Wednesday, August 31, 2011

If I only had a nerve

Rumors have flown; word has been passed, the Help is a phenomenal book. I have always loved reading and can do it with unmatched speed, but I plowed through this gem in one day, resulting in complete happiness and a case of heat stroke (curse you fair skin and unrelenting sunshine). Well, last night I went to see the movie last night with my sister and her lady friends. Whenever a beloved book is transformed for the Silver Screen, those involved with the production always run the risk of severe scrutiny and even disgust and disappoint at what they've done. Let's be honest, most movies can't even hold a candle to the brilliance of their predecessor novels. I felt fear that The Help would fall into that category. Friends, be not afraid! The movie was remarkable. The plot never lagged, the accents were thick and believable and it portrayed the best parts of the book flawlessly.

Alright kids, now that I have done my duty as a fan, let me delve into what I have really been thinking about. The book and movie focus so much on courage and I started wondering, "Do I have courage?" What does it mean to be courageous especially in our world today? I'm not going to go join the Army and fight for our freedom with a gun in one hand and the bible in the other. I've never been one to march in strikes for animal rights and other "moral" wrongs. You won't find me petitioning for social changes or fighting against politicians so what can I do? What do I want to do?

Tell me, friends. What do you wish you had the courage to do? If you could make a change what would it be?

Look at me. I will never pass for a perfect bride... or a perfect daughter

Writer- a person who commits their thoughts, feelings, ideas, etc. to writing.

According to this, we are all, by definition writers. Each and every insignificant post about dating, school, food, shoes, etc. defines us as such, but what does it really mean to "commit." What does it mean to be a writer?
I have always believed I had captured the essence of truly writing. I have myriads of files on my computer that contain words that have flown freely in moments of divine inspiration. I have written about love, anger, frustration, work and even my hair, but when it comes to letting you in, letting the blogging world in, I am at impasse. Perhaps I am doing something wrong. Maybe I lack the honest glimpses into my life that so many others willingly share. There's even a chance that my life is just too dull to be entertaining to anyone but myself. Either way, I find myself eagerly pressing the "NEW POST" button only to sit starring in anxious uncertainty about what to write. How do you share your soul with people you don't even know? Where is the line of too personal and how do you know when it's been crossed? I lack the patience to edit every photo I take and to be frank I lack to desire to take very many pictures. Does this minute character flaw mean no one cares to read what I write? Do I need to turn up the sarcasm and turn down the sincerity? Do I need more sincerity and fewer silly stories? Are people interested in the silly stories and not the journal entries? Who am I blogging for after all?
It would be a blatant lie if I were to say I don't yearn for followers. It's possible that I am a self conscious weasel seeking approval and popularity by the number of people that blog stalk me, but mostly I just want to have that 'blog connection' with others. I love when people leave comments. I feel victorious when someone says, "I was reading your blog..." and I am encompassed by pride when I see someone new has discovered these Chronicles. Is that wrong? Am I writing for myself anymore? I really don't know. I don't know what to change if anything and I don't know if I can. For now I will continue to commit my innermost thoughts to my personal journals. Someday that might change. Someday I might write something without fear of offence or ridicule. "Offence and ridicule" maybe that's the problem.
I think I'm afraid. I'm afraid to become translucent. I am terrified that people will see who I am, the person that lies behind the smile and big hair, and they won't like her. I don't trust the people I associate with enough to tell them the stories that lie in the hidden caverns of my heart, so why would I let a group of people I hardly know in on my secrets? Am I in the wrong?

What does it take to be a writer?

Sunday, August 28, 2011

What would you do for a Klondike Bar?


For some reason

unbeknownst to me,

I am not capable of

coming up with a

clever and yet

applicable title for

my posts.

Therefore, I have

decided that from

now on until

I become bored,

I will just name

each post after





happens to be

going through

my mind

at that time.

Prepare yourselves.

This is bound to be



Blogger hates me


freaking won't let


publish this

without a million


between lines.


Monday, August 22, 2011

Day(te) 2- Enchanted

Sorry it has taken me so long to get back to you. Life is crazy. Plain and simply, being a full time employee, part time student, and more than an occasional participant in a little thing called dating takes its toll on my time. Isn't it wild how things happen?


July 15th rolled around and it ended up being the most magical day of Cami's life. You see, she has a deep, unrelenting, and almost obsessive love for Harry Potter. Sharing a birthday with the biggest phenomena to sweep the free world inevitably dictates that you will have a near blazing passion for it. Plans had been made to embark on a five hour adventure that would entail her and four friends dressing up in the most complete homemade Harry Potter costumes that they could throw together and sitting in a congested parking lot for five hours just to be among the first to see the final installment of the film franchise. Cami was ecstatic. Her week had gone by in a blur as she tried to decipher her feelings for Seth. Did he have feelings for her or had things simply happened in situation of heightened emotion? She had tried texting him after Saturday, but the conversations felt forced and she quickly gave up on it. Before she had relented into the idea that nothing more would come from their friendship, she had discussed the third Chronicles of Narnia with him and made unofficial plans to see it together that weekend. She needed to get that boy out of her head. Nothing says, “I’m desperately trying not to think of a certain someone,” like spending a fun filled evening checking your phone. Needless to say, he was under her skin.

Harry Potter at 12:15 on the 15th and Cami sat with bated breath. Her childhood was escaping her grasp and all she could do was watch it unfold with vacillating apprehension. Little did she know that today she would lose more than adolescent fascinations and innocent fantasies; this was the beginning of charms and enchantments of the Muggle sort. The movie provided the distraction she was seeking, but with only four hours of sleep and a full day of work to go she spent the rest of the day in varied stages of sleep deprivation. She was exhausted. Mentally, she couldn’t focus on her work; emotionally, she still felt confused and more recently disappointed; and physically she couldn’t keep her eyes open or her yawns contained. That’s why she didn’t know what to do when she received a text from the boy. He asked if she still wanted to watch Narnia with him that night and she asked if someone would give her CPR. She was appalled. She had thought he had forgotten, but he told her he could never forget something like that (cue the butterflies) and so plans were made for date number two.

Anxiety; sheer, all consuming anxiety was what Cami felt as she waited for him to pick her up. Would things be awkward now? Would he hold her hand again? Did she want him to? How did things get so complicated? Cami took a breath that started at her toes and answered the door. Thus it had begun.

The drive went effortlessly. Forty five minutes of chatting about nothing and everything flew by and we were suddenly at his house. Introductions were needed and then the upstairs den beckoned us and we answered with enthusiasm. She chose the best seat in the house and before she could even make herself comfortable Seth's arm was around her. Don't ask what the movie was about because she was too distracted by his hands in hers. Before she knew it, the credits had started to roll and they had embarked on an adventure of their own. They like to call this adventure a bonafide DTR. Words were exchanged and a decision was made. He would be leaving to study abroad in a month, but he wanted to try things out anyway. She didn't want anything serious and really liked him. It was official. She could have drifted home by how light she felt. Home. With the impact of a ten pound hammer, she realized she was supposed to be home by midnight. Call her Cinderella, but she had a curfew to keep to. She checked her phone and saw it was ten after 12; she was already late. Cami stood in a flurry and grabbed her bag to go but as she turned Seth stood in front of her. He was close. She was unprepared. He grabbed her tight and softly whispered, "I guess if I'm the first boy you've ever held hands with that means I'm going to be the first boy you ever kiss." Then it happened.

In movies first kisses are made out to be all the bells and whistles. Magic fills the air and the world stops as two become one. Perhaps Cami is naive, but that isn't exactly how it works; it was almost better. She was taken so off guard as he kissed her that her eyes were open and her arms to her side. In her head she screamed, "STOP!" but only because she didn't know what else to do. Everything she had ever heard about kissing rushed through her mind and she closed her eyes and embraced the moment. In an unexpected moment of cliche impulse her foot popped. It was like Princess Diaries. Then she remembered how severely she dislikes that movie and firmly planted her foot back on the ground. She focused on the moment. The kiss was sweet. It wasn't long but it was done with intent and she was proud to call it her first. It had a pinch of comedy, a heap of magic, and a pound of wonderful and created the most enchanting day of her life.

Thursday, August 18, 2011


F- freaked out
I- insecure
N- neurotic
E- emotional

Thank you The Italian Job for giving us life's most accurate pneumonic device.

Tuesday, August 16, 2011

You Again

I thought about you again today. Maybe it's because I just got out of my first relationship or that this time last year our friendship reached new heights, but I can't get you out of my mind. I looked through my journal tonight and read about the first time I realized I liked you and how afraid I was because of the age (and height) difference. I wasn't supposed to fall for someone like you. It wasn't practical. I guess nothing about us has been. I'm the girl whose heart was guarded by high walls and even higher hopes. I was a tease. Flirting was an art I had mastered, but the instant I saw a boy look at me with more than friendship in his eyes I played the "friends" card with a steely smile and cool charisma. I was well rehearsed. You were the popular guy and everyone loved you. You were confident and smooth with enough goofiness to get away with any visible quirks. You were the guy every girl wanted and I was the girl that didn't want any guy.
Before I knew it, I was in love. I was in love with the look people gave me when we were together; that look of envy that I was "that girl." I was in love with being the lucky one. I was in love with the way you would surprise me with a compliment in the middle of our conversation. I was in love with how you loved your family more than friends, and the church more than your family. I was in love with how you would sing loud even if it wasn't right. I was in love that you embodied the love of Christ. I was in love with the way people knew it. I was in love with your Justin Bieber hair. I was in love with your mom. I was in love with our potential, but I wasn't in love with you. I was in love with the idea of you.

I admire you. I adore you. I just don't love you. Perhaps I'm too young, but mostly I think I am too afraid.
Did you know that you're the only boy I have ever cried over? It wasn't because you broke my heart, though, it's because you thawed it. I wasn't as afraid of love as I was loss. I didn't want to lose what we had. I could tell you anything and I just honestly wanted you to be happy. You let me be whoever I wanted to be and you loved me for it. I was never too loud or too silly; I was just Cami. You evened me out, without making me dull. I was never embarrassed or uncomfortable around you and then I just left. I had to go. People grow up and move out, but I didn't want to move on. I was scared. I was scared you would forget about me, but mostly I was afraid you wouldn't forget me and I would forget you. I was terrified I would just look back on us as a bright spot in my past. I didn't want to lose us. I didn't want stop our late night chats when I was beyond sanity. It frightened me that perhaps you would find someone to fill that spot in your life after I had moved on. I didn't want to be replaceable. I didn't want to replace you either. I wanted to pause.

It's August 28th and it's our last date. You have planned a date more elegant than anything I had been on before and it would be just the two of us. I wore perfume and a skirt. I curled my hair because you told me you liked it like that. My nephew told me I looked like a princess and you told me he was right. We took pictures in a photo booth and wore fake mustaches. I was giddy. We sang loudly in the car and danced like mad at red lights. We discussed adult topics at an adult restaurant. I laughed too loud making everyone stare, but it made you laugh harder. We went to a party afterwards and danced under the stars. When you dropped me off we talked for so long that your mom called to make sure everything was okay. We didn't know how to say goodbye so we just laid on the grass and starred at the stars. I thought you might hold my hand. I wouldn't have objected. I felt alive. The ice around my heart thinned a little.

The next day I bawled during church. I couldn't even sing the final hymn. I ran out of tears. My bones felt fatigued. I couldn't talk without a sob escaping my lips. My heart was still intact, but my dreams seemed but distant smoke.
I blame you for keeping me from dating that first semester. How could any guy compare when I had experienced someone so close to perfect? The few dates I went on were disappointments and I acted uninterested to potential candidates. Other guys could tell that there was another guy. They didn't know that our friendship was dwindling, though. You and I continued to talk, but the space between calls became more prominent and our conversations more distant and cliche. Eventually you stopped replying to my texts. That was during the black part of my semester. Everything seemed to be falling apart and you weren't even there for me.

Don't feel guilty. I don't want you to feel bad because that wasn't your fault, it was just fate.

I needed to let go. I learned to rely on my roommate and lost myself in schoolwork. Some friends from one of my classes began to take me to parties with them and I got into more of the social scene. Then you made a reappearance. It was my second semester and I was in a marriage prep class. I know, I know, and not even I know why I signed up for it. I guess peer pressure got to me. I had to write a paper on the qualities of someone I had dated and you were the closest thing. I cried. I cried because I had left. I cried because you had moved on. I cried because you were the closest thing I had to even the most basic level of love and I hadn't talked to you in months. I cried because I couldn't help but wonder.
February was a month of change. I changed my major to Nursing. I made some changes in my personal life. I drove down to Utah to see you. That's when it finally happened. After almost a year and a half of butterflies and a blockaded heart I was over you. When I saw you it was different. I was different. You were different. I felt free. So why am I thinking about you?


Tuesday, August 9, 2011


Remember when you were five and your mom gave you that awful haircut with the bangs that started at the middle of your head and ended an inch above your eyebrow? We've all been there. As much fun as those baby's were, there came a time in every little girl's life where they grew out their hair and became decidedly more grown up. I never reached that time. Mind you, there was a brief space of time in 7th grade where I decided doing my hair all together would be far too demanding and I slowly grew to resemble Shaun White. Thankfully fate stepped in and ended the au naturale phase, a shame really. With a few swift strokes of the scissors, I found myself with a new hairdo and attitude, both of which were a bit fiesty. At that point I started over. I got sweepy side bangs that I stuck with until my Gilmore Girls phase. I think the wispy, straight across bangs lasted a week. Old habits die hard, I guess.For a year or so I was content with my sweepy bangs. They were unique to me and I had taught them to obey, but college was fast approaching and I needed a change. I had been growing my hair out since the time I chopped in seventh grade so I didn't want to cut it again. Thus, the Zooey Deschanel bangs were born.

They were unique. They were indie. They were AWFUL. My bangs suddenly became impossibly thick. For the first time in my life the straightener and my forehead came into contact and it wasn't a happy meeting. I knew I needed to make a change. I knew that the bangs weren't working, but I so did not want to grow them out and endure months of being hidden behind a veil of bangage. Unfortunately, the worst has happened.
Even Batman doesn't know how to help.

Advice anyone?

Wednesday, August 3, 2011

Embrace it

Fact: people like wierd people

Fact: i'm wierd

Fact: sometimes I try to hide it

Fact: Once upon a time I went to a magical land called Rexburg and I decided that I needed to "tone myself down" a little. Now I'm not talking about hitting up the gym and getting a rockin' body, although I do, I mean that I felt the need to become... normal. I wanted to be that person that had something to say but not everything to say and I ended up having nothing to say and let's just say it wasn't fun. The truth of the matter is this- people that are quirky, strange, even odd are fun to be around. It's an adventure. You never know what to expect or what topic your conversation will land on. Quite frankly I've realized that if someone thinks that my obsession with Harry Potter and my random moments of meowing or my fascination with the word 'poo' is offensive or absurd, that really is not something I need to lose sleep over. I'm weird. I like wierd things. I do weird things. I say weird things. I have spunk and I have sass and I don't need to tone it down because that is who I am. Think of how boring life would be if we all sat around and talked about politics and global warming. Think of how dull the world would appear if we didn't have Lady Gaga and Pablo Picasso. Life is colorful and so is each and every person on this earth. Don't change to fit in. After all, who decided what normal is anyway? Be who you are and love it.

Fact: number one most important lesson learned from Freshman year? Embrace it.

Fact: I'm putting the soapbox away now.