Monday, January 25, 2010

The Map

I went to declare my minor today, expecting to just say, "Hey, I wanna minor in editing" and--Click.--typed in and done. Instead, I'm handed a pile of paperwork, am told to fill it out, contact my advisor, get their approval and bring it back. Oy vey! And I was reading through all of this impressive workload, and it asked what classes I had already taken in the hopes of getting into the program. ...Um, none. So that inspired me to plot out my entire existence. I went through all the classes I have left to do--GE's, Major, Pre Reqs, and now this desired Minor--and I listed them all out and proceeded to sort them into semesters and terms. Two hours later, I had a clear idea of what I would be doing and how I would be doing it. That's right: Props to me.

I am now on track to graduate college and finish school forever in Fall 2012. Which is earlier than I had originally anticipated. I will be 21 and awesome. I even put in a hopeful break for a hopeful study abroad in London! That is scheduled for Summer 2011. Which would cost roughly $6,500, taking in all expenses and tuition. I'm a big believer in Study Abroad's and I will definitely be doing it. I will. I just need a job. And some self control.

MY tentative Spring, Summer, and Fall 2012 schedules also have free spaces for classes I may have missed. It's like my safety net. And I even saved LDS Family and Marriage for my final semester--just in case I'm not relationship-marketable before that. So those last few months will be my swan song to BYU; my final glory days in the educational sphere; my last chance to easily snatch a man.

IT is a load of work, though.

I found some GE's I'd missed and I'll be plowing through those this next year, and then--my senior year, especially--I just get a bunch of beautifully enjoyable classes like Poetry, and Teen Fiction, and British Lit. and The American Novel. I am seriously so excited for those. They'll be hard, and I'll probably hate some or the other, but the idea of just LIVING in literature sounds like heaven. Oh, it's gonna be good.

LISTS just have a way of lightening the load; making one feel more in control. I feel confident and poised and more willing to suffer through the likes of Biology 100 and Family Finances if it just means I get to partake in Creative Writing and the ever-so-awesome Senior English Project which is just a semester devoted to you writing a masterpiece in your chosen focus. How cool is that?

REALLY, I am happy from the two hours wasted. And I successfully avoided homework. Another bonus.

Thursday, January 21, 2010

Oh, To Be A Woman

AT exactly 1 o'clock this afternoon, I was sitting lazily in a hallway, waiting for my class to begin. And as I was sitting there, a woman walked out of her office and then came back with a Snickers candy bar. Immediately, I began salivating. It was awful. My mind became obsessed with getting a candy bar. It's all I could think about. So I gathered all my stuff together and went madly searching for the vending machine. When I found it, there was a slot to take a card. And I was so excited, because I had no cash. Of course. But, even as I slid my credit card in every which-way possible; even as I tried my student ID card; even as I fingered the change whole for any forgotten coins--my happy ending was far, far away.

OH, the misery, the horror, the frustration that ravished my soul. I was drawn away by a ringing bell and I forced myself back to class, far away from chocolate, peanut butter, nougat, etc. So, so very far. And for the next three hours--two classes--I was lost in a world of imagination, picturing biting into a glorious, perfect candy bar.

AS soon as my class finished, I rushed forth, determined to find my happiness in the form of chocolate. I had no cash, so a vending machine wasn't an option. I had to get an essay Blue Book for an exam, so I went to the Bookstore. But the Blue Books were in the bottom of the Bookstore, while the candy was hidden away at the top. And you aren't allowed to take something to a different level to buy it.

OH, life! What cruel games you play upon the weak and desperate!

I bought my Blue Book and, still, I could not shake the vision of chocolatey substance before my eyes. So I go to the book part of the Bookstore, where a variety of candies are sold for cheap to the passing needy. BUT THEY WERE OUT!!! Alas.

MY hands were shaking.

I wandered out of the Bookstore in a daze, wondering where and how I would find my heaven; questioning what I had done to be tortured thus. Perhaps, I decided, a candy bar wasn't in my future. Not for today, not now. So I called my mother, praying she would convince me to just walk home. But she didn't answer. I called my sister. No answer. So I crossed the street rashly, heading 2.5 minutes out of my way towards the Creamery and my salvation. Just then, my sister called back. And I told her--I told her she was too late; I had made my decision.

HOW she wailed; how she pleaded for me to stop, to rethink it all, to just let it go and move on. But I couldn't. I wouldn't. And so I walked. I got to the store and made my selection. A Crunch bar, and Snickers. But I felt silly only getting a candy bar--how they would whisper about me!--so I bought a muffin mix as well.

AS I walked out of the store and ripped by Crunch from the wrapper, I let it linger on my lips, letting the aroma fill my nostrils before biting into it, moaning as the chocolate glazed my tongue, as the crunch shuddered through my ears. It was bliss. It was heaven. It was the best walk home I've ever had. It was all worth it.

Tuesday, January 12, 2010

Food, Glorious Food

TONIGHT I discovered just how much I love cooking.

...the smell
of stinging onions
juicy garlic
fresh cilantro
pure virgin olive oil.
...the taste
of peppered squash
fried tomatoes
burnt butter
perfectly melted cheese

...the color
of yellow peppers on spinach
egg yolk breaking across toast
chicken turning golden brown
green enchilada sauce dotted with black olives

IT'S just all so fabulous. My roommate, though, has trouble seeing it as such. And I have quickly discovered that a love for cooking--and even for food--is not innate. As much as it horrifies, shocks, and amazes me to admit, not everyone enjoys a glorious kitchen.
My roommate does not enjoy said glorious kitchen.

THE night started as any other. I shuffled over to my kitchen cabinet, mused about what to make, was inspired by my last box of Penne, and so pulled out my chicken to make some amazing pasta. Of course, the chicken was frozen. So I did what I felt was only natural: I defrosted it in the microwave. And, as I did such, my roommate, in her familiar exclamatory tone said "You put your chicken in the microwave?!"
Um, yes. ...Doesn't everyone?

SHE shrugged, that incredulous look gleaming in her eyes. Even when I explained I was defrosting it, she stared. I asked--slowly--if she had never defrosted something. She said unapologetically, "Ya, we put it in the fridge for a couple'a days. I've never heard of puttin' it in the microwave." I was flabbergasted. And when I put said chicken in the frying pan with some oil, cilantro, cayenne, and onion powder, that look came back and she asked me--exclamatory again--what I was doing with chicken in a pan/oil. Turns out, she's only ever baked chicken--barbecued chicken--in the over. And this just wouldn't do. So my other roommates and I began to ask her what she did for food if such things were unbeknownst to her.

AS fate would have it, she gets tired of cooking, is picky in taste, and only trusts her mother's recipes. And, more horribly, her idea of ethnic foods has been tainted by Americanism.

I ask you, what has America contributed to the culinary world? Truly?
That would be Hot Dogs.
Hot Dogs--the things made from Advanced Meat Recovery
(that is the absolute leftovers of a slaughterhouse)
or Meat Slurry
(a "reconstituted meat"--liquified.)
And this is where she takes her cooking advice from.

SHE cringes at the idea of cutting an onion--"I have onion powder"--and gags at the thought of homemade bread or fresh basil. She admits that she didn't start cooking till now and, even now, she only makes tomato-juice-and-hamburger spaghetti. Or barbecue chicken. Or "taco" soup--without anything remotely mexican about it.

SIGH. When it all boiled down to it, she just said she had no interest. She was fine with her soggy cereal. Indeed, it would probably be dangerous to expect her to cook because, at random moments, she just abandons whatever she's doing/eating and runs off to do something else entirely, leaving that whatever for long periods of time. (Truly, it's gross how soggy her cereal gets--practically dissolved into the now-pukish colored milk, dripping in globs from the spoon and still she shovels it in.)

TO those who feel I'm being too harsh, rest assured that she laughs with us, well aware that her culinary skills are...lacking. Both her mother, father, and grandmother cook--randomly throwing meals together that she still talks about--but she seems unwilling to follow their footsteps. Perhaps cooking is genetic.

IN any case, I remain happy in my passionate affair with food. I love making something from little somethings. I love the tastes and textures and ideas; how you can control it but still be surprised by it. So, my roommate and I have reached a compromise: I will no longer lecture her on the merits of a kitchen if she no longer reacts randomly to what-I-thought-was-obvious things. And maybe one day, my happiness about the stove will make her curious and she will forget her soggy cereal in favor of more...flavorful endeavors.
Oh, if only.

Sunday, January 3, 2010

Hypothetically Speaking

LAURA accompanied me on my trek home....or whatever I should call Provo. Dad was driving me, mom was afraid he'd fall asleep on the way home, Laura was forced to come. But it was a blast--further proof that the best of all memories are made in cars (sarcasm).

WE played the Question game, which is just like Truth and Dare only nixing out the dare option. Only it unravelled...or the battle of the hypothetical questions. Laura hates Hypothetical-ness. And she cheats her way through situations by adding different factors or loopholes or whatever.
("I can do whatever I want;
it's all hypothetical, so I'll make up anything!
na na na na.")

BUT I thoroughly enjoyed it. Hypothetical questions are fun. They're quirky and impossible and silly--what's not to love.

FOR instance,
If your breaks no longer worked and you had to run over
either a pregnant stranger, or the dog you've had forever,
which would it be?

Would you rather be stuck in a sea of screaming
Twilight fans, or surrounded by screaming Hannah Montana

I mean, come on. Those are golden! Who doesn't like to think about things like that? The answers--they just reveal so much about you. So very much. And then, as Laura complained, you can bring up the answers you give at later times completely out of context.
("You said you'd kill a pregnant woman!"
"You like Hannah Momtana!")
IT'S basically awesome. Or at least it is hilarious. I was very entertained. So, thank you, Laura, for making me think of such awe-striking thoughts as to what I want, or what I would do. I feel like I know myself better. And I know you, Laura, so much better to.
Twilight lover/murderer, you.

/evil laugh.