Day 2 - 10/27/12

Yunnie, April, Katie, Melanie

the view

scooters

a short break

roommates

A crisp Fall day.  

We, as four roommates, drove up Provo Canyon. 

Then we scootered or long-boarded down the bike path.

It was a beautiful day and we had so much fun.

Many bikers passed us on our journey.  As did a few rollerbladers. Eventually a gang of long-boarders caught up to us.

"Yeah! Go scooters! Keep up the good work!" They sped past Katie and I as they shouted these sentiments.  I just smiled to myself.  We must seem silly on these scooters while they roar past us with the much faster longboards beneath their feet.  

But my journey was enjoyable.  And I had a brake.  

I watched them course down the steepening hill and wondered how they would slow down or stop; I wondered if they would want to.  Would they keep going, flying over cracks and holes in the pavement, accelerating to great speeds as they wove in and out of the traffic lanes?  Do they fear what will come at the end of the path?  No.  I don't think they do.  They look happy, not reckless.  They look excited, not arrogant.  They are enjoying the day, just as I am.  They feel the sharp wind whipping their faces and laugh with exhilaration.  They do not fear.  They just are.  They are simply living.

My creaky scooter beneath me, I shoved off the asphalt with my left foot, faster and faster until I was gliding swiftly down the path.  I crouched slightly, which accelerated my speed.  The cold made my nose numb and my cheeks burn.  I smiled.  

This is what it is to live, to find the sunshine on a cloudy day.

<3 Mel

Day 1 - 10/26/12

A quick peek into my life as a Junior at BYU. . .

Yunnie and Katie and I were getting ready for a Halloween party.  

Yunnie was doing Katie's hair to look like it was from the 1940s.  

The Avengers played in the background while we were putting outfits and hairdos together.  

This is us.

From the outside, this is how we might be seen:  Three girls (sometimes accompanied by the fourth roommate, April) who don sweatpants and curl up on the couch to watch action movies or chick flicks or dramatic tragedies, and swoon over the many attractive men of Hollywood—the ones we all say we wish we could have, but do not actually desire.  Would someone watching us understand the sarcastic comments tossed about through the air?  Would they laugh with us as we quote any film or video clip that happens to come to our minds?  Would someone feel comfortable in our presence, or left out of a particularly entertaining joke?

Within our group, the three of us, there is an understanding that we can say whatever comes to the forefront of our overcrowded minds and the others will play along.  If I said "Dost thy mother know thou wearest her drapes?" then Katie would respond with "Phil? His first name is Agent." And we would laugh.  Hysterically. And we would continue to quote The Avengers until we moved on in conversation or couldn't think of more one-liners.  Or until a line reminded us of a quote from another movie or TV show.

And so it goes.

This is college, year 3, with my best friends.        

<3 Mel

Humor in Hindsight

I was told once that the most traumatic and terrible events in our lives are often, in hindsight, the most hilarious. . .

I was young.  I was in eighth grade, a shy little 12 year old, and I took Dance P.E.  You may be thinking to yourself, I bet she just took Dance P.E. to get out of regular P.E.  And you would be absolutely 100% correct.  Yay for you!  Regular P.E. involved running and dodgeball and boys.  Ick, to all of the above.  So I took Dance P.E. and so did all my best girl friends.  It was awesome.

We were split into groups of eight or so girls and had to make up a dance, which we would perform at the end of the semester in front of the whole school (actually just the other P.E. classes during that period. . . but it felt like the whole school) during a very special Dance Performance Assembly.

So naturally I gathered with my friends and we devised the coolest, most wonderful hiphop/jazz/freestyle dance known to man.  And we practiced like crazy.  We held practices at our homes, outside of school.  We were dedicated.  We would look sooo good in front of those other P.E. classes.

When the day of performance came, we brought our matching outfits to school and changed in the locker rooms.  We emerged with stunning swag and confidence.  Oh yeah.  We were awesome.

We waited backstage behind the enormous curtain until it was our turn.  With the curtain closed in front of us, we took our places and struck poses, trying not to giggle.

The curtain opened and the music started simultaneously.  And we danced our hearts out! Our formations were spectacular, our choreography phenomenal.  We were stars.

Then came the cannon section.  We were supposed to do a particular move, starting with those on the left and finishing with those on the right. The first girl on the left, who was meant to start the cannon sequence, suddenly froze.  Her eyes grew wider and wider and her mouth hung open.

And she took off.  Took off! She ran off stage!  Apparently she couldn't remember the choreography.

Interestingly, the unintended "running of the stage" move did in fact set off a cannon sequence.  She ran off, and was shortly joined by two other girls.  Then another three simply stood straight and walked off (they didn't need to run, after all).

So there I am, with Karly — the only two girls left.  We're still dancing, somewhat lamely as we use our peripherals to follow the girls as they saunter away.  We're nearing the end of our dance and I don't really know what to do, so I look over to make eye contact with Karly.  She is still dancing, doing the step-kick step-kick with her legs, but with her right arm she is waving frantically toward the curtain-puller person who is hidden in shadow just offstage.  She's mouthing "close it! close it!" but nothing happens.

At this point I was burning red and I couldn't seem to remember where my feet were, so I simply crouched down and hugged my knees. (Not sure why this was my instinctual reaction.) I looked up and saw Karly had given up and was walking off stage.

I panicked.  I was alone on a stage in front of thousands (maybe, like, 60?) of judgmental, snotty middle schoolers, and I panicked.

I was still crouched down, so I jumped into the air and screamed "TA DAA!" and then RAN.  I booked it so fast off that stage that I crashed into all the girls from my group who were watching from the shadowed sidelines.

I didn't chance a look, but I bet the audience looked a lot like this:

. . .minus the fancy getup.

Hindsight, in hindsight, didn't take very long with this experience.  We found it pretty hilarious as soon as we got out the immediate "Why did you run off stage?? Oh my gosh that was so horrible, I'm going to die!" feeling.  Then we all went out to the field and collapsed in the grass, laughing so hard we couldn't talk anymore.  Lying there, in the grass, tears of laughter squeezing out the corners of my eyes, I found a four-leaf clover.

Then we got in trouble for leaving without telling our teacher.

<3 Mel

Inspiration Schminspiration

Cleverness and talent astound me.  Astound me! It isn't fair that people in this world have these abilities and I am utterly incapable.

Heather Dixon is my new envy of the week.  This happens every time we're asked to "be familiar with" a guest speaker's work the night before they come for a visit to our Engl 220 class. It's not right, I tell you.

Inspiration? Is that what these people are supposed to be?  Because they surely are.  In a big way.  But the inspiration and spinning wheels of ideas last only as long as it takes me to write one sentence, or snap one photo, or attempt one illustration.  Then the spark is gone.  These people are too good.  Ugh.

At the same time, though, I feel this need to discover my own passion, my own talent that I can be good at.  Not better than other people (there will always be someone better, I've learned).  But good in my own way, because it comes from me.

And then I lose it again.  What can I think up that hasn't already been put out there?  What can I invent?

This ramble, believe it or not, connects with my personal history project (due in December. . . yikes!) and how I have been struggling to think of something that will not only fulfill the assignment requirements but will  allow me to enjoy myself!  It's tough, I'm telling you.

So as I was nearly screeching with laughter or ooohing and aaahing through every single one of Heather Nixon's blog posts, I started devising ideas.  How 'bout I draw (using stick figures, of course. . . duh) something that happened to me each day! Yup, that idea went away fast.  Even drawing stick figures is daunting to me.  (How in the world do you make them use their hands? They don't have any hands!)

So then I thought: All righty, Melanie.  What are your passions? What do you love?
I came up with 'movies'.  Yup, movies.  And it's true — I love to watch movies so very much.  I love clever, well-written scripts and how they toy with one's emotions.  I love watching stories unfold and distinguishing the particular choices of the writer/director/producer/cinematographer. I also love the history behind the emergence of filmmaking and how movies pertain to their time periods. (Oh lookey here, I'm getting all passionate and worked up!)

Lightbulb (*blink blink*) went off in my head.  What if I write my personal history as a series of movies that I have seen?  I start with the first movie I can remember and put (as best I can) the movies I've seen, in order, as I've grown up.  And of course I will talk about them, how I perceived them at the time, how I perceive them now, what was going on in my life at the time that I watched that movie, etc. etc.

Would that work??

Ahh I'm so excited! I want to get started and see if it will pan out.  What do you think?  Would you read that? (And I'd put in pictures and video clips and such. . . this is so exciting!)

I could call it "Mel's Drive In", after this deliciously awesome place in Hollywood.
Do you get it? Drive-in movies? Mel? That's me. :)

Well.  So it goes.

Have I found the sunshine?

<3 Mel      

Dean

The dark leather absorbs the sun's warmth and turns it into a searing heat that sticks to my skin and burns.  After the first few painful moments, however, my body adjusts to the new temperature and even welcomes the warmth that seeps inside it.

The paint is not a garish or particularly striking color.  It does not exude confidence and power as would vibrant red or sleek black.  It is a fairly neutral light blue, not quite baby blue but more of a cresting wave blue, with that slight sheen of green.  It exactly matches me —not wanting to stand out but desiring a quiet uniqueness.

The new, smooth black leather replaced a synthetic aquamarine interior that was stained by tobacco smoke and years of dirt tracked in by many pairs of feet and grubby hands.  I spent an afternoon with The Beatles, scrubbing the sides and ceiling free of stains and grime, spraying Febreeze generously as I sang Hey Jude with Paul.  It was satisfying work, with a visible reward.  And then all the freshly scrubbed aquamarine was torn out.  But it smelled nice.

My favorite feature, next to the power of a V8 beneath my accelerator, is the slide of the thin, leather-wrapped wheel across my palms.  The wheel is enormous, nearly touching my knees as I sit comfortably in my seat—the driver's seat.  I steer with my left hand, while my right rests in my lap.  This is my place, my personal mobile haven.  My car takes me where I want to go, away from stress for a moment, away from a troubled mind.

This is my 1966 Ford Mustang.  His name is Dean.

<3 Mel

Pieces

My summer was spent with children of all ages and hundreds of photographs.

During the day, I would babysit for whatever family needed me (I was the ward babysitter) and/or I would nanny for baby Penny.  Penny is the sweetest, most beautiful baby.  I loved every minute I spent with her.

Penny <3

I would come home from "work" and go straight to the Play Room upstairs, where my project was under way.

I collected all the photographs my family had from 1999 (the year we moved into our home) to the present.  I took them out of bags, boxes, and an enormous cedar chest in the corner of my mom's bedroom.  I spread them out on the carpeted floor and began making piles chronologically.

It was often difficult to discern the month and year of the picture, so I had to become a detective.  I would scrutinize the length of hair, the height, the number of missing teeth in order to place them in the proper order.  When I finished a year I would go buy a photo album, create a label, and put the album together.  Some years required two albums to fit the great number of pictures.

It was a very lengthy, very time-consuming task. And I loved it.  Truly.

I love projects like these.  I loved putting things together and creating a valuable, treasured product.  I love organizing what was chaos for so long.  I love reliving my history and that of my family.  I love watching progression in the still moments captured by film.

What I loved the most was that I could look at those pictures and remember not just striking that pose, but also what was happening at the time, out of reach of the camera's lens.  I remember why we took that photo, why we were wearing those outfits, where we were and why it was worthy of remembering.

This is what I love.  Pieces of history, captured forever, organizing them so they can be more easily enjoyed.

I only wish I had waited to complete this project this semester, so it would count for my Personal History project. :)

<3 Mel

"Non"fiction

Io stavo scrivendo in italiano per tutto il giorno ed ora non riesco a smettere.  Ma è un po divertente, no?

Anyway.  I thought it was fascinating to read in Tell it Slant about how memoir is so similar to photography.  A photographer frames a particular shot to purposefully tell a story.  Leaving out other aspects of the scene or widening the frame to allow more detail to be captured are all part of telling stories and giving the audience a particular piece of life's art.

I love photography.  I took two photography classes in high school and as soon as I graduated I used my saved up money (and a birthday gift) to purchase my own Nikon D3000.

It is beautiful.  It is my baby.  I am in love with it.  Sadly, this past year I have not used it as often as I would like.  You know, school and work and stuff.  They get in the way of hobbies.

To say I was inspired by the visit from Jed Wells today would be an understatement of the greatest fashion.  I want to take pictures all day every day for ever and ever now.  I want pictures to tell my life story, to tell my future story, the future story of my future family.  I want photographs to be a large part of my life.  I want them to display my personal history, as it continues day to day.

Back to memoir.  Another aspect of chapter 12 of TIS that was profound to me was the explanation of how to handle "partial truths" or the like.  For me this has been difficult to understand as I've been writing essays for this class.  In creative nonfiction, how much creativity can play a part?

I love using creativity, and I love doing my best to fill in what cannot be remembered word for word.  But I've always felt this is wrong in some way.  But in the end I believe that memory itself is creative nonfiction.  Memory is altered immediately by outside influences, and even inward feelings or thoughts.  Memory is so malleable that every story must have some fiction.  Imagination's potency has a power over reality.

This is why I love to write! There is no right answer.

Find the sunshine.  It's out there.

<3 Mel

A Witch Smashed into Our Door

Kinda like this:

The small square-footage of grass in front of the house, which we affectionately call our lawn, gets special treatment during Halloween.  Jerry mows the grass down except for in three coffin-shaped rectangles, where the grass remains tall.

Above each of these "coffins" is a cardboard ("but so adorable!" as my mom would say) headstone bearing skulls and crossbones and RIPs.

This is the decoration we are all most proud of.  However, what is most noticeable is the large inflatable orange pumpkin which has one transparent side, through which Charlie Brown, Snoopy, Lucy, and the rest of the Peanut Gallery can be seen.

Come to think of it, this pumpkin might have been excluded from Halloween last year.  Perhaps the Peanut Gallery left us for good.

Lights and trinkets are strewn throughout the garden of roses and hibiscuses; pumpkins hide among the gladiolas and birds of paradise.

The outside appearance of the house, however, cannot prepare visitors for the immense holiday spirit expressed within its walls.  It truly is a sight to behold.

This is my house at Halloween, and I love every inch of it.

What's yours like?

<3 Mel

Politics *gag*

Writing when you have nothing to tie yourself to the topic is nothing more than a chore.

It is depressing.  It is hard.  It is upsetting that writing could be turned into something so undesirable.  Particularly when you love writing.  Like I do.

But honestly, politics escape me.  I have no desire to understand the workings of perpetual liars' minds or the complications of weaving those semi-truths (to put it more lightly).

Ouch, I just realized that was pretty harsh.

I apologize for my bad mood.  Somedays you just need to let it out, allow the pressures of ridiculous political essays to escape in unyielding diatribe through your tired fingers.

Someday is today.

That reminds me of an entertaining movie, Knight and Day.  Don't laugh — you know you love Tom Cruise too.

Anyway, in the movie Tom says to Cameron Diaz, "Someday is a dangerous word.  It's really just code for 'never'."

That was very off-track, but how profound! Love it.  Something to think about.

Do what you gotta do, when you gotta do it.  Procrastination is not the answer!

Oh that reminds me, I saw this on Facebook:

Haha! This is so true.

Off-track again.  Maybe that should be my theme for this post.  Ok.

This is good, too:

Hehehe.

This is what two political essays—one on conservatism in the 1960s and the other on the Supreme Court—do to me.  They make me delirious.

Just another day, another quest for sunshine.

P.S.  I just realized this is all pretty ironic, considering I'm a history major.

<3 Mel

Not Today

My mind is closed today.  My brain has been picked over and left, pulsing and empty.  I cannot retain information today.  I cannot take the information that I cannot retain and put it into streams of words on a page.  I cannot, not today.

I have been attempting to study for my history test and write the two essays that are required, but my mind will not allow it.  It burns and aches and causes my eyes to lose focus.  The words blur, the file boxes in my mind lose their grasp on these newly filed notecards, and they are blown away by the harsh breath of stress and anxiety.  They are carried on this vicious wind through the constricting tunnels of my brain, until they are whisked through the portals through which they came.  They cannot stay, the wind is too strong, the pressure too great. They cannot stay, not today.

The boxes in my mind are both overflowing and empty.  What do they hold, what has stayed?  So many things and nothing.  Nothing at all.  But something.  Something must be there.  It must.

But not today.

Today I do not understand, I cannot comprehend.  Today the notecards cannot stay.  Today is a cloudy day.

Maybe tomorrow.  Perhaps tomorrow they will stay.  Perhaps tomorrow will be a sunny day.

<3 Mel

Fear is Funny

I know I shouldn't laugh at other people's terror, but it is so darn funny!

I stumbled upon the Niagara Falls Nightmares Fear Factory website today, and looking at the photographs on their page gave me a wonderful abs workout.

Also, I know that if I went through this Haunted House, I would look just like these people. . . and I would laugh hysterically at myself afterward. So no hard feelings.

Take a look:

I just. . .  I just. . .  I just can't handle it! So so funny!

These are all r-e-a-l, by the way.

There's your good laugh for the day.  I hope you enjoyed it.

<3 Mel

A Place of My Own

It started out as a monument to Minnie Mouse.  Her image was splayed across my pillow, folded into a blanket at the foot of my bed, framed by white plastic on my wall.  She twirled in a slow dance when I wound the silver knob on my jewelry box, which always stood open atop the crackled white dresser that was Jennifer’s, then Brooke’s, and now mine.  The round, navy blue beanbag—hugged in the tight corner between my little white craft table with two red chairs and the door to my narrow closet—was reserved as a spot for reading the best books and was permanently imprinted by the curve of my back and the indentations my knees made when I sat criss-cross-applesauce.

The cracked and peeling dresser and tiny table were replaced a few years later by freshly coated, shiny white furniture, custom designed and built in Mexico, which included a dresser, desk, and bed frame.  Everything was a pristine white and it all looked so heavenly and clean.  I admired the intricate lines carved into the headboard for a short while before smothering it with various fluffy pillows and a “princess” mosquito net canopy.  The purple and pink pillows matched the blooming flowers on my bedspread and the lavender sky against which they blossomed.  I would often sit on top of the bed and draw the hanging canopy around me in a cocoon, pretending I was hidden in the depths of a beautiful garden, smelling the grass and flowers, about to emerge as a butterfly.

The only evidence left of the princess net is a small hole in the ceiling directly above my bed, where the sturdy hook once suspended it in the air.  The new cushiony carpet that squishes between my toes is slightly covered by a red circle rug that matches the red centers of the enormous black daisies set against the white background of my bedspread.  The flattened and worn beanbag has been replaced by a proper chair that rocks slightly, with a seat deep enough for me to cross my legs when I sit and read the best books.  I painted the wall behind my headboard a brilliant red.  It took several coats to cover up the tickle-me-pink.  I painted it all on my own, which is obvious to anyone who beholds my unfortunate masterpiece.  The spackled texture of the wall gave me trouble, made it impossible to paint a smooth continuous line.  The excitement of the splattering paint and the accomplishment I felt has thankfully lasted much longer than the splotches of red that dotted my hair and skin. 

The movie posters carefully arranged on the wall opposite my luminescent, double-paned window represent a long summer of collecting and negotiating with eBay merchants.  I tried to get most my favorite movies on the wall, but Newsies, The Goonies, and The Avengers have yet to make appearances.  My collection continues as my preferences grow with me.  Framed above the window is a horizontal photograph of the Hollywood sign, which I purchased on a family trip to Hollywood.  It seemed fitting to pay tribute to the city where movies begin, the birthplace of what I consider my passion. 

<3 Mel

What is Home?

Home is constant. 

Home does not come to you in good times and leave you in bad. 

Home is memories and the people who make them. 

Home is neither the rented one-story house nor the massive mansion where Dad and his wife live. 

Home is safe—safe from physical, emotional, verbal harm—safe from fear of punishment—safe from a lack of joy. 

Home is the family together on the couch. 

Home is shared religion and beliefs. 

Home is a shared understanding of respect and consideration. 

Home is a snuggly bed that smells like me, like the detergent Mom uses, like happiness, like comfort. 

Home is this bed all to myself. 

Home is not a mattress on the hardwood floor of another person’s room. 

Home is decorations that can stay. 

Home is no packed boxes. 

Home does not judge, does not make you feel inferior. 

Home is where you set up the Christmas tree, year after year, in the same corner of tiled floor and adorn its branches with ornaments accumulated each year. 

Home is remodeled, restructured, reworked, and still remains the same. 

Home is sitting in the backyard under a burning sun, splashing in an inflatable pool and stretching out on a lawn chair. 

Home is family prayer, offered on bended knees in a circle on the living room carpet.  
Home is “Hi sweetie, how was your day?” 

Home is “Hey, wanna play a game?” 

Home is “Love you lots!”

Home is the smell of carne asada or pork in the crockpot.

Home is The Sound of Music.

Home lets you cry, holds you until you stop shaking.

Home sings “Oh what a beautiful morrrrrrningggg! Oh what a beautiful dayyy!” at seven a.m. on Saturday. 

Home is transferred to a hospital room when I am really sick.

Home is Sweet Pea or Black Raspberry Vanilla burning in the Scentsy.

Home is fresh laundry, the roar of the washing machine, the five singsong notes when the dryer finishes.

Home is not a building.

Home is so much more.

My home is sunshine on a cloudy day. 

<3 Mel

"Never fear, Brooklyn is here!"

Yesterday's post was about Quebec City, Canada—one of the remarkable places my family and I visited on our cruise this summer from Boston to Montreal.

Today I met a professional blogger.  A professional blogger.  As in, she gets paid ($$money$$) to blog.

Can you say DREAM COME TRUE?

I realize that many people, when encountering such a lucky professional as C. Jane, would say "That's so cool! I wish I could do that!"  But then they would move on with their lives, find some other course of work they would actually love to do, and would forget they ever uttered that comment.

NOT. ME.  I actually truly wish I could blog professionally.  Or write somewhat in bloggish fashion professionally.  What could make me happier?? Nothing, I tell you!

Ok, I'm being a little melodramatic.  But it's the truth — I really couldn't imagine something I would love more.

Here's the problem: In my lifetime I have often felt a lot like Spot Conlon in Newsies, when he's talking to Jack Kelly and is asked if he has anything to say.  He says this:

"I say that what you say. . . is what I say."

Yep, that's how I feel a lot of the time.  I don't really have anything to say because I feel that everyone has already said it all.  So I can just agree with them.  However, I truly feel that if I were given a topic, or I appointed one for myself, I could have things to say and I would love to say them.  I would love to say them without an immediate audience boring into me with their judgmental eyes.  I would love to say them without concern that people wouldn't like me.  I have things to say, and I want them to be heard without first being severely censored by my timidness and fears.

This is what I want, what I hope for.  This is my sunshine.

<3 Mel

Place

July 2012

When my mom and I emerge from the ship, our feet meet a cobblestone street that takes some getting used to.  The streets are so narrow that it seems dangerous for two cars to pass each other.  Though no accident ever occurs, I cringe—gritting my teeth and squinting my eyes—every time.  Shops line the roads on both sides—there are small, almost imperceptible entrances as well as extravagant double door entrances.  As we walk, we pass a café (one of the smaller entrances) with two round metal tables, each surrounded by four chairs, placed just outside the door, protruding into the street and detracting greatly from the already constricted width.  The two of us, now strolling on the concrete sidewalk, hug tightly to the café as we pass, not wanting to step out onto the cobblestones.  A pair of women are seated at one of the round tables when we pass, and it is at that moment that I hear my first conversation in French.  How strange! I don't understand a single word—it sounds so elegant and foreign.  I pause with my mom with the pretense of peeking in the café's window display of treats, but really I just want to listen to the beauty of foreign language.  Although I am studying Italian at BYU, I am sure that I will never master the language enough to converse the way these two women do—so eloquently and easily.  Having stared long enough at the variety of breads and desserts in the window, my mom and I move on, up the gradually inclining sidewalk and rounding a corner where we are greeted with many more shops on either side.  The café's smells of baking bread that had lightened the air before we turned the corner are suddenly overwhelmed by the burdensome scent of tobacco smoke.  A scraggly man dressed in denim jeans and a dark polo is leaning casually against the brick-layed wall, cigarette between his fingers and toxic white smoke billowing from his open mouth.  We quickly pass him and continue on our journey, strolling along the narrow, European-styled streets and admiring the offerings of this fascinating city.

Where am I?

<3 Mel

Shameful!

So here's the thing. . . 

I love World War II.  I know, I know, it is all too horrible to contemplate.  Love a war? How dare I?

I just do.  I am utterly fascinated by the stories, by the events, by the horror, by the heroism.  I feel as if there is always more I can learn about it, there are always more personal stories to be recognized.  I am fascinated by people and their experiences, particularly in such a terrible, fearful time.  It's the honest truth.

So I am enrolled in a World War II class (I know! dream. come. true.) and I had my first midterm exam today.  And I am. . . well. . . embarrassed to say that I loved studying for it.  Shameful! Disgraceful! I know. It's just too horrible to contemplate that a college student might enjoy an exam.  

But oh my heck.  I loved studying and writing about different events that I had previously known nothing about.  I loved learning things that are not common knowledge.  I love feeling like I know things.  Honest.  I'm a lunatic.

Have you ever gone back in your memory and actually thought about the subjects you have studied throughout your life?  I bet if you really thought about it, you would be able to find one that excited you, that made you feel like you knew something — something worth knowing.  

Be honest, you know it's true.  

I am a WWII-holic and I am not going to deny it.  So there.  This is my sunshine.

<3 Mel

Thoughts

Those moments when you realize you have great friends, that you matter to people, that you are in someone else's thoughts.  Those are the moments to live for.  Those are the moments I hold on to and cherish.

I got a text a few days ago from my old roommate who got married this summer (her husband was basically our 5th roommate because he was over so often and we loved him) and she invited me over (for tonight) to their new apartment for dinner.  It was so unexpected and so wonderful.  It is the best feeling in the world to be thought of when you go along with your life having the impression that no one is really thinking about you and what you are doing.  It's a great feeling that lasts.

I honestly don't know why my sentimental side has been exploding out of me for the past few days.  All I can say is that since Saturday morning my thoughts have been preoccupied with the ideas of life in the present and future.  Maybe I am not living my life to its fullest right now? (Actually, I know I'm not.) Or maybe I need to be preparing better for my future?  Whatever the reason, I cannot shake this overwhelming thought that I need to figure it out, whatever "it" may be.  I am not having the college experience that I imagined as a young teenager, and I know that that is my fault, entirely.  But these few days I have come to the conclusion that my past (even the very recent past) doesn't matter because it is gone.  I need to work harder to be a person and not just a student, a best friend and not just a roommate.

It's tough, but I know it's possible.  I've seen it.  I see it every day.  I envy it now, but tomorrow I can become it.

Look for the sunshine and don't stop till you find it.

<3 Mel  

How To: A Guide to Life

Life is Complicated: Make of This What You Will

This is the title my roommate and I are thinking would be great for our co-written book about life.  Last night while we talked away for hours, we laid out the complications life presents—its complexities, joy, pain, tragedy, and greatness.  We decided the contents of our conversation would make a wonderful smorgasbord book of life.  It wouldn't have a thesis or an argument or any sort of point.  It would just be a "thoughts and experiences" book in which the two of us (and any other contributors would be welcome) would just write and write and write about absolutely everything life has to offer.  It would be fantastic.

The past three days for me have truly caused me to think deeply (though the above is a silly rant) about life and what I want to make of it.  Because no matter what my past encompasses, I have control of my future.  I can change the way I think about life and its possibilities.  I don't have to fear divorce just because my parents divorced and my dad has since been divorced three times.  There are happy people in the world.  There are lasting marriages, temple marriages, which last so much longer than the years this earth could offer.  My past doesn't have to determine my present.  I can go to college and receive an education, and I can meet someone who is LDS and marry him.  I can be with him forever.

I have to make those choices, and remove myself from the fears of my past.  There is happiness out there.  Just because my immediate family doesn't necessarily have it doesn't mean it isn't possible.

Life is complicated.  But it is worth it.  I have to make it my own, and only then can I find happiness.

<3 Mel

Pinterest Strikes Again

I tasted heaven today.  It was delicious.

My roommate, in all her awesome baking ability, made the most wonderful snickerdoodles. ever.

Pinterest, the addictive website, is something I generally stay away from because of its addictive nature.  However, this recipe was an exception I will have to make.  Literally—I will have to make the recipe. You get my joke? Yeah that was pretty bad.

Anyway, these cookies are one of those things where you wish you had made more, but at the same time you are SO SO glad that you didn't.  Those are the best kind.

So as I look forward to my coming week, one without heavenly snickerdoodles in sight, I will have to find other wonderful things to fill it with.  At the moment, I can't think of any but I'm sure they will present themselves as I try to stay positive while studying for midterms and doing endless schoolwork. I feel as if there is always so much life to live and not enough time to live it!

On a more serious note, I love this quote from Dieter F. Uchtdorf in his conference talk yesterday:
"We cannot wait until we're about to die to learn how to live!"

Live life and find the sunshine!

<3 Mel

Look Forward

I'm back again.

I'm lousy at this blogging thing.  It's really a problem.  I can do better.

Today was the first two sessions of October General Conference.  The first session began with one of the more shocking moments of conference I had ever experienced.

President Monson announced that the ages of missionaries has been lowered: young men can now go at age 18 and young women can go at 19.

This was unbelievable! What an incredible announcement.  So many more women can go on missions now that they can leave at 19.  So many of my younger friends posted all over Facebook that they would be leaving on their missions as soon as they turned 19.  What a wonderful time!

It won't affect me directly, but it definitely got me thinking about my future. . .

There is so much to look forward to in life! So many possibilities!

If you take the time to look, there is always sunshine.

<3 Mel

Pluday

Man, I was doing so well there with my posts -- and then I just lost it.

I'm back.  Good to see you.

Stress has taken over my life the past few days.  It seems that suddenly every test and every project is due this week.  Unfortunately, weeks like these only have seven days, just like the rest.  If only busy weeks could be lengthened at will.  We could throw in a "Pluday" for poor little Pluto who has been sadly left out.  Just a thought.

Seriously, though, it is one of those weeks where you tear out your hair and munch on incredibly unhealthy snacks in order to keep your mind awake long enough to accomplish the tasks ahead of you. I started the unhealthy snacks trend when I got a watermelon flavored slushie from Sonic tonight.  And it was dang delicious.

When I get anxious and stressed like this, I generally can't think of anything fun or clever or deep to discuss.  So this is what you get.  Disappointing, I know.  Or refreshing.  Either way, all I can think of today is what needs to be turned in by Friday.  Friday at 12 noon I will be one happy camper.  I will relax for an hour or two until I realize that I need to work on things due on Monday.

So goes the life of a college student.  I'm halfway there! (Ooooh! Livin' on a prayer!)

This is the madness education causes.  Just sayin'.

I'm trying extra hard this week to find the sunshine. . .

<3 Mel