Catching Something Invisible

The Hormone Cocktail

2012-02-07T18:47:00.002-07:00

In fourth grade, when we got a new teacher (before the days of picture roles), Rachael Miesen and I switched names. For the whole day, I was Rachael and she was Sierra. It was hard to get used to, but we sure did get a lot of laughs.

Today, at the high school, I got my comeuppance, with interest.

For those of you who don't know, which is probably most of you, I got my school placement for next year, complete with a "Big Girl Wardrobe" (which involves khakis, I am sorry to say) and the title "Mrs. Penrod" (or PR as one student called me all day). I am delighted to announce that I will be teaching English at a local High School with an ambiguous degree of permanence. I am thrilled for this opportunity. Since I still look like a high schooler, I figure I may as well own it, and make my life out of being in high school. I really thrived there back in the day, anyway.

Admittedly, however, today as I entered the "hormone cocktail" that is the 10th grade English classroom, I almost reconsidered my career choice. It was first hour and the students came in with real chips in their sleepy, slouchy shoulders.

"I thought she was a new student, not our teacher!" said one, when he found out that I was teaching that day. This is a prime example of something that is OK to say about yourself, but cuts a little too deep whenever someone considers you to be their 15 year-old peer.

Lemme tell you about high school tenth graders. They like attention. It doesn't matter if it's from the girl they are sitting next to, or the rest of the bros in the class, or even negative attention from the teacher. They just want it, and lots of it. And "PJ" and "New Zealand" (their names are changed), were in fine form. They were the "Name Switchers." When they weren't busy harassing the girls in class or making racial slurs, they were actively busy not doing the assignment and persistently distracting others from doing the same.

I suppose this story doesn't have a real arch or anything. But just as I almost began to reconsider my teaching career, I was delighted that second period clapped at the conclusion of my lesson instead of glaring, and several of them asked me to make sure to teach 11th grade next year. They also grasped the concepts I was teaching quite nicely.

I am learning that teaching is probably a lot like that. One minute, you might lose all hope in the youth of the nation, but the next, they always reward you with a little bit of kindness and a whole lot of potential.

Image Source

PS: Bethany had her baby today! And he is such a handsome little devil. Momma Bear and Little Cub are both doing well.

My Husband, the Night Owl (or Penguin)

2012-02-01T11:47:00.000-07:00

Even though Jeremy, without fail, tucks me in each night around 11:30 PM, he, himself stumbles into bed every night between the hours of 1:00-5:00 AM, and some of those nights are late, even for him. He pauses a moment to read some scriptures, and sometimes, if I am lucky, I will wake up when he kisses my forehead. Some might worry about his nighttime exploits. I know that without fail, I can find him on my couch, working on ServeSurfer.

What is ServeSufer, you ask? ServeSurfer is an amazingly cool website that connects people with service opportunities within minutes of their homes. It's an altruist's dream. It's an NHS student's ultimate hook up. It doesn't hurt if you need a tutor for any subject at any age, either. It's a website started up by several brilliant (and remarkably charismatic) Stanford grads, and designed and programmed by a bunch of talented computer geeks, of which my husband happens to be a part.

And it launches today.

Image Credit: Carly Geehr, ServeSurfer Foundation.
I shamelessly stole this from the website.

I highly encourage you to check it out at https://www.servesurfer.com, and see all the hard work that has gone into this awesome search tool.

Jeremy and I have been so honored to get to see this project through, and Jeremy has learned so much. I am so proud of him for all of his truly hard work. This project has supported us through our first couple months of marriage, and we are eternally grateful.

But, admittedly, I am also a little excited for Jeremy to come to bed a little earlier.

Here's a Slice of Senioritis

2012-01-31T19:20:00.000-07:00

I legitimately have a list of things to do that is taller than me, and before you insert a short joke here, consider how daunting 5'3" tall To Do list would look, even if it was written in a big font.

I have A LOT to do. So I scripted my To Do list, which was enjoyably stressful, as always, and I planned on going to the store to start our crock pot dinner, and then start the crock pot dinner and then get started on my 27,000 list of things to do. I was feeling as optimistic as a bright young cherry might if a cherry knew how to feel. I was planning on conquering the world tonight. I saved myself a Dr. Pepper, which I try to only drink now when the world needs conquering.

It looks worse in person, if you'll believe it.

But you see, I got derailed. First, I had to find out who went home on The Bachelor, and now I think Ben is an idiot. So I had to mourn for a minute about who went home on The Bachelor. And then I thought I should get started on my homework, but instead, I took a nap, watched this Ellen video about fifteen times, got hungry, ate instant soup, tried to start my homework, showed my husband the Ellen clip, took another nap, cuddled with my husband, and then made a Lean Cuisine (which, I don't even like, and didn't really eat). This whole procrastination process took six hours. I have become a procrastination expert.

I am choosing to blame Super-Senioritis, which is what happens to you when you were supposed to graduate a year ago, but then you had to stay even longer, and your brain is so addled that if you ever have to read another poem or critical essay again, you might decide to intentionally run over a trashcan with your car just because you're horribly fried, and for some reason, that sounds like a good idea, and also use run on sentences because that also sounds like a good idea. That's what Super-Senioritis does to all your thoughts and sentences that used to be neatly organized inside your brain and out.

I don't remember having Senioritis this badly before. Certainly not senior year of high school, although admittedly my senior high school teachers were quite obliging; you'd get an A for participation if you said "Bless You" when the teacher sneezed. But in college, I still have 16 grueling credits, all of which would be totally awesome if I had taken them any semester except for this one.

And here's the thing. My To Do list is still 5'3" and this blog did little to help (though I think I will count it as a Slice of Life to make myself feel better). I think it might actually be time to start on my homework.

After I watch that hilarious Ellen video one more time.

Brace yourselves. It's world-conquering time.

My poor untouched backpack, casually flung
and disregarded on the floor

Animal Therapy

2012-01-26T15:21:00.002-07:00

When I was a little girl, I opened the door to go outsideand play, and found that my front porch had become the resting ground of a babybird who had flown the nest much too early. I closed the door and broke intosobs, so devastated by the crumpled wings. Later, when I’d gathered myemotions, I went out to give the baby a birdie burial. But I heard my dad onthe other side of the door.

“Uhoh,” he said to someone, I think my brother. “We better take care of thisbefore Sierra finds it.”

Heknew about my tender nature. He knew that my first love, before I lovedwriting, or theatre, or movies, or hanging out with friends, I first lovedanimals. I even wanted to become a vet before I realized that I had no brainfor science whatsoever.

Istill think that the very saddest dayof my life was the day my dog died. Now, you might say that I haven’t had avery hard life, which might be true, but I tell you that to illustrate thatreally, I have a deep and profound love for animals.

Thelove lay dormant for a few years. Once I got into college, I didn’t have timeto think about pets or animals of any sort. But a little over a year ago, myfriend asked me to pet/house sit their dog, Sadi, and it was easy to remember whyI love dogs so much. I was having a sad day, and Sadi got up onto the couchwith me (I assume that was allowed) and very intuitively placed her paw in myopen hand. I didn’t ask for it or prompt it. The dog was just a good. And itmade my whole day better.

Ourcurrent apartment is not conducive to any sort of critter, and Jeremy doesn’t havepaws, but he has found a way to help me through sad days.

Today, I was having a bad day. He sent me this:

My Thoughts on "The Bachelor"

2012-01-24T15:55:00.000-07:00

I have learned the secret to happiness, or a secret to happiness, anyways. And whileyou may not believe me because of the title of this blog, I implore you to hearme out. The secret is: Don’t take life too seriously! I mean it! I know I amnot the world champion at this, but I am learning that if you can just learn tolaugh about life rather than nosing to the grindstone all the time, life can bea little bit more fun. I mean, if you have to move FHE to Tuesday night, lifeis still ok. If you don’t finish a reading assignment for a class, you areprobably a still good person. You are allowed to have a little fun in life.

Image Source

Thisis why I wholeheartedly defend my weekly decision to watch The Bachelor, and I fervently encourage you to do the same. Many“show snobs” will look at this decision with disdain, and I don’t blame them,but I do think they need a change of attitude. It’s like those people whorefused to watch Twilight, becausethey didn’t want to “condescend.” I’m sad to inform you that you missed themost hilarious cinematic moment of 2011 where a pack of poorly animatedwerewolves huddled in a circle to growl telepathically to one another inEnglish. You also missed the gloriously badacting of Taylor Lautner as he “imprinted” (whatever that means) on babyRenesme. If the movie had been an hour of these scenes on repeat, my eightdollars would have still been well spent! I loved it! But NOT because I took itseriously.

It’sthe same with The Bachelor. You don’twatch The Bachelor because youbelieve in the longevity of Ali and Roberto (although, secretly, I did… alittle). You watch The Bachelor withthe attitude of mocking. You watch TheBachelor because the drama is sublime. You watch The Bachelor because, though there is no telepathy, there is stilla lot of wolfish females growling in huddles at each other. You don’t watch The Bachelor with a grain of salt, but apound of sugar! You watch it to watch the drama implode, and you invariably endup feeling better about yourself afterwards. It’s a total confidence boost. (Plus, it’s a little fun to plot out what your undoubtedly winning strategywould be if you were stupid enough to go on the show yourself.)

Sofor all you Show Snobs who are tilting your nose upward at me, I tell you, Ifeel sorry for you! This season, you’ve missed a schizophrenic blogger talkingto herself in a bathroom, a surprise visit from Chantal N. (whom I love), a girlpassing out during the rose ceremony, and lots of girl-growl circles.

Grrrr! Grrrrr!

Also: I'm totally rooting for :

Jennifer and Kaycie B.

What about you??

SOL: And No One Knows, Tiddly Pom, How Cold My Toes, Tiddly Pom, Are Growing

2012-01-17T10:59:00.000-07:00

I am typing (my 100^th post!) in gloves. I amletting my hands recover from the cold. They feel like they’ve been holding dryice for a couple of seconds—literally burnedby the cold.

When I was a kid, I was the kind that would hang out in thedoor wells during recess in the winter. The recess aids, Mrs. Pemperton (whomthe students spitefully called Mrs. “Temperton”) specifically, would come andpull me from my safe haven of extra warm, and scoot me back into the cold. I’mstill not sure why they made the rule about not hanging out in the door wells.I wasn’t doing any harm… besides maybe a pagan indoor dance or something (not really. I was probably reading a book).

Anyways. Whenever Mrs. Pemperton escorted me back to theplayground, she always added advice to her rebuke.

“Go run around like a normalkid. It will warm you up!”

15 years later, I am here to debunk this childhood myth, likethe ones parents tell you about your bread crust being good for you, etc etc. Ican now attest that there are some colds that body heat just cannot competewith. That was the cold of this morning. I know this because I was walking very briskly today and that stilldidn’t stop my boogers from turning into icicles and my ears becoming hardenough that you could chisel them from the side of my head like a sculpture.That didn’t stop the furious pinking of my cheeks—in fact, it probably only augmented it.(I’ve taken my gloves off now, in case you were wondering) Walking briskly didlittle, in fact, it was so cold thismorning that my joints started to freeze up as I was ascending the RB stairs,and my brisk walk turned more to the pace of a dying praying mantis.

Image Credit

I’m the kind of person who hates waking up in the morning,not because of the early hour, but because I hate getting out of my igloo ofblankets, my carefully constructed heat dome of happiness. But I’d gladly wakeup early to beat the dancer kids to the parking spaces outside the RB, if onlyto stay a little bit warmer-longer on my morning walk to campus.

*Ten Blogger Points if you catch the literary reference in my title.

This Really Happened

2012-01-15T19:22:00.001-07:00

The elevator in the JFSB opened within 30 seconds of havingpushed the button (which never happens, as you English-Languagey people mightnote, but that is not what reallyhappened). I got on the elevator with a friend of mine, and we were busilydiscussing our futures that hung in the balance while the English Teachingdepartment was close to announcing whether or not we’d be getting internships.

A man entered the elevator. A kindly man with a warm smile,approachable wrinkles and a plateau of nicely white hair. Also, where a rightarm usually hangs, he had a silver hook—a real one, with a little clampy thingythat surely helped him be… dextrous (not a real word, but you know what Imean). But the armlessness seemed almost an afterthought next to his pleasantgrin, and I merely pressed the 4 button and watched the door close.

That was when we heard the slightly exasperated gasp of twopeople on the other side of the elevator, who were trying to beat the doorsbefore they closed them out and sentenced them to the stairs. I, being near thebutton station, clicked the open door symbol before the elevator began to lift,and the doors opened again with little hesitation.

“Oh! Thank you so much!” said the man, clambering onto thelift and into the back, “I was going to try and stop it myself, but I reallydidn’t want to lose an arm or something.”

The man with the hook just grinned privately to himself, andmade no attempt to cover his missing appendage.

Slice of Life: Turbulence

2012-01-10T21:27:00.000-07:00

*For my usual readers, you may notice “SOL” placed in some ofmy blog titles over the semester. This means that they are a “slice of life,”an assignment given my writing class to, make the seemingly mundane moments oflife take on a life of their own. It shouldn’t be terribly different from myregular blog posts, so I invite all to read. However, I must warn you about thecontents of this specific entry.

Are you ready for this particular slice of life, dearreaders?

Here are the quick stats of the last 24 hours:

Hours Slept: Total? You mean, combining all of those littlemini-sleeps caught here and there on the way to the bathroom? About 3 compositehours of sleep.

Times I (attempt to quaintly say) Rid My Stomach’s Contents:We lost count after 10.

Hours Spent in the Hospital: 3 1/2

Needles That Went Into My Body: 3, and several to lookforward to tomorrow

Times I Cried Like a Little Wussy Girl: Like, 7.

In short, I’ve been throwing myself a right pity party forthe last 24 hours because I have had the stomach bug that Lucifer, himself,concocted in his special misery pot, and sent up straight from Hades, just forme.

Andyet, while I have made plenty of time to feel miserable, this nasty experiencehas also produced one of the most tender moments of my life. It was around 4:00AM. My stomach was finally starting to settle down, and after hours of escortingme back and forth to my couch (I got too weak to walk around 1:00), after hoursof back rubs, and holding my hair back, and grabbing things at my every need,after hours, sleepless hours, I askedJeremy to go to bed—he had 9:00 AM class. And as I finally felt myself driftingoff to sleep, a thankful pull into oblivion from Heaven above, I expectedJeremy to go and do the same. I wantedhim to do the same. But as I opened my eyes in my final moments ofconsciousness, Jeremy was there. And when I woke up a half an hour later,Jeremy was still there, my ever-vigilant watch dog. He sat in a stiff chairwhile I took over the couch. I could only make out the dark outline of hisbody, his exhausted, sleep-deprived body, but I could tell he wasn’t asleep. Hewas checking on me. Above everything else, he gave me his worry, and honestly,sometimes that’s a nice present. He couldn’t have served me any more, and yetsomehow he found a way. He was my knight in shining armor all night, and then somemore all day.

Marriage is good like that. Even when you feel like you arein the depths of hell, you can fall in love all over again. I hope everyonemarries a husband like mine.

Sierra Version 2.12

2012-01-02T19:53:00.002-07:00

This semester I find myself "marginally employed," meaning that since I was a TA, but now have an unmovable class during the class I TA-ed for, I am now a mere Writing Fellow. I've never gone into a semester of school without a job. I've been able to provide for myself, I think, exceptionally well since I started college, so now I find it a little bit humbling that Jeremy is doing such a good job providing for me.

I admit, I've gotten to that place where I am having a college-life crisis: I am realizing just how much work household maintenance requires, and Jeremy and I both agreed that it might be nice this semester if I just focused on school work and keeping the house sane. While some might welcome the break, one of the hallmarks of my character is how hard I push myself. I like to work hard. I love to work hard. And admittedly, I like making money.

But today, as I'm New Years Resolutioning all over the place, I have learned that there is great joy in channelling my hard work energy into being a wife for a little bit. And here are the fruits of my efforts:

1. I packed away all our Christmas Decorations. We don't have a lot yet, but I still felt cool wrapping my ornaments in bubble wrap.

2. I proudly made THIS mess of the kitchen while making a MARTHA STEWART healthy meal.

3. I did cutesy crap like the above. I'm a little disgusted with myself for this one, but at least Jeremy will eat tomorrow. Maybe next time I will do it without the heart.

4. Self Explanatory.

5. This is a picture of an empty laundry machine, which symbolizes the fact that I did three loads of laundry, but didn't take pictures of it in the process because whoever thought doing the laundry was blog worthy.

6. I organized the CHRISTMAS CANDY. We have two more jars full on the other shelf.

7. I organized the shelves. Top = Dinner Shelf. Middle = Lunch Shelf. Bottom= Dessert Shelf

8. I put all new pictures in our crazy frame.

9. I accomplished about a third of my before-school starts To Do List.

10. I even wore this.

So the scary thing about all these accomplishments is that I am boring myself (and probably you too) just writing about them. Yet I feel accomplished at the same time. Maybe that's the life of a housewife? I need to start listening to books on tape for this semester. And then I need to get an awesome job for the summer.

*Fear not. I am now officially scared that my blog has become a Mormon Housewife Blog, and I will henceforth begin the process of... not making it so.

Today I was Grumpy.

2011-11-16T16:46:00.001-07:00

Today was one of those days where, even though nothing iswrong, everything is wrong! Not in a real way, just in a make-believe, I’msorta grumpy way. My friend Elly put it nicely last night when she said that, Autocorrectis her second most enemy. She then showed me, with pictorial evidence what her first most nemesis was, which was thegarbage truck. I was too tired toask why, but it did get me thinking today about the things that have been mynemeses today.

They are as follows:

The fact that wearing jackets backwards is no longer socially acceptable, so I have to take off my backpack, set it down, put on my jacket for the three minute walk to the Wilk, pick my heavy backpack back up and put it on, only to repeat the process as soon as I get inside the wilk.

The fact that everyone seemed to have a Jamba Juice or a Panda Express today except for me.

People who bring their boats to campus.

“Rolling in the Deep” by Adele

Vague Teachers

People that are grumpy when I am grumpy

People that are happy when I am grumpy

Reading things that aren't fun to read, but would be fun toread if they weren't assigned to me.

The fact that all my cool Colorado-ness that I spent yearsacquiring seems to deplete because of my new license plates.

People who cough on me when I'm about to go to a niece andnephew hugging place.

People who tell me “It will be ok” even when I don't want itto be.

Alright, dear readers, my list of first world problems endshere for now. Tell me you have some Nemeses too?

Also, just a reminder to all you other grump frumps outthere.

Your Daily Intake of OverShare

2011-11-07T11:15:00.000-07:00

I know about fiber, so I should have known about fiber. I first heard about fiber and its ills my freshman year of college. Laden with Jamba Juice, courtesy of our Dining Plus Meal Plans, I was enjoying a pleasant walk back to the dorms with Chloe Skidmore. Our friendship was still a young spring chicken newly hatching—I didn’t know her well, but she trusted me wholly and lovingly enough to stop us dead in our tracks, double over in front of me, and let out a cavernous moan.

Chloe confided in me—on a streak of nobility, she'd opted for a fiber boost in her Jamba Juice, and its effect was immediate. After several minutes of stomach-clutching, we were able to move forward. But I was forewarned. And I've never even been tempted by a Fiber Boost ever in my life. Plus it was a defining moment for mine and Chloe's friendship—I saw her through her gas, and I liked her still.

However, four years later, I recently found myself the possessor of a package of Fiber One bars. And it looked just like an innocent granola bar should—yellow packaging, chocolate chips, peanut butter, and joy.

I packed one in my lunch, but got so excited about it that I ate it on my way to school. And the taste was better than any Nutrigrain I've ever tasted. It was candy! And I was wild about it.

Several hours later, I started having abdominal pain. I have a lingering fear about a rupturing appendix, so I was fairly sure that was my mere little problem.

If Only, Friends. If Only.

By 1:00 PM, my pain had become severe, but I recognized a variable. Whenever I would... how you say...pass wind... things felt better. Yet, you can obtain no reprieve when you're sitting in the middle of your relatively silent Modern Literature class. You have two options: Sit and suffer in pain, or sit and allow others to suffer, if you catch my meaning.

But by 3:00 PM, inflicting suffering on others had become involuntary. The fiber had worked its way through my system and was wreaking its havoc.

I told my friend about my plight and she exclaimed, "Fiber Bars! I only eat those around my sisters!”

And then I remembered, with horror, that I had distributed one other fiber bar earlier that morning. My husband was travelling to Chicago for a big time interview for an internship that will basically determine the rest of our lives. In an attempt to show love and support, I had packed a little care package for Jeremy, complete with Fiber One.

Frantically I sent Jeremya text to warn him not to partake! But it was too late. Jeremy had been “Passing Wind” in his interview all day long.

So...we won't be offended if Jeremy doesn't get the job. It will have been all my fault.

Better than the Liger, The Golden Retriger

2011-10-22T16:54:00.000-06:00

My husband knows me well. Recently, when I experienced a surprisingly severe strain of anxiety, rather than telling me to calm down, he simply pulled up google and searched for "Cute Pugs." This is not something he ever would have done before he met me, so I am grateful for this. This led us to a discussion about our future dog. Now I've been flexible in the past, and willing to get any sort of dog minus any sort of dog with curly hair or a whiney face. But we have been mulling over the idea of a golden retriever eventually, and I have say, I'm warming to it.

So when we googled Golden Retrievers, THIS popped up!

Apparently it's all the rage in China to dye your dog to look like another animal. I think this looks legit! But I have to wonder if this is dog abuse, or dog awesomeifcation.

This however, there is no question:

It's called the Teenage Mutant Ninja Poodle.

That poor, poor animal. But a Golden Retriger.... That could work for me.

My First Chapter

2011-10-05T22:55:00.000-06:00

A Preface: Maybe I will regret this, but at the time being, I submit to you, the first draft of my first chapter of my novel. I am looking for feedback, but do remember to also be kind, since I am putting myself extremely out of my comfort zone.

Also keep in mind, my audience is teenage girls.

Chapter 1

The Russians were arguing again. Loudly. Outside my window. In Russian.

I could see the thinning patch of Alexandre’s head shaking in dissent, and occasionally the end of Sasha’s broom as she jolted it skywards, when words simply weren’t conveying her message well enough and she needed a little extra “umph” to her argument. I consulted the clock in order to determine the nature of the squabble. From 8:00 AM to 10:00 AM they typically argued about the order in which they should complete their ground duties. From noon to four, I guessed that they were arguing about their son, Ivan, and whether or not he should attend an American university, or pursue his education back in Russia. And at five PM exactly, I surmised that they began a new dispute entirely, about a whole hodge podge of subject matter that my untrained English-speaking ear was not skilled enough to recognize. By six thirty PM, work day over, Sasha and Alexandre walked back to their apartment, hand in wrinkled hand, and Sasha’s synthetic cherry red (or clown nose red, depending on the way the light hit it) head of hair was resting delicately on Alexandre’s shoulder. It was a daily ritual.

It was not, however, ritual for them to commence their workday outside my window at six AM, which is what they were doing today. This hardly seemed fair, since my body was finally starting to register my new summer/ new time zone sleep schedule. My internal alarm clock had been waking me up forcibly at five thirty every morning, telling my morning brain that it was eight thirty and that I was already late for school. Sasha and Alexandre’s boisterous argument today would set my sleep adjustment back for days now, and I would continue waking up too early until Thursday, at least.

I groaned and drew the pillow over my head in attempt to drown out the Russians, but Sasha appeared to have taken to whapping her broomstick against my window when she got especially frustrated and thus, it happened often. Rather than chastising the Russians as I wished I could, and risk Alexandre never coming to help us change our light bulbs or fix our air conditioning, I solved my problem and rolled out of bed. Zombie-walking into the kitchen, I flipped the switch of the coffee maker, (which my mother filled nightly with coffee beans and filters so she wouldn’t have to open her eyes in the morning until she was appropriately caffeinated) and watched the heaven-sent substance dribble into my mug.

“It’s ok,” the coffee maker chirped when my mug was full. “Your day is going to be ok. You have me.”

I gave the machine a grateful pat and let the mug sear my fingertips for several seconds. It was another daily ritual. But this one was solely my own.

A thud issued from the back bedroom, which could only mean that my mother too had decided to flop out of bed. She stumbled into the kitchen, eyes shrouded by a sleep mask and her fingers dragging along the wall so she could feel her way to the coffee. She looked like a hangover personified. Selflessly, I handed her my mug, and waited for the coffee maker to dribble me out another one.

“Morning, sweetie,” she sighed, finally removing her eye mask and conceding to let the light in.

“Rough night?” I asked.

“Filled with nightmares,” she replied, consulting the coffee cup and seeming to decide she wanted it blacker. She traded it back to me with the fresh brew I’d just poured myself and took a ponderous gulp, seemingly un-nettled about the scorching heat.

“About dad?” A trace of a wince flickered in the corner of her eye.

“About work,” she corrected. Mom had taken on a new managerial position at a local clothing store called “Melvin’s.” With it, she took a pay cut, thankless hours, and an unflattering uniform, but she insisted that it was all worth it to get away from that “insufferable brute,” otherwise known as Phil Steinmetz, otherwise known as my father.

“The customers were returning the new Grace Ellen line because the seams of the fabric would wind around their neck and strangle them in their sleep,” Mom elaborated, sinking into a chair in the middle of the table. Even though she was the newly instated head of household, she was also a creature of routine, and would never let herself occupy the head seat.

I didn’t tell her about my dream about all my friends back in Fairfax hanging up a cast list for their production of Robin Hood, and who specified that you had to be a resident of the state of Virginia in order to be cast, effectively kicking me out of the play and their clique.

But I felt like telling her.

I changed the subject instead.

“So besides dealing with possessed Grace Ellen lingerie, what’ve you got going on today?”

“I should be asking you the same thing,” Mom stated. “You’re the one without an agenda.” She seemed to accuse me of this, like it was somehow my fault that I’d been moved from my safe haven in Virginia and uprooted to Hell’s foothills in Colorado.

“Season twelve of the Bachelor finally came to Insta-play on Netflix.”

“Don’t overload yourself, now,” Mom cautioned sarcastically, then tipped the now nearly drained mug into her mouth to eviscerate any remnants of coffee that might cling to the mug’s dregs. She pushed in her chair and disappeared again into her bedroom, leaving my question unanswered and a day of eternal boredom before me. Television seemed my best option.

The TV set was demon possessed. For the life of me, I could not figure out how to turn the cable on. My mom inherited the forty-inch flat screen TV from the divorce, which took up more than half our living room wall. Because it sat so directly on the wall, I swore mold that inhabited the ceiling would certainly descend and creep around the edges of the TV screen until only faint images flickered behind a layer of bacteria. The apartment smelled like its previous occupants may have caught the black plague and died from it, and the corpses were now rotting in the air conditioning system, which might explain why it was sputtering out occasional lukewarm wisps of atmosphere rather than substantial cool waves of air. The walls of the apartment looked ready to collapse into each other at any moment, but the apartment was so small, and the walls so thin, that even if they were to collapse on top of me, I doubted very highly that they would do much damage to my body. Everything about the apartment was dank and depressing, and especially if the TV was not working, I didn’t really feel like staying inside of it today.

A dilemma: The coffee had apparently worked its way through my system, which meant bladder ants were now marching through my bloodstream, making me feel exceptionally… wiggly. Which meant that I had to use the toilet. There were two problems with this: firstly, I wasn’t entirely sure that the apartment’s previous occupant’s STD’s weren’t still lingering on the toilet seat, even after I had squirted the expanse of porcelain down with enough bleach to sear the skin. Secondly, this toilet made an exceptionally large flush, and being a quirky creature by nature, I admit that loud noises frightened me a lot. It was a childhood fear, admittedly, stemming back to some deep-seated faith that a monster lurked in the hole at the bottom of the toilet and could only reach out and grab me when I flushed the toilet and set him free. This toilet seemed to remind me of the childhood monster, and sometimes I put off going to the bathroom just to avoid that particularly alarming rumble.

In the end, Mother Nature got the best of me.

“Elly!” My mother called from the bathroom a few moments later, “I don’t know what it is about this place that has rendered you incapable of flushing the toilet, but I want you to target what it is, and nip that habit it the bud!” I cringed as the water thundered through the pipes in the walls.

Needless to say, it took little to no coaxing to propel me from the new, yet decrepit apartment that morning. After my mother had exhausted the hot water supply and left me with a tepid shower, I placed my foot upon the doormat and decided to spread my wings; I was off to discover what Colorado had to offer.

And apparently, all Colorado had to offer me was a nosebleed. After wandering underneath pine trees for twenty minutes, blood came pouring from my nose as though blinking had flipped a spigot in my sinuses. Cursing the Rocky Mountain altitude and trudging back to my apartment, I ripped off my t-shirt, which was already a lost cause to the O-negative bloodstains and used it as a tissue. Thank goodness for camisoles.

I lied upside down on the cement steps outside my apartment, hoping that this gravitational resistance would quell the bleeding. Tiny haloed pigtails appeared above me.

“Did you escape from the crazy house?” the pigtails asked.

“Sorry?”

“Did you escape from the mental institution?” The pigtails amended. I righted myself, so this small seven-year-old child didn’t have a halo of sun glaring in my eyes and I could get a better squint at her. She looked concerned.

“Is that a metaphorical mental institution, or an actual mental institution?” I asked her, relieved to find that my nosebleed was starting to clot.

“I dunno,” she said innocently. “Do you live there?” She pointed at the gated building across the parking lot from us.

“No, I replied. I live there.” I pointed at the crap hole.

“So, you aren’t crazy?” She considered me deeply, as if she was strapping my soul up to a lie detector inside her brain.

“No.” I stated firmly. “I just have a nosebleed.”

“Darcy!” A mother called from the balcony on the third floor, and she darted up the steps, pausing to add an “Ick!” and a droplet of blood on the pavement, a droplet that had escaped from the t-shirt dam I was currently jamming up my nose.

As the nose ooze subsided to a minor trickle, I turned my focus to the building across the parking lot that had, thus far, completely eluded my attention. As if this place could get any worse, apparently, now I was living in close proximity to a loony bin. How charming.

Morning Rivalry.

2011-10-03T08:46:00.001-06:00

I'm a morning person, I just am. I take pride in it, I suppose. Every morning I like to push the limit to see how functional I am at any given hour in the morning. Can I grade papers at 5:00 AM? Can I write papers at 6:00 AM? Can I read and comprehend Proust at 7:00?

Even though I'm usually a little groggy, I really do enjoy the 7:00 AM hour the most. I feel like it's not early enough to be obnoxious, but it's still early enough to belong to me and me only.

But Not So this week! This week, the inn has tenants directly above us who are early birds. And they are not doing the quiet, reflective, "getting the worm" kinds of things that I like to do in the morning. No.

They are clomping around like hippopotami in high heels. They are shouting and laughing like it's noon! They seem to be eating jackhammers for breakfast, and pacing back and forth while they do it. They are dropping frying pans on their floor (my ceiling). They are sneezing at uncomfortably high volumes!! And I swear on my life they chose 7:00 AM to rearrange all the furniture in the inn. They are “early-birding” all over the place and it makes me mad.

My worm, Early Birds! MINE!

Morning Lullabies

2011-09-29T12:21:00.000-06:00

Lately Jeremy’s been playing me this little lullaby to lull me to sleep, which usually helps me wake up on the right side of the bed. Several mornings ago, I woke up holding Jeremy’s hand. I don’t know who initiated the hand-holding session, but I felt perfectly romantic and a little bit like Ron and Hermione when they fell asleep holding hands in the seventh Harry Potter. And I apologize for another “Now I’m married OMG OMG blog” but being married is still such a novelty to me, and it’s like I got the holographic Charmander, so naturally I need to talk about it.

Waking up hand-in-hand is sublime. You feel like you've just dreamed an epic adventure together. I think one of the best parts of being married is The Morning Cuddle (and no, this is not a euphemism). When sleep has healed the wounds of last nights’ homework. When you can’t yet remember the ever-generating To Do list for the day. Where you can just tangle your knees together and transform into awake-ness, slowly and gradually and with a friend who wants you to stay in the covers just as badly as you want yourself to stay.

Jeremy, can we still cuddle when we're old?

This Is What My Husband Does for Fun

2011-09-27T11:13:00.000-06:00

He builds these. For fun. Welcome, BYU, to modern web conventions, efficient searches, and accessible design.

For your viewing and using pleasure:

Boredinprovo.com

My Personal Fear Factor

2011-09-19T08:59:00.001-06:00

For some people, it's public banisters and door handles. For others, it's the ice at restaurants, and after having worked at a restaurant for three years, I can affirm that you probably ought to be disgusted by what swims in there. But not me! I'm not scared of toilet seats or bottoms of purses or even snotty-nosed toddlers. I've never really been a antibacterial-toting germ phobe (well, I guess except for a brief spell during the Swine flu epidemic). But there is one thing that sends the "sick nasties" dancing through my bloodstream:

Yes. Loofahs.

Don't be trusting of their strange, colored innocence. These puppies are germ factories. Germ Central. Bacteria Absorbents!

Oh my gosh, they gross me out so much. Something about the softness of my skin post shower suggests that they've been scrubbing off all my dead skin cells, and I'm not entirely trusting that those skin cells made it down the drain.

In my world, Bath Time is Supreme and the Loofah is King. I replace the Loofah regularly. I rinse and wash it meticulously. At one point, I even had two loofahs so as not to cross-contaminate their purposes (Don't think too much about this).

So when Jeremy off-handedly mentioned that he borrowed my loofah recently, I can't say that my reaction was as Suave (shower joke) as I would have hoped. It went something like this:

Jeremy: Hey Sierra, I borrowed your loofah, I hope you don't mind.

Sierra: (Visibly losing all color in my face) You... I'm sorry... you.... what?

Jeremy: I used your loofah.

Sierra: (Reaching for something I could lower myself onto to keep from passing out) But... honey, why did you do that?

Jeremy: Cause you bought me that body wash, and... I'm sorry? Was that a problem?

Sierra: No! No... Um... Just-just...just... NEVER DO IT AGAIN!!!

(At this point I went on a rampage, pouring Jeremy's shower gel down the drain and laughing maniacally while I did it. Clearly, a switch had flipped.) *

This is why I will be stopping by the drug store today to locate a loofah for Jeremy. He expressed preference in a manly loofah, so I hope I can find a black one with skulls all over it. But it's worth whatever great length I have to go to, because Jeremy's shower gel is expensive and smells really good, so I would hate to see another bottle down the drain.

*-Story may have been embellished. The fear is real.

The Perks of Being an Inn-Dweller

2011-09-17T16:40:00.000-06:00

Several days ago, Jeremy and I came home to our basement of an inn apartment, and our bathroom sink (which is the entry way to our home, very welcoming) was filled to the very top with strange black sediment. On the top of the sediment sat a green, perfectly healthy little leaf. It was picturesque almost. But also slightly unnerving. Our landlord sent over the repairman to investigate, where from our pipe he proceeded to remove two very healthy twigs. There was no other sign of foliage, but we are curious to see if a zinnia bush blossoms out of our shower head sometime soon.

Other perks include: the fact that we have a set of highly versatile neighbors. Most of the time the inn-dwellers are very normal. They park their cars and grin embarrassedly when you make eye contact and they see that they are going to the nice part of the mansion while we descend to the bellows. But one time, we got some domestic disputers on the floor above. It began with stamping feet that shook our roof, and a muffled argument, and then the detectable outlandish screeches of “I HATE YOU! I. HATE. YOU.”

Another time, I had a wreath of Christmas Jingle bells that hadn’t quite made it from my car to the house in the move. This was while I was still living by myself and waiting for Jeremy to move in with me. One night, I heard a disembodied tinkle beside my bedroom window. Convinced that someone had broken into my car and taken my bells out for a midnight jingling, I called Jeremy in distress. He came to my aid, did some nighttime poaching, only to discover that the jingler was, in fact, a sweet little kitty who just wanted to keep my window company.

All of this being said, I love our little basement apartment. I feel like every day, despite the new quirks, and despite the fact that there are no doors, and that the bathroom is in the entryway and that the tiles are loose, I could live in this place forever, or at least another two years. Besides, if China takes over the world, Jeremy and I have a hiding place behind a shelf of books that you’d never expect.

Honeymoon Highlights

2011-08-27T10:57:00.003-06:00

Here is a photo journey of our Honeymoon to Victoria, British Columbia.

After a long day of airplaning, ferrying, and bussing to the island, we made it in time to see the legislative buildings all lit up. If the Eiffel Tower lights up, and Victoria's legislative building lights up, can't we at least put Twinkle Light Mustaches on Mt. Rushmore?

Please note, despite the hours of mass transit and lack of sleep, Jeremy and I went to great pains to ensure our hair still looked good. Our server captured the good hair experience nicely. Also, he somehow managed to get the legislative building in the background without any window glare. He got a big tip, even though we weren't entirely certain of Canadian tipping customs.

There is a very specific sort of gear for whale watching in Canada. A coat that makes you look distinctively Oompa Loompa.

I had a soft spot for these lazy seals. The tour guide called them rock sausages. I thought that was a little unfair. I think they at least look like burritos.

This was the alpha sea lion of the pack, and a seagull coming to poop on him because that's what seagulls do.

A mature male bald eagle! Thank heavens for optical zoom and a cool new camera, Penrods.

These are our Orca Whale friends. They were a little cliquey at first, but they warmed right up to us in the end. They swam right underneath our boat, thereby welcoming us into their pod.

Let it be known, henceforth and forevermore, that I, Sierra Lynn Robinson Penrod, rode a scooter all by myself. I got up to 30 km per hour, and slowed down several cars. All were patient and kind to me because I would mouth "I'm so sorry" to them at red lights. Also, Jeremy made me pull over periodically so they could pass me and my slow scooter (it was the scooter's fault, I assure you).

Somewhere hidden in the shadows of the Butchart Gardens is a honeymooning couple. Since it was our honeymoon and all, we liked to stick to dark corners... :P

We were happy to emerge from the shadows however to see the splendor of this pretty place.

I just love the shots of the plenteous fields of gorgeous flowers, and the gardens arranged by color so nicely. Also, I am shocked to find that plenteous is actually a word.

There is, how you say, a butterfly in this picture.

This is not a joke. This is actually a flower. We couldn't believe it either. It's like when Jackson on Gilmore Girls crossed a kumquat and a raspberry and got a Raspquat.

This is to remind Jeremy what my favorite flower is. It's a dahlia. And it is nice.

Put your glasses on for this one, the locals never did get picture-taking with our Ultra Deluxe Thank You Penrods Camera quite right. It's blurry, but we're happy and there's a heart in the bench, so it made the cut.

These were the Japanese Gardens. They were SO cool but our photos don't do them justice quite the same way. But I felt like Turning Japanese, I really think so, the whole time.

Now it's REALLY concrete. Jeremy PINKY PROMISED me he would help me with a garden one day. But just in case, I may use this picture years down the road insisting Jeremy PINKY PROMISED he wouldn't make me go to a football game, or Jeremy PINKY PROMISED he would take the trash out for the rest of our lives.

This begins the food reel, Jeremy's favorite part of the trip. This was my butternut squash ravioli. Also, good hair.

This was Jeremy's seafood risotto. He won that day. It was to die for. Also, he's wearing a cardigan, and I don't hate it.

This is my lobster and Jeremy's Surf and Turf. Next time, I won't get the whole lobster. I did not take joy in that particular journey.

This was our exploding dessert! Americans! Take note! SPARKLERS IN CELEBRATORY DESSERTS! I repeat: SPARKLERS IN CELEBRATORY DESSERTS!

(And, for good measure, in case you weren't listening: sparklers in celebratory desserts.)

AND PANSIES IN CELEBRATORY MOCKTAILS!

AND WHITE CHOCOLATE CONGRATULATORY REMARKS! Henceforth! Forevermore!

The husband might object to the photo editing I cooked up here, but this concludes our journey to Vancouver Island.

Thanks Husband Mine! Such a good trip!

Things I'm Learning about my Husband in Bed

2011-08-25T16:16:00.002-06:00

Things I’m Learning about My Husband in Bed

Unless he has the exact right pillow under the exact right place under his neck, he will snore. Sometimes his snores are not just snores—sometimes they are long, drawn-out, cavernous bellows. Sometimes they are little sizzle snores that start low and deep at the grumble pack in his throat, and then travel up to his nose where they peter into a dull wheeze.

Also he talks in his sleep. Last night he woke me up so we could have this conversation:

Jeremy: Harang the Mitsu Plank.

Me: (Consulting the clock. 5:30 AM) Huh?

Jeremy: (With a little more desperation) Harang the Mitsu Plank!

Me: (Desperately searching for meaning in this through a cloud of sleep haze) What, Jeremy?

Jeremy: (Definitely frustrated now) Harang the Mitsu Plank! Psshh. Gorglefunk (At this point, Jeremy rolled over defiantly, and promptly began snoring again).

But sleeping Jeremy was on finest form on our honeymoon, when I woke up to Jeremy humming a delightful little tune. Assuming he was awake, I tapped on his shoulder and his body seized, as if he was being pulled from a coma. He allowed his eyes to focus, probably as surprised to wake up to a wife as I still am to be waking up to a husband.

Me: That was a pretty song love—Whatchoo singin?

Jeremy: Was I singing?

Me: Yes, and it sounded like the theme song from CatDog.

Jeremy: I don’t know the theme song from CatDog. But I do know the theme song to Angry Beavers. I can play it on the trumpet (he hums it, to prove it).

We spent 3:00 AM in Victoria singing and humming all the old Nickelodeon theme songs from our youth, and then cuddling until sleep overtook us. I am finding bedtime to be one of the greatest learning experiences of all…. Now I know the Angry Beavers theme song. You don’t? Oh, Gorglefunk.

The Mean Reds and Wedding Reminiscences

2011-08-24T22:20:00.000-06:00

Whine Whine Whine Whine Whine. That's what I've been doing all day. This is because I've been annoyingly bed-ridden all day as I combat some sort of sickness that I feel like I don't rightly deserve. Yet, I am so lucky to have a husband, that's right, a husband, who not only listened to me whine all day, but held my hand while I did it. Makes the Mean Reds (which is what Audrey Hepburn calls grouchy days) much more bearable.

Speaking of husband, I should probably mention that we got married! Remembering this also makes the Mean Reds go away. Which is why I am going to devote the last bit of strength I have tonight to posting about the wedding and honeymoon, and then I think my avid campaigns to publicize the wedding will come to a close officially.

First of all, a hearty "thank you" is required to everyone involved with putting this wedding together. Thanks for coming to both receptions, for spoiling us rotten with beautiful gifts, and thank you for celebrating with us. That being said, there are a few special thanks that need to be given specifically.

Thanks to A Simple Sugar, Deb Christopherson, Bethany Jackman, Dee Robinson, and Dana Rees, who helped us do this wedding on a budget and still make everything completely and one hundred percent beautiful. You need desserts, videography, cakes, flowers, or photography, they've got you covered.

Thanks to the Bridesmaids and Groomsmen, many of you who traveled many miles for me to boss you around for a day. Also, thanks for being, by far, the best-looking wedding party of all time. You pulled off the vision nicely, and looked like stunners with those croquet mallets.

Thanks also to the Penrod family, who threw a beautiful reception in California, and thanks to Fawn who completely outdid herself (even though I hear that's how events by Fawn usually go). As soon as I can get my hands on my own copies of photos from this reception, I will post about this, because the pictures will be worth seeing. It was so much fun, so classy, and an event to remember, I am sure. Plus, those in attendance got to sample Fawn's "Cherry Berries on a Cloud," and those who did so probably recall that it was like being transported instantly to Heaven.

And thanks to the Robinson clan for putting up with Bridezilla, for spending countless hours hand-making decorations, for stringing lights, for having brilliant ideas like croquet and badminton, for making the vision happen, and for funding a seriously beautiful wedding. The whole day went without a hitch, or at least, if there were hitches, thanks family for hiding them from me. I love you guys.

And thanks to my Heavenly Father, for giving me Jeremy. Especially on days like day, I am so eternally grateful I get to be with him forever. I am thankful for his crooked front tooth, and grateful for the way he hums the harmony along with music we are listening to, and I am thankful for his sweet kisses, and for his waking up in the middle of the night and holding my hair back for an hour, and still thinking I'm beautiful after all is said and done.

And thanks reader, if you actually made it through my thanktimony. Here, have some pictures, with love from Bethany Jackman and Fawn Penrod.

Everyone in my wedding party was so stinking gorgeous.

The Groomsmen. Half of them are single and "ready to mingle," so let me know if you see any eye candy you'd like to sample.

The Bridesmaids in all their glory. I totally got Pippa-ed by these gorgeous girl, but it makes for some nice photos, so let the beauty of these girls keep on coming.

Mass influx of sisters. You know what? You can never have enough.

I have sweet spots for every one of these little kiddos. How could you not?

This is the King and Queen Table. I have to say, it turned out rather nice.

Flowers by Deb, Books by Grandma Pat's and my Mother's ponderous library, and silhouettes by Kristy Robinson. Inspiration by Bethany Lee.

Cake by the Glorious Dana Rees.

The venue: The Manor House. I'd never have guessed when I learned about this historic house in elementary school that I'd be celebrating my wedding here one day. Kinda looks like the White House, eh?

Oh, there's my groom. He's so special. Gosh I'm wild about him.

Desserts by A Simple Sugar. There was nothing Simple about this Sugar though.

Photo credit: Bethany Jackman. I really like this one.

Handsome musical handsome handsome handsome groom. I'm so giddy just thinking about him.

Where all the real goodness took place. Such a special moment.

So neat to have some of the most important people in our lives here to see us kiss like this.

Photo credit: Fawn Penrod. That breeze felt nice.

I'm Kinda Tired of Not Being Famous

2011-07-03T20:08:00.000-06:00

I never was much of an actor in high school, and people tire of hearing about it. I was just a little girl with such ambitions, and probably a little case of big britches. I knew I wasn’t good enough to be a famous actor, so I decided to conquer the world in other ways.

I seldom get jealous, but I will admit, as all my friends flock to the coasts and pursue their post-graduate careers, sometimes little demons of envy poke their pitchforks in the pit of my stomach. I have so many friends having success in the actor-realm, who are truly brave enough to live their bicoastal dreams. I have friends doing internships with Big Deal Art Curators in Santa Barbara and Big Name Magazines in New York. And here I sit, in Little Old Utah not graduating yet and working at a restaurant.

I’m jealous because I’m impatient.

I want it to be my turn for a big, exciting career.

There is this obnoxious worldly part of me that recognizes that I’m not getting any name recognition right now, I'm not building my ultimate awesome resume, and I'm not adding tremendously to my arsenal of talents at the moment. I’m not making any effort to go after my personal career goals, and for that reason, sometimes it feels like they are passing me by. And you know what, it's all my fault! If I really want to do something, then I've really got to do something, right?!

So I am beginning today, truly and zealously pursuing one of my biggest dreams: I am going to finish my novel. I am going to force myself to write something every single day, even if my muse is not cooperating with me. Even if it’s just a paragraph per day. Because that is something that I can do. And I don’t have to be on a coast to do it.

Does anyone have any tips on how to stay motivated, and... you know... finish something?

My Mormon (Soon-To-Be) Housewife Blog/ Photo Dump

2011-06-28T00:58:00.000-06:00

I cursed myself: I preemptively blogged! I figured that my visit at the lady doctor would be the genesis of hilarity; in actuality, it was rather routine.

Thus, I’ve been avoiding my little neglected blog. I’ve been haunted by the idea that I must make something funny that… may or may not have been funny, and may just come across as crass. And so I’ve avoided the blog world entirely.

A Disclaimer: This is more “journal-esque” than I typically write. But since my journal is neglected these days too, I figure this is an appropriate forum for my goings-on.

I’ve been watching my the apologies on the blog reel rack up as my blogger friends poetically admit that they’ve been too busy relishing the sun and flattering the butterflies to maintain their blogs. Sometimes I wish my summer consisted of making ripples in the pool with my toes. Instead, I’ve been frantically and gloriously busy.

Doing what, you ask?

Here’s the condensed version (maybe just for posterity’s sake if it fails to interest the masses):

1. I’ve been working four jobs! With varying degrees of success. I’ve been maintaining my TA position in the Theater and Media Department, and loving it with my whole heart and soul. I am a Writing Fellow for an educational law class at BYU, and then occasionally managing content for Jeremy’s web design business. Finally, I admit, I took the walk of shame back to the old Tucanos. It’s a walk that many make with empty pockets and heads hung low. And truth be told, my experience back there has been nothing but delightful. You may even think I’m being sarcastic, but I assure you, I’m not! It’s been fun!

2. 2. I’ve been sending invitations, making decorations, and receiving congratulations for the upcoming wedding, which creeps ever closer every day. It’s been far more stressful than I’d ever imagined, but there are some gratifying moments as well. For instance: Wearing your sister’s wedding dress. Nothing could be more special. It’s my favorite part of the wedding (besides the groom, of course), and trying it on makes me feel like such a bride. And you know what, when I don’t feel like a complete Bride-zilla, being a bride feels wonderful. (Pictures not included because Jeremy can't see!)

3.

3. 3. I’ve been battling some serious bouts of anxiety, be it my own or my family members’. The Robinson clan is seeing lots of big changes this year, and while we have momentary moments of panic, I think something characteristic of our little family is our resiliency. When the tough keeps coming, we keep punching back. Eventually, we come out conquerors. But you could probably still send some prayers our way.

4. 4. Jeremy and I put a deposit on our first little starter apartment in Provo. And it definitely has character. It is at the basement of a 100-year-old inn. The entryway is our bathroom and there’s no living room, but there IS a bookshelf with one book on it. If you TURN the BOOK, it opens a secret passageway. It makes my heart sing. To quote my good friend Eleanore Steinmetz: “Sierra, that’s incredible and awful! Incredible for your writing career, awful because we may never see the Will Be Sierra Penrod again. You’ll be stuffed away writing a Potteresque novel in your secret passageway.”—Is it bad that I kind of hope so?

This is our new kitchen, with our new table and chairs! We have a new stove and a newly installed fridge. Also, white tiles.

This is the before shot of our bedroom.

Don't be fooled by this seemingly innocuous bookshelf.

Or our (so far just MY) giant mountain of stuff.

Seriously nothing sexier than a man doing the handy work. Jeremy's been hard at work making all our cabinets close tight and straight. He makes living in a fixer upper so much fun.

This is the secret passage way I told you about! Aren't you just riddled with excitement? Aren't you just dying to peek inside?

This is the bedroom's current state. This is just my stuff, since Jeremy won't move in until we are properly wedded. The bedspread is likely to change. The bear stays.

Another picture of my handyman. Couldn't resist.


My handiwork. I'm no decorator, but books do a nice job of looking nice on their own.

5.I5. I've been showered! I had a lovely and classy and slightly embarrassing bridal shower thrown by my sisters Bethany and Kristy and my best friend Chloe. I had some transcontinental friends, Kelsey and Jenni travel in for the affair, which made me feel so very special. My friends far and wide spoiled me (and Jeremy) rotten.

Wouldn't you like to know what was in this present?

Jes and Caitlin came even though Jes really should have been having her new baby girl that day.

Just because the photo loaded weird doesn't mean I love these girls any less.

Some of my oldest and dearest friends at the shower.

6. 6. I’ve been family-ing in Colorado, California, and Utah! We had a great weekend getaway where we could let go of the wedding stress and just enjoy our new family members and relax in the Colorado mountains.

My aunt Margie got married! Never a more deserving bride, and we sure do love Mike too!

This is sweet Doug who brought a bouquet of flowers to his mommy. Thank goodness this woman is procreating!

Teeny has indeed bonded with "Uncle Jeremy." And to be honest, I think he has a little soft spot for her too.

Jeremy and I in the Mountains on Memorial Day. My family is patriotic. Please note the flag my father hung on the tree.

Jeremy sharing his love for entomology with the smalls. Kiana was especially excited that he caught a butterfly for her.

7. Mere moments after I had just been asserting to Jeremy that I was man enough to change a tire--I got a flat tire and had to put my money where my mouth was. Conveniently, I was wearing overalls that day (Because the 90's are coming back, don't you know?!)

Dang straight.

7. 8. I’ve been spending time with my future husband and enjoying every single drop of time I get to just relax, cuddle, and be with him. We are that gross couple that accidentally alienates their friends with their PDA. But you’re only engaged once, and through the stress, I am loving it all.

Oh my gosh. My blog is becoming a Mormon Housewife Blog. Next blog, I will repent, I promise.

You've Been Warned.

2011-05-24T08:51:00.000-06:00

I’m afraid my in-laws are in for a surprising treat: I am an over-sharer. I can’t help it. It’s genetic. I hold to the theory that if something embarrassing happens to you, you must immediately inform six of the nearest passer-bys, and then blog about it in order to alleviate humiliation. So frequently I do “over-share.” You may reference the following blogs for proof.

http://sierralr.blogspot.com/2008/04/gag-reflexes-warning-extreme-content.html

http://sierralr.blogspot.com/2010/01/humiliating-caution-pg-13-content.html

http://sierralr.blogspot.com/2011/03/potty-humor-pg-13.html

So with that forewarning in place, I want to warn the masses, but most especially my in-laws, that a blog about my experience at the lady doctor’s is soon to come.

Please still love me after.

Our Story

2011-05-18T16:22:00.000-06:00

When Jeremy Penrod and I first met, I looked like this:

It was in that pivotal moment in Stage Makeup Class, winter 2009, that he probably knew that I was the one for him. While the other girls in the class hauled in male models to apply a beard (thus the reason for Jeremy’s visit in class that day), I decided to skip the hassle of tracking down a boy that would come in early to get spirit gum applied to his face, and apply spirit gum and a beard to my own face instead. My thought process was like this: “Who can resist a lady in whiskers, right?”

Right. Apparently Jeremy Penrod was smitten.

It took several months (and several significant others) in between for Jeremy and I to finally be on the same page. When one significant other and I severed ties, Jeremy pounced. Knowing that I was an avid blogger, he eagerly accepted my request to re-vamp my blog (this very blog, in fact). Rather than taking me on elaborate dates and asking me what color my toothbrush was, Jeremy synthesized my personality and applied it to this page, seeing as he is an extremely talented web designer. We got to know each other in those waning hours of the evening, and Jeremy Penrod began to heal my troubled soul and tame my wild heart. He made me feel special again. He let me know that it was ok to be human. He validated my emotions and fostered my ability to feel. What a special guy he is. How lucky I feel.

On Friday, May 6^th, Jeremy picked me up at my door looking extra handsome. As we walked to his car, I plucked one of the dandelions that have infested Provo from the ground and made a wish that I would get proposed to that night.

We set off for Happy Sumo to pick up the sushi (my favorite) that Jeremy had pre-ordered, and headed up Provo Canyon, where we often retreat when we want to get away from the world. We pulled up to our park and headed deep into the dark. We stumbled upon a small picnic set up that was barely visible in the darkness.

You know those boys that shame the guitar, those boys that serenade you with the ONLY SONG THEY KNOW, which is probably “Hey There Delilah,” and they want you to swoon and think that they are oh-so-drippy-with-awesomeness? Jeremy is not one of these boys. First of all, he is actually good. And second, Jeremy often refuses to serenade me, even after I beg and beg, and it is only on exceptionally lucky occasions that Jeremy will whip out his guitar and sing me a song.

This night was an exceptionally lucky occasion. He played “our song,” shaking with nerves, then unearthed the ring box and asked me the question girls dream about for a lifetime. But I had to say yes before I could see the ring.

So I did.

And then after sweet kisses and happy rejoicing, we raced, hand in hand, up a hill and to a pavilion where we could see my ring in all its splendor. We clambered on top of a picnic table and held each other close.

And so, I’m engaged to Jeremy Penrod. And I mean this without an ounce of sarcasm and with all sincerity and elation—Lucky, lucky me!

This is Jeremy expressing his excitement about the engagement.

These are the people that helped Jeremy execute the perfect proposal.

The ring that Jeremy wouldn't let me see 'till after I said yes.

A Literally Sweet Victory

2011-05-06T17:15:00.000-06:00

Fear not, friends. This will not become a cooking blog. But I did want to report on my relative success that was the Nutella cupcake.

No, No, it’s no “Cocoa Bean,” or “Sweet Tooth Fairy.” But thanks to Jeremy’s manly whisking ability, my immutable persistence, and pulling the cupcakes out of the oven five minutes too early, I think we ended up with a real hit here!

Be proud of me a little?

Jumping In... Cupcake Style

2011-05-05T09:02:00.000-06:00

I'm a complete disaster with an apron and a whisk. I missed that part of "Life 101" where you learn to cook and bake and stuff. Recently, however, I've felt this weird magnetic pull to all things actually edible instead of processed... and I've been cooking! A lot! To great success by-and-large.

But mostly, I just leave the baking to the pros. Baking is very different. Baking is hard. There are a lot of mistakes to make when you are baking. Typically I make all of them, and that is just with the Betty Crocker mixes too.

But not today! Today, I found a recipe for these:

And you know what? I'm going to make these dang NUTELLA cupcakes if it kills me.

These are probably some of the more advanced cupcakes in the world. From what I understand, it involved injecting nutella into the center with a pipette. I'm still trying to understand the science to this. It's probably madness to start baking with a cupcake of this caliber.

But I promise you this: These cupcakes will not look this beautiful. They might be burnt and they will likely be crumbled. But watch out world.

Today, Sierra Robinson is putting on an apron.

Writer Fingers

2011-05-03T23:11:00.000-06:00

I've never felt quite at the top of my writing game as I did when I was in France. I was an au pair for a lovely little french family, the Michea's, and they had a charming little balcony that overlooked their little villa. I could lean over the railing and touch the romantic laundry billowing from the romantic laundry lines. Nightly I would pull up this little table, while Laetitia would make me a cup of Lipton herbal apple cinnamon tea (a treat I still cannot find in the states), and I would light this little lantern and write by tea light. And it was magical. All the writer powers that be were with me those nights.

Yet writing is a fickle talent.

Sometimes the words through your veins like blood cells, and sometimes they clot the second they reach the page.

But tonight, I've got the fingers. So I put on my french singer mix, lit myself a tea light, and I am going to let the words come out.

Tell me, dear readers, what are your talents? Are they fickle too?

Tell Me True

2011-04-28T00:27:00.000-06:00

So, a recent survey of Google Analytics yielded some interesting results. I have readers in Yemen!? What?!

Basically, I am curious to see where my blogger readership actually comes from. Who is simply surveying my site, while who is actually reading it? Please comment on this blog and provide your state or country, but you can exclude all personal username info.

However, if you would like to tell me anymore about yourself, I am dead curious to know :).

Thanks friends!

I'm finally hardcore.

2011-04-26T08:38:00.000-06:00

You must understand: I am a pansy. I have reason to suspect that I am cold-blooded. I am always cold if the thermometer drops below 70 degrees. And even sometimes if it is 70 degrees, my feet are typically cold anyways.

So whenever I see a “hardcore jogger” jogging in any sort of inclement weather, I give them a vicarious shudder from my passing car, and burrow deeper into my sweater.

However, since it’s basically the summer months, I have decided that it’s about the right time in my life to finally work jogging into my life’s regimen. So this morning, resolute in my determination, I looked out the window. If there is even a teensy cloud in the sky, my jogging outfit consists of the following:

1. 1.Whatever shirt I was wearing to bed…

2. 2. Covered by a warmer long sleeve shirt

3. 3. Customary jogging shorts

4. 4. Woolen Leggings beneath the shorts.

5. 5. Sweatpants on top of that.

6. 6. Snowboarding socks

7. 7. Also, usually last nights smeary make up to ward of creepy construction workers that whistle at you while you jog. Gives me peace of mind anyway.

Still, I braved the perfectly fine looking morning and began my jog.

Have you ever been in one place and it’s not raining, and then step into a place right next door and it IS raining in that place? I literally ran headlong into a storm that passed over my apartment and began torrential downpour right along my path. Not only that, but winds reached hurricanic speeds, yanking the blossoming white flower petals from the trees. It looked like I was running through a tornado of snow petals! I realized with pleasure that if I had driven by myself in a car, I would have shivered vicariously for myself!

On my way home (which, admittedly occurred five minutes after the start of my jog), I passed a bunch of other hardcore joggers along the way. Rather than pitying and admiring them, I finally felt a sense of solidarity with them (even if they were wearing shorts and t-shirts). With pride and pleasure, I crossed “being a hardcore jogger” off my life’s bucket list in one day!

I’m never doing that again!

Don't you just like the look on her face? Hardcore. Determined. Warm.

Noah Installment 2: Hand Bell Day

2011-04-12T09:09:00.000-06:00

The hand bell tables indicated that it was going to be another horrible day in music class—another day where we had to shove our hands into smelly gloves worn by other smelly fifth graders, another day where we had to play “Hark the Herald, Angels Sing,” for the fiftieth time. We ushered into the classroom with various groans and found our numbered spaces on the risers with juvenile melancholy.

“No Noah today?” Asked Mrs. Reynolds, her graying eyebrow twitching with ill-disguised pleasure. Class without Noah at least made things a little easier.

The class exchanged perplexed glances. Hadn’t Noah ushered in with the rest of us? Hadn’t he uttered a dirty word under his breath when he saw the hand bell tables?

Mrs. Reynolds perched herself behind her hand bell table and began another tiresome lecture about how we were never to touch the bells (lest our fifth-gradery-ness was contagious and infected the barrel with cooties). Behind her frameless glasses, she gave us looks that could raise our blood pressure.

The first time it happened quickly. Only a few people barely spotted the massive blue cabinet door open and close behind Mrs. Reynolds’ lecture. A slight whisper exchanged ears. The next time, Noah decided to savor the reaction a little more. The cabinet door opened, just a crack, and he inserted one index finger out the crevice. Slowly, and one by one, all of his fingers joined his index. From the risers, we just saw a disembodied hand waggling his flirtatious phalanges at us. There was giggling from the risers.

Mrs. Reynolds chose to ignore it at first. Until various appendages of kept materializing from behind the cabinet door every five minutes or so. She started to blush, and get agitated as the giggles mounted. She checked her dress, and felt her bum for a wedgie. She ran her tongue across her teeth to see if breakfast was still lodged between two of them. Figuring that her appearance was normal, she strapped each one of our souls to a lie detector with her eyes, but none of us yielded the secret source of our laughter.

Finally, after a prolonged absence (Noah had a way with comedic timing), Noah decided to reveal his true identity. Slowly languishing in the laughter that sustains a class clown, Noah peeked his entire head out of the cabinet door. The risers erupted with uproarious laughter now. Mrs. Reynolds swung her head around frantically looking for the final source of the eruption, but Noah had nimbly tucked himself behind his safe haven again without nary a snap of sealing cabinets. Mrs. Reynolds was flummoxed and upset.

About midway through the class, Noah got bored or hot or something. The cabinet door opened its final time, and Noah silently crept out. The class collectively inhaled, certain that Noah would meet his doom. Noah darted right past Mrs. Reynold’s foot without being noticed. Now he was hiding underneath the hand table, so the entire class could see him except our woe-begotten teacher. Unfortunately, it seemed that there was little way to get to the risers from his current location. Then that characteristically devilish grimace slid across Noah’s face as he caught sight of Mrs. Reynolds’ foot. The class was silent, in solidarity for our comrade and his quest.

Noah reached down, every second of his hand’s dissent feeling laboriously slow, and then he pinched Mrs. Reynolds’ foot. She hopped, and yanked her gaze downward, but Noah was as quick as a jack rabbit. He withdrew his hand, and darted silently back onto his numbered spot on the risers. Mrs. Reynolds never even realized he was back. I think she even chose him to be in the first batch of students to play the hand bells that day.

You Try Being A Fifth Grade Girl

2011-04-09T09:19:00.000-06:00

Every teacher has a Noah Osborne: You know, one of those kids that, as a teacher, you’re supposed to discipline. But Noah Osbornes make you laugh so hard that you can’t even inhale enough air to support your laughter, let alone breathe out the word “Stop,” with any sort of conviction that that is what you would like them to do. Basically what I mean is that Noah Osborne was a class clown.

And he was good at it.

To paint a picture of Noah Osborne for you, I turn back to fifth grade. The Growing and Changing unit: The unit pre-adolescent girls dread with their whole hearts and souls, and the only science unit wherein pre-adolescent boys give their rapt attention. To this day, I’m not quite sure fifth grade boys, or even girls for that matter, can handle words like “ovulation.” Perhaps this story will illustrate my point.

I remember one particularly alarming video that was supposed to assuage the girls’ fears about their changing bodies. For some reason, they allowed the boys to watch it too. I still remember this unnerving narration (complete with ANIMATED VISUAL, to make everything worse): “Therefore, girls, do not fear. It is perfectly normal for one breast to grow larger than the other.” I remember as a collective female, the girls hung their heads in shame. It’s not like we had them anyway, but now we had to worry about size differentiation in addition to ovulation. The Growing and Changing unit was shockingly unfair.

Noah had been one such young male who had given this video rapt attention (and if he feels like I’m singling him out just now, I assure you, he was not the only one). That day, during recess, he decided to put his newfound knowledge into practice. Claiming, what I can only guess, that he had the bloody nose from hell, Noah pilfered an entire box of tissues. He stuffed one side of his generic boy t-shirt full to bursting with Kleenex. I can imagine that this involved a sculpting process.

The other side of his shirt, he left completely empty.

Then Noah pranced into the classroom after recess, right in front of Mrs. Covert, chest proudly jutting out and announced.

“Look! I’m a girl!”

It allayed our fears better than any dang video, that’s for sure. At least we would never look like that. We hoped.

Wanna hear the second Noah Osborne installment? Vote funny enough times and I will enlighten you with that one too.

This Blog Is About Wren

2011-03-29T08:58:00.001-06:00

Today I am going to reward myself for waking up earlier than I had to by writing a blog.

This blog is about Wren.

I don’t know Wren very well; in fact,we’ve only ever met once, but Wren is an inspiration, my latest hero, and if nothing else, Wren deserves a blog.

Wren is taking Arabic.

Wren used to be a doctor.

Wren wears a stunning green plaid polyester jacket with a tie to school every day.

And an old man cap.

Which is appropriate, because Wren is Eighty-Seven years old.

Allie introduced me:

“This is Wren,” she said. “He is 87 years old, and he is taking Arabic.”

…At which all of the wrinkles in his perfect face defied all sorts of gravity laws by dancing into a grin.

“Aren’t I stupid?” He asked, chuckling a slow chuckle.

“On the contrary,” I replied. “You are very smart, and still quite stylish.”

I don’t know why, but I just got the feeling that Wren was recently widowed. I pictured him each morning over a lonely bowl of cereal, straightening his tie and shining his shoes, because classy is the only appropriate attire for school—or at least that’s how it was back in his day. Allie later confirmed: “His wife died eight months ago. He is a retired doctor and is trying to stay busy. He is hoping to go over and be a doctor in the Middle East now.”

I call for a Hurrah for Wren! Hurrah for a man who takes on such a difficult class! Hurrah for a man that loved his wife so much that he needed such heavy distraction. Hurrah for a man of courage, a man who truly understands “Go Forth to Serve.” And Hurrah for Green Plaid Polyester Jackets too.

Hurrah for you, Wren. Hurrah for you.

Potty Humor (PG 13)

2011-03-21T17:59:00.000-06:00

My boyfriend and I have reached a level of intimacy where I am starting to get to know the way his toilet flushes. So, though I won’t yet use his bathroom without turning on the sink to create a healthy obfuscating white noise that blocks out any potential bathroom noises, he still gets in his car and drives all the way to his apartment whenever his Mother Nature beckons, so at least I’m getting comfortable with him.

And since I’ve let myself finally get comfortable with him, I have learned to spot any anomalies in his toilet’s flushing tendencies—and on my last visit to Jeremy’s restroom, there was an “anomaly.” And so after I got over my initial ten-minute shock and humiliation by pretending to casually eat my grapes and quesadillas Jeremy had just made for me, I decided it was time to test my boyfriend’s love for me.

I buried my head into his chest and asked, “Do you love me?”

Jeremy: “Yes. Why?”

Me: “How much?”

Jeremy: “What’d you do?”

Me (Barely audible): “I may have clogged your toilet.”

Jeremy (relieved and laughing): Is that all? Oh, geez.

I then immediately retreated to the couch and attempted to bury my whole body under its cushions, under the guise of needing consolation for my humiliation; really, I was just trying to bide some time for the bathroom to air out before we descended upon the Clog.

When finally we braved the Clog, I insisted that any smells present already existed. Jeremy mercifully assured me that the Clog probably lingered from a previous occupant. And then we went in. Together. Scared, but oh-so-brave.

And the toilet flushed perfectly normally. Of course.

“That’s it, Sierra!? That’s it! You didn’t even need to tell me, and I never would have known! There was nothing even wrong!”

“Jeremy!” I insisted, “It flushed different!

Jeremy (still laughing): “Did it, Sierra? Did it flush different? Did it act up? Did it misbehave?”

Me: “Yes! It did! I swear!”

Then, in the special sort of euphoria that only comes from not clogging your boyfriend’s toilet, I tackled him onto the couch, where he assured me that he could handle a lifetime of unclogging toilets with me. And then in a moment of utmost sweetness, he said to me, “Sierra, I love you. But sometimes, you’re retarded.”

It was the nicest thing anyone has ever said.

Wednesday Weirdness

2011-03-16T23:15:00.000-06:00

The weirdest thing just happened: It was a Wednesday night, and I finished all my homework for the week.

It's times like this where you want to summon all the blogger powers at be--funnel all of that creative energy that's been building inside your writer fingers for weeks but just hasn't had time to be released from your fingertips--and write something truly prolific.

But all that comes out are a few fragmented thoughts:

Concerns that gyms are only really for people that are already in shape.

Vague realizations that Disney has done bad things for females' perception of love.

Consternation about your personal uselessness in fixing Bahrain or rebuilding Japan.

Unnerving realizations that sentence combining is something you consider a hobby.

Bitterness that you never built yourself a treehouse where you could burrito yourself into a blanket and read by flashlight into the wee hours of the rainstorm.

The dull but omnipresent junior high hurt of recognizing that cliques still exist and your still not part of them.

So my dear readers, nothing profound or prolific for you tonight. Just thoughts to chew on for a bit. Also, Here's an indie photo for you to salivate over. Thought it capped off my blankness nicely.

I'm off to go read a YA lit novel. And I feel great about it.

Happy Wednesday to you.

More Important Things

2011-03-14T07:26:00.002-06:00

Last week I blogged about hair. The next day, I was humbled by one of the most important events that will probably hit this decade.

I am bound by human hands. I am bound by the frailties of the human race. I don't have the all-powerful hands of a loving God who probably wants to reach down to earth and clean everything up himself (and please, no comments about how God caused this disaster. Please), but since I believe that humans are his instruments, I want to help.

Does anyone know of ways that my small, meager, American self can get involved in the relief effort in Japan? Does anyone want to help me?

The All Important Subject: Hair

2011-03-10T12:24:00.000-07:00

I blame my Aunt Beth for this particular genetic blight. I apologize, Beth, if I embellish on your story in anyway, but this story is begging to be told, so it’s best done with a bit of color anyway.

I believe it started with a trip to Europe, a country which is not as reputably meticulous in their grooming standards as us body-wash-loving Americans. Perhaps, as an effort to embrace European culture, while still retaining her American eccentricity, my aunt Beth decided to divide her body down the middle, using her nose as the Prime Meridian. For one year, she proceeded to groom one half of her body as any body-wash-loving American should; she brushed, shaved, showered, perfumed, make-upped, etc.

The other half—she didn’t. She just… didn’t. Didn’t brush, shave, shower, perfume, or make up in any way shape or form. She was half beautiful, half banshee.

One generation later, and the right side of my hair has decided to avenge to family “half side of the hair neglect.” Essentially this means: the right side of my hair never looks as good as the left side of my hair. When I do my hair curly, the right side lays lank. When I do my hair straight, inevitably some natural wave sneaks into the right side, throwing my whole pin straight look totally off. My pony tails even look bumpier on the right side of my head! No matter how much primping, no matter how much toiling, the right side of my head is always belligerent.

This is why I have decided to take matters into my own hands. I will personally eliminate all hair unawesomeness by adding FEATHERS to the right side of my hair.

Like this:

Glasses may or may not be included.

What do you think?! I'm so excited.

Curiously Blank and Mysteriously Pristine

2011-03-08T23:25:00.000-07:00

My name is Sierra Robinson. And I haven’t purchased a new blank notebook in two days.

Sponsors, I have a problem. I am easily swayed by indie cover art and blank pages (none of this college-ruled nonsense). I purchase blank notebooks like cartons of cigarettes. Something about them speaks to me. Maybe it’s the un-cracked spine. Maybe it’s those seductively blank pages. Maybe it’s the pristine whiteness of potential.

Whatever it is, I’m obsessed.

This is my current collection of notebooks:

See what I do to them?

Check on the spine on these puppies! They’ve been written in, pasted in, and beaten into submission so much that their spine starts to splinter like crazy. And this is just the college collection. I have a whole bureau drawer + a whole 3’ by 2’ container chalk full of them back home (even though I never really understood the phrase chalk full).

Apparently, I have a lot of thoughts. And a lot of time to write them down.

While some of my journals (namely the injured spine journals) are a raging success, others are less successful.

Take this journal for instance:

I agonized for minutes about whether or not I should purchase it. I scanned the list of potential uses for this journal. I weighed the pros and cons of this journal and I decided that I simply had to have it. I decided it would be of great use to me, whatever it became.

And then.

I blew it.

I wrote down my New Years Resolutions on the first page.

And now all this book can contain is lists of New Years Resolution, and it has ended up a wasted collection of tree.

This is why I am greatly perplexed about this newest addition to my collection:

This little treasure came all the way from Europe just to be with me. It is from the Belle and Boo Collection and I highly recommend it.

But it vexes me because... right now, it has so much potential to become the next great American novel.

It could hold my deepest darkest collection of intelligent poetry.

It could contain the cure to Cancer!

But I'm terrified, petrified, immobilized because what if... what if... this British journal becomes another house of New Years Resolutions??

WHAT IF I SINGLEHANDEDLY DESTROY ITS POTENTIAL?

Friends, cast your votes: What should become of this perfect little notebook?

And remember: Please notebook responsibly.

Sh-All

2011-02-26T09:36:00.001-07:00

I think I’ve shared this with you before, but I’m not a graceful person. Nor do I ever plan on being a graceful person. When people see me coming at fast food restaurants, the employees don their ponchos and man the napkin booths, discretely dropping stacks of napkins on my food tray for the inevitability that food gets all over my shirt--or all over their shirts (I'm that spasmodic with a hamburger). Other manifestations of my lack of physical dexterity: I trip. A lot. Lately, I’m like Adele Webber, and ten points to you if you catch my allusion.

Take last night for instance: I was trying to remove my impediment boots, boots that normally are the cause of my stumbles, and in the process, I nearly fell--derriere-first--onto the floor. Were it not for my safety net of tall boy, I would have fallen to my tailbone’s demise. But you see, I’m not graceful in Vans, let alone very tall boots with large heels that aerate the lawn.

Which brings me to my point. My new boyfriend and I have a tallness problem. I’m not sure if the problem is his fault for being too tall, or my fault for being too short.

For proof, I have included the following photos:

Do you see the angle of incline that our necks are being forced to perform? Do you understand the inherent difficulties of craning? (Please note: in this picture, I am wearing three-inch heels).

And take this photo for example. See, here, the height difference doesn't actually look all that alarming.

But friends, I encourage you to look closer, or at least scroll downward.

TIPTOES!

Friends, it appears I will be condemned to heels for quite some time. I feel like perhaps I should get better insurance, or perhaps join a group called "Short Support," where we all get together and whine about not being able to get things on the top shelf, or practice wearing stilts.

Are there any Sh-All (Short Tall) couples out there who have had successful lives together that can share their words of wisdom? Would anyone like to alleviate my stress by telling us how cute we are together?

Because... honestly, truth be said in full, I'm not so worried about the height difference. I just wanted to show off my new boyfriend! Isn't he handsome? And so very tall?

My Own Attempt at Walden

2011-02-25T22:38:00.000-07:00

“To be awake is to be alive,” or so sayeth Thoreau anyway. Well said, Thoreau, I heartily agree. My genial sense of concordance with Thoreau’s aphorism was augmented this past weekend as I took to the mountains of Heber, where I could curl up on a Love Sac (antithetical to Walden Pond, perhaps, but I certainly wasn’t complaining), and ponder my semi-Walden weekend experience. Sheer bliss, my friends. Afterwards, I almost wanted to personally patch up all the holes in my clothes, and stop paying my poll taxes…(I’ve been studying Transcendentalism in American Lit. Can you tell?)

Special thanks to the Penrods for an amazing weekend.

Jeremy Fainted! He FAINTED!

2011-02-07T23:54:00.001-07:00

I collect idiosyncrasies; which is to say that I’m kind of an odd duck. One such idiosyncrasy is my peculiar affinity for having blood drawn. Since I was tested for mono in the 9th grade (test positive, thank you very much), I realized that once the needle was in, it felt kind of like a little sucker-fish sucking on a teeny hole in my arm—and for some crazy reason, I kinda liked it.

An unfortunate Robinson reality: I have yet to break the 110-pound limit required of blood donors, so I’ve never gotten to wear one of those nifty criss-crossy colored bandage thingies that you get, along with complimentary juice, that one receives after they donate. Thus, I persuaded two of my most trusted BYU acquaintances, Miss Chloe Noelle (who you’ve met before) and Sir Jeremy Penrod Esquire, to donate their red humor in my stead.

Chloe. Was. Nervous.

Jeremy was obnoxiously nonchalant.

Jeremy, after finishing the question and answer session, which sounds more akin to a PPI, was escorted to the donation chair, where they juiced his arm up with iodine and inserted an impressive needle. I played the role of the dutiful girlfriend-type-thing, and gasped and grimaced in all the right places. Jeremy charmed the male nurses, all the while maintaining a positive demeanor, and cheering Chloe on as she made her begrudging death march to her own donation chair.

Chloe. Was. Still. Nervous. She declined my invitation to hold her hand, and opted for Jeremy’s masculine (albeit a tad clammy) hand instead. The nurse was appropriately sarcastic with Chloe as me, Jess (another cheerleader), and Jeremy gathered around her and watched her squeeze the blood out of her arms. Chloe expressed her concern, not about the pinch of the needle, but of the lurking fear that she would pass out after the deed was done. Jeremy made wise cracks about the impossibility of the whole affair.

And then, he mentioned that he perhaps ought to get something to eat.

And then he turned paler than Edward Cullen.

And then I thought he was merely trying to psyche my woe-begotten friend out by falling, face-first, almost in slow motion, on top of her as the blood drained from her arm.

“Jeremy!” I said harshly. “That’s not funny! Stop faking it.”

Jess was quicker on the uptake. She realized that my boyfriend-type-thing was indeed fainting—genuinely. There was a slight panic as the nurses eased Jeremy’s pale, momentarily lifeless, and excessively limp body to the floor.

Chloe got up and got juice like it was nobody’s business.

Bathroom Stalls in Munchkin Land

2011-02-03T15:14:00.002-07:00

Standing in the middle of the junior high, with pubescent children launching at me like hand grenades in guerilla warfare, I feel sometimes like clicking my moccasin slippers together and stating three times “There’s no place like home.” The last time I was in this munchkin land, I was actually a middle-school munchkin. While I know I’m still comparatively short, it’s heartening to see that I’m at least taller than someone—or a whole sea of full of someones—even if they are 13-years-old.

I haven’t head the word “Sevie” in years, but there’s something charming about this colloquial degradation that makes me warm to these miniature humans in surprising ways. There’s something charming about walking into a classroom where all girls literally Tower over all the boys, & all of the boys who are still munchkin-sized start sounding like men as they read aloud in class. There’s something charming about the white eyeliner mistakes and the awkward hair decisions. It’s enough to render the whole experience vaguely charming in general.

But you know what is not charming? Going to the restroom (in a moment of sheer desperation, I assure you), and seeing unkind, unflattering words like “Karly Winters* is a F-Ing B****” and the like, emblazoned across the walls of the stalls.

~~I was just starting to forget how mean kids can be.~~

Though these students can be little charmers in the classroom, which I am sure is a more accurate depiction of their potential, I remember that special sort of meanness that is especially reserved for Junior High. I remember being that “sevie” that was so worried about seeing my own name on a bathroom stall. My heart aches for *Karly Winters, who can’t even pee without being reminded of her social status.

Who even brings pens to the bathroom anyways? Middle Schoolers, that’s who.

*Name changed to protect the innocent.

Warming Trends

2011-02-01T18:00:00.001-07:00

Usually, in February, the cold fronts—metaphorical and physical—start to move in. Big frosty waves amble across the airwaves, glittering on our car windows and haunting our brittle bones. The snow is incarcerating, the frost taste-able, and the clouds enveloping. But I’m finding, the most frustrating thing about Cold in February is that it is typically more of an emotional personality rather than a state of physical temperament.

But even though today, February 1, is probably one of the coldest days of the year, I’m finding that February Cold is losing conviction, giving way to temptations, and having something of a love affair with Warming Trends. Thus, my emotional forecasting is predicting: temperate.

Though I like to think I project outward warm waves, I know that internally when I decide to let someone in, there’s some inner-ice that needs to be broken.

I suppose, this February evening, I am grateful for those people who suit up, buckle down, and ice skate across my inner-ice, turning my soul into hot chocolate. So thanks to these special people; you’re the reason for my unseasonable warming trend.

The "Germ Casserole"

2011-01-22T11:17:00.001-07:00

For the record, I hate that when you type in “high school” to the Google search bar, you are besieged with pictures of Zac Efron and that Hudgins chick. I’m sorry, but the two weeks that I have spent in one of the local high schools in the area has confirmed that there are no beautiful chemistry nerds breaking out into song anywhere inside the school.

This is not accurate.

Now, I’m not bagging on your musical, so calm down, pre-teens. I am simply saying that when I Google-search “High School,” I wish the images of the Nirvana-memorabilia clad kid with plaster casting his broken nose, and the Jamaican cheerleader, and the high functioning autistic young man would show up.

I think I remember high school with rose-colored glasses—I belong to the small minority of US citizens that absolutely loved high school. I thought it was so great that the basketball players at my school may as well have been bouncing their basketballs in unison. I am glad to have had this experience to go back to the high school, this time as an educator, so that these students could pull the rose-colored glasses off my face, and unceremoniously fling them to the ground, where they then become trampled by a stampeding mass of hormones.

The first thing that happened to me as I stepped into the “Germ Casserole,” proudly donning my teacher-observer badge and brimming with optimism:
A student burped in my face.

Yet, still full to bursting with idealism, thrilled to teach the students the joy of participial phrases and thesis statements, I heard a student compare the works of Shakespeare and Nicholas Sparks with this sentiment: “That’s like trying to compare Gerard Butler with Heath Ledger… You just can’t do it.” (Poor Heath, I hope you’re Shakespeare.)

Later in the week, I graded one too many literary analysis papers citing Bella’s mother as an important supernumerary in Twilight because she made Bella move to Forks where she could meet Edward and fall in love.

On Thursday, a multitude of skinny boys in various phases of awkward kept attempting to friend me on facebook.

Yesterday, I made an enemy by asking the Nirvana-shirted boy what happened to his nose, and he had to admit that he lost a fight.

And today I am realizing how excited it all makes me. I’m so excited.

Bring on the hand sanitizer and the thick skin. I'm ready.

Furthermore...

2011-01-13T19:33:00.002-07:00

A man with a Hitler mustache and a BYU hoodie just walked past me.

One More Time With Feeling

2011-01-13T19:09:00.000-07:00

I feel like the word “feelings” has become something of a buzzword lately. Like every time I mention how I’m feeling, 93.4% of the people around me bunker down behind the nearest solid object and whip out their hard hats, as if I might launch a gloomy grenade in their direction at any moment. I find that males in general are especially adverse to this two-syllable word. You can almost see the pallor in their faces green as they contemplate the fact that they might have to listen to your emotional spew for twenty minutes—or worse, they might be required to also do some emotional spewing themselves. Bless the male heart, feeling just doesn’t seem to be their thing. And that’s ok. Trust me, us girls, we have enough passion for the entire world’s populous, you men probably don’t need to contribute to this particular verse.

But I feel the need to assert that just because people “feel” things, that doesn’t always make them “sad.” In fact, sometimes even the word “Sad” doesn’t mean Sadness, or Depression, or even Gloominess. Sometimes, I think sadness is just sort of an emotional upsweep that isn’t exactly happy so writers reach for a word that means the opposite—and that happens to be “sad.” But the coolest thing about this word, and this *brace yourselves* feeling, is how diverse it happens to be. For me, when I am feeling sad, it is a time that I feel most pliable—most introspective—most willing to be molded by my Heavenly Father. It is an intense, passionate upheaval of sentiment—cathartic in nature, and thus completely curable—delightful in occasional execution. Sadness can even be a little bit pretty sometimes.

Over all, I think sadness creates, by far, some of the most beautiful music.

I mean, listen to this line by Wordsworth (a man who…just… gets it, in my opinion):

"The still, sad music of humanity, Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power  To chasten and subdue."

Pretty, Right? Sad, a little--but mostly just pretty.

Do you get it? Can anyone relate to my redefinition of this word? I think lots of people can relate, actually. Otherwise there would be less of this:

How pretty does that sound? May the sad elaborate music of humanity continue, and you may contribute a verse.

PS: How much do you love this new blog design?!

Robins in Winter

2011-01-11T18:27:00.000-07:00

Today was one of those miserable, sucky days (with the exception of the three blissful hours I spent in a high school English class, details forthcoming).

One of those days where I woke up a heavy mass of dark, tangled human, trying to be remembered by my memory foam mattress that I was trying to sink back into.

It was one of those days where my cramps literally pushed me up against a wall and pinned me, immobile, but mentally kicking and screaming.

Today was one of those “parking permit gets revoked" sort of days.

And just as I was beginning my solitary t r u d g e home from campus, feeling burdened by the impending cumulus-nimbus and the pervasive cold that was marching into my ears—a little one of these guys burrowed out from a bush beside my path.

A robin! A robin?! In Winter?!

I didn’t even know that there were robins in winter! I thought they were strictly spring creatures. And actually, as it were, there was a whole family of twenty beautiful robins puttering around the bushes and looking for frozen worms. And while I was scaring innocent passers-by, accosting them by enthusiastically yanking on their shirts and forcing them to notice our feathered friends, I realized something:

Sometimes, you gotta stop and look down. Especially when you’re already looking down to begin with.

Oh! And watch this: The Weepies

Little Prince

2011-01-08T16:11:00.000-07:00

I’m the sort of girl that appreciates a healthy amount of validation.

While now I have come to understand that this thirst for validation may be somewhat damaging to my person, especially since they have seemed to dwindle significantly in my college years. I have exercised great care in needing validation less—and to some degree, I have been successful. But even still, it appears that there is someone out there who understands my apparent need for validation—and for the last month has been giving it to me in form of type-written (like, from a type writer) notes perched in the seal between my car’s frame and my car’s door twice a week or so. These notes are literary in nature, and even though they might not be from a secret admirer per se, they seem perhaps affectionate, or if nothing else—intensely personal.

I call this mysterious note-leaver “The Little Prince,” though my friends have been careful to inform me that it might be a “princess” since these aren’t necessarily professions of love. “The Little Prince,” aptly titled because of the quote he/she left on my car first comes from a French book called The Little Prince, a book I love dearly. I’ve gotten quotes from The Alchemist, another favorite of mine, and from A History of Love, where the title of this blog was born. I’ve gotten, strangely, lyrics from a Glen Hansard song that I’ve always loved since it was played at my friend Tiffany’s wedding. Whoever this person is, I feel like they know me well, even though it’s possible that they might not know me at all. If anything, even if these aren't love notes, or even compliments for that matter, getting them on my window every so often at least validates that I am alive, and that I have good taste in books.

I have reason to suspect that The Little Prince reads this blog. To you, Little Prince, who seems to have ceased with the notes this semester, I leave you this message: Thanks for the validation. Now kindly tell me who you are. I will find out who you are eventually, Little Prince, because “when you want something, all the universe conspires in helping you to achieve it.”

How Not To Make A Drumstick

2011-01-05T16:43:00.000-07:00

1. Do not accidentally place your twelve pack of fresh chicken drumsticks in the freezer instead of the refrigerator, so that they all freeze in one giant clump.

2. Do not try and slam them into the counter repeatedly to get them to break out of their frozen clump.

3. Do not try and take a knife to them to get them out of their frozen clump.

4. Do not shove the humungous Styrofoam crate they came in diagonally in the microwave because you are too impatient to defrost.

5. Do not coat the bottom of the frying pan that you should not be using with a layer of olive oil.

6. Do not get to close when that layer of olive oil turns on you and starts scorching your hands off bit by bit.

7. Do not keep your windows closed because “It’s too cold,” even as your house begins to fill with smoke.

8. Do not give up the frying pan method by sticking your drumsticks back in the microwave in attempts to move things along.

9. Do not assume that though your drumstick looks tasty, cooked, and white on the outside, that it is anything resembling cooked on the inside.

10. Do not leave the Styrofoam packaging the drumsticks came in on top of the stove that is still on.

11. Do not eat. Whatever you do, do not eat.

Lesson Learned. The Hard Way.

Starting Over Number 1

2011-01-01T16:39:00.000-07:00

It has recently come alarmingly to my attention that I should have written in my blog more during 2010. Unbeknownst to me, a special someone was collecting my blog posts, gathering them up, and binding them in a special little book, so that I could feel the joy of being published. And I petered out in September. Not to diminish the extreme treasure this little book is to me, or to diminish the extreme treasure the giver of the book is to me—but it feels incomplete—just like all the other projects and goals that I was so excited about at the beginning of 2010.

But let me explain something. I love new beginnings. I love a clean slate. I love the first of the month. I love blank notebooks that are ready to be filled with a gigantor list of all the things I want to do that day/week/month/year/instant. I love birthdays and holidays, because all of these times are “Starting Over” times for me—times that I can recommit to stop biting my fingernails (which have been growing strong since my birthday in early December, in case you were wondering), or to start working out, or to write in my blog more often.

Yet, seeing as every day is not a “starting over point,” and seeing that I stopped “starting over” with my blog in September--this leads my to my newest New Years Resolution: No more “starting over” landmarks.

Every day is the first day.

Tackle your goals as if it’s the first day of the year, and this is the year you finally decided to start using dental floss.

Fill your notebooks with scribbles, and letters, and pictures, and thinkings so that at the end of the year, your book is full.

You lived your life. At least that’s what I’ll tell myself by the end of 2011.

I’m back, blogger friends, and it feels so nice. Happy Starting Over Day #1. See you on Starting Over Day # 2.

Cardigans

2010-09-26T08:42:00.001-06:00

In my humble opinion, men in cardigans look nice.

Selectric.

2010-09-08T21:45:00.001-06:00

Say it with me now: Selectric. Se-lec-tric. Say it aloud! Isn’t it a beautiful word? If it wasn’t only the celebrities that named their children after inanimate objects like Apple and Blanket, I might consider naming my firstborn son Selectric.

To me, there has always been something mysteriously romantic about typewriters. After spending an afternoon rifling through my grandfather’s belongings, I emerged the proud inheritor of his 1970’s typewriter. If it didn’t weigh more than me, I would cuddle with it in bed at night. I love it that much.

Which is why I knew instantly that I was going to love Tuesday night British Literature History with Dr. Steven Walker. In order to add the class, Dr. Walker had to give me a special code that allowed me entrance into his class, even though it was technically at max capacity. He told me that I would find an envelope containing the code outside his office door with my name on it.

My name was typewritten on the front of the envelope.

For those of you who don’t understand the significance of this simple gesture, allow me to paint a character sketch of Dr. Walker for you.

He is an old man. I mean this earnestly. He walks in a slightly crooked, jovial sort of gait. Sometimes, when his eyebrows betray any sort of emotion—delight, surprise, dismay, you name it—the wrinkles caused by his eyebrows remain for several minutes long after his eyebrows have said their peace. Yet, Dr. Walker is still as quick as a fiddle. He memorized the entire class roster before ever having met his students. He can still tell you the exact dates that William Blake went to art school. He could probably recite from memory the novel, Great Expectations, from start to finish if you asked him.

Dr. Walker displays all of the wisdom of age with none of the arrogance. With all of his brilliance, he has probably been to the edge of the universe and back. He has written novels, and discourses, and lectures.

And yet, his wrinkly, experienced hands of wisdom humbly took an envelope, wove it through (I imagine) the classiest of IBM Selectrics, and punched out my name on the front of an envelope.

Mysterious Me

2010-08-23T17:29:00.000-06:00

I am not mysterious. My friend put it this way, once: “Sierra, you are not sexy, you are goofy.” I didn’t know goofy and sexy were antonyms and I didn’t know you couldn’t be one, and not the other. Still, I suppose there is some merit to the fact that I’m just a little bit like young Sabrina Fair, whose hopes of becoming “mysterious” and “distinguished” are dashed by the fact that she WANTS to be Mysterious and Distinguished so very badly.

I am the kind of person that everyone thinks they know instantly. I am the kind of girl that makes it easy to make instant judgment calls about. Truth be told, I admittedly don’t really like other girls like me. They are bubbly. They are… usually cuter than me. They have been affirmed by life that people will appreciate their quirky, obnoxious comments, and those who don’t can sit on a pin. I judge girls like me. They are annoyingly extroverted.

Except that I am not extroverted. Did you know that I am an introvert? Sure, you may argue based on my sincere and utter craving to be the center of attention, but at the end of social hour, I frequently need time to crawl into my alone corner and retreat into the silence of my own thoughts. The only reason I am Ms. Super Pep Sierra Robinson during the fall and winter semesters is because I’ve had an entire summer shelled up in my alone bunker, recharging my social batteries and committing to put myself out there again.

One of my favorite things/biggest pet peeves: When someone says, “Sierra, I know what you’re thinking.” And then they get it totally wrong. They, like me, think they have pinned down my personality and can examine it like a butterfly mounted to the wall. Like this:

I find consolation in the fact that though people think they know me, think they can read me like a book, they often do not know my thoughts. I wear my feelings on my sleeve, it’s true. And those are often, if not always, extremely apparent. But my thoughts are vaulted in my brain that only a skilled thief (like my mother) can pry open. And I like it that way. It means I am just a little bit mysterious in my own right.

Of course, if you want to know what I am thinking, you can always just read my blog. I mean, really, I’m not that mysterious, after all.†

A Place To Sit

2010-08-10T23:17:00.000-06:00

(This is an old blog from my trip to Europe--I just wanted to sync my blogs, and this one I liked especially well.)

His black hair sprung out from beneath his patchy red baseball cap and was matted with grease to his shoulders. His lower lip jutted out, revealing a row of rotting teeth. His baggy gray shirt hung slack to his knees for it had barely a body to cling to, and his shoulders were more like wire hangers fro, the dry cleaner than organs of flesh and blood. The tongues of his high tops were pulled up past his ankles but the last thing I wanted to look at were his feet, because if I focused on them, I could feel in my own feet the absolute sacrifice that every step cost him. But then again, staring at his face was not an option either because in his dark eyes, I saw in behind them a thousand more darknesses, knowing that every morning for him ushered in one more day of misery. And yet gaping at his wiry body made me hungry with misery and so I had nowhere, absolutely nowhere, to look, and yet my eyes absolutely could NOT look at anything BUT this man. And suddenly and ashamedly I realized I was grasping, no clinging to my purse for fear that by stealing it, he would make me a pauper in a red baseball cap trudging aimlessly and painfully through a park in the middle of France.
I let go of my purse as he slowly past and he didnt lunge for it. He didnt even look at it. He just winced and stayed on his straight course down the path to a fountain in the middle of the park.
I wanted him to take off his shoes and dip his blisters in the fountain to reprieve him if only for a moment from the oppressive pain and heat of shoes. But he didnt. He just looked so immensely grateful for a place to sit.

I hate that society has made me afraid of a man that was just looking for a place to sit.

The Void

2010-08-07T12:45:00.002-06:00

The way I see it, there are the people who can make white space look awesome, and there are people who can’t. I belong to the latter category. You could accuse my life to be rather like my blog—busy.

Do you know what I’m talking about? Those people who just don’t need the noise of color. Those people who can let the whiteness of everything just speak of quiet, yet unhidden potential.

Author Nicole Krauss for instance, who has ENTIRE pages in her book, History of Love a COMPLETELY white tabula rasa.

I also imagine that the folks understand the beauty of white space with every notebook that they produce. I mean, have you ever seen so much potential contained in a singular, blank, college-ruled white-paged notebook?

This is possibly why I already love my newest blog follower like we are sisters. She understands the beauty of White. Her name is Daman Tiwana and I highly recommend her blog if you are looking for a little serenity.

Other ladies that just get the whole white space thing:

http://brittanyaustin08.blogspot.com/

http://ohjulieanna.blogspot.com/

http://bethany-lee.blogspot.com/

To You Nameless Foreigner.

2010-08-03T16:13:00.000-06:00

Dear Mr. Chinese Computer posting spam on my blog.

I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.

Hate,

Sierra

The Love Discourse: Installment One--Crushes

2010-07-26T13:48:00.003-06:00

A Crush Defined

I was the kind of kid that brought her toys to recess. Whether or not I had friends at recess was sort of a day-to-day variance, and in the boyfriend department, when others were starting to get their first crushes and romances, I was woefully behind. Then Evan Coad moved in.

Evan Code was a sixth grader. He was apparently taller than Mr. Erickson, the sixty-five-year-old math teacher, which was (quite literally) a big deal. Fifth graders were all a buzz about the blonde new arrival. I, of course, allowed my innate sense of “boys are gross” to kick in, and insisted that “Evan Coad [is] disgusting!” This was before I had ever seen him. But I had an alarmingly cavalier assurance that Evan Coad was, in fact, male, and therefore, not worth my time.

A fated assembly brought Evan and I together… by proximity anyway. Mrs. Covert’s class was the last row of fifth graders, and Ms. McDowell’s class was the first row of sixth graders. And I think it was Danielle Guyerson, though I could be wrong on that one, who leaned over to me and said, “Oh my gosh, Sierra! You are so lucky! Evan Coad is sitting right behind you.” So I turned. I looked. And I finally beheld.

The sixth grade Paris, himself. Brad Pitt in miniature (only not that miniature because he was really tall). Blonde hair gelled up in a hairdo that looked like a breaking wave, blue eyes the color the wave might have been were it real. We made eye contact, before I promptly turned around and tried to spit up the butterflies in my stomach. Evan Coad was my first real crush.

He was the kind of crush that I come to know very well. The kind of crush where your heart just whips out the white flag and surrenders. The kind of crush where giraffes do jumping jacks in your stomach (an interesting visual, I’m sure). The kind of crush that requires a jaw massage periodically throughout your day because you’ve been grinning for twenty-four straight hours (yes, even in your sleep). The kind of crush that one specifically designated for middle school, but crops up every so often in the middle of your college French class. Crushes are the sweet-suffering for an unobtainable someone, and the emphasis is on the “unobtainable” part.

Sports Humility Syndrome

2010-07-25T21:10:00.000-06:00

Friends: This is not me.

I blame the slippery handle. I blame the knee-deep layer of sediment in the two-foot deep water. I blame the choppy waves that the multitude of other Pioneer Day celebrators bequeathed to us on Utah Lake. But for all my blame-placement, the fact of the matter is, I just don’t wakeboard.

I discovered this yesterday, on a most blissful day at the lake with my friends Brooke, Tiffany, Preston, and my new friend called “Brooke’s Boat.” I glided into the water with a little bit of an arrogant swagger, thinking, “Ben Dailey does this, how hard could it be?” Yet as I found myself continually whipped around the back of the boat, and usually falling backwards into the mud (the water was not especially deep, as I mentioned), a familiar breed of humility crossed my countenance.

This particular breed of humility is what I call “Sports Humility.” It was Heavenly Father’s, shall we say, gift to me to remind me that I’m really not that awesome. I was not blessed with an athletic bone in my body. I don’t even have an athletic pinky. I don’t even have an athletic fingernail (although I did quit biting for a while, see THE BLOG for proof).

In keeping with blaming anyone in the world but me for my lack of athletic ability, I will examine the Robinson family lineage. My dad’s athletic recessive gene was beat out by my mom’s dominant reader gene. For family gatherings and evenings of fun, you were more likely to find my family reading independently in the same vicinity rather than snorkeling, skiing, and goodness knows, wakeboarding. Thus, I came into the world—a non-wakeboarding, speed-reading dork.

Brooke offered me a good consolation prize as I emerged from the water, dripping in defeat.

“It’s ok, Sierra,” she said. “At least you can blog about it.

*A special thanks to Preston and Brooke, and of course Brooke’s boat. Because honestly, I had so much fun out there. Thanks friends!

Cartoon Crushes

2010-07-20T16:31:00.000-06:00

I didn’t feel good last night, which is basically just a good excuse to allow yourself to snuggle into your sheets at 9:30 PM with the (not) Disney classic movie, Anastasia. This movie is surprisingly awesome for a 1997 animated film. First of all, I highly approve of Anastasia’s fashion choices (once she becomes a Princess, not a pauper). Also the music is extremely well done, and while the delicate framework of historical fact in the movie has been horribly skewed, we cannot overlook the fact that the movie has THIS character:

Now, I doubt that I am the first to blog about this reprehensible cartoon conman. It seems common knowledge that Dimitri is just sexy, plain and simple. I mean, look at that jawline. I remember coming out of the movie theater after the Romonav line had been restored and Anastasia effectively eliminated Rasputin (something the Communist party failed to do), and having my sister exclaim, “That Dimitri! He was cute!”

Apparently she was not alone. The next day, all my third grade comrades (it’s nice to keep the communist diction alive) were all a buzz about the finest new cartoon spectacle. It seemed that Dimitri was all the rage, solidly beating out Alladin, but maybe even trumping Prince Eric. But I couldn’t join in the discussion. I just didn’t see it. You see, my third grade self only had eyes for one cartoon. It was a secret buried deep inside me, that only now—thirteen years later—that I feel comfortable divulging my cartoon crush. It was this boy:

Elroy Jetson. Elroy was the stout, futuristic boy of my dreams. I’m not sure what struck my childhood fancy about him exactly. Maybe it was those black hole eyes or that little antenna thing on his cap. Actually in retrospect, I really think that it might have been his voice, and that when I sneaked down in the middle of the night to watch Cartoon Network, it was Elroy’s dulcet tones that lulled me to sleep in front of the faint flicker of the wildly inaccurate “ultramodern” program.

Now I bet that I am the first to blog about that.

Stay tuned, and you will hear about my childhood crushes on:

Dante Bichette

and

Patrick Roy.

Apparently I had a thing for fat athletes too.

... I haz it.

2010-07-15T14:03:00.000-06:00

The feeling. One morning you can wake up and you just know it. Today is a good day. For today you can feel the writing. You can feel the words streaming from your brain, through your fingers, onto a page. Today is a good day because today you are a writer. It’s one of those things that you can wake up and just know. But today is not a writer today.

Today is one of those days where try as you might to corral them, the words you want are just out of reach, and though the tendons on your fingers are outstretched with effort, the brain isn’t supplying the words to complete the task.

What I’m trying to say is: I have Writer’s Block. Alright all you blog-loving community…. How do I combat it? What do you do when it seems you have nothing to say?

My Feelings on Twilight

2010-07-06T08:16:00.000-06:00

Let me start this blog with a justification: I had no idea that the new Twilight movie had come out already. I take pride in the fact that I was informed about Eclipse by a boy no less. I rather thought that the Twilight movies would function more like the Harry Potter movies, which wring all of the patience out of you as though you were a particularly damp towel. But Twilight is different: twilight is a vast expansive money making machine. It is not about delayed gratification... Or actually, maybe that's exactly what it's about. And gratuitous vampire non- sex.

Let us please review the book that was so set up for failure: the book is about a vampire who falls in love with a girl because he quite literally wants to drink her . I want to drink a kool- aid but you dont see me lusting after the Kool Aid man. (although he does say ohhhh yeah! In a very suggestive way) I feel like I need to pre justify myself again and say that I HAVE NOT read the books in their entirety. This is because I believe that Stephanie Meyer had tortured the English language into uncomfortably bad sentences. Among my favorites ( and coincedentally the line that I stopped reading at) went something like this: "Two things were for certain: Edward Cullen was a vampire and I was irrevocably in love with him." I mean, really?! we wasted trees for that?

Now I feel I must give Miss Meyer some deserved credit however. Man, does that lady know how to manipulate the heart strings. It is here that I make my confession: I did see eclipse on opening night. Not only that but I enjoyed it also. Particularly, I enjoyed the scene where a scantily clad Jacob had to cling to Bella in the middle of a snow storm while Edward grimaced and bore it because his love for Bella was so deep that he wanted to keep her warm by letting the werewolf do it for him. I enjoyed the moment Jacob and Edward shared when Bella, nestled closely to Jacob's bosom, slept and Edward confided in Jacob that "if we weren't sworn enemies, I might actually like you." I appreciated how the filmmakers set it up to feel like an almost secret gay confession. I think that would make the plot even more complex and dynamic, don't you?

I also appreciated the film's power of persuasion. Formerly I considered myself to be an ignorant team Jacobite, but after sitting through two hours of Taylor laugtners appallingly bad acting, I now proclaim myself an Edward supporter.

So folks, I confess-- I'm jumping on the band wagon. I can say in all honesty that I enjoyed my eclipse experience immensely. Just make sure when you see it to have a fellow nay sayer with you to make fun of it with you sitting on your right. It makes the movie ten times more fun and I was surprised to find the Kool Aid man is exceptionally good company.

30 books in 6 weeks. Hallelujah!

2010-05-02T16:04:00.000-06:00

Did I mention I love being an English Teaching major? Part of the curriculum for this major is an adolescent literature class where I have to read 3o books in six weeks of the"Young Adult" genre. Might you be able to help me in my quest? What are some truly fantastic adolescent lit books you've read in the past?

See You Again.

2010-04-19T21:41:00.001-06:00

I told him I would see him soon. I patted his shoulder because he was too frail for a hug, and I told him I would see him soon. And I genuinely thought I would. I thought I would be back next weekend so I could pat his shoulder and put chapstick on his chapped lips, and that I could keep telling him weekend after weekend how much I loved him and that I would see him soon.

Today my Grandpa Tom died, so I won’t be seeing him tomorrow, or next weekend, or next year. For me, it won’t be soon when I see him again. But the marvelous thing about the plan of salvation, is that for him, I won’t have backed out on my promise. For him, by the time I see him, it really will be soon.

Dear Followers:

2010-04-18T21:38:00.000-06:00

I really really like all of you guys. Tell your friends.

I'm finally gonna nail it.

2010-04-12T16:57:00.000-06:00

Let me tell you about my fingernails:

My cousin called them nublets once. She didn’t just call them that actually; she printed the word NUBLETS in all capital letters on a piece of lined paper and drew stars on it, and then taped it to my closet, just in case I forgot that my fingernails have never, not once in my ENTIRE life, grown past the tips of my fingers.

Every year since I was fourteen I have loved making New Years Resolutions. So for seven shiny years, I have made myself the bold promise that THIS would finally be the year that I kick my fingernail biting habit. Clearly this is a problem that has been vexing me—see my 2009 poem: The Biter, for proof.

Here have been my strategies:

The icky tasting nail polish—But, my problem is so severe, I just bite the bad taste off and then am rewarded by the delectable nail beneath it.
The incentive program—My mom is still bound by her promise to cash in on a free manicure for me if I can let them grow out. My aunt offered to buy me an entire new OUTFIT if I could kick the habit. Neither of them has had to follow through.
The Buddy System—I’ve made bets and pacts with fellow nail-biters, that whoever bit first owed the other brownies. I’ve made a lot of brownies.
I’ve painted them, sat on them, got acrylics (waste of 25 dollars, I usually just bite them off within three days), had people smack my hands away from my lips when they see me “going for it.”

Yet one suspenseful movie or stressful test later, and all my efforts are chewed to bits and I have the familiar, almost comforting sting of stripping my nails too far down.

But now. This time. I AM FOR REAL. I made a missionary friend a promise that I would kick the habit before he got back, and since that is two months from now, I reckon it’s time I start getting serious. Man, did I push this one down to the wire or what? That makes me so nervous the only solace would be to bite…

Friends. I implore you to help me in my quest. How did YOU kick the habit? What are your bad habits?

Retraction: All the Women I want to be.

2010-04-09T12:55:00.000-06:00

Caution: Thanktimony ensues.

Thanks to the admonishment of a certain General Authority, that caused me and my General Conference Buddy to go into fits of giggles because of the irony of it all, I am currently printing a follow-up blog to my post “All the Women that I am Not.”

This General Conferencer suggested that we stop looking to the media to define our self worth as women. I wonder if he read my blog.

So here it is, the list of women I actually ought to try to be--All the women (or actually a very small but important compilation) that actually matter:

Jess--whose style and beauty pretty much floors me on a regular basis, and who could take an Econ test better than the professor that wrote it.

And Kristin: Who is already a better mom than most mom's in the whole world, even though she doesn't have any kids yet. Who makes self sacrifice seem second nature.

This girl, Kelsey-- Who not only put in service time in India, but actually continues to serve those sweet kids on this continent, despite a monstrously busy schedule.

This girl, Amanda, who is full of stories and life, who gives generously and won't let people push her around.

This fine lady, who bravely pursued a big girl job in California.

These girls, who might be mad at me for including this picture, but who constantly bring life and color to dull situations, or who are the life of the party even in really fun situations.

Miss Chloe Noelle, who has struck the delicate balance between hilarity and sensitivity, whose dulcet tunes lull me to sleep at night. Who has helped me distinguish the difference between Cool-Lame, and Lame-Cool, and Sugar Pee and Water Pee.

This little wordsmith who is small in stature but mighty in writing.

This talented mother, who gives great advice, manages a loving and crafty home, and makes the best desserts you've ever eaten.

This hilarious sister of mine, who is one step away from being a published writer, and no steps away from being an accomplished couponer.

This lady who taught me everything I know, and who knows everything, and who is always right, and who can do everything in high heels yet.

And I guess it would kinda like to be like me. I guess that would not be so bad.

All the Women that I am Not

2010-04-01T11:56:00.000-06:00

It has recently come to my attention that the media has ruined my life. I have this warped vision of who I should want to become. And the thing is, that I genuinely do want to be these people. The thing is that I sub-consciously have tried to infuse elements of their awesomeness into my own “lame-cool” personality. So here it is, the list of all the people I want to become.

I want to be the girl who:

Is nerdy cute, kicks total butt, and saves the day way more often than Harry Potter.

Who has men eating out of the palm of her hand, and who is so spoiled by affection that men won't be mad at her even when she has done something truly heartless. I also want to be a little bit heartless, painfully beautiful, and just quirky enough that it's not weird, but totally endearing.

Who leaves town in THIS song

Who leaves strong men powerless, and does so without mercy (If you haven't read Keats' poem, here's some ear candy for you).

I want to be the girl who can say everything she needs to say through dance.

And the girl who talks REALLY REALLY fast, and who has charming emotional issues.

And Shakira. Because who DOESN'T want to be Shakira?

INSTEAD: I have come to the startling realization that I am not so much tall, but short and squatty with depressingly small fingernail nubs, whose nerdiness is less charming and moreso overt and obnoxious, who word vomits rather that wit battles, and cares DEEPLY about hurting people's feelings, and with absolutely ZERO ZERO ZERO rhythm or dancing ability. This. is. not. great.

But maybe that is exactly who I should WANT to be anyways.

Mock Disaster Day

2010-03-17T17:56:00.000-06:00

I’m not the squeamish type. That’s not to say, that if someone on Fear Factor were to eat a cow eyeball that it would not send me dry-heaving to the toilet (I have very sensitive gag-reflexes), but usually I can handle the poke from a needle just fine. I don’t have to close my eyes during the surgery on Grey’s Anatomy anymore, so I figured I could handle today’s Mock Disaster without getting woozy. And, actually, I could handle it, though I understand that some people (BOY people even) are the squeamish types and can’t stomach all the fake gore, and need the restorative properties of juice to calm their troubled nerve system.

So what, pray tell, is a Mock Disaster? Mock Disaster is a chance for us in the theater department to flex our make-up muscles and recreate all the enchanting bodily injuries that natural/ human induced disaster can create. Today we did an earthquake, so after visiting the make-up department (I was rather disappointed with my make-up artist. I wanted the rebar through my arm), we clambered into a dark warehouse and spread debris around us and recreated death and destruction.

This wasn’t all purposeless, though, let’s be honest, a bunch of theater kids probably would have done it just for fun anyways. It was actually for people in triage training pass their certification tests to become EMT’s. Today, medical personnel approached my “lifeless” body, and carted me out of the abandoned warehouse on a gurney, took my pulse and deduced that I was only faking dead (true) and then located my husband/boyfriend/ baby child Timmy. The EMT training people only made me break character once, and it was when they suggested that my mock boyfriend/husband whisper sweet nothings into my ear in order to revive me, and then I just had to laugh. But even when they almost gave me CPR, I was ready (and… maybe a little willing [not true]).

Here are just a few pictures of my experience today.

In the make-up room getting prepped. Good thing there was juice nearby.

If you think we had it bad, check out the girl in the back. Man oh Man. (Also, I am extremely disappointed with how my arm turned out. I didn't do it personally.)

She got the injury I wanted, and she was very happy about it.

Truth be told, it was actually kind of a fun experience, even if I had been a little bit squeamish, but it wasn’t hard to picture my brothers and sisters on the other side of the world who probably wish that they were incurring a “mock” disaster. I can’t imagine the horror of not really knowing where your husband/baby/wife/friend is, or whether or not they are ok. I can’t imagine how horrible it would be to listen to triage come in and mark you for Immediate Removal, and then have to wait in your own blood for twenty more grueling minutes. While lying in my own little pool of mint-flavored blood-colored corn syrup, I said a little prayer for our friends in South America, and I hope that all those brave EMT’s pass their tests and save someone’s life because of it.

Pimp my blog

2010-03-12T12:32:00.000-07:00

I am looking to, how would you say, Pimp my blog, but I find myself woefully limited by stupid computer-related disabilities.

Also, I am tired of sifting through horrendous Free Blog Template websites.

Does anyone have any reliably good template websites which feature A) dinosaurs, B) starry, indie, classy but not grown up looking blogger backgrounds?

Where did you get yours/ how did you do it?

What are your favorite blogger applications?

Please help me pimp my blog. Whoever leaves the best suggestion, I will dedicated an entire post to how grateful I am to you.

Thanks friends!

Shark Muffins

2010-03-05T12:43:00.000-07:00

I find that often I am kept awake at night, perplexed by the question: “What is the opposite of a shark?”

Fortunately I have been blessed by dear friends, the Shelby-Russell family, who have been able to successfully answer this question for me.

“Why Sierra,” they would say in the most matter-of-fact, plain as day, but still ever-so-Shelby sweet way, “Clearly, clearly, the opposite of a shark is a muffin.”

There’s a simple logic in this. I submit to you my proposal of agreement:

Sharks are rather pointy and angular, where a muffin is much more round and has no harsh lines.
Sharks live under water; muffins live on land.
Sharks are predators; muffins are prey.
Sharks have teeth; muffins have blueberries.
Sharks are living; muffins are (dead?)
Sharks are mean, but muffins are so nice!

Now, before you raise your outcry that muffins are so completely opposite from a shark because they are in entirely different genres of things, realize that I judge people based on their ability to accept this crucial life principle or not. Recently I have had a friend go as far to suggest that every relationship has a shark and a muffin. The muffin is inherently feminine, nurturing, and sweet.

This brings me to the startling realization: In relationships… I have shark-like tendencies. I don’t cook. I’m all for watching “Mr. and Mrs. Smith” instead of “Baptists at our Barbeque.” If I want to hang out with someone, I am not afraid to ask them to hang out with me. Also, I have sharp incisors.

So dear friends… Which are you? A shark or a muffin and why?

Cupcakes are so "in" right now.

2010-02-26T09:27:00.000-07:00

I am a huge sucker for Raspberry Artificial flavoring, so any place that can indulge my unnatural desire for the sweet succulence of processed Raspberry is… good.

Currently typing is a little bit difficult because my fingers are a little bit wobbly weirdy at the moment. This is because I am on a sugar high. This is because I ate a cupcake for breakfast. This is because the cupcake that I got last night was so huge that I couldn’t finish it in one sitting. Even though they gave me a fork with which to carve into the massive cupcake—a chocolate cupcake was topped with none other than a Raspberry glaze and a dollop of cream cheese frosting bigger than my face—I still couldn’t finish it. In my opinion, that is exactly how a cupcake should be.

This is why I have come to be the newest advocate for Provo’s newest hotspot: The Cocoa Bean.

They have THESE:

Not only do they have cupcakes, but they have RASPBERRY VANILLA ITALIAN CRÈME SODAS. So in one night, I got to combine Raspberry with chocolate AND vanilla. Finally, I truly believe that Provo really is Happy Valley.

I am literally, literally, quivering with joy right now.

Let Them Be Innocent

2010-02-23T22:55:00.000-07:00

I don’t understand the hate.

When I was in fourth grade, we had the coolest janitor. He was an enormous black dude named Jerry and everybody loved him. He was the kind of guy that had smile wrinkles around the corner of his eyes and kept candy in the supply closets to give to kids as we walked past him in the hallways. He was just that awesome.

One day I sat in a group of fellow fourth graders, underneath the coat rack. I was tangling my arms in the sleeves of the dangling coats and pretending to listen as we read “Trolls, Tales, and Tommy-knockers,” aloud, when Jerry poked his head inside the classroom from the outside door and said in a most un-Jerry like and threatening tone, “Hey. Don’t open this door to anybody.” Then he locked the door with a resounding click, a click heavier and denser than Magnetite or iron.

As fourth graders, we postulated what this might mean in whispers.

“Maybe it’s a flood!”

“But he said don’t open it to anybody.”

It was then that the early dismissals started. Students began to be called out of the classroom in droves until there were maybe three of us left by 3:15, each of us starting to suspect that maybe there was something our teachers weren’t telling us. Finally we goaded our teacher into giving us the news.

“A bad man with a gun went into a local high school with a gun today. Only one person was shot, but he is going to be just fine.”

It didn’t explain the early dismissals, but it put my juvenile mind at ease. I was able to walk home in relative peace, never mind my police escort to the bus and put Jerry’s concern wrinkles out of mind.

When I got home, I encountered a rather grimmer reality:

There were two bad gunmen. They were teenagers. It was suspected that the number of victims was in the 200 count, and there were 15 confirmed dead. They were teenagers too. It was 1999. It was my hometown. It was Columbine and in fourth grade, I didn’t understand the hate.

In eleven years, I still haven’t forgotten the footage of people running from the building or falling, wounded, out of windows. I haven’t forgotten the mounds and piles of flowers and cards and candles that coated the walls of Clements Park. I haven’t forgotten Columbine. I think we all took a vow at those candlelit vigils that “we are all Columbine.”

And even though I haven’t forgotten, today I remembered rather forcibly the memories that eleven years have not let me forget.

A gunmen today came to my middle school. MY middle school. He opened fire on the students with his rifle, and, bless because of my seventh grade math teacher, he was tackled before he could inflict any fatal wounds. My middle school. My neighboring high school. My hometown.

I wish everyone could remember Littleton, Colorado the way I do. Late night street hockey games with the neighbors, building tree forts in the valley, crisp summer nights, and youthful bliss. People instead associate my hometown with hatred and school shootings. I don’t understand.

I am 21, and in all my years, I still don’t understand what could cause such hatred that could cause a 32-year-old man to open fire on a bunch of innocents. I don’t understand what kind of hatred could drive two teens to open fire on their fellow students. I don’t understand why we continue to hate and treat others with so much contempt that they feel compelled to kill.

I don’t understand and quite frankly it makes me sad.

Just let them be seventh graders. Let them be innocent. Let us be fourth graders who don’t have to confront such a bleak outlook of humanity at such a young age. I will never understand.

I will never understand the hate.

Lemme "tell" you...

2010-02-09T16:13:00.000-07:00

Ok, yes—I admit it: I am one of those “Insert I-Pod Headphones in Ear, please don’t talk to me, you slightly recognizable stranger” kind of people. I hate small talk. I hate being forced into conversation with your visiting teacher and/or grad student professor because you accidentally fell into the same step as them on the way up to campus. I much prefer relationships to mutate organically.

I am also a creature of routine, so I like my schedule and I gravitate towards the familiar. So despite my distaste for bonding with people over small talk, clinging to my comfort zone has allowed me to always have a rather intimate relationship with my tellers at the bank. A strangely intimate relationship with my tellers out of the bank. (Take your mind out of the gutters, folks. Not that kind of intimate. Gross.). For whatever reason, all of our banking small talk about credit card protection and bad addition on my deposit slips usually creates long-lasting bonds that I have come to cherish.

Let’s see, first, at 1^st Bank, there was Nancy. She was blonde and soft-spoken, and for some reason the Line Gods always deposited me right at her telling station whenever I went to make a withdrawal from the savings account I wasn’t supposed to know about in high school.

She was later replaced by Forrest, who grew so tired of my incessant whining about 1^st Bank's policy shift to supply their valued customers with generic suckers, that he purchased me my own VERY special bag of Dum-Dums for every visit (“Why yes, I WILL take two butterscotch and a mystery flavor, thanks!”).

Then came Nick with US Bank inside of Target. After a year-long flirtation with Nick, I decided it was time to pass him off for best friend approval, and pointed him out to Chloe while on a Target shopping spree—Only to discover that he was staring right at us as I had my pointer finger elongated in his direction. And when my bosses demanded the next day that I get a change order from US bank, my conversation with Nick went like this:

Nick: Hey, I saw you here yesterday,

Me: Wait, really?

Nick: Yeah, you and your friend. You were right there. (At this point, Nick whipped out his pointer finger to indicate not only WHERE he saw me, but also WHAT he saw me doing.)

Me: I wasn’t here yesterday. Oh! You know what, it must have been my twin!

Nick: Your twin?

Me: Yes, my twin.

Nick: (Disbelievingly) And what’s your twin’s name?

Me: (Retardedly) Uhh—Sienna.

Needless to say, this embarrassing freshmen-year-old lie abruptly ended my intimate teller relationship with Nick. Fortunately, Nick got promoted weeks later.

And fortunately, teller Kort from Wells Fargo got promoted as well after a series of awkward interactions involving crepes and concerts that never happened. (It is here that I should like to include a brief interjection from Bethany who stated, “There is something ironic about someone named Kort, who doesn’t properly court.”)

But I do not dislike Kort, mostly because he has led me to my newest teller relationship with Mari. Mari has a diamond ring the size of a baby Orca. Her husband didn’t call her until five months after their first date. I know this because Mari loves me and I love Mari. Mari listens sympathetically as I supply her with gossip about her former co-workers, and she, in turn tells me—with all of her teller wisdom—why boys behave the way they do.

I’m not sure what the moral of this story is exactly, except to say that, if you are ever my teller at the bank, I will gladly take my headphones out for you.