Responsibility

Wow, this is the first Friday in a long time that I’ve been able to just sit back and relax. For the last month my Fridays have been full of NaNo and schoolwork. But today I get to kick back and relax—have all my work done and NaNo is over (I finished with 52,000 words total). Of course, I could be reading or writing or drawing or another activity that I enjoy doing—but instead, I’m choosing to write a blog to my sparse followers. Don’t you guys feel special?

And by the way, you can comment on these entries… just thought I’d throw that in there.

Today I had this inclination to write about responsibility. First of all, I would like to say to everyone that pedestrians have the right-a-way at a cross walk. Do you want me to repeat that? Pedestrians have the right-a-way at a cross walk.

I say this because I have to cross a street of considerable size to get to my classes. Every day I walk down to the cross walk, look both ways like I was taught in kindergarten, and cross. But twice has it occurred while crossing said street where a car has almost ran me over.

First was a couple of weeks ago and it was snowing, a fine dusting of the powdery stuff was everywhere. I went to the cross walk, checked for cars and began to cross when a car honked at me. I immediately stopped and so did they. I thought that meant I could walk so I continued doing so when the car started to move forward! To prevent my death, I stopped again and motioned for the car to pass. The car pulled in front of me, in the crosswalk, rolled down their window and proceeded to lecture me about how I had to wait for the car and how I was in the wrong and yatta yatta yatta.

Honestly, when this occurred my anger at her didn’t sink in until later. At first I just felt sad and pitiful. Then, when I replayed the events in my mind and realized that I was in a crosswalk where I had the right-a-way. I’ve found that the most difficult part of this is the fact that I’ve seen this same woman twice on campus and it has taken a lot of self control to not walk up to her and call her certain words. “Treasures in Heaven,” I tell myself.

Then today, walking home, I had the same thing happen with a different car, different people! This time I didn’t let the car pass and kept on walking.

I’m sorry, but people need to take responsibility and be mature adults, especially when it comes down to simple things like people crossing the street. Like when students are stuck with a ton of homework because they partied all week and complain about it. They curse the teacher, they curse the assignment, but never themselves.

NaNoWriMo

Ok, so I know I have not updated my blog for a few weeks now, but to my defense, I have been planning to. Some days something will happen and I’ll be like, “yeah, I want to write a blog on that” but alas never get around to it. Earlier this week, for example, was the worst day of the semester bar none. But I am getting off-topic. I wanted to write a blog about writing.

I recently read a friend of a friend’s blog who posted an excerpt in each of her blog entries from her story she’s writing for NaNoWriMo. For those of you who do not know what NaNoWriMo is, you can go to www.nanowrimo.org to read all about it. For a second, I thought about doing the same. But then I realized that, wait, my story is in the very rough draft phases so most of it kind of sucks anyway. Plus, what if by some freak chance I want to publish this story and I have it posted on the internet for all to read and steal?

My story that I’m writing this year for NaNo is very dear to my heart. As November and NaNoWriMo approached, I had no idea what I was going to write about this year. I had reached 25,000 words of another story I had been writing in my spare time and a part of me didn’t want to start afresh with a new story, since I was so absorbed in the one I was writing.

Then, as I was chatting with a friend, she mentioned she was working on a story that she had been working on since middle school. I remembered that when I was a freshman in high school, I had an idea for a fantasy story, and it had stuck with me through the years. I had put it to the side, telling myself that one day I would write it.

And that day came in the form of NaNoWriMo.

And so, everyday of November, with the exception of my birthday, I have been writing feverishly and have loved every second of it. Every millisecond of it. I also think my story is happy to be out of my head and free on paper, since every time I sit at my laptop it comes out ever so naturally. When I am not writing the story, I am thinking about it. This has happened to me before with other things I have written, but not to this extent, where there is never a point, so far at least, where I think “then what?” I feel that I am not really the author, just the reader reading a book that hasn’t been written yet.  

But in a way, I feel kind of discouraged. Not in writing, but I feel that everyone and their mothers want to write a book. I meet people that hate to read, who hate English class, who want to write a book, to be a published author. So many people want to! Even people who aren’t writers, like celebrities who somehow spit out novels about their lives and careers and make a gazillion dollars.

Then I think of myself and my endeavors. Yeah, I want to write stories. Yeah, I want to be published one day. But why? Everyone wants to do that, even those who aren’t writers.

For every person who is alive, who has lived, and who will live, there is a story for each one. Every person is a story. Of course, not everyone is a writer, not everyone has the talent or drive or what have you. But I feel that with all of these stories and potential stories, what is the point of wanting mine heard?

Right now I’m at 30,000+ words for NaNoWriMo, a few thousand ahead. I look at my story, this story that’s been baking in my head for the past few years, this story that I love, this story I want everyone to love. But at the same time, I’m one of the many. And many who have way cooler ideas than mine.

But at the same time, if I never get published it’s not that big of a deal. Because I think it goes down to the fact that every day I write a good two thousand words, and despite the fact I’m tired all the time, I’m having the time of my life. I look at all that I have accomplished through the story and see all the hard work. And it makes me feel amazing! To look and think, wow, I can do this.

And that, I think, is a big deal.

A Clichéd Night

I should be doing homework but instead I’m choosing to update my blog. The reason I’m doing this is twofold: one, I have a bit of a headache and don’t want to hurt my head more by thinking, and two: Cassie read my last blog entry aloud to a couple members of our FHE family and made me feel really ridiculous.

So I’m updating.

I thought I’d recount the events of this last Wednesday when I went to the straw maze as part of a ward activity. When I first heard about the activity, I was adamant about not going—I don’t do scary. But when I heard that the maze was only haunted on the weekends, I decided what the heck, being social would be a good thing.

We met and separated into groups to carpool down to the maze. I tagged along with my only roommate who was going, Brianne, and her fiancé, Christopher. We got a ride with one of the counselors in the Bishopric and his wife. On the ride, the wife turned around and asked us our names. Brianne and Christopher introduced themselves and then the question came about how they were associated. They explained they were getting married, and a myriad of questions ensued: when’s the wedding? How did he propose? Can I see the ring? And so on until we arrived, completely skipping over my introduction.

Of course, I can’t blame her. I mean, nothing in my life can top getting married. “Hey, I just totally aced my test” doesn’t even come close to “I met the man who I’m going to spend the rest of my life with.”

When we arrived the night was nice and dark, with a perfect full moon. We paid, and Brianne, Christopher, and I went into the maze, trying to get ourselves as lost as we could. And after returning by accident to the beginning a few times, we did in fact loose ourselves. After walking around a bit, accompanied by Christopher’s ridiculous humor (“Hay, this is the final straw”), we decided it was time to find the exit.

We walked around a bit to no avail. Christopher and Brianne would stop every once in a while to share a smooch. When I pointed out how cliché this all was, with the full moon, and of course the tragic couple. Brianne and Christopher then kissed, this time in the light of the full moon, all passionately, commenting “I want you to know that I love you.” All they needed was a background orchestra of violins with a sad and dramatic melody and they would have been set.

Christopher went on about how we were in the wrong quadrant, that most mazes are built in quadrants and if we could get to the right quadrant, we could find our way out. However this didn’t work. Because you can’t use math to solve your problems, HA! In fact this may have made us even more lost than we were before.

Then we looked up, and like an angel in the moonlight, we saw Cassie snapping pictures from atop the straw.

She then proceeded to show us the way out, which Christopher wasn’t too keen on. I can picture Brianne and Christopher a few years from now—“Honey, pull over and ask for directions,” “No, I’m going to figure this out.”—But alas, with Cassie’s help, we found are way out and were surprised to discover that we were some of the last people out of the maze.

We took a few group pictures and doughnuts and lukewarm hot chocolate was served. I don’t like doughnuts. I know, a lot of people can’t fathom such a disliking.

I had a fun time and enjoyed hanging out with the people from the ward. I guess when people talk about how college is all about having fun (and getting an education, of course), this is what they mean. Oh yeah, and clichés do happen, and they start with scary mazes and full moons.  

Lessons learned at the Salon

Well, to tell you the truth, I’m in the mood to write. But I don’t know what to write about. So I guess I’ll focus on my favorite topic: myself.

I know that sounds arrogant of me, but really I think I’m the easiest person to write about. I know myself better than I know other people. I live my life, so I can write about it accurately.

I guess I’ll start with today. I went and got my haircut with a coupon package deal of $45 for everything—cut, pedicure, tan, highlights. Even though I’m in college and tight on cash, I couldn’t pass up a deal THAT good. My roommate, Shannon, also bought the package and we agreed to go together today, her for a pedicure, and I for my cut.

The coupon is printed on glossy cardstock—with the name “Reflections” written in curvy script across the top. Each of the parts of the package is arranged into visits. Under “Visit A,” the hair care visit, it reads “Scalp Massage, Designer Cut, Shampoo & Conditioning treatment, Product Knowledge & Prescription.” I know. It’s oozing with luxury, masked in elegant prose. Needless to say, I had high standards.

I went in and they did the whole sit you down, put a shower curtain-turned-poncho over you so that if you lean your head too far you’ll strangle yourself. The woman doing my hair (she didn’t introduce herself so she’s nameless. We’ll call her Debby. Yeah, Debby. The perfect stereotypical name for all hairstylists) discussed a cut with me (I didn’t know what I wanted) and she led me over to wash my hair.

Ok, first of all, I hate the sinks they wash your hair in. It’s so uncomfortable on your neck that you can barely—if at all—enjoy the warm water on your scalp. Debby ran her fingers along my head and a few minutes later she was leading me back to the hair cutting seats that look more like a sci-fi torture chair.

Wait, what? You said “scalp massage.” When I imagine any form of massage I imagine pain that feels good. All that felt like was my hair getting washed. I could have given myself a “scalp massage” and saved money.

She went with the cut, and then decided that I was worth talking to, since we’d been silent this whole time. She asked me if I was going to school here like the majority of the people in this town and I answered yes. Asked me where I was from, what’s my major, the whole shin dig. She cut away and when she finished, she explained it was $8 extra to blow dry my hair. Eight bucks, are you joking? Heck no. It cost me $8 to get my eyebrows waxed back home. And they want to charge me $8 to dry off my hair when I can let the sun do that for free? Come on.

Needless to say, I declined her offer. Then last on the list was “Product Knowledge and Prescription.” I know, it sounds so medical. Like they’re going to give me pills for glossier hair. She put some sort of stuff in my hair, can’t even remember now, saying it would help with the volume and whatever. Honestly, I kind of tuned her out here. No offense to her, but I wasn’t going to buy the product, so what was the point? And if they’re charging $8 for a blow dry, then I don’t even want to ask about how much the product’s going to cost.

Shannon was done before me so we went off together to get hot chocolate which was the best hot chocolate I’ve ever had in my life. So good and creamy. Wow. Fantastic stuff. She also felt jipped. Moral of the story? That when someone offers you a deal that’s too good to be true, IT IS. When was the last time you were satisfied with your floam, knives, or anti-gravity hover discs that you bought after seeing an infomercial? Buy now for just ten dollars! It’s because it’s worth the ten bucks, and ten years from now, won’t be worth anything. Just like this was worth the 45.