I wait and I tell myself, 'Life ain't chess'.

It should be known that thanks to Room on Fire, my favorite Stroke's album, I do actually stop and tell myself "Life ain't chess" when I am freaking out (frequently) about this or that. And it totally soothes. The imagery is perfect: I imagine the chess board set and laid out in front of me as I scrutinize and try to plan my next move. The futility of the scene is exaggerated by the fact that I don't know how to play chess. Like, at all. Most of what I know I learned from Harry Potter and let's be honest, so did you. Naturally, in a jest slightly more vehement than throwing up my hands in the air, I imagine myself knocking the chess board off those dainty chess tables and watching it fall to the ground, a storm of black and white. "Life ain't chess". With such violent imaginings (I love this word, by the way) it should come as no surprise to those who know me well that this kind of phantom role playing should soothe me.

The irony is perhaps that other thing that helps me in moments of wannabe crisis is repeating what M's mom says: "Am I on fire? No." Which is to say that I'm not a gonner (yet) and so not only could things be worse, but I am in a place to stop all the inward worry and turn it to outward action and make things better. Maybe I should, in honor of Julien Casablancas, rephrase that one: Am I in a room on fire? No.

Oh Julien.

Today's post is a direct result of my being a self-help book junkie. I'm not going to divulge the book I found myself reading (in my defense, it came to me through a set of old books someone asked me to go through and take what tempted me) but I'll indicate that the title of the chapter is: Get Comfortable Not Knowing. I'm just going to type it in here and let it speak for itself. As for me, I will now be adding the mantra "maybe so, maybe not". Third [mantra] is the charm, right?

"There once was a village that had among its people a very wise old man. The villagers trusted this man to provide them answers to their questions and concerns.

One day, a farmer from the village went to the wise man and said in a frantic tone, "Wise man, help me. A horrible thing has happened. My ox has died and I have no animal to help me plow my field! Isn't this the worst thing that could have possible happened?" The wise old man replied, "Maybe so, maybe not." The man hurried back to the village and reported to his neighbors that the wise man had gone mad. Surely this was the worst thing that could have happened. Why couldn't he see this?

The very next day, however, a strong, young horse was seen near the man's farm. Because the man had no ox to rely on, he had the idea to catch the horse to replace his ox-and he dd. How joyful the farmer was. Plowing the field had never been easier. He went back to the wise man to apologize. "You were right, wise man. Losing my ox wasn't the worst thing that could have happened. It was a blessing in disguise! I never would have captured my new horse had that not happened. You must agree that this is the best thing that could have happened." The wise man replied once again, "Maybe so, maybe not." Not again, thought the farmer. Surely the wise man had gone mad now.

But. once again, the farmer did not know what was to happen. A few days later the farmer's son was riding the horse and was thrown off. He broke his leg and would not be able to help with the crop. Oh no, thought the man. Now we will starve to death. Once again, the farmer went to the wise man. This time he said, "How did you know that capturing my horse was not a good thing? You were right again. My son is injured and won't be able to help with the crop. This time I'm sure that this is the worse thing that could have possible happened. You must agree this time." But, just as he had done before, the wise man looked at the farmer and in a compassionate tone replied once again, "Maybe so, maybe not". Enraged that the wise man could be so ignorant, the farmer stormed back to the village.

The next day troops arrived to take every able-bodied man to the war that had just broken out. The farmer's son was the only young man in the village who didn't have to go. He would live, while the others would surely die.

The moral of the story: If we keep our cool and stay open to possibilities, we can be reasonably certain that, eventually, all will be well.

Veni vidi vici

Fact: I live in Provo.
Subfact: I have no job, know only a handful of people, still cannot go running, have 4 new roommates. In Provo.

I'd like to welcome you to summer blogfest 2011. It will be a lot like summer 2009, only less exotic though perhaps just as foreign. This is Provo, after all. It will probably also be a lot like summer 2010; then as now, I had no social life to speak of and had to undertake little adventures and blog all too frequently to feel like I was still getting my kicks. Let's just hope I watch less television this year and read more books.


At least for the first part of the summer, I think you can expect my posts to deal with my limited surroundings; namely, my house.

I'd like to take this time to blame my parents for spoiling me with a suite-like bedroom peppered with aesthetic flare. Because of them, I have prematurely acquired a lot of stuff, some of which serves no other purpose than to look quaint. (Conversely, I take all blame for the six boxes of books I just unpacked). Then there is whole British empire thing I've got going on: the need to have lots of room and then to take it over! (With French paraphernalia, obviously) Thus it was that my search for an apartment orbited around these deeply ingrained needs.

Last time around, I scoped out a ward, find a girl that I thought I could live with and respect and almost agreed to living with her before even seeing the room itself. The whole thing was seamless: I walked into a ward and felt good about it and one of the few people I knew (and most of what I knew about her was that she liked to read and had served a mission) happened to need a roommate at the exact time I would be needing one. Something like fate, right? This time I didn't have the energy to indulge that kind of scoping. I just didn't want to feel like the walls were closing in on me.

Well, guess what: I got just what I wanted! After 5 or 6 or Ican'tkeeptrackanymore carloads, I now have MOST of my things. Since we're talking imperialism, I might as well just say that I feel like Napolean, the midget conqueror.

De la Roche wasn't always so generous in his depictions of Napoleon.

I moved a 6x6 bookshelf single-handedly (ok, so maybe there were some feet involved) all the way across my (have I mentioned?) very large room. I made a series of decisions with regards to how my room would be set-up without consulting anyone! I assembled a desk, a set of drawers, three lamps. Got my man on with the nail and hammer. The real feat was that of using an electric screwdriver. The wall may or may not bear scars from my first attempt when the screwdriver decided to jump off of the screw and into the wall. No big deal though, right? And let's not talk about how I struggled for a full 10 minutes because I had flipped the thing into reverse and the screws would just not go in. As my Dad said, everyone's done that at least once.

No offense Bonaparte, but I'm pretty sure Rosie out-mans you.

So that's my room, my little kingdom, in all its splendor. Now onto the rest of the house.

One house, four roommates, all of us blond. Apparently, we have a reputation: the blond house. I found that out Sunday and I'm not gonna lie, I had this "oh dear, what have I gotten myself into" moment. Originally the sheer number of girls and levels of estrogen in one house overwhelmed me when I was looking at housing. The thing that clinched the deal was the fact that I share the basement with one other girl and that we have a living room that no one really uses. You know, just in case I want to find myself out of everyone's way in a t.v. room complete with love sac. So the fact that I could retreat in typical hermetic fashion was a big plus. That and the fact that I actually really liked the girl who I replaced. Which doesn't make a lot of sense because it's not like I would be living with her, but I just liked her. The good vibe kinda sold me.


The irony here is (when is there NOT irony) that I also chose this area/neighborhood because it where the used-to-be-cool-kids-now-turned-into-mature-young-adults dwell. I didn't want to live close to campus with a bunch of 19 year olds. Before I was house-hunting I started this advertisement which was intended as a blog post:

Roommate Wanted:

The ideal candidate will:

Not judge me for my excessive phone habits.

Not object and even join in to impromptu dance parties that may or may not occur while I am doing the dishes or cleaning or doing homework or....yeah.

Not judge me for sometimes needing some Keisha and Gaga for said parties.

Like the Shins. I have met many people that do not love the Shins and I still like them. But I have never met a person who liked the Shins that I did not effortlessly like. It's pretty much the golden standard. I'd take a Spoons lover, however.

Be an even bigger health nut than I am (which is weak sauce). Preferable gluten-freakish like me.

Indulge the annual Fairy-tree and defend it (go A!) to scrutinizing visitors.

The possible grammar obsession and scattered late night conversations discussing the subjunctive and other such delicacies wouldn't hurt any.


I think it's safe to say that we are covered on the dance parties and Keisha. In fact, I think I will be the indulgent one here. I am definitely the oldest and boringest one in the joint. I don't think we will be talking grammar but I have to say, I was pretty impressed that 'demure' and 'pallet' found their way into last night's conversation.

So I live with some young blond hooligans that may or may not epitomize the provo girl experience. In a conversation over breakfast about boys, ie "bullets" they had dodged, A calls out from down that "that boy wasn't a bullet, he was a whale-harpoon!"

Can you even imagine dodging one of these?

I can't wait for the other metaphors these girls will come up with. And, after all, wasn't I just mourning the loss of the less-mature version of myself? I've been mourning the loss of my freshman year since I was 18 and it wasn't even over yet. This might be just what I need to resurrect said version of me. Also, I think it was a version that analyzed a lot less. (Probably because there were too many boys to possibly analyze without going crazy. And let's not kid ourselves, I didn't analyze anything else substantial back then) So that's a start.

Not that satire is really my style, but this move may result in a satirical documentation of the endearing sort of my life in Provo for the next two-sigh-two years. After all, I have lived in a few different places and gone through my share of culture shock, and the truth of it is that no move has been as difficult for me to swallow and no other culture has seemed so foreign.

I will miss living in QR. I will miss the stellar people from my ward and living with A, who, for the record, was the easiest and best first roommate a girl could ask for. I have deliberated on this move for the past week, living out of two night suitcase at my parent's house and sharing a bed with L[i]s. I couldn't reconcile myself to the fact that I couldn't have both my old life exactly how it was and my new one. As LP says though, the hardest part of ending is starting again.

Screwdriver in hand, I'm feeling pretty confident.

Somethinglikethis.

If work permits.

One day I will come up with my own brilliant titles. That day is not today.

I'm sorry to report that today was ridiculously productive. Yesterday was as well. Sunday night I made a to-do list that made my head whirl it was so long. Or so I thought. Today I realized that the real stress-factor was the fact that the list was a summer to-do list. As in, a list that covers 3, count 'em, 3 months. And that it had an end.

Par for the course of a hypochondriac, I'm afraid somewhere between birth and my last birthday I became inflicted with a condition: workaholism. Hear me out.

I went to the physical therapist about my foot on Friday. I was explaining as cheerfully as possible my lack of physical activity the past month. And then I realized that "I have not ran in almost 4 weeks" was a downright lie. I had run that very afternoon to my car. I had then proceeded to run the 1/8th mile to a graduation ceremony I was, well, sorta late for. I had a vague memory of my running down the corridor of my apartment complex the day before. And I'm pretty sure I ran in the vacant hallways of my school. I can't specify why exactly. In fact, I'm pretty sure not a day goes by that I don't find myself running, however briefly, somewhere. Surely, nothing is truly so urgent that running all of 10 seconds makes any sort of difference.

I think, the truth of it is that I just like to run. And that I like to feel compelled to do so. In other words, I like living in a rush. I'm kind of a mind over matter person. I'm pretty decent at calming myself down when necessary. And that said Friday, before my Dr. visit, I was acutely aware that I was kind of in a rush for nothing and that I should probably chill out. But guess what? I didn't want to chill out. I specifically remember telling myself, "What kind of fun would that be?" You see, because living life overwhelmed makes everything seem like an adventure; more exciting than things really are. The same way that having a to-do list makes life seem purposeful.

And despite the useless running, the carrying more than I can carry, the frequent knots of the stomach, flutters of panic in my chest, stress induced head-whirling (oh dear, I sound like Mrs. Bennett), ALL of that is far more bearable to the anxiety caused by not having enough to do. Which is what I am currently suffering from.

Yes, I'll fess up. Denial is useless. I am a workaholic going through withdrawl. Premature withdrawl, I might add, since I am currently more than occupied. But come July and we are in serious trouble, ladies and gents.

In need of a fix, I've turned to this, my happy therapeutic corner of the blogosphere. To make lists! Naturally.

My first list is pretty straight forward. In order to prevent the inevitable "my life has lost all meaning now that school is out and I can't live off of hugs and gossip and lesson plans" crash, I'm going to put this last year in perspective. Since this time last year I have done the following:

• Nannied in Colorado and learned, well, a lot. About families and about myself.
• Moved out. Learned to make a lot of gluten-free food.
• Decided to go to Grad School. Don't underestimate the hours spent on that decision.
• Was head teacher (sorta) and then not. I survived ensuing drama and came out the better for it.
• Got crafty. As in, I thought about something, and then made it!
• Studied and passed the GRE.
• Sent my BFF off to Texas. Adjusted my phone appointments accordingly.
• Applied for and was accepted to the program I wanted.
• Had the longest lasting dating relationship to date. Usually I wouldn't include this kind of sappy information but it will be good to remind myself come Fall semester that I am in fact capable of balancing school/work/relationships.
  
• Survived the ever-dreaded fakeout.
• Trained for and ran a 1/2 marathon. Last time this year I was barely running 2 miles in Vibrams!
• Stuck with my decision to attend said Grad program. Again, don't underestimate the stress that decision caused me.
• Found an apartment and a ward to my liking.
• Undertook my first ever entrepreneur-like endeavor: Summer French Camp the curriculum of which is currently being refined, thus keeping me semi-busy.
  

All in all, a pretty good year. Thanks for indulging me. I need more than the average dose of self-congratulation to function, clearly.

As for this summer, I suppose I got what I wanted: a flexible summer. I didn't want to work 40 hour weeks at some menial job, whatever the money. I wasn't sure about working at a Nat'l Park or living abroad. All I knew was that I wanted the flexibility of camping, traveling, and reading French lit. I will most definitely have that flexibility.

I might have thought things through a little more though. Because I need people to camp and travel with and not working means I don't meet anyone. It also means that I could spend hours upon hours daily of not interacting with a single human soul. This very thought makes me shudder. And no, not from joy. So here's the remedy for my ill-conceived summer plan:

1) Do not try to mask boredom with food. For some reason, when I am not stressed, I have a fantastic appetite for junk. Which I will NOT be indulging.

2) Volunteer: tutor for refugees, translating at hospitals (still have to inquire on this account). If possible, daily. Just to get me out of the house.

3) Pilates, yoga, running or biking daily.

4) Read a French book a week. Create flashcards of words I don't know. Flashcardmachine.com, you and I are going to get real cozy this summer. I'm actually really excited about this one. Confession: I have this huge amount of jealousy for anyone spending their summer living in France when I think how beautiful their French will be when they return. Then I remember my own summer abroad and what I learned: that I learn more French by reading books than living in France. Of course, my learning curve is higher when I both live and read there but, well, let's be realistic here.

5) A weekly temple trip.

6) Barring further injury, I don't see why I can't have worked back up to 10 mile runs.

7) Go on a trip. As irresponsible as Europe would be, I can't get over the notion that this could be my last free and flexible summer and that I should take two weeks or more and make them count. I refuse to make this kind of trip alone though. On top of a summer of solitude, I think that would be too much. So this goal is contingent on my finding someone to be irresponsible with.

8) Reread all the Harry Potters. Because, like, what else will I be doing?

9) Get fabulously tan. This will be no doubt due to the hours I spend in the lawn chair reading. The thought alone makes me want to sigh. With joy.

10) Hike Timp.

11) Use my super expensive camera. Attend classes. Take a lot of pictures before I buy more equipment.

12) Work on some creative writing. As in, learn to write about real things. And not just lists.

13) Take up a temp job if absolutely necessary. I just have to remember: money isn't everything.

14) Most importantly, overcome workaholism. Work, play, and learn to live without the 'over' in 'whemed'.