Where in the World...

Am I going? I haven't the foggiest. I'm taking guesses.

Rules:
1. 2 guesses per person—one in the US, one foreign.
2. Person with the closest guess gets a prize! I haven't decided what the prize is yet...but it won't be lame. I promise. I hate it when you've won a prize and you're all excited, wondering what it will be...and it's a hat. Or a weird poster. Or something.

Here is the link where you can find a list of the 345 possibilities: http://www.mission.net/cgi-bin/mission_index.cgi?action=show_current

Here are all the guesses so far. Be careful not to choose the same mission as someone else:

Alaska Anchorage
Australia Adelaide
Australia Melbourne
Austria Vienna
Brazil Rio de Janeiro
California San Bernadino
Canada Calgary
Cape Verde Praia
Chile Santiago North
China Hong Kong
Costa Rica San Jose
Denmark Copenhagen
France Paris
Georgia Atlanta
Germany Frankfurt
Germany Hamburg
Hawaii Honolulu
Idaho Boise
Illinois Nauvoo
Iowa Des Moines
Italy Catania
Japan Nagoya
New Hampshire Manchester
New York New York North
New York New York South
New York Rochester
New Zealand Aukland
Nigeria Enugu
Oklahoma Oklahoma City
Oregon Portland
Pennsylvania Harrisburg
Pennsylvania Pittsburgh
Philippines Cebu
Philippines Manila
Poland Warsaw
Russia Yekaterinburg
South Africa Durban
Spain Madrid
Utah Salt Lake City Temple Square
Washington Seattle
Washington Tacoma
Wisconsin Milwaukee
Zimbabwe Harare

I'm looking forward to tacking your guesses on my magnificent world map, which is currently hanging in my living room. As you can see from the list above, it's getting pretty crowded already. I shall have to take a picture when it's finished and show you. Contest ends (hopefully) somewhere in the next few weeks.

Good luck!

P.S. I'm from Texas, so don't guess there.

Summer of the Monkeys

It's summer. Spring did just that and has sprung right past me. But I can tell you it looked and smelled beautiful. I survived the remainder of my finals, and the trees and shrubs seemed to bloom in celebration. As I descended the long staircase south of campus after my last test, the trees bending their blossomed branches in an arch over my head, I was reminded of one of my favorite fictional heroines, who would have named such a place "White Way Delight"—so fitting because it suit both the sight and the feeling of that moment. And now it's summer. Most of the blossoms are gone, to be replaced by popsicles, grilled hot dogs and thunderstorms. I am enjoying the heat and the freedom.

I'm reading a book. A real book. Not some 800-page monstrosity prescribed by a professor. I am reading a romantic, suspenseful, full-of-imagery-and-simile's, delicious piece of fiction set in the 1930's, no strings (notes, critical analyses, quizzes or tests) attached. It's beautiful. And it's called Rebecca, by Daphne du Maurier. I highly recommend it.

I have another job. In addition to my custodial job on campus, I am now crowned with the privilege of sitting on a chair for three hours, blowing a whistle and screaming at running children, all while acquiring skin cancer. That's right, yours truly is a bona fide lifeguard! It's an entertaining job, to say the least. There's something about strutting around in a bathing suit with a red rescue tube and a whistle around your neck that strikes awe into people. The polarized sun glasses probably don't help, either. It gives us a blank, emotionless stare that creeps people out.

I love it.

My very first day, there were two boys throwing each other into the air in far too shallow water. I was on roving duty, which means I walk around and give people dirty looks, so I sauntered their way, staring in their direction as they approached. Both hesitated for a moment, one ready to launch the other. When I got close enough, I simply stared, silent, and shook my head slowly, disapprovingly. With the most frightened looks on their faces, both boys stammered nonsense and swam away.

Way too much fun.

Of course I jest. Lifeguarding is not all fun and games. I am haunted by the fear that in a brief moment of distraction, I'll miss a small child's head slipping beneath the water, and in the chaos of the scores of other children screaming and thrashing about as they play, I won't notice someone drowning. That very same day, an experienced lifeguard pointed out a particularly vulnerable boy to me, warning me to keep an eye on him. I didn't see at first glance what should make him a danger case, but not ten minutes later he wandered into water too deep. His tiny little arms were stretched up over his head, he was standing as far on the tips of his toes as he could, and still the surface of the water closed over his face. The sight of his eyes looking up from under the water horrified me. I've never had such an adrenaline rush in my life. I was in the act of jumping in when a mother nearby noticed, grabbed him and handed him to me. His mother, who was on the opposite side of the pool, noticed the commotion and casualy came over to retrieve him from me. She had been chatting with another woman and was still unaware that for the past fifteen minutes, her son had been wandering further and further away.

She seemed confused when I told her that he was too small, that she needed to stay with him. "He can't touch?" she said. She had no idea that he had almost drowned.

I know too many people who want to be lifeguards because they think it's an easy way to earn money and get a tan at the same time. I now know that, if your priorities are straight, the tan comes with a hefty dose of stress (which has nothing to do with sunburn). Being responsible for people's lives is and should not be easy. But I enjoy it. I gain a great deal of satisfaction at the end of my shift knowing there were no accidents under my watch.

I once read a book called Summer of the Monkeys. It was charming, about a young boy with dreams and ambitions like most other boys. It is full of Tom Sawyer-esque adventures and hilarious skirmishes, but mostly it is about what the boy learns, and how much he grows and changes in that one summer.

I'm looking forward to the rest of the summer. There are good, memorable days ahead. I am sure that I will look back upon this summer as one with particular meaning. This is a summer of change, of growth, of big decisions and new directions. I have chosen to serve a mission. The teachings of the church I have grown up in are responsible for all the good and happiness in my life, and I have decided to take the opportunity to share what I have found, what I know, with others.

It is not an easy decision. I have made many friends here, formed bonds that I do not want to break. People will move away or marry. My nephew will be four years old—speaking in full sentences and causing all sorts of trouble. My little sister will have grown up and become completely unrecognizable. I will delay my education for at least two years and spend a year and a half among complete strangers, in a culture different from mine, possibly speaking a language I have not learned, preaching a gospel I love but do not yet perfectly know, communicating with loved ones back home only through letters. I will work harder than I have worked in my entire life, facing new challenges and difficult situations, without the comfort of knowing that my loving parents are simply a phone call away.

It is not an easy decision, but it is a good one. I will grow up. I will be wiser and stronger for this experience, more confident in my own abilities and judgment. I will be better equipped to choose and direct the path of my life, to make difficult decisions and stick to them, no matter the cost. I will see another part of the world and open myself up to new, unique experiences and ideas. I will learn to love perfect stangers for the simple fact that they exist. I will share a knowledge that has so molded and defined me with others who need it, and experience the joy that only sharing something so sacred brings. My family, who have blessed me in so many ways, will in turn be blessed for my service. Despite all the doubts and fears thrown my way, I know that this is something I need. Everything I'm leaving behind, all the sacrifices I'll be required to make, will be for my good.

So I begin this summer with gratitude, and excitement, and that strange feeling you get when you know you're doing something for the last time, when you feel the significance of every thing and every person around you. You cherish everything so much more, and there seems to be so little time. The summer will pass so quickly, but I know it will be a good one.

The End is Near...

I'm not dead. I'm just a college student.

And the semester is almost over. I took my first final today, have another at 7 am tomorrow morning (gritting teeth), and two more Tuesday.

I think the weather is schizophrenic. We'll be granted a couple glorious days of sunshine and warm temperatures, then—WHOOMP. Five inches of snow. As I leaned against the wind that sent stinging snowflakes into my face the other day, bundled up in a sweater, coat, scarf, beanie and boots, I thought it strange that under my sweater was a sunburn I procured while laying out in the sun for an hour on Sunday, in shorts and a t-shirt. The weather is schizophrenic, bipolar, or a murderous psychopath, or all of the above. The white Y on the mountain looks like it's playing peek-a-boo. Now you see me...*snow*...now you don't!

Time to memorize some German verbs and their nominative, accusative, dative, and genitive conjugations, as well as every grammar concept we've been taught all semester.

Beten Sie für mich!
(Pray for me!)

Vehicular Woes

Of all the areas in which my scatter-brainedness could choose to manifest itself, the area relating to cars and all things mechanical has to be one of the most trying and inconvenient—and, in hindsight, the most entertaining.

Take, for example, this clip, which I recorded a little less than a year ago, when I first embarked on this scholarly adventure—and also when I first encountered snow.



Needless to say, I now own a state-of-the-art dual ice scraper and brush, which occupies a permanent spot on the floor of the passenger side of my car. I don't worry too much about the passenger whose feet might occupy that spot. First of all, I am rarely solicited for rides, as my Chevy Metro is not large enough to carry a lot of people.

The other reason that I don't often give rides is the result of yet another of my frequently embarrassing shenanigans. In April of last year, as I was preparing to head home to Texas for the summer, I had found a storage facility where I could leave my car until I returned in the fall. At my mother's recommendation, I planned one morning to drive to the facility and "check it out". Of course I gave myself too little time to travel to, find, and inspect the warehouse before returning to my apartment to finish packing, complete last-minute cleaning checks, and take my last final before a shuttle came to deliver me to the airport.

It seems that poor planning almost always yields unexpected and unprepared-for circumstances—out of spite—a concept I became extremely familiar with that morning. Though I followed the online directions I had printed out explicitly, I couldn't find the warehouse. After at least half an hour spent on a wild goose chase, determined to locate it, I could no longer ignore the clock on my dashboard. Heaving a sigh, I began to head back to Provo. But soon after that, I noticed that my tank was dangerously close to empty, so I stopped to fill up before I got back on the highway.

After refilling, and uncomfortably aware of the time, I quickly grabbed the receipt and yanked on my door handle.

It didn't open.

I yanked again.

No response.

For a minute I simply stared in disbelief at my car, and at the keys which seemed to glint mockingly at me from their resting place on the passenger seat.

Fortunately, the cashier in the station said that police officers who happen to be in the area are generally happy to help motorists such as myself for free, and quickly contacted one. He arrived within three minutes, and, with the pleasantries and gentle chastisement typical of law enforcers, tried his hand with the slim jim on the driver's door. After several minutes of bending, poking and jiggling, he had failed to unlock the door, so he tried his luck with the passenger side. Several more nail-biting minutes passed, and still the door refused to open. I was tempted to kick my car for its stubbornness, but know from experience that such a loss of temper will result only in a swollen toe.

The officer was determined, and this time pulled out a tool resembling the instrument doctors use to measure blood pressure. Using a wedge to pry the passenger side door open slightly, he slipped a large, flat, fabric square into the door and began pumping it full of air, thus forcing the door open wider and wider. Then he simply grabbed the slim jim and used it to snare the lanyard which, I was now more grateful than ever, was attached to my keys, pulling them out through the gap.

I thanked him profusely, nearly grovelling, for rescueing me from a situation that I had begun to fear would force me to miss my final. He of course admonished me to be more careful in the future in order to avoid being in this situation again, and I made all sorts of heartfelt promises.

Shortly thereafter, I discovered that, in his efforts to open the passenger side door of my car, the kind officer had jammed it. The interior lock was frozen halfway between locked and unlocked, and no amount of jiggling, prying, twisting or pleading would get it unstuck.

By this point I was so frazzled that I almost didn't care, knowing that I had many other things to worry about before I went home, and that the car would be sitting in a warehouse all summer anyway. And to this day, if ever I give someone I ride, I must use the key to open their door from the outside and let them out.

As I said, though it makes it quite awkward in the rare case that I do give someone a ride, I have since been able to make light of my mishap. It makes for an interesting conversation, anyway.

But someone must not think my life is interesting enough.

I did it again a couple weeks ago. I stopped after buying groceries to fill up on gas, had even thought against it because I wasn't sure I had the time, but I did it anyway—and once again, I turned after replacing the nozzle in its holster to find that the wind had blown my car door shut. It was locked, and my keys winked at me from the passenger seat. Again, vainly I pulled the handle again and again and again. Then, swallowing the urge to kick my car the second time, I dragged my feet inside the little station's store and told the lady at the cashier's desk of my predicament.

"There's a mechanic right next door who might help you out," she said. "His name's Paul."

So I rushed next door to find Paul. Find him I did, but he seemed hesitant after he learned my car's model. "Those cars' doors have lots of little fragile parts inside that break easily, which can jam the door," he said.

"I know, the passenger side is already jammed from the last time I did this," I blurted without thinking. He just stared at me for a moment while my face crimsoned and I inwardly cursed my big mouth.

After we had exhausted any other options (my cell phone was also locked inside the car, I had no spare key with me, and I hadn't memorize the number of any roommate who could bring one to me), he consented to help me out and followed me to my car.

Just as with the police officer, minute after minute passed while the door refused to unlock, no matter how many different sizes, shapes, and lengths of tools the mechanic used. I was beginning to worry that the door would never open, but, finally, it did. Again I showered my hero with thanks and asked if I could compensate him, but he refused to be paid. Thinking of the groceries warming in the back of my car, I thanked him again, started my engine, and sped for home, loudly scolding myself the whole way back.

I pulled into a prime parking spot right next to my building, turned off the engine, snatched my purse from the passenger seat and pulled my door handle.

Broken.

For one panicked moment I wondered if I was locked inside my own car, then had the idea to roll down the window and open the door using the outside handle. So now I have to jump through all sorts of hoops not only to get out of my own car, but to let any passengers out. When I've accumulated enough funds I'll go back to Paul and have him fix my doors as repayment.

In the mean time, perhaps I should invest in a snow shovel, too?

Beat That

83

Some friendly competition for my little sis. ;)

Kitty Returns

Behold the carnage.

Dastardly Davy

One morning Dastardly Davy slipped furtively into the northern wing of the palace, his cuddly fellow conspirator in tow, to see what mischief he could make.

Little did he know that I had discovered his cunning plan.

Mwahaha.

He quickly discovered the treasure—Em's jewelry box—and sat in a corner to count and weigh his spoils (or eat them), unaware of the danger that approached.

I jumped out from behind the curtain with a triumphant cry. "Aha!" I crowed. "You shall not escape now, for I have caught you in the act, you diminutive fiend!"

With hardly a blink at my sudden appearance, the child merely grinned.

"Why, good Lady, I know not of what you speak! I am lost, and cannot find my way. Tell me, I pray, wherein I give offense?" he said, his golden hair glowing in the afternoon sun.

I faltered for a moment, astonished by his heavenly countenance. "Surely you are not lost, nor have you come here by chance. You have stolen the treasures—I see them in your hand!" I cried, pointing at his chubby fist.

The boy turned his head and looked at me with one chocolate-brown eye and an angelic smile.

"Kind Lady," said he, "You are wise and generous. Surely you cannot suppose that I, a poor child, could be guilty of such an abominable crime! As I wandered, I heard a terrible noise, and knew at once that it must be some terrible mischief! I ran as quickly as I could, but found only these priceless jewels cast carelessly upon the ground when I arrived. Perhaps my approach frightened away the evil robbers who intended to steal these treasures! I only wish that I had come in time to catch the villains in their crime and prevent their escape."

"Oh, dear child!" I answered. "Would that you had not arrived before the brutes escaped, lest they had done you harm! Nay, for all is well. You have found the jewels, and they have not been stolen."

The boy smiled yet greater. "I knew that you were wise. Oh Lady, what shall we now do with these treasures? I am certain that, in your wisdom, you know that we cannot leave them here. What if the robbers should return for them again? I must go for help, so that we may carry away the treasures safely!"

"Oh yes!" said I. "Go quickly, good child, quickly!"

The child bowed low, the light casting golden rays across his face. "I shall not spare another moment, good Lady. Fear not for me! I shall find assistance, only be sure that you do not leave this place, save the robbers find you!"

And so Dastardly Davy, with the precious jewels still clasped in his plump hand, danced away like a cherub, leaving me besotted and blinking in the sunlight.