The Contents of My Purse

Why? Because I'm bored.

* sunglasses (Esprit brand, inherited from Roommate Shelly)
* ticket stub from Kimbell Art Museum's "The Mirror and the Mask: Portraiture in the Age of Picasso"
* iPod
* iPod earbuds (listed separately because they're not connected to the iPod itself)
* ticket stub from the Simpsons Movie
* schedule for Institute, Fall 07-08
* the novel Wuthering Heights
* tic-tacs (spearmint)
* a bottle of Aleve
* one cake of Liebenzeller Metall-Kolophonium Rosin, Gold IV
* one Tourte cello mute (one-hole)
* checkbook
* tampons (6!)
* wallet
* lotion (Bath & Body Works Pleasures: Sparkling Peach)
* two half-empty packages Eclipse Winterfrost gum
* one tube Chapstick (medicated)
* Mead Fat Lil' Notebook
* hair elastic
* house and car keys
* one pot Savex lip balm (peppermint)
* ticket stub from Aztec Theatre in San Antonio
* fortune from cookie ("Set the right example. It will inspire others.")
* card from Logan's Shoe Shop, where my wedding shoes are being dyed
* one tube Banana Boat lip balm (Aloe Vera with Vitamin E, SPF 30)
* one tube Softlips lip balm (French Vanilla)
* three black Bic pens
* two mechanical pencils
* one pen from Ryan High School ("Excellence in Action")

My Lackluster Love Life Lacks Lust . . . errrrr . . .

I'm romantically BORED. There just aren't enough men in my life right now. There is ONE male at work, who smokes and uses "sentence enhancers" liberally, and can't read or write very well. Plus, he's married and has kids . . . not exactly what I'm looking for in a man.

At church, there are a few who have piqued my interest, but I feel like all the guys in the Singles' Ward are socially awkward. At least all the ones that AREN'T engaged. Or maybe they're just completely uninterested. In me. In girls. In humankind. And they just talk about WoW all day. Or nothing at all.

Boy #1:
He's pretty much adorable. I've noticed several girls share a special interest in him, and he seems completely unaware of it. Maybe he's just playing dumb, because it's easier than rejecting the girls. Or perhaps he's gay. For the first few weeks I was here, he would talk to me, and I was always so astounded by his beauty that I couldn't think of a thing to say and just muttered stupid stuff. It's been a while since he's said anything to me. Sigh . . .

Boy #2:
Another adorable one, but in this boyish, innocent, pure way. His eyes (blue) just sparkle, and I love his smile. I NEVER see him talking to girls. Only to nerdy boys, and about nerdy boy things. We've exchanged a few words, but only when necessary. I've tried to place myself in convenient places for him to strike up a conversation, but he's never really taken the bait. It is my assessment that he's one of those nerdy boys who doesn't know that he's actually really quite attractive, and thus is really shy. I try to build guys like that up, but I don't know how to do it when I have such little contact with the boy!

Boy #3:
Much more outgoing than the first two cases, this boy is sweet, friendly, and handsome. He's got me utterly confused, though. We're friends, and we talk, and we have a good time, but is it just because he's a Nice Guy? Gah.

Essentially, I just want someone who will hold my hand, let me scratch his back, cuddle with me, and talk to me. Shouldn't be so hard, eh?

On Bra Shopping

I am currently quite depressed. In other words, I just went bra shopping.

Okay. So welcome to reality, Self. I seem somehow unable to realize that the only women I've seen in just their skivvies just happen to be lingerie models, and take it as an opportunity to beat up on myself. Let's be honest, though: I'm not one of those girls who just has body image issues because of the media, and is actually healthy and perfect the way she is. The truth is, I'm carrying quite a bit of extra weight. I'm not blaming the media for that. I'm just making the statement that it's unfair to compare myself to the lingerie models when I know that there are plenty of women who look more like me that feel pretty comfortable in their own skin. I wish I were those women.

Instead, I make myself sick with horror upon looking in the mirror. Every part of my body represents some sort of flaw, and that's hardly an exaggeration (I've just done a mental scan of my body from head to toe, and my lips came out unscathed, but everything else is subject to rejection--EVERYTHING). That's not to say that I'm unhappy with every part of my body every second of my life: sometimes, I think to myself, "My hair looks really good today," or even, "Man, I'm sexy," but mostly it ends up being stuff like, "Your cuticles are gross," or "You have ugly kneecaps," and stuff like that. I've only just realized in typing that out that usually, when I feel good about myself, I'll speak in first person. When I'm talking down to myself, I use the second person. I'm sure there is some deep psychological reason for that--something like I'm trying to distance myself from what I disapprove about myself.

I keep trying to talk myself into being friends with myself again, but I am losing the battle with myself. I keep forgetting to tell myself that I'm beautiful, etc. I wish I believed that more. Maybe if I really believed that I were beautiful, I'd convince others of the same.

Dear Yous

Dear You:

You are one of three people in the world in whom I hold complete confidence. I'm so glad we've been friends for so long, even if it started out with you throwing things at me. You're such a strong human being and I love that about you. I know it's been a rough couple of years for you (made harder by the fact that you're away from home and family), but I love seeing you grow from those experiences and become an even greater person than you already are. You can always make me smile and laugh, and you're always there for me when I cry (even if you make fun of me for it) . . . and I couldn't ask for a better friend than you. I love you, and I hope I can be there for you like you've been there for me.

Love,
Me



Dear You:

Come on, you HAVE to know that I like you. I mean, I'm sure a guy like you has plenty of experience with interested young ladies, and figuring out who exactly those may be. I think you may be vaguely interested in me, too, but I can't really tell if it's interest or just your general niceness--I always have that problem with really nice guys. Anyway, I think you're really handsome (I know you at least know that, since I told you point-blank), and basically an all-around good guy. Maybe you're out of my league, but I've always been an optimist.

Love,
Me



Dear You:

I can't believe you're getting married!! They grow up so quick. I'm glad to have had the chance to get to know you--it has always been fun to have someone who understands the way I think! It's been fun to have you in the room down the hall, across the breezeway, or halfway around the block, and randomly popping in unannounced. I love your randomness, I love your smile, I love your brain, I love your sock and sneaker collections, I love Sven, and I LOVE YOU. I wish you and your Canadian a lovely life together, and I look forward to hearing all about it!

Miss you,
Me



Dear You:

I don't think you read this, but oh well . . .
I'm so glad we were thrown together our freshman year. I've learned a lot from you and I've loved our late-night talks and 20th century compositions and all the good times. Thanks for always being on my side. Thanks for your patience with me. Thanks for letting me borrow your car, even if I almost break the door with my negligence. Thanks for being my friend and ally, thanks for listening to me, thanks for being all the wonderful and beautiful things you are. I love you.

Love,
Me



Dear You and You and You:

You did like me, right? At least for a minute? For that time we talked in the hallway for 45 minutes, or the drive to Mt. Pleasant, or playing in the snow, respectively? If I did something to screw it up, I'd like to know, because obviously I haven't figured it out in at least three tries. I don't want you to think I'm still hung up on You(s), because I'm not. I wonder a little bit what might have been if I'd done something differently, but I'm happy for You(s) and for the way things have worked out for You(s) and Her(s), even if I had to learn about it in a way other than straight from You. I think You are all pretty neat guys, so thanks anyway for being You(s).

With complacency,
Me



Dear You:

You make me just about as uncomfortable as I have ever been in my life. It's more than just awkwardness (heaven knows I've dealt with enough awkwardness to make myself immune to it): it's Extreme Awkwardness intricately interwoven with hormones, teen angst, and foul language (and, when occasion permits, alcohol). The thing is, I actually think you're a pretty sweet guy underneath it all, I just wish that the gentleman inside of you would come closer to the surface and beat up the creep that seems to be running you right now. You'll grow out of it, I think.

Love,
Me

p.s. I'm too old for you anyway.



Dear You:

I'll probably never see you again, but I think you're the sweetest guy I've ever met. My crush on you surprised even myself, and it drove me crazy because I knew I couldn't ever act on it. I know it sounds corny, but on the rare occasions that our hands would touch, or sometimes when you would just look at me with those adorable eyes, my heart would be fluttering all over the place. I feel like there isn't a mean, dirty, or impure bone in your body--you just exude goodness. I hope things work out for you, and that you find some amazing, bright, beautiful woman to marry (when you get back). And hey, if it takes a while longer, look me up. I'd jump on that.

Love,
Me



More "Dear Yous" to come? We'll see.

On "Sentence Enhancers"

Has anyone ever seen that episode of Spongebob Squarepants where Spongebob and Patrick learn about the Thirteen Words You're Never Supposed To Say? Before they learn that those are bad words, they identify them as "sentence enhancers," and employ them liberally in their daily conversation. I think my co-workers feel the same about that.

When we are in the car going from place to place, most of my co-workers enjoy using sentence enhancers for every sentence. Some are even so skilled as to use two or three in the same sentence, or to use the same sentence enhancer in two or three different parts of speech in the same sentence. I am not so adept.

It reminds me a bit of high school, and it's causing me to realize that certain of my co-workers, though much older than myself, have some tendencies which are quite immature. I would say putting the F-bomb at least once in every sentence falls into that category. It's funny. Well, not so much funny-"haha." Okay, maybe it's not funny at all.

Anyway, after having worked a full eight-hour day cleaning three houses (one of which had formerly housed 7 dogs, one of which was pretty well thrashed due to remodeling and so forth), I'm exhausted.

It was, however, delightful to have dinner with the Hartfields, whom I have not seen since . . . well, before they were "the Hartfields." Oh, such good times we used to have back at ol' Billy C.

Back to the Grindstone

Well, my two-week affair with Brahms is now over, and it's back to the mop and bucket for the rest of the summer. It was fun while it lasted.

I realized in my time at Mimir that I have spent my four years at BYU pretty uninspired, at least musically speaking. Not that I was the best player there--I wasn't--but the majority of those that were better than me (this is going to sound overly critical, so forgive me) still left me wanting more. There were very very few (in fact, I can only think of one) whose playing I found utterly convincing and inspiring. Again, it's not that I didn't look up to other musicians at BYU, because there were lots of people who did lots and lots of things better than me--it's just that there wasn't really anyone that I wanted to model myself after. Incidentally, even the soloists who came through I found to be largely uninspiring. Sure, they had chops, but I didn't feel like they were connecting with the music, or that they were making any attempt at all to connect to me.

In listening to the Mimir faculty in their concerts, I found the inspiration I'd been missing. It was glorifying to hear music played so beautifully--with impeccable technique and heartfelt expression. I want to be THAT. There's a whole other plane of musicianship that I can tap into. I feel as though my progress at BYU was only within a limited plane, but there's so much more that I (or anyone) can achieve. I think I'd forgotten that.

I have come to believe that we all have this desire to be great. Call it ambition, call it aspiration, call it what you will, but each of us wants to be something meaningful to the world. Somehow music has the ability to bring out the greatness in otherwise very ordinary people. We become a part of something bigger than just ourselves--something as big as the human experience. And it means something! It matters.

We become uncomfortable with ourselves when we are not living up to the greatness that we desire. I think that deep down inside, we all truly believe that we ARE already great, which is why it bothers us so much when we feel we are falling short of the mark. The greater we think we are, the more it irks us to be anything less than A+. Some of us have managed to build a career around fraudulent mediocrity, but we are left wondering what might have been IF we'd lived up to our potential. We could have been great. It eats us up.

It's like that quote (that I just found is not by Nelson Mandela, but instead Marianne Williamson, an American spiritual activist):

"Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond imagination. It is our light more than our darkness which scares us. We ask ourselves – who are we to be brilliant, beautiful, talented, and fabulous. But honestly, who are you to not be so?

"You are a child of God, small games do not work in this world. For those around us to feel peace, it is not example to make ourselves small. We were born to express the glory of god that lives in us. It is not in some of us, it is in all of us. While we allow our light to shine, we unconsciously give permission for others to do the same. When we liberate ourselves from our own fears, simply our presence may liberate others."

I want to give you permission to live out the greatness that you and I both know is inside of you.

"One time, at Band Camp . . . "

Yep, here I am, like a nerd, at Music Camp. Chamber music camp, to be precise. The Mimir Chamber Music Festival at TCU to be completely precise. It's interesting. I forget how to be away from home. I get bored at the dorms. It's been nice to be around people my own age for a change.

Another interesting thing is that I keep forgetting where I am. For the past few years, being "away from home" meant being 1200 miles away--here, it's shrunk to about 45 miles. When I see someone who looks like someone I know, I have to think: "Is that a Texas person or a Utah person? And where am I right now?"

We saw Transformers last night. It was about a B- film. I do have a crush on Shia LeBeouf, though. He's adorable.

This is so stream of consciousness. Let's see.

Eating out for lunch and dinner every day is making me gain back the weight that I've lost since coming home. Boo.

I wish that I were in a group of players much much much much much better than myself, rather than the group now where everyone is kind of on equal footing. I play better the better my colleagues play.

I actually kind of miss the 5th Wardians. And specifically, one or two (or three) cute boys there. IT's been hard to nurse any kind of relationship with my being all over the place and my attendance being as spotty as it is. Plus I can't figure out if the boys in question are interested or just nice (I suspect the latter, though I hope for the former).

In Other News, I miss my Utah friends. Especially the fact that . . . well, that I actually HAD FRIENDS in Utah. Sigh.