merry christmas to all

and to all a Little Debbie Christmas Tree Snack Cake.

I'm serious. The past few years, I've gone out of my way to be the grinchiest of Grinchs. I believe it brings order to the universe. But nothing says Holiday Spirit to me like a box of Christmas Tree snack cakes. I don't know if it's the vanilla cake or the vanilla frosting or those green sprinkles on top. And maybe it's just a little more than my usual dose of pathetic that I can get happy over such a small thing when Christman carols make me consider cutting off both ears (take that, Van Gogh). Christmas just isn't Christmas without them, though. And since my Macey's run last night produced the first box of the season, the season can officially begin.

Merry Christmas, everyone.

I always care. I don't always know.

Warning: Do not listen to Death Cab for Cutie when you are extremely prone to nostalgia and any degree of melancholy.


I like Thanksgiving. I like turkey and family and stuffing and organized leaf jumping. But I went so willingly to Hurricane this year because I knew it was time to visit Ivins again.


Ivins is where Trent is buried. The last time I went was over a year ago, just a few months after he died. They didn't have a headstone yet or any marker and I didn't know where his grave was. I walked from plot to plot, finally stopping at the west end of the cemetery. There were things there that made me think, but I didn't know.


This year there was still no headstone, but I had directions and pictures from K. I went to the grocery store in Hurricane the night before for flowers--small pink and burgandy roses with a few alstromeria. Not bad for small town Utah. (I consciously chose the girliest wrap available.)

My dad drove me out to Ivins on Thanksgiving morning. (I don't like driving the family suburban and he needed a break from family together time.) Thirty minutes there. Dad thought I should leave a poem or something. I did leave something--just a few sentences, copied from my Christmas present from Trent. I took the flowers out of their wrapping (because it wasn't girly, just ugly), and left them at the side of the large red rock that marks his place. The note was underneath. I was only there for maybe ten minutes.


And then thirty minutes back to Hurricane and family and organized leaf jumping.


Hey Trent: I love you.

In Hurricane, we celebrate Thanksgiving

by allowing small children to launch their small bodies into a large pile of leaves (aka organized leaf jumping).

blog Q and A

For some reason I felt compelled to do this.

Q: And me? (Because remember, it's all about me.)
A: It is all about you.

Q: What grad programs (and young men) have you decided on?
Utah, Ohio, Houston, Michigan, plus one or two. As for the young men. . . they exist.

Q: Yeah, you owe us all some info. . . men that exist in real life???
A: A girl has to move on. Especially when Jake Gyllenhaal turns out too short.

Q: Was number seven directed towards me and recent occurrences?
A: No. Number eight.

Q: I guess I'm out of touch, but what was your brother supposed to be?
A: Well, I asked for either a sister or a dog. They came later.

Q: Did you wear your sexy Velma glasses with your dirt costume?
A: No. But I was still sexy.

Q: Did they play their patented TV theme song medley? Did I spell "medley" right?
A: Yes. Unless you meant M-A-D-L-Y.

Q: You think I trust you to decide for yourself what you're watching and feeling?
A: You don’t trust me to do anything.

Q: But surely there are exceptions?
A: There are always exceptions. Except when there aren’t.

Q: Isn't this a flavor at pudding on the rice?
A: Isn’t everything a flavor at pudding on the rice?

Q: How does one grade poetry, anyhow?
A: One closes one’s eyes and randomly marks the page.

Q: Can you bump up the release date?
A: I could, but then I’d have to kill you.

Q: What's wrong with your last post?
A: Many many things.

Q: Where did you go?
A: Where no wo/man has gone before.

Q: Did I spell "elaborate" right?
A: Yes.

Q: Are you living in a theory world?
A: Against my will. . . I am sent to bid you come into supper.

Q: Is that Diet Nepenthe with Lime? What Hitchcock movie was it? Are you serious about the seven-yr.-crush? My heart throws itself into a garbage disposal in empathy for you. Isn't it strange how the people who are so wonderful to you and who you care so much about are the ones who make your life so crappy?
A: Is there any other kind? I hope it was Psycho. Yes. And yes.

Q: Is "treats" a Utahism?
A: Yes. And apparently so is everything else that comes out of my mouth.

Q: Poetry?
A: What else is there?

Q: Do you look disapprovingly at people over the top of them?
A: Isn’t that why one wears glasses?

Q: Does this mean you're going to fob all night tonight?
A: And party every day.

Q: The real world is scary, but so what?
A: So you ignore it and read lots of things that replace the real world. Try it. You’ll like it.

Q: Did I mention you're beautiful?
A: No. Say it again, Sam.

Q: Is it a poem? For if it isn't, will you make it one?
A: It is a poem. Now. Look at me being all obedient and stuff.

Q: Can I please join your support group?
A: Email me with a statement of intent. Preferably one I can use for my grad school apps.

Q: Is that too sappy?
A: Yes.

Q: Isn't it cute when they try to make sense of these things?
A: Cute isn’t the word I’d use to describe it.

Q: Can't you come up with better reasons than that?
A: Apparently not.

Q: And can we mention she's played by the incomparable Emma Thompson?
A: She’s played by the incomparable Emma Thompson.

Q: How exactly does one simultaneously account for an event that *did* occur and several events that could have?
A: The Fob Pantheon. That and Zizek.

genius

Attention: Prepared to be ranted at. Or to. At or to. Whatever you/I/we decide, it will be a rant.

My family is unusually brilliant. Take, for example, me. Or Sven, LaLa, the Jester, Marzipan. Plus the parents. Oh, and the dog. All very very smart, talented individuals. Emphasis on the very.

Tonight's subject is the Jester. He earned his nickname four-ish years ago when he played the Jester in Once Upon a Mattress. The year before that he was in the barbershop quartet in Music Man, and the year after he was Will Parker in Oklahoma! And then he was Baby John in West Side and the Genie in Aladdin. Not only is he a good actor, but the boy can sing.

For some reason, all of his talent and success has not translated to his high school musical theatre program. I know high school programs are political, but this one goes above and beyond. And after being cast in the chorus for the second year, we (the family) expected him to get a good role in the Broadway revue. Tonight I found out he pulled one small solo in a song called "It Sucks to Be Me" from Avenue Q. And while censoring annoys and frustrates the hell out of me, I don't think Avenue Q is appropriate for high school students. And that my little brother should not be required to sing "It sucks to be me." He's one who listened to the "don't swear" from our parents. He's the one who is super sensitive about language.

a girl's got to do

I have taken to eating entire packages of Pepperidge Farm Parmesan Goldfish in single sittings. And yet in spite of this—or perhaps because of this—I bought the three highest pairs of high heels I’ve had in years today.

the great debate

(at least the great debate going on in my head)

I thought once I decided on creative writing, the answers were there. And then once I decided on a PhD in creative writing, the answers were there. And then once I decided "the best creative writing program that will let me in," the answeres were there. But no. Each decision just gives me more decisions to make. Today's special: where to apply.

This is one list I keep thinking I have figured out. And for the most part, I do. Houston, Ohio, Iowa, Michigan, Virginia, NYU. . . my humility is overwhelming, I know. But there's a school that keeps hovering, one so appealing I can't help but want to apply. And yet. . .

The U has always been. . . the U. It's the "other university," the one I never even considered attending. It was too close to home, and it just wasn't BYU. And now that I've been looking at grad programs, I've been looking outside of the state, wanting to leave, wanting to experience something new. And I know Salt Lake isn't Provo. But it's still Salt Lake.

I am going to apply. The program benefits outweigh the fifteen minute drive to the Land Bountiful. Decision made.

For now.

Do you know what today is?

No.

nope.

Try again.

No, I don't Care that my caps are off.

Yes. Yes I do.

You still don't know.

Do you?

Think.

Think real hard.

Got it?

I don't think you do.

Come on.

It's easy.

Well, easy for me.

But most things are.

Ready?

One

two

three.

Happy BlogDay to Me!

But then again, you knew that.

ice cube

I know I delivered that cute little teaser in my last post. And one of these days the movie will come out (Julia Stiles will play me, with Val Kilmer as Tolkien Boy, Liv Tyler as Melyngoch, and John Cusack as John Cusack). Until then. . . Ice Car.

This is what I found when I went out to my car this morning. (Okay, not that bad, but you get the idea.) But it was an ice cube. I attempted to open the passenger door, with absolutely no luck. After some coercing (read: kicking, swearing, digging at it with my fingernails and the cover of a library book), I got the back door on the driver's side open, found my ice pick . . . scraper . . . thing, and begin scraping. Five minutes and I could drive away without threatening myself or anyone else on the road. And then as I turned onto 800 North, I heard a pop. I freaked out, because this is what I do when a sound happens anywhere near my car.

The passenger door had finally thawed.

things that make me feel guilty

• seeing professors who teach the class I plan on skipping (or skipped) that day
• taking more than a week to return papers to my students
• using one word to answer a question that deserves a paragraph (and vice versa)
• reading my friends' blogs and not leaving a comment
• being more interested in the toddler I'm holding than the presentation going on in front of me
• ignoring a friend
• asking another writer to change what they've written for not aesthetic reasons
• not finishing an assignment
• forgetting someone's name
• liking the same guy as a friend
• not blogging for an extended period of time (especially when I've decided on grad programs, been introduced to The Weepies, gone to AA's cabin, introduced and eaten lunch with a really cool poet, read a dozen good books, become obsessed with a few more TV shows, and encountered at least three young men who I enjoy looking at, and who exist in real life.)

For Halloween

I was dirt.

But I don't have a picture of that. So here's my incredibly cute brother and sister. I think you can tell who is who.