Football

Here we are at LaVell Edward's Stadium in Provo, Utah, September 13, 2008. It was clear and warm—the perfect day for a football game. UCLA had come to battle against the Cougars.

And they didn't come alone. My grandma, Nanny, came all the way from California to support the Bruins. Dad and Eamers remain loyal. Mom cheered for both sides.

We tried this photo three times before letting Mom put on her shades. The strange lady looking on in the background is Nanny. ;)

Though Eamers appears to be much taller than me in this photo, I'm certain that she was standing on the bleachers.

It was an intense game. The poor Bruins struggled quite a bit.


This was the final score.

Here I am with Nanny. She took the Bruins' loss like a champ. I was sorry that she came all that way for them to be slaughtered, but I was sure glad she came. As she's told me since I was little, I love her "heart and soul and body and soul"!

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I am a major Harry Potter freak. Forgive me.

Shortcuts

I sometimes like to think that one can learn something from my experiences. I flatter myself that there is some moral to be gleaned even from the simplest details of my little life. It makes me feel better at moments when the only result I can see from my latest blunder is embarrassment.

For example, I can tell you from first-hand experience NEVER to wear flip-flops and a heavy backpack. On a rainy day.

The second week or so of school, I was still getting used to my new schedule and was running late one morning. I live farther from campus this year, so I take the bus to school every morning. Well. I had already missed the bus a couple times since the start of school and was determined not to do it again, especially in the same week. Remember the poised, sophisticated, no-nonsense university student? She's still lingering a bit. So, in my rush I grabbed my old Wal-mart flip-flops instead of my sneakers, inhaled a granola bar, and headed out the door, a satisfied bounce in my step. My apartment complex has a beautiful park setting in the center, complete with a stony creek, park benches, and shady trees, and the morning was especially beautiful. It was a little cloudy still from the rain we'd had the day before, and it was cool.

Still nervous about missing the bus, I cut through the grassy area on my way to the stop, following a well-worn dirt path that many a running-late student has taken in an effort to shave a few seconds off the walk to the street. Walking briskly, I followed the path down a slight hill. A mere two steps away, I spotted a dip in the ground where rainwater had collected, creating a miniature bog. I planted my feet, screeching to a halt, relieved that I had seen the puddle before stepping right into it.

But I was wearing old Wal-mart flip-flops with zero traction. And a thirty-plus-pound backpack. My feet proceeded immediately to fly out from underneath me, landing me flat on my back in the middle of the quagmire.

Amazingly, the first wild thought that ran through my mind was, "Get up! Get up! You're going to miss the bus!" My feet slipped beneath me as I struggled to stand, my eyes darting frantically to the street. Then the wetness—and the cold—sank in, and I looked down.

Not only was my pant leg soaked in mud up to the knee, but my left foot had slid into the mud as I fell. I had a momentary flashback of the many hours Liz and I spent playing in the mud when we were little, and how I had enjoyed squishing it between my toes. I was not enjoying it now. I remembered that I had landed on my backside, and I twisted to examine the damage.

Only now did it dawn on me. There was no way in Hades that I was going to catch the bus. Perhaps that sophisticated student wouldn't have fallen in the mud in the first place, but she most certainly would not dream of attempting to go to class in this condition. A single giggle escaped me—then I realized there might be witnesses. Still standing in the middle of a mud puddle, I almost lost my balance again as I spun about to check behind me.

Not a soul.

Now I was laughing in earnest. What luck! I squished gingerly back to my apartment and spent a few minutes laughing at myself as I stood on one foot, alone in the middle of the livingroom. I almost wished that someone had been there to see my performance.

The philosopher in me wants very badly to turn my clumsiness into a life-lesson. The simple explanation that mud, flip-flops, and a heavy back-pack make a bad combination seems lacking. Perhaps the moral here is that, in my attempt to make up for bad time-management, I took a shortcut, and ended up on my behind in a mud puddle. There are no shortcuts for poor organization.

Ha! My proverb sounds more pathetic the more I think about it. Well. If my life cannot be inspiring, it can be entertaining. Here's to the entertainers of the world! Perhaps I should have been an actor, or a comedian?

If that is the case, I am truly sorry that there was no one to witness this:

It might have done some poor depressed soul a great deal of good.

Autumn

I love this season, and one advantage to living in Utah is being able to really experience it. Before the trees explode with color and leaves begin to carpet the ground, cooler air creeps in with the breeze, as though trying to escape notice. But I always notice. That first morning when you involuntarily take a deeper breath as you venture outdoors, and the chill in the air burns your lungs—I always notice. It seems to me that a hush falls when Autumn has arrived, and something whispers..."Change is coming!"...and in that moment, I know.

And I wait eagerly for the rest to follow. I cannot resist the thrill I feel during fall. As I watch the leaves change all I can think about is hot chocolate and long scarves and spicy cider and filling soups and soft sweaters and carving pumpkins and smoking chimneys and crisp apples and pink noses. I think about how wonderfully cold wooden floors are in the early morning after emerging from a cocoon of warm blankets and soft pillows. I think about all the leaves at home that must be begging to be swept up into huge piles for hours and hours of pure delight. I think about holidays and good food, good friends and dear family.

I think about...home. I think about Dad, stubbornly setting the A/C for sixty-eight degrees and insisting, in response to our persistent whines, that we "Put on a sweater!" I think about Liz, hidden behind the sewing machine and yards and yards of fabric, creating beautiful Halloween costumes for Eamers and me. I think of Eamers, wandering around outside for no apparent reason and returning with every inch of her bright red from the cold. I think of Mom, singing along to Pirates of Penzance or King's College Choir in the kitchen.

I think of looming midterms.

And I get so homesick that nothing will do but to heat up a mug of hot chocolate and stare at the remaining days on the calendar, bouncing on the balls of my feet and drumming the side of the mug with my fingertips.

Sigh.

I Did It Again

It all started when my little sister Eamers was born. I had been the youngest in my family for almost five years, and I was so excited to have a younger sibling. I wanted a brother, but that didn't matter too much when Eamers finally came. I don't remember being jealous of all the attention that was suddenly diverted to my little sister, but she found other ways to drive me crazy. Thus the following:

When I was little I always had long, blonde hair. I remember people telling me how pretty it was, and it never occurred to me to change it. Then came Eamers. Those chubby little fingers of hers were magnetized or something, because she just could not keep them out of my hair. I remember once standing in the middle of the kitchen floor holding her, screaming because she had two fistfuls of my hair and I couldn't get her to let go without dropping her. I had the tenderest head and dreaded having my hair brushed, and Eamers always managed to find the worst places to pull. One day I marched my little five-year-old self up to my mother and insisted that she cut my hair. She was reluctant.

"But, Holly," she said, "It won't stop her from pulling your hair." I didn't realize it at the time, but her hesitancy had nothing to do with practicality. She didn't want to see my golden locks chopped off.

I wasn't convinced. "But if it's short, she won't be able to reach it," I said. "I wanna cut it. Tonight." I nagged her until she relented. She sat me down in my parents' bathroom, took out her shears, and cropped my hair to my chin.

I've never been the same since. I sometimes wonder if I have a weird disorder, like people who are addicted to plastic surgery or tattoos. I cannot keep my hair the same for very long. It has been almost every style and multiple colors. I'll grow it out, then chop it off, then grow it out only to chop it off again, sometimes without any warning at all. One day, on a whim, I'll think to myself, "Wouldn't it be fun to cut my hair?", and the next day I'm headed to the salon.

Here I am almost twelve years old. As you can see, I had grown my hair out again, almost to my waist. It took about two years, and if I hadn't been determined to donate it to Locks of Love, I would never have lasted that long.

Don't ask.

When I was fifteen I decided to get a pixie cut. I have never seen so much hair on the floor, yet I was not nervous in the slightest. I actually kept this style for a relatively long time, over a year. Then some lady at the store called me "he" and didn't correct herself.

Here I am my last year at Girls' Camp. After experimenting with highlights for a couple years I dyed my hair brown. It also decided to become curly. Go figure.

Then I tried blonde again (I feel the need to explain that I was in a photo booth with a friend. I do interesting things when I'm in a photo booth). I didn't like it very much, so...

...I cut and dyed it. This was in December. By February I cut it again...

This was just before I came to BYU last year (ugh, braces).

This was my hair in May.

This is me a couple weeks ago.

This is me now. I did it again.

The Color of Boredom

When I arrived for the second time in Utah this year, I still had a week before school started. Among others, I have a great weakness for being scatter-brained and spacey. Combining that quality with the fact that I'm a perfectionist often yields very interesting results. This year, I was determined to be organized. Add perfectionism and you get a generally ditzy person attempting to become the epitome of organization. In my imagination I pictured someone mature, sophisticated, poised—the kind of person who writes down every last thing in a little pocket calendar, always has assignments finished and turned in on time—if not early—and eats healthy, perfectly balanced lunches (think carrot sticks, yogurt, and an apple).

With a clear, sharp vision of this "wonder-me", I set off zealously to accomplish my goal. I emptied all my cardboard boxes, put my clothes away, made my bed, and organized all my things. I remember the glee I felt while buying my groceries—making sure to buy plenty of fruits and veggies—and putting each in their proper place in the kitchen. My euphoria spun to new heights as I scurried off to Ross to buy "organizing" supplies. I bought a million of those little hooks that stick to the wall, hanging closet shelves for shoes and sweaters, baskets for makeup and hair stuff, and plastic partitions to separate my socks and underwear. I even arranged my clothes by color. I must have been cackling hysterically by the time I was finished. I worked so fervently that when I finally allowed myself to sit back and relax, I realized that I had nothing left to do. Nothing at all. It was a strange and satisfying feeling that lasted for a very short period of time.

I became desperately bored. With nothing left to perfect, I quickly spiraled from the smart, refined, no-nonsense university student I imagined to something resembling a cavewoman. I spent at least an hour taking the following photos in a wretched attempt to entertain myself. I apologize if they are disturbing—nothing but acute boredom and extreme desperation could have driven me to this:

Boredom always reveals one's true colors. Part of me wonders why I would post these photos and thus subject myself to ridicule. Perhaps this is a subconscious cry for help. My psyche is obviously unstable. Or perhaps I'm posting this in the hope that not everyone will run screaming in the opposite direction. After all, it's polite to warn people when they're dealing with—ahem—someone like me. As the Pioneer Woman would say, "I'm just keepin' it real."