can't sleep

I sat next to Erin in church today. Erin is this pleasant, optimistic, kind girl who just moved to Chicago (where I am on vacation for the extended weekend) on a whim to pursue a job she had found. She was short spoken, but bold, very insightful (as you will see in just a minute), and just an all around sweetheart. She recently returned from her mission and enjoyed me asking the normal, perhaps too intrusive questions from a stranger that I ask to all return missionary women in attempt to understand their decision to serve and what they learned. After Relief Society I bid her farewell, told her it was good to talk with her, and instead of the "you too," I expected she said, "good luck with all those decisions you have to make." Now let me try and explain the strangeness of this comment. We spent our entire conversation talking about her. Really the only thing we said about me was my sabbatical from school (a topic that everyone likes to bring up). Nothing about decisions. As I was picking apart this strange exchange with Nikka I said, "Well, I must just have indecision written on my forehead." Seriously, besides divine inspiration, how else would a stranger know to say that to me?


Whether I deserve it or not (I don't), I seem to have reached the point in my life that everyone worthy of giving any advice in the past 3 years have been referring to when they talk about The Time In Your Life When You Make The Most Important Decisions. It seems like everything I choose to do or not do will dramatically effect my future. Lucky Charms or Raisin Bran? I dunno, let me get on my knees for that one.


Decisions are strange things. For someone like me, who would rather eat string cheese than make decisions (and I would rather die than eat string cheese) it's like a daily mystery of what I am going to do. I've been known to pack an entire suitcase, realize I don't want to wear those outfits anymore, unpack that entire suitcase, and start the process all over again. I mean, we're talking indecisive, man. There's a certain sense of peace that comes from making a decision, a feeling I have only felt twice in my life. Both times I wrote a 5-page entry in my journal describing the feeling, because I didn't want to forget it. In fact, I read those journal pages often in attempt to relive that euphoria. A euphoria close to the feeling of falling in love for the first time, or having a baby (i can imagine), or finding that handbag that you have wanted for months is on sale!


And yet, knowing what it feels like to make a decision, I still find myself at a standstill, sifting through idea after idea of how I should chart my life, praying that Cleo is going to call me in the morning and tell me to avoid this path, or watch out for this person. I suppose most girls my age dream of their wedding day or building their first house. Not me, I dream in week periods, praying that maybe I will be able to pick out an outfit for church without ripping all my hair out.

Uh Oh

"We rented a car!"
"What kind of car did you get?"
"An Avenger" (uh-ven-ger)
"Say that again."
"Avenger" (uh-ven-ger)
"Read the car name, and say it again"
"Uh Ven Ger"
"Ah Ven Ger"
"No, Uh Ven Ger"

Cue all those hours I've spend on dictionary.com when I realized that if I was driving an Uh-Ven-Ger I would be driving a verb to take vengeance or exact satisfaction for. Maybe I should go back to college.

let us die young or let us live forever

Weird day today. Mostly because I woke up thinking I was going to be moving to Utah in three weeks, and will go to bed knowing differently. Also, because tomorrow I'm going to wake up at 6 a.m. That in and of itself is quite strange, but the real shocker is that I will be teaching a group of teenagers whose main motive, if I remember high school well enough, and I'd like to think that I do, is to talk to all the hot boys and girls IMMEDIATELY because maybe, just maybe he is your soul mate. For 50 minutes I will attempt, in any way possible, to get them to not talk to their neighbors, not pass notes, not text in class and to maybe listen to me and feel the Spirit. I might resort to getting on my hands and knees with lots and lots of candy begging, if that's what it takes. I would like to not have to do that because I don't pay money for clothes so I can ruin them.

As I've gotten older, I've learned to hate teenagers. Mostly because I was such a selfish teenager that living 6 years with myself was more than enough. I also remember how confused and subsequently euphoric I was in that phase of life. Part of me wishes someone would have hit me upside the head and explained to me what real life was like (actually I suppose He tried, but I was too selfish, confused, and euphoric to listen). The whole 'ignorance is bliss' mentality got pretty old as soon as I got pretty old and realized that people don't stop the bus when you're running late, you can't bat your eyelashes and get what you want (okay that's not true), you can't romanticise those relationships that deep down you know won't see it a day past Sunday, and you can't expect to have the same best friends forever. My stark realization that reality bites came sometime around winter 2005, and then again in winter 2006, oh and in late winter 2008 as well. Probably all that dang snow. Having lived through this horrible, reoccurring, white-blanket covered transition makes me want to share it with everyone I meet. I fear, however, that if I started walking up to teenagers in the street saying "SOMEDAY ALL THAT CHOCOLATE YOU ARE EATING IS GOING TO SHOW UP IN PLACES YOU DIDN'T EVEN KNOW HAD FAT GLANDS AND PROBABLY WITHIN THE SAME MONTH YOUR PARENTS WILL NO LONGER GIVE YOU MONEY!!" people might not want to walk around with me anymore. So instead I have become one of those adults that pretends to enjoy the responsibility.

Which is why, tomorrow, when I stand in front of those pimple faced teens I will recount my good experiences from those years and spend 50 minutes encouraging them to work a little harder and do a little better because it only goes downhill from here.

We're adults. When did that happen, and how do we make it stop?

Laur got married this weekend. The ceremony was beautiful, she looked beautiful, everything was perfect. Everything except that fact that yesterday we were 18 years old sitting in our dorm room at 5 in the evening realized we'd been in there for a full 24 hours, laughing about how we hadn't gone to class in 3 weeks, and today we're 21 and getting married and having real jobs and tomorrow we'll have hot flashes and rely on life alert and Metamucil.

It is worth mentioning that everyone in this above picture is married, but me. I seem to remember a list that was passed around our ward freshman year listing us girls in order of Most Likely To Wed In The Next Five Years to Most Likely To Be An Old, Saggy Spinster. On said list Liz, Rachel and Lauren were far ahead of me. Not hard to accomplish seeing as how I was pulling of the rear on the spinster side. Did we call it, or did we call it?

It is evident that, at this point, the only real control I have over my life is what kind of animal I will become obsessed with. Old spinsters always have an animal to keep them company. Regrettably, the idea of living with a smelly dog or annoying cat send shrills down my spine. Maybe I'll just get a garden. Then again I'm not a fan of eating healthy when I'm lonely. Where do they make ice cream? Wherever it is, that's where I'm going to retire. The Ben and Jerry headquarters.

I thought seriously just now about deleting that extremely depressing stream of conscience. I didn't though because I wouldn't be me if I wasn't complete estranged from reality and how life really works. Congratulation, Lauren. I hope my detachment doesn't take any of the joy from your big day.

the iPhone changed my life.

literally.

can you give a shout out to a blog on said blog?

I love my blog. I love the fact that at any time and anywhere, thanks to my PDA, and the world wide web, I can get online and write about my feelings, or some menial occurance, or create a stupid list about myself, and that my blog will listen to me. He won't try and solve my problems, he won't tell me what I'm doing wrong, he won't eat the last bite of cheesecake, he will just listen.

The only way that I am able to talk about anything the least bit meaninful to Mr. Blog is by pretending that no one I know, or write about, will read it. As I let go of this denial and realize that not only did I choose to make this site public, but I also provided a link on my facebook, as well as bring it up daily in common conversation (the phrase that most often escapes my mouth besides "Sorry, to bother you, are you the homeowner?" is "I need to blog about that!"). But okay, back to denial.

I am always surprised when someone says "oh, I read your blog," or when I go on my Mom's computer and this website is open, or, as happened on Sunday night, Joseph begins to quote, from memory, something I had written about that day. I immediately think in my mind of everything I've written and wonder if they'll be offended.

I suppose this blog could be part of my new resolve to be honest. Due in part to the many instances in the past year when I've been called out for being less than truthful, as well as a very persuasive Pep-Talk from the Pep-Talker Champion himself, I am now a newly honest woman.

As far as this website is concerned, I write for myself. I realize people are going to read, I deal with it. But I am honest. And it's very refreshing.

i have at least 1 avid reader

The children stayed the night tonight. They are ridiculous and jovial and spontaneous. First of all, it was a hilarious Sunday, as is requisite when the Dial children are all together under the same roof. While Kyria (18) is getting called easy via text, and Luke (8) is reading a book on how to avoid being sexually abused, and Nikka (14.99987) is complaining about getting her braces off in 3 weeks rather than two, and creating plans to take matters into her own hands with pliers, Mom (41) is trying get us to sit down to eat and Dad (grey fox) is trying to promote "real conversation." We eat, and do everything we can to avoid this exchange because it always comes back to what more we could be doing in our lives. Like, making 50 grand and teaching gospel doctrine isn't enough. But oh I hope he doesn't read that cause he wouldn't want me making a jest of myself. I know you're proud of me, Dad. And that I can always improve.

I deter.
So, the boys came home with me. The fun started on the drive home when a song came on my iPod. I was about to change it for sentimental reasons until I heard them both singing along. It would make sense if the song was like "I Am A Child Of God." But, no, no, it was Fall For You by Secondhand Serenade. WORD FOR WORD.

Then we were getting ready for bed and Joseph comes into my room with a half a cup of toothpaste IN the palm of his hand.

"What are you doing weirdo?"
"Brushing my teeth."
"What?"
"Brushing my teeth."

Apparently he has 700 more teeth to brush than the rest of us.

Also-

"Elyse I have a TINY bladder, but Kyria's is probably smaller."
-Luke

"Can you guys be done saying your prayers cause I'm lonely."
-Luke
(undeniable resemblance to something his eldest sister would say)

"I love this entry."
Joseph while on intowhatyousay.blogspot.com. He then proceeded to read my blog, my inner most thoughts, aloud. let me crawl under a rock.

I am blessed to have these boys with all their knowledge, simplicity and perspective. They are everything that is missing in the world.

think of me on the drive home

I don't blog about my real feelings because I'm afraid of the internet seeing the real me
I associate crying with needing people and I don't like doing either
I have an incredibly hidden talent to be the kindest, most generous person you'll ever meet
I love comfort and being with people who make me feel comfortable
I miss places I've never been
I love pancakes in the middle of the night
I am blessed beyond measure and beyond anything I deserve
There's a corner of my heart permanently reserved for Collin Farrell
I work hard for what I want and pray that someone somewhere will work that hard for me
I get in bed each night with no regrets from the day.

TGIF

I don't know why I:

-go to Target when I don't have any money
-give up things that are good for me
-eat when i'm not hungry
-procrastinate
-hold myself at an impossible standard
-don't spend more time with my family
-let him leave.

one year older, and dumber, too

I have in my head a vision of what one's blog should read on their birthday. I feel as though a normal human being, on this, a monumental day, would blog about how great life is and how happy they are to have a day all about them.

Normal being the operative word.

I am blogging, so there is a hint of normality somewhere in my old body. And I will try to keep it positive because of all the generous acts and phonecalls and text messages and blogs (Thanks, Mom!) and iphones that have been abundant, and very appreciated. The last thing I want is for anyone to think I am ungrateful. Because I'm not. I just hate August 14.

Let me try to explain.

2005- I won't go into much detail about my 18th birthday. It included many tears. about moving out. going to college. being cheated on. being fat. having a lot of attention. etc.

2006- Nineteen was interesting. My day consisted of working. (Working!) And going to dinner with my family. Its the working part that did it for me. Being an adult blows because you work on your birthday. And presents are null because, as adults, if we need something we buy it (we can afford it because we work all the time) and if we don't need it, we convince ourselves we don't want it.

2007- Last year I had the joy of spending my birthday with my sister, who knew about my relationship with birthdays, so she flew up to be with me. The boy I was dating at the time did not feel obligated to give up much of MY time on MY birthday to spend with MY sister/ best friend/ other half/ significant other for life/ confidante etc. I was like a Cherry Twizzler Pull-In-Peel just coming apart and being pulled, twisted, and eaten alive. I spent the majority of the night curled up on a Lovesac with Kyria bawling my eyes out. Thank goodness for her.

Year by year, my measure of a good birthday has decreased. Currently, a good birthday is one in which I do not cry. So far so good for today. Although I did feel a tear come along as I read my mother's "Ode to Mo" earlier. Thanks again, Mom.

sore

I started running again and boy does it feel good. Okay, I'm lying. It feels like each of my appendages will all fall off in the next 24 hours. Seriously, I was on the treadmill for like 15 minutes and I wanted to curl up into a ball and die. Here I am at Gold's Gym with all these total meat-heads suffocating me with their .2% body fat, running like there's no tomorrow pointing at the blond girl who is moving like Edward Scissorhands. I always feel like that at the gym. No matter how good of shape I get in I know they are staring at me. Like there is this secret plot to make me feel horrible about myself. Like they only let the women with textbook butts work out next to me. Or everyone is told to take all the normal mirrors as soon as Elyse comes in, forcing me to stand in front of the one mirror in the whole gym that makes my torso look more wide than long.

I really do love running. I love the feeling of pushing myself and accomplishing something all on my own. In fact, if I could avoid the gym and just run on an empty street without any meat-heads, or perfectly proportioned women, I would. The problem is that this is a scary world we live in full of homeless people and rapists and people walking around with baseball bats just waiting to attack the first innocent girl they see. No thank you. I will take judgement, and steroid-ridden 5-foot-tall Mexicans, little Asians with boob jobs and a gym full of people trying to test my confidence any day over the man with the bat.

18 hours

9 times out of the 10 times I call Cami in a week it usually goes like this:

Me: Hi. How are you
Cami: Good. How are you
Me: Good. What are you doing
Cami: Laying in my bed. You.
Me: Just selling. Wishing I was laying in my bed...

Moral of the story, we like to just lay in bed. Usually when we're together we spend half the time at a restaurant sitting, wasting our waiter's time and chewing the fat, and the other half is spent laying in a bed talking or sulking or whatever. It is this really great relationship we have.

This summer, I haven't really been laying in bed. I've been, like, selling a lot of pest control and, like, other unimportant things. I made up for lost time this week. I got home from work at about 10 on Thursday night. I immediately got into bed. Got up to wash my face. Got back in bed. I watched the episode of Grey's Anatomy that was in the dvd player 3 times over because I didn't want to get up. This lasting 14 hours. I migrated to the bath tub and read and layed and washed. Then got back in my bed for 4 more hours, until it was time to work again. 18 hours.

And when Rex came to pick me up for work and asked what I'd been doing, I, for once, wasn't lying when I said, "Nothing."

my drug of choice

It's 8:55 and mostly dark outside. I've already had two people say to me, "its kind of late, why are you out here so late?" I know I should stop but I just keep going. Keep knocking. Gotta. Get. One. More. Sell. Can't. Stop.

Rex pulls up in the car as to signalize he wants me to come with him. I express my urgency to just knocked a few more doors. He rolls his eyes and begins to drive away. He rolls down the window and shouts, "YOURE ADDICTED TO PEST CONTROL!!!"

To prove a point I said "No, I will get in the car right now."

"Prove it."

"Okay.. Well, let me just knock one more door."

He drove away before I could see his eyes roll.

realization

Top indicators I am old.

-asked for a plane ticket for my birthday (to a wedding, nonetheless. weddings are for old people.)

But, really- let me focus on this for a minute. A plane ticket? Aren't birthdays time for fluffy gifts that you forget about after a week like polly pockets or a set of Lisa Frank stationary or a pony (we all know we would never get one, and yet we still asked)? Where's my pink barbie cake with the yellow frosting and the 7 candles? Where are all my friends who have to be home by 8?

-my idea of 'solitude' is a 30 minute hot bath.

-Scenario:

It's saturday day night and The Boy and I flirted with ideas such as seeing a movie, going downtown, or shopping. And then somehow found ourselves taking a nap.

-Scenario:

Youth- procrastinate. don't accomplish. talk your way out of the mess. bystanders blame your actions on your youth and forgive you.

Now- procrastinate. hope to accomplish at last possible minute. no one to blame anything on.

-i understand my parent's rules.

-i apologize first because i realize life is too short to be stubborn.

-i'm listening to country. NOOO!!!! NOT THE CUHHH-NNN-TREEEE!!

-August 14th is next week.

1, 2, 3- see ya there

this is happiness. gosh i miss my happiness.