For Oregon

In case you missed my speech, you can read it HERE.

Squeez 'er

Thursday was an exhausting day. It was wonderful and exhilarating and everything else, but when I got home after being on campus for ten straight hours (hauling husband, baby and parents along--sorry guys!) all I wanted to do was get in my pj's and snuggle my little one.

Sometimes, I want to squeeze her tighter than you should probably squeeze a newborn. But I can't help it. I just love her so, and it had been way too many hours since I had sat and held her and stroked her head while she fell asleep.

Gosh, I love being a mom.

Never enough spirituality to keep us wet

I was recently mis-paraphrased in the Daily Universe. It's hard to be upset when I think it's so funny. What I said was something like "A good friend of mine put it this way, 'Intellectualism rains on college campuses and we think we're wise when we get wet.'" And what did the article read? "Anderson said BYU graduates need to hear about the special directions and challenges they will face because they will be away from the perfect educational environment, with the spirit continuously raining on them to keep them wet." 


Hilarious.

I wish I knew who said that. And what it means.

Letting go to hold her tighter

It's true that having kids changes you. The little one makes Mike even more determined to work hard. He kisses her on the top of the head when he leaves for work and tells her he's going for her. But somehow she's had the opposite effect on me.

I took a midterm last week and got a C. And I was thrilled! When in my life have I ever rejoiced over a C?! My happiness was two-fold. I felt this huge wash of relief that now that I'm obviously out of reach for a good grade, I can stop pretending to care  and just shoot for passing which, by the way, is 50%. And since I got a C, that means I can get like, oh, 30% on the next test AND STILL PASS. Because all I need is the credit. So I can graduate. (Graduate?! So weird.)

I think the babe likes my new relaxation approach to homework because it gives me more time to laugh about the fact that she throws up on herself and does the biggest smile as it runs down her neck. And then I get to count her neck folds as I wipe between each one.

Sweet.

The Turning

My final show is up! We (me and my cohort of friends and family who have donated hundreds of man hours in my behalf---thank you, thank YOU, THANK YOU!) got it all done in a day. A very long day.

After Mikey and I put the tools away, picked up the garbage and packed up our boxes, I realized how my entire body was throbbing. I'm pretty sure I hobbled all the way to the car.

But it's up! (and will stay up through the 14th of this month).

And you are all invited to the opening reception tomorrow night, December 3 at 6.

And to whet your appetite, here's a sneak peak at what we did yesterday . . .

Our magic car with all 25 paintings, 3000+ hexagons, tools, odds and ends and everything else all inside. It's sort of like the Barney Bag.

Even if Santa isn't real, his elves are. Here they are in action, stringing together the 20th generation back on my dad's side. (Side note: Someone asked me if the paper was a bracket of some sort. Retrospectively, I wish I would have answered, "yeah, it's all the possible outcomes for March Madness. I'm sort of a super-freak.")

You've got to see it in real life. And smell it. And look closely at the names. And listen more closely to hear them.

Hope to see you tomorrow night!

Stuff these days

Today I have spent 5 hours writing inscribing the names of my ancestors on wax hexagons. The hexagons that I spent all last week making. The hexagons that half my family came over to help punch and tie (bless you, bless you, bless you...)

And now I can't feel my middle finger.

I noticed that I was writing slower and slower. I punched out a generation and a half before lunch, and I've barely done one since. I remembered this whole blood sugar when you're pregnant thing. And drank some orange juice. It's Mikey's special. (Thanks dude). And I'm feeling much better.

I planned on doing my hair today but it has been in and out of several buns, pony tails, and braids all day. Maybe not doing my hair isn't saving me time in the long run. Isn't that how it is with everything though? You think you save yourself by shirking something and end up having to deal with it later (in a bigger, more tangley way).

After this show is hung I'm declaring a personal holiday for the following week. Do you think I can get my professors to go along with it?

40 hours makes hotel art

I spent 40 hours in my studio last week. I felt very accomplished.

Until a boy in my class told me he thought my work looked like hotel art.

Back to the drawing board . . .

Hungry for more

The two week obsession has ended. I listened to the entire Hunger Games trilogy. I devoured it, really. I didn't give in to the last literary pop-culture phenomenon, but this one pulled me out of bed and to the studio so I could find out if Katniss made it!

And now that it's over I don't know what to fill the empty air in my studio with. I need something to keep me here during the hours of mundane preparation of meticulously drawing out patterns, taping off straight edges and going through more X-ACTO blades than the Bookstore could supply me with.

So I turn on Pandora.

And now I'm assembling the soundtrack for the Hunger Games movies. Maybe the obsession hasn't ended after all . . .

Zing

Rulers. Compasses. Patterns. Paint. Grids. Pencils.

These things have consumed my life. And they will probably continue consuming it until December 1st at which point they will fill the HFAC. I spend hours each day in my studio and it's gratifying to watch as the concepts floating around for so long are finally harnessed and committed to canvas.

I get annoyed at any disturbance to my rhythm. Bathroom breaks. Food breaks. (Both of which are all the more frequent these days). Classes. (Darned classes you actually have to attend on a biweekly basis...)

But things are coming along. And I'm loving watching the process unfold.

Health Hazard

Using public restrooms with bare feet should be against the Honor Code. And some public health code.

I've had goosebumps since May 1st

Our apartment (the one we're moving out of in less than a month and I'm slowly realizing I'll really miss it) is an icebox. In the summer months, the folks upstairs trump our thermostat as soon as they turn on the AC. Here's the problem. Basements don't need AC. In fact, when you have AC pumping into basements, they feel cold. Not refreshingly cold. Meat locker cold. It's strange when you open the fridge and the temperature inside doesn't feel any different than the temperature in the kitchen.

As a kid I lived with the AC curmudgeon. (AC may or may not be a dual initial in this case) Now, mind you, she was a kind curmudgeon most of the time, but I don't think even she could have survived in my west-facing bedroom situated directly above the garage. With no AC. All night. I used to sleep with a squirt bottle that I would mist in the air every few seconds or so until I fell asleep.

Now that I live in the freezer section, I want my old bedroom back.

I don't think I'm a truly picky person, but I am beginning to wonder if I'm cold blooded. Every time I walk into our apartment I feel my body moving slower and slower the longer I'm here. It's almost like those dreams everybody has when you run as hard and fast as you can, but you feel like you're barely moving.

Did I mention that my pet chameleon, Clarence, died in a freezer? True story. So maybe it's good that in a few weeks we'll hop across the street and find some warmth in the northerly direction, which is totally counter-intuitive.

Finally

After finishing my art history final this afternoon I was greeted by sunshine. It's been so long. I thought we had somehow been transported to Seattle and didn't know it.

It's finally starting to feel like summer...

Truly incredible

It happened again. For the second time in two weeks I got a parking ticket.

This time, the car was still running.

I've done it a million times--taken an armload of papers, panels, canvas and boards up to my studio space. There's not a place to park near the studios and it's it too far to walk from the student lots (trust me, I've tried). Plus, yesterday, it was raining. Ruined art supplies anyone? I might as well suck on twenty dollar bills and flush them down the toilet.

So I left my car running, ran up the stairs and came back down in a matter of minutes and had already gotten the lovely little notification on my windshield. Incredible right?

Problem is, I'm too embarrassed to dispute this one. I was in the traffic office less than 7 days ago...

Breakfast of Champions

Yesterday was one of those terrible, horrible, no good, very bad days. It started with a stomach ache, and ended with spilled paint on the driveway. Oh, and I got a parking ticket.

My tummy ache led me to lay in bed 15 minutes longer than I should have, I know, but I just couldn't get up yet. Really. By the time I was ready I had 6 minutes to get to campus. I've done it before. I've get a bike with wings. What I didn't account for was the rain. My bike doesn't like the rain (or is it the girl steering who doesn't like to get pelted with rain drops?)  I was stuck in a quandary.

Walk? I'll be late. That's the 20 minute I-want-to-ponder-the-mysteries-of-life-on-my-way-to-school-option. Maybe I'll see if Typewriter Grandma could give me a ride. I call, no answer. Run across the street. All is quiet. Bummer.

I decided to drive, crossing my fingers I'd get a parking spot. I thought there was a student lot where there wasn't, so I parked in thirty minute slot. I was already almost 15 minutes late to my class and I knew we'd have a break in 45 so I figured I could move it during the break and be just fine.

I sprinted to my class. I sprinted to my car during the break. And I sprinted back to class after moving to where? Another thirty minute slot. It was all I had time for.

After class I was planning to spend the afternoon in the wood shop, hoping to build 5-10 panels and get a jump on preparation for my final show. Finding the guy in charge took longer than expected, then my Signature Card didn't have enough funds to by a shop card, then I had to wait to use a campus computer to put enough funds on my card. Long story short, what should have taken 3 minutes took 15. And by the time I was nearing my car, I saw one of those dreaded parking enforcement people in his bright yellow jacket.

Why do they wear those jackets? Just so as you're walking to your car you can dread the neon green envelope under your windshield wiper marked PARKING TICKET? What ever the case I thought I beat him. He was ticketing almost every car on my row and was still 4 cars away. As I approached the driver door he looked over and said, "Is that your vehicle?"

"Yes sir."

"Why don't you wait there then."

"That sounds like a recipe for trouble, and a ticket. I think I should get in and drive away before you get me and save myself 20 bucks and the frustration." (He didn't think this was funny at all).

"Well if you do that I'll write you up for a misdemeanor."

"Okaaaaaay. I'll stand here. In the rain. Waiting for my ticket. Awesome."

I wait as he writes up another car. I sat there wondering if this was a little bit what it feels like to wait for the noose or the electric chair or the guillotine. You wait in line patiently as they chop off someone else's head and think, really, you have to chop off mine too? Isn't three heads enough for one day?

"See that chalk mark on your tire?"

"Yes I see it."

"That's what time I walked past and marked it. If you were only 10 minutes over I'd let it slide, but now I'm going to have to ticket ya."

"Well, you don't really haaaave to ticket me actually. And it's only 7 minutes past 10 minutes..." Not to mention that more than half of this parking lot is empty. Really, who am I bothering?Did I tell you I have a stomach ache? And it's raining? Can you even FEEL THE RAIN OR ARE YOU PAST FEELING?!

"Get in your car." For rude! As he's writing up my ticket he asks, "Do you know the new parking regulations for Spring and Summer?"

"No." Do you know how much I hate you, who ever you are Mr. Yellow Jacket Power Trip Man?

"Well registered students can park in any G, C, Y, or A lots numbered higher than a 17. So basically had you parked over there (he points one parking lot away) I wouldn't be writing up this ticket right now."  

Was that little tidbit just to rub it in? Well it worked. I think you must have been raised by parents who don't love you. "How the heck are students supposed to know that? Do they make some announcement and email it out to Spring/Summer students?"

"No. It's just online under parking and registration."

"Ooooh, so I'm just suppoooosed to figure that the regulations changed for Spring this year? That's ridiculous."

By this time he had finally finished writing up four people's tickets (mine included) and was fumbling to put the green envelope in the little rain-proof plastic sleeve. I snatched it out of his hands and said he didn't have to trouble himself with that. I was just getting in my car and driving straight to the traffic office to dispute my ticket anyway.

But first I had to meet Mikey and work and vent LOUDLY about this smug little parking cop. Don't worry, only one other person came into the break room. Maybe I scared everyone else off. . .

The rest of the day went something like this: discharging a fully loaded nail gun inches from my face, splitting the panel I was building with the LAST SCREW before I was done, remembering I still had to take paint to Typewriter Grandma and then watching the gallon of black paint roll out of the car (before I had time to catch it) and spill on the driveway. Perfect. Just perfect.

Today is going to be a much better day though. Especially since I'm starting it off with the Breakfast of Champions: cookie dough.

I am a Reader, I am Strong

One of the earliest concrete memories I have of reading came from my first year in elementary school. I was excited and anxious to be there. My older sister had already been going there for two years which seemed entirely unfair to me since I considered us to be the same age. But I was finally there and could finally participate in the Peaks Reader reading program and secure my very own, hard earned Seven Peaks Water Park pass. Although the bar to qualify a kindergartner for a pass was rather low, I made a personal goal to out read my entire class and my older sister.

As soon as I got home with my bright orange paper with rows of lines for filling in the thousands of pages I was sure to read, I got to work on a large stack of Dr. Seuss books. Now, I very well knew that these were too easy for me, but that was the point! Within something like an hours time I ran outside to my mother to have her sign off on the 200 plus pages I had read. I can still see her face as she peered over the paper, her cheek smudged with dirt from digging about the hollyhocks, and told me she wouldn't sign it.

I was furious. Taking the time to dig up all the Dr. Seuss books and carefully write the names and page numbers on the impossibly small lines on my bright orange paper seemed like a feat in and of itself! I marched inside and decided that I would just have to start on the fattest book I could find. Which happened to be the Standard Works. I opened up the triple combination and started in Genesis. I read until dinner where I proudly announced to my sister that I was going to out read her by a thousand pages.

I'm not sure if I out read her at all, but I do know that I got my beloved Seven Peaks Pass, (though my sister still won't believe me when I boast of reading the Standard Works, cover to cover, at age 5. I've never claimed to have understood any of it...)

Reading was for me then, yet another means of competition with my sister, but a sincere love of words and literature stemmed from it. My childhood was filled with books that fueled my imagination and enabled me to create elaborate stories played out with the neighbor kids in the empty lots surrounding our houses. I have a strong belief that the foundation of imagination, laid out by reading, acted as a catalyst for my life-long love of painting. Reading served as a constant way to fill the note cards in my head so that the ideas for drawings and paintings never ran dry. There was always an idea to pull from, and there still is.

In grade school my father would read a chapter out of a book to my sister and I before bed. I remember reading "Journey to the Center of the Earth" and getting so caught up in what it all might look like that I would frequently interrupt the story with questions about whether my sister and dad thought the contraption they used was made of metal or wood, if it had large windows, if it could fold up, if the tunnel was glowing red . . . I caused my sister endless annoyance because all she cared about was if they WOULD EVER GET THERE with all my stupid questions standing in the way.

But as I grew, reading took on other functions in addition to visual pursuits. We read "The Scarlet Letter" in eleventh grade and I remember finding the questions it raised completely compelling. I wrote endlessly and though endlessly about it as the class conducted lively discussions about what a wretched person the heroin was.  I didn't think she was wretched. I found myself connecting in a deep way with her story and drawing parallels with her life and the circumstances in my own. The book became a spark for me in searching out how the atonement works. It strengthened my testimony of the power and forgiveness and the power of redemption. I leader to forgive and place faith in those close to me, both of which have been vital skills in navigating a life full of disappointment and failure.

Reading taught me this. It raised ideas and questions I had never considered and compelled me to find the answers. I owe much of my personal education to the words of enlightened men and women.

When I entered college I made a goal to go running every day. My roommate and I left one night under a clear sky and within minutes found ourselves soaked through and through. Our conversation that night revolved around the power of literature and why so man stories seem exaggerated and as a result, unrealistic. How were we--who considered our lives to be so normal and mundane--supposed to relate with these legendary protagonists? We concluded that literature provides us with a window into the strength of humanity. The stories are condensed versions of what we may go through. Seeing others overcome teaches us that we too could take on hard things.

As a new college student pounding the pavement despite the pounding rain, I felt the resounding truth that literature taught me: that I am strong.

Learning

I walked in late for my last final. I spent every second up until that moment reviewing terms, concepts, dates, leaders, and acronyms (oh the dreaded acronyms!) The room was silent and already beginning to smell like a test (what does a test smell like you ask? Think of pencil shavings mixed with feet smell and throw in a little xerox machine...mmmm, there it is...)

All I could think as I walked to my desk was, "The last one. This is the last test of the hardest semester of my life."

I sat down, wrote my name, and looked at the first 100 questions which looked something like this:

EPW________________________________________

PLO________________________________________

ICAC_______________________________________

I didn't know the first acroynm, nor the second, nor the third. I thought that was the end of it. I might as well throw in the towel (or pencil in this case), shake my professor's hand and thank him for a semester of wordy powerpoint presentations and leave the stuffy room.

But I didn't. I stayed for almost three hours. And it got a lot better. I think I rocked most of it (despite the first three questions)

After turning in my test I had time for reflection as I walked to the parking lot to wait for Mikey.

When the semester began I did a lot of praying. I knew 17.5 credits would be a challenge, but after getting all my syllabi and looking at the assignments, deadlines and projects, I was fairly convinced I was in some of the hardest sections of the classes I was taking. That first night I spent hours (that I should have spent studying) looking at ways to rework my schedule to take easier sections, pouring over Rate My Professor ratings and seeing the horrific reviews of the classes I was in that all warned those who cared about their GPA to stay far away. I knelt and asked Heavenly Father if this was the semester to take these hard classes, if I could do it, if it was wise.

Every time I wanted the answer to run away and take different sections, I didn't. Every time I wanted validation to make things easier, I didn't.

What I did get was repeated feelings that I needed this semester to teach me about learning, to teach me about satisfaction, to teach me about dedication, hard work, and discipline. I needed this semester to toughen up my emotions, to toughen up my resolve.

And guess what? It worked. I don't think I've cried as much as I have this semester. But I also haven't found so much satisfaction in studying and doing well. Not well grade-wise (although my fingers are crossed) but well in the mind way. I feel like I really learned. Imagine that. Learning in college. Ha!

Too often too many forget, and I'm one of them, that we enter to learn.

Finals

This is what two solid days of studying and busyness does to your hair:

Didn't even have to tease one bit and my straw-like locks stick straight out on their own.

I'm dreaming of the time after this semester when supposedly all of my time frees up to do those things I've put off for a year (finish my wedding album, start working on various art projects I barely have time to jot down let alone push forward on, finish the movie I got a grant to make over a year ago...)

For some reason I still believe that "I'll have more time when..." even though, as per experience of 21 years, it has happened less times than I have fingers.

But shouldn't something lighten up after I dump 17.5 credits and trade them for 6?

Hopefully, at the very least, I'll have a little more time to feel clean and showered, scrubbed and polished.

Rather than looking like I was just bowled over by a tornado.

A New Business Venture

We have a great idea. You know what Provo needs? A frozen yogurt joint. With all the freshman weary of the 15 and newly marrieds gaping at each others' muffin-tops, we could really turn a profit with this healthy alternative.

We've got a nice location, now all we need is a name. The following are already taken:

YoZone
FroYo
Spoon Me
Spoon it Up
Red Mango
Yoasis

So here are some names we're considering

Yoyo
FroZone
Fro it Up
Spoon Zone
Spoon Yo Mango
Red Zone
Red Fro
Zone Yo
Fro Me Up
Red Fro Up
Me Spoon Yo Spoon
Fro Yo Spoon in the Zone
Spoon Up Yoasis

What's your vote?

Returning

So I took a hiatus.

A loooooooong hiatus. Because school is all I do and when you do school all day, the last thing you want to do is blog about it. And seriously, how interesting is a post about "today I finished my 18 page rough draft," or "the paper I have to write about the history of nuclear intelligence is way less interesting than I would have hoped."

Sorry, it's just not interesting.

I have had several post cooking in my brain (about feminism and the gospel, about the value of work, about those who are 'othered'...) But I didn't (and won't for a little bit) have time to pound them out.

But school ends (and Mikey graduates!) in two weeks.

And hopefully I'm still sane enough to write by then.

Anal

The girl in class keeps tapping her bracelets on the desk. And then she started cleaning out her braces with a rubber band. Also, she is crunching her candy necklace rather loudly. Did I mention how her chair never ceases to swivel for the entire 75 minutes I sit next to her, causing a little clang when the zipper on her pants hits the metal leg of the table?

Am I just anal or she really that impolite?