It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.

Christmas 2010: It was a wonderful Christmas. It was also a very exhausting weekend.

Best of times:

-Christmas cheer
-family time
-home videos from days gone by
-the true meaning of Christmas

Worst of times:

-dog eating a sock
-dog then barfing smelly barf for 3 days
-dog rushed to the doggie ER for life-saving emergency intestine surgery
-me bursting into tears after driving past the places I used to take her for walks (while we still believed that formerly mentioned dog may croak)
-me having a slightly hysterical emotional meltdown last night when I realized that I am moving in less than a week and am completely unprepared and unpacked and unready to leave the familiarity of home for the third time.

But... that is ok. Things are looking up. I really do still have 6 days to pack, and I don't have that much stuff. Also, lady-dog probably won't die!! So that is good too.


Goodbye, Grandpa

This past weekend, I went to my Grandpa's funeral. It was difficult and emotional, but not exactly sad or anguished; it was a great and fitting tribute to his life. My Aunt Diane read favorite (mostly hilarious) memories of Grandpa that family members had sent to her during the week, and this one was mine. I think it fits his personality well.

My favorite memory of my Grandpa Tygerson happened about 10 years ago. We were visiting at my Uncle Rich and Aunt Laurie’s house with all of their kids. He and Grandma were sitting on a loveseat together, and Grandma was chatting with everyone while Grandpa looked bored. He started looking through Grandma’s purse, and fished out a tinfoil gum wrapper. He took it and put in his mouth so that it covered the front of his teeth. He turned and smiled with his tin-foiled teeth at Grandma. When she exclaimed, “Oh Don! What are you doing?” he replied, “I’ve got to entertain myself somehow, Lorraine.”

I will miss him and his awesome sense of humor, but I am so glad that he isn't hurting anymore, and that he is finally with my Grandma again.


the blair otter/witch project

Ok so, I first discovered this video a few nights ago when I was surfing the internet and unable to sleep. It made me laugh so hard I was crying with glee. However, at the time I wasn't sure if it was really actually funny, or if it only entertained me because I was sleepy.

Watched it again... and it is still funny.

I did a little googling to make sure that the person being attacked was ok (he is).


You need to know that 1) the person filming and being 'attacked' is a 19 year old guy, and 2) he was chasing the otter around his yard before this segment of the video. I watched a longer version of it on youtube, and he was following the otter around his yard and trying to get it on video... so in my opinion, he kind of deserved to be run down like a ninny.

Direct quote: "eeehhooooooooeeeea­aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa..."
What a champ. I want that yell as my ringtone.


quote of the day

"This isn't open-mic night, dude!"

- Said by my co-worker, to our other greasy-haired hipster coworker who felt it was appropriate to not only bring his guitar to work, but to actually PLAY IT IN BETWEEN SURVEYS.


I'm Thankful For...

My family.

My warm bed.

The opportunities I've been given, and especially the chance to get an education.

Parents who support me completely - personally, emotionally and physically (as well as financially during my first few years at college)

Sisters who are hilarious, loyal, and loving.

My jobs, and the opportunity to be employed at all during these hard times.

My stinky car Delilah.


Friends, both old and new, that I'm able to stay close to even though I live out of state half the year.

My health.

The miracles of modern medicine that help to keep me healthy.

Never having to know what it feels like to go hungry out of want.

My weird dogs.

My membership in the church, and all of the temporal and spiritual blessings that come with that.

The beautiful things in life like music, great books, art, and nature.

My life. Just in general.

Happy Thanksgiving!


2 things I love.

This article was recently put up on the LDS Newsroom site, and I love it. It expressed very clearly what I always struggle to convey to people who mistakenly believe that since Mormons don't support gay marriage or homosexuality, they must hate or seek to oppress gay people. The precise wording of the church on this topic will make it so much easier for me to explain our religious stances and the reasons behind them to people who are curious or misinformed.

In other (more magical) news, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows is premiering tonight. At midnight. I. AM. SO. THERE.

I really hope I don't cry. That would be embarrassing. PMS is not on my side though. I cried three times when I watched 'Eclipse' (also whilst PMS-ing), and it wasn't. even. sad. I kept needing to covertly wipe my eyes during the scene where Jacob walks into Bella's graduation party; I wanted to yell at the screen, "She just doesn't love you enough, Jacob, okay? Give up!"

If that movie and those characters reduced me to a sniveling pile of damp kleenex, then I don't stand a chance of maintaining any kind self respect tonight in the theater.

Especially during any scenes that feature a certain towel-wearing free house-elf.

I get emotionally touched very easily sometimes, ok?


25 years young and Nano Wrimo 2010

I had an excellent birthday last week. I got up at 9:00am (on a Saturday!!!) and went to breakfast with my Meggie. My sister made me a beautiful cake. I got a snuggie and many other very fun things, and had fun just hanging out with my family.

That night, I went out to dinner with (most of) the fam-dam. The main conversational themes were: near death experiences (apparently, we are a dangerous bunch) and our weirdest/most memorable dreams. When we get together and start re-telling our favorite memories and stories, we just can't stop. We definitely took pictures, but I have no idea whose camera they are on. When I find them, I'll put them up.


I have probably mentioned this to quite a few of you (ok, probably all of you) already. November is National Novel Writing Month, and I am participating for the first time!

I have stalked NaNoWriMo for the past 2 years, just to get tips and tricks on writing, but never thought I'd participate. It is such a cool experiment in creativity. Also - it is ok if my little story totally sucks! Its about word count, baby.

At first when I decided I was going to participate, I swore I wouldn't tell anyone. I don't know why. I think I was embarrassed, and worried that people would think I had deluded myself into believing I was a 'real' author, so I was going to write a 'real' book and get it published. I'm definitely not. I'm using it as an exercise in creativity, but nothing beyond that.

Whenever I read authors say that 'they are their own worst critic,' I want to say, "Ho-hum. How humble and gracious of you. You can't possibly mean it that you are literally your own worst critic."

I totally get it now.

My characters are flat. My plotline? Weird and improbable. The dialogue is cringe-worthy. The worst, though, is when I'm especially impressed with how awesome a certain plot point or character development or narrating technique is and I scribble it down at work in between calls thinking to myself, 'Oh my gosh. I am so clever and imaginative.' Then when I get home and type it onto the computer screen, the stupidity of it reaches out and slaps me across the face and it takes all of my willpower not to erase it. That, however is the beauty of writing where quantity matters more than quality. I am temporarily banning my inner editor.

And who knows? Maybe some of the things I currently find laughable and shamefully dumb may turn out to be kind of clever, or at least interesting, when I go back through it all to edit. Knowing that kind of unlocks all of the ability to imagine and be creative, because I'm allow myself to ignore that annoying little voice in the back of my head that tells me my ideas are stupid. That voice kind of deserves to get shut up.


I'm writing a novel.


This is Halloween.

I had quite a fantastical Halloween this year. We stayed home, made yummy food, passed out candy to trick-or-treaters, painted pumpkins, watched 'The Nightmare Before Christmas' and tried to keep our dogs from engaging in mortal combat.

I believe this is the 5th or 6th time I've dressed up as a cat. Shameful.

The pumpkin cookies and cocoa puff spiders were delish; I wish I could say the same for my batch of warm butterbeer. It was YUCK. Here's a tip: When making this warm, frothy, magical beverage, be sure you boil the cream soda before you add butterscotch chips. Or else it turns brown and looks like basilisk vomit.

Dad was even into the spirit. He used this mask to terrify both trick-or-treaters and puppies alike.

Lady left her hat on for approximately half a second.

Don't be jealous of our multi-movie franchise pumpkins! (Bellatrix pumpkin; Queen of Hearts pumpkin; Joker pumpkin; Frankenstein pumpkin)

On to my birthday! I love that my birthday comes a week after Halloween. I get so excited for Halloween festivities, I forget that it is coming up, so it's like a nice little surprise. A birthday surprise.


I have no excuse.

I know, I know. I haven't blogged in over a month. I have no excuses, actually. I have been writing, but none of it is really blog-able (more on that later). So, here is a little somethin' from the archives!

This was an assignment I did way back in 2008 during my second semester of college for a humanities course. We were assigned to read 'Why I Ride' by Jana Richman (which is a pretty good read, by the way). It is a short story chronicling the specific reasons the author has for her hobby of motorcycling across the country. We were supposed to write a present-tense creative non-fiction essay like Richman's explaining why we do the things that make us happy and relaxed.

It took me a while to think of what I would write about, because I don't really have any 'viable' hobbies like putting tiny ships in jars or building model airplanes. I like writing, but it seemed weird to write an essay explaining why I like writing. I finally realized that my favorite way to unwind is to listen to music, so I wrote my essay about that. It all just kind of came tumbling out at once. Beware: it is kind of long. I'm long-winded. Oh, also - I got an A+.

PS - The memories from my childhood are accurate as far as I can remember them. For example, I'm not positive that the actual number of Beach Boy vinyls we owned was 2 or 3; I just guessed.

(I've also included a handy-dandy playlist of the songs I mention, so you can rock out too.)

Get a playlist! Standalone player Get Ringtones

"Creative Non-fiction Short Story: The Drive"

After any particularly long day, I love to drive around with no destination in mind and blast my music at an unreasonable volume. It is the ultimate way for me to just be still – to experience and digest everything I’ve been too busy to think about that day. Today is a treat for me – I have a four hour drive from Idaho to Utah to visit my family for the weekend. I haven’t seen them in a month and I’m looking forward to the drive almost as much as I am looking forward to seeing them.

After I fill up on gas, I impatiently head down the winding residential streets and scowl at the 25 mile per hour speed limit signs. The streets turn into hilly boulevards, and then finally – the highway. I turn up the volume just enough to make my rear-view mirror vibrate. I start unwinding to the complex rhythms and beats of Muse’s ‘Apocalypse Please,’ and I whine along with the high, plaintive vocals. It’s such a beautiful, lonely song, and the desperation of it never fails to move me.

As far back as my memory reaches, I have had a deep connection with music. It has a profound effect on me, on my sense of well-being, and on my emotional state. I think it runs in my family. My dad was in a few rock bands in his young adulthood – some of his songs even got on local radio. He always had deep commitment to his music, something that led my mom to warn me and my sisters against ever dating guys in bands. “They can sometimes have mixed-up priorities,” she would say.

He still plays his old electric blue bass, sometimes. Now that I think about it, the way he looks while he plays – bobbing his head a little to the beat, squinting his eyes to read the music with a half smile on his face – is the visual representation of how I feel when I am cruising in my car with the stereo blasting. Marriage and adulthood have mellowed out his musical tastes; he mostly listens to jazz tunes now, and a little Eric Clapton. After a long day of shopping and errands, I’ve often come home to find him on the couch, nodding his head to blaring music - which he has wired, somehow, to practically every speaker on the first floor of our home. He calls it his ‘music appreciation time.’

My mother’s tastes in music have always been a little earthier. We had a record player in my childhood home in California, and some of my earliest memories are of dancing to the folk albums she would spin on it. I believe Peter, Paul & Mary, John Denver, and The Mamas & The Papas were a few of her favorites. I can still remember how easily those songs would make my occasionally scary childhood world feel softer. The Beach Boys were also in constant rotation on that old record player; we had two or three of their vinyl albums. Their tight harmonies and upbeat tempos were the backing track to most of my childhood.

It wasn’t until my adolescence that music became my most essential coping mechanism. After arriving home from junior high, I remember the sweet escape of grabbing my walkman, loading it with a homemade mix-tape, and sliding the soft headphones over my ears. I would close my eyes, and suddenly all of the awkward social interactions, all the pains of being misunderstood, and all of the terror of being thirteen would be put in perspective. Radiohead’s ‘Creep’ wouldn’t make those nasty things disappear; the comfort that song held for me was in the knowledge that someone else understood how I felt. Listening to it, I realized that I was not the only kid to ever have a horrible teenage life. The song’s sad, rhythmic chords brought peace to some of my most desolate days. It didn’t blast away the darkness of depression with cloying sweetness; instead, it made the darkness survivable.
I'm coming over a particularly high, steep mountain pass. It’s the only part of the journey – one I’ve made a dozen times – that makes me anxious. I try not to notice the huge trucks zooming past me. Nervously, I switch my iPod to the next song. It’s Muse, again. ‘Falling Away With You’ is one of my favorites by them, and the sweet acoustic track does the trick. I am calm again.

My relationship with music deepened when I got my driver’s license at sixteen. My father considerately, albeit nervously, let me drive his little two-door Saturn around town and to school. One night during my senior year of high school, I made plans to watch a movie with Ryan, a good friend of mine. I skipped to the car and drove to his house. As I pulled into his driveway, I could sense something wasn’t right. All the lights in the house were off, and a group of people were on the front lawn. As I got out of the car and asked what was going on, I noticed that some of them were crying. Ryan’s mom had died, they explained, and he was on his way to the hospital to say his last good-byes. His friends had stayed behind, not knowing what to do, how to help, or where to go. The closest experience I had ever had with death previously was when my great-grandmother, whom I had only met once, passed away when I was seven. I had cried, but I couldn’t really grasp the finality of death back then. At sixteen years old, I could.

I numbly walked back to the car, pulled out slowly, and drove. It was starting to rain. I didn’t have any destination in mind; I drove because I didn’t know what else to do. I switched on my windshield wipers, and Avril Lavigne’s ‘I’m with you’ came on over the radio. Even though I generally hated Avril Lavigne’s music on principle, I turned it up and it lulled me into a safe, comfortable cocoon. I drove, sobbed, and prayed out loud for Ryan and his family. That song made me brave enough to go home and tell my family the news, which I knew would cement the reality of it all.

One year later, I made my very first grown up purchase: my own car. In the year after his mom died, Ryan and I dated and formed a close relationship. It was almost exactly one year later that he was in the car accident that took his life. Driving my car was my only escape during the initial period of shock, grief, and endless condolences that followed his death. I had to get away from all of the well-wishers because when they tried to tell me that he was in a better place, I wanted to punch them in the face. They didn’t understand. Sometimes, I would listen to the songs that had been special to Ryan and I while cruising along the winding roads in the hills above town for hours, sobbing. Driving and listening to songs like Rufus Wainwright's 'Hallelujah' was one of the best remedies for my raw pain.
I’m crossing the Utah state border, and the goofy ‘Welcome to Utah!’ sign with the grinning, airborne skier makes me giggle, like always. I relax a little bit; only one more hour until I get to see my mom. This is her last round of chemotherapy and it will be the most difficult one yet, but it will also be a celebration of sorts. After this treatment, her hair will start to grow back and her strength will slowly return.

If my mom had her way, she would have kept her cancer a secret until her hair started falling out – and even then, she says, she may have tried to invent some wild, non-cancer excuse for it. She is stubborn(in a good way), loving and strong; she hates to worry me and my sisters. In September of last year, her doctors found a lump in her breast that was the size of a ping-pong ball. When the news came that it was cancer, I didn’t cry. I didn’t really feel anything. I think I temporarily 'checked out' emotionally - and somewhat mentally - when my mom’s life expectancy came into question. It wasn’t until a few days later, driving around Rexburg, that I really felt the weight of it, and felt the fear - My mom could die. I drove into the Rexburg temple parking lot around sunset, turned off my engine, and turned up Green Day’s aptly titled ‘Wake me up when September ends.’ I allowed myself to have a brief, full-blown conniption fit. I cried, I screamed, I stomped... and I listened. After three plays through, I slowed my breathing to the rhythm of its simple drum beat. I turned the volume higher. I think I listened to that song eight times in a row. When it was over I felt like I could face the world, and face reality head-on. I really don’t think I would have been able to do so without the privacy to fall apart, or without the aid of that powerful song about life and loss.
I’m finally home. I run up the steps, and my impatient dog barks out a greeting before I even open the door. My mother is sitting in the front room, surrounded by my sisters. She has a fashionable cream-colored cap covering her bald head. I hug her frail body; she is thinner than she was last time I made the journey home. Dropping dress sizes is one of the nicer side effects of chemotherapy. Her eyes are still a bright, serene blue. Looking into them dissolves all of the stress and worry I’ve been harboring, and I can finally relax. I’m home.



Today at work I sat next to this young man who kept. talking. to. me. Not in a friendly way, but in a loud, mumble-mumble-mumble way while staring at my face. At first I tried to smile and give sympathetic nods every so often, but after 3 hours I just stopped making any eye contact with him whatsoever. Because if I were to pay attention to his ramblings as much as he wanted me to, I would not have been able to listen to my headset and therefore not been able to do my job well.

So. About three hours into my shift, my mumbly co-worker started to draw a picture in his notebook with a pencil. No big deal, right?

Wrong. He is left handed, which meant that his drawing hand kept almost-touching my right hand. I couldn't move said hand because my mouse was on that side of my keyboard. After furiously erasing parts of his drawing, he would energetically brush the eraser shavings off his paper and ONTO. MY. ARM.

On a normal day, I'm pretty sure it wouldn't have bugged me that much. However, today was not a normal day. Today was one of those "my-OCD-flares-up-in-epic-and-hilarious-ways-when-I-have-PMS" days.

That is why when I saw him about to flick his eraser boogers into my personal computing space for the tenth time, I shot an involuntary laser-beam look of death at him. I hope it conveyed my (also spontaneous) mental warning to him, which was:

"If you do that one more time, I will definitely punch you in the neck."


No speaky?

While I'm at work, the people I call for surveys sometimes pretend they don't speak English. How do I know they're pretending? This is how:

*Ring Ring*

Them: "Hello, this is the Robinson residence."

Me: "Hi, we are doing a survey today and we'd like to include your opinions in it. Is that okay?"



When this happens, I totally want to fake them out and force them to take back their imaginary language barrier by saying something like,

"Oh no! That's too bad. We were rewarding our participants today with a $500 gift card. Well, see-ya."

It would be kind of like the old cliche technique of scaring a fake-paraplegic out of his unnecessary wheelchair by yelling "Fire!" ...but less 90's sitcom-ish.


We are.....PARAMORE!

(This post is from the archives. I wrote it, but never got around to posing it! I know, I'm weird. The concert was this past May.)

Okay, so.

I had such an amazing time at the Paramore/Relient K concert! There is seriously nothing like going to see one of your favorite bands live, and to be right there while they're singing your favorite songs. I would be lying if I didn't admit that I got goosebumps on my arms approximately 3 times. I always used to laugh when my friend Meg (Hi Meg!)would tell me about how the Celine Dion concerts she went to were "seriously a religious, out-of-body experience," but I don't laugh now! I SO get it.

Anywho. They performed a much longer set than the last time I went to see them, because last time they were opening up for No Doubt. I like No Doubt, but I don't love them. This time, however, Paramore was the headlining band - and it made such a difference. The sound quality was better, the lights were better, our seats were better (we were closer, but we were also directly behind these ginormous speakers); pretty much everything was improved.

.... Well, except for the nasty couple in front of us who kept touching tongues and taking pictures of themselves doing so. (Sick.) I tried to photobomb them each time, but I was unsuccessful.

I was even tempted to go down to the mosh pit. However, I decided against it because 1)I am old, and 2)I don't like the smell of 17 year old hipsters.

Anyways, Hailey's vocals were superb; her range has really expanded on their new album. Next time one of my favorite bands comes to town, I am SO going.

I have to.
I am addicted.
And I will get even better seats.

PS: Here's a little video I made, complete with annotations:


Home again, home again, jiggity jig

I am now officially living at home again! However, I am not officially organized yet. Not even close. That is ok, though, because I've been doing things like hanging out with my fam, watching shark week, boating, and getting sunburned. Annnnnd peeling. (bleh)

I am aware that my goal to blog weekly has been woefully neglected the past few months, and I am going to fix that. I promise! I actually have literally a dozen posts that I've written (just run-of-the-mill observations and thoughts), but never published. If I can't find anything worth blogging about during the week, I'll just edit and post those. In the mean time, please enjoy this gem of a news story. The news-part of this story is not humorous. It is serious. However, the eyewitness account that starts about halfway through? Hilarious.

Introducing: Antoine Dodson! I want to be his bff.

"He's claimin in your windows, he's snachin your people up!"


Dogs that are slow in the brain.

I know that it doesn't really count as 'blogging' when all I do is post links to other blogs, but finals are coming up and I have little to no 'fun time.' Anyways, this one made me laugh so hard. The pictures are so spot-on accurate.I can't wait until I get to hang out with my borderline-below-average-intelligence dog, Ozzie, again. He has a new sidekick, Lady, who is unfortunately way, WAY smarter than he is. Luckily, he's too dumb to realize that.

Lady stealing Ozzie's bone.


Passive Agressive Laundry

So, at my apartment complex there are very, VERY limited laundry facilities. Each building has one laundry room, and each laundry room has only 2 washers and 2 dryers. Here's the kicker: Each building has about 80 girls living in it. So I basically share a washer and dryer with 40 other girls. For this reason, our laundry rooms are in constant use, and if a washer has stopped, most people (like me) take the laundry out of the finished machine so that they can use it. Whenever I do this, I make sure that I put it nicely and neatly on top of the washer or in their basket, because it would suck if their stuff fell on the floor or something.

Anyways, I went in to do my laundry last night, and I noticed that the only washer that wasn't in use was full of clean bedding. I put it nicely on top of the machine, and started putting my clothes in. While I was doing that, my neighbor and Sunday school teacher came in and looked at the bedding I had placed on top of the washer. Since I know her, I cheerfully told her I was the one who had just barely taken them out and set them there, and I hoped that it was okay.

She just looked at me and said nothing. Awkward.

So, when I went in later on that night to put my stuff in the dryer, the only dryer that wasn't in use was full of - you guessed it - that girl's bedding. I put it neatly on top of the dryer, and started my load. (Note: Her bedding was dry.)

When I came back to get my laundry out, I found this note waiting for me on top of my dryer:

I promptly sent it to PassiveAgressiveNotes.com. Tee hee hee.

Since she angrily scribbled out "I don't know who..." I am pretty sure she knows it was me. And I think that Sunday school is going to be a little awkward for a while.

Oh, well. Ha ha ha.


Bad Romance Newsies

Jackie and Georges wedding was beautiful, and went off without a hitch. Their reception looked like a giant real-life photo shoot for Martha Stewart Magazine. The food? Scrumptious. The house? Gorgeous. My joyful weeping didn't even smudge my mascara. I will post pictures when someone else uploads them, because I hardly ever take pictures on my own camera when I'm with the famdam.

Until then, you can enjoy....


(aren't you so glad the internet exists? I am.)


Hammerhead Wedding Veil ALERT

I had the most amazing dream last week. And by amazing, I mean it was so awkward and uncomfortable that it almost bordered on a nightmare, and I laughed with sweet relief when I woke up and realized it was just a dream. Some background first:

So, as many of you know, my sister Jackie is getting married this weekend to Georgey. He is awesome, and I am so happy for both of them that I know I am going to blubber like a sentimental boob at their wedding.

I hadn't seen Jackie's wedding dress yet, and I distinctly remember being excited about seeing it as I was falling asleep. In my dream, Jackie was trying on her dress for all of our family to see. I walked into that room that every bridal store has - you know, the one that has three giant mirrors so that the brides can see their dresses from every angle. I was relatively far away, and I was trying to figure out what the strange, white gauzy shape was at the far side of the room.



Jackie turned around and I realized it was her. She had a giant, purple, rhinestone encrusted thing attached to the BACK of her head. Her veil was hanging off of it. She looked like a hammerhead shark. And her dress? It was like a pioneer dress, except it was made out of white satin and dark purple ribbon. Oh, and the skirt was one of those weird, see through, short-in-the-front and long-in-the-back monstrosities that you sometimes see on Miss Teen USA pageants.

The worst part? She loved it. In my dream, I mean. She LOVE loved it, and had already bought it, and since no one else had voiced any objections to it, I felt like I couldn't tell her how horribly ugly her ensemble was.

Thankfully, I then woke up.

Dear cute sister Jackie,
I am so excited for your big day. I am sure you will be radiantly beautiful. Just please promise me you will not to wear this:

... Because I will not be able to stop you.




So, when I get my hair cut at the Paul Mitchell Hair Academy in Rexburg, I ALWAYS ask for a phase 2 hairdressers. They are hairdressers that have finished up the regular training for their licenses, and are just there to learn additional cool hair things. Anyways, I am sure I asked for a Phase 2 girl when I made my appointment on Saturday. POSITIVE.

However, once my hairdresser was ready, I noticed she was taking me to a weird part of the salon. It was crowded, and noisy, and the girls looked really young and OH MY GOSH IT WAS THE PHASE ONE SECTION OF THE SCHOOL. Instant panic attack.

I was faced with two choices: I could either run in the opposite direction and say, "I asked for a phase 2 girl, so BACK AWAY WITH THOSE SHEARS," or I could be polite, grin and bear it, and not ask for anything too complicated.

I should have gone with the former option. My hair looks like the 'Little Dutch Boy' that was featured on the front that brand's paint cans:
Exhibit 1:

Yep. Anyways, performing a Google image search of 'dutch boy paint' actually cheered me up a little bit, because the logo is QUITE creepy, in a hilarious way:

Exhibit 2:



Well, my llama died...

Today before one of my classes began, I was chit-chatting with the people sitting around me. When someone asked if anything exciting had happened in the last few days, this quiet kid said slowly, "Well, my llama died."

I felt bad that no one laughed at his joke, so I giggled and said, "Oh, really?"

And he looked at me. Sadly. "Well, he was really old..."

[5 second silence]

Me: "Oh my gosh. You're serious?"

Him: sad nod. "Yea."

Me. "Oh! Uhhh...I'm sorry."


That is all.


First week of classes

Since BYU-I does its own thing (and by 'does its own thing,' I mean it has a weird, wonky semester schedule), I had my first week of Spring Semester classes this week. SO AMAZING! I did have to do some crazy class-changing hi-jinx though, because I thought I had signed up for Victorian-era BRITISH lit. When I walked into class, I realized it was Victorian-era AMERICAN lit. Boo. Anyways, I managed to switch it around so I really do have Victorian British Literature now. It is AMAZING. Our funny instructor read "The Lady Of Shallot" my first day there, and it wowed me. I had never heard the entire poem before. My only exposure to it had been through this scene from Anne Of Green Gables:

Anyways. It is gorgeous. Read it here.

My room mates this semester seem adorable, as well. I am super excited about them.

I am a little irritated about one thing, though. Every single semester, the BYU-I accounting office tells me that my student loan funds will be available the first day of classes. And every semester, they don't give it to me for at least a week. That may not seem like a long time, but when I start to turn to ramen noodles as a main source of nutrition, it FEELS like a long time. Its not even my money; it is the loan money my parents took out for me... but some days, I really would like to re-enact that scene from Merry Poppins when the little boy causes a run on the bank by shouting, "Gimme back my moneyyyyyyyyyy!!!" (Fast forward the video to 1:27, so you can skip the creepy old banker's singing/dancing bit)

That is all.


Bowling Brethren

I was walking out of the new BYU-I bookstore today, which is right next to a miniature bowling alley. (I don't know why we have a miniature bowling alley in the student building. It only has like, 5 lanes.) Anyways. I turned the corner, and saw a bunch of religion professors bowling - in their dress clothes - with the bowling alley laser-lights on. They were high-fiving each other and everything. It was hilarious. I should have taken a picture. I though about it, but I would have had to explain myself if someone noticed me.


Feeling sad? Have some Eisley.

I know I haven't blogged a real blog in forever, and its because I am living under a mountain of schoolwork and research papers. I just thought I'd share my remedy for too-much-homework-itis: Eisley. They are just so happy and quirky and dreamy and shiny.


Don't let the slightly creepy intro throw you. Just listen to it all the way through. Ideally, while imagining yourself in a field of wildflowers.

Get a playlist! Standalone player Get Ringtones


Oy. Eclipse Trailer.

I am incredibly underwhelmed. It did not wow me. Maybe I'm just in a bad mood because of all my homework...but seriously. How did they manage to make Eclipse look boring? The music was pretty. That is about it,though. Boo. New Moon was such a good movie, and based on this trailer, I am worried that Eclipse will drop the ball.

PS - I know that a boring trailer doesn't mean it is going to be a boring movie. But still. I wish I could feel a little more excited about it.

EDIT: Okay, this video made me feel much better. It looks awesome:



My cousin Brandon passed away a few weeks ago. I wanted to blog on how I feel about it, but grief is so personal that after I wrote it, I decided it was journal-territory. Instead, I decided to write down my favorite memory of him, like my sister Kristin did on her blog.

I was about seven, I believe, and I was at my Grandma & Grandpa Tygerson's house. It must have been Easter or Christmas, because my entire extended family from my mom's side was there. I have a large family; I believe my cousin-count at that point in time was 15. It was a really full, really noisy affair.

I was sitting on the big brown couch in their living room, taking refuge from the hooting and hollering of all the kids that were playing outdoors. My sister Nicole and I were flipping through the channels on my grandparent's TV. I loved watching TV at their house because they had cable - and at 7 years old, cable TV was the holiest of all holy grails. It meant that I could watch Nickelodeon, the Mickey Mouse Club, and an actual movie all in the same day.

However, my happy little moment was quickly interrupted by a large stampede of wild children. They all decided that they wanted to watch TV too, much to my despair. Everyone was clambering for the remote, standing in front of the TV, and just causing a general ruckus.

Brandon followed the crowd in, and shushed them. He was one of the oldest, so they all listened, which impressed me. He sat down next to Nicole, looked at her and said nicely, "What would you like to watch, Coley?" I remember that she just stared at him wide-eyed for a moment, because boys were a foreign alien species to me and my sisters when we were little. Any male relative besides our Dad kind of freaked us out, especially if they had facial hair or were named "Uncle Gary." (Sorry Gary. We like you now!) Brandon was the only older boy cousin that didn't make me run for the hills in terror because his friendly attitude put me at ease.

I thought it was so sweet that he sat there with us, ensured that it was quiet enough for us to hear what was on TV, and tried to decipher what on earth Nicole was saying she wanted to watch. It was especially nice of him, you see, because Nicole had a speech impediment that made her words sound like a jumble of little nasal duck quacks.(Sorry Nicole. It was cute, I promise!) We finally settled on one of the movies in the Batman Forever franchise. He watched the whole movie with us and continued to shush the other kids if they got noisy. That little event left a big impression on my seven year old self, and I remember thinking how positively cool he was.

We will miss you, Brandon.


Quotes from my first week of classes..

(I meant to post this after my first week, but for some unknown reason just saved it as a draft instead. Sleep deprivation, perhaps? Yes.)

Advanced Writing and Critical Thinking:
(Professor): "...So, the final research paper will be 12 pages long."
(Flabbergasted kid behind me, under his breath): "Oh my GOSH!"

Fundamentals of Research & Presentation:
(southern professor that was very enthused about the new software): "How cool is that?"..."And how cool is thayat!?".... "I mean, how cool is thayat?"..."How SWEET is thayat?"
(The title of an article we were reading was called, "Books Gone Wild")
"... and then, the title of this article... well, uh... it is a reference that you should NOT recognize."
(Professor): "Make your thesis sharp - make it very edgy! Make you reader say, 'Whoa, put that thing away before you poke my eye out!' Seriously."

American Lit:
(Professor): "Looks like we won't be able to listen to Simon and Garfunkle's 'America' until next time. It will give you something to look forward to. And if Simon and Garfunkle don't make you enthusiastic about coming to class, then you should transfer out of here..... Heh, heh. Just kidding... Sort of."

Back to School, fool!

I love back-to-school time. I get so nostalgic when I buy binders and homework planners and whiteout. Even though it's technically winter and the rest of the country isn't returning to school, it is still quite exciting for me.

My week has been awesome, although Thursday began as kind of a disaster. I was running late. (I am forever running late.) It was what I consider the early morning (before 10am) and when I am tired I move at a snail's pace while getting ready, no matter how much Diet Dr. Thunder I have consumed. I needed to leave for class in about five minutes when I spilled my liquid foundation all over my jeans, boots, and desk. I cursed loudly. After quickly changing and running to my car, it took me a solid 10 minutes to scrape it off because it was approximately negative 90 degrees (I exaggerate - a little) which made me 10 minutes late for class on the second day it was in session. Boo.

Other than that, I am having a blast. I am fighting very hard against the urge to channel my inner Hermione Granger and let my hand shoot up after every discussion question in my English classes, because of how enthused I am to be discussing poems and novels and short stories and actually getting credit for it.
I am in geeky bookish heaven. I only have two actual textbooks this semester; the rest are novels and poetry. If you know me at all, please try and picture how happy my face becomes while considering that topic. It probably would look something like....this.

(Disclaimer: I didn't make this creepy/hilarious picture; my very bored and occasionally very weird sister Nicole did. I also have no idea who that man is. He seems nice enough, though.)

My new apartment is so much nicer than my old one. I feel like I've moved up in the world... or at least moved up in Rexburg. Which is, you know...nothing like the world really. Anyways. My apartment has tons of storage space, a heater that works, a vacuum that works, a dishwasher (which makes my germaphobic heart of hearts rejoice) free monthly haircuts, tanning, exercise equipment and - the best one, wait for it - free mani/pedis.

Epic win.

I was going to take pictures of my cute new place and post them, but my room is too messy. I'll do that sometime this week, I promise.

PS: here is a gratuitous LOLcat.