wanted to visit a place where people actually spoke German, because she had taken all those years of German classes.

I had maybe $500 saved. I have no idea how much she had. Tickets to Europe were going for $850-$1600 a round trip ticket.

As usual, we hadn’t planned very well, money was tight, and we were running out of time. Then one of our friends told us about an “Internet Deal.” We could get tickets to Europe for $120 round trip.

We were overjoyed with our “luck.” We went home, carefully read the internet site for what seemed like minutes, and then we both pulled out our credit cards.

What were we thinking when we thought that deal was for real?

Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!

Final Conclusion: We didn’t go to Europe and were both out $120.

I was reminded of this story the other day, when my boss came to tell me he had just purchased a used vehicle: a 1998 fuel injected 3/4 Ton 4X4 Chevy Truck with 215,000 miles on it.

“Can you believe it? I got it for only $1700.” He smiled, incredibly pleased with himself.

Let me spell it out for you if you’re not mechanically savvy or much into automobiles: this truck had way too many freakin’ miles on it. If its engine were sound, it would have cost him at least $4,000.

My eyes stared blankly, and then I said with the fakest excited tone I could, “That’s awesome!” Naturally, what I was actually thinking was, “S-M-R-T! Dumbass. You just bought a lemon.”

Three days after he bought it, the engine threw a rod. I kid you not.

These lessons bring to mind Some Principles to Live By:

1. If it looks too good to be true, it probably is.

2. The flavor for hard work has an infinitely better taste than “Quick and Dirty.”

3. NOTHING is for free. You pay for everything eventually.

4. Gambling is a tax for people who are bad at math.

5. You get what you pay for.

6. Resist the tempting moment. There's almost always more than one option.

7. Never be afraid to be honest with yourself. Plenty of people will lie to you; you shouldn't be one of them.

8. Learn your lesson: Eat the humble pie. It's yummy.

The Common Denominator is Me

2009-11-06T17:10:00.003-07:00

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

2009-11-02T18:51:00.007-07:00

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.

untitled

2009-10-08T22:25:00.001-06:00

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

2009-09-16T09:17:00.002-06:00

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)

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

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

2009-09-03T11:34:00.003-06:00

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?

2009-08-16T22:14:00.008-06:00

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.)

“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.
I finished 20 pages of my thesis.
My best friend Jemima moved to Arizona.
K got married.
My parents and my Floridian cousins visited me in Utah.
I completed more than 50 pages of academic writing (NON thesis) in less than 9 weeks.
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?

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.”
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.
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.
I love Thomas Hardy’s poetry.
I love Rudyard Kipling’s poetry.

The King is Dead

2009-06-26T18:27:00.001-06:00

“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.

Love The Beast

2009-06-19T14:03:00.013-06:00

“There’s not a lot of room for bonding with objects and even people sometimes. I think that’s tragic.”

--Dr. Phil McGraw

In 1990, when I was eight years old and still living on the now shut down naval base in Philadelphia, I met a neighbor down the street who was washing his red cruiser style motorcycle. I don’t remember the make, model, or year—I just remember hearing it rev and wanting a ride.

He then called to his three children, who were scattered in different places on the very small backstreet in the neighborhood, and proceeded to give them each a ride around the block, one by one. After everyone took a turn, he called out to me and asked if I wanted a ride.

I wanted one alright.

But I also remember feeling apprehension that my mother would find out what I'd done, and for some reason that scared me. The machine itself also left me with a weird mix of exhilaration and terror—it was so much bigger than I was. In the end, I chose not to take his offer.

(A 1990 Honda Gold Wing, with similar color and style to that first motorcycle.)

The years passed, and I completely forgot about the experience.

A little more than a decade later, I was twenty and attending college at BYU. I was broke, but dying for some means of transportation. Up until that point, I had owned two indisputable lemons—a beat up 1990 Plymouth Sundance and a crappy little Indian-made (as in the country) moped. I was ready for something better.

So I started browsing the BYU “Wilk Board,” where students essentially place 3X5 index-card-classified ads with promotions of everything from vehicles to used hair dryers. And that’s when I saw an advertisement for this—

A 1982 Honda CM 450.

Asking price? $850.

Did I have the money? Barely.

Did I own a helmet, leathers, license, insurance, or even the ability to ride it from the selling location to my apartment three blocks away? Absolutely not.

My life until I acquired that bike? An endless torment of misery.

It took me a half an hour to get it home after I bought it. I was still unsure of which side was the clutch and which was the brake. When I finally got it home, I parked it and stared at it for another half an hour.

I was in love.

Its greasy smell, its loud engine, and its amazingly fast pick-up—I'd never felt that way before about any piece of machinery.

When I sold it three and a half years later to help recover the costs of tuition and impeding surgery fees—I was graduating and I had also blown out my knee—I wept.

Nevertheless, after only a brief year’s stay in Florida post graduation, I was back in Utah and broke once again.

I did have a truck, but the summer I bought it, I drove from Florida to Ontario, Canada and back. When I left Florida, I put an additional 2,500 miles on it. I was racking up the mileage, and I knew that if I kept up the pace, I would ruin my truck—a vehicle that would have to last me through grad and post-grad school.

While contemplating different ways to spare my truck, I was walking through the library and came across a documentary I had never heard of, The Long Way Round, with Ewan McGregor, of Star Wars fame, and Charlie Boorman.

(The cover art for their same autobiography that accompanied the 2004 film version.)

The film was a six hour ode to cross-country motorbiking. Charlie and Ewan took their bikes all the way from London, England to the furthermost eastern tip of Russia. There, they hopped a flight to Alaska, drove through Canada, and then the United States, finally ending into New York City.

Here, watch an advertisement for it.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yk_Qkz_5ti8

Here's another advert for its 2008 sequel, Long Way Down.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J_gf3vM9CQQ

I saw the first film, and I got an idea of how I was going to "save my truck." I was going to buy a beast.

I knew that I couldn't afford the fancy BMW's pictured above. Now that I think about it, I couldn't really afford anything, as I had just barely gotten a job as a security guard. But I had $1200 in the bank I was eyeballing with the express purpose of acquiring a motorcycle.

I knew I couldn't settle for anything less than 900cc. My Honda 450 had been a great vehicle, and I loved it. But I learned a few things about having a bike with that small of an engine. One, it was too light--even moderate wind could blow me dangerously out of control. Two, it was too small--I felt like a bug when I went around semis. Three, driving uphill, the engine was pathetic. And finally, its top speed was 70 miles an hour on the freeway.

So I began looking through the KSL ads (a local online classified for Salt Lake City), searching for my beast. And then I came across this--

A 1982 Yamaha XJ 1100 Maxim (Mine is confederate red.).

It was love all over again.

For the last two summers I've driven this, and only this. Wind, rain, sunshine--I can't get enough of it.

Maybe someday I'll finally get one of those fancy BMW GS 1200 Adventurers, but until then, I'll love my Beast.

Going It Alone

2009-06-17T08:13:00.021-06:00

Lately, I’ve felt a streak of melancholy enter my existence. The streak is made up of two things. So I guess, technically, you could call it two small streaks. Or maybe the two streaks combine to make one big streak. Perhaps streaks are the wrong metaphor altogether.

I digress.

Let’s talk.

This past week, I came to a realization—the women’s BYU ultimate team is beginning to dissolve. People are jaded, injured, or ready to move on (marriage, grad school), and the time has come to say good-bye for awhile—maybe forever.

This change got me thinking about how many years of my life I’ve invested playing this obscure sport. How much joy and heartache it has caused me mentally, physically and emotionally.

(A side-by-side comparison of my legs after my second knee reconstruction surgery in 2006.)

I’m not really interested in a “walk down memory lane,” as of yet. What I am interested in talking about is the emotional hole I’m beginning to feel open up.

This loss is combined with another problem I’m starting to face—the loss of youth. I’m getting older, uglier, and fatter by the day.
(This 2005 picture of my bicep shows me in peak condition. Why don't they warn you're not going to feel that good forever?)

These are just the cold hard facts. Life is changing.

I’m not saying I don’t have some constancy. My older sister and my parents are a big help in that department. But I am single, and I'm sure most people would agree, out of preservation for healthy autonomy, single people require semi-permanent relationships in order to cope with their lack of permanent family structure. The only problem with this is, eventually, these structures fall apart, and one is left to emotionally fend for oneself.

Consequently, a festering question has formed in my mind—“If home is where the heart is, and the heart is where loved ones are, what do you do with yourself after everyone has left? Where is home?"

I’m tired of being the one left behind.

I’m tired of my ambition, because as gratifying as it is, it offers little consolation for this particular brand of lonely.

When I stare into my undivined future, I realize how many miles I have left to go. And I'm afraid I might have to go them alone.

Whose woods these are I think I know
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there’s some mistake.
T he only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

-Robert Frost

My Eclectic American Heritage.

2009-06-09T15:38:00.050-06:00

I lead a very charmed life when it comes to where I live. I say this for several reasons. First, it is absolutely beautiful living in down town Salt Lake. Second, I'm just a few miles (sometimes less, sometimes more) away from every amazing natural attraction on the Wasatch. Third, I have very sane roommates (which has, unfortunately, not always been the case.). Lastly, I am exactly where I'm supposed to be right now. And nothing feels better than knowing where you belong. Es las verdad?

Anywho, last night I went for a quick jog around the capitol building, and I noticed the beautiful arrangement of the state and national flags. And that got me to thinking about all the places I've called home and all the flags that I've lived under. I even got a little misty eyed (although that could have been the sweat from my forehead rolling into my eyeballs.).

So here's the Utah flag. Ain't it grand? I get a bitter kick out of the two "established" dates. The US government has a lot to answer for when it comes to their bigoted treatment of my Mormon forefathers. I guess the U.S. just wasn't ready for us.

Nevertheless, I wasn't always here in Utah. If we want to get nit-picky, my genes started somewhere in Germany...

Ireland...

Sweden...

Norway...

England...

And, according to one family legend, the Iroquois Confederacy.

You could call the majority of me British, but I wouldn't.

Life actually started for me in Fort Ord, California. The only thing I could remember about living there was a pile of dirt I ate as a two year old in the backyard.

Then there was Alabama.

Then Germany (It was two countries back then.).

And let's not forget Pennsylvania...

Where I met my favorite Canadian friends.

At times, I felt more "at home" in Canada, than some of the places I was actually living. In total, I've probably lived there for less than a year. But many of these provinces I've thought of as home.

Quebec... New Brunswick... Ontario...

British Columbia...

Nova Scotia...

Manitoba...

and P.E. Island.

And now I want to shift my focus to the glorious state in which I went to high school: Florida.

Which makes me think fondly of this flag.

Unfortunately...because so many ignorant white rednecks insisted on turning it into a symbol that has more in common with this piece of crap....

These will have to do.
The Confederate States flag.

And the Bonnie Blue.

Isn't if fun to think about all the places you've been and all the places you'll go?

What Does "Family" Mean, Anyway?

2009-06-02T18:11:00.010-06:00

This is the Perrine Bridge in Twin Falls Idaho. It provides substantial proof that Idaho isn't completely ugly.

My relationship with my biological father is strained at best. Not because I don’t feel love for him or wish him well, but because his role in my formidable years—age 11 to 21— is an absolute blank. Was he a good man? Was he a bad man? I have no fair answer. He was absent, nonexistent, estranged—which is to imply a pejorative impact, but it's not necessarily reflective of an evil character.

I mention this because over this past weekend, my older sister and I had the opportunity to go to a family reunion of sorts in Idaho. There we met with my biological father’s entire side of the family for the first time in my memory. Two of my father’s three younger sisters I hadn’t met since early childhood. One of the two I couldn’t remember at all.

It was surreal to look at these family members--many of whom look a lot like me--and realize that I probably knew my co-workers better than these people. They were all very polite, if somewhat indifferent, and with exception of one Aunt (we'll call her amazing Aunt Alaska for the sake of this blog), I couldn't think of one thing I had in common with any of of them.

When we finally left the reunion, I started to feel depressed and ambivalent. My heart and mind began to wander into a room that has long since, for the most part, been shutoff and left to collect dust in the inner sanctums of my conscious. I have deliberately avoided this room, because it contains hundreds of empty boxes where memories with my father should be. As I tentatively entered to drop off these new memories, all I could hear was an echo. It left me feeling angry and dejected--I resented this room's emptiness.

Perhaps one day this will change. In the future, it might be better for me to store the new memories in a different room altogether. I’m not sure. What I do know is not all of my memory rooms are this sad and lonely, and for that I’m eternally grateful. I have been blessed in my life with a series of unconventional familial connections. These connections have made such indelible impressions that I am forced to reevaluate my definition of “family.”

1. First, I have a step father who has been absolutely supportive since the first day we met. I am moved by his kindness and impressed by his unfathomable capacity for patience. I'm also grateful for someone in the family who has similar interests to mine. He's an outdoors enthusiast, knowledgeable about the Southern culture, highly educated, and he loves the gospel. He truly is the father I never had.

2. The second set of people who've had a huge impact on my life are my uncle and aunt--who, in actuality, are only related as fifth or sixth cousins. That familial connection, however slight, was reinforced to within an inch of its life while I was growing up. I cannot say how many meals I've eaten at their table or how many times my uncle helped me with homework in high school (-"Want to hear a joke about inertia, Becky?" -"Now that you mention it Uncle, No. No, I don't."). I am also excessively fond of my cousins. One I idolized (we shall call him Sethie-poo) and another with whom I have enjoyed years of sibling rivalry, fighting, and eventually an quasi-intellectual truce ("-My argument is logically sound." -"But you're still wrong." -"How wrong would I be if I offered you some chocolate?" -"How 'bout you give me the chocolate, and let me think it over?").

3. Lastly, I have enjoyed an incredibly short list of best friends who've had an astounding impact on my life: Jaime, Jea9, & Bep. You ladies know who you are. I would not be who I am today without you.

"Family" doesn't just mean blood. It means love.

Happy, Happy…Joy, Joy!

2009-05-27T14:52:00.006-06:00

Ah...the wonderful Girlyman. We'll talk more about them later.

Author’s Note: I realize some of my more devoted fans have wondered what I’ve been up to the last little bit. I apologize, but I feel guilty writing for pleasure, when I should be writing thesis pages. Thus, “My World” will be getting “short-changed” until the end of the summer. This doesn’t mean I’ve stopped writing altogether—it’s just gonna be less until my thesis board grants me life again.

Dollhouse & A Brief Message about Independent music

In an unexpected move, Fox TV Network has given Joss Whedon’s Dollhouse a second chance at life. Dollhouse, before season one ended, was barely averaging 3 million viewers a week. Comparatively, Fox TV’s highest rated series, American Idol, averaged 35 Million viewers a week. Even if we were to compare Dollhouse to a relatively close in genre show like Fox’s Bones, we’re still talking an average of 8 million viewers a week. Dollhouse wasn’t even doing half of that.

So why is Dollhouse being saved when its ratings should make it the number one show Fox wants to get rid of? There are three reasons. One, Dollhouse is not only distributed by Fox, it’s owned by Fox. So Fox Corporation eventually sees all of the revenue this show will ever produce—DVD sales, online viewing advertisement income—any monetary gain associated with the show. This wasn’t the case for The Sarah Connor Chronicles—distributed by Fox, but owned by the WB Corporation. That show, which was faring a little better than Dollhouse at certain points, finally gasped its last breath and died at the end of its second season.

Secondly, Dollhouse’s upfront costs were relatively steep, but now the show will require very little monetary maintenance. Whedon spent a huge amount on his fully encompassing set, which will allow him to make future episodes for incredibly cheap prices. If Fox were to scrub the show now, there’s a good chance they’d end up spending a heap of money trying to development yet another show not likely to do any better in the dreaded Friday Night timeslot—Friday night shows haven’t done well on Fox since the cancellation of X-files in 2002.

The last reason—and this one is really a vindication for all of those Whedonites that suffered through the death of Firefly—has to do with Fox kicking themselves. When Joss’s show Firefly was cancelled after not even a complete first season was finished, DVD sales indicated it was an incredibly stupid move. They lost big time in potential revenue—fans were rabid enough to help get the show produced into a one-time film/ show finale: Serenity. The film made millions.

So there you go.

My feelings on the subject? I am ecstatic, and my fondness for the show has increased ten fold, due to the last four episodes of season one.

Explanation? It’s simple really. In the tradition of Joss Whedon’s previous shows, it took a while for Dollhouse to gain any emotional momentum. There were too many “stand alone” episodes in the beginning, and I simply didn’t care what was happening. Nothing was set up in the storyline to compel me to come back the next week. But then the writing staff and Whedon finally figured out a rhythm that worked. It is my personal belief the drastic improvements started to take shape when former Buffy writer, Jane Espenson, came on midway through the season.

In addition to those changes, guest actors (most of which were previously introduced to Whedonites in shows such as Angel and Firefly) and surprise twists took this show in a whole new direction, and ultimately, to a whole new level. I’m very pleased Whedon has found a vein of his A-game juice, and I hope he continues to milk it.

And now for the music…

It’s been an extremely exciting summer for music here in my now hometown of Salt Lake City, UT. Perhaps the most exciting experience of all happened this past weekend, when I had the opportunity to attend the concert of my favorite band Girlyman.

Over the many years they have unknowingly enjoyed the top position on “My Favorite Band” list, my efforts to see them in concert have been thwarted by cross-country moves, severe lack of funding due to unexpected early grad school admittance, and excruciating gas prices (Last summer we hit the top of that at $4.20 a gallon.). Driving my truck to their Denver concert, a mere 450 miles away, last year would have cost me somewhere around $150.00. Ouch!

This year, however, was different. They were a little closer—Fort Collins, CO (about an hour closer). Gas has made its way back down, at least temporarily, to a “within reason” price. And I’m in a lot better financial positioning—I’ve paid off my initial student loan. As soon as I read they would come again, I knew I had to go. I HAD TO!

The concert did not disappoint. They sang most of my favorites, a few of their new songs (I can’t wait for their new record to get out at the end of this year!), and they were, most of all, enormously entertaining. I know I said the Brandi Carlile concert was the best I’ve ever been to, but it’s hard to top seeing your favorite band.

After the show was over, I stood in line to meet them, and they were incredibly gracious. They signed a poster, and I even got gutsy enough to ask the great Nat Borofsky for one of the paper play lists they had on their stage that night (a piece of paper with their song sets). They even took a few pictures with me. OMH (that’s: “Oh, my heck!”)!!!!

Thankfully, the summer has a lot more to offer by way of live music here in SLC. Indigos are coming next month, as well as Greg Laswell. So many wonderful artists! "It's my birthday present to me. I'm so happy."

We are, all of us, Mothers...

2009-05-08T15:11:00.005-06:00

This morning I got up four times. Once at 1:30. Then at 2:30. Once more at 4:00. Finally, I got out of bed at 5:30. My sister showed up 15 minutes after that, and we were off to the hospital.

Again.

Before I go any further, let’s back up a bit. My nephew, whom we shall call Rollie for the sake of this blog, had to undergo anesthesia for the third time in as many weeks, due to repetitive shifting in the glorious fractures he acquired in the radius and ulna of his cute, fat, little right arm(Please see the above illustration of a similar injury.). When my sister called me about it last night, she explained she would have to get up at four-something in the morning, drive forty-five minutes to downtown, and wait hours and hours while a doctor set and cast her son’s arm.

Again.

Most people, when they hear of their loved ones experiencing incidents such as these, offer sympathy and verbal encouragement. But before I could even evaluate the implications of my enlistment, I volunteered to wake up and ride with her to the hospital and stay with her while Rollie underwent his third setting and casting. As a consequence of this volition, I woke up every few hours the night before, because I was afraid I would not wake up in time.

The whole situation, begs the question, “Why did you agree to do this?” It’s simple really. I had to. A deep instinct compelled me, and I realized just how much I love my sister and my nephew. I yielded to the best portion of my feminine nature, I realized I acted in accordance with my most important role as a woman—I am a mother.

“WHAT?!?”

No. Rollie is not my son. He’s my sister’s. I don’t have children. I’m not married. I may very well die in a pit of despair, completely alone, on an enormous pile of various scholastic accolades, degrees, books, and films in various formats.

Maybe I should phrase “I am a mother” a little differently. I am a woman. And as a woman, I feel a gargantuan desire to help, protect, and support the people that I love. I guess, when it comes to children, “desire” doesn’t cover it. It is instinctual and reactionary. I feel enormously compelled by some unseen force. I must do the above things when it involves a child. I must. There is not one iota of thought put into it. The need becomes even more intense, because my sister’s children are kin.

I can’t imagine what my sister feels in relation to her own children. That emotion must defy description.

I guess I bring this experience up for several reasons. First and foremost, I am exhausted right now, and I needed an analytical topic to occupy my mind during the slow hours of work, lest I fall asleep at my desk. Secondly, Mother’s day is on Sunday, and I am reminded of my own mother’s love and of the enormous sacrifices she made as a single parent of three. And lastly, and perhaps most importantly, because I’m starting to realize the incredible value of my roles as a woman and as a mother.

In times past, I’ve looked upon on “Old Maids” who doted on their nieces and nephews as somewhat pathetic. I assumed they were simply over-compensating for the fact that their own lives lacked substance, in addition to leaching off of their sibling’s ability to marry and bear children.

What a cruel reduction. I am such an ass. Thankfully, justice is getting its due reward. I turn twenty-seven this year, and look who’s leaching now. Ha, Ha.

P.S. Happy Mother's day Mom. And Happy Mother's Day Marissa--it's a first.

Ryan Reynolds, Broken Babies, Brandi Carlile, & Motorcycles

2009-04-28T16:29:00.013-06:00

Before you read the musings I posted below, I just wanted show off how I’ve learned to post pictures. Isn’t Ryan just beautiful?

Go ahead. Take a moment.

Jeeze. That’s nice.

Ahem…

Broken Babies:

Two Sundays ago, my younger sister invited all the siblings together so we could meet her cutie-patootie boyfriend. She was about to send him off to his internship in Washington DC for the summer, and she wanted to give us all a chance to meet him before he left. I wasn’t sure what to expect from the whole situation, but I more than once heard the phrase, “Be nice.”

What? Like I’m not capable of being nice?

*Pause. Eyes roll up into the back of my head. Hands held up in honest confusion.*

Anywho...while we waited for the happy couple to show up, my older sister was fixing dinner, and everything seemed pretty chilax. That is until my nearly two year old nephew, in an attempt to slide down the front of the couch, lost his balance, and fell off of the back of it.

I was three feet away, half asleep on the other couch. I felt like I should stop him from playing that way, but I didn’t, because I saw him do it successfully several times. That was a mistake. I should have yanked him off, yelled at him in nervous fear, have him scream for his mom, and that would have been the end of it.

But I didn’t.

He fell off the back of the couch, and he broke his arm so severely, his hand was literally flopping: It was completely detached from the rest of his arm.

Naturally, my older sister was panicked for a few moments. Thankfully, she gained the clarity of a mother's instincts, and after those seconds passed, she was all business. She grabbed her husband’s keys and calmly said, “Becky. You’re driving. We’re going to the hospital.”

For the next five hours we waited for a surgeon to come and for little guy’s dinner to digest. Then they sedated him to set the bones.

The situation was traumatic for me, and periodically I couldn’t stop myself from tearing up. I kept thinking, “I should have stopped him. He’s so little, and so defenseless. I should have stopped him from hurting himself. I’m a terrible aunt.”

Also I learned how impatient I can be when one of my own is involved in an accident. I just felt like no one was fast, competent, or smart enough to take care of my nephew. I wanted to shout,

“Hurry up! Where are his meds? Why can’t you fix him so he doesn’t have to be in pain? Who made you people doctors? You’re a bunch of eff-ing morons!” Thankfully, I kept my mouth shut, and tried not to get in anybody’s way. Emotion really is absolutely useless in these situations.

Sadly, the original set didn’t take, and my nephew and sister are going to the hospital again tonight.

Suck.

Brandi Carlile:

On a bit of lighter news, I thought I would mention, before Sunday happened, I got a chance to go see Brandi Carlile in concert on Saturday before last. I got there late, and the theatre didn’t have any more seats left, so I had to stand near the base of the stage for the opening act. Because I was there alone, I slowly got shoved up right next to the stage. It turned out to be one of the best seats in the house when Brandi came out. What an incredible voice that woman has!

It was the best concert I’ve ever been to. If you like folk rock, you should check her out. She is a phenomenal talent.

Motorcycles:

Last but not least…it’s spring, and I’ve just gotten my motorcycle out of storage. Oh…I love that stupid bike. I just love it. I’m so pleased spring is finally here.

A Few of My Favorite Vices

2009-04-10T15:51:00.005-06:00

The Ancient Romans had a wonderful little term which meant “failing or defect”: They called it “Vitium.” It’s modern English entomological great, great, great, [insert many more “greats” here] grand baby is a noun called “vice.” Most people know that vice is a generally deplorable practice or habit. I think today I want to discuss a few of mine.

What can I say? Acknowledgment is the first step.

Carbonated Caffeinated Beverages-
I seriously know better. Soda pop, in general, causes too many health problems to list—honestly; it offers not one healthful quality. But every time I even smell a Pepsi these days, I want one. Even the pop of a tab gets me excited. It’s so wrong, and yet it feels so right. Well, maybe not when it keeps me up until 3:00 am, but otherwise, very artificially stimulating and tasty. I’ll probably give it up again in a week. I go through “on the wagon” and “off the wagon” cycles.

Philly Cheese Steak Sandwiches-
In the olden days, when I had no real job and was still in college (Oh, wait. Not much has change.), I used to “treat” myself to one bought lunch a week. It was usually something simple. I’d spend no more than three dollars for a sandwich and an apple beer. Not much has changed. Except now I’ve upped the “steaks” (I just kill me.). There’s a sub sandwich shop a few blocks away from work that makes Philly Cheese Steak Sandwiches. For every ounce of beef in these things, there’s at least three ounces of grease. Occasionally, I have to pound my chest to get the last bite of the sandwich down. Another problem with them is they’re 7 bucks a pop—more than twice as much as my old habit. I’m pathetic.

Ellen DeGeneres’ Productions Posted on You Tube-
I don’t think I’ve ever loved a comedian more than I love Ellen. Well…maybe I loved Lily Tomlin as much once. But let’s be honest, in some ways, Lily was just Jane Wagner’s highly expressive puppet for most of the seventies and early eighties. Ellen, on the other hand, is the one holding all the strings. She’s a “real boy”…er…girl (She has a wife. It was an honest mistake.).

Bad Pinocchio allusions, puns, and cheap gay marriage shots aside, I think I owe everyone an explanation. I’ve taken to watching Ellen’s old stand up and postings of her show on You Tube, and I am completely enthralled. I waste hours watching some nights. She’s just incredibly hilarious, and she gets all the good guests (George Clooney, Brad Pitt, Mc Dreamy, Mc Steamy, and many, many more.).

I have just two justifications for my behavior. One, she keeps it clean. She’s not Robin Williams, and more importantly, she is NOT Rosie O’Donnell. Tangentially, Rosie is a complete disgrace to what it means to be a woman. I don’t care if she’s gay, I don’t care that she has her own political views, but I do care that she cannot say one thing these days that doesn’t involve a string of distasteful vulgarities or something that will result in her imminent firing or a lawsuit. What happened to her? She’s disgusting. But back to Ellen…

And secondly, Ellen is a gay, liberal, vegan, in her fifties, and I am a straight, conservative, meat-eating, Mormon, in my mid twenties, and yet I still find myself disarmed and enthusiastic about what she has to say. That says something, no?

Okay, so she’s good. Everyone can acknowledge this fact. Unfortunately, I’m pretty sure any amount of You Tube-ing over ten minutes is a substantial waste of time, and therefore a vice.

Gossip-
Some people are under the false impression that it’s charming to be a gossip. It’s not. It’s just addictive and mean. The biggest problem with this vice is it makes you feel artificially superior. Count how many times you’ve smiled, either inwardly or outwardly, when you’ve passed on negative information about someone else. Have you even stopped to gloat to yourself, “I’m too good to ever be caught up in something like that.” I’m sorry, but a person who conducts themselves this way is not charming: They are a particularly despicable breed of Bitch.

I shouldn’t have put this one so far down my list. It’s really the first one I should be eliminating from my personality.

Potty Language-
This one needs no explanation. I’m not sure I’ll ever fully be able to give it up, but I will say I only use it selectively. It should NEVER be used in a moment of flippant anger. Expletives should be used to emphasize a strong point; they should never be the point.

Solitaire-
Cards or on a Windows Powered PC, I can’t help myself. It is mindless, and yet I still find myself almost nervously playing it at times.

Funeral Blues

2009-04-09T18:01:00.001-06:00

Stop All the Clocks, Cut off the Telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let airplanes circle moaning overhead,
Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead,
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

-W.H. Auden

I have recently experienced a loss. Don’t worry. It was nothing serious. It’s just my Masters Thesis Project died last week, and I took it rather hard.

I realize it’s a bit overdramatic to post the above eulogy, but I never was one for subtly, was I?

Perhaps I should explain. I’ve been banking on a certain thesis topic for the last year—an extensive folkloric mapping of the Vampire Myth in the 20th century America. Absurd, es las verdad?

I couldn’t help it. It’s been a lifelong fascination. I remember reading Stoker’s Dracula and a “History of” book about werewolves when I was ten, and I just knew occult fiction would be a longtime interest for me. When I was twelve, the film Interview with the Vampire premiered, and I could not imagine a more euphoric prospect than a movie involving Brad Pitt, Tom Cruise, and Antonio Banderas mixed with a vampire theme. I finally read Anne Rice’s novel in high school, but at the time it proved totally unreadable. Let’s face it, when you’re fifteen you can’t really grasp the concept that becoming an immortal might turn out to be a magnificently disappointing experience. That…and I’m pretty sure that Brad Pit’s character in the story was gay, or at the very least bisexual.

But I digress. Where was I?

More recently, I’ve become enthralled with DVD versions of Buffy and Angel, and although I’d hate to admit it, I’ve even read all of the Twilight (AKA Twit-light) novels. My interest reached a high point early last year, and after a lot of searching and pondering, I felt ready to explore the topic thoroughly in a Masters Thesis paper this summer.

Alas, it was not to be. Last week on Monday, I was notified by the Program Director the project wouldn’t fly. Not because it wasn’t literarily sound, but because we couldn’t get a professor with the proper expertise to chair the project. The rejection was brutal. I argued with the Director for two hours about who we could use. In the end, it was to no avail. Slowly but surely, my thesis was staked.

In my process of mourning, I’ve pulled all of my vampire shrines down. You might think this was a small project, but you’d be wrong. At work I had a shrine that displayed 25 Buffy comic book covers, and at home I had a Buffy shrine on my book shelf and wall. I pulled it down. I was just too disheartened to look at them anymore. These characters which have occupied my every thought for the last year are now going into storage to make room for a different topic: The American Cowboy: A Cultural Symbol’s Reflection of the 20th Century American Dream.

This was an acceptable topic, and I’m sure in a month I will think so too.

But tonight I want to wallow in my loss. I want to say good-bye to Bram, Buffy, Willow, Angel, Spike, Xander, Oz, Anya, Andrew, Tara, Anne, Stephanie, Knight, Louis Point Du Lac, Lestat, Edward, Bella, and all of the other Vampire creatures I’ve grown to love. “The stars are not wanted now: put out every one; /Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun; /Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood. /For nothing now can ever come to any good.”

Here...Have an intellectual cookie. It’s on me.

2009-04-03T15:33:00.007-06:00

I originally meant to send this message exclusively to my parents (You know who you are, my Midwestern peeps.), but I found the topic too interesting to withhold from my almost ten off-and-on followers.

So grab a glass of milk, ‘cause here comes an intellectual cookie.

Dear Mom and Dad,

I have always firmly believed e-mail forwards are despicable things that take up space in my inbox and give me the brief and false impression that someone cares enough to write me an actual e-mail. Which tempts me into a tangential discussion of the “lost art of letter writing” to the terse electronic advents of text messaging, Facebook, and Twitter, but I think I’ll spare you.

So rather than just “forward” her message, I wanted to discuss something my company’s Senior Admin decided to forward to the rest of us, the groundling secretaries, this morning. I don't know who gave it to her. Heaven only knows who sent the original document, some millions of forwards ago. But back to my original point...

Somebody out there found a copy of an 8th grade final exam from 1895. And in light of the fact that I am a former public educator and aspiring university professor/graduate student, and because both of you are educated educators, if not by profession, at least in practice, I thought you might want to take a peek at an interesting pedagogical find.

[Please pause to review the attached Exam below.]

I can honestly say I wouldn't be able to answer half of those exam questions without some extremely intense weeks of study and contextual training. But I want you to notice how the questions are posed. Yes, they do require a buttload of memorized information, which I kind of expected considering the period and nature of late 19th century pedagogy. Yet, what strikes me as particularly mindboggling is how they ask the student to substantiate their answers.

Can either of you ever recall meeting a thirteen-year-old who was capable of taking the information they were taught in the public school system and using it to create original, detailed, and fleshed out intellectual expression?

Forgive my candid cynicism and utter lack of faith, but I sure as hell never have. I remember being thirteen, and I couldn’t even zip up my own pants consistently.

Take for example question #10 of the Grammar exam:

“Write a composition of about 150 words and show therein that you understand the practical use of the rules of grammar.”

I will bet my next month’s salary that students taking this exam in 1895 would never dream of approaching the exam administrator, let alone asking stupid questions like, “Um. What do you mean by ‘show’ the rules of grammar?” Or, “What does ‘therein’ even mean?”

Also notice how most items in the Grammer, History, and Geography sections are posed as essay questions. When I taught 9th grade English, I was still reviewing what basic grammatical components make up a complete sentence, and what information constituted a paragraph. I can’t imagine more than a few pupils of mine being capable of writing coherent answers to these questions. And can you imagine having to grade 220 exams like this? I would kill the students; then I would kill myself.

So what’s my point with all of this? I guess my point is education has completely changed since the advent of uniform, streamline, public education came into existence, and I’m trying to figure out why. You got any insight?

Let me know.

Becky

8th Grade Final Exam 1895

This is the eighth-grade final exam from 1895 in Salina, Kansas, USA. It was taken from the original document on file at the Smokey Valley Genealogical Society and Library in Salina, and reprinted by the Salina Journal.
8th Grade Final Exam: Salina, KS - 1895

Grammar (Time, one hour)
1. Give nine rules for the use of capital letters.
2. Name the parts of speech and define those that have no modifications.
3. Define verse, stanza, and paragraph
4. What are the principal parts of a verb? Give principal parts of 'lie,''play,' and 'run.'
5. Define case; illustrate each case.
6. What is punctuation? Give rules for principal marks of punctuation.
7 - 10. Write a composition of about 150 words and show therein that you understand the practical use of the rules of grammar.

Arithmetic (Time, 1 hour 15 minutes)
1. Name and define the Fundamental Rules of Arithmetic.
2. A wagon box is 2 ft.Deep, 10 feet long, and 3 ft. Wide. How many bushels of wheat will it hold?
3. If a load of wheat weighs 3,942 lbs.what is it worth at 50cts/bushel, deducting 1,050 lbs. For tare?
4. District No33 has a valuation of $35,000. What is the necessary levy to carry on a school seven months at $50 per month and have $104 for incidentals?
5. Find the cost of 6,720 lbs. Coal at $6.00 per ton.
6. Find the interest of $512.60 for 8 months and 18 days at 7 percent.
7. What is the cost of 40 boards 12 inches wide and 16 ft. Long at $20 per metre?
8. Find bank discount on $300 for 90 days (no grace) at 10 percent.
9. What is the cost of a square farm at $15 per acre, the distance of which is 640 rods?
10. Write a Bank Check, a Promissory Note, and a Receipt.

U.S. History (Time, 45 minutes)
1. Give the epochs into which U.S. History is divided.
2. Give an account of the discovery of America by Columbus.
3. Relate the causes and results of the Revolutionary War.
4. Show the territorial growth of the United States.
5. Tell what you can of the history of Kansas.
6. Describe three of the most prominent battles of the Rebellion.
7. Who were the following: Morse, Whitney, Fulton, Bell, Lincoln, Penn, and Howe?
8. Name events connected with the following dates: 1607, 1620, 1800, 1849, 1865.

Orthography (Time, one hour) [Do we even know what this is??]
1. What is meant by the following: alphabet, phonetic, orthography, etymology, syllabication?
2. What are elementary sounds? How classified?
3. What are the following and give examples of each: trigraph, subvocals, diphthong, cognate letters, linguals & nbsp;
4. Give four substitutes for caret 'u.' [HUH?]
5. Give two rules for spelling words with final 'e.' Name two exceptions under each rule.
6. Give two uses of silent letters in spelling. Illustrate each.
7. Define the following prefixes and use in connection with a word: bi, dis-mis, pre, semi, post, non, inter, mono, sup.
8. Mark diacritically and divide into syllables the following, and name the sign that indicates the sound: card, ball, mercy, sir, odd, cell, rise, blood, fare, last.
9. Use the following correctly in sentences: cite, site, sight, fane, fain, feign, vane , vain, vein, raze, raise, rays.
10. Write 10 words frequently mispronounced and indicate pronunciation by use of diacritical marks and by syllabication.

Geography (Time, one hour)
1 What is climate? Upon what does climate depend?
2. How do you account for the extremes of climate in Kansas?
3. Of what use are rivers? Of what use is the ocean?
4. Describe the mountains of North America.
5. Name and describe the following: Monrovia, Odessa, Denver, Manitoba, Hecla, Yukon, St. Helena, Juan Fernandez, Aspinwall, and Orinoco.
6. Name and locate the principal trade centers of the U.S. Name all the republics of Europe and give the capital of each.
8. Why is the Atlantic Coast colder than the Pacific in the same latitude?
9. Describe the process by which the water of the ocean returns to the sources of rivers.
10. Describe the movements of the earth. Give the inclination of the earth.

Notice that the exam took FIVE HOURS to complete.

Topic #2 The Quarter-Life Crisis: A Massive Introspective Gripe

2009-03-11T18:30:00.003-06:00

The next gripe on my list is a complicated, personal, and a somewhat scattered topic of discussion. Nevertheless, I’m going to attempt to explain how it has affected my life in the last two or three years.

If you feel somewhat confused about what a quarter-life crisis is, let me enlighten you on the subject. The quarter-life crisis (QLC) is a term applied to the period of life immediately following the major changes of adolescence, usually ranging from the early twenties to the early thirties. The term is named by analogy with mid-life crisis.

Characteristics of quarter-life crisis may include the following:

1. feeling "not good enough" because one can't find a job that is at one's academic/intellectual level 2. frustration with relationships, the working world, and finding a suitable job or career 3. confusion of identity 4. insecurity regarding the near future 5. insecurity concerning long-term plans, life goals 6. insecurity regarding present accomplishments 7. re-evaluation of close interpersonal relationships 8. disappointment with one's job 9. nostalgia for university, college, high school or elementary school life 10. tendency to hold stronger opinions 11. boredom with social interactions 12. loss of closeness to high school and college friends 13. financially-rooted stress (overwhelming college loans, unanticipated high cost of living, etc.) 14. loneliness 15. desire to have children 16. a sense that everyone is, somehow, doing better than you

I am experiencing problems with the following numbers: 3, 7, 8, 12, 14, & 16. Even more depressingly, I have been experiencing these characteristic symptoms for quite some time.

I want to explore these concepts for a little bit.

3. “Confusion of Identity” & 8. “Disappointed with One’s Job”

The summer I turned 18, I moved away from home in Florida to go to school in Utah. For most of this period, my undergraduate years, I was still somewhat dependant on my parents. It took nearly six years to figure out what I wanted to be, and in the fall after I turned 24, I graduated. In that same year, I got my first real job as a teacher. I returned to Florida, and moved in with my parents. When I turned 25, I quit teaching because I became disillusioned with the profession. I also, once again, moved away from home, because I valued my independence, and my desire to get back into school was strong. When I turned 26, this past year, I was back in school for graduate studies, and I had obtained a stable, but mind-numbing job. This sequence of events makes it easier to see why I feel the abovementioned aggravation and anxiety. Think of how many social, emotional, familial, and professional roles I’ve been in and out of in the last eight or nine years. There’s been a lot of adjusting, and I’m not sure it’s always gone as smoothly as I would have liked.

7. “Re-evaluation of Close Interpersonal Relationships” & 12. “Loss of Closeness to High School and College Friends”

Most of this particular portion of my crisis has to do with friends and circles of friends I’ve acquired during my college education. I feel the biggest adjustments take place when my friends graduate from school and/or singlehood.

School is, by definition, a temporary and liminal place (Word’s dictionary is inferior and does not include the word “liminal.” Liminal means the “in-between space.” For example, a doorway is liminal—you are neither inside nor outside, you are in liminal space.). In any case, because it is impermanent, you have to deal with the melancholy truth that one day it will end, people will leave, and all of those meaningful relationships, that seemly taught so much and gave such a semblance of identity, will change, and in many cases, disappear.

It is utterly depressing.

Why does this happen? Because life-roles change. I am still in the liminal space. I am still in school. I am still single. But my friends are going through that threshold, and they are exiting the liminal, and I can’t go with them. In the end, it just makes me wonder, “How do I deal with these changes and experiences when they make me feel like I’m losing my identity, and also, why do I feel like I’m running in place?”

Lastly, we have 14. “Loneliness” & 16. “A Sense That Everyone is, Somehow, Doing Better Than You”

These last two are more closely related to 7. & 12. than the first two. Loneliness has always been a problem for me. But I feel the issue is exacerbated by the loss of friends. It is difficult to be by yourself. It makes me wonder why I’m alone—which leads me to my last topic.

Why does everyone else seem to be happy? Why is everyone else getting married and having babies? Am I hideous? Are my masculine physique and mental prowess too intimidating? Have I been deluded all these years with my childhood hope that one day I would grow prettier and everyone else would grow more intelligent? If anything, I’m growing older and less attractive, and I’ve discovered that most people who had no affinity towards intelligence or desire to develop themselves are just getting dumber. I feel completely alone but surrounded by idiots.

As you can see this particular subject involves quite a few complicate gripes, and I don’t see many comforting solutions at the moment.

Gripes...I'm Good with Gripes

2009-03-10T18:34:00.001-06:00

Hello blog people…you five, you.

It’s gripe time again with your favorite enthusiast.

Topic #1: Dollhouse.

I am possibly one of Joss Whedon’s biggest fans. My collection contains hundreds of episodes of “Joss” TV. I’ve very rarely, if ever, had a problem suspending my understanding of reality or beliefs to allow a little bit of his wondrous and sometimes preposterous storylines into my life. There’s always been a redeeming amount of wit and humanity along with his booger covered monsters and blood-sucking heroes. That being said, I am having a hard time enjoying Dollhouse.

Here is a small list of problems I’m having with the show.
1. I am disinterested with the characters.
2. My jury is still out on main actress Eliza Dushku.
3. I hate the creative bastards at Fox.
4. Joss is an atheist.

Explication:

Joss is famous for his impressive and creative ability to make characters and storylines that contain interesting dichotomies. His shows tend to be funny and serious, bloody and poignant, action-packed but include loads of soap operatic content. However, the characters in Dollhouse feel totally flat, and in turn, I feel totally disinterested. In contrast, did I care when Buffy’s best friend Willow turned into a black magic witch and filleted her nemesis alive? You betchya. Do I care if Echo falls off a cliff? Not so much, at this point.

As for Eliza. I felt pleasantly surprised by the first episode, and I hoped the show would offer her more chances to show us her acting chops. Unfortunately, in the last few episodes, I feel like she’s still hitting the same note over and over again in her performances. I don’t know if it’s because they keep giving her the same slut character, or if indeed she is the same slut character. *Shaking head back an forth.* IDK. IDK.

Next we have the creative bastards at Fox. I have a sneaking suspicion the show’s sucking is not entirely Joss’s fault. On more than one occasion, he has admitted to his legions of worshippers the show he sold and the show that Fox bought were NOT the same thing. Which makes me think FOX is once again hampering Joss’s creative juice cocktail. I realize hate it strong word, but if they are the reason the show is sucking, I would just like to say I hate them. I hate them and their mindless, souless, cookie-cutter, marketing desires. May they burn.

Lastly, and I realize this has nothing to do with whether or not I should like the show, but I recently discovered Joss is an atheist. This information shook my world. How could you, Joss, be so blessed, talented, creative, and funny, and not believe in GOD? Maybe your show sucking is your punishment.

Topic # 2 [2 B continued…]

The Thrill is Gone...a Little Bit

2009-02-15T19:54:00.002-07:00

Okay folks. So it's been a little while since my last blog post. But, in my defense, I've been a very busy/sick girl, as of late.

Oh, before I discuss anything else, I'd just like to announce that two days ago Joss Whedon's Dollhouse premiere took place, and I feel obligated to say something.

Watch the show, or you'll go to hell.

I'm glad I took the time to share that message.

Now, let's talk about me for a bit longer. As I said before, I've not been feeling my most chipper self, and it kind of worries me. I've been sick with a viral monstrosity that morphed into bronchial death for almost two weeks now. It makes sports painful, homework impossible, road trips unbearable, and depletes my energy levels to new time lows. Basically, it makes everything that usually makes me feel alive, feel like crap. I'm sick and tired of feeling sick and tired.

Along those same frustrated lines, I would also like to take a moment to mourn the fact that this Saturday was "Single Awareness Day" or "Forced to Express Feelings Fake or Real Day" or "Candy Companies Marketing the Colors Pink and Red Day". Whatever you want to call it, Valentine's Day Isn't quite what it was when I was five.

These days it just depresses me. And as long as I'm taking the time to express these normally unexpressed gripes with the world, I would also like to mention that I don't want to hear one more thing about how much better is to be married/engaged/ sincerely loved by a significant other. I 'm not inspired to the profane often, but I think those sentiments warrant the following reaction: "No Poop."

Wow. I'm in a daisy mood. I think I'll go take a large sleeping pill and try to breathe out of my unclogged nostril until I finally fall asleep from boredom.

Too bad misery is funny.

It Has Been Scientifically Proven That Seinfeld is Poo

2009-01-20T21:47:00.002-07:00

I am not a big fan of Seinfeld. I will not lie. I have always felt the show was a big pile of steaming poo on an otherwise perfectly clean doorstep. The show started in 1989 and ended in 1998, and has basically lived in rerun heaven ever since. In short, I’ve been accidentally stepping into this proverbially pile, whilst flipping through the channels on the boob tube, for almost twenty years. There’s something wrong with that—the way there’s something with wrong with spray on tans or polka dotted fabric.

But let’s get back to the point.

Why do I hate it so?

Well let’s start with the characters. I’ve taken the liberty of “borrowing” some Wikipedia summaries on each of the main character’s traits and story contributions.

Let’s take a closer look.

Jerry: Jerry is the show's central character, a stand-up comedian who is often seen as "the voice of reason" amid all the insanity generated by the people in his world. Plot lines often involve Jerry's romantic relationships; he typically finds small, silly reasons to stop dating women; in one episode, he breaks up with a woman because she eats her peas one at a time; in another, it is because, although a beautiful model, she has overly-large "man hands."

George: George is Jerry's best friend since high school. He is cheap, dishonest, petty and often jealous of others' achievements. He is often portrayed as a loser who is insecure about his capabilities. He frequently complains and lies about his profession, relationship, and almost everything else, which usually creates trouble for him later. He often uses an alias ("Art Vandelay"), when lying or assuming a fake identity.

Kramer: Kramer is Jerry's "wacky neighbor" and friend. His trademarks include his humorous upright pompadour hairstyle, vintage clothing and his energetic sliding bursts through Jerry's apartment door. Elaine refers to him as a 'hipster doofus'. At times, he acts naive, dense, and almost child-like, yet randomly shows astonishing insight into human behavior.

Elaine: Elaine is intelligent and assertive, but superficial. She sometimes has a tendency to be very honest with people, which often gets her into trouble. She often gets caught up in her boyfriends' habits, her eccentric employers' unusual demands, and the unkindness of total strangers.

What’s to like about these people? Their lives are experiments in human embarrassment. Not a single one of the show’s episodes could exist if the characters simply yielded to their more contentious, honest, compassionate selves. Instead they live the most contrived and petty existences ever created for human entertainment. In short, they aggravate the hell out of me.

Now that I’ve explained my feelings, let the science be ushered into the argument.

Roger Ebert, the Pulitzer Prize winning film critic, recently wrote in an online article the following:

Studies have indicated that Elevation, [a term used to describe elevated levels of emotional and intellectual stimulation and its consequential neural chemical releases], is triggered by the stimulus of our vagus nerve, described by Wikipedia as the only nerve that starts in the brainstem and extends down below the head, to the neck, chest and abdomen, where it contributes to the innervations of the viscera. It must be involved in what we call "visceral feelings," defined as "relating to deep inward feelings rather than to the intellect."

The vagus nerve would certainly account for what I feel, which is as much physical as mental. For years, when asked "how do you know a movie is great?" I've had the same reply: I feel a tingling in my spine. People look at me blankly. I explain that I feel an actual physical sensation that does not depend on the abstract quality of the movie, but on--well, my visceral feelings.

Yoffe writes: "In his forthcoming book Born To Be Good, Keltner writes that he believes when we experience transcendence, it stimulates our vagus nerve, causing 'a feeling of spreading, liquid warmth in the chest and a lump in the throat'." Yes, that's what I feel. Does it sound familiar to you? Jonathan Haidt devised a fascinating study at the University of Virginia, described by Yoffe:

Since it's tricky to study the vagus nerve, [Haidt] and a psychology student conceived of a way to look at it indirectly. The vagus nerve works with oxytocin, the hormone of connection. Since oxytocin is released during breast-feeding, he and the student brought in 42 lactating women and had them watch either an inspiring clip from The Oprah Winfrey Show about a gang member saved from a life of violence by a teacher or an amusing bit from a Jerry Seinfeld routine.

About half the Oprah-watching mothers either leaked milk into nursing pads or nursed their babies following the viewing; none of the Seinfeld watchers felt enough breast dilation to wet a pad, and fewer than 15 percent of them nursed.

What does all of that mean, anyway? Well, it means that something I have always known has finally been scientifically proven. Seinfeld is Poo.

They Really Are "Lovin' It"

2009-01-09T17:27:00.003-07:00

Is it me, or are the majority of movies these days just kind of blah? The highest grossing film this holiday season was a film called Marley & Me—a movie which essentially blends the plots of Old Yeller and the original Beethoven. According to Wikipedia, Marley & Me “set a record for the largest Christmas Day box office ever, with $14.75 million in ticket sales.” I’m not dogging dog flicks, but over the many years that I’ve enjoyed my movie addiction, I’ve come to expect the holidays were a time to view “must-see” films. The only one that looked even remotely interesting was The Curious Case of Benjamin Button—a movie based on a Fitzgerald short story written more than 80 years ago.

Indeed, most of this past year has felt this way, with exceptions noted in the superhero genre—Dark Knight, Hellboy II, and Ironman, to name the more intriguing of the features. Some may blame the writer’s strike, which began in late 2007 and ended somewhere in the late spring, early summer of 2008, for this lackluster year. But I don’t think that’s the answer, since there are still plenty of exhibitions of star power in totally forgettable productions. If you don’t believe me, please see the advertisement for Bride Wars and be amazed that such a production ever got funding, much less showcased with such notable stars.

Others may argue the reason for this wasteland of film is we’re running out of original ideas—that we’ve exhausted the muse. My answer to that is, “nonsense.” We’ve had literary ideas come down through the ages since the time of the Greeks—people who were around as early as 3,000 years before Christ. Are you gonna tell me that all creativity over the last 5,000 years came to a halt in the last ten? Don’t be ridiculous.

I was in my Browning & Tennyson Graduate course on Monday, and my professor, the brilliant Dr. Merlin Chaney, suggested the biggest problem we face today is people do not want to work to find the answers for the more interesting and intellectually tough questions—they want the answers given to them. He said the few of us that are continuing to fight and search for the ultimate truths, are looking into the local McDonald’s window and despairing when they realize that most of the people standing in line really are “Lovin’ It.”

Musings

2009-01-06T18:22:00.007-07:00

Dear Gentle Reader,

I wish I were a more prolific writer on this blog. But alas, I have fallen into the same steps as my favorite bloggers—Girlyman & Jane Espenson (Jane is a screenwriter. And if you don’t know who or what a Girlyman is, I won’t bother trying to explain.). I’ve followed both of their blogs for many moons.

Jane, in yesteryears, was only able to crank out a blog entry once or twice a month. More recently, she has posted that she will no longer be writing even that frequently due to her illustrious and prestigious career as a full time writer. The weeping was profuse, as you might have imagined on my part, when I heard the situation was thus.

Girlyman is worse. They only write when they feel like it. So sometimes there will be two or three entries in one week, and then nothing for the next three months. I’m always grateful, but it depresses me verily having to wait so long.

I realize there is no reason on earth for me to believe that I enjoy as many followers as they. Also I am neither a famous writer, nor am I a not-so-famous, but busy touring band member. I do boast a full time work schedule, part time school schedule, and a spot on several sports teams. But you know…those seem kind of peanuts, comparatively.

And now I’m going to change the subject.

Postgraduate work.

“What is this?” You may be wondering. That’s a good question. Because up until two months ago, I couldn’t have told you what the crap it was either. Upon further research however, I came to discover there are three levels to the path of Ph. D-hood.

1. Bachelors
2. Graduate Work
3. Postgraduate Work/Doctorial Candidacy

Cute, huh?

I mean, it makes logical sense to call it that. I just never knew that was the proper terminology.

“What’s this got to do with the price of eggs, Becky?”

Well folks, it would seem as I get older, and the more schooling I acquire (however slowly), I’ve discovered an inconvenient truth—my brain will never be happy until it’s reached the top of the mountain known as University Education (I sincerely wish there were some way for me to make those two words sparkle.).

Ironically, I used to believe that the top of my “Blue Ridge” would be at the end of my bachelors. That seemed the logical conclusion. Especially considering I don’t know anyone inside of my immediate circle of friends who has any intention of taking such drastic efforts to remain irrevocably and permanently poor. Also, I’m hardly the type. My academic track record, up until recently, has been saturated in mediocrity the way a French fry is inundated with grease.

I don’t know what’s changed, really. I tried just as hard in Biology and Geography as I did in Early British Literature. I still got a “C” in all of them. Of course, by the time I was finishing up at BYU, I was rollin’ in the puppies with a low ball “A” semester average. Right now I’m a 4.0 girl. Which makes me wonder, “Is Weber easier? Am I maturing? Is Joss Wheden’s Dollhouse going to fail because it got a Friday Night time slot?” All valid inquiries.

What I do know is this. My proverbial Blue Ridge’s Mt. Jackson or even my Wasatch Front’s Mt. Timpanogos are not enough of a hike. I’m thinkin’ Yosemite’s El Capitan or The Tetons. Those seem like more appropriate goals. Right now I’m weighing my options as ISU and the U of U. We’ll see what we can find.

Television= Brain Liquefier.

2008-12-22T16:00:00.004-07:00

For most of my adult life, and I parenthetically qualify that period as age twenty and up, I labored under the assumption that all TV was trash. I even theorized that Major Network Television was responsible for a massive mental degeneration caused by a series of minute neurological strokes induced in the general population by shows so manipulative and badly written that test audiences were not only required to sign intellectual property disclosure statements before watching, but also medical waivers, thereby releasing the networks of all responsibilities involving possible brain damage in the event of watching those aforementioned production pilots.

Then I discovered Buffy.

Stop laughing.

No. Really.

Stop.

I have always held the firm belief that it is our responsibility to be analytical and conscientious about our entire intellectual intake. We should use the same logical deconstruction tools on music, film, internet publication, and all forms of media that we use for traditionally accepted formats like books and scholarly materials. In short, we need to be Critical Thinkers in everything we experience—our ability to make valuable meaning should not be inhibited by our cerebral laziness.

Because of this firm belief, I felt, more often than not, T.V. did not hold up well against this form of scrutiny—by its very commercialized and mind-numbing nature it was the antithesis of true Auteur Theory. There was no real creative vision to be found. The Networks were merely using television as a means to control what the masses would buy, think, feel, and subsequently experience. Furthermore, before Buffy, I had no idea how television writers/directors/producers figured into the creation of a TV show. I thought shows were either entertaining or not. Entertainers were either beautiful or not. I was either going to throw up while watching or not.

TV=Brain Liquefier.

Are ya following me?

But then I started watching Buffy, and consequently started listening to the director/creator/producer/writer commentaries offered on the DVDs. I was fascinated. Joss, Jane Espenson, and Marti Nixion, to name a few of creative forces, really had an overall plan for the show. There were distinct character archs, character development, symbolism, a strong sense of occult myth, and an extremely deliberate and conscientious creative decision process.

Television really had something offer. This was exciting! Es Las Verdad?

Now for the bad news. Joss’s creations are still very much in the minority. Most Television shows, especially the money-makers, are homogenized cash cows for the networks. Let me give you an example. Up until recently, I was watching one of the more popular and meticulously crafted soap operas TV has to offer: Grey’s Anatomy. I discovered after more than two seasons on the show, a character was getting the axe not for creative purposes, but because the actress playing her was not attractive enough for test audiences to accept. It was okay for her to be a smart doctor with a cold and distant personality for two seasons. It was NOT okay for her to have a love life. She had a relationship with another doctor on the show who was prettier than she. When audiences didn’t like it, she got the axe.

Can you imagine if novelists wrote this way? Seriously, picture what would happen if J.K. Rowling were told, “We’re sorry Ms. Rowling, but test audiences didn’t like that you killed Dumbledore. If you don’t bring him back, we’ll fire you.” Absolutely absurd!

I could go on, but I think I better tell you the point of all of this. Television does have creative possibilities, but just like food, ‘You are what you eat.”

PS I’m watching the FOX series "Bones" right now. It’s good stuff. Also Joss has a new one coming out in February called “Doll House.”

2008 is Coming to an End

2008-12-18T17:53:00.005-07:00

Now that things have “settled down”,*let’s out an incredulous cough*, I wanted to take a moment recap my year.

Things I did in 2008:
1. I became a secretary (never thought in a million years that would happen).
2. I was accepted into grad school. *Stands with an enthusiastic fist in the air and chants, “Go Weber State Wildcats!”*
3. I went to Ultimate Tournaments in Arizona, New Mexico, California, Nevada, and Utah.
4. The Women’s BYU Ultimate team came 16th in the Nation—I was with ‘em.
5. I moved three times.
6. I had to give up my dog, Mick.
7. I went the furthest north I’ve ever been in Prince George, BC.
8. I went to Deception Pass in Washington State.
9. I developed a strong addiction to all things Joss Whedon.
10. I saw a live Coldplay concert.
11. I 've started my Thesis...somewhat successfully.
12. I started writing a Novel...somewhat unsuccessfully.

It was a huge year, and I've been blessed. I love school, and I love living in Salt Lake. It's great city.

Shameless. I am just a shameless procrastinator.

2008-12-05T18:21:00.004-07:00

When I was teaching (a brief, but painful year and few months), I was constantly impressed with how incapable my students were of ever getting anything done on time. I remember saying to myself: "I was NEVER this bad. NEVER. These children are helpless goobers destined for such heights as McDonald's Management Grooming Program."

Well, I would like to retract that deluded memory. I think I was and still am a shameless procrastinator.

This next Monday I have finals for my once a week, four and half hour, four credit hour graduate school course: American Masterpieces. I've known all semester that the last night of classes would be brutal. My professor specifically said, "The last night of class will be brutal. Prepare yourself. There's a test, a presentation, and a paper due that day. This shouldn't be a surprise."

Apparently when all of that was being said, I was just staring out into space. I mean, I must have absorbed some of it, because I remember the conversation. But I think another porition of my brain thought, "He's bluffing. And he has a very nicely shaped head for an old bald guy." Followed by, "I'm hungry. I should have brought more to eat than pretzels for tonight's class. I guess I'll just have to wait till class is over, so I can eat whatever's dying, I mean lying, around Sarah and Spencer's house. "

I will be paying for that gross underestimation of my Professor's capacity for cruelty tonight. I'm spending this Friday evening, a night usually reserved for screwing around with my comic books/books/movies/playing, desperately pulling a few of the remaining 15 pages I have yet to write of my final paper out of my butt. It's not a plesant thought. Let that be a lesson to you kids out there. Don't be stupid.

My First Official Blog

2008-12-02T15:00:00.000-07:00

Hello my peeps.

Welcome to Becky’s Blog.

So I'm guessing everyone *Cough. Looks around wondering if anybody is actually reading.* is curious about what this little blog will be like. I imagine it will be somewhat episodic in nature. Mostly because I feel it is absolutely necessary to spare you the dull whining I’m perfectly capable of doing over the phone. Hopefully you will be slightly entertained enough to check it out once in a while.

Anywho. Here we go.

Today I bought three comic books. I'm not sure how much I've mentioned about my new obsession, but I feel I owe everyone an explanation. I know what you're all thinking. I used to think it too, actually.

Not so very long ago, I imagined folks my age (26) who still bought comic books were a special kind of people the rest of us were meant to shun, or at the very least avoid. They existed in two types.

Type #1 were perpetually zit-faced, hygienically challenged, nerds--the sort who've seen every episode of Star Trek the Next Generation, can speak Klingon, are capable of reciting the scripts for all three original Star Wars movies, and can tell you which cable channels show reruns of Stargate SG1 (I had to look up the title for that one).

Type #2 were an equally unpleasant breed. These types were semi-goths who couldn't understand that colors other than black and red were perfectly acceptable choices for their wardrobe. They enjoyed masochistic pleasures such as facial and neck tattoos, cheek piercings, and walking around in leather trench coats year round (not a pleasant thought, considering our 100+ Utah temperatures). They were also known for their extensive collections of imaginary weaponry. I don’t mean they collected weapons that didn’t exist: I mean they collected weapons that could only exist in “crazy people land,” i.e. 7 ft long swords, knives with funky blades, Xena Warrior Princess spears.

Are ya getting a picture here?

But then earlier this year I rediscovered Buffy the Vampire Slayer on DVD. I tried to resist, but I became powerless against watching exciting episodes that included witches blowing holes in the earth, vampires ripping out people’s throats, and even the occasional musical (Yes…there is a Buffy Musical. Season 6: Ep 7. Check it out. Very, Very Good Stuff.). I fell in love with every character. But alas, like most good things, the show came to an end in the summer of 2003. And then its spinoff show, Angel, gave up the ghost just a year later. The “Buffy Verse”, as we Buffy Nerds affectionately call it, took a four year hiatus.

Thankfully, in the fall of 2007, Joss Whedon (Forewarning: if you become a regular reader of this blog, you’ll be hearing a lot about this guy), series creator/director/writer/producer, decided to bring back the show in comic formatting: Buffy Season 8 comics. You can imagine I rolled my eyes when I discovered this four months ago. It was bad enough that I was a Buffy Nerd. I could not under any circumstances join the ranks of the aforementioned groups.

For a month I resisted. But then I read other Buffy Nerd's testimonials at Whedonesque.com. The storylines sounded so intriguing. I missed Buffy, Willow, Xander, Dawn, Faith, and Giles. What was happening to them now? I had to know. I HAD TO.

So I went to e-bay, because you can find ANYTHING on e-bay, and I found the first sixteen issues for $25. That’s not bad when you consider each issue costs $3-4 (depends if you’re buying Dark Horse, IDW, or Marvel). Then I found out that Angel was also in comic book form. Same process as above ensued.

Now I’m hooked. Today I bought Buffy issue #19, Angel #12 (I didn’t have it yet), and The Astonishing X-men Trade Paperback Volume #1. Whedon wrote all of them, and I can’t help myself. If Whedon wrote it, I want it. It’s a vicious, vicious cycle. Incurable, really.

Now that I have joined the ranks of adult comic book buyers, I want you all to know that I’ve still never seen an episode of Stargate SG1, I don’t own any black leather pants/jackets/gloves/etc, and there is not enough money in the world that you could pay me to put a piece of metal in my face, BUT I am starting to think about buying a Buffy Scythe.

I'm resisting the urge.