Facebook Friday: I'm in the band.

Lancelot titled this series "Logan on a Wednesday."

 

I love my friends.

ESPECIALLY KATE!!!

So this weekend was dot dot dot.

I wish I had one really great word to sum it all up, NOT the word "awesome." Because I'm pretty darn happy after not being pretty darn happy. And I feel like I can face the next couple weeks of work, no problem.

See, there were movies, and breakfast, and laughing, and terrible church lessons, and ice-skating, and grilled cheese sandwiches, and Narnia, and cold feet, and snackums.

But I can't think of one word because I haven't slept in two days.

So you can watch this, because clearly we didn't listen to it enough and laugh our heads off every time.

First weekend off in...well, EVER.

I'm so happy.

SO. happy.

I wish I could tell you how happy I am, but there aren't words. Well, maybe a couple.

Logan. Friends. YSB. Um, homemade breakfast food.

HAHA.

Hiiii Daniel!!

Daniel is my friend. We go way back. We worked together for two and half years at the middle school together. In that time, we have broken many pizzas together, downed Wendy's fries and frosties, and guzzled hot chocolate from the 7-Eleven. He is super funny and nice. Everybody say, "Hiiiiii Dan!!!"

On Sunday, I went to Logan, and Kate and I had some friends over for lunch, including him. Which happened to be a delicious meal, if I do say so myself: Homemade chili con carne, made-from-scratch cornbread, and homemade zucchini bread with zucchini from our garden.

Dan announced at the dinner table that he secretly stalks my blog, which sent me into a fit of laughter. Mostly because he announced it in front of a group of people who know YSB really well, and so anytime they are in earshot of someone talking about my blog, I go into internal hysterics. (Even though they all know I have a blog--though they don't read it). So I laughed really hard to cover it all up. Because I'm an awkward, uncomfortable person.

I'm sorta like an ostrich. If we don't talk about it, it technically doesn't exist. So, in my mind, if we don't talk about my having a blog, it's as though they don't know about it. But then someone mentions it, my illusion is shattered, and my fear of somebody finding out about my crush is multiplied by like a thousand. Guys, it's really bad.

Hi Daniel. Keep your mouth shut.

PS. Welcome to the blog!

I'm just an uncomfortable person sometimes,

Seriously. Sometimes, I think about myself, and I just cringe. Mostly I'm amused, but there's that ten percent of total embarrassment. And just remembering something brings it all back, even if it happened a year ago. A year and a half ago. Five years ago.

It's like, usually, I think I'm a pretty decent, even-tempered person with normal social skills and behavior, plus a good conversationalist, and then BAM!--just when I think I'm doing extra well, I say something, or I do something that just ruins everything. And I'll play it off, but a year, year and a half, five years later, I'm still dying inside about it.

The reason I bring this up is because today marks my 18-monthiversary of telling my lit professor, Professor McCuskey, that I have blue hands and then running away from him into the ladies' room to hide. I made the mistake of telling my friends (who also had him) about it, and they will never let me live it down.

So you might as well relieve the moment and laugh awkwardly with me.

Read the original post right HERE.

McCuskey, if you ever Google yourself, and somehow come across this post--know that I tried to come talk to you about every paper I wrote, and I couldn't: first, because I was too scared, and second, I was too embarrassed. 

I'm so sad. Like a sad little panda.

I'm leaving Kate and Logan this week. Probably for good. My family needs me, my friends are nearly non-existent, and I haven't been able to find a job up here, so I am conceding defeat.

This has been my home for the last five years. Such a big part of my heart belongs to this sweet little place. I have cried at least five times a day the last four days. It is not what I want to do. But it's the right thing to do. I can't wait for the day when the right thing to do matches with what I want to do.

Ugh. I'm heartbroken.

Something to cool you off this hot summer day!

I created, therefore I touched.
Or is it fondled?

We named her. But I can't remember what it is.

Maybe you can name her?

Demonstration: How to Sumo Wrestle...

This is what to do when everyone is done with finals (of course, you didn't have any cos you already graduated!), and you should be going to bed because you need to pack everything up and clean, but you don't...

Grab a couch pillow and go kerrrrrazy!

This is also extremely useful in determining what one would look like pregnant.

As you can see, I will be ADORABLE. Haha.

Happy Sumo Wrestling!

Guess Where I Am?!

Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret.

If you are, please stretch this week out by a couple days, because I've been so, so tired, and I slept more than I should have, and I haven't finished all the papers I need to write. And it's scaring me. If you can't extend my week, maybe, just help me stay awake. That would be cool of you. Don't you want to be cool, God? Maybe you're not into that sort of thing. After all, I'm writing a paper on a poem where you are portrayed as a Mastiff and also Tyrannical. Silly Emily Dickinson. I don't think she realized that you really are a nice dude.

Did you know that Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret is a real book? Furthermore, did you know that it's totally fine that I'm using it for my blog post because—surprise—my first name is Margaret? This is not a lie. Chess is a nickname for my middle name. But this is not a post about my names. We'll save that for another day.

Court told me that I haven't posted in a week. FALSE. If she were really a fan of this blog, she would know I haven't posted in exactly two weeks. (Sheesh.) This is not my fault. This is the fault of Dead Week (the week before finals). Dead Week is anything but dead. The "dead" part comes from the semi-catatonic state that you suffer from trying to do everything all at once and not having enough time to do it. So give me a break. But, I will post. I miss this blog. I miss you readers. I lost one of you this week and it made me sad. Tell all your friends that I really am hilarious sometimes and it's worth it to stick around.

But this is not a post about me being hilarious and really wanting to have 200 followers. That's just being selfish. This is a post about my hilarious friend Courtney and my home away from home. Or what used to be my home away from home. I was hardly ever there this semester, but I guess it's fitting because it just wasn't looking and feeling like home. And I'll tell you why.

Ol' Ray B. West. Ol' Rabies. The building that houses the English department. The building that will soon send me on my way into the real world. (NO. DON'T MAKE ME GO.) It underwent a horrible makeover this summer. The person overseeing production was a genius (and I use the word "genius" lightly) who thought that it would be a great idea if they painted each floor a new glaring neon color so that we would know where to go. Maybe FCHD and Elementary Ed. majors need color coding to figure things out, but—surprise—English majors know how to read. We don't need nasty colors that don't go with brick and tweed. And hello? "1" at the beginning of a room number means the first floor and "2" means the second. How difficult is that?

But I was content not to complain, because I knew, at least, that our nasty plaid couch in the bathroom was still safe from the grubby hands of modernists. However, my confidence was shattered several weeks ago, when Court arrived in Crumbumble's class, all six glorious feet of her soaked in awesome sauce and sprinkled in sparkling coolness (if you can't tell, I want to be like her when I grow up), and she told me in horrified tones that "our couch has been taken away!!!"

I shrieked and almost died, "Is NOTHING SACRED anymore?" You don't understand. That couch was a sanctuary. You never touched it with bare hands. In fact, you didn't touch it at all. Who knew what diseases that thing was housing? But it ensured the safety of your backpack. You could tinkle in peace, knowing that good ol' plaid couch was cradling your backpack until you came out of the stall once again.

And then, if that wasn't enough to put me in the worst mood ever (and I was furious), she hit me with even more horrible news. See, had this been last year, I would've known before she told me, but I only had the one class this time, and I never stuck around afterwards.

She said, "Have you seen the study area?" And I breathed out a low, "Nooooo..."

To my disgust, she told me that they had replaced the three plaid couches with a few plastic rolling chairs grouped around the empty space that used to have a beat-up old coffee table with old poetry magazines stacked on top. Yet another beloved spot desecrated. It was the quintessential English-majory looking and feeling place on our entire campus. The couches didn't match anything or each other, and that coffee table was the sorriest looking thing ever. But you see, they matched us.

That was where we all gathered to moan about our papers. That was where we all crammed together to review for tests and tell stories. That was where we would sneak in a nap after pulling an all-nighter because we procrastinated writing. Those couches, as Court eloquently put it, "formed themselves perfectly to the curves of our bodies."

How do plastic chairs replace the camaraderie, the laughter, the stolen hours of sleep, the sneaking glances at cute boys across the way? They can't, that's what!!

"They have turned Ray B. West from a loving mother into a one-night whore."

Amen, Courtney, mah sister. Amen.

See This Window?

On Tuesday, I came home to a locked door and no key in my backpack. And five hours of work looming ahead of me. And NO LUNCH. This girl needs food in her tummy to be happy. She gets inordinately grumpy and upset if she's hungry. Also, she cannot keep up with 13 and 14-year-olds if she doesn't have at least a slice of peanut butter toast. Just so you know.

So I immediately thought to myself, "Perchance the dining room window is open!! Mayhap I can climb through there and obtain some sustenance!" Dropped my backpack on the porch and scurried around the corner to dining room window (see above picture). Saw the window was open. Realized the window was well above my head. Recognized there were many students walking on the sidewalk. Did not want the cops called on me because someone might see me breaking into my own house. Decided that would be my last resort.

Texted my roomie at 11:31 AM, "When do you get home?" Decided twenty seconds later that I was not going to wait like a wimp for anyone to come home and open the door. 

I was going to take care of myself, dagnabbit! 

I wasn't 22 for nothing, no sirree!!! 

Headed back to the window. If you look on the left wall, there is a water spigot. Left foot on that, big hop so right foot was braced on wall under window. Hauled myself up onto the window sill. Was teetering on my hips. Almost fell out because I was giggling so hard. Window only as wide as my shoulders. Couldn't get a knee up.

Grabbed handfuls of carpet and dragged myself in by my elbows until I landed on all fours. Opened the front door. Got phone and backpack. Came back inside. Checked phone. New text message.

11:32 AM: "I'm leaving for class in a few minutes." 

Heard voice call out, "Chess is that you?"

Gah.

Can only hope someone filmed the sight of my rear end and legs 

dangling out the window

and posted it on YouTube.

Let me know.

I'm HOME!!!

In my new house. In my new room!!!

Lookee! 

School starts on Monday, and while I'm not looking forward to homework, 

I couldn't be more excited to see my friends.

Meg came up yesterday for a little bit to move her freshman brother into his new apartment and to grocery shop. I went and helped, and we met most of the young lads who will be his new roommates. It is this experience that has made me realize how different girls and boys are. Well, let me rephrase: It has made me realize more how different girls and boys are.

Reasons I know I am a girl, and not a boy: 

• One day I will be the mother with the huge handbag and all the necessities. These boys brought nothing. I brought EVERYTHING. An entire van stuffed with it. Need a Band-Aid? Waterproof Disney princesses. A cold? Airborne and zinc lozenges. Want to write Thank You notes? I have cardstock, pens, markers, stickers. Want to make a mural? Two boxes of sidewalk chalk. Feeling like being rude? A book called Shakespeare's Insults. Need to cut your apple? Purple knife.
• I know and use the word 'produce.' I buy it. Plus I eat it. 
• When one of the roommates introduced himself, he said, "My name's Orlando. Like, in Florida." Meg and I looked at each other and gently corrected him, "Oh, you mean Orlando, like Bloom."

What to Say... (Continued)

Hi impatient Groupies! 

I've missed you!

It seems you have missed me too!

Do you know how happy that makes me feel?

Like super duper happy. For reals.

Sorry, I know I have been absent for quite a bit. I have gotten some emails demanding (quite nicely) for some updates on my life (Steven and Elle) and dessert (Rick). 

*shakes head* 

You guys. You make me laugh.

Well, let's see. Updates, updates.... Ah! On Saturday, I went to Lagoon (our local amusement park) with two of my old roomies (Abbie and Cort) and we rode rides like there was no tomorrow. We even did the Sky Coaster, which is where they strap you in harnesses and haul you up to 150 feet on a cable and then let you go flying. I have never been so terrified, screamed so hard, nor had such a thrill. It was amazing! 

Yes. We are that pretty. All the time.

Then I rode back with Cort to Logan (where we go to school) and spent Saturday through Wednesday morning with her. I didn't realize how homesick I was until I slept through an entire night without waking up. Most nights, I've only been able to sleep 3 or 4 hours at a time. I got better rest in the last four days than I have this whole summer.

Cort had to work in the mornings, so I went running, got my hair cut, shopped a little, practiced taking cheesy pictures of myself. 

Like this one:

Haha, looks just like my header. Which I need to change.

When she got back, we talked for hours, took naps, went on walks, played in the park, visited our married friends, went to dinner, watched She's the Man (roomie tradition), played card games, and I just soaked in the glorious fact that I was not at home, and that I got to enjoy the first Sunday of the summer where I DIDN'T have to work. Seriously, such a great weekend. It had its little boring, slightly rough patches, but.... a mostly perfect five days!

And last night, I went to the wedding reception of one of my oldest and dearest friends, Jessika. She is the one in the middle in the pretty white dress. Lady in the black is Kelsha, possibly the funniest girl in existence. Don't ask why she was holding the bouquet. I have no idea. She blogs too. You can find her on my sidebar. I'm too tired to make a link.

Oh, sorry. I'm the short one.

Yes, Rickers, I know I was supposed to cook something, but I wasn't in my own kitchen, plus I was running out of money. I'm on a budget too, Mr. Eats-a-Lot-of-Treats-in-Harry-Potter-World. So not fair! However!! I promise the next thing I make (next week) will be a delicious dessert. Are we cool with that? Okay. :-)

Oh!!

I almost forgot to tell you!

Silly me.

I forgot my toothbrush when I packed, so I tried to get one at the nearby gas station convenience store. But they were out!! So I had to walk to the grocery store (cos I was too motion-sick to get back in the car) to buy one. Come on now, what gas station runs out of toothbrushes? Travelers need things like that never to run out. Isn't that what inventory is for? Silly people. 

Sometimes, I Just Can't Focus...

Sometimes is an understatement. More often than not, I can't focus.

Let's just put it this way:

I have the attention span of a much younger human being.

Like today, for instance, instead of paying attention in church, I was thinking of song names that I would use if I wrote Harry Potter: The Musical. And then I was thinking of real songs from musicals that would work in Harry Potter: The Musical.

(That's a post for another day. Today, I'm focusing on how I'm incapable of focusing.)

Speaking of Harry Potter, did you know Rick is going to the Harry Potter theme park this summer? I'm so jealous. Pleeeease take me with you!! 

I took a class this last week. It was a film class. Fifteen weeks condensed into one. I now have a beautiful list of movies that I need to watch, and I need to look into getting a Netflix account. Delicious-smelling boy swears by it. I talked to him for two and half hours on FB on Friday night, but no matter how close I got to the screen, I couldn't inhale his yumminess over the Internet.

But we watched so many clips. Soooo many!! And after watching movie clips and discussing technique and ideology from 8 in the morning until 5 in the afternoon.... well, little me got bored. I doodled. I doodled a lot.

Did you know that Post-It notes are awesome? For reals! You can do so much with them. I wrote notes on them and passed them around. I made a label decorated with flowers and his name for a buddy's coffee mug. Poor Jeff! I think his manliness was insulted. He wouldn't let me see if Post-It notes would stick to his head. (He shaves his head, you see.) If you shave your head, will you please tell me if Post-It notes stick to your scalp? I need to know. 

I made a Post-It note sculpture. I made different shapes and tried to stack them as high as I could without the sculpture falling down. My crowning achievement was a Post-It note smiley-face that I designed and then stuck on the wall during the Rocky IV montage.

Just imagine that the lights are turned off, and Rocky is training by chopping down trees and tromping through snow dragging a sleigh or a cart or something, and he and the Russian dude are all gross and sweaty, and caring about muscles and winning, and stupid things like that,

and then the lights are turned on to reveal THIS on the back wall,

I mean, please,

How could that not make you happy?

I wonder what Professor M. thought of that.

Once Upon a Time...

There was a girl named Chess, but for the sake of anonymity,

we'll call her Marge.

Marge had lots of friends.

She had girlfriends and boyfriends 

(of the non-romantical sort)...

Some friends were tall, some were short, some were all bones and skinny, and some were much more cuddly to hug. Some friends had red hair, and some had brown, occasionally, some had black (but it was fake), and some were blonde. Some liked to laugh a lot, and some were quiet, some were prudes, and others liked to cuss and make off-color jokes. Marge was more of the laugh-a-lot-when-others-make-off-color-jokes type. After she decided to major in English, making her prudish roommates uncomfortable with off-color jokes was a talent she no longer wanted to hide under a bushel. 

Marge and her friends had heaps of exciting adventures,

such as hiking in the canyon at midnight, fishing at midnight,

hiking in the snow at midnight,

hauling hay at midnight, 

playing Ultimate Frisbee in the university's football stadium at midnight,

(lots of midnight activities--get your mind out of the gutter!)...

Then one day, all her friends decided that 

they liked members of the opposite sex,

and decided to get all romantical with them.

Even Marge had a romantical boyfriend for a little bit...

But that didn't last too long. 

Then everybody got engaged,

or planned on getting engaged,

And Marge got really tired of them,

because, let's face it...

Engaged people are super boring

and really crappy, flaky friends.

THE END

The Moral of the Story:  Romance is a disease. Also known as Friendship Alzheimer's. Symptoms include: bailing out on already-made plans, making your friend scramble to find someone else so she doesn't have to go to the fun activity alone; talking non-stop about your significant other and failing to notice that your friend is always listening, but cries herself to sleep at night because you are so selfish and don't return the favor; talking non-stop to your significant other so your roommate can't have a moment's peace; going home every weekend, and then chattering in the ear of your friend who is TRYING to study because, "OMG, I haven't seen you forever, how come we never talk?" and not noticing the ironic fact that YOU are the reason that "OMG, we haven't talked in forever!" and that while you were gone, your friend established her own routine that you are so rudely interrupting on the day of an important midterm. If you recognize these symptoms, for the love of all that is merciful and just, either break up with your significant other or go home on the weekends, but don't come back and pretend you care.

The Real Moral of the Story: Marge is being petty, annoyed, and sensitive, and really needs to get over herself. She is being whiny and apologizes. It's just hard sometimes. She's really sorry. She's usually a very sweet and not-so-hostile person who forgives easily and always has wide-open arms. 

I Said I'd Never Admit This....

but...

I'm creepy.

I'm a creeper.

Let me explain. That is, if you're still reading...

Are you? 

Good. Okay.

So I had to go see the play Love's Labour's Lost last night for Shakespeare class and I met up with my buddy from class. I don't know why or how, but he smells amazing. Seriously. I can't understand it. It's unreal. He smells so, SO, SO GOOD!! He also smelled good when a bunch of us went to see Alice in Wonderland, but last night was phenomenal. I went internally bonkers. I was so distracted, because every time he moved, a tantalizing waft of what I think is clean, fresh, Lever 2000 soap drifted over and prevented me from understanding the awful, fake Cockney accents onstage.

That's not the creepy part.

I'm creepy because I kept shifting in my seat and leaning slightly over the armrest so I could breathe it all in. The whole time I was at the play. Which was two and half hours long. I'm creepy because I just kept going. I even laughed out loud to myself when everyone else did, not because the play was funny, but because I knew I was creepy and didn't care.

Tip of the Day: Men--if you want to increase your attractiveness ten-fold, smell good (body and breath). Also, learn to play an instrument, like the piano or the cello (guitar and bass are also acceptable). 

So. If you know who I am talking about, keep it to yourself. If you are the person I'm talking about (and I highly doubt you're reading this because I know you make fun of people who blog), you might as well know. You smell so good. My question is, how come you never smell so good during class? Let me rephrase: How come you never smell AS good during class? (Because you never smell bad.) Why is it only outside of class? Does my nose only work during the nighttime?

Oh gosh. 

I'm blushing.

(Or I would be if I could blush).

I'm a blushing creeper.

Delightfully Purple...

is how I like to smell, folks. I feel Anne-ish every now and then, if you know what I mean.

Purple is my happy color, and my happy fragrance. 

(Also known as Enchanted Orchid by Bath and Body Works.)

And I have the works. I kid you not.

Apparently, it makes me smell "yummy." Dance class kid's words, not mine. 

You know how someone will walk past you,

and just a hint of their cologne or perfume will

just float past your nose?

And you catch yourself turning your head

to the side just so you can catch it again?

And you think to yourself, "Mmmm....yummy!"

Can you blame me? Have you smelled the air in Cache Valley?

Also. Don't tell me you haven't hoped a particularly delicious-smelling person

would sit right in front of or next to you in class,

just so you could be distracted from the lecture.

I wonder if I've ever been that delicious-smelling person to somebody else. That'd be cool. I have been told that my neck was like unto an aphrodisiac. (No. I do not have a vegetarian vampire boyfriend who cares about my feelings.) However, I question the validity of that statement, since he decided a week later that my roommate smelled more like Aphrodite than I did.

But THAT is a story for a much later time.

What signature color do YOU smell like?

Sittin' Pretty...

Is what I'm doing at the middle school where I work. (Well, I don't know about the pretty part. My eyes are pretty puffy from crying all night. Long story. If you're my best friend, I'll tell you later.)

I'm in the 8th grade counselor's office. She's been sick this week. She has heaps of candy in her desk drawer and cupboards. The other counselors and secretaries steal it, and tried to peer pressure me into partaking of it with them, but I refused, citing the eighth commandment.

I hold a pretty powerful position:

Full command of the copier.

Access to the writing lab and its printer.

And you don't know the meaning of power until you have an entire pad of hall-passes at your fingertips. And a minion office aide to do your bidding.

Actually, I'm not sure if he is an office aide. Maybe I should ask? 

I ride the bus to work. I love riding the bus. I love that the bus is warm when I get on. I love that the seats are so high my feet dangle above the floor. I love pulling the cord that tells the driver he needs to stop and let me off. But most of all, I love watching the people.

Can I tell you about my favorite time to ride the bus?

My favorite time to ride is Wednesday mornings. On Wednesday morning, school doesn't start until an hour later, so two of the passengers happen to be two middle-schoolers. They get on with their dad and he rides with them as far as Lee's Marketplace. I think he works there. Dad puts his arms around his son and daughter, gives them a quick squeeze, and waves as he gets off the bus. As the bus pulls away from the curb, he turns around as he's walking across the parking lot and waves to his kids one last time. And they wave back to him.

(It gets me right there. Every time.)

I start every Wednesday with a smile on my face.

Because there's simple, beautiful love in the world.

TRUE LOVE.

And I get to see it in a little, often forgotten, place called the bus.

Life is pretty special sometimes. 

Star Trek....

Is the movie on the HPER field tonight. 

At dark. 

You should go.

I'm going. 

My roommates are going.

Some others are going too.

A fun night. 

:)

Why, Oh Why...

Did I choose to be an English Education major? It's soooooooo much reading. I've never had to read this much stuff in my life! It's only the fourth day of school and I'm already behind. How is that possible?

12 credits. That's all I'm taking. Just barely full-time.

I think this will be my busiest semester thus far.

I know I've got at least fifteen papers to write, not to mention a few projects, not to mention a few tests....

Stupid, stupid, stupid!

On a happier note, though.... I went to the foam dance last night. I have never been that squished in my life. And since when are freshman boys that HUGE? What is it about a foam dance that makes boys completely lose their manners and start shoving everyone they see?I don't bruise easily, but I hurt today.

I also got buried in the foam and, at one point, started to panic because I couldn't breathe and I couldn't find my way out. Plus I lost my flip-flops. They are gone forever. FOR-EH-VURR... FOR-EH-VURR!!

It sounds like I'm complaining, but I'm not. It was super fun. I just wish they had had four of those foam towers, so the foam could be spilling from all directions.

Now that would've been amazing!