Lunchtime

Anybody remember reading my post about tuna ?

I thought that once I left college, I would break free of my scrape-the-bottom-of-the-mac-and-cheese barrel lunchtime habits. I assumed that, as a working professional,I would have the means to experience exotic and exciting foods like Schlotzky's Deli, Paradise Bakery, and Chili's.

Boy was I wrong.

For the past five days strait, I've had a peanut butter and banana sandwich or microwave ramen (or both--I went a litle crazy on Wednesday) for my midday sup.

We Heywood's are frugal as a rule, but I'm starting to wonder if I shouldn't at least mix in a microwave dinner or a Quizno's sub. For reasons that can't be explained (ok. They can be explained. Being raised where the only occaision that merited a trip to Wendy's or Taco Bell was a birthday or a family vacation), I feel guilty going out to eat.

I do, however, splurge occasionally in the morning when I order an English muffin from the cafe at the basement of our Tower. The muffin is always on the toasted-too-much-on-the-outside-yet-cold-on-the-inside side, but I keep going back because of the personality of the Asian couple who manages the establishment.

The man, who I've never heard say one word since I began my visits, stands near the back of the kitchen and silently surveys the operation like Joe Torrey in the 5th inning. His wife is the polar bear oppposite. She rushes around the kitchen/cash register/chocolate milk display case with grasshopper zeal. I think her smile was surgically stapled to her face--it's as wide as Montana and it never leaves. I feel like I complete her life's mission every time I order an extra item.

"I'll have an English muffin, toasted on the toasted-too-much-on-the-outside-yet-cold-on-the-inside side, please." (she smiles wider and raises her eyebrows.) "oh...and a...blueberry yogurt...I guess..." (she beams like she's just been knighted by the Queen).

Which shows once again that half the world doesn't know how the other three quarters lives. Or eats.

Renassiance Tower at Copper Square

This is where I work--the 23rd floor of 2 N Central Ave. I have an incredible view of the city (well, if I get up and walk over to the window).

Some other perks of the location include:

--An escalator I can use for no charge
--Parking I can use for a steep charge(they give you a free escalator and make it up in the parking)
--Statue of a naked man in front of the building (no, really.)
--Close to the light rail. (in two months)
--Near Chase Field and U.S. Airways Arena
--Gift store at the bottom of the building with Dream Catchers. People still buy those things?

Cat got your

Tongue Twisters?

I wish to wash my Irish wristwatch.
(who doesn't?)

Lovely lemon lininment.

Eleven benelovent elephants.

Gobbling gargoyles gobbled gabbling goblins.

Three short sword sheaves.

Classified Dating

Last weekend, my cousin told me about a website (planetredhead.com) with the mission to unite redheads for dating so that they can eventually have redhead children. Apparently, redheads are becoming extinct.

This got me thinking. What if I did want to put my profile up on a dating site. What would I say?

How about:

Single white male WLTM a DTE YSF for FS and hopefully a LTR. ISO VGL girl with SOH and a healthy 401(k). Not a SD, but always up for a cold DDP. PA and ALA (literally, these days).

A battle well fought

I spent many hours in the hospital this weekend feeling helpless. My oldest cousin Jeff passed away after a battle with cancer, leaving behind a beautiful wife and two bright eyed children.

During those hours of grief in the oncology ICU, I didn't know what to say or do. I was just...there. Watching. Praying. Hoping.

I was moved by the love that was shown during those hours. I don't know of anything that can be purer than a mother's and a wife's love, nor can there be anything so exquisite as their grief. I saw the courage of a father and the tender kindness of a sister. I witnessed the bonds of affection that tie family together, knotted with the peace and promise of a reunion scheduled for all eternity.

Jeff's struggle on earth is over. His course is finished, his battle through. With all the strength and tenacity that Jeff showed, it is now our turn to fight through this trial. The empty days and long hours will stretch until they seem unbearable to those who for so long traveled with Jeff along life's paths.

"Oh stong soul, by what shore
Tarriest thou now? For that force,
Surely, has not been left vain!
Somewhere, surely, afar,
In the sounding labour-house vast
Of being, is practiced that strength,
Zealous, beneficent, firm!

Yea, in some far-shining sphere,
Stil thou performest the word
Of the God in whom thou dost live,
Prompt, unwearied as here!"

The battle now turns to those who knew and loved Jeff, to live in rememberance without remorse, to step into the future in submission without sulleness.

Jeff, we miss you.

A speed read creed

I have a mild case of book ADD. Throw in a few newspapers and magazines, and I have a problem no ritalin can cure.

Here's what I've been reading lately:

John Adams by David McCullough- Wow. One of my favorite books I've ever read. I'm sure I will post about it in the future.

Autobiography of Benjamin Franklin-I've read it before, but I'm getting more out of this reading.

The Neal A. Maxwell Quote Book-I read a couple of pages of quotes everyday, marking my favorites.

LSAT study guides (logic games and logical reasoning)--fun fun...

The Book of Mormon--it's true.

Forbes magazine
Conde Nast Portfolio
American Speeches
Isaac Asimov's Treasury of Humor
An Idiots Guide to Cold Calling
The World's Greatest Letters

New plan of action: I need to read slower to get more out of the books I take on. Also--I probably need to throw in some fiction. Any suggestions? (I'm not interested in Grisham, Dan Brown, Stephanie Meyer, and the like...)

iPod iPod iPod iDunno

OK. I'm usually not materialistic. But I've had my eye on a new iPod. I think it would cheer up my commutes. I'm sick of KTAR's "Detour Dan," the same five country songs (seriously KNIX...play some older stuff or at least mix in some Garth Brooks or Alan Jackson), and I am done listening to local pundits predict what's going to happen during the next debate (no really. I'm done. Because, well, so are the debates...).

I've justified buying an iPod in my mind. But...they're so expensive. And I'd have to choose. Do I get a touch? A nano? An iPod classic? It's all so confusing.

How can I expect to know what I want in life if I can't even decide what I want in a portable electronic device?

Adhesive Shout Out

Do you know what's underrated?

Gorilla glue.

Just gettin' the word out.

A New Blog

I'm disgusted with politics. I'd rather eat cooked spinach than take another serving of Presidential Canidate Rhetoric.

So I'm seperating my political thoughts from my personal blog.

The new blog is http://davespoliticalnotebook.blogspot.com.

Enjoy.

"Dogs and Cats, Living Together, Mass Hysteria"

The flow of credit has stopped, the Dow is crashing, the dollar is weak, stagflation looks inevitable, the government still cannot pass a bill without adding greasy layers of pork, and to top it all off, I ruined my chicken broccoli three cheese alfredo sauce last night.

These are tough times. Hard to predict what will happen next. Just ask any analyst--economic or political.

However, we can be certain about some things.

An economic depression would be grim, but it would not change the reality of immortality. The inevitability of the Second Coming is not affected by the unpredictability of the stock market. Political despots make this world very ugly, but they cannot touch the better world to come. Thus the things of which we can be most certain are also those things which matter most.
--Elder Neal. A Maxwell

Our Moldin' Corral

For years, American's have had a feast of easy money. All kinds of buffets--especially Aunt Fannie and Uncle Fred-- wanted to take us in as customers and let us try our hand at the fat of the land. Like the dulled football spectator watching the game with a box of Cheez-Its, we kept thrusting our hand in the bag for a couple more. But then--during the fourth quarter--the box was suddenly empty.

The end of the day found us a fattened and, oddly enough, still hungry for real food. We reached for our wallets to pay for our past meal so we could then order another, but were surprised to find that we hadn't the means to pay.

And the bank-buffets? They were all out of food to give us. All that's left is an empty kitchen, a pile of sloppy leftovers--ranch dressing encrusted salad plates, a few morsals of bad canteloupe, a piece of t-bone from the steak--a bbq stained shirt,and a stomach that's been stretched from our years of overeating.

Luckily, there's that trustworthy and efficient Dietician, ol' Uncle Sam, willing to sweep up our dirty plates, hide them away in a doubtlessly magical kitchen, and order us some new dishes, a fresh set of flatware, and another round of drinks. Banzai! Bon appetit!

But...wait? Who's going to wash the old dishes?

Best not to think about it now. They'll get clean. One of these days...

Stratford-On-Avon

--the name of the village has been shoveled into my mind time by English teachers in my formative years. I heard the name at least once a year (whenever Shakespeare came up. It seemed that my teachers loved to throw in this town name as that one little piece of tidbit that they remembered from their college days). I had no idea what "on Avon" meant, and I always tended to confuse the Stratford scene with my few other associations of England, most notably the Disney animated feature Robin Hood. So, in my mind, I pictured Stratford on Avon as a village in a forest glen populated by bald-headed friars and lyre-strumming roosters.

I am in a bus driving back to London from the modern Stratford. The green and beauty of the countryside keeps me awake--I don't want to fall asleep and miss the scenery.

By nature, I am always skeptical of "tourist traps"--places of historical merit that are so full of artificial atmosphere and "pay here for a look" that the solemnity or majesty of the area is swallowed up in capitalism. The Tower of London was such a place for me. I feel like I am wasting time anytime there are more glass display cases and usheres hurrying you along than there is seconds an hour. Stratford had a little of the tourist trap atmosphere, but felt it was very honest in its identity. Sure, the "shrines to Shakespeare" shop got a little tiring--a Shakespeare bra? Shakespeare insult magnets? Come on guys. The energy of the town was genuine, despite the kitsch.

My visit to Shakespeare's birthplace was rushed because of the large afternoon crowds. However, the guides were very helpful and friendly. One of them even too k time to leave his station and show me some of his favorite signatures in the "autograph window."

Stratford was an enjoyable place, but once I'd visited shop after shop of Shakespeare gifts, I couldn't help but thinking , "What? All this for Shakespeare?!!??" Perhaps I'll be convinced by the end of this term that Shakespeare really deserves the magnets, mugs, lingerie, postcards, plates, pens, cards, and chocolate bars.

Portraits In General (Not "Portraits of a General"--that's a completely different topic)

Why was the Renaissance age fascinated with portraits? They show power. They show pride. They exhibit a hope to last forever, if not in the body, at least on a wall or canvas.

Virginia Woolf once wrote that "the essence of snobbery is that you wish to impress other people." Was it for snobbish reasons that King James wanted his portrait the size of a large room, with his horse's head shrunken like a voodoo doll?

Life, wrote William Hazlitt, is a struggle to be what we are not and to do what we cannot. If Hazlitt is to be believed, we are, as he goes on to say, very much what others think of us. Is that the reason for these portraits. To impress others? To impress the courtiers? To impress other nobles? To attempt to impress themselves?

Is it vanity, then, that guides the rich, the royal, and the "noble" of this age to wish for a portrait? In many respects, these portraits are an expression of vanity. Even more than pride, vanity wishes to show to all ones worth. Says Schopenheaur "pride is an established conviction of one's own paramount worth in some particular respect; while vanity is the desire of rousing such a conviction in others and it is generally accompanied by the secret hope of ultimately coming to the same conviction oneself."

A portrait lives on--men (and Virgin Queens) do not.

National Gallery

Erasmus and his labors. He was a humanist, a Cambridge professor, an advocate to reform the Catholic church. The book he holds looks to be written in Greek. Or is it Latin? I am not a classicist, so I couldn't tell you. It's not English, that's for sure. My guess is Greek, simply because Erasmus WAS a humanist. The Labours of Hercules of Erasmus of Rotterdam. It fits, I guess. Never had to kill a hydra, but I hear going against the Catholic Church and advocating a new way of learning is tough stuff.

Holbein also painted The Ambassadors. A few thousand academic papers could be written about the all of the symbolism mixed in with this painting; I'll keep it simple here, more so because I'm not an art guy (I appreciate it, see it, but, for the life of me, mostly never understand the "correct" interpretation). Katie R noticed a broken string on the lute. That could only mean one thing. Those ambassadors need another string (ba dum chhh). Ok. Seriously. It probably reflects the discord of the times. As I move to the right hand of the painting, I see a skull appear on the bottom of the work. The skull often represent man's mortality. We're gonna die. We are going to die. If you look up, though, with the natural movement of your eye, you will notice a silver crucifix in the left hand corner of the painting. Hmmm….death but. But what? Well, salvation. Christianity. God's kingdom. Perhaps this portrait reflects fideism and the plea to trust in God.

National Portrait Gallery

Queen Elizabeth the 1st. Ahh, how white thy face shines in portraits! Why wast thou shunned by love's strait arrow, unwed, unbed, and unbecomed?


Probably because you were picky, power hungry, or maybe just a little too focused on running Britain.

Ditchley's portrait shows you with the most power. Here you stand atop a map of England. Your feet smash down on the globe, your skirt is wide, ready to overtake all. The pearls on your dress, the jewels sewn in your garment are impressive. You glimmer and shine like a queen should. You rise towards heaven with your might but…

The other painting by Ditchley portrays you as austere and stern. You wear no smile; perhaps that would betray your image of power. You wear your crown with strict dignity. Your collar of lace (maybe it's not late--I'm a man and so I assume that anything that is white and frilly on a woman is lace) is aligned with the fashion of the time and…

Your hair is not as long as your coronation portrait. Here you have flowing gold hair, the color of your dress. Beautiful, golden locks. Your hair matches the cold crown, orb and sceptre…truly you were destined for this power, your hair becomes it, your eyes become it, but…your husband

Never did.

Tate Britain

If you see a man in his 'powers' (that's what our x country team called the ridiculously short shorts they wore) running up and down the halls of the Tate Britain, don't panic. It's only an exhibit sponsored by Martin Creed.

While at the Tate Britain, you may see a painting of The Virgin Queen by Nocholas Hilliard. You might notice that the painting is a symbolic representation of the queen. The jewel above her head is a phoenix, a symbol of her virginity. There are no thorns on the stem of roses in her hand. This alludes to the Virgin Mary, again a symbol of Elizabeth's virginity. The showdowless portrait, with ostentatious clothing and fancy decorum, is a symbolic representation of the monarch. Why shadowless? Perhaps Elizabeth wants to present the image that all light emanates from her. Perhaps she is trying to keep the focus on her, with eyes not wandering to shadows. Or, perhaps, she told Hilliard that she wanted the picture to be "showerless" (meaning no rainclouds) and he misunderstood. Only Hilliard and Elizabeth really know the answer to this conundrum.

Victoria and Albert Museum

Victoria and Albert Museum: I


The displays on the church in this museum are a good contrast of pre and post Reformation sentiments in Britain. Before the Reformation, churches were furnished to appeal to the senses. They were richly decorated with ornate tapestries and ostentatious robes and costumery. Even the Bibles--a costly work in itself--were ornately decorated. Edward VI and Elizabeth I, Protestant minded royalty, reformed this pagaentry to plainer displays. The Puritan moralists attacked the ostentatious displays of the church. Reformers replaced crucifixes in the churches with royal coat of arms. The pre-Reformation painting on display (no 23) shows a crucifixion scene. This painting is an example of the catholic sentiments of the time.


Victoria and Albert Museum: II
A Young Man Among Roses, Hilliards painting about court life, is a representation of a courtiers devotion. The coutier declares his devotion to the queen with his hand on his heart. He wears her colors and symbols in his dress. Clothing was one of the most popular way to express ones wealth and feelings in the times. In this painting, the painter and the sitter of the paining devised the symbolism together.

Sadly, the display of Elizabeth was under a canvas wrap the day I visited the museum. I asked the curator when the display would be available for viewing, and she looked at me like I was plotting a robbery. Must be the red hair. I'm sick of discrimination.

London Fog

I've been back from London for more than a week, and now, the whole experience is starting to feel like a dream. I need to write down my experiences before they drift away into the foggy corners of my memory.

I've checked out eight different movies from the library with an English theme--My Fair Lady, Bednobs and Broomsticks, Much Ado About Nothing, etc. I haven't made time to watch any of them yet, but the fact that I made two trips to the ol' Wasatch County library for movies is evidence of my recent fetish for all things Anglo.

But now, the field days are over. The band has gone home, the birthday cake's been cut and the ice cream put away. I move to Arizona in a few days for a new chapter of life at Ernst and Young. I need a good attitude, a shot of confidence, and a new suit. Probably even a coupla new pens.

Elephant House Cafe

There's a little cafe in Edinburgh called The Elephant House Cafe. It's a quiet place if you go in the evening. The interior is modest and unassuming, and there are a few tastely placed elephant figurines and a coupla pieces of elephant artwork. All in all, the place is a tad boring. It costs $5 to buy a postcard, and $2.80 for a can of Coke.

Why is it so popular then? It's not the view (although the window in the back boasts a rather stunning look at Edinburgh Castle). It's not the food (the chocolate cake was good, I hear, but it didn't look like anything magical).

Maybe it's so famous because a single English mother spent many days, and likely, a few nights writing out a book about a boy wizard named Harry Potter. So, here's to Ms. Rowling and Harry, who turns 27 on July 31 (trust me, the only reason why I know this is because we have a few girls who are rather large Harry Potter fans. I mean uh...tbey aren't large, as in, their body structure, they are just really big fans. Ooops...not big as in pregnant big, uh...they just really like Harry Potter. Ya know.)

Happy Birthday, Harry. Why dontcha stop on by to The Elephant House and get yourself a malted shake too thick for a straw. And, while you're at it, buy me one of those $5 postcards. I'm good for it...

Gochisosamadeshita

Wagamama (say that five times fast without sounding like a Comanche choo choo train) is my new favorite Japanese food restaurant. I think it only exists only in here in England, but, I hope not. I hope there is one in every state of the union. It's that good.
The ramen was delicious--scallops, shrimp, egg, chicken, mushrooms and tofu in my Wagamama Ramen. One of the girls we were with got Yakisoba. Not enough sauce, and too much of a burnt taste but I'll forgive 'em because my ramen was so good. Despite the yakisobat dissappointment, I still have to give wagamama two chopsticks up.

Comin' Round the Mountain

One of the destinations of our excursion to the North of Britain this past week was the Lake District. Here, Wordsworth, Coleridge and the like perfected the art of Romantic period poetry. It's no wonder their writing leaned to the Romantic--the Lake District is beautiful.
We stayed at a youth hostel on the shores of Lake Windemere in the town of Ambleside. The hostel was hot, their mushroom and lentil rice was atrocious, and the service was terrible. But the location! Ahh--the location! Well worth the minor bothers.
I spent the day relaxing, attempting to write a poem or two (and failing miserably. There once was a man from Australia/Who...uh...never thought he'd impale ya??? what?) and conoeing with katie and jackie on the lake. The next morning, a bright and sunny morning in Ambleside, a few of us went hiking. The stone and green mountainside was friend to a few weary hikers, some bleating sheep, and my keep keep bleeding love.

Take Me Down to the Paradise City

35 to 3. No, those aren’t the odds that I’ll stay Uncle Dave for the rest of my life (though, we often think that, don’t we?).

35-3 is the girl-to-guy ratio in the London program. “Wow—advantageous,” people say. “You must be in heaven,” others insist. Admittedly, it is nice to come to dinner every night to a sea of beautiful faces. And, an additional plus, at other times, my masculinity finds a blessed home when I am invited to attend late-night excursions because I provide two arms of manly safety.

But for the most part, I feel like I am in an enemy minefield with size 48 shoes (on a related note, I know a LOT more about shoes now than when I began this program)—no matter where I step, something is going to go off.

No matter what I say, I feel like I’m just a footstep away from offending someone. Girls are much more sensitive than boys, and if I make such innocent comments as, “Wow, you girls are so tall compared to other girls I know” or “Were you up late skyping last night—you look tired”, I’m sure to offend. I find myself double and even triple checking what comes out of my mouth. This dashes ones confidence and turns what could be witty banter and well-bred conversations into a stuttering staccato of “oh, uh, neverminds” and “uh, wells.”

Another conversation killer is the fact that I know nothing or have no interest in a large proportion of the conversations that go on around this joint. Clothes—no interest. Male movie stars—zip. Female movie stars—a bit more than zip, but not much. Shoes—I’m soleless. Dating—interesting, fun to analyze, but sometimes a bit too dramatic (whattaya do when a girl starts crying? Give hugs? Shake hands? Pat backs? I dunno…I just don’t know).

So, back to my situation. Little confidence to try and be myself, not too much to add to any conversation, and, to top it all off, I ALWAYS feel like a polygamist wherever I go. Especially when we meet people from the states who already assume that Mormons are polygamist.

Man from America: So, where are ya’ll from?
Me (and eight girls standing together on a subway): Utah.
Man from America: Ahh…yep. That makes sense.

I’m trying to look on the bright side of things. All these girls are amazing—very cool. And, I get my own personal course of study in Female Behavior. I’m learning a lot of secrets of the fairer sex. Maybe I’ll post a few of my discoveries. But I have no time right now. I’m going to the market to try on some shoes, and, if I can’t find anything I like, to buy some chocolate.

And I would walk 500 more...

These two pictures are from a country walk through the Kent area. The pastoral English countryside was beautiful. Green and magical. You might be able to tell that we were just in time for the lavender crop. We visited an annual lavender festival, and I tried my hand at some farm-raised English lavender honey. Wow.

If my PAF charts are correct, I have some ancestors from Bethersden Kent, which is a small town about 35 miles from the place where we did our walk. If Bethersden is anything like Shoreham, it's beautiful. The town probably has what every English village has--a church, a pub, and a cricket pitch.





This is the street where I live. Go to www.bmw.com, www.audi.com or www.idriveastinkinexpensiveforeignsportscar.com to see pictures of the cars parked out on the street in front of our flat. It's a nice neighborhood, our Notting Hill. We're neighbors with Reese (that actress girl from the South) and we're kitty corner from a few embassies.

Oh, what a night

I went to Jersey Boys last night.


If you haven't heard about Jersey Boys, lemme fill you in. Have you seen Ray or Walk the Line? Then you know Jersey Boys. It's the typical story of a band or musical artist that struggles in the beginning to get discovered. They eventually find success, but then succumb to the "pressures" of the road. The girls/booze/drugs finally get to them, they crash, and the group breaks up. *Yawn* It's a tired plot structure, but the music and performers were amazing. The sets were incredible--I definitely enjoyed it despite the fact that I knew exactly what was coming.

Jersey boys is about the Four Seasons (the band with Frankie Valli). They recorded hit songs such as Big Girls Don't Cry, Walk Like a Man, Can't Take My Eyes Off of You, December, 1963, and others.

The show also included several salty phrases frowned upon by the postal authorities, including a generous use of the so called "R-rated" word.

Ice Cream Treat During intermission, a popular thing for Londoner theatre goers to do is either 1) go up to the theatre-bar above the balcony or 2) to buy an ice cream to consume during the break.This ice cream is usually Haagen Daz, and it costs three pounds ($6). What does this six dollars get you? A serving size of about 2 1/2 tablespoons. "Hey, look what I put for the serving size! It was just a joke, but they're goin' out there like that..."

The crazy thing is, people are going crazy for this ice cream! It is the thing to do during intermission. I don't understand what the deal is. Perhaps it's the challenge of downing that whole 1/4 cup in the alloted twenty minute time. Maybe it makes the break go by faster. Maybe it's their way of rebelling against the quality of the show--"your performance is so disappointing I'm going to amuse myself with ice cream"
Absolutely crackers!

A Cambridge Bath

First, the pictures.

A group of us "punted the Cam" at Cambridge and I took time to relax at Bath with some "Roman" women. Athena was particularly nice and let me take the picture.


Walking Through The City


Pink and blue. Pastel colors seem to be the menswear rage in the financial district. And most of the young guys appear to be working sans neckties as well. If that’s one method to rebel against the stodgy establishment of our fathers, burn the silk and polyester, I say. Rage against the machine. Hang the ties and the Hung, Drawn, and Quartered and leave e’m to the pinters.

I noticed the fashion of the area because of my fashion choice for the day. If you could see a picture of me at the Royal Exchange, you’d observe that I look like a loud, annoying American tourist with my plaid shirts and Nike athletic t-shirt. Did I feel out of place walking near such places as the Bank of England, the Stock Exchange, and the Lloyds of London building? Absolutely.

But it wasn’t because of the fashion. I could have worn a tux and still have felt like a loud, annoying American tourist. Walking down Lombard street, focusing all my energy into navigating my way through a construction area while attempting to follow the trailblazing path of Arty, I was hit by a realization (and nearly hit by a double decker bus)—I AM a loud, annoying American tourist. I carry around a dorky spiral bound walk book. I have an accent that sounds like sledgehammers banging on tree stumps to the gentle gentry ears of the English. I usually travel in parks of other Centre students, blocking the way and laughing about silly things we see. I’m always hungry.

I need to embrace my American touristness. I can play the part of the fool, because hey, I’m not from around here. I must remember that London’s economy functions because of tourists like me. I have the power here. Without us, these city folk would all be stuck in a button factory. And I would be in Prague, living like a king near some castle in a country that doesn’t have a ridiculously expensive exchange rate.


Regents Park

What do you get when you cross Antonio Banderas and the Islamic Centre?
The Mosque of Zorro.

Alright, alright, a bit lame, but that joke was the highlight of my Regents Park walk. Well, that and my thirty second conversation with a stodgy security guard. He was patrolling a ritzy looking area (I just checked on a real estate site. A home in that area, just over 6,000 square feet, is selling for $25,000,000) and I asked what was going on (clearly, there was some sort of social function or party). He had the gall to pretend that nothing was going on, that there was only a private residence, and that I must be some crazy and stupid American for assuming anything would be going on when there was merely a few dozen sports cars, an armored guard (with enough arms to fight the Revolutionary War—wait, who won that war again? Oh yeah. We did.) amidst houses selling for $25,000,000. Yeah, you’re right Bobby. Nothing’s happening tonight.

I spoke with some girls from Spain about the area. All they could say were very good things. Those very good things happened to be “We don’t know English” and “We are from Spain.” Despite the communication barrier, I think we bonded at Regents. From what little Spanish I know, I could tell that they were here for the Mosque of Zorro.

Wimbledon

Wimbledon:

Tennis begins with love, so they say. And what’s not to love about Wimbledon? It is the right mix of stodginess and public democracy. Wimbledon is the only US major that allows the public to “queue” for tickets, with an ultimate chance at seeing a match played on the show courts (at Wimbledon, they show courts are Centre Court and Court No 1).

My Wimbledon experience was unlucky at first. We had a few hours on Tuesday this week, so four of us took the Tube to Wimbledon, about a half hour ride from the BYU London Centre. The station just outside Wimbledon was filled with people going to the tournament or coming home. We knew that there was a queue that formed for the general public to get into the tournament, but we didn’t know exactly where it was.
The queue turned out to be easier to spot than we thought. After a five minute walk from the station, we realized the queue was the line as long as the Mississippi, winding at least a mile through Parking Lot #10, dirt roads, and the British countryside. It turns out, Andy Murray, the British entry into Wimbledon, was playing at the time we arrived. Two or three of the Wimbledon ushers, in their calm and matter-of-fact British-butler way of speaking, told us that we really didn’t have a hope to get in today, as the queue was over four thousand people, and the general admissions only allow around 2,000 per hour (and it was already about 6:30 or 7:00). We decided that we didn’t want to waste our time in London in a line, and so we gave up and went back to the Centre (consoling ourselves with a mint chocolate chip ice cream on the way home). Also on our way home, we ran into three girls from the Centre who were just behind us on the way to Wimbledon. We told them what the usher said, but they were determined to try the queue anyways. Their determination proved successful, and we found out later that night that they were able to get in. My first trip to Wimbledon was a disappointment.

I told myself that I was not going to be slave to the queue. Today, a few of us took off after class and lunch and braved our chances. Whether it was because of the impending, or because there was no more English players in the tournament, I can’t say, but the queue today was nothing. A 2 minute wait, if that. Once inside the gates, I rubbed my eyes a bit, took a few pictures, and we watched a juniors match. Our task was then to get into Centre Court. In order to do that, you must wait in a resell line. As the real ticket holders leave, they put their tickets in a red box that then goes over to another queue. For $10, middle-class fans like me can wait in a line and purchase the wealthy people’s tickets. Serena williams was playing the underdog Zheng in centre court, and all of the ushers in the resell queue advised us that nobody was leaving the court so we should go watch other matches and come back when Serena was over. We wanted to see Serena, however, so we waited. And waited. And waited. As luck would have it, it began to rain. And rain. And rain.

We got a little wet, but so did some of the people in the Centre Court stadium. They had been watching tennis all day, so a few of them decided to leave. They put their tickets in the resell box and—ACE—we were in the gates for Serena. We had amazing seats, the match was incredible, and the atmosphere was unparalleled. Tennis etiquette really is amazing. You could hold a church meeting in the stadium when the play starts it’s so quiet. During breaks and after points the noise is loud but during play—silence. And nearly everyone in the stadium is dressed nice. I felt like a scmuck with my red t-shirt and shorts. Another cool thing about Wimbledon is the ball boys and girls. They are incredibly disciplined. Here’s what wikopaedia has to say about ‘em.

boys and ball girls
In the championship games, ball boys and girls, known as BBGs, play a crucial role in the smooth running of the tournament, with a brief that a good BBG "should not be seen. They should blend into the background and get on with their jobs quietly."[13]. Since 1969, BBGs have been provided by local schools.
Prospective BBGs are first nominated by their school headmaster, to be considered for selection. To be selected, a candidate must pass written tests on the rules of tennis, and pass fitness, mobility and other suitability tests, against initial preliminary instruction material. Sucessfull candidates then commence a training phase, starting in February, in which the final BBGs are chosen through continual asessment. As of 2008, this training intake was 600. The training includes weekly sessions of physical, procedural and theoretical instruction, to ensure that the BBGs are fast, alert, self confident and adaptable to situations. As of 2007, early training occurs at Sutton Junior Tennis Centre, and then moves to the main courts after Easter.

As disciplined as they are, mistakes do happen. One of them ran into Serena during the match—Serena’s not a slight gal—I think the poor chap got pummeled by a girl in a tennis skirt. Funny stuff.

London Pictures

Not much time to write yet, but here are some pictures from the UK.

Anglophilia

I'm in London. Heaps of things to see, but battery is almost dead. I'll see what I can do about getting an American adapter. Stay posted...

Dekimashita

Done with the Honors thesis. London in three weeks.

Another find from freshman year, for Jamie

I’ve never committed suicide (attempted and committed are two totally different conversations). I’m not an eccentric brother like Faulkner’s Quentin from The Sound and the Fury. But I do take my responsibilities seriously. I mean, as an older brother, I’ve got to look after and set an example to my siblings. If my sister gets an A- average, I’d dang better pull A’s. If my brother joins Scouts, I should be an Eagle. That’s not always an easy task to take on. Especially with Jamie. She was the Homecoming Queen. Head Cheerleader. Lead part in the school musical. Madrigals Most Valuable Singer. Student Council member. Drama Troupe President. Little sister.

The little sister is a tag-along, a tattletale, a brat. It is a nagging four-ply piece of toilet paper stuck on a clean pair of Levi’s. It’s a mindless Tickle-Me-Elmo. Somehow, the cute little eyes and soft hair always seem to win everyone over. Jamie was a little sister like that. She had those cute little eyes and soft hair. She had spunk, dreams, and an iron fist. I’m a softy—a pushover. She could destroy me. Her fury knew no bounds, and occasionally, even singing “Say Say Oh Playmate” together could turn into Rocky II. I was the one who always came away with a bloody nose. Literally.

Going to school with Jamie always meant competition. Even from elementary school days. She jumped further than I did at the Acequia Elementary Field Day. She took more superiors than I did at the Rupert Music Festival. She placed higher in the Spelling Bee— a third grade third place prize compared to my pathetic fourth grade honorable mention. Growing up we moved around a lot, and she always made more friends than I did. As much as I resented my defeats, I tried to fulfill my duties of elder brother with the utmost care and compassion. I pushed elevator buttons for her and showed her how to order food at McDonalds. I watched over the little sister. I made sure she was following rules, doing her chores, and not getting more breaks than I was from my parents. I was Big Brother—born one year earlier than 1984.


An older brother’s busiest time has to be the teenage years. Middle School brings a new set of challenges to caring over a little sister. As the older and mature one, I would have to pave the way for Jamie. I was opening lockers and going to block schedules while she was still experiencing recess. Through my experience and wisdom, I could teach and direct her, control her development. All she had to do was follow my lead, obey my commands, and she would be fine. Or so I thought.
One day I came home from a gruesome three-hour school presentation. The middle school called it “Development Awareness;” we called it “Puberty Day.” Reeling from the experience, I resolved to buy some deodorant and do a little better job of keeping my clothes clean. I started a load of laundry and, of course, Jamie forgot to take her clothes out of the dryer. Grabbing her clothes, I started throwing them in a basket, when, to my breath-wrenching horror, I noticed something I’d never seen before. Maybe I’d seen it somewhere, but never fully recognized it. Until now. Strung shamefully along my arm was little sister’s bra. I shook it off like it was an Arizona scorpion, embarrassed as a pig during Passover. I quickly looked back up again, turned my eyes away from the peccant scene, gulped, and finished my laundry. I realized that maybe Jamie didn’t need my training and *ahem* support with physical maturity.


Middle school melted into high school like disintegrating shaving cream on a hot May parking lot. My role of older brother didn’t change much. I was a counselor, an exemplar. I told the little sister to not take Mr. Edwards for algebra (he should have never come out of retirement. Twice. ). I advised her about the pitfalls of absences and chastised Jamie on her tardiness. To add some humor in our relationship, I made fun of her friends and mocked her occasional poor grades. In the many battles over our shared Chevrolet Corsica, I taught her the value of financial management and respecting her elders. I’m not saying our relationship was perfect. Sometime little sister didn’t always agree on my rules or advice. Despite the bitter glances and the many “I HATE YOU!!”’s, I never lost my focus. I forgave the hours of being ignored and the piercing fingernails. I quickly forgot the many shoes hurled at me, and the little changes done to the Corsica “just for spite.” Surely, her ambition and constant competition with me was just a “stage.” She would grow out of it eventually. Once she reached my level of maturity. Although I generally was calm and forgiving, I was taken aback when her friends became my friends, and my friends became her friends. Couldn’t we have anything that we didn’t have to compete over? I thought it couldn’t get any worse until—well, until Marshall came around.
I guess Marshall was always around; he was one of my best friends. We had a television show together, Co-Starred, Co-Directed, Co-Produced. We were almost always together. And then, something happened. Marshall stopped coming over to my house to see me. He was coming over to my house to see her. And I don’t think they only saw each other. Little sister was dating my best friend. I was losing big time.


My senior year of high school ended, and I found myself working for a summer while preparing for a mission. I left in the fall, but not before I was dragged back to high school to watch the Homecoming Pageant. Jamie was in it. I didn’t think she had a chance of winning. The little sister?? Homecoming queen?? The combination seemed to be like peanut butter and tuna fish. On Rye.


Fifteen hours later (at least it seemed that long) I watched in disbelief as little sister was paraded around the auditorium, wearing a crown and smiling like a French ambassador. The crowd was applauding, my parents were applauding, yet, I was motionless.


For a split second, the green-eyed monster of jealousy attacked me. I looked around at all the fanfare— the roses, the silky dresses, the giggly girls attending to Her Majesty—and wondered how I could one-up that. Jamie was standing on the stage, all the lights were on her and…and then, suddenly, something happened. Nineteen years of arguments, name-calling, and pointless competition simply melted away. . Jamie and I were never in any competition! The center of attention, that pretty blonde girl wearing a long, pink dress, was connected to me in a magical yet very real way. I looked back up at Jamie and I slowly started clapping. She’s not just a little sister. She’s my little sister! And my little sister is Homecoming Queen! She’s beautiful! She’s amazing!! That’s my little sister!!!

It’s been a few years now, and I think I’m doing a better job now of fulfilling my duty as the oldest in the family. I do what any older brother should—take orders and stay out of the way. The little sister’s will take care of the rest.

Cowboy Poetry

I wrote this poem freshman year; it's newly discovered as I am organizing an Honor's portfolio.

Blockhead Chet
Ol’ Chet and I raced on down the ravine
We needed to head back home and get clean
It was six oh four and I knew at a glance
We weren’t gonna make it in time for the dance

We jumped in the truck and we flushed up some dirt
Ol’ Blockhead Chet put his hands on my shirt
I scraped off the mud and said with a glare,
“What the foolhardy thing…you’dda better take care!”

The bunkhouse light was a shinin’ all gold
The chickens were skittish and the smell was of mold
I threw off my boots and I jumped in the shower
I said to Ol’ Chet, “We got half an hour”

He said, “I aint’ got time to git everythin’ done”
I said, “Well, then, Chet, You’dda better run!”
I finished my warshin and put on some cologne
A man’s gotta smell good when he’s with a lady alone.

Ol’ Chet grubbed up some dinner and put on a hat
Then took a few minutes to play with the cat
I said, “Come on Chet, we’sa gotta go”
“I ain’t got time to shower??” I said, “no!”

We picked up the girls at a quarter to seven
Kandi walked out and boy was she heaven!
We hopped in the truck and--- *sniff* I couldn’t be sure…
But Blockhead Chet smelled dang like manure!

I tried to open a window and let in some air
But Kandi protested—she had just done her hair.
I swear that the stench of disease so impure,
Couldn’t compare to Chet’s stink of manure

So now here I am with a girl like a rose,
Usin’ one hand to drive and one to plug up my nose.
Who’da thought that tonight I would have to endure
Ol’ Blockheade Chet and his smell of manure!

Sand in the Hourglass

Time has no divisions to mark its passage, there is never a thunder storm or blare of trumpets to announce the beginning of a new month or year. Even when a new century begins it is only we mortals who ring bells and fire off pistols.

Hold fast the time! Guard it, watch over it, every hour, every minute! Unregarded it slips away, like a lizard, smooth, slippery, faithless, a pixy wife. Hold every moment sacred. Give each clarity and meaning, each the weight of thine awareness, each its true and due fulfillment.

-Thomas Mann

The Chevy of Cell Phones

I love my phone.

I originally bought a fancy flat phone with sophisticated music features and a glossy surfaced that practically screamed "glossy surface". I took it back after a few hours and traded it for my current model. I wanted this phone for one reason: it was cheap (free with a 2-year, don't-even-think-about-switching-carriers-because-now-we-have-you-more-committed-than-you'll-ever-be-in-a-relationship-with-a-girl-you-no-good-for-nothing-loser contract).

I've had it for almost a year and half now, and I have to say. I love it. I love the scrapes of sacrifice it proudly wears on its gunmetal-gray exterior. I love the background of my brother Jake wakeboarding that greets me every time I flip open its fast-acting cover. I love the way it feels in my pocket--not thin and tiny--I always know it's there, ready and waiting for a call, or (what usually happens), an alarm to go off to tell me "it's 7:00 AM and, once again, you've gone through a whole day without anybody calling you." I love the fact that the antenna lasted so long--about a year-- and now my phone is still struggling on without that semi-important appendage. I love how I miss calls at random, how I will have hours of failed calls or texts that won't send and messages that i never receive. "It's all in the network" Verizon says, but I think my network is a part-time technician working from Huckfin, Oklahoma. The problems keeps life interesting at least. And give me a good excuse for when I *ahem* screen calls. Not that I screen calls very often, but sometimes...y'know.

And so, I tip my hat off to you, LG VX8000. The Chevrolet of Cell Phones.

Gaff the Muscles

The summer signals the advent of beach season. Wakeboarding. California. Hiking. Sunburns. And white, freckled Dave.

What is the perfect body? Who has one? Ryan always wishes he was taller, I wish I was skinnier, Jake wishes...well, Jake's pretty set with his blonde hair, blue eyes, "the girls all love me" physique.

Genetics play a huge part in how we look, obviously--Sometimes you've just gotta play with the hand that you're dealt in life. But there's always room for improvement. Not that i want to be obsessed with looking like the gym rat, Arnold Schwarzie, "gonna go crazy til I get in my egg white shakes and 55 reps for today" tough guy. I don't need the perfect bod. Obsessing over that is often c'est la maladie du temps--the sickness of the times. I can improve, though.

Not for nothing--in other words, for something--do people call me Big D or the "large one" of our apartment. I need to expend more energy (and by energy, I mean time) on being healthier.

This is a question of priorities.

My problem is two fold (ok, it's probably six-fold, but let's not get in to every depressing detail). One, I enjoy eating good food (even though I do pretty good with self-control since the last few years--- I'm nowhere near Mom or Jamie). And by good food, I mean food that tastes good. Food that isn't bulgur, zucchini muffins, or soy milk shakes.

My second problem is personality. I love playing sports, going to the gym etc. I feel good when I do it. I enjoy it. I could do it all the time.

But, at the same time, I could spend the whole day reading books and learning, writing, and working on projects in the library. And, if I have deadlines, projects, or assignments due, my responsibility gene kicks in and forces me to stay until I'm done. Which means, I don't make time to go and do the other part of life--the basketball, working out, hiking, swimming--that I also enjoy. My life lacks balance in that regard. This is especially so since I started working on my thesis. And i don't think it will get any easier once I start work at E & Y. So. I need to SCHEDULE time for the physical activities, i need to make it a priority, and make it more of a daily necessity, like brushing my teeth and logging onto espn.com.

And, so...I will.

Maybe just one week...

Ok. I had my week of fun. I didn't think about school. I slacked on my honor's thesis. I went to bed late, woke up late. I had two meals of tuna strait from the can, tortilla chips, and ranch dressing. I spent too much money on textbooks, and didn't sell any back. It's time, now, for me to get disciplined. Back to basics. Pushups every morning, no more hanging out at all hours of the night.

But I did enjoy myself...

We had El Burrito de Chatswoth, with three pots of beans and over 60 burrito's served...(still eating burrito's for lunch)
A bonfire at South Fork. the wind almost took the fire down to Spanish Fork. Wished it woulda hit the MUSS at the U...
Not my hat, nor my glasses. I look like a punk, huh. we rode trax down to SLC and ate at Thaifoon in the Gateway.

Wondering About Jake

Jake hit his year mark in Japan. I miss him. I'll write him a letter this week (after finals). Until I hear from him though, I wonder:

--Does he constantly have to replace his bike brakes because of the always-present moisture during rainy season that makes normal brakes disentegrate in a matter of days? Does he have disc brakes?
--Does he use missionary slang like "goched" and "spoked" and "saikou desu yo" and "yakusokusha"?
--Does he just love tonkatsu?
--Has he ever been to bikkuri donky? I always wanted to go but...
--Does he ever get sick of ringing those kekko boxes that people pretend they can't hear you or aren't home, even when you know they looked through the peephole because it was light and then dark?
--Does he get excited to attend DTM and zone conferences?
--Does he have picture-happy companions (Missionary: Elder, we need to take a picture of this moment... Me: Umm...we're just doing the dishes, Elder...)?
--Does he love the Japanese landscape yet?
--Is he learning the respect and honor of Japanese culture?
--Does he ever eat at Oushous?
--Does he love riding the trains?
--Has he met a member of the yakuza (Japanese mafia)?
--Has he spent hours and hours and hours looking for an address, only to never find it because of the fact that 1)he is illiterate in the country, 2)he is using a copy of a map that has been soaked by the incessant rain and 3) For the most part, Japanese addresses really have no rhyme or reason, just scattered numbers across the paper like shotgun bb's flying through a tornado?

Just wondering about Jake tonight.

Keepin' It Fun

Finals week can be stressful. Jokes and fun and people make it bearable.

We thought these girls might want to keep a phone book handy, just in case...

Shashin o shimesu

Middle eastern food and American Gladiators. Do I lack culture? No way, Jose...

Awww...

Wasn't Jamie a cute baby?

Healthcare REIT IPO Waves

I've been spending a good portion of my time lately on my Honors thesis. By a "good portion," i mean hours and hours. To some, healthcare REIT IPO volume fluctuation may not be the most exciting thing in the world, but to others...well...it's not exciting to others, either.


Lines Composed Upon Watching Bourne Ultimatum

I think it would be nice to be a hit man
No forty hour a week grind
Or spreadsheets to worry about.
You just need a cell phone and a gun
A few passports, maybe, and an indistinguishable
Eastern European accent.

I’m sure I’d have good stories to tell,
At parties. Not that I could tell them, though
Because, then “I’d have to…”—you know.
But the health insurance is great, I hear,
And think of all the frequent flier miles I’d rack up.

But what would I do with all that down time?
Lying in a hotel, waiting for the text to come
With pictures and location of my next, uh, client
Might get pretty boring.

Do you think hit men watch soaps
Or yell at the screen when Ann Coulter comes on?
They must spend some of the time brushing up on languages and reading
How to Shoot a Machine Gun and Never Hit the Hero
For Dummies.

I can see how that life would get old. And stressful too,
Never knowing when that text will come and pull you away
From a Holiday Inn nap.

The Twelve Minute Song

Meatloaf''s I Would Do Anything For Love lasts twelve mintues. Exactly. Listen to it five times, and you're an hour closer to Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dust.

Just an observation.

Some quotes from Victor Hugo.


The supreme happiness of life is the conviction that we are loved.

What is that to the infinite?

A compliment is something like a kiss through a veil.

The third quote reminds me of the TL game, the second quote reminds me about perspective, and the first quote is so true, isn't it?

And to bed.

Gottanuther one, Shakespeare????

I feel lame posting another poem, but I just returned from the library and a friends house, it's late, and this is all I have to post.

Heber City is known for cowboy poetry. Well...what about Jock Poetry? This is the first of possibly more to come:

Jock Poetry
Love Ode From A Power Forward
-dave heywood

They say love is like roses and
Daisies and the smell of rain
On a spring day in El Paso Texas

But it’s not.

My love is boxing out with a forearm check
Moses Malone hits the deck
I escape without a tech,
Just a flagrant foul, but what the heck
That’s no sweat off of my thick neck

Baby—my loves like that

I want to see
You and me
Three in the key
Forever

I hope you realize
My heart is the size
Of Barkleys’ thighs
When I gaze in your eyes
And say,
“Babay,
I love you.”

But you never cared for me
Baby

I took a shot, 15 footer, wide open, soft and delicate, gave it my all
But you stuffed me a la Thanksgiving Turkey; “get that weak stuff outta here” you said,
Nicely,
in that fake way, like a mascot on stilts, ready to fall—

But don’t worry, Baby. The world still turns round.
And I
Am on
The rebound.

1:02, and to bed.

With aching hands and bleeding feet
We dig and heap, lay stone on stone
We bear the burden and the heat
Of the long day, and wish 'twere done
Not till the hours of light return
All we have built do we discern
-Matthew Arnold

Talks and talks and talks...

I'm not a very good communicator. I recognize this, it's something I'm working on. Jamie used to make fun of me in high school for reading books about how to talk to people. "Just go talk to people!" she would say.

Here's a poem I wrote today. I thought of using it for a poetry workshop, but it's a little 8th-gradeish in quality.

A Letter and a Stamp Won’t Solve This Problem

I’ll start with a note on Facebook
Not long— a few lines on her Wall.
And if she responds on Tuesday,
Well, maybe I’ll give her a call…

Better yet, text her a message—
How R U? It’s been a long time :-)
And if I’m feeling creative,
I may even send her a rhyme.

She’ll answer in a few minutes—
Or hours, if she’s playing coy—
If it’s days, maybe she’s busy
Or was murdered in Illinois.

Eventually, I’ll need to call her
(Unless she’s in a Chicago grave).
First, I should work up the courage;
For phone calls, you’ve gotta be brave.

Perhaps I’ll send her an email
Bcc to no one but me
It worked out for Tom Hanks and Meg
Ryan. Plus, all email is free.

Well, next thing you know we’re Blogging—
The relationship’s getting intense
She thinks I’m fully committed,
But clearly I’m still on the fence.

Hey, don’t get me wrong, I like her—
She’ll make someone a perfect mate.
But we don’t blend well together—
We just cannot communicate.

Picture says one thousand words

From our Heber Date and Ray's Party

Tagged...

A rose, by any other name...

1.YOUR GANGSTA NAME: (fave ice cream flavor, favorite cookie)Grasshopper ThinMint
3. YOUR “FLY Guy/Girl” NAME: (first initial of first name, first three letters of your last name) D Hey
4. YOUR DETECTIVE NAME: (favorite color, favorite animal)Azure Meerkat
5. YOUR SOAP OPERA NAME: (middle name, city where you were born)Bruce Provo
6. YOUR STAR WARS NAME: (the first 3 letters of your last name, first 2 letters of your first)HeyDa
7.SUPERHERO NAME: (”The” + 2nd favorite color, favorite drink)Green Mizu
8. NASCAR NAME: (the first names of your grandfathers)Al Norman
9.WITNESS PROTECTION NAME: (mother’s & father’s middle names )Bruce Hancock
10. TV WEATHER ANCHOR NAME: (Your 6th grade teacher’s last name, a major city that starts with the same letter) Espinoza Edinburgh
11. SPY NAME: (your favorite season/holiday, flower)Fall (fun)Gi
12. CARTOON NAME: (favorite fruit, article of clothing you’re wearing right now + “ie” or “y”)Raspberry Shortsie
13. HIPPY NAME: (What you ate for breakfast, your favorite tree)Cheerio Maple
14. YOUR ROCKSTAR TOUR NAME: (”The” + Your fave hobby/craft, fave weather element + “Tour”)The Reading Sun Tour

Tag--uh, anyone who wants to waste five minutes...

Amy, you're missing out...

Amy, sad you're not coming to BYU for spring/summer. A few friends got together last night and made a list of things we are going to do for those months. Our goal is to do as much from this list as we can.

Looks like it's gonna be a dope summer! But you'll have fun in Australia, I know...

Fishing-cuttin, guttin, and grillin
Crawdad fishin'
Star gazing (learn constellations)
Float Provo river
Bike to Bridal Veil falls (tandem…)
Wakeboarding (deer creek, utah lake, jordanell, pineview/yuba, echo, bear lake??)
Sleepover @shelley's cabin
Horseback riding
Fishing in the dark
Rope swing @mona
Hot pots in Heber
Manti pageant and penny candy
Strawberry days rodeo
Strawberry ice cream
Ride trax to gateway, fountains at nighttime
Vegas and back (or not back…)
Bryce Canyon/zions
Dinner cruise on the Great Salt Lake
Lagoon
Sundance-movies outside, ride ski lifts
Watch movie outside Chats on projector
Springville art gallery
Art projects--huge canvas and ballons, paint darts
Slip n' slide mud at rock canyon park
Goblin Valley
Thanksgiving Point
Riverraft in Moab
Drive in movie at SL
Day out to take pictures, then make photography collage
Park City--Downtown, alpine slide
Service project
Ultimate frisbee
Glow in the dark crochet
Country dancing
Shotgun shooting
Homemade ice cream
Hiking (mt timp?)
Backpacking
Buy helium balloons and suck them
Huge nertz face off game night
Bowling and pool
Swimming!!
Watch sports! Hello!
Christmas in July
Provo Parade
Hot air ballons (4th of July)
Memorial day-take flowers
Tie die shirts or make matching tshirts/pj pants
Run a 5k together-Charleston 5k
Dinner at Ottavio's
Dinner at Carrabas
Sushi Night
Iron Chef Competition
Heber Sleepover

They're Grrreat!

Today, I found out I'm gonna be getting a nephew. Get 'er done, Shamie.

This cereal is currently changing my life. So sweet and crunchy, perfect with milk, or just as a midday snack.

Did you lose something, sir? No...but I will...

Summer is fast approaching. That means wakeboarding, London, California (maybe), and adventure.

I've made a goal Thursday of last week to get down to 167 pounds by April 28. I was at 178 last week, I'm at 175.7 tonight, and I will be dedicated to this until April 28th, baby!

They say if you make a goal and then let people know, you become more committed. So here goes. I'm gonna be down to 167 by April 28th. I've let the world (or, my mother, the one reader of this blog) know.

Two Quotes

“This is my prayer for all of us—'Lord, increase our faith.' Increase our faith to bridge the chasms of uncertainty and doubt. . . . Grant us faith to look beyond the problems of the moment to the miracles of the future. . . . Give us faith to do what is right and let the consequence follow.”
--Gordon B. Hinckley


Courage, brother! Do not stumble,
Though thy path be dark as night;
There's a star to guide the humble,
Trust in God and do the right
--Norman McLeod

And to bed.

You want a Hobbit?? No! A HOBBY!!

Ok, so I am in quest of a new hobby. I want to spice up my life, make myself more interesting, expand my horizons.

I did decide to go to London for Summer Term Study Abroad (I think...still iffy, but only one day left to back out without penalty...).

I hope to come back from that trip with an Oliver Twist Cockney accent, and also an uppity Jeeve's the Butler English accent. Maybe even some Scottish, because we'll be in Edinburgh too (and I'm taking a Scottish literature class..."Sticks and stanes may brake yer banes, but words will naever hurt ye")

But back to the topic at hand. A new hobby.

Here's a list of possible ones to pursue. I'm sure I'll add more as I think about it.
*Racketball
*Tennis
*Fishing
*Hiking (I already enjoy hiking, but I could do it more
*Wakeboarding (Ditto hiking)
*Swimming (Ditto hiking and wakeboarding)
*Photography
*Geocaching
*Shotgun shooting

Ok, here are some hobby's I will most definitely NOT pursue:
*Checkers (I'm the worst checker's player ever)
*Rock climbing
*Skiing
*Bird watching (uh...that's a robin...er no...a sparrow...er..ahh..dahh!!)
*Shopping
*Painting
*Pottery
*Bow hunting
*Video games


Any thoughts, fam and friends?

I Have a P..P...Personality?

Crazy busy day. But it's good to be busy.

After 4 hours of working with numbers in Salt Lake for le Ritchie Group, and two hours of driving with thought time, I rushed over to an Honor's Symposium. Elder Bruce. D Porter and his wife spoke, and it was amazing. I'll recap what I learned tomorrow--no time tonight.


A conversation at the Honors Symposium


Girl: So...what's you major?
Me: The most boring major you can think of...
Girl: Accounting?
Me: Yep.

This happened twice tonight. So, it made me wonder...can I work for an accounting firm (even if it isn't tax or audit, and I get to travel around helping big corps do transaction real estate) and still have a personality?

Yeah.



For example, I hate peaches. The texture is too fuzzy, like eating a cat or a velvet pillow. And, Abi in OA says that homeless people smell like peaches.


I hate cashews. Eating a cashew--texture, shape, taste--is like eating an overgrown toenail. Sick.


I just discovered this morning that I love peanut butter and banana sandwhiches on Granny Delight's wheat and fiber bread. Toasted. So delicious.



I can't say no to people--I'm a people pleaser. I'm too nice. Sometimes I get overextended and stressed, and then I tend to shut down my personality.


I need to pursue more hobbys and interesting things in life. I've thought about this today, and made a list of possible hobbys to continue doing more of, or to begin anew (I like using the word "anew"). I'll post the list tomorrow.


I have good taste in friends and associations. My friend Jon in Cedar just won the student body president elections at Southern Utah University.

I have amazing roommates, and great friends.

Life's pretty good, y'know.

Been Spendin' Most My Life, Livin in Bachelor's Paradise...

So, another breakup.

Two classic lines from Bethany when she was consoling me.

"Just eat some chocolate and endure to the end."

and

(with a strait, yet smirky, face)

"I know what always helps get people out of depression. Service."

I went to Heber tonight for some good 'ol family time, and we decided to go bowling. Of course, it was leagues night so no lanes were open. We ended up dragging Main St., listening to Mom talk and talk and talk.

Anyways, taking the Pollyanna approach--

the top five reasons Why It's Fun Being Single:

1)More time for pickup basketball

2)New chances to use pickup lines

3)Flirting is fun

4)Uh...more time for basketball?

5)( TO BE FILLED IN LATER)

Some ironic things. I'm supposed to speak on a dating panel for the Stake Relief Society Enrichment on Thursday. Also, people had finally stopped asking me whether I was dating someone or not. Now, the questions will begin anew.

Well, let the good times roll.

Vision

On my mission in Japan, we had a zone conference where President Whitesides showed us a picture of Mt. Fuji, and shared a story about the first time he saw the mountain. Mt. Fuji, while certainly not as tall as the world's tallest mountains, is stunning because it rises from almost sea level to it beautiful peak--it can be seen from miles and miles away.

He encouraged us to create a vision for our area, and also where we wanted to be in five years, ten years, and so on.

Before I came to BYU, I made a list of a "vision" of what I wanted to accomplish from my education and experience.

Maintain 3.9 GPA
Find a good job
Learn how to be more social
Become active in student clubs and leadership
Travel somewhere in the summer
Lose 7 pounds
Write for a BYU publication (newspaper etc)
Get Real Estate license (if fees are reasonable)
Get into the accounting program
Get an internship for a newspaper/publication or an accounting firm for the summer
Finish reading the Book of Mormon
Get married
Go camping at least 8 times
Keep a scripture journal
Be able to run 4 miles
Help Jake get into BYU
Keep contact with the missionaries I teach and missionary friends

Ok--these are from a list I copy and pasted from my journal my freshman year. I have more, but I didn't want to share smaller or embarrassing things. Looking at it now, I'm surprised at how many of these things I've been able to accomplish. I'm not married, of course, and I've lost my scripture journal so I need to get that back up and running again, (oh...and Jake isn't in BYU...yet) but I look back at the years I've had at BYU so far with gratitude. I've learned so much, and i still have much to learn in my last spring and summer semesters. Whether it's in Provo, or London, I'm sure that I will be able to learn the things I need to that will prepare me for my career and my new vision for the next five years of my life.

If one advances confidently in the direction of his dreams, and endeavors to live the life which he has imagined he will meet with a success unexpected in common hours.
-Henry David Thoreau