The Time I Lost My Cool

I don't think I'm alone in hoping that, in a high-pressure situation, I will react totally calmly and keep my cool. See someone choking? Heimlich maneuver. Bam. Saved a life. Someone is holding me at gunpoint? Use my vast crime TV knowledge to convince them through witty dialect that they don't actually want to kill me. Meet a celebrity in the grocery store? Engage in a flawless conversation, walk away with an invite to the Oscars. Accidentally light a fire in my kitchen? Smother the flames with one hand while continuing to whip egg whites with the other. NBD.

Unfortunately, I have always known that this would never be the case. I have rarely, if ever, been able to say or do something perfect and witty in the moment, and even if I do come up with something borderline clever, it usually comes out all wrong. Exhibit A.

So it was really no surprise when, after starting an oil fire in my kitchen last night, I freaked out. 

I knew the pan was hot, but I didn't realize how hot. I poured the oil into the pan, watched it settle, and then watched as it literally burst into flames. Calm and collected? HA! I immediately started jumping up and down yelling Spencer's name over and over, possibly slipping the word "fire" in between terrified shrieks. It was actually pretty similar to my reaction when I see a bigger-than-average spider, but with much more urgency. I mean, this was a fire! A real fire! It looked just like the fires started by a chef on Chopped! It was big. The flames were reaching the counter, the wooden counter! It was going to spread and we don't have a fire extinguisher! (is it legal to not have a fire extinguisher?) And Carter! Carter was right over there! How could I start a fire when Carter was in the house? And where was Spencer? Could he not hear me screaming his name? 

Although I have a clear understanding that the absolute worst thing you can do in the event of a grease/oil fire is add water, I immediately started looking for a glass to fill with water to throw on the flames. I mean, hey, you see fire, you think water. Closely followed by Stop, Drop, and Roll, but I knew that didn't apply in this situation. Luckily my husband was able to keep a much calmer head and he quickly covered the flaming pan with a cookie sheet. 

Spencer: 1; Sadie: 0

Ah well. Let us hope that, next time I send my kitchen up in flames, I will have gotten out all of my "freak out and scream" and will be able to take care of it. Or at least grab the baby and call 911 before the whole complex goes down in flames. Amirite? 

This is one of those things that only looks cool on TV or in a Japanese restaurant.
(via)

Baby Story Part II

Part I

I specifically didn't write a birth plan in the event that things didn't go as I imagined. I felt like writing out a plan for something as unpredictable as child birth would only cause extra stress if things got complicated. Despite this precaution, I still had a strong mental image of how I wanted things to go. 

18 days til due date 

I wanted to be doing something completely typical of daily life - watching a movie or making dinner - when I felt the first contraction. I wanted to tell Spencer I thought I might be going into labor, and he should pack the bags as I called the doctor. I pictured getting to the hospital and pushing and grabbing Spencer's hand for dear life. I liked to think I would be one of those women who toughed it out without an epidural, though in reality I knew I wouldn't get too far. I wanted that spiritual moment of pure joy when I first heard my baby cry and I held him against my chest. I wanted a picture of my little family sitting on the hospital bed, me looking like I had been through a war, but it wouldn't matter because I had just given birth to a beautiful baby boy. I imagined I would leave the hospital a breast feeding professional. My mental birth plan was the most typical of hollywood scenes, and though I didn't want to admit it, my heart was set on it. 

The nursery coming together. So many hours were spent on that couch imagining the little boy who would occupy that room

Things started to go awry a few days before my due date when I went in for an appointment only to be told that I was nowhere near going into labor. Not only that, but my doctor was going out of town for a week and a half and another doctor would be inducing me on the 27th (a week after my due date) if I hadn't gone into labor before then. I was so disappointed that a different doctor would be delivering my baby, and I was pretty discouraged that I was showing no signs of going into labor. My one ray of hope was knowing that my baby would be here at least by the 27th, it was the thing keeping me going. 

That was soon to change. When I came in to meet with the new doctor, he informed me that he wanted to wait until my doctor got back on the 30th to induce me. I was so discouraged. Three days may not seem like a big deal, but when you're 10 days past your due date it's just about the biggest deal in the world. I sat there in the doctor's office and cried. I was so frustrated. I was sick of being pregnant, I was sick of telling people the baby still hadn't come, I was mad that I wasn't going into labor on my own, and I just wanted to meet my baby!

As I sat there trying to get my emotions under control, I asked if I could be induced. Based on family history and the way things were going, there was no way I was going to go into labor on my own, and I figured as long as I was going to be induced in a week I might as well be induced now. The doctor was very clear in his answer: a resounding "no." With my body being so far from going into labor on its own, he told me an induction would be a sentence to a c-section. Not only that, but it was against their policy. 

I was amazed at how emotionally draining it was to go so far past my due date. Every time someone asked about my pregnancy I had to fight back tears. To add to my stress, my sisters had come to town to help with the baby, and they were scheduled to leave in a few days. I had been so dependent on the thought of having them here to help once the baby had come, the thought of trying to figure out life with a new born without help from someone who had been there before was so overwhelming.

I went in for my next appointment expecting to set up an induction date on the 30th. Instead I was told to come back and meet with my doctor on the 31st. I freaked out. I was so beyond frustrated at this point. Despite my feelings, I sat there patiently until the doctor was done speaking, and then asked if I might be able to be induced on the 31st instead. I would, after all, be 11 days overdue. Having been turned down once before, I was beyond nervous that I would be turned down again. However, after a short pause, he simply said, "sure."

On my way to have a baby!

So the night of the 30th came and we set our alarms, not fully realizing that in the morning we would be on our way to meet out little boy. 

Once we were settled into the hospital, the nurse asked about a birth plan. I told her we didn't have one, only that Spencer wanted to cut the cord and that I wanted to hold my baby as soon as I could, those were the only things I had allowed myself to count on. 

And so it began. They gave me a pill to kick-start labor. They broke my water. They gave me an epidural. They started pitocin. And that's when the complications began. Every time I had a contraction, baby's heart rate would drop significantly. It became clear that there was meconium in my water. I had developed an infection, and I was freezing cold and shaking despite running a fever. They backed off the pitocin to help with baby's heart rate, they switched to internal monitors to get better readings, they started antibiotics, they made sure there would be a NICU nurse present for the delivery, they tried adding fluid back in, they put me on oxygen, they did an ultrasound, they turned me from side to side. They tried everything they could, but baby's heart rate was still going down. 

Twenty hours later I was dilated to a 10, and my doctor was able to tell that baby's head was in the wrong position. He wasn't posterior, he was in something called Brow Presentation, the least common infant position. He had his neck craned too far back and he was set to come out forehead first, which simply wasn't going to work. She tried physically moving his head, but it was no use. After 22 hours of labor, she told me she thought it was time for a c-section. 

As the nurses explained the procedure to me, they said that a c-section typically takes 10 minutes, and then another 30 to sew mom back up. I went into a panic. 10 minutes? I wasn't ready to have a baby in 10 minutes. I don't know what I had been expecting, seeing as I was in labor, but 10 minutes seemed shockingly short and I wanted more time to prepare. I was so tired, I at least wanted to be able to sleep for a few more hours before becoming a mother. 

But it turns out things like emergency c-sections don't wait for mothers to get in one last nap. They prepped me for surgery, made sure Spencer had his scrubs, and wheeled me into the OR. 

I don't fully know how to explain how I felt. I was so tired. I was exhausted. I couldn't open my eyes for more than a few seconds, and when I did everything was so blurry. I couldn't focus on anything. I kept trying to open my eyes for a solid three seconds, or at least to bring something into focus, because I wanted to be able to focus on my baby when I saw him. 

I was also freezing. I was shaking so violently that I ached. I tried putting my tongue between my teeth to stop them from chattering and my jaw from aching, but they were going too hard I was afraid I would bite through. I was afraid that if I didn't stop shaking they wouldn't let me hold my baby, someone shaking as much as me wouldn't be able to hold onto anything. Eventually I heard the anesthesiologist state that I was "shaking like a maniac," and something needed to be done about it. They ended up putting some sort of blanket that circulated heat over the top half of my body. I tried to look to see what exactly it was, but I was too tired to concentrate on it. 

The next thing I remember is hearing the doctor say that the cord was wrapped around his neck three times. The nurses repeated this information to each other in tones of shock, and so I knew it was bad. I also knew that I couldn't hear my baby making any noise. I was so tired I wasn't even sure if he had been born yet, but I very aware of the lack of crying. 

I heard the word NICU, I heard someone speaking to Spencer, and I was vaguely aware of the fact that he was leaving. Then I sat there, being stitched up on the operating table, not fully aware of the fact that my baby had just been born and I hadn't been able to see him. 

What happened next is Spencer's story to tell. He had to watch as our pale, silent, immobile baby was rushed from the room, as he had tubes attached and cuts made, as the NICU staff worked to make him breath, to make him live. He had to come back to the OR well after the alloted 30 minutes only to find out his wife was still in surgery, that there had been complications. He had to tell the family what had happened, and then repeat it to me after I had been returned to the room. He had to wait to find out if his wife and child were going to be okay without anyone there to help him through. 

Once I had come out of surgery and was a little more lucid, they wheeled me into the NICU to see my baby boy. When Spencer pointed to him as we entered, I just started to cry. I was so overcome with emotion at seeing my son for the first time. Also, I cried because it was harder on me than I ever thought it could be. 

Before anything else, I have say how lucky we are, and that I know how lucky we are. A five day stay in the NICU is almost nothing compared to some. Our baby was not premature. We were able to hold him the same day he was born. We were so blessed in so many ways to have such a quickly-recovering baby. 

But it was still hard. It still broke my heart to see my baby for the first time from a distance, to simply hold his little foot, tell him that I loved him, and then have to leave. It was impossibly hard to be a floor away recovering from surgery, not able to go see him, and have visitors come and tell me how much they enjoyed seeing him. It was impossible to feel like his mother when the nurses knew him better than I did. It was so frustrating to finally make it out of bed, into a wheelchair, and all the way upstairs only to be too exhausted to stand up and look at him because of all the blood I had lost in surgery. It was so sad to me not to be able to breast feed. 

It was so hard. 

Meeting my baby boy for the first time

Dad holding Carter for the first time

Mom holding Carter for the first time

And it continued to be hard. Breast feeding was a challenge that brought me to tears each time I tried. Feeling connected to my baby was hard. Coming to terms with having a hard time connecting was hard. All around I had a hard time, and I felt guilty because of it.

Things went slowly. Feeding is still hard and we are still working it out. But feeling connected to my little Carter? I couldn't love him more. It took a while for it to stop feeling like I was watching someone else's baby, like I was actually the mother. But when it came, it came fast and hard, and since that moment I have known without a doubt that this is my little boy, and that I would do anything for him.

My perfect little family. I love them with all of my heart. 

Baby story part 1

I knew I was pregnant before I actually knew I was pregnant. I woke up one morning feeling queazy and stopped by a gas station on my way to work for a sprite and some pretzels. One of our kitchen workers didn't think that was a sufficient breakfast so he brought me out a bowl of biscuits and gravy. It was a nice gesture, but it made me want to throw up. It was actually a little ridiculous how terrible it made me feel. So when one of the kindergarten teachers walked by and asked what was in the bowl, I practically threw it at her and begged her to eat it before the smell of it made me sick.

And so she knew, and I also knew, that I was pregnant.

It wasn't a surprise to me really. In fact, I had already taken two pregnancy tests earlier that month but they had both been inconclusive - no positive, no negative, just blank. So when I got home that night and the little plus sign appeared I didn't really feel an emotion, just validated. I sat there staring at this piece of confirmation wondering what it meant. Did that plus sign really mean I was going to have a baby? An infant-sized, breathing, heart-beating human baby? It definitely didn't click, but at the same time, all of me knew that it was true. I knew that my life had just changed forever, that I would never think about myself first ever again, that I would always have this little boy who would hold a part of my heart. I knew he was a boy from the moment I found out he existed, I never had any doubt. Spencer knew it too. 

Spencer was on a run when I found out. I frantically searched the internet for a good way to tell him we were going to be parents, but everything was sounding a little too cheesy and/or time consuming. There was no way I could go to bed knowing there was a tiny human inside of me and not tell Spencer until I had time to work out some elaborate plan. 

After he got home one of our neighbors brought over an invitation to their little boy's first birthday party. Spencer had been in the other room, so I went in and, in the grandest of announcements, said, "Benson's having a birthday . . . and we're having a baby!"

It's difficult to describe in writing something as monumental and special as your husband's reaction to finding out he's going to be a dad. It was such a surreal time, it's possible I've never seem him as happy as he was in that moment. He will be the best dad.

My sister bought us a diaper bag and I was at work when it arrived. I was so excited about it and texted spencer asking him to tell me everything! About 15 minutes later I hadn't gotten a reply and I figured he hadn't understood how serious my request had been, but then I got this video. It is longer than this, but my phone couldn't send the whole file so this is what you get. Love that boy.

We went in for an early ultrasound two weeks later to find out how many weeks I was - 8 - and heard his little heartbeat. They pointed to the smallest little dot on the screen and told me it was my baby. I just smiled and nodded because I definitely couldn't pick out the baby shaped white blur to save my life, but they gave me a due date and a heartbeat and I was so happy I could cry. 

The next 8 weeks were full of worry. I still had all of my pregnancy symptoms, but I couldn't feel baby move and I wasn't showing yet so I just had to take it on faith between appointments that he was still alive and well. I thoughtlessly ate a spoonful of cookie dough one night and just about died of worry. I was certain I had given my baby an extra head or a failing heart. Every time someone congratulated me on my pregnancy all I could think was, "I hope he is still alive." Morbid, right? It turns out mothers worry about their babies from day one.

The first purchase we made for baby. It was before anyone knew we were expecting
and I was worried someone would see us and know!

We told our families on Christmas - 10 weeks. We gave Spencer's parents a onesie saying "I love Grandma and Grandpa" and my parents a onesie that had a July calendar with the due date circled. There were tears and congratulations and happiness all around. This little baby is surrounded by so much love and he isn't even here yet.

At our ultrasounds we have learned that he loves to move. He is always on the go kicking and punching and turning all around. I have no doubt that he already has a totally unique personality, and I am so excited to see it in person. People always say that, how they are excited to meet their baby, and I guess I never understood it until now. I'm not just meeting a stranger, I'm meeting the little person who has been with me for the past nine months. I already know him and love him, and I am so excited to see him and hold him and witness his personality in action. 

gadgiation

I'm not a big crier, but I cry at the end of things. I cry when best friends move, I cried when Jerusalem ended, I cry when I realize a phase of my life is over just as soon as it began. 

It's the nostalgia. I am its queen. I think about all of the people, places, and experiences that passed and I just can't help but cry. So many memories and I didn't even realize when they were happening. So many people come and gone and all of them changed me. So many classes, so many research papers, so much learned. So many roommates, so many laughs, so much bonding. 

And my major. My beautiful, life changing major. As Jennie said, we will always be able to use our major no matter where we end up because our major is about life. Our major is about people, families, and communities. Our major is about communication and learning how to be an influence for good. My major changed my life. 

There is no possible way to explain how much I have loved my college education. I love my campus, I love my people, I love my classes. I love remembering how hard it sometimes seemed, not just school but life in general. I remember nights where I honestly could not imagine how life was going to work itself out. I remember actually referring to my future as a black cloud and laughing at how cliche that sounded, but not knowing how else to communicate the totally unpredictable state of my life. 

I love being able to look back knowing that everything worked out. I love that I will always be able to look back at my college years and have good memories of people and places. I love the way my life has happened. I'm so excited for the next adventure.  

:)

I thought everyone hated me

I pulled out my phone yesterday morning to send a text to Spencer, but then I realized that I had sent the last nine in our conversation. Awkward. I decided to wait until he broke the chain. But as the day went on there were things I legitimately needed to tell him and he still hadn't sent me anything. I got over my pride and sent the 10th, 11th, and 12th texts in a row. Still no reply. I even told him that I had gotten a job interview knowing that he would reply with excitement, but my phone was still silent. Call me irrational, but I was a little annoyed. By the time I picked him up that night I was moody and mad that he had been ignoring my good news all day! But the first thing he said was, "have you gotten any of my texts today??"

. . . awkward. Turns out he was getting my texts and replying, they just weren't coming through.

So the next day at work my sister called, but I texted her to inform her that I couldn't answer. When she never replied, I realized that she hadn't replied to any of the texts I'd sent over the past few days. When I thought back I realized that no one who I had texted in the past 48 hours had responded. Ouch.

I did a little bit of critical thinking and realized that there might be an issue with my phone. I restarted it and proceeded to get six voicemails and about 48 texts in the next few minutes, they just kept coming!! One was from my sister asking if I could pick her up from the airport . . . my bad. I took these screenshots right after turning my phone back on, but that's only like half the texts that came flooding in.

I'm mostly posting this story for the memory of it, but also as a general apology for not responding to texts/voice mails. I know I'm not always the best at responding right away, but I'm not usually this bad! Let's forgive and forget, people. Forgive and forget.

Life is happy

• 1 • 

We went to a pet store in search of a fish and I left my heart with a canary. Canaries have always been close to my heart, my brother had them when I was growing up. The closest thing to a pet I've ever had. We ended up getting a beautiful beta, not pictured because I am in the process of making a cuter background for his aquarium. 

• 2 • 

This is how we baseball. We played in a home run derby with some people in our ward and after a while we realized that the balls weren't getting hit to our side of the field so Spence took to a lawn chair. Please note: I hit two home runs. Don't be shocked or anything I'm super athletic. 

• 3 •

We love all things caprese and these were no different. Spence loved them when the bread was baked, but I loved them when the bread was fresh. But the bottom line is that they were delicious. 

• 4 •

This semester I had a group research project. We decided to look at paternal hostility and warmth in prime time television. The process included coding 10 hours of TV, writing research papers, and presenting our findings via a poster and presentation at a conference on campus. 

• 5 • 

Thrifting, baby. Provo finally got a decent thrift store and it was Spencer's first time. We hit gold and plan to visit again and again. Encore thrift store my friends, somewhere west of university ave. on center street. Go indulge yourselves. 

• 6 •

We finally stalked down the waffle truck, it was worth everything. I got the red wonder and I'm never ever looking back. Those babies made us cry of joy with each bite. 

p.s.

We also saw Jurassic Park in 3D and died of happiness. No pictures were taken.

Finding Fatima

These pictures and their captions are stolen directly from my dad's Facebook. As some background, my parents live in Morocco. He titled the album "Finding Fatima, 1985 to 2013"

"This is Fatima Ait R'hema. I met her and her mother in the Atlas Mountains of Morocco in 1985, and later (1990) painted this picture from the photo. It has hung on our wall since. Now that we're living in Morocco again (28 years later) Gayle and I decided to see if we could find her. Armed with a framed print of the painting, we set out from Marrakech on Tuesday, March 26, 2013."

"We drove up and down the road leading to the Tizi-N'Tichka pass, me trying to find the place where I took the photo. No luck. We stopped and showed the painting to people. Still no luck. Then we saw two men standing in front of a small rock and fossil shop. They looked like they spoke French. When we showed them the picture one of them smiled and said "Fatima." His name was Ben IJJA El Houcaine. He said Fatima was from his village, which was in the valley just below his shop. He said he'd take us to her. Here he's holding Gayle's hand as we descend the trail."

"Houcaine was right. Fatima was there. She remembered me and seemed pleased to receive the picture. Here she is with her mother. Behind them is Houcaine's shop where our car is parked. We were surprised how young she still looked. We asked her how old she was and she replied that she didn't know. Houcaine told us that Berbers don't keep track. We were invited to their house for mint tea. We received some warm hugs, and Gayle told Fatima how glad she was to finally meet the girl who has been in our home for so many years. It was a great little reunion."

 "This shepherd is sharing one of our cookies with his young ram."

I included that last picture because, duh, it's awesome. 

I loved reading this story. That painting has been hanging on our wall my whole life and somehow the fact that my parents found her again makes me feel like everything is right in the world.

Bonding.

Sometimes you sit down to do homework, and you actually have a brief period of productivity. You get through half of your assignment, and you are feeling very happy with yourself.

But then your roommate comes in, and somehow pinterest ends up on your screen, and before you know it you and sitting on the couch laughing and bonding over wedding plans and dating schemes. 

My friends, sometimes bonding time is more important than homework. Life lessons. 

Though there have been many magic moments from the past hour which I could share with you, I am choosing this one.

This article was perfect. This article made us happy. I hope it can make you happy as well.

Click Here :)

First Impressions are Rarely Correct

Scene: January 4th, 2011. Salt Lake International, 4am: I'm not a morning person, and I'm not an extrovert. So meeting the 80  people I would be living with for 4 months in a foreign country at 4 in the morning was not my ideal situation. I remember feeling so awkward. It was pretty obvious looking around the security line who belonged to our group. We would make momentary eye contact, smile awkwardly, and look away in search of something else to stare at. I remember a few specific thoughts about specific people. Girl with unicorn pillow pet: awesome. Future roommate with candy canes: weird. Boy with ukelele: lady charmer. I mean, right? Bringing a ukelele on the plane to Jerusalem is like pulling out your guitar at a college party and playing Wonderwall. By the time we had boarded the plane I had forgotten about the ladies man with the uke, and I only remembered my initial impression when I saw this picture at the end of the program:

Ashley Crist Photography

He was funny. He was good with people. Our professor's five-year-old daughter was literally in love with him. Everyone was in love with Spencer.

I guess if I was going to make a recommendation, I would recommend going to Jerusalem. It's pretty cool cause you get to know people differently than in any other situation. You do everything together. Meals, school, church, study, travel, play. You see what a person is like when they first wake up, how they handle an eight hour bus ride, how they cope when they're sick on said bus ride. You ride camels together, climb mountains together, and survive overnight train rides together.

And then when you come home, you have someone who understands how much you miss it. And you guys, I really missed it. But he was always there to eat pita and nutella or watch our slideshow with me. It turns out really getting to know each other was easier without 80 other people living in the same building, and without the "rule of three" each time you left the grounds.

There were rough times, like the time he went to Brazil for a 1.5 month internship, or the time I went on a Buddhist-style "finding myself" craze and didn't have any idea what I wanted out of life. But he came back to the States, and I came back to myself, and all was good.

We avoided dances, studied, and saw the Bieber movie together. Don't judge, entertainment can be hard to find in Provo. There were comedy shows, concerts, and movies with his sisters. Sunday dinners, ice cream runs, and breakfasts left on the doorstep. Hot chocolate, Friday night activities, and lots of sleeping through movies. There were flowers, chocolates, and gifted books. There were inside jokes and shared glances. Hopes, dreams, and goals. There were carnival goldfish, attempted celebrity stalkings, and canyon drives.

There were also lots of questions. Haven't you been dating more than a year? Shouldn't you have 12 kids by now? All in good time, my friends.

We also dedicated a good amount of time to finding our favorite restaurants. What can I say, we like to eat. Most often we end up at Gloria's, where they have the best pasta ever. This past weekend we found ourselves once again in the small corner restaurant ordering our regular meals, expect Spencer who ordered the world's most disgusting drink. Our waiter even warned us; he said it tasted like bitter grapefruit meets cough syrup. It was the perfect description. But Spencer downed the stuff like a champ and we were off to a movie in the park with some friends. Turns out there was no movie, there were no friends. Instead there were some roses, and a ring :)

Turns out the boy with the uke was a little more than the typical lady charmer. Turns out he's actually pretty cool. So I guess I'll marry him on, I don't know, December 15th?

:)

These are happy days

I composed a blog post in the shower the other day. The issue is that I don't even remember the topic anymore. Shame. It was probably brilliant.

Like this one time I had a dream that I was writing a song and my actual self - not my dream self- was aware of how bomb the lyrics were, but they were gone when I woke up. I still remember they had something to do with Shakespeare, but I don't remember the full brilliance.

Usually periods of blogging absence like this mean that my life has lost its interest. It means that I am not doing anything worth writing about, that there are no events I think would interest the world.

This time it is different. This time my life has been filled with so many amazing people, places, and things that by the time my head hits the pillow at night I am out before I pull the covers up. I am learning so many things in my schooling that my mind is going one hundred miles per minute every minute of the day. The things they have been telling me for years are finally fitting together and my interest in my major has increased ten fold. I find myself devouring my readings, writing my papers mentally as I walk home, and sitting in one place for hours with only my notes for company.

The most beautiful thing is that there is always extra time after my studies. I always have a minute to laugh with my roommates and see all the people I love. I have found time to do the things I really want to do, and I love it. I am loving my life. 

In an attempt to give you some visual stimulation and mostly to record my life, here is a peak into the things I have been doing.

I sent my parents off to Africa where they will be living for the next year. What adventurers :)

After a 10% discount, I spent just shy of 1,000 dollars on textbooks.

I went down the Provo river on an inflatable mattress. More details to come on this one. It's a story worth knowing.

Pinterest food. I'm no food photographer, but trust me when I say this stuff was awesome

Football. Try not to have a heart attack when I tell you I've been to both games.

Jennie and I finally got our room put together and feeling like home

This has become my second home inside of my home.

This guy. I've been spending copious amounts of time with this guy.

Now go do something that makes you happy, and then tell me about it in the comments :)

Breaking and Entering

When signing a contract for a 1st floor apartment my first thought was how much easier getting groceries from the car to the house would be. Like, exponentially. Also, my walk home from campus would seem so much shorter. You guys, sometimes by the end of the day three flights of stairs can make a really big difference. As the paranoid crime obsessed person that I am, it also crossed my mind that a 1st floor apartment might be easier to break into. I let it slide. 

But when we came home from church today that last concern was totally validated. Don't worry, no creepers broke in when we were out, but we broke in when we got back. In the haste to get out the door in the morning we managed to forget a house key. After the short moment of despair that followed this realization, we made our way to the windows where Taylor and I worked the screen until we managed to pop it out. Success.

Is this some safety thing I shouldn't be sharing on the world wide web? Probably. It's fine. We have since then locked our windows and the most valuable thing in our apartment is the microwave that only heats up 3/4th of your food. So really we're not too concerned.

We are so happy to be pulling a Jack Bauer move.
Cause the coolest thing Jack Bauer ever did was break into a first level apartment.  

I wouldn't fully recommend doing this is a dress. I would recommend having a cinderblock close on hand.

Burn Out?

I feel like I am surrounded by people with great ambitions and an excess of work ethic. I've been sitting by watching as Bronwyn got a job, Jennie started earning money for Jerusalem, Sierra started her own fundraiser for the Aurora victims, Riley started a company, and Hillary began training for her third half-marathon. Me? I haven't done a thing. So to make myself feel better about it  I've decided to share the details with the world.

• I haven't finished Kristi's blog design mock-up. Kristi, I'm sorry, I have no legitimate excuse. I promise I'm working on it, it's just my creative abilities are struggling on account of I have zero motivation to do anything. 

• I haven't started writing the paper that's due tomorrow. Let's be honest, there is nothing new here.

• I haven't moved even half of my crap downstairs. With my parents moving to Morocco and all, my sister + her family is moving into the house. She's talking reign over the main and upper floors, which means I'm moving to the basement. All I have to do is get all of my stuff outta my room and into the new room downstairs. Each time I start moving I become overwhelmed with how much stuff I've managed to accumulate over 14 years of having the same room and I quit, convincing myself that there is still time before Saturday. 

• I haven't done my laundry. I still have plenty of respectable clothing items, but all of my favorites have been worn and I've been contemplating washing them for like a week now. 

• I haven't made my way down to the store to restock on makeup. If you've wondered what's happened to my face lately, wonder no more.

• I haven't seen Batman. I know, I'm the only one.

In contrast, here is a list of things I've have accomplished as of late:

• I have started watching and have successfully become addicted to the show White Collar. I get my crime fix without totally freaking myself out.

• I have found printables for my apartment walls in the fall. I have saved them all to a folder on my desktop.

• I have researched the process of backpacking through Europe.

• I have daydreamed about backpacking through Europe and the epic blog redesign that would come along with the trip. 

• I have started pinning fall wardrobe inspiration. 

• I have found and bookmarked a number of furniture items that I have almost successfully convinced myself are reasonable investments.  

Mostly I've been sitting here wondering how everyone is doing such epic stuff. Can I attribute my lack-of-motivation to burn-out? Anyone else feeling utterly unproductive?

I am not a tree. Got it.

Oh, hey. Hey there.

I just wanted to let you know that I have a midterm coming up. In other words, I just wanted to let you know that you have a bunch of random tutorials to look forward to.

I also have an assignment due on Thursday. It's a pretty big one. You wanna know the worst part? I don't like this class. I borderline hate this class. My professor is legit and it's whatever, but the material is just . . . blagh. I don't know how to pronounce that so take it as you will.

The thing is, I don't think I'm interested in my major anymore. I think I needed my major, and I think I have learned what I came to learn. And now I want to cry each time I think of going to this class, or going to the classes I am signed up for in the fall. 

That's not normal, right? You shouldn't want to cry at the thought of your major? Then I picture my life after graduation. You guys, I do not want to do what my major does. 

The thing is, I think I know what I want. I have been playing with an idea for over a year now, but lately it seems to be screaming at me.

I would have to take a bunch of pre-req classes, and then I would have to apply, and then it would take me two more years. I am a senior you guys. I've been here for a long time. And this is all if I even got accepted. gaaaaaaaaah someone guide my life for me. 

Wouldn't it be worth it though? In ten years I don't really see myself saying "Wow, I'm so glad I didn't spend two extra years in college so that I could do something I was interested in." I picture more of a "Heh, wouldn't it be horrible if I hadn't changed my major last minute and I was stuck in a 9-5 job that made me want to pull my hair out one piece at time? Yeah." 

What I really want to do is take a semester off and go move with my family to Morocco or the Caribbean or even just backpack through Europe and cut all my hair off in the process of "finding myself." I think this could also be classified as running from my fears.

I just want to know what will make me happy five years down the road. And what will not make me want to cry at the thought of class.