Hillary Facebook Photo Challenge

This is my 30 Day photo Thing... condensed into 4 minutes. ENJOY! There is no music to the video- so feel free to pick your own.

For, Fore, and Four

With my birthday being only 10 days before Christmas, to make my life easier, I always combined my birthday wish list, my Christmas wish list, and my letter to Santa. This seemed to be the best way to do it, and a flawless procedure.

My story takes place during the month of December 1993. At the first of the month, I sat there next to my mother and told her everything I wanted for Christmas and my birthday. She composed the letter to Santa, and I excitedly watched as she wrote down the list of things I not only wanted, but NEEEEEEEEDED.

With the understanding of a three year old, it only made sense that everything I received, I was to get four of them. This is completely understandable that it was supposed to be like that because at dinner, when I didn't want to eat anymore, I had to have three more bites. Time out lasted three minutes. And I was aloud three cookies. My whole life, the good, the bad, the ugly, revolved around the fact that I was three. Why would age four be any different? So, the most important thing, the thing I needed the most, was always the last thing I asked for. I wanted it fresh in Santa's mind. The last thing in the letter "four baby golden retriever puppies." the letter was signed and sent off. Now all I had to do was wait.

Christmas morning finally came and while laying in bed I could hear a little puppy crying. Eyes wide I jump out of bed and bolt downstairs. As I walk into the family room, my aunt and brother are already sitting there. I look around the sparkling decorated tree anxiously. WHERE'S MY PUPPIES?! Shhh.... whats that? One of them is crying again. I franticly look under presents, under couches, behind my brothers back.

While searching around the room, I look back to the Christmas tree and see this:

Not only is there only ONE of him... He's not even real. I pick him up, very well knowing he's mine, walk over to my mother and confused I say "this isn't what I asked for..."

She corrects me with a simple "yes it is." I shake my head "No. I asked for FOUR golden retriever puppies."

This became a life changing moment for me. Literally, life changing. If you've EVER thought I was good with words, it's because of this moment. December 25, 1993 I received my first english lesson. And it was on for, four, and fore.

Somehow, whether it was while writing the list of things wanted, or during the composing of the letter to santa, it went from "FOUR golden retriever puppies." to "FOR Christmas, a golden retriever puppy, 'FOUR.'" I went from asking FOR FOUR live puppies, to a puppy named Four.

Four is my oldest, and still my favorite stuffed animal. He is also my biggest reminder on the importance of word choice................Nice save Mom.

Piece of Lettuce.

Second grade. Outside is pouring rain. While sitting in class, out the window it almost looks as if someone dumped an entire swimming pool onto the school. While I sit there, ignoring everything my teacher has to say, I begin to debate with myself what puddles are going to be the largest to jump in during recess.

As the blackened rain clouds become washed out by the flash of lightening, each of us shriek with delight. Loud whispers pass between everyone "did you see that?" As my teacher was slowly beginning to get control back of the class, the thundered roared loudly. Needless to say, we all lost it! The principal came on over the intercom and announced that everyone was to stay inside the building for the reminder of the day. At that point... My teacher had no hope of regaining control. Her students were too far gone.

SWEEEEEET! That means indoor lunch and recess!!! My best friend and I look at each other eagerly. O the games we'll play as a class during our recess! Heads up 7-up maybe? Or will we play hot potato while SITTING ON OUR DESKS? O the possibilities are endless.

Indoor lunch meant that we were to go down to the cafeteria, get our food, come back to class, and eat at our desks. And that is just what we were doing. My best friend and I were eating our salads and seriously discussing the important things in life. Like boys, dance classes, and gia pets. As my best friend was telling me of the mysteries of life (according to an eight year old), I went to take a bite of my ranch drenched salad.

And that is the moment it happened. As I opened my mouth to insert the leafy green, it dropped. Right off my fork. Right onto my desk. I looked down at it, and before I look up, my best friend MID-SENTENCE says "didn't yo mamma ever teach yo mannas?" I giggle a little bit to myself, look in her eyes laugh. I open my mouth to make an excuse as to why that happened. The fork was defective. She was distracting me. Something. As my lips part to make this whole situation not my fault... I burped. Scratch that. I BELCHED.

This completely took me by surprise. My eyes widened and I sat there starring at my friend. I had already opened my mouth for a response, so I had to give her one. Quickly following, and without missing a beat, once the belched stopped I "matter-of-fact-ly" and smuggly replied "nope." Neither of us were able to finish our lunched because we were laughing so hard.

And there it is. My funny, happy memory from grade school. As you've finished reading this, I'm sure you've just shugged your shoulders and said "huh, I guess you had to be there." To which I want to tell you... no. You didn't. It was funny then. And 11 years later, it's still very funny.

Nostalgia: A Sentimental Yearning for the Happiness of a Former Place or Time.

Work took very "you scratch my back, I'll scratch yours" approach the other. Favors where being done by me and for me all day. But not a single favor compared to that of T.J.

You see, there is a nurse at work, who, no matter what you do or how you do it, you're doing it wrong. I had no idea I was so incredibly bad at my job till I walked into her room. I eventually got tired of her condescending remarks and looked directly in her eyes, without hiding a single shred of the "say one more thing and I'll consider slapping you" look in my eyes. Needless to say, there could have been a smack down. It would have been epic. But TJ was there to calm me, and even let me walk out of the room... TWICE.

Incredibly grateful towards this act of kindness, and flat out charity, I turned to him and said "If I could bake, I would bake you something for this. But I can't. So I'm not even going to offer." Completely expecting a "well, it's the thought that counts" response, he looks at me and makes a request.

A blog post. A happy blog post. Something Nostalgic. I asked for clarification, and with every example he gave me it involved school, and my mother. A happy childhood memory. There is only one problem with this request... I'm a terrible "happy" writer. I don't have those adjectives when writing. I do when talking, and I feel as if I have the vibe of a generally pleasant person, but you'd never know by reading anything I've written. So here they are. My attempt at a cheerful blog post. My apologies in advanced for the repeated adjectives, and possible lack of imagery. I will do my best with the task at hand. Also, I have two events I'm going to share. They fullfill both the request of school, and of my mother.

The next two posts, are my something Noastalgic. My Sentimental yearning for the happiness of a former place or time.

The Modern Day Slave Wrist Band

Ladies and Gentle Germs- I present you with my biggest problem

It's called a cell phone. I call it the modern day slave wrist band.

At ANY point durring the day people have access to know my exact where-abouts. They call me. They text me. They have complete power to find me. My slave band alerts me for text by singing a song about miss-understandings and longing for a better time (Yesterday by the Beatles). It also is kind enough to alert me when someone has decided to actually pick up the phone (a rare occasion) and call me. It alerts me of this event with an up-beat tune from the 90's about the achievement of a new understanding of something she is supposed to have no knowledge of (I Saw the Sign by Ace of Base).

Try as I may- ignoring such classic songs is harder than I'd like to admit. I'd like to tell you that while I'm on the verge of breaking my slave band in half and throwing it out the window,but when one of those songs plays and I need to look. I need to know- in that one moment, who was thinking about me?

Or worse... Why hasn't it gone off? Who isn't thinking about me? Does this mean he doesn't like me? Why is she mad at me?

This small contraption, not even a "smart phone," has so much more control over my life then I even realize at times. This over priced piece of hard plastic, that is always placed in my back pocket, or close to my bed (heaven forbid I miss a text due to sleeping), controls a major portion of every aspect of my life, except school. This M.D.S.W.B. (Modern Day Slave Wrist Band (that's right... I made it an acronym... even when I hate those too)) carries my ability to call in sick to work, verify church meeting times, capture moments that normally would have involved the statement "I wish I had my camera." It also is my link to friends in other countries, friends from other time periods, and potential boyfriends.

I talk about how I hate these phones, yet, what would I do without it?

I could possibly get homework done faster. How many fights would have been avoided if I didn't have my phone? Fights that seemed to come about due to my "tone" in a text... I must have forgotten to "lol?" Would dating be easier? The insecurities of him not texting/calling me would be non-existent right? Texting while driving, which I do, may just be the thing that kills me, and I know it.

By purchasing this device I promised T-Mobile at least 1,636 of my hard earned dollars. That is about 190 hours of work, purely to maintain this phone. And this isn't including the 200 dollars worth of minutes I went over due to forgetting, just because your mother passed away, doesn't make minutes free.

So what do I do with it? Keep it? Let it control so much of my life? Moan and groan when the "wrong boy" is calling me? Continue to dedicate 7 hours of work a month- purely to being able to afford something that I complain about, more then enjoy?

Or do I go against the grain and cancel my cell phone? Do I lose the ability to call people in times of need? Do I cut off the chance of receiving a flirtatious text message, or late night phone call just to say hi? Should I say goodbye to being able to send, receive, and share moments that can't seem to be shared any other way?

We all know... I'll probably keep it. And continue complaining. I am American after all.

Yay or Nay

Smashing Bottles.

I had two guy friends in high school. They, were a few years older. I rarely saw them, but we were always there for each other. (I never see either of them any more, they're both serving time for robbing a bank, yeah, thats another story... a really good one too. Maybe later.) We got together, what felt like once a month for about a year. We did what we called "Smashing"... Let me explain the ritual.

These two boys drank alot... A LOT of Jones Soda. Which is in a glass bottle. They would save the bottles for "Smashing." How "Smashing" would begin, is one of us three, whoever needed it, would send the text "Smashing. 11pm" Or 12 am. We would meet at a park that is right off of 5300 south, sit on a bench and talk. We would share stories of what was going wrong in our lives, and we'd give each other the best advice we possibly could. At the end of our "pity party" each of us would grab a glass bottle, peel off the label, hold the bottle up high, make a statement, and throw the bottle down, smashing the bottle into as many pieces as possible. (We always cleaned up the glass I promise).

One time, one of my friends had just broken up with his girlfriend. She had told him that it didn't feel right. And with that... she walked away. His heart was broken... He didn't understand how he could feel so right about her, and how she could get to the point where she could walk away from him. (They later got married. So.... screw them for having a happy love story, because most don't turn out like that) That's besides the point. The point is... on the night that we were "smashing" in honor of his broken heart, my friend said something that has stuck with me ever since, and is ringing more true now then ever.

As he lifted up his arm, grasping the neck of the bottle, with tears in his eyes, a trembling bottom lip, and a shakey voice he simply says "I can Live without you......... I just don't want to." The bottle was hurled to the ground, and the sound of the bottle breaking into a thousand peices against the gravel matched the sound that each of our hearts have made at some point.

This story is relevant because for a few days I've caught myself listening to a song. It's called "Miserable at Best." It is performed by Mayday Parade. Fantastic song. Really, beautiful lyrics, calming, understanding melody. Beautiful. But it drives me NUTS that I keep listening to it. Because it's not it. It's not the right song.

In the chorus of the song it states simply "I can live without you, but without you I'll be miserable at best." No. No. I won't be miserable at best. I am completely capable of walking away from this, moving on, finding someone else, and being incredibly happy. "I can live without you"

It drives me nuts when people ask "are you alright?" Yes. I am. With everything I've ever gone through, with everything I'm going through, yes, I'm alright. Not being alright would imply major needs are not being met. When actually, there are very few NEEDS in this world. I have always had a place to stay, even if it be my car. I've always had access to food and water. My NEEDS are met. I am Alright. And rarely does someone HONESTLY ***NEED*** another person. We just have strong desires towards people. .... I don't need you. I will be fine without you. I can live without you.

The question is- Am I ok? No. I can do plenty of things. I can do, overcome, and endure many things. I sometimes... just don't want to.

.... I want to understand like (insert appropriate name) does. I want the same feelings so I don't feel lost in this. I want to know something. Life is just simply theories, and how we apply them. All we can do is be really, very, absurdly sure of things. But your surity means nothing when anothers doesn't match.

I Can Live Without You............................................................... I Just Don't Want To.

The Beatles - We Can Work It Out

Working It Out, With Working Out.

With everything I go through, I find a way to relate it to another. To make it more manageable. More of something that can be done. I try to watch the game, and play the game.

With my latest endevor, it has become a work out video. Everything that has been said- I have a work out that corelates to what is going on. Whether it makes it more hopeful, or simply puts things into a perspective that tells me to walk away.

The first work out metaphor that came about was bench pressing. I said that, when you bench press too much, too fast, it hurts. There is a major discomfort. But when you stop... there is comfort. There is a sense of relief. This sense of relief however has absolutely NOTHING to do with the act of bench pressing. Bench pressing is still a good, important part of your work out. You possibly may need to do it at a lower weight, and slower. But you still need to bench press.

That was my sense of hope.

However, tonight, the second round of working out came about. We however are not weight training now... we are simply doing cardio now. Who knew comparing a late night jog to a part of life could have me up at 12:30 blogging.

When you run, there is a sense of discomfort. (I don't know about anyone else, but rarely am I ever COMFORTABLE in working out. But as put in "LITTLE MISS SUNSHINE".... it's in the discomfort that we grow. Or as Elder Uchtdorf put it- It's after our pain, or adversity, that we get our "Happily Ever After") Anyway- that was a big side track. Back to the story. Running. You're Running. Your chest starts to hurt. Your heart is pounding. Your lungs just can't seem to fill up with all the air that you feel you need. You try to puff out your chest and breath deep but you can't. Most of the time... if you run through this... You'll be fine. Eventually your heart will continue to beat hard, but it doesn't hurt. And your lungs will stop ceasing and will begin to fill with the crisp air it so desperately needs.

But- when you don't run through it. When you feel like you simply CAN NOT continue... you convince yourself that "if I just simply walk for a minute, allow my lungs to calm, allow my heart to slow, I will be fine." So thats when it happens. Your steps get loud and heavy, your arms moving dramatically as you slow to a stop. You put your hands on your waist and you take a gasp in. You know that if you don't continue moving, you'll get a side ache, so you keep walking forward. After your body has returned to a COMFORTABLE state, you say to yourself "at the end of this song" or "when I reach the lamp post" "I will begin to run again." You start to run again. But you can't quite get back into it. Your feet feel heavy. Your knees are locking up. Your hips aren't seeming to find the rhythm that they had before. You think in your head "Why didn't I just keep going?" The new found discomfort wins, you slow to a stop, turn around, and walk home. Frustrated that you missed out on a run that you didn't need to. You just stopped because something was uncomfortable, but then when you tried to get back into it... other things fell apart.

So that's where I'm at. I feel as if even if we began to run again, because... running is good, and we know it. It may have reached a point where starting again, the knees will lock, the feet will be heavy. If you stop once because of fear, pain, discomfort... why wouldn't you stop with the next set of discomforts, that are PROMISED to come, if for no other reason then you stopped jogging. Every jog that has ever ended because my lungs hurt... I walk home upset that I didn't just... try to keep going. No matter how painful it got I should have kept going. Because... I would have been fine....