{Literary Thursday} Robert Louis Stevenson

       If you've followed me, you may know that the first book I actually read and enjoyed this summer was Treasure Island by Robert Louis Stevenson. The author has enormous power to captivate and maintain the attention of any audience. With a fast pace that doesn't forgo any details, I marvel at his ability to make complex things easier to understand. The novel, written from a young boy's perspective, reveals to us the vicious, greedy, volatile world of cutthroat pirates hunting for legendary treasure. Trust me. If I can find true delight in such a grimy subject, so can you. Please! Go read it.
       For those of you who don't know, my great grandpa Bill passed away early Monday morning. It was expected and prepared for, and I was able to say goodbye to him. Though this did alleviate many of my previous unsureties about death and all that it entails, it didn't necessarily mean the past few days haven't been rough. We began planning his burial and memorial that day, and coordinating a thousand schedules to meet one vital deadline is next to impossible. I can only say that God has granted us many miracles, and I could not be grateful enough.
       On Tuesday, I accompanied my great grandmother (his wife) Shirley and my grandmother Mary to the cemetery in San Diego where Grandpa is to be buried tomorrow. We spent three hours discussing the service with an impeccably dressed ("snazzy" is the best word I can conjure for his appearance) funeral director, who helped us fine tune all the details. Grandma Shirley picked out one of the program templates for the memorial service, and as I reviewed it I discovered a beautiful poem, "The Swing," printed on the back that had been selected by the family of another deceased. To my surprise, it was by the very same Robert Louis Stevenson whose writing style I fell in love with months ago.

       How do you like to go up in a swing,
       Up in the air so blue?
       Oh, I do think it the pleasantest thing
       Ever a child can do!

       Up in the air and over the wall,
       Till I can see so wide,
       River and trees and cattle and all
       Over the countryside--

       Till I look down on the garden green,
       Down on the roof so brown--
       Up in the air I go flying again,
       Up in the air and down!

       I found it quite lovely.

       It is a strange and unique phase, that of dying. While some may watch it happen daily, as those who pursue the hospice profession do, most of the world may deal with the death of a loved one very few times throughout their life. Even then, unless the person is immediately related to you, it's unlikely that you will have much involvement in their transition from life to death. What a rare opportunity it is to experience such a thing firsthand, especially as a youngster like me.

       Three months ago, I was going absolutely out of my mind for lack of plans after my high school graduation. Countless nights and half my spring break was spent stewing and fretting over the next chapter of my life. I've always been obsessive about having everything planned, organized, and prepared for in advance, and here I sat, with no view of the horizon. If you're like me, you know that it was the cruelest of nightmares. One evening as I drove with my mother, the Great Wise One, I was rehashing all my silly fears to her and suddenly she stopped me and asked me what I wanted to do right at that moment. I looked incredulously at her and blurted that I just wanted to go to California. And so, it was. This has been a brief but necessary and wonderful calling.

       My grandfather was already far downhill by the time I arrived, but I had a multitude of pleasant and in-depth conversations with him throughout the two months we spent together. I have learned so many lessons about faith, patience, humility, charity, empathy, forgiveness, and love since I've been here. My great grandparents are a shining example of what it truly means to honor the covenants made within a marriage, and I have no doubt their bond is an eternal one. I've learned to trust the Lord to give me guidance even when I feel completely insufficient to make big decisions for myself or for those I've been assigned to look after. He has not failed me.

       The most immense blessing came from watching Grandpa descend into his final hours in peace. I knew this was part of the job description before I came, and I was dreadfully concerned for my own emotional stability until I talked to one of my closest friends, who, I am grateful to say, will be in attendance at the funeral tomorrow. He reminded me that I knew exactly where my grandfather was going after he passed, and so did he. My task was simply to help him reach that point with happiness and courage. This conversation changed my viewpoint entirely, and gave me the brightest outlook possible. Grandpa Bill always knew what he was headed for, and he did not fear it. Naturally, he mentioned a few times that he was nervous, but in the end he was ready and he left on his own time. Observing his passing has given me a special memory of the past, reverence for the present, and an indescribable hope for the future. Dear friends, never forget. This is not the end.

Happy trusting.

{Beauty Tuesday} Put A Smile On Your Face

       My go-to movie whenever I have a group of friends over is Hitch. It's also the first flick I turn to when I've had an especially rough day and I'm tossing and turning at 2 A.M. I've probably watched it a solid 17 times, and the number will continue to increase all the days of my weary young life. There's no doubt in my mind that I drive people crazy when I forget to restrain myself from whispering every line along with the script, but as well as I know the film it won't ever grow tiresome. To begin the movie, Will Smith's voice narrates spot-on expertise to men who are trying to get the girl. He suggests that guys probably oughta find something other than her body or her mouth to pay attention to while she's talking, so that when she stops to ask you a question, you have a better answer than, "I like your mouth."

Brown lipstick works better than chocolate frosting.

         For those of you who have followed this little blog o' mine, you have been given an inkling of how frequently my stupid mouth is commented on. Fur Real Friends, I never even gave my pucker a second glance until one day during my junior year, an art classmate with whom I have shared a relatively tumultuous (though now rather settled) friendship waited until my boyfriend left the room and then sat back, took a good look at me, and spouted that I have "the most gorgeous lips. Every day. It's something about the lip gloss." If you aren't in tune with the various interpersonal norms generally accepted and understood in today's society, let me quickly explain why that made me squirm:

       A) I didn't know the kid very well. We were acquainted, but not to the point where I knew I could rely on him to keep his hands to himself at all times. Of course, this changed when we knew each other better and I trust him with a whole lot now, but still.

       B) He mentioned it out of the blue and made it very clear that his comment was intended to get a rise out of me.

       C) Did you notice the part where I had a boyfriend? And he waited until he was gone to tell me? Is that not ever so slightly out of the ordinary? OH boy. That kid would have really had it in store if said boyfriend had overheard.

Taken for the yearbook when I was voted
"America's Next Top Model." Um...

       In short, it was uncomfortable in every aspect. But as strange as it seemed at the time, it's turned into such a regular compliment that I've become practically accustomed to receiving it from friends of mine. Of course, I'll always be taken aback by strangers, but that's a different story. I related in July 12's "Getting Over You" that lipstick has wound itself around my heart as the best accessory a girl could have, and I'll stand by that through thick and thin. Here's why:

       A) Lips are a beautiful thing. They aid us in speaking, singing, whistling, humming, eating, drinking, smiling, and - ahem, my personal favorite - kissing. On the cheek. They deserve a party!

       B) Colors are just so nice. So nice indeed.

       C) You don't have to have duck lips to wear lipstick, dawg! My great grandmother's lips have faced the inevitably considerable thinning with age, but she never fails to swipe on her favorite cherise shade before she leaves the house. I've seen girls with incredibly full lips wearing a hue that's all too wrong for their complexion, and others with the scantiest pouts that look a hundred times better with a little bit of color. The most important part is finding the right one for you. And trust me, there is one.

       D) Wearing a coat or two of lipstick can be encouraging to young men. You weed out the honorable ones by wearing it on a first date. If he abstains from kissing you, he either gets the picture that he needs to back off or realizes you're not the type to give it all away as quick as you can. If he goes for it regardless, he doesn't give a hoot!

       Last year, I read an article in my beloved ELLE magazine detailing new sheer lipsticks on the market. The great thing about these is that they're not messy and disgusting like many versions adopted in the crazy '80s, but they still hold the iconography of that classy bullet. Lipstick just makes a girl feel like a lady! And I find nothing wrong with that.

My newest shade, Violet Frenzy. Ba-bam.

       The first real lipstick I ever bought was Maybelline's Red Revolution. I've had it for quite some time and still wear it when I need a pick-me-up. Last fall, one of my best friends, James, told me that he finds lipstick gross and attempted to convince me never to wear it again. That week, I set out to find the darkest lipstick I could find at the drugstore and settled for Revlon's Va Va Violet. No, he did not think it was funny. But that tint was the one that really made me love the stuff. Since then, I've found a shade for every mood, every outfit, every scenario. I was even there to witness the triumphant moment that my mother finally discovered her perfect wine red, a Mary Kay in Rich Fig. Oh, I was so proud.

       Girls, you needn't be fanatics. You don't even need to like it. But I would urge you to someday try and find one lipstick that makes you feel phenomenal. And present it to the outside world with confidence and courage! Heck, it could be magenta or sea foam green. Just give it a shot. Then send me a photograph of your smokin' self.

Happy smooching!

...on the cheek...

{How To} Avoid Creepers

       If you'll kindly refer back to my very first post, "Take Me Out," the other two girls that make up our terrific trio (Blaire and Kayla) never fail to find adventure. It wouldn't be a far stretch from the truth to compare us to the Three Amigos. Or the Three Musketeers. Or the Three Girls Who Are Trying to Survive a Singles Ward. That's catchy, don't you think?



What a catch!



       Our Big Date (the one that started this whole addictive blog thing) was a lot of fun, lighthearted, essentially a one-time thing, right? ...wrong. Well, I've successfully avoided getting re-hit-upon, but that stunning Blaire just can't escape it! Kayla and I were positive that Alex was going to ask our pal to elope, or at least go out again. He did hint at asking her out again, but nothing really came of it. Alas, it seems as though she struck another young man's fancy (we'll call him Roderigo for his sake). He was unbelievably persistent in his attempts to "get together" with her sometime, and although she swears - and oh, do we trust her - that she was valiant in her efforts to let him know that she is completely disinterested in him, he finally wore the poor girl down to the point where she obliged to have him tag along to a friend's party. No offense to Blaire, but I think all would agree with me when I shout, "LARGE MISTAKE, GIRLFRIEND."

       Here's what went wrong:

       1. Roderigo lives 20 minutes in the opposite direction of the party. However, he required that Blaire pick him up and transport him to the event.

       2. Roderigo was by her side the entirety of the night, giving her no room to breathe or socialize with others.
       3. Roderigo insisted repeatedly that they go off alone together, despite her firm "no" in response to each request.
       4. Roderigo required that Blaire return him to his apartment, naturally without any inclination to offer gas money or anything else in exchange.
       5. Roderigo refused to exit Blaire's car upon arrival at his destination, ignoring the texts from her mother indicating that she was already out past her curfew.
       6. Roderigo is a sneaky fiend. He asked her for a hug and instead held onto her face and planted one right on that girl's mouth! She had to push him off and tell him it was time to get out.

       Now, to the young men (and the old men, for that matter): please, please, PLEASE do not be a Roderigo! If a girl says no, it usually means no. And if she happens to be the kind where no means yes and yes means no and maybe means absolutely and buttons mean fluffy kittens, then honey, she's not worth your time. You'll just have to deal with it. Have decency and respect, and don't ever be the kind of boy who might be mentioned in a blog post like this one. Unless you're the knight in shining armor who saves the day. Who, in this case, was unfortunately not present. There's another tip. Punctuality.

       Girls, here it is. How To Avoid Creepers 101:

       1. Treat yourself with respect. This means real respect, not vanity. If you don't respect yourself, you can't expect respect from a single other human being. I think all of the following guidelines fall under this umbrella.

       2. Dress modestly and tastefully. You don't have to be wearing a pioneer dress every time you walk out your front door, but cover your body appropriately. And if you're on a date, don't wear freakin' pajamas! Gosh darn it! They always say you should leave something to the imagination. 

       3. If I might add, you should also try not to necessarily encourage too much of that imagination. This means don't use vulgar speech or foul language. If you'd like a young man to treat you like a young lady, then by all means you may as well act like a young lady.

       4. Be genuine and confident. It's not all that hard to spot a fake. And if you're insecure, go RIGHT NOW to the nearest mirror, take a deeeep breath, look yourself in the eye, and say, "I am beautiful." Because no matter what anyone in this world may tell you, you are beautiful and so worth it. My wonderful mother taught me this trick, and it has rescued me on countless occasions. Make a habit of saying it and meaning it, especially when you don't have makeup on.

       Unfortunately, you can follow all these steps to a T and still find yourself dodging crazies left and right (take, for example, our Miss Blaire). In this case, if all else fails, stand back and quickly assess the situation. Is it actually as big a deal as you're making it out to be? If not (like if he's a really nice guy, just maybe not as attractive or entertaining as you expected him to be), you may just have to sit tight and try to laugh about it until it's over and done with. If it is, however, potentially dangerous - in any way, even to your reputation or emotions - get out, immediately. The moment you feel like something bad could happen - EVEN a stupid kiss, if you don't want one - is the moment you need to retreat. And then thank your lucky stars you did! And just be cautious as a general rule of thumb. If a guy gives you a weird feeling, you aren't obligated to keep him around.

       The same goes for boys! If a girl makes you uncomfortable, give her the boot! I mean it. If I weren't compatible with someone or I freaked him out, I would most certainly want him to let me know. There's no use in holding onto people who create a toxic environment for you. Always be kind, but don't be a pushover. One of my favorite teachers always told his classes to not "mistake kindness for weakness." Some girls did just that, and it didn't turn out happily ever after.

Happy surviving!

Sequin Piano Batman

       Hello, friends! I haven't had access to a computer for a few days, and so I've decided to combine {Fashion} Friday, {Random} Saturday, and {Soulful} Sunday into one big snowball post. Therefore, I get to talk about fashion, music, and something completely irrelevant. Jeepers! What a swell day!

{Fashion}
       Growing up, I hated looking like a prissy little princess. Bows were obnoxious, frills were of the devil, and oh. Don't you even get me started on the color pink. I wanted to be cool like my brothers, to fly under the radar and worry more about riding bikes than what color my fingernails were painted. My poor mother has told me time and time again that I never let her play with my hair. When I was eight and wanted to get bangs, she made me curl my hair every day for a month before I had "earned" the opportunity to do so. To a rambunctious child it seems like torture, but looking back I feel terrible for her! A 20-something woman running a daycare center with only one daughter to call her own, not to mention fresh from a brief but successful modeling career, couldn't even do her baby girl's hair. Thank goodness my little sister Mookie actually asks to have her hair done! Hopefully she redeems my stubborn reluctance.

       Those who know me now would likely have an aneurysm before believing such a history. (Note last week's Wedding Wednesday for more details.) I'll keep it short and sweet by saying that I am, as stupid as I know it sounds, actually quite passionate about fashion. No. I'm not a Bratz doll. And they're not fashionable in the slightest. Just so we have that covered. I subscribe to too many magazines and I like to weed out the downright silly opinions from those that could, in fact, make at least an inkling of sense. Okay, so everyone is in agreement that Lady Gaga has some serious issues somewhere in her mind. But she takes risks, and I would be a liar if I didn't come clean about having tremendous respect for that. Think of fashion as the stock market: if you never take any risks, you won't ever get anywhere. But if you throw it all on the line, you could either fail miserably or soar to brand new heights. Plus, if you do fail, you can always come back. The key is resilience and determination.

       In the winter of 2009, I stumbled upon a massive sale at the Express in Salt Lake City. I've had an on and off relationship with the store since we met, and this was definitely an ON day. In the many (however rapidly emptying) clearance racks I discovered a pair of leggings that I had seen in one of their major campaign advertisements. The last pair in the entire store! I looked at the price tag. They cost $20. Now, that seems like a lot for a pair of leggings. But it's an awful lot less than the original $98 ticket. I held my breath and, with shaking hands, fumbled to find the size. It's possible that I could have passed out on the spot. Small! The very last pair, 80% off, in my size. Best. Day. Of. My. Life.

       Since that fateful evening, I have found many uses for this blessed article of clothing. I wore them to a dance party, to school (a few times, until I realized that all the boys were unknowingly staring me up and down and I felt naked. Not to mention several kids I'd never spoken two words to suddenly felt it was their right to touch my thigh), to perform in our school's version of American Idol, and to Times Square in New York on New Year's Eve. Heck, I got noticed in the fashion capital of the United States! To say that these leggings changed my life would be an understatement.

       I realized that it's okay to stand out. A good thing, even! I started shopping for what I really longed to wear, instead of what I already knew was deemed acceptable to wear. We shouldn't have to fall back on a trend or worry about looking "normal" to everybody else. Who cares? The way we choose to dress is an expression of our individualism - or lack thereof. I'm proud to say I don't lack it! And for those who are content with tossing on a t-shirt and jeans day in and day out, I'm not going to tell you it's wrong. The only thing that matters is that you're happy and comfortable with what you're wearing. I love a good pair of sweats to sleep in, but I'd flip a lid if I had to wear them during the day! Once I showed up to an Encore rehearsal in a pair of sweatpants and I literally could not dance because I didn't feel graceful in the slightest. It goes both ways! If a pair of Adidas is vital to your regular uniform, you may or may not suffer from cardiac arrest or heart failure upon donning stilettos. Focus more on how you feel than how you look. 

      

{Raaandom}

        I saw the new Batman movie last night. The theater was actually not as packed as I expected it to be, and I have to wonder if the most incredible film I've ever seen is hurting financially because of the Colorado shooting incident. My heart goes out to all those affected by the event. In truth, I was very highly on my guard! Every time there was gunfire on the screen my eyes flashed down to the front of the theater, just in case.

       Apart from that, I must have been a sight to see as I watched that glorious motion picture. I chewed my lip, covered my mouth, covered my eyes, parted my fingers warily so I could still watch, pulled my knees up to my chest, ran my fingers through my hair anxiously, rubbed my temples, cried like a baby in that my bottom lip stuck out in a frustrated little pout, ceased breathing several times, and actually came to a teetering halt on the very edge of a panic attack. Normally I fall asleep during movies (which has driven certain people to sheer madness - WHY are you not enjoying this?!), but I was entranced and hopelessly fixated throughout the entire thing. Amazing. Go see it. And if you have already, go see it again.

{Music}

       I am learning to play The Hours by Philip Glass on the piano. I don't play the piano. It is difficult, but coming. Sit back, relax, and listen to the whole thing.

   http://youtu.be/3FniHgiyaTY

{Literary Thursday} Edgar Allan Poe

       When I moved, my mother handed me down the Kindle she had ceased to use since she got an iPad for Christmas. I have thoroughly enjoyed the clever little device, as I've always loved to read but only on a really-good-book, plenty-of-time basis. And now I can get really good books quickly and have plenty of time to read them! My very first Kindle novel was Treasure Island by Robert Louis Stevenson. Of man, was I proud when I finished that thing.  Disproving my initial hesitation toward the book, I found it incredibly intriguing and satisfying. After finishing I began devouring book after book after book. To tell the truth, this is quite uncharacteristic of me!

       Today I purchased the illustrated, historical-commentary-filled complete works of Edgar Allan Poe. They weren't kidding about the complete! There are two-line unfinished poems taken from scraps of paper included in this collection. Friends, the man was a genius. I have fallen for his writing style. Trust me, the ability to write is unbelievably attractive to me.

       Also, it doesn't take an extensive period of time in my relationships for others to learn how hopelessly magnetized I am to strange and frightening things. Of course, I still get scared to death, but I tend to like it quite a bit. To make a long story short, Poe and I would have been the finest of friends. Here is my favorite among the poetry I've read today, entitled Alone.

From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were - I have not seen
As others saw - I could not bring
My passions from a common spring -
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow - I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone -
And all I lov'd - I lov'd alone -
Then - in my childhood - in the dawn
Of a most stormy life - was drawn
From ev'ry depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still -
From the torrent, or the fountain -
From the red cliff of the mountain -
From the sun that 'round me roll'd
In its autumn tint of gold -
From the lightning in the sky
As it pass'd me flying by -
From the thunder, and the storm -
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view -

Happy cloud watching!

...and luck be with you.

{Wedding Wednesday} the First

       I'm a really goofy kid. I'll always be the first to admit it, cause it defines a big part of me! But I can also be as pathetically girlish as they come. Floral prints, bows, lace, high heels, love songs, fluttery eyelashes, curled hair, puppies, brown paper packages tied up with strings, and sweet, sweet romance are all etched into my heart like the names of every boy I've had a crush on since kindergarten (there must be hundreds by now!). One distinct personification of my sugary nature is the fact that I love weddings. Everything about 'em. The dress, the flowers, the lights, the food, the dancing...and, of course, the ceremony itself.

       Having just graduated from high school and its dramadramadrama dating scene, I'm looking forward to dating with less strings attached. However, I've been seeing more and more engagement photos of kids who graduated within three short years of me! And some even belonging to my classmates! I'll be honest: it terrifies me. This girl is not ready to be a wifey, no matter how many times Grandma says it while I'm cooking dinner and cleaning the house. Sure, I'm preparing for it, but there is no way I'm getting hitched this quick. Patience, friends. Patience is a virtue.

       As averse as I am to actually tying the knot at this time in my young life, I do so much enjoy seeing how other people put together their own matrimonial events. It's supposed to be the most important day you'll ever have, so you might as well make the most of it! Now, once we've figured out the Which Man to Marry dilemma, the things I care most about (at this point, anyway) are the gown, the flowers, the cake, and the music. Is that bad? I sure hope not. Cause from now on, every fourth day of the week is Wedding Wednesday, and I'm pretty sure that's all I care to cover. One wedding a week. Sit back, relax, and delight in the fun.

       The dress: Reem Acra Spring 2012. Abstract and affectionate, this gown maintains a feminine softness while exuding cutting-edge confidence with a chill, breezy undertone. I love the red accent, but the royal crown may be a bit much. I'd go with a mid-length, single-layer veil.

       The flowers: Naturally yellow, Teddy Bear sunflowers are just so happy! And a red tint gives this bud a richer feel, instead of looking rather like a large dandelion.

       The cake: Simple and to-the-point. I would maybe add another tier on bottom and then a few of the sunflowers here or there. Red velvet with a buttercream frosting makes the most sense to me.

       The playlist: Sweet without being sappy. At one of Brittnie's ballroom performances, I observed a couple's waltz to "Faithfully" by Journey. Don't get me wrong - I'm maniacal over the song. But the cheesy routine made me crazy! So we're headed for a more laid-back vibe.

1. "Let It Be Me" by Ray LaMontagne

2. "Daughters" by John Mayer

3. "Can't Buy Me Love" by The Beatles

4. "Double Trouble" by Jack & White

5. "Look After You" by The Fray

6. "1901" by Phoenix

7. "Give Me Love" by Ed Sheeran



Happy daydreaming [OR] planning [OR] reminiscing!

{Beauty Tuesday} All My Stolen Souls

       As we discussed in an earlier post [Getting Over You], I am not a natural redhead. Despite the abnormal amount of people who ask me curiously if I am and then act as though they're so surprised (really?! Girl, I would never have guessed!), it's a total hoax. I'm an ordinary old almost strawberry blonde with unexpectedly almost brunette eyebrows and eyelashes and almost white body hair. I've got blue eyes (with yellow around the irises that makes half the American population think they're freakin' green) and a marshmallow nose and, ahem, voluptuous? lips that induce a painful and extensive claustrophobic state when chapped. Literally. My throat gets dry and I break out in a cold sweat and I shake and I ask feverishly around for ChapStick. Hence the reason why I have six hundred different kinds of "lip gunk," as my mother terms it.

       After a few weeks of careful contemplation, I resolved that the reason everyone thinks I'm a born ginger is my pale skin and relentless freckles. A day spent in the sun with minimal or (heaven forbid) no sunscreen leaves me with an uncomfortably rosy complexion and a new smattering of tiny spots all over my face, arms, fingers, and recently, knees. Thankfully, these rapidly fade to the point where often those who don't know me well - or don't look very closely - don't notice them. But more than ever since I colored my hair the sun kisses have demanded more attention.

       As a self-conscious kid, being pasty and freckley wasn't desirable in the slightest. I wanted smooth, tan, clear everything. Even later, when I found out what skin cancer was, I still wished I at least had the gossamer porcelain complexion bestowed upon models and celebrities and heck, most of the known world. It just wasn't fair! My freckles were always a burden, always something to be dealt with instead of celebrated. If I'm not mistaken, I believe the turning point was in 2009, when I saw a photograph in CosmoGirl! magazine of a stunning model with long, messy blonde hair, soft pink lips, and a lovely sprinkle of freckles across her nose. Before I knew it, I was seeing spots on faces everywhere. Glory! Glory to the sweet sunshine for making other people just like me!

For the freckle-faced, freckle-phobic, or just downright freckle haters, here's some inspiration to change your minds:



Lily Cole



Alexis Bledel



Emma Watson



Eddie Redmayne







Rashida Jones



Twiggy



Emma Stone









And, of course, everyone's favorite celebrity: me.



Yes, freckles can be beautiful. Be proud of your face! Even if you're purple. Although, that might mean you need the Heimlich maneuver. Go check on that. In the meantime...

Happy (safe) sunning!

{How To} Ruin a Lemon Pudding Pie

       Since beginning my work as a companion and caregiver for my wonderful great grandparents, I have become a significantly more accomplished chef. Of course, this wasn't a tough feat to perform, considering the fact that I prepared dinner probably seven times in my life beforehand, and six of them were for boys who I was trying to impress. Then I took to making breakfast with friends, though I think a hearty bowl of Marshmallow Mateys at sunrise is generally the best way to go about the most important meal of the day. Baking has most certainly always been the dominating striker to my culinary fancy, and I used to think I was better at creating scrumptious, rich confections than balanced meals. No, my friends. Not so. At least, not this week.

       The other night I was reveling in a telephone conversation with my best-looking friend back home (don't take it personally, guys. All my friends are ferociously attractive. This one is just really talented with magnifying glasses and binoculars) and I suddenly had the urge to make a delicious lemon pudding pie. I had a few baby pie tins on hand, and I had seen the pudding mix in the cupboard, so I grabbed some [ahem, reduced fat] graham crackers at the store and finally had the chance to put it all together. Grandma had gone to bed an hour earlier so I had to be extra quiet with the pots and pans, not to mention I was still jabbering away on the phone. Pudding is one amongst the astounding variety of food weaknesses I possess, and I really enjoy making it from a mix. Just add milk, and ta da! A gorgeous pudding cup, right at your fingertips. For some reason, the pudding gods like to play tricks on me, and my poor heart sank to find that I had to use eggs and milk and water in order to concoct this fancy schmancy lemon pudding. Here is what went wrong:

       1. I dropped an egg kersplat inside the refrigerator as I was extracting three for my recipe.
       2. I cracked the eggs too hastily and wound up with several pieces of non-retrievable shell in my mixing bowl.
       3. I DIDN'T READ THE DIRECTIONS and discovered too late that I was supposed to beat the eggs before adding them to the rest of the ingredients.
       4. I put the mix onto the stove to cook and went over to crush graham crackers. Silly old me used my fingers and before I knew it I had a carpal tunnel. Just kidding. That's dramatic. But my hands really hurt. A lot.
       5. I tried putting several graham crackers into a small Ziploc bag to crush them, and the bag broke and got graham dust all over the counter.
       6. I used WAY too much butter in one graham cracker crust and hardly any in the other. So the separate baby pie tins were both dissatisfied with their inappropriate crusts.
       7. I made too much noise and woke Grandma up. She rushed into the kitchen, hands in the air, saying, "I just heard Bill yelling, 'SHIRLEY!' " and then she witnessed her confused surroundings, dropped her arms, and went back to bed. Disclosure: Grandpa Bill is in a rest home. Six miles away. Although he can holler unbelievably loud...


What a sore disappointment.



       8. I went to stir my pudding and smelled something burning. Brown specks riddled the pretty yellow blob, and upon searching deep down I was horrified to find a thick layer of burnt pudding lining the bottom of the pan. Plusalsoguesswhatelse? The un-pre-beaten eggs hadn't meshed with the rest of the mix, so there were just big bland soft egg chunks throughout the badly tarnished pudding. Plusalsoguesswhatelse? I was supposed to be stirring it the whole time it was on the stove. Why was I blissfully unaware of this vital piece of information? I DIDN'T READ THE DIRECTIONS.

       9. I spooned the disgraceful filling generously into my crying baby pie tins. And I took a bite. That was the biggest mistake of all.

       10. Wait! Joke's on you. The worst mistake was that the best-looker was verbally present for the entire experience. He laughed and apparently truly enjoyed himself, but I know what was really going on in his head and surely what he told all  his buddies the next morning. This chick is whacked, dawg. And therefore I have just about zero chance of marrying a handsome man because I can't make a darn lemon pudding pie.



       There are now two baby pie tins glowering at me from the second shelf of the refrigerator. One contains a half-eaten mess of what could have been a beautiful thing. It is half-eaten because I secretly become a ravenous beast at night and will eat the first thing my wild eyes set their sights upon. Yes, that includes small children. And Scotch tape. And Russians. And those cute little porcelain cups that people in England like to drink their afternoon tea out of.

       The good news is, three weeks ago I pieced together an obnoxiously yummy (and healthy, to the greatest extent I could fathom) chocolate pudding pie that made me and several of its lucky beneficiaries simply swoon. And guess what? You get the secret recipe! It is only secret because it was accidental by every stretch of the imagination. I'll make it sometime soon, and at that time I'll post the key to your heart's desires. You know you want it. And hey, it's something to look forward to! Who doesn't love a chocolate pudding pie? The answer: throw pillows. And a few breeds of domestic water buffalo. And, from what I hear, an exponentially increasing portion of the Antarctic population. Other than that, you owe it to yourself and the world to make a chocolate pudding pie.

       If you feel like you just can't cook to save your life, don't despair! It will come. It may go again, but eventually it will also come back. It's alright; waves are a good thing. They mean you have friends.

       Happy baking!

P.S. I think I'm going to start a tradition of {How To} Mondays.

P.P.S. READ THE INSTRUCTIONS.

Winners and Losers

       Question for the day: Are some people born to win and others born to lose? Is it possible that one genuinely pure soul may live his entire mortal life with his face pushed into the dirt beneath the foot of another man who has never been refused? My mother brought this concept to my attention and, while I gave a fairly immediate answer that seemed to make sense, it appeared that the circumstances may always be argued in favor of either side and I've been forced to continue contemplating the idea.

       Here is roughly what Mom asked me: "Do you think that, in this earth life, there are some people who have absolutely everything they could ever ask for?" Since I'm disgustingly clever, I told her that if the person who seems to have "everything" isn't humble and grateful for what they have been blessed with, then they have nothing. If it's worth nothing, it is nothing. However, I ventured the possibility that there have been a select few individuals in the history of this world who were born into a loving, wholesome family who had plenty of money and high but attainable standards, worked hard for their own fortune as adults but found the work satisfying and fulfilling, married the right person, had a beautiful, happy family of their own, enjoyed outrageous success and flawless health, seemed to achieve every goal they ever set their minds to, and still managed to be thankful to God for giving it all to them and charitable to the less fortunate. Could that really be?

       After some strategic debate from Mother, I reevaluated my answer. No, I don't think it is possible. There must be opposition in all things. With no trial, we would know no triumph. With no sorrow, we would feel no joy. A few hours prior to the discussion with my mom, my father gave me a call and during the course of our conversation he enlightened me with a glimpse into the life of the late author Ernest Hemingway. He dealt with bipolar, or manic-depressive disorder, throughout his lifetime. This involves dramatic high and low moods (the high, manic stage and the low, depressive stage) that are ever-changing and can be nearly impossible to control, depending on the severity of the illness. When Hemingway was at a high point, he could write for days on end. He was extraordinarily focused and clear of thought. I haven't read any of his work (yet), but Dad says that Hemingway's writing is not ranting or wild or complex; on the contrary, it is simple and to-the-point. When Hemingway was diagnosed with manic depression, he underwent a series of therapeutic methods which included taking a prescribed drug that "basically doped him up so he wouldn't have such dramatic mood swings." Unfortunately, upon using this drug he found that his creativity vanished and he was not able to write the way he knew he could and should. So, he cut off the drug and the therapy and wrote some of the best work of his entire life. Until he committed suicide seven years later. There were pros and cons to the decision...

       My aim is to express that an unwavering lifelong situation, whether it be way up on Cloud Nine or deep down in the Marianas Trench, cannot truly be either happiness or misery. It would be only numbness and nothingness. The struggles we endure challenge us to progress and become closer to the perfect form of ourselves. Each valley we trudge through and each hill we conquer is a checkpoint on the journey.

       A person may be raised on tissue paper and be fed his every desire with a gleaming silver spoon, but he does not know what it means to be happy because he has no sadness to compare it to. He does not know the glory of a job well done because he has never had to work for his glory. Be grateful for hardships. They allow you to recognize and appreciate true joy.

Happy climbing!

Sea Adventurers

       While I can't pretend that I've been completely deprived of social interaction for the last five weeks, I must admit that my days and nights feel a little lonesome at times. I love my great grandparents and they are as wickedly funny as they are intriguing, but living in a senior community has given me an immense appreciation for the youngsters.

To put it lightly, I find this horrific.



       Mom, Chris, Andrew, and Mookie moseyed on out to Anaheim for a Disneyland experience this week. Of course, everybody wants a thrill, but sweaty throngs of headache-and-sneeze-ridden young families and I don't tend to make friends all too easily. Sooo, I was not in the least disappointed to sit this one out. The way I see it, all California has ever been good for is its coast. And Arnold Schwarzenegger's accent. No, not him. His accent.

      

       All my life I've had a love affair with the Pacific Ocean. Our family has flocked to the beach at least once every year since I can remember to see Grandma and Grandpa and, just as importantly, to see the ocean. During a recent trip to New York I encountered a short glimpse of the Atlantic, and unfortunately it simply didn't do the water justice. The west is really the best. There's just something about it - its dusty blue shade, its mountainous waves, its ability to be abominably beautiful even on the dreariest of days - that does my soul good.

       I have enjoyed many pleasant dreams, as well as a plethora of savage nightmares, regarding the ocean. Gillian Holloway, Ph.D. states in her publication The Complete Dream Book - a personal favorite of mine - that the ocean "is associated with the unconscious elements in life, things that are very fertile and powerfully alive but which are a bit foreign to our everyday perspective." Depending on the circumstances in which you are dreaming of the ocean, it could mean that you have been thrust into a particularly challenging situation that you're struggling to deal with (for example, if you are swept out to sea) or that you are enjoying a transition in life despite its mystery and uncertainty (if you are on a positive voyage across the ocean) or even that "you are dealing with a situation that has brought you to the edge of all that seemed certain" (if you are standing on the shore and gazing out). To be clear, I'm not into all the hocus pocus skit skat skoodle doot flip flop flee horcrux jaguar pagan worship mumbo jumbo generally associated with what some like to call "dream reading," but I hold the firm belief that many dreams are extraordinarily symbolic and often key in helping us to figure out what's going on inside our own heads. If nothing else, I would strongly recommend writing down dreams immediately upon waking up. You could learn a whole lot! Thank me later, if you please.

       That's all beside the point. The point is that Mom and Andrew came up to rescue me for the day today! We ate lunch at El Indio, AKA the best Mexican restaurant known to mankind (I literally have to close my eyes and savor the sweetness of living upon taking my first bite of beef taquito every time I visit) and then Mom dropped off me and Andrew at Torrey Pines Beach on her way to the San Diego temple. OH! Sweet mystery of life, at last I've found you. The sand. The salt. The sea. The...smell? Pah! Who cares? So worth it. So. Worth. It. We are Sea Adventurers, and we explored the exotic ocean wildlife in a maze of tidepools. Relish in our findings:

       Today was a marvelous day. Sometime soon I think I'll have a couple of those Russians down for a visit, and hey! Why not you, too? My best suggestion at this time is to book the next plane ticket to San Diego. The airlines can thank me later.

Happy sea kayaking!

B(r)others

       My big brother, Josh, is a good looking lad enlisted in the United States Army. He is currently stationed at Fort Hood, Texas, where his favorite pastimes include snowboarding and building igloos with his buddies. Josh is 20 years old and the first of my mother's biological children. I was Baby #2 - really, my father affectionately titled me such when I was born and he refused to call me Lexi - and then came William Wesley, who is now 15 years in age. It's sort of difficult to believe! Billy, named after the very Great Grandpa Bill who I am currently caring for, played primarily football from age 7 and recently stopped to pursue other activities. He's always been the most serious athlete of the family, dabbling in sport after sport after sport, and this summer he's working hard at Lagoon. The kid's a genius, but don't tell him that! In the year 2000 our baby brother Andrew came along. Though he isn't really the baby of the family anymore (that claim belongs to our stepsister, Mookie), he'll always be the precious "Squirt." There's nothing he can't do.

       Since my mother's remarriage to my grand ol' stepdad Chris (formally known to me as Christoph; not to be mistaken with "Take Me Out" boy) in 2007, I have gained 4 sisters - Erin, Haley, Paige, and Mookie - and 2 brothers, Nate and Brock. I love them all and they have each had a special impact in my life. Brock being my age and Mook being my baby sis, these two have become just as close to me as my three biological brothers. Don't worry, there will be more to come on these folks, but today I'd like to talk about the boys I grew up with and why they've turned me into me!



2 words: Future. Stud.

        When Andrew was a toddler, my favorite thing to do was lay on my parents' bed with him in my arms and watch movies. He would hold his bottle in one hand and with the other reach up and scratch his little fingers against my jaw until he fell asleep. As Andrew's grown up, it has been fascinating to watch his ever-expanding mind work magic. He is innovative, contemplative, compassionate, and spiritually connected beyond words. Andrew is a leader and a teacher, and it will always be a privilege to learn from him.



Little Billy playing for Sky View's junior league



       As my fellow middle child, Billy has learned to be diplomatic. He is quick to control himself and remarkable at finding creative ways to handle difficult situations. Apart from being athletically gifted, Bill has a knack for bringing people together. I've never talked to a kid his age who didn't tell me that Billy is hilarious. Crazy? Sometimes. But it works so well for him. Despite his social ingenuity, he's no less a fighter than a lover. Billy has the faith to stand up for what he believes in and the strength to stand for those who can't do it themselves. The power of his unfailing courage is something I can hardly hope to match one day. From Billy I am always learning how to overcome challenges and find joy in life, even in the most dire of circumstances.



       Joshy Washy didn't know how to say Lexi when he was two years old, so instead I was duly termed his "baby sexy." Mom says he wanted to carry me and help me with everything when I was an infant, and whether he still wants to or not, he continues to be my rock and protector. One of my favorite stories is the one in which Josh hung me up on the dresser drawer knob by my diaper and then told my mother that I had climbed up there and done it myself.  I remember the big green chair in our house where he sat with me on his knee and taught me to read when I was four. While Josh's natural tendency to leadership used to drive me up a wall when he would babysit, I've come to understand what a necessity and blessing it was during our childhood and is now as he impresses his higher-ups and sets a high standard for his comrades. Being the tagalong little sister, I could write a novel about the man I've been honored to observe throughout my life as he's gained experience and knowledge and shared it with me. I suppose it should be sufficient to summarize that Josh has taught me to be grateful for all that I have been given and to never, ever be afraid to stand alone.



Dad and Josh-wa at boot camp graduation, Fort Benning, GA



       They say that home is where the heart is, yes? Well, Andrew is the only one of us four kids still living in the home we all hailed from. As mentioned previously, Josh is in the Lone Star state, I'm braving the West Coast, and Billy moved down to my dad's at the beginning of the summer. I find home in many places, and particularly in these four reaches of the world. Though they may never know it for certain, each one of these valiant young men has a little piece of my heart with them wherever they may wander. I love you, my brave lions.

P.S. I believe I failed to mention that they're the coolest cats on this warm globe. And it needs to be known.



Happy family-ing!

Getting Over You

       There are certain turning points in everyone's lives that require them to take a good hard look at where they are, where they've been, and where they are going. It may be a single moment in which this occurs, or it may take place over the course of a good solid year. This past month has proved to be a significant "Whoa" period that has forced me to stop and examine who I am as an individual and member of society. First and foremost, GROSS: I am an adult.
       As I've begun to start the slow and dreadful process of accepting adulthood, I have found the task of Getting Over Myself incredibly complex. Thankfully, I was able to come to terms and maintain a healthy relationship with my current self a few years ago, but what's really been difficult is finding peace with who I was as a child. Mom used to call me Chunk most of the time and loves to relate the story of how my normal infant size transformed into "rolls and rolls and rolls" practically overnight to the general population. I swear that woman would put a photograph of my doughy baby gams in Times Square if she got the opportunity. To paraphrase, I was a pretty darn chubby kid. And I had huge eyebrows that would never cooperate and stick-straight hair that I hated brushing and the most hideous button nose. Guess what? None of that has changed. Except for the fact that I love it all now.
       I'm not sure where that happened. But Facebook Timeline is good for something. I was looking at pictures that I've had posted since 2008 and was uncharacteristically fascinated by the changes I've made in just 4 short years. Please don't think I'm self-absorbed! As I mentioned earlier, I'm at the point where I'm refiguring myself out. And as they all say, history repeats itself. So I'm trying to avoid the bad and recollect the good.
       I started using Facebook in eighth grade. Just in case you didn't know, eighth grade sucks. There's no getting around it. Without explaining further than Iwasapatheticbabywhofeltsorryforherselfanddidn'tgiveahootabouttherestoftheworld, I was a total wreck until probably the middle of ninth. Furthermore, I was up and down like a ship on the high Atlantic until my glorious senior year, which was just plain awesome. Here is Facebook's rendition of Lexi Brontosaurus Rex (yes, that's really my middle name) Hewitt's metamorphosis:
 

With my great pal, Emilee, at a rockin' party in 9th grade. Note the overtweezed eyebrows and awkwardly unkempt haircut. This was the first time I had ever chopped my hair off, and I wasn't sure how to deal with it.



At a cabin with my family, June 2009. I discovered that it was okay to not wear makeup at all times, and LOOK! My eyebrows started coming back! My marshmallow nose started to become less of a nuisance at this point.

Throughout my sophomore year I grew out my hair and favored blunt bangs. This photograph was taken in July 2010, when my family visited Las Vegas for my stepsister Mookie's baptism. I have to say, I thought I was all that and a bag of Cheetos.



Shortly after the previous picture was taken, I met and began to date a good young man named Joey, who is now on a mission to the Phillippines. Our relationship lasted a year, and then in August 2011 I parted with him just as I had once again parted with the majority of my golden locks. Both were positive changes.



My best friend, the beautiful Miss Brittnie, let me model for her so she could test out a new camera in the winter of 2011 (our senior year). Lipstick is the best thing that ever happened to me. I mean, seriously. I have no less than 8 classic bullets of lipstick - and counting - leave alone the few dozen lip glosses adorning my bathroom counter.



Remember those skimpy little eyebrows? No more. These babies are practically my signature. They've always been fairly dark, particularly compared to my naturally blonde hair. I'm considering naming them...just like my two frog socks, Romanov and Patrick.

I had never dyed my hair, but over Spring Break I was feelin' feisty and went ginger. Now, it's not too far-fetched: my dad is a full-fledged flaming redhead (with his new full beard he looks like a classy leprechaun) and I've always had some red in my hair. This photograph is from Senior Ball, just before graduation. That handsome man is my aforementioned Russian acquaintance.



        Today, I am satisfied with myself. I am blessed with compassion and health and a good head on my shoulders. My world is full of genuinely noteworthy people, and each one has contributed to the stronger, happier little lady I am. Finally I've gotten over myself! In reality, it's not worth so much time and effort to make excuses for yourself or to try and be someone you're not. Who cares if I'm eighteen? I'll always be a kid. And this kid is proud of where she is, where she's been, and where she's going.

Happy discovering!