White By Association

So over the course of the last couple of weeks, I had been surprised to notice that my teeth seemed to be getting whiter.  This was a pleasant surprise, as it was something that I had always wanted:  whenever possible, I use the tooth-whitening toothpaste, tooth-whitening mouthwash, white-out, etc., for just that purpose.  Every time I smiled into a reflective surface, it caught me off guard.  I even made myself blush a few times.  I began to revere my new toothpaste, as I had just switched to a different kind.  This kind actually worked.

 
It wasn’t until last night that I realized what was really happening.  See, there’s this thing called summer.  'Tis a season.  It occurs because of this thing called the sun.  This ‘sun’ gives off rays and heat and stuff which have been scientifically proven to make things hot.  Things like objects and people and their skin.  More of these rays and heat reach the earth during the summer, resulting in more hot.  When ray absorption results in more-hot skin for an extended period of time, the skin turns darker:  a tan.  Maybe you’ve heard of it.  Turns out I have recently passed through this chain of seasonal events and have ended up with one of these tans.  Therefore, after intensive research, I have come to the conclusion that my teeth were not actually whiter, but merely appeared to be in contrast to the slightly darkerness of my skin.  My teeth were simply white by association.  Consider my bubble burst.  Although I suppose I shouldn’t complain, seeing as how a tan on any part of this ginger little bod of mine is no small accomplishment.  We’ll call it a wash for now.

PS:  Yes, the picture is me.

Word Nerd

This summer I’m studying for the GRE.  Exciting, huh?

Actually, yeah.  For me, at least.  Well.  Partially.

 I really like words.  A large section of the GRE deals with:  you got it.  Woooords.  This means that in preparation for this all-important test, I get to learn lots and lots of new vocabulary and word structure and prefixes and suffixes and roots and I’m giddy as a schoolgirl.  Maybe even giddier.  As we speak/you read, I’m sitting here trying to figure out ways that I can make the optimal flash cards for all of my new words to carry with me and study as I walk across campus.  Nerdy?  Possibly.  Meritorious?  Palmary?  Sagacious?  Politic?  Copacetic?  Sapient?  Perspicacious?  Pulchritudinous?  Indubitably. 

Identity Crisis

So I think a lot of people define me by my red hair.  Why do I think this?  

It all started last semester...  (flashback)

Because of my schedule, I had many a morning that I hadn’t showered by the time I needed to head up to campus.  For a large chunk of the semester, my hair was large and chunky.  And long.  This caused for some wild manes when I didn’t get the chance to style it.  Solution?  I tamed them.  With hats!  Or beanies and a hood. 

In my many travails across campus, there have been a plethora of occasions in which I would hattedly walk right by people I knew quite well, make eye contact with them, and they would not realize that it was me.  Other days when I would see them, we would stop and have riveting conversations.  Sparks would fly.  Fireworks would work fires everywhere.  And what was the only difference between those times and these?  Visible hairiness.  I have also noticed that when I wear a normal hat with no hood, the recognition rate is about half-n-half.  Difference?  About half.  And the peeping forth of tufts of amber.

Now, I love my red hair.  I am quite proud of it.  There are few who likely possess my fondness of a red headdress.  But there’s more to me than just bodily features.  I’d appreciate it if you’d recognize that.

...but while you work on it, you’re welcome to gaze lovingly upon my flowing red locks.  Or forever.

Purgolfactory

I love springtime.  It is always at this point in the year where life takes on a new shape and new meaning.  Everything seems fresh, and rightfully so—many things are.  But there are a few things about spring that don’t seem fresh.  And for some reason I seem to smell them every time I walk across campus.  Especially here:

Behold!  Blossoming trees line the banks of this lovely sidewalk, creating an aesthetic masterpiece! But is it a beautiful spring visage or olfactory purgatory?  Or purgolfactory?

For some reason, the blossoms on these trees smell like something I can’t begin to describe that smells musty gross.  We will refer to them henceforth as ‘butt flowers.’  For some other reason, someone decided that these would be the ideal trees to plant all over the entirety of Provo, including the otherwise lovely campus of one Brigham Young University.  Normally, the sweet smell of spring blossoms enhances the springtime feeling of renewal.  Here, it only enhances the gag reflex.

In one of my classes we were asked which sense we would live without were we ever to be placed in a situation where we would lose one.  Smell.  Every time.  Especially with those trees.  The effect is even more overwhelming when combined with other potentially fatal scents.  Like man cologne.  The other day I was walking down this makeshift road to hell and noticed that I had a fellow traveler.  I was just on my way to class, but I quickly became aware as to why he was on the road to hell.  The dude smelled as powerful as an Abercrombie & Fitch store all by his lonesome.  The combination of his man odor with the butt flowers awoke within me the pains of a damned soul. Purgolfactory.
 

The BYU grounds crew does such a good job with most everything else.  What do you think it would take to get them to replace... oh... every tree on campus?  


But would they even stand a chance against the mighty forces of purgolfactory?

Bilk Milk

For my health psychology class, we had to do a group project on something relating to the subject.  After having met with group members, we decided to try going a couple of weeks without any dairy products to see what the effect would be on our bodies and energy level.  I was under the impression that it wouldn’t be too bad.  Apart from a few Michael Bolton moments, I didn’t see it presenting a huge deviation from my normal lifestyle.

Never before have I been so wrong.


Every day (almost literally) of the project, I was presented with the opportunity to partake of something delicious but was denied therefrom.  The hard part wasn't really not eating stuff--I've starved before.  Instead it was the feeling of dejection and denial that came with my refusal of these torturously omnipresent comestibles.  Never before have I been offered so many cookies, invited to so many fondue parties, called upon for so many milk squirt gun fights, supplicated for so much pudding wrestling, and challenged to so many gallon challenges.  It's like there was some sort of milk god exercising some cruel divine punishment for my self-imposed lactoabstinance.

But at the same time, I think it was kind of refreshing—like a cold glass of milk.  I gained a few things from the endeavor:  First off, it helped me to realize that I need to develop a lot more self-discipline, mostly because I found that I’m prone to throw a tantrum/complain incessantly every time I have to show some.  Second, it strengthened my belief in this quote/concept that I love:

“Right decisions are easiest to make when we make them well in advance, having ultimate objectives in mind; this saves a lot of anguish at the fork, when we’re tired and sorely tempted.”

Though its application is much more valuable in real life situations and with real life decisions, it also applies to anti-milk projects.  Third:  Weight.  But instead of being something I gained, in this case it was something I lost.  10 pounds from the start of the project, to be exact.  Hot dang.  Fourth, this shirt:
 

Well it’s not a guarantee yet, but I have made it known to my groupees that I want that we should wear these when we present and even photoshopped it to show them I am serious.


Also whose idea was it to start drinking/making things with cow’s milk anyway?  How did the conversation go there?

• Dude so I know I’m a grown man and everything, but I miss milk. 
• Yeah man I know what you mean... 
• Hey I know it’s not socially acceptable to drink human milk past a certain age, but what do you think about getting some milk from somewhere else?  
• Like maybe some sort of unsavory beast? 
• Well there are some cows over that way.  They’re pretty unsavory. 
• Oh you mean the ones over there eating out of that pile of garbage? 
• Well yeah those or the ones over there walking around in their own poop.  
• Oh yeah I saw those ones, too.    
• Oh okay yeah.  Well yeah I think that’d be okay.
• Sweet let’s do it.  
• Say, you think other people would like this, too?  
• Oh yeah definitely.  Who wouldn’t? 

Got milk?

Kid*napping

The other day I was on my way to work when I noticed I was approaching a friend of mine.  As we drew nigh unto collision, he began to act as though he was going to brutally attack me.  To add to the misfortune of this happenstance, another friend of mine (who, mind you, did not know the first) walked out from behind him and began to fall upon me as well.  In panic, I cowered to the ground.  Once they realized that I was afraid of the both of them, they in-cahooted and proceeded to beat me up.

It was in this moment that I realized that I wouldn’t be good at getting kidnapped.  Or avoiding it, rather, because I would be really good at being intimidated and forced to go somewhere.  Have you seen those movies where one of the protagonists is just walking along in a semi busy area and suddenly they’re surrounded by a bunch of sketchy fellas?  Then by the time they realize what’s happening, they’ve already been seized by said sketchy fellas and are subsequently forced into a waiting vehicle to be taken away?  Well that’s what the aforementioned situation reminded me of.  Except I didn't fight or kick or scream.  At all.  I think I might've whimpered a bit.  So hopefully I’ll never be important enough to merit being kidnapped because it would probably be pretty easy.  Just come at me and when I realize you’re ganging up on me, I’ll crumple up into a conveniently-sized package and you can probably heft me fairly easily into a waiting vehicle nearby.  I’ve even lost a few pounds recently.  You’re welcome.

PS:  Kidnapping is kind of an unfortunate word, both because of what it describes and because of its fairly easy misconstrual.  This stems from an unfavorable linguistic morphology.  Many a false accusation and serious incident could be avoided with a change in word formation (asterisks have been placed to denote ambiguity in spelling and, thereby, meaning):

• “Oh no!  A kid*napping!”  Is someone being stolen or is it simply a vocal hypnophobe?

• “I’ve been kid*napped!”  It could be easy to see how someone might be crying out for help when really, it's equally likely that there's just a child catching some winks on the proclaimer.

• “Kid*napping?  I love those!”  It is pretty cute.  Unless it’s a kidnapping.

• “Hey did you hear about the latest kid*napping?”  Are they referring to a recent abduction? A child that likes to sleep in? Perhaps the least punctual of a group of children shutting his/her eyes?

Reform is in order.

Verde que te quiero verde

Every year as St. Patrick’s Day approaches, I get excited.  Why, you ask?  I will answer your ask: Because I love the color green. Green is an overtly and aesthetically pleasing masterpiece. Green is associated with such concepts as life, renewal, nature, fertility, hope, and joy. It is sacred in some cultures. It has even been said that green is sexy-wexy. Allow me to use a well-known jingle to make a point, albeit with a few modifications: "Everything is better with [green] ... on it." 

However, every year I am saddened as many people fall by the wayside and fail to recognize and/or take advantage of this opportunity to renew and be fertile. I'm always disheartened and disappointed (both!) at how many people don't wear green on St. Patrick's Day. In an ideal world, a mass of green bodies would greet me in celebration of St. P's Diddy as I braved the ascent to campus. Actually, I'm always disheartened and disappointed (still both!) at how many people don't wear green, no matter the day or occasion. I want those green bodies all the time. I don't know what it is exactly, but people look better when they wear green. Really. I find a person more attractive if they are wearing the color green. There's just something about it that looks great, and it rubs off on the body it's rubbing against. If you know what I'm sayin.  

In fact, it reminds me of a poem I once read for a Spanish Literature class entitled "Verde que te quiero verde" by Federico García Lorca. As far as the meaning goes, I only know that green is the color of passion and romance in Spain ;) and that it's depressing ;( But I wholeheartedly agree with the direct translation of the title, which is "Green—I want you green."  And that is the moral of our story for today.  

I want you (to wear) green.