Tuesday, December 29, 2009

Through the ragweed and barbedwire

It's cold here. Yesterday, feeling the effects of a week worth of Christmasy treats, I tied my running shoes, pumped up the jams (yeah, I just wrote that- deal with it), and stepped out the front door. Then stepped back inside. 12 degrees. Yeah right. So, much to sweet Mother's dismay, I decided to run up and down the stairs. Our dog Gidget, who is normally hunting down socks to destroy or a family member to terrorize, took interest in my cardiovascular endeavor. Apparently she decided it looked like a good time, and she started to follow. Up, down, up, down. Then she minimized her effort. She ran a few steps down, a few steps up, meeting me in the middle. And then she stopped trying altogether, but still watched. For thirty minutes. The dog who never sits still without a sedative, sat and spectated with a look of utter puzzlement, her head cocked to one side. Mom walked by and muttered, "Stupid Human."

Who decided raisins in any culinary creation was a good idea?

Saturday, December 26, 2009

Ima back

Mario. Nothing brings the family together like "Why did you go that way?" and "Shoot him with ice!" and "Stop bouncing on my head!".

Thursday, December 24, 2009



Thursday, December 17, 2009

These streets will inspire you

"Excuse me, are you the candy man?" he asked the adolescent in a red uniform standing next to me. A little creepy right? Wrong! He spoke in a Scottish accent. So he could have said "I want to pull out all your hair and feed you to my pet pterodactyl" and I would have nodded and smiled at this delightful elderly Scottish man. I contemplated following him around the rest of the store. Stealthily, mind you, lurking a few aisles behind, just close enough to hear "Lad" and "mutton" and you know....cute Scottishy phrases. And that's when I realized-- maybe it's time to move to a location where anyone who's even remotely different isn't such a rarity that I resort to grocery harrassment.

Wednesday, December 16, 2009

I have no idea what you are talking about

Thank you, good people at Excedrin, for making the individual Excedrin packages impossible to open. Because every time I find my head splitting, my eyes watering, and my lunch ready to exit my body in a violent manner, there is nothing I want more than to focus really hard on a tiny piece of plastic, seemingly indestructible and therefore unopenable. Really. Such a delight.

Tuesday, December 15, 2009

The Master and Margarita

There is a pile of my clean laundry sitting on top of the dryer. My clean whites, to be more specific. And everyday I take what I need from the pile, and will probably continue to do so until there is no more pile and it's time to wash another load of whites. Amen.

Monday, December 14, 2009

I found a fatal flaw.

I think it was about age 4 when I had imaginary friends. Sally and Baby.
Sally was brunette, wore a scarf, carried books, and talked about important things.
Baby had blond pigtails, wore a lot of pink, and giggled almost too often.
They seem like caricatures, hyperboles, an other words of elevated language that basically mean exaggerations. Exaggerations of what? If I had to venture a guess, and I think I probably do if I'm blogging about it, I would hesitantly say the two sides of my personality. Maybe as a 4-year-old I was trying to decide if I wanted to be Sally or Baby. The weirdest part (yeah, it gets weirder), is that Sally and Baby never got along, and both confided in me with their frustrations. So I'm self-conflicted.

Do you ever chew a piece of gum until it loses its flavor, and then have every intention of spitting it out, but get distracted and forget and hours later you're still chewing the flavorless blob and the back of your mind thinks "whatever is in my mouth is disguisting" but fails to transmit the message to the front of your mind until still hours later when you realize that you can in fact rid yourself of the agony that is chewing flavorless gum by merely spitting it out into the nearest rubbish bin? No? K nevermind.

Thursday, December 10, 2009

spin it. yeah.

"There's a time and a place to be a trophy wife" -English 291 Professor.

I guess that makes my most recent 291 test score ok, since really my only job is to ornament an arm. Which reminds me of this.

I've saved this picture on my computer twice. Once during the summer and once today (I had forgotten it was already saved). I named the file the exact same thing both times ("pretty cake", because I'm really funny). So there are two ways to look at this. 1. I'm consistent, which bodes well for the trophy wife life, or 2. my writing hasn't improved any over the last semester, the thought of which creates a big, dark, ugly pit in my stomach, compounded by my most recent English 291 test score, and now I'm feeling a bit short of breath and woozy, what with the dark abyss that is my future, wondering if anyone in a neighboring library cubby has a paper bag I might breathe into?

k I need you to stop bothering me know because I have a paper to write.

Wednesday, December 9, 2009


I'd rather see almost anything than see a used band-aid.

Tuesday, December 8, 2009

Macintoshes shall be carbonized.

16 years ago Mrs. Bastian asked our 2nd grade class if anyone had an important announcement to make. I saw a fleeting look of exasperation in her eyes as I raised my hand. (I raised my hand everyday, and my announcements were never important.) But today I had real news. Headline worthy.
My little sister Hannah was born.
And now she's driving and dating and other alliterations.

Monday, December 7, 2009

Stop. It's too late.

On snowy days I feel like people finally understand me. Well, people in cars. People driving cars. I drive like it's a snow storm all the time. Slow, overly cautious, lights on, wind-shield wipers wiping. So snowy days are the days I fit in.
Also, snowy days are the days when it's ok to do the things I want to do all the time. Take naps, watch movies, take more naps, imagine how great life would be with a snuggie, eat soup.
It's snowing so I think I'll take a nap.

Thursday, December 3, 2009


I google myself. I do so under the pretense of maintaining a professional respectability so that employers will find only the most complimentary information when searching my name. This pretense is a lie. I google myself because I’m a narcissist. But for me narcissism isn’t so much a self-love as self-fascination.
This fascination with myself has led to a competition with other me’s. The rest of the Meg Morleys in the world, thought I don’t think they know that we’re competing.. Meg Morley the London-based belly dancer was hard to beat. But beat she was, and now “I Should Be Deserving To Be To Mars” is the first google search result for Meg Morley. I Should Be Deserving To Be To Mars is the name of my blog. It’s what I want people to know about me, my musing on webpages. Readers know Meg Morley saw this, or Meg Morley thought that. Meg Morley writes this way, therefore, this is Meg Morley.

There are those moments of distance, when I recognize my own existence. When I realize I’m not only my body in a time and place, but something abstract and large. I hate those moments. They feel nervous and strange, as though I’m lost somewhere in the universe. And in those moments my name is all I have to bring me back to earth. Because when floating through the stars, headed toward a black-hole of uncertainty, battered by the same question, “who am I?” I can answer, simply, I’m Meg. And again I’m back to Meg, in my time and place, doing what Meg’s doing, sleeping or laughing or writing an essay, unconcerned with the identity-swallowing void that lies beyond.
It’s a delusion of course. A delusion I buy into, because it’s safe. I believe that I’m Meg because it feels nice to believe. But in reality I know that Meg is merely the label for this marked time. My parents gave me Meg because they needed something to call me. Because they knew that others would need something to call me. Because I would grow up and do things, and those things need to belong to someone. But what I really believe is that my existence started before the nurses at Cottonwood Hospital wrote Megan Morley on the medical records 23 years ago, and that my existence will continue after Meg Morley is engraved on my tombstone. I believe that in that void beyond, as scary as it may be and as uncertain as I feel, I’m not Meg. I’m the before and after of Meg.

It’s fascinating, isn’t it? A name. That the name takes you and I places like the top of the google search list, or the class role, or a bank account. But in the end we’re not our name, we’re what we’ve done with our name, and we’re looking back on who we were with our name. Narcissistic? Ok.

Wednesday, December 2, 2009

Not like you do

Jacket= I'm cold
Jacket + elbow patches= I'm cold and scholarly.

Thursday, November 26, 2009

And I'm getting old

There are things that I'm obviously grateful for. Like, health and family and chocolate frosting. But that's not what the focus of today should be. No, it's about the little things on this day of giving thanks.

I'm thankful for the restroom in the gas station at the mouth of the canyon. Because three miles is a long way to run with a full bladder.

I'm thankful for whoever cleans the restroom in the gas station at the mouth of the canyon. They deserve a pay raise, cause that place was classy.

I'm thankful for the sudden rush of nostalgia I experienced while catching a whiff of the car fresheners on the shelf in the gas station at the mouth of the canyon, especially the one that smelled just like my first boyfriend's car.

I'm thankful for the memories I have of my first boyfriend and how I laughed when he kissed me. Not giggled, laughed. Hysterically. Doubled over, couldn't breathe, tears.

Where are you Nick? If you read this I'm sorry for telling the whole blogosphere.

And Mom and Dad, I made this up. I don't kiss boys.

Tuesday, November 24, 2009

Sexy Sadie

Facebook has decided to act as my conscience. It's killing me with its suggestions. "People you may know"... you're right. I do know that person (how did you know that you freakish gypsy machine), and yes, i've neglected to add them as my facebook friend. I guess it's time to get over that fight we had in the third grade. Also, "You haven't talked on facebook in a while", with the thumbnail of a Latvian underneath. FB is telling me as gently as possible "You are a horrible returned missionary. Don't you know how important it is to keep in touch with these precious souls? Did you even read the white handbook? How do you live with yourself?". And my favorite facebook suggestion ever: "People you may know: Meg Morley. Add as a friend". Somehow FB knewI was being hard on myself that day and it was time to remember what's really important. Because if I can't be friends with myself, all is lost.

Monday, November 23, 2009

you're shakin my confidence

In Praise of the Diet Cola
I drink diet coke. Often. As I sit typing this essay it’s noon and I’m half-way through my second can of the day. Addiction? Oh, I don’t know. I’d be ok without it. But just ok. I wouldn’t be great like I am right now as I sip the cool, carbonated, artificially sweetened beverage.
My adoration is often met with mixed reviews. “Full of carcinogens”, “Habit-forming”, “God hates Caffeine”, I’ve heard. To this I stroke the silver can and say, “You’re so misunderstood”. And I mean it. Because diet coke is there for me.
I rarely fall ill. A friend watched me purchase a two-liter bottle and with a disapproving look began yet another that’s-so-bad-for-you-you’re-going-to-die speech. Her particular kicker this time was “we clean toilets with coke”. I assume she meant to suggest that anything used to disinfect toilet-bowls should stay out of the body. I think she’s wrong. diet coke is my personal weapon against sickness. Just as it cleans a toilet, it cleans my insides, killing viral intruders. As those around me cough and sneeze I sip and smile.
There is a price to be paid. About 75 cents a can, more specifically. Plus dental fees. I recently had my first cavity, and my cola and I had our first fight. We took a day or two apart as I contemplated the nature of our relationship, and diet coke sat patiently in my fridge. It was not long before I missed the bubbles, the icy coolness, and slightly bitter aftertaste of my beloved drink. As I opened the fridge, the record player of my mind plaid Peaches and Herbs, and with the first sip I sang along, “Reunited and it feels so good”. From that point on I’ve been fully committed.
Diet coke is the oil that burns at midnight. Every “A” paper written past midnight, which has been all of them, (all have been written after midnight- not all have been “A”s) is thanks to diet coke. A fresh can come about 2 am lends a caffeine-induced clarity of mind otherwise lost to heavy eyelids and a bobbing head.

Come on, skinny love

Do you think librarians read a lot? Or are they just really good at the Dewey Decimal system? If the latter, I'm qualified. Here's why:

(Te be performed as a rap)
"Hi! My name's Dewey. And I work in the library. I got a ladder, long arms, and one day my boss said to me: 'Hey Dewey! Are you busy? I need reference right away!' 000-099, grab the ladder climb and climb!"

And they say the public school system isn't good for much.

Friday, November 20, 2009

I swear this is fiction

I was given an assignment to write test questions. I'm not depressed. This is all made up. Don't call me all concerned, or make me cookies or anything ok?

1. If he said he’d call, and it’s been 3 days and your phone is at full charge and full volume, and your friends all assure you two days ago that he would call, and they still assure you, only now with doubt in their eyes, and your roommate has loaned her your copy of He’s Just Not That Into You, and it’s 8:37 pm on a Thursday night, at what time will reality become>expectations? How many hours will be spent alone this weekend?

2. If one year is equivalent to seven dog years, and Winchester the schnauzer died at age 11 of natural causes, would it be appropriate to assume that your own life will end at 77, excluding the possibility of car accident, natural disaster,or cancer? Well maybe not cancer, because lets face it, cancer is everywhere and by the time you’re approaching 77 it will probably be THE natural cause, right? Right. Does seeing your age of death suddenly instill fear and an overwhelming sense of emptiness? Support your answer with textual evidence.

3. If it’s thirty degrees outside, and seventy degrees inside, and a fifteen-minute walk to campus, and nine o’clock in the morning, what degree of guilt is necessary to actually get out of bed? Is missing your first class really that big of a deal? Would turning off the space heater persuade you one way or another? I mean, with the space heater on it’s a completely blissful state of existence, but with the spaceheater off it’s colder and not quite perfection, so you might as well just embrace the misery and start the day. Or, will the colder temperature of the room only cause you to burrow deeper into the covers, because it’s a kind of misery you just can’t really deal with today, what with school and the loss of your dog Winchester and the boy who didn’t call, who you want to run into with all hopes that he’ll say sorry my phone died and I tired to come to your house to say hi but I shattered my femur and that’s why I have these crutches but can we please go out tonight? But you know that he’s probably perfectly healthy, and probably won’t say anything at all, just wave and keep walking so actually it would be better if you didn’t see him and continued believing your own lies, until you assume that he’s died, it was probably cancer, and you send his parents flowers in a sympathy gesture, and they’re extremely confused but that doesn’t matter at all, what matters is that you finally have closure and can move on with your life. Closure until you see his arms around another girl in the library. So what will it be? Are you getting out of bed or not? Include four digits after the decimal point in your answer.

Thursday, November 19, 2009

Last Christmas

You know what's a fun place? The testing center. I just can't get enough of that feeling when I walk through the front doors. The palpable anxiety...not only mine but that of 200 other students. All greasy haired, blood-shot eyed, on the verge of something real bad. I also love paying for my test. $5 can buy me 2 chicken tacos and a diet coke, but who wants that when I can have a 13 page examination on early British literature? And really, there's nothing better than the dramatic drop of my stomach when I scan the first page of said exam and have absolutely no idea what any of the questions are even attempting to ask. It's really awesome that every time I opt for the music room, they're playing the soundtrack to A Man From Snowy River. I've been at BYU since 2004. Every. Time. It's one of my favorite things when the person behind me has brought a cheese burger to snack on while filling out a scantron, after my day spent in the library eating the occasional almond hidden in my bag. And the person the row over with the cold who sniffs once every 8 seconds, loud and mucousy, so great. And even greater that I know they're sniffing once every eight seconds because I'd rather time their body's audible functions than decipher whether it was Donne or Herbert who wrote the metaphysical tetrameter couplet.

Tuesday, November 17, 2009



I just sneezed on it.

Bless me.

K bye.

Monday, November 16, 2009

Well alright

What would happen if we never pushed in our chairs? I think we're taught from a young age to push in chairs as a courtesy. But really, isn't it a greater courtesy to leave the chair out for the next person who wants a seat? I guess there's a tripping hazard, but anyone who can't see a chair in their path deserves to fall. This morning in the computer lab the boy next to me left without pushing his chair in. Appalled, and riding that high horse I often refuse to get off, I pushed in not only mine but his. I spent the rest of the afternoon praising myself until it hit me like a swift punch in the gut that he actually has it figured out much more than I.

Tuesday, November 10, 2009


People sometimes throw around words like "addiction" or "unhealthy", calling my 7-11 visits excessive. But they don't get it. Because my daily trips two blocks west aren't just about the diet coke. They're about the kid with his dog who sits outside playing the guitar. And the midnight slurpee runners. And Raj. And the guy today who, when asked how he got the cut on his head responded, "I was thrown across the room by a ghost". He was also wearing a snuggie.

Sunday, November 8, 2009

whatever you like.

Using my student card to make a purchase from the vending machine between Sunday School and Relief Society.

Your thoughts...

Thursday, November 5, 2009

What's the news from your bed?

A cupcake for breakfast may not have been the best idea. But I'm looking forward to another at lunch.

Sometimes I'm deep in thought and you can see it. Like, you can watch me think. So I was pondering some issue or another, and my lips puckered and my brow furrowed and the elevator opened. I stood face to face with a stranger, while looking like a confused goldfish. There's no recovering from that.

Thursday, October 29, 2009

I'd have some Chinese children.

I just took 3 personality tests. I know, right? Narcissist. Or insecure. Or both. But I mean, who really knows themselves? I've never looked in the mirror and thought "Yep, that's me." It's usually "Wow, small nose" or "big eyes" or "have my bangs always looked like that?" and that's just appearance. Personality is that much more abstract. Just like I need someone to tell me if my hair looks ok, I need someone else to tell me the nature of my soul. But maybe you're still hung up on the number 3. excessive, you're thinking. Maybe. But let me explain. The results of my first test were disappointing. "Blue". Boring. Yes I could have paid $29.95 for a 20 page analysis, but it would mean living on the street next month. So I moved on to the Big 5. Which told me I'm generally very anxious. They're full of crap. (It may have mentioned something about defensive). So finally, the Meyers Brigg test. EFNP! "Champions". Extovert, Feeling, Intuitive, Perceiving. Only 2-3% of the population. Just like Phil Donahue.

Tuesday, October 27, 2009


Hey remember that one time?

Monday, October 26, 2009

Nevermind nevermind nevermind nevermiiiind

People seem to have a problem with my face. I guess I don't smile all that often. I don't remember any instance ever when someone has said, "Wow, you look so happy today." Instead I hear a lot of "What's wrong?" "Why are you mad?" or even "What did I do?" The answers are always "Nothing," "I'm not" and again, "nothing". Though in actuality after their expressed concern something is wrong, apparently my face, and I'm mad because they asked about it. Remember that Young Womens leader who told you not to give away your kisses to just anyone? I think I took that lesson a little too much to heart and extended a talk intended to keep beehives chaste into a mode of interaction with every fellow human being. In my mind smiling at everyone and everything just makes you a floozy.

Thursday, October 22, 2009

No names

In Academia an F means fail. It’s meant to bring shame and despair to the inadequate test taker or paper writer. I’ve lived my life in fear of this end-all. There seemed to be no coming back from a Fail. And I failed. It was a test in Mr. Nozowa’s CP Chemistry class. When he passed the scantron bubble sheets back with the scores printed on the bottom corner, I saw my 49% and became short of breath. With tears welling in my eyes I thought of the colleges I could no longer attend, the look on my parents’ faces, and my ultimate failure as a human being. I looked over at Jesse who sat next to me. He sometimes came to class, sometimes stayed awake, but only to carve offensive phrases in the desk with a compass. I asked how he fared and he held up his scantron. Where my sheet had one penciled-in bubble on each line— my best guess at the right answer, his started with one bubble, centered on top, then three on the next, then five, and so forth until the final result showed the figure of a Christmas Tree. He had added sketches of presents at the bottom and a star and the top. He smiled slyly and there was no doubt in my mind that Jesse was very pleased with himself. His failure was a greater success than an A would have been. I’m not sure where Jesse is now. Last I heard he was publishing poetry. And last I heard he was very happy.

Wednesday, October 21, 2009

What's up, Brooklyn?

Sometimes people ask me why I'm not married. Which is weird. I usually respond with "I don't know." This is a lie. I do know.
I'm not married because today, for the third week in a row, I forgot that Wednesday is garbage day and rolled our cans into the street only after I heard the truck drive by. The cans will remain on the street until next Wednesday.
I'm not married because today I got hungry and drove to my family's home and ate left-over spaghetti. I also stole three cans of diet coke. (Yeah that was me).
I'm not married because it's 1:58 pm and I'm under the covers writing a blog and youtubing Lil' Wayne. "I'm a gangsta Miss Katie"
I'm not married because the only thing I've successfully cooked in 3 months is muddy buddies.
And finally, I'm not married because I'm ok with all of this. Maybe that's bad.

Tuesday, October 20, 2009

I'm glad I'm a man. And so is Lola.

Years ago I saw an episode of Oprah. Not that it was the only episode of Oprah I have ever seen, or that I haven’t seen other episodes since, but years ago I saw a particular episode of Oprah. Her guest of choice for said episode was a renowned Dietician. I was soon bored, as hearing “eat right and exercise” stated in so many different ways for an hour failed to enlighten. But then he posed a question that truly stood out. Speaking to a crying obese woman, he said, “Are you eating to live, or living to eat?” At the time I paused and reflected on my day’s caloric intake, wondering if I had enjoyed the cookie at lunch just a bit too much. But today the question, slightly altered, haunts me for a different reason. Lately I’ve had to ask myself “Am I writing to live, or living to write?” I recognize that very few people write to live, if any, but it sure is dramatic worded like that. In responding to my own query, I hang my head and admit that more often than not, I am living to write.

Monday, October 19, 2009

Agnes, Agatha, Jermain and Jack

I made the mistake of eating lunch at the teca during Provo High's lunch break. I heard the following one table over:
"Wait, your mom is single?"
"Your mom is hot!"
"Shut up"
"No really. What if I married your mom?"
Then my phone rang and I stopped listening.

The older I get, the less of a priority showers become.

My Best Buddy has Fragile X Syndrome. Which is fascinating. It's just one small mutation in one X chromosome that changes everything about him. But that's true of all of us, isn't it? The effects aren't as drastic as they are with him, but so many small things make up us. Even if it's not DNA strands or chromosomes. The books we read, the people we meet, the songs we repeat, all shape us. So are we more ourselves everyday? Or are we just always changing?

Thursday, October 15, 2009

She says she wants diamonds, I took her to Ruby Tuesday.

Pirate Island. We should have known. But our curiosity got the better of us and we succumbed to our natural consumer tendencies. I thought maybe I was wrong in my premature judgments, assuming the worst. I'll never doubt myself like that again. Pirates+pizza=not delicious. El Azteca=delicious. Always. I'm not even a math major and I've got that all figured out.
I learned a term I really like today. "Unacknowledged Legislator". Like John Lennon. Or essentially anyone who creates art with influence. Do we have those anymore? I can't think of anyone one artist of our generation who stands out as a leader for a cause, unless it's the insane clown posse. Maybe we're too multifaceted. Or maybe we appreciate art for art now. A little more order to society, an appropriate time and place, etc. But that's boring isn't it? I'd rather a musician tell me how to think or act instead of anyone with real authority. Ok fine if we're being totally honest I'd rather be the musician who tells people how to think and act. Then finally suspenders and leisure suits will make a come-back.

Wednesday, October 14, 2009

You're gonna carry that weight.

Today my ipod pulled an ultimatum. I guess I haven't been treating it very well,
taking it for granted and what-not. I'm easily annoyed and stand-offish, especially when it pulls the same selection of songs in the same order so many times. So this morning when I skipped five songs in a row, it just stopped. I interpreted this to mean "I think you need some space. You're obviously not that into me. Why don't you take some time to figure out what it is you really want." So after a five minute walk in silence, we worked it out. I even listened to a couple songs I don't really like just to make peace. I mean sure it's not the cutest, newest or smartest pod in town, but it's there for me. And life without it would be...quiet.

Tuesday, October 13, 2009

Amazing Grace.

32 more hits, and we're at 10,000. Come on guys. If we make it you each get a hug, or whatever treat I may have on me when we run into each other. Probably a stick of gum. Do you think Obama will finally notice my blog once we pass this threshold? I bet 10,000 hits is the number that will get me knighted or at least a purple heart or something. I bet Oprah will call. The mayor will present me with a key to the city and I'll be front page news. Sure, most likely more than half of these hits are my own. Sure, when the tracker was installed the installer said something along the lines of "I don't really know if this is accurate". But does that really matter? Why are you so negative?

Monday, October 12, 2009

Halo. Halo. Halo. Halo. Haloooooo.

I saw Neil and looked the other way. It would be awkward to say hi. Even though I know his last name. And I know he was born on Albert Einstein's death date. I know that he once invented a contraption to help his mom carry milk home from the store. I know that he has three younger brothers who look just like him, and a younger sister who looks different only because of longer hair. I know that he spent a year in Japan. I know that his dad teaches on campus. I know that his house is on the hill. And I know that he knows just as much about me. But it's been so long since we were in Mr. Grass's 5th grade class together, or Mr. Greenwood's American History, or even since we graduated high school.
I like to think that the people I know now are permanent. That we'll always be close and continue to share our lives. But maybe that's unrealistic. Maybe in 6 years you and I will be walking in opposite directions down the street and I'll look the other way cause it would be awkward to say hi. I really hope not.

Friday, October 9, 2009

And every breath we drew was hallelujah

While peeling and slicing apples in the basement of her grandmother's home, Allie told me the entire storyline of the latest and the hottest young adult book series.

REDIKILUS. But, as most seemingly insignificant things do, it led me to think. Why is our outlook on the future so despairing? It seems that in the mind of every Science Fiction writer, the next century or two will bring events so catastrophic that we will be reduced to the state of the early Egyptian slaves, but instead of pharaohs cracking whips will be robots with laser beams. Or monkeys in snazzy jumpsuits. When's the last time you read a futuristic piece portraying the next stages of our world as a bright and happy place? There are no unicorns in the future. There are no rainbows in the future. Only human sacrifices and Spaceship warfare. It's a good message to send to the growing generation: your brain will inevitably be harvested and fed to the inhabitants of Jupiter, so don't bother with your algebra assignment.

Also, my professor is distractingly attractive. Yesterday I asked a question (one I spent all of class formulating). I have no idea what his answer was. All I know is that he smiled and tossed his hair.

Today i wrote a small segment excluding the letter e. What was that? You'd like to read it? No. No I can't. No really, you don't want to read it. Oh stop it you. It's silly. Ok fine.

Looking out on our land from high, all is lit with a rising sun,
casting a warm glow on roads and hills far down. Our group walks away,
trailing up toward Timp’s summit, and I cast a final longing look at
Provo, counting hours until food and hydration. Following a strong
boy, I fail to match his rapidity and fall into isolation. Though I
don’t mind, as all within sight brings abundant occupation of mind. A
small flood springing from nothing runs along my rocky path, making
hiking hazardous, and I think what might go wrong without company.
Slipping, lying, dying .

Sure it doesn't make a ton of sense, but fetch! No e's!

Thursday, October 8, 2009

fated to pretend

Brenda has a bowl. It sits on her desk. In the bowl is an assortment of chocolate. Cheap chocolate. Chocolate that comes in an assortment bag from Costco. Hershey's minis, kit-kats, mini-Reeses cups, and bite size twix.
This morning I woke up happy, because it's Thursday. On Thursday I see Brenda and the bowl on her desk.
I'm at Smith's, buying one thing or another at least 13 times a week. I could easily pick up an assortment of cheap chocolate. I could even opt for a truly delicious treat, as I walk by the Provo bakery on the way to Brenda's desk.
But I think that would ruin Thursdays.

Wednesday, October 7, 2009

whatever you like

You know it's a weird day when a leaf falls on your head and you interpret it as a personal attack and start to cry.

Tuesday, October 6, 2009

Grab hold of your bootstraps

My scarf smells like froot-loops.

Every time my professor says "courtly love" I think he's saying "Courtney Love", and I wish he was, because it would certainly liven up our discussion of the Renaissance.

The cashier at El Azteca thinks I speak Spanish. And the last few times I've gone in she's only spoken to me in Spanish. I can understand, but i can't respond. I therefore come off as an arrogant, condescending jerk who refuses to communicate in the language more comfortable for her. I try to throw in as many graciases as possible, because I know how hard life is for the people she doesn't like. Namely, Allie. For some reason this woman hates Allie. She never announces Allie's order when it's ready, and the food will sit on the counter until we happen to check. Last time I walked by and she said "Here, your friend's food" and handed me the fish taco.

I walked home today to find a package on the front porch for our new roommate. It was a large package. "Omaha steaks" read the label. Awesome.

Monday, October 5, 2009

But you sat on your hands

For a while now, I've been anxiously waiting for the day when I'd have internet at home. I've dreamed of the activities that would once more be virtually available within the cozy walls of my picturesque room. The HBLL 5th floor is short on charm, and the character of the curtains, the bedspread, the red floor and Carl my pet Hermit Crab promise inspiration, while I sit in my pajamas with popcorn at hand. But...nothing. I have nothing to say to any of you. Dear readers, have we reached that point in our relationship? Have I told you everything there is to tell? Will we now spend meals avoiding eye contact, staring at uneaten peas on our plates, wondering how we ended up here? Will our conversations be reduced to small talk (or type as it were)? Is there Blog-couples counseling?

Friday, October 2, 2009

More fish in the sea

I often wish I was (were?) Harry Potter. No. I always wish I was (were?). And today I came one step closer.

Opening my copy of the novel we were discussing in class, I found written in the margin "Odysseus has boar-tusk wound".

Thank you Half-Blood Prince. I bet you loved my mom, huh?

Thursday, October 1, 2009

Like a copcar

Edward Cullens. Not McCullen. I'm obviously a huge fan.

New Hampshire's license plate reads: "Live Free or Die." Sounds like a threat.What If I want to live oppressed? Am I not free to do so? Must I die if I choose not to live free? And isn't that not very free?

Snuggies are on sale at Smiths.

Sometimes I walk into the library restroom and the lights are off. Confusing. But then I look over and see someone sleeping on the couch. K really? Of all the places to take a nap?

Wednesday, September 30, 2009

that was drownded

I'm in the library. I shouldn't be in the library. I have none of the books I need with me. I should go home, retrieve the books, and then return to the library prepared. But that would mean stepping outside. Which would mean freezing to death. Which would mean not making it to 24. Which would mean I died before I even finished growing. And I feel like I have at least another inch before I reach the height of potential. Ha. Height. Potential. Laugh.

Allie once told me she wanted to date Edward McCullen because vampires drive fast cars and he could come pick her up wherever she was. I thought that was weird. Now i think she's spot on.

Monday, September 28, 2009

Definitely not a Nashville Party

"When, in The Spectator No. 411, Joseph Addison situates the "pleasures of the imagination" between "sense" and "understanding," he puts a broadly literary category in the place of two similarly-structure assertions of "the human": Philip Sidney's location of "humanism" between the bestial and the divine, and Thomas Reid's identification of society (or of what we called "culture") between "the brutes and devils below, and the celestial orders above." What are the implications, practical and/or theoretical, of Addison's critical gesture? How does his project compare with Sidney's and Reid's with respect either to literature or the category of "the human"? Does it (or does it not) significantly resonate with or differ from Plato's or Aristotle's ideas concerning literature?"

So...is mfhd still an option?

Thursday, September 24, 2009

it's an Orca. Orca Bitte.

This morning I stepped outside, took a deep breath, and began my run. Every great day begins with a run, and this day felt especially great. The sun caressed my chilled skin, warming my very existence. With each step I took I could sense the cosmos aligning in my favor, fate smiling on my freckled face. My pace quickened as I pondered the majesty that was the world around me, and the power of positivity boosted every stride. How wonderful it is to be alive, I thought, how lucky I am to live this day. Nothing will conquer my spirits. And then i tripped.

Wednesday, September 23, 2009

But her will alone could sink it.

I think it might be a bit telling that I find marriage prep uber boring.

Watch this.

The other day someone asked me about the soul. About what souls really are, and whether or not every living organism has a soul. And if every living organism has one, and we're made up of l43 gagillion different cells, does that mean we're full of that many separate souls? To me the soul is nearly synonymous with personality, so the question made me laugh, because I pictured one cell, bouncing all around my spleen or whatever, turning excitedly to another cell, saying, "let's go for a bikeride!", and then the second cell, dark and pouty, "no, I don't feel like it." One cell in the brain reading James Joyce, another watching Walker Texas Ranger.

I guess it would explain the mood swings.

Friday, September 18, 2009

Double-cuff love

"You're so tan"
"No, you're so tan"
"Shut up- I am not"
"Yes. Like way tan"

Monday, September 14, 2009

Lightning seven seconds thunder

I pull to a stop behind a long line of cars. In the distance I spot an ambulance and squad cars. Obviously there's been an accident. Obviously someone's hurt. Obviously there's cause for alarm and concern. I feel both, but only because I have 5 minutes to travel a 10 minute journey, and I'm looking at an appointment cancellation which means another week of dark roots and too-long bangs. Someone may be dead or attached to a machine for the rest of their existence, and I'm panicked because it's just so hard to reschedule.

Do you ever stumble upon a song, one you've ignored every other time it's popped up on shuffle, only to realize it's absolutely incredible and perfectly sums up everything you're feeling in melody and lyrics and you listen to it on repeat for the rest of the week and call someone just to recite the lyrics and tap your fingers to the beat in your head during every class?
Me neither.

Friday, September 11, 2009

Deep Blue Sea Darlin'

I glared. Partly in disbelief, but mostly because I wanted the swarm of strangerse striding through campus to know that I was in disbelief. At this girl. Singing, outloud. It's important that these strangers know I have no relation, let alone fondness for this leapord-print-sunglass-wearing-wack-job. I called her that in my mind so that whoever is reading my mind knows that is my opinion of her. But then I listened to what it was she so melodiously declared. The lyrics were as follows: "I'm singing outloud. I'm singing out loud." She repeated this, oh I don't know, like 84 times. And her feat BLEW MY MIND. She declared what she was doing, and what she was doing was declaring what she was doing. But then I remembered that I hated her. And then another goof walked by singing tenor and I thought "I go to crazy school", again to impress my mind reader who at this point probably thought "Man, weak zingers." BYUSA handed me a
flier and I told them no, I won't go their Fallfest, and when I overheard the conversation a few feet away erupt in "He's probably a really great kisser" I imagined a mouth turning green and falling out of a head. "Don't do it, I thought". I cant' eat a sandwich and declare that I'm eating a sandwich in the same action. I can declare that I'm eating a sandwich, then take a bite, but it is two different actions at two different moments, and my declaration and action are not one in the same. This kid just came between me and the guy next to me in the computer lab. Very much in my bubbble. I wanted to push him away, and tell him to wear a different hat. But I wonder how many people have seen me today and thought "Wow. She's wearing bright yellow pants." Because I am wearing bright yellow pants. I can't run and declare that I'm running and have it be the same thing. It's the same moment, but not the same action. The quill and the sword tent is just outside the library, housing the medieval-garbed. "Now really" I thought. But it was shaded and the had a lute which I've always wanted to try. I suppose I could say "I'm talking outloud", and what I was doing would be declaring what I was doing which is declaring what I'm doing. But I wouldn't be sung, so who would really care? Because what leapord-print-sunglass-wearing-wack-job was doing was philosophical and profound and beautiful and I hope that she didn't realize that it was so because that would ruin it don't you think?

Tuesday, September 8, 2009


Maybe you read the last post. Maybe you didn't. I hate to be pushy, so i won't suggest that if you haven't you probably should, because that's just presumptuous. But doing so may increase the "what the..." factor of today's account. Just saying.
So another run this morning. And like the last documented jog, all seemed normal, maybe even boring, until once more I came to a complete stop at the sight before me. Hanging from my neighbors' tree was a jagged quarter of a vinyl record, on which someone had written "I'll never forget you." Huh. I started up again. But then I stopped. I had to. Standing dead center in my path was a black cat. Did he scurry out of my way and let me be? Oh my sweet reader. No. No he did not. He turned, hissed darted toward me and then into the bushes.
Mom, stop reading.
The rest of you, i would not be surprised if this is the last you will hear from me. I mean really. Given the aforementioned events, it's not looking good for ol' Morley. And so for those who survive me, I record this final desire. A horror movie. The black cat, the shattered record, even the bunny and "Kicking It Old School" all amount to cinematic gold. Start with production in Japan.

Thursday, September 3, 2009

What's up holla

Whilst running through So-Pro, I happened upon a scene. What originally caught my eye was the rabbit. Cause I don't see many rabbits a year, let alone a day. The rabbit's petrified, rapid breaths caused its small body to inflate then deflate as he sat horribly out of place in a deserted flower box. Not more than six inches away was a shattered DVD, one shard revealing the title "Kicking It Old School", and a mere two inches from that was a big, fatty straw like the kind you get at McDonalds. What sequence of events led to this catastrophe?

Tuesday, September 1, 2009

Humanities Reference

It's cool guys. I didn't want you to comment anyway.
I feel sick in the library. Really. Like I might throw up on the table. What would happen then? There are always intriguing social observations to be made when something dramatic happens in an otherwise silent public place. It would be one thing if I dropped my books. The boy one table over with the shaggy hair would help me pick them up, a few other people would look, I'd blush, and minutes later the incident would be forgotten. But if I were to toss my cookies? Would anyone help? Or would I be entirely ignored while my fellow studiers tried their hardest to repress their own gag reflexes? Lucky for all of us, I'm not God, and I'm not the decider of post-mortal placement. But I'm pretty sure that if anyone were to provide assistance in such a moment of trauma, they'd be just the sort of person who will breeze right into heaven, nigh unto an Angel.
K but really guys, no comments? That's harsh.

Wednesday, August 26, 2009

Let's talk about spaceships.

Ladies and Gentlemen,
meet Roy-

Hertz has a lot full of cars. Rental cars that allow the renter, for about a week to say "yeah, I'm this cool." A facade, perhaps, but what's a vacation if not an escape from reality? So anxiously we walked through the lot, searching our assigned vehicle number. The sleak and shiny automobiles seemed to beckon with a wink, promising a week of class and style. And then we found 33B. The Mercury Grand Marquis. Gold. We were to be the envy of every Ethel, Ruth and Mildred.
In the end he served us well. Partly because Lola, our GPS system, made for foolproof navigation. Yes, we named the car and the GPS. Which reminds me of something I heard on a talkshow. I trust everything I hear on talkshows. So the following was upsetting: "If you personify objects or animals, it means you're a lonely person." Shoot. I personify paint chips. And I really personify my dog. And now I'm going to transition not very smoothly into why I might not make a great mom. In fact I threw the dog thing in there only to sort of tie the two parts together. Which is maybe why I won't be a professional writer. And I'm lonely. I just had 3 depressing realizations all at once. Hold on. I'm going to go vent to my fence post. K I'm back. What was I saying? Oh yeah. Why the world should fear for my offspring. It really all comes down to my relationship with our family dog. We're supposed to be disciplining her because she's a bit on the unruly side. But it's just so funny when she's naughty. I'm usually giggling when I tell her no, I always give her food from my plate, and I let her chew my hair cause who does that? So someday I might have one of those children who is spoiled and loud and punches the other kids in the face and all I'll do is giggle and give him/her treats.
If you personify nonexistent people does that make you lonely and dellusional? Is that how you spell dellusional?

Tuesday, August 18, 2009

what happens when two substances collide

Sometimes, I watch Oprah. Not often, but you know those strange hankerings you get? Maybe for salt and vinegar potato chips? It's like that. It seems as though everytime I tune in to Miss Winfrey, she's talking about the same subject: weight loss. And without fail, everytime I'm eating something very unhealthy. One would assume this would cause shame and emmbarrassment. That I would recognize that even though I'm not the same size as the morbidly obese crying on the screen, one chocolate chip cookie too many may lead down a path only Dr. Oz can correct. Not so. I find it empowering. I saw Super Size Me and ate a Big Mac. I've found that m&ms and The Biggest Loser are the perfect combination. Don't misunderstand. My diet is fairly balanced. And I eat more fruits and vegetables than the given digestive system allows. But for some reason, someone telling me what not to eat makes me want to eat it. Some people get tattoos. Some smoke pot. I consume french fries.
But my coke is always diet.

Friday, August 14, 2009


Nickmo's home.

Monday, August 10, 2009


Here in my car. You can see me but you sure can't hear me. What is it I'm singing? Who's on the other end of my cell phone conversation? And the guy across the intersection, he's picking his nose, but you can't tell him that's gross because he won't hear you. And I think he feels really good about that. If we pull up to a red light, I might look over. We might make eye contact. But I'll pretend we didn't, playing with the radio dial and adjusting my rear view mirror, praying the light changes quickly. I will never roll my window down because that means you've penetrated my bubble. Suddenly I'm vulnerable, and if you talk I must respond. It's a beautiful thing, driving down the road, surrounded by so many other people and completely without small talk obligation. And how fascinating that we're all going somewhere. We all have something to do, someone to see, some aspect of our lives which compels us to get in our cars and drive. Every person in every car has a life. They eat breakfast and go to work and watch Conan. They all have epiphanies, even about cars.
k, bye.

Monday, August 3, 2009

when i catch a fish, i put it in the fridge

Lagoon. It's what fun is...? Ok sure.

Ride 1: Lets start big. With Colossus. Anxiously we waited, ready to loop and whirl and rearrange our internal organs. But then a delay- as Lagoon worker walked past and yelled to his fellow employee "that sure was a close one!". We then watched another lagooner, this one rubber-gloved, pour sawdust, sweep, spray lysol, and walk away with a white bucket.

"Plush must remain with a non-rider", reads a sign. "Plush?" we asked. But not long after it hit us- plush is prized. Plush is the reward for "spilling the milk", "wacking the mole", or winning the "plop plop" (ha). Small children could be seen hauling plush twice the size of their own body. A plush Pimp sat on a bunch, guarding a giant banana, shark, and baseball bat while his offspring rode Dracula's Castle. Not going to lie, had he not been sitting there, I might have swiped the shark. It would have been nice to finally be respected by the other lagoon patrons.

We ate $9 chicken fingers for lunch. They were not delicious. Also, the southwestern fry sauce, which was 70 cents extra, had no semblance of the south or the west.

It turns out that Spencer is not a fan of heights. A good friend would forgo any ride that might induce terror. But a good friend I am not, so we insisted he join us. Just as soon as the lap guard came down, his eyes closed. As we shot upward at an alarming speed, he made a sound something like "aaaaaaaaaaaaggggggggghhhhhhhhheeeeeeerrrrrrrrnnnnnnnoooooooo", followed by "This is the worst thing that has ever happened. I hate you both."

3 is an odd number. As in strange. Because most rides are built for 2. So when we faced this dilemma with the Jet Star 2 (we don't know what happened to Jet Star 1), the ride attendant insisted that 3 in one seat was better than 1. 3 full-grown people squoze into a compartment snug for 2 children. No matter, we thought. The pain won't last long, no ride exceeds 2 minutes. Should have known better. It was either our extra person or the girl behind us who had a donut for breakfast that made the ride stop. For a while. Until we got a push start. And finished the ride 20 minutes later. You know how you feel after horse back riding? Worse.

We spent the remainder of the evening regretting the chicken fingers and realizing that kids are made of rubber and iron stomaches, and that getting old bites.

As we exited, we saw another unfortunate soul pour sawdust over a post Centennial Screamer episode. Bookends.

Editor's note: I learned how to spell "pour".

Sunday, July 26, 2009

Crayola doesn't make a color

There's something on my mind.
A hat.
Give it a second. You'll get it.

Also, I've been thinking.

1. Demolition Derbies

Last night we made the annual Morley Family Pilgrimage to Kamas for the event we anticipate all summer every summer. Within the first 5 minutes a car flipped on its side. We cheered. There was a fire. We cheered louder. The closer the drivers were to dying, the more excited we became. When Britt sent a text from the Heber Derby about a girl being cut out of her truck and taken away in an ambulance, I was jealous.

2. Spasms

When I'm stressed/tired my eyes twitch. Sometimes not together. In fact, usually one at a time. And while I recognize it as a sign that it's time to take a nap, others interpret the "winks" differently. "Did you just wink?" I've been asked far too many times lately. Or not asked...and instead met with a puzzled glance from the wink recipient. The horror of this scenario lies in my ignorance. I can't tell when it's happening, therefore I'm unaware when I've unintentionally flirted with friends, waiters, professors, ex-boyfriends, family members, strangers, women, dogs, bosses, etc.

3. My face

Yes, my picture is in the Ensign. No, it's not my best. Yes, I realize it's a magazine with circulation world wide. No, I didn't know my hair looked like that in the back. Yes, I've been hoping no one would recognize me. No, my hope hasn't helped the fact that EVERYONE has recognized me. Yes, I'm researching anti-double chin products on the internet. No, I'm not able to laugh about it quite yet. Yes, my bishop announced the page number over the pulpit.

4. Him

Well done Jenkins.

Thursday, July 23, 2009

wired like tv

So one time I had dinner with this guy...


I've misled you perhaps. I had dinner with this guy and a table of filmmakers and Brad and Allie. BUT STILL. I seem to remember a slight breeze tossing my hair while he smiled, our eyes locking as we discussed the glazed porkchops. Sure we shared the table with 5 others, but as far as emotional connections and immediate attraction, it was just he and I. Maybe.
Years later...
Allie and I attended a premiere at a little festival we locals like to call Sundance. What's that? Biggest event of the year? Couldn't get tickets? Missed your chance to see the back of Paris Hilton's head walk into a club? That's really sad for you. I, however, am blessed with a rather rad roommate (not any more, but I'm a sucker for alliteration), who happened to have an extra ticket to (500) Days of Summer, staring, yes, believe it, Joseph Gordon-Levitt (pictured above). And don't worry, it being a premiere and all, he was there. Serendipitous, I thought. And my how far we had both come. He, coming from a sitcom career to a full fledged movie star, and my hair having grown at least three inches. Knowing that fate had brought us together once more, I understood my reponsibility. I was to reestablish that connection. With nothing but the Devil's advocation from my "friend" Allie, I prepared to speak once more to the man who was undoubtedly my one true love, and with whom I was to live a charming and passionate life somewhere in a French countryside, where the paparazzi would never find us. "He's coming," whipsered Allie. As I turned I stood face to face with the dream. I reached out, brushed his shoulder, and with an expectant smile said "Hey, we had dinner together." Confused smile. Blushing. "Good movie. You did a good job. I liked it." Still confused. "Thanks". Turn. Walk away.

Restraining what?

Friday, July 17, 2009

I am now certified to drive a BYU van. Prayers appreciated.

Tuesday, July 14, 2009

khaki wid it

There's a place I like to go. I run on dirt, through trees, under the sun, and other various prepositions. I went there today. The wildlife acknowledged my presence in excited scurrying through bushes and air, circling my head and leading the way. It was very Disney Princess, sans birds, squirrels and fawns, and instead lizards, hornets and stinging nettle. I thought it might be fitting to sing, because isn't that what they always do? These princesses? Glide through the forest, extend a dainty hand where a bluebird perches, and together they sing of dreams and prince charmings and how sad it is to be part fish royalty. But the only song that came to mind was Highway to Hell and that hardly seems appropriate.

Monday, July 13, 2009

facebook gem

Sunday, July 12, 2009

Hey Snow White

Fire alarm. Sounding during Relief Society. So rad. Please don't misinterpret. Church is a wonderful place to be. But come the last half hour I start to really struggle. Maybe it's a blood sugar thing. Or attention deficit disorder. Regardless, when those lights started flashing and the siren blaring, I smiled. So while the females scurried out of the building immediately, the Elders' Quorum said a closing prayer. Which makes me wonder. Almost undoubtedly a drill, sans flames, sans smoke, sans rugged firemen. BUT STILL. It was to be treated as an actual emergency. So a closing prayer? What if it came down to seconds? Is it better to have said the prayer and burn or escape prayerless? Does that lead to a path of metaphorical burning?

I've just set a new goal to blog more often. I've also set a goal to set more realistic goals, which may in fact nullify the first statement. Ladies and gentlemen, the latest side show attraction, Conundrum Girl! Truly, a Walking Paradox!

Thursday, July 9, 2009

a noun that gets paid

"You've lost so much weight", she said the after looking through my facebook photos. Really? So much weight? I mean sure, I was heavier. But was I heavier than I thought? Was I the Agustus Gloop of the mission? Should I have never taken myself seriously? It's an unnerving compliment. Like, "you look good today". Hm. How did I look yesterday? Or every other day? Is this the first time I've looked good ever? When someone tells me I've lost weight, the past fatter me takes offense while the present me glows with bigheadedness. Issues you say? Yes.

Wednesday, July 1, 2009

I struggle with uploading photos

We made ice cream. Well, I watched while ice cream was made. From goat milk. Yes, my acquantances milk goats. I don't ask questions.

A dear friend is preggo (as in with child, not misspelled pasta sauce), and she abstained from the DIVINE dairy delight. "Crazy!" I cried. "So delicious!" I exclaimed."You want some!" I declared. But then, in quiet, maternal wisdom she said "Actually unpasteurized milk can kill the baby." How does she know that? Is there a region in the brain that develops along with the fetus? The Mother Knows Best gray matter? I certainly hope so, because if ever there is a bun in my oven the poor thing is in serious peril. I'll eat essentially anything in front of me, not excluding food fallen on the floor that has far exceeded the ten second rule. Considering my current personal food pyramid, with diet coke as a foundation, microwave popcorn a step above that, then produce on the same level as el azteca chicken tacos, and chocolate in the top triangle (though really not consumed all that sparingly), I imagine drastic changes would need to take place before I start eating for any one other than myself. Lets all thank our lucky stars we're years out.

Tuesday, June 30, 2009

it's not shy it's fatal

I don't dance in public, because my moves look alarmingly similar to this.
But I enjoy dancing. I hear music and I want to move. An ancient and primal instinct, alive and well in my uncoordinated body. I keep the urge under control for the sake of innocent Bystanders and my own dignity. A shoulder shrug or a toe tap is usually the extent of my expression. Usually, not always. Not a single cloud dares show its face in the summer morning sky as I run through the upper Provo hills. I look over the tree-filled valley, and am filled with...awesomeness. And the song blasting through the buds in my ear is spectacular. I can't help it. I start to move with a bit of spunk. A skippy sort of jog. And my arms. They want to move. They raise. a little. A little more. They're swinging in the air above my head. Peridoically i turn around, assuring a clear coast. And then I move my lips to the lyrics. I'm a dancing fool in the most foolish way. It feels so good.

Maybe I did it to have something to blog about. I've been guilty of that before. But really, I believe it was a moment of blissful insanity.

Thursday, June 25, 2009

hold me

I was 5 years old, covered in chicken pox. It was a painful existence, the itch occupying all my thoughts despite the should be distractions, Disney movies, puzzles, etc. Mom and dad brought soothing lotion into my chamber sorrow, and turned on the television. I feel like it was Mtv. It's not a reflection of their poor parenting, instead of their hipness. On the screen was a man unlike any other I had seen. And the song...oh the song! I was mesmerized. The itch vanished as I stared at the awesome spectacle. Baby it don't matter if you're black or white. It was a pivotal moment. It solidified my anti-racist stance. If a man this awesome says it doesn't matter, bygeorge it doesn't matter. Also, it was the moment I fell in love with music. The beat, the pop, the squeals. A while later Free Willy only strengthened my adoration. Sure he seemed to fall apart toward the end there. Sure he looked like his own wax figurine. Sure the news coverage of his death is making me giggle a bit. But I have to give credit where credit is due. I wish I was outside the Apollo Theater, where I wouldn't stop dancing til I had enough.

Wednesday, June 24, 2009

Monday, June 22, 2009

mine gap

There are women at pools who look as though they were meant to wear a swim suit. Gracefully they stride along the poolside, charming all in their wake, perfectly proportioned, perfectly tanned. I am not one of them. My objective when buying a swimsuit is maximum coverage. And even when wearing the purchase, it's a test of endurance...how long I can stand wearing it before giving way to insecurities and changing back into jeans. Today I decided to tough it out. I put on my extra long tankini, full coverage bottoms, and skirt to cover those troublesome upper thighs, and headed to the park, book in hand. I would gracefully glide to the perfect sunny spot, lay on the soft lawn, and perch my book in just the right position in which i can not only read comfortably but also look smashing. I would do that if I didn't keep tripping over my flip-flops and if my oversized skirt didn't keep falling off my bum and if the grass wasn't so itchy requiring a change of position every 30 seconds and if the sun wasn't directly overhead making every reading position blinding and if my arm didn't keep falling asleep.

Friday, June 19, 2009

Go Ahead

Feed the fish

Monday, June 15, 2009

and a wheelbarrow

I just watched a woman eat a piece of cake and drink a slimfast.

I've been waking up early as of late. Highly out of character. Oddly, I've found it ridiculously productive in the wee hours of the morn. The downside: it's now 12:45 and I'm lethargic. So in this pseudo-siesta I've done some exploring on the world wide web and I stumbled upon my blog, the blog of an earlier era. Ok, guys, here's the thing- I used to be much funnier. I also seemed to live a much more exciting life. And have a better vocabulary. Really.

Monday, June 8, 2009


When in the middle of the somewhat tumultuous decision making process about serving a mission, I was forced to come to terms with the sacrifices I would make, those things I would leave behind. I considered school, marriage, holidays, car, career, etc. I accepted these losses, left for a year and a half, and come home to find that really, I had not missed much. HOWEVER, months later, I've made an alarming discovery. I once had a skill. A skill that could wow any spectator. A skill that came naturally. A skill that I flaunted at every possible opportunity, and there were many. I was absurdly good at Guitar Hero. I was the Hero of Guitar. I was the reigning champion at any party. Worshiped by opponents. Strumming Freebird on expert as though I was born to. Now, I'm stripped of all ability. Awkwardly I hold the plastic guitar, hitting the colored buttons half a beat behind, the wrong fret, and held too short or too long. Apparently mastery over a simulated rendition of Nirvana's Heart Shaped Box is not a blessing of heaven brought forth by sacrifice.

Wednesday, June 3, 2009

alright. alright. alright alright alright. hey.

efy? y here? y now? At the end of every class I'm met with a swarm of cologned adolescents, in the halls, around the bookstore, Brigham Square, there is no refuge from the storm of florescent shirts and lanyards. but I do like watching, and listening, to the budding romances. The week of infatutaed bliss, the exchanging of emails and digits, one last hand hold, and then approximately 6 weeks of "URAQT" and "How will we make this work with me in Alaska and you in Springville?". And then, extinguished flame, hoping for another QT next summer.

There's a cat stuck in a tree outside my condo. I want to help but don't know how. Google says she'll come down eventually, but I would really like to call the fire department and watched a man in a red hat save old Mrs. Brown's kitten while a crowd of bystanders applauds.

Tuesday, May 26, 2009

Stop talking Mrs. Wales class!

There's a business establishment near my residence named "Durfey's cleaners". And in this I find my consumer bias. I would not take my laundry to Durfey's, because I imagine a man, working on my linen skirt, full mug of coffee nearby, somehow trips spilling his coffee all over the wardrobe essential then yelling "DURF!" And then a coworker walking by comments "Wow you sure durfed that up". Or "What the durf happened?" So i think it may be wise to make a name change...maybe to Mr. Durfey's first name... Leroy's Cleaner's?

Carl has outgrown his shell. At first I thought he was finally warming up to my existence, showing his somehwat unnerving eyes and feelers more frequently of late. But as it turns out, he's being squeezed from his shell, as a corsett tied too tight. We'll be real friends, someday.

Wednesday, May 20, 2009

Your writing throughout this paper, on the level of the sentence, is admirably clear and straightforward. Which makes it all the more frustrating that your paper doesn't have anything to say...lacking a thesis...meanders...what's the point of this meditation?"

Wait what? I lack ideas?
Tell me something I don't know.


Saturday, May 16, 2009

Ah...really Frank?

I caught a fish. On a boat. Hook, line and sinker (cliche possibly missused). Fine. You want the truth? Someone else bated the hook (killing worms is sadder than you might think), directed my cast and helped reel it in. But heck, I'm claiming it as my catch because maybe I just really need that right now ok? Lay off.
I'm typing not in firefox which means spellcheck is off and I feel very uneasy. Spell check is to me as a bow is to a violin. Absolutely necessary. So let's keep it short.

Tuesday, May 12, 2009

Mens from the Mars and the womens from the Venus

Last night Sister Largey and I were hiding out in the attic, sharing an apple, crouched near the floor, unable to stand up to full heigth without hitting our heads on the A frame. Then a bang on the door. My english professor's wife, her hair twisted in a bun with a pencil, glasses posed mid nose, a look of scorn shot at the two of us. "Food storage!" She screamed, while her husband ran through the door holding a loaf of wonder bread. "Go" I whipsered to Sister L. and we fleed the room, down the stairs and out into the yard. But something was not right. I knew they were still there, the zombies were going to get us. Then Carl The Hermit Crab made quite the racket and I woke up with a full bladder.

Thursday, May 7, 2009

your mama's hair's so nappy she has to take a painkiller to comb her head.

This morning I woke to a feeling of utter panic, a paper due in hours with only a rough outline completed. With dread I hurriedly rushed through the morning routine, pulling up my email to see if today was the day Obama had finally stumbled across my blog and decided to knight me "Madam Meg the Magnificent." But what I found was better. Unbelievable you say? You may not believe it's not butter, but believe this: Class cancelled! God loves me, I thought. "God loves you" Jenny said. So much time to get things done, a day full of opportunity, productivity at last. So I've been hard at work watching Twilight parodies, researching Biz Markie and Flight of the Concords, walking to Crest twice, shelling pistachios, texting my mom, and eating baby carrots. I have a meeting in 2 hours with business executives who want to review my writing samples. So far I have half a page, double-spaced. 

In EVEN BETTER news, tobetomars.blogspot.com is the top search result when I ego search myself on google. I finally beat the London-based belly dancer. Modest is the hottest  kids.

Monday, May 4, 2009


You're ascending the Southern hill to campus, when you hear a "hey" from behind. This presents a dilemma for a number of reasons. The dilemma being turn or not. As i see it, there's a one in three chance that the hey was directed at you. The other two options being directed at another person or into a phone. So given then odds, it requires serious contemplation before the turn. Likely, it was not your hey to accept, and by turning you are made the fool. But if the 33.3% betrays you and it's Becky from the second grade who wishes to hug and chat and buy you lunch, you're not turning is ice cold and she'll cry herself to sleep tonight.

*If the speaker from behind is dressed in a Little Ceaser's Uniform, holding a cardboard pepperoni pizza guitar and standing on the street, his "Hot and Ready Five Dollar Pizza!" is most definitely for you to hear even if you're in the middle of an intense cardiovascular exercise and in no way able to carry a pizza 12 blocks home.

Wednesday, April 29, 2009

Man in mask.

4 hours taming a shrew. Well, reading it. Outloud. Alone. In my office. Rock bottom? Yes. I became so accustomed to the absurdity that I not only read aloud, but started talking to myself. As though in a movie. However in a movie, we, the viewers, feel comfortable with the character addressing himself, the actor knowing the camera is rolling. But when the footage of my soliloquy, caught on hidden camera, reaches the survellaince moniters, two men in uniforms will turn to each other, shake their heads in knowing despair and say "we've lost another one to Spring term."

Saturday, April 25, 2009

So fresh and so clean. Clean?

Last night I slept at Grandma Jan's house. It doesn't smell of a grandparent's home, as many grandparents' homes do. Instead it's a fresh and inviting space, redone frequently. Always new additions, keeping with the times. But despite the fung-shway(phonetic) and color changes, some crucial aspects of the home remain constant. There is always aquafresh toothpaste in the basement bathroom. I doubt they still make aquafresh. I don't know that I've ever seen anyone buy aquafresh, and it's been at least fifteen years since the aquafresh ad has run on TV. It would seem that the blue tube in the drawer is old and past it's prime. So imagine my surprise when my nightly brush was one of rejuvination, spice and all around euphoria. Aquafresh is like cheese or wine, better with age. I may build a cellar and store the tubes, dating the boxes, and pulling out the choicest selections when an event calls for extremely delicious breath.

Monday, April 20, 2009


I should write a blog but Lisa stepped into the future on the Simpsons and it's funny and I think I'd rather watch that because I finished finals and can do whatever the beans I want including writing run-on sentences.

Friday, April 10, 2009

Argilla Road Millionares

If we're sitting in a board meeting, in a board room, you and I, (that tie looks great on you), I'll pull out a chart and set it on a stand. There will be a line, red probably, starting from  the bottom left and  increasing dramatically toward the right top corner. A few dips here and there, but an overall exponential reading. Horizontally, along the bottom will read "time until semester's end," starting at 4 months and ending at 1 day. Along the left (vertically) will read "zit count"', "cadburry eggs consumed", and "tears shed." You and everyone else sitting at the monstrous board room table, will nod, suddenly understanding why Stephen has  had to ask at least once a day "Are you ok?" When I snap "Yes I'm fine!" while grabbing a tissue and shoving 4 eggs into my mouth, he knows to do one of two things; 1. Find a youtube clip of someone else falling down or crashing a bike or being inappropriate,  2. Feed me french fries. Both methods are highly effective, and undoubtedly the reason we've lasted as long as we have. I feel like it was the same routine when I was three, but instead I was pacified with Sesame Street and microwaved hotdogs with cheese. Carey (Mother Dear) would poke a fork into the tube of pig flesh to prevent exploding. A shame, because an exploding hot dog would  be absolutely radical. Like coke in the freezer but hotter and more dead animally. 

Wednesday, April 8, 2009


The morn was all abuzz with the news of 20 Americans hostage at sea, their ship commandeered by pirates. Pirates. Piracy is still a career option? I had suspicions about those academic counselors, but know I can say with full confidence that they are not to be trusted. Who withholds information like that? If not so close to graduation, I would trade in the literature for swashbuckling. How long have I longed for the life of scurvy and loose women...

Thursday, April 2, 2009

If the sun don’t come you get a tan from standing in the English rain

I'm in a wretched mood for no reason at all. And I've spent the last 3 hours getting to the root of this rather pressing issue. My conclusion thus far is as follows: Today was a fabulous day. My classes were spectacular. Even my professor, who usually causes my blood to boil and ears to ring, was nothing short of cordial and engaging. So my annoyance missed the outlet that has become routine every Tuesday and Thursday, and as a result has been building like water against a Dutch water gate thingy all day. What is usually a healthy despise for one person has escalated into complete hatred for the Universe in remarkable time. What is to be don? Television. It's the safest solution. No feelings hurt by my snide, bitter remarks directed at the talking heads. I don't think that cool-whip sandwiched between 2 chocolate-chip cookies would be delicious, contrary to the suggestion of the ad I just watched. But because advertising=brainwashing in its most sadistic form, the already obese and economically suffering American population will hop into their earth slaughtering vehicles and drive to the fascist Super Hyper XXX Walmart, where they will buy their carcinogens and transfat in bulk. It makes me so mad. I feel so much better.  

Thursday, March 26, 2009

irish dance

I'm not big on mornings. Making it on time to that first class is an anomoly, to say the least. And so during the normal routine, when I'm about half way across campus, the bell tower tolls. And I worry that my ball gown will transfrom into rags and my glass glass slippers vanish into thin air. So as a meausre of prevention I keep to a very strict dress code- jeans, sweatsirt and canvas shoes. In other words, I always look like Cinderella after midnight.
The telly just informed me that this morning campers were found frozen in their sleeping bags. Yes, more victims of "Spring." After 23 years as a Utahn, I can assert with confidence that it's not Spring until June. Probably June 21. Sure there may be some days scattered here and there when the sun gently caresses your palid skin, as you put on your shades and drive with the windows down. But, honey, listen close- I only tell you this because I care- THEY'RE LEADING YOU ON. Sure it may flirt, it may even text now and again, but the cruel truth is that Spring is just not that into you, or the state you inhabit. It hurts, but you can get through this. Eat some icecream, soak in some bubbles, and remember that there are other seasons in the year. I mean, Summer has that dashing moustache and Fall sure is a snappy dresser.

Tuesday, March 24, 2009

the ancient common sense of things

Today I learned that Flannery O'Connor writes (wrote)the way she does (did) because she was Catholic. When asked why I write the way that I do, I plan to answer "Because I'm Mormon, and we're not all like Stephanie Meyer." Yeah, I just went there. WHAT NOW?! Booh. Yeah. Turns out I write more like Judy Bloom. Every time I create a character, it's a high schooler. Sick. Why? Beats me. Maybe it's because high school was so enigmatic, a mystery I'm still trying to solve? Doubtful. I think it's because it's easy. Because high school is so charged with issues. From one kid to the next we find drugs, eating disorders, promiscuity, loneliness, big-headedness, sincerity, facades, anxiety, and finally stability which no one will ever write about. Ever. My point (yes, I have one)- High School makes a writer's job real easy. Hannah comes home with all sorts of sordid tales, and she's only just begun. So one must ask, do we grow boring as we grow old? What issues are to be addressed in the life of the middle-aged. Dissatisfactin in marriage? Done already. Exasperated sigh. Has anyone made it this far into the blog. Kudos.
Recently, to my horror, and the annoyance to close associations, I've discovered a complete lack of interest in music. So I'm listening to All Songs Considered. Because I think it's NPR's attempt to help the helpless. Give those who only care to listen to Diane Rehm during the morning commute a fighting chance when their hip friends partake in a gabfest about M. Ward. And Bishop Allen. Ward and Bishop? Do they sing of Vampire boyfriends? Oh now it's a Canadian rapper. My reflex is to yell "Oxymoron!" I have articulate terets. "I'm a dreamer, but I aint the only one. We got problems but we lud to have fun." And I lud you too. "It's ok to feel good." But say no to drugs so I don't turn you into a character ok?

Monday, March 2, 2009

Where's the wheel?

-Rachel Rasband is now Rachel Rushforth.  I dig that.
-Because I turned 23, Hannah decided I needed companionship  and bought me a hermit crab.  I've named him Carl.  Carl's not too big on people.  Any attempts at eye contact, and he's back  in his shell. I thought maybe Carl needed a friend.  However, I was  told that a friend, after returning from a vacation, found her once 2 hermit crabs to be 1 hermit crab and a half-eaten hermit crab.   And though crustacean cannibalism would probably sell tickets, I think PETA already has their eye on me (The death of Steve, hermit crab #1, may or may not have been due to negligence).
-Because I  turned 23, Stephen decided I needed to write stuff and bought me a moleskin notebook.  Not more that 2 days later, the moleskin notebook showed up on Stuff White People Like.  I'm white.  I like it.  So sue me.
-Tonight I lost my car key.  And that was delightful in comparison  to the "applefries" I tried at Burger King.  The King's Kingdom does not reach the land  of produce as it turns out, and all healthy menu options should be done away with immediately.
-I might be sick of Mexican food.  Grab your coat, we're going ice-skating on Hell.
-Lists lack style.

Friday, February 20, 2009

Yes, we have no bananas

Sometimes I forget that boys and girls are different.  I mean, obviously, we're different, but you know...I tend to believe that we think the same.

Then I go grocery shopping and remember.

For me, the aisles of the grocery store are treasure troves.  New curry powder, cherry diet coke, almonds sold in bulk.  So many discoveries to be made, so many delicacies to be tasted.  I gleefully weave my cart through the store over the linoleum tile.  I hum along with the soft-rock playlist. My mind imagines creations to be concocted as my cart fills up with brightly colored vegetables, exotic spices, freshly baked bread,  and whatever else it may be that catches my eye during the course of my market exploration.

Last night I went grocery shopping with an individual from the other side of the species.  We spent 8 minutes in the cereal aisle, only to walk away with oatmeal (the usual).  We also bought cheese and milk.  

"I'm  glad I'm not boy."
"I'm  glad I'm  not a girl."

Tuesday, February 3, 2009

I am currently without country

There's a picture of me hanging on the wall.  I'm 4 years old, dressed as a baby chick, with a feathery tutu and felt beak.  The photo was shot an hour before my dance recital, in which i gave a flawless performance, or so I was told by grandparents, repeatedly.  To celebrate such an astounding display of grace and artistic interpretation, we bought root-beer floats.  Mid float, something went wrong.  Without warning, I leaned over and vomited half the float and dinner all over Mom's lap.  Dad laughed. 
I wonder if sometimes my mom looks at me and thinks "girl who puked on me."  But then there are so many other applicable titles; "offspring which broke the kitchen sink," "the one that hit two parked cars," "daughter that dropped a computer,", etc.  
Thinking about children makes me want to take a preemptive nap.  And ibuprofen.

In other news, today Katie was asked out at the library.  She's going to a math convention with a boy who saved her number in his graphing calculator.


Thursday, January 29, 2009

knee how

When I was but a toddler, my parents would often ask questions.  I had only one response.  

"Meg are you hungry?" "Because the Rabbit." 

"Meg where'd you hide the keys?" "Because the Rabbit." 

"Meg who's the rabbit?" "Because the Rabbit."  

Is this not a bit unnerving?

Is The Rabbit my Rosebud?


Tuesday, January 27, 2009

zoloft for bunny

I appreciate blogspot's zeal.  It saves my post before I even begin typing. As though anticipating the awesomeness soon to come.  Saving a seat in the blogosphere.  Front row. Blogspot can see my sweat and feel my spit while I dance around the blogging stage, though (just saved again) it may be the lone soul in the concert hall's vast number of seats.  I don't know if this is read by anyone.  Ever.  So here's to posterity.  To my great grandson 453679340438034 (no names.  just numbers in 80 years.  Yes I will be 102.  Lifespans will have increased dramatically) who will happen upon this blog, using the computer chip implanted in his brain at birth (spank, cut cord, plant chip), and will in some small way connect with his now dementia-stricken, nursing home inhabitant of a relative.   

Thursday, January 15, 2009

Sometimes I'm just happy to know you

Today I ate ice cream with a boy who found God at the bottom of physics.  

Wednesday, January 14, 2009

Songs about Obama

I went to the art museum, for this artistic soul of mine was yearning.  Lie. It was an assignment.  Visit the American Dreams exhibit.  Apparently the early American settlers thought our land to be a new eden, which reminds me Puddn'head Wilson, or rather Mark Twain who wrote..."Adam and Eve had many advantages, but the principal one was, that they escaped teething."  Indeed.  The settlers were disappointed, more often than not, in their falling-short-of-eden dwelling.  Which maybe is life?
I  played the guitar and felt better.

Tuesday, January 13, 2009

Eat your legumes.

No, really.

Monday, January 12, 2009


Fine. I've finished lamenting about how horrifically tragic life is for the recently returned.  In actuality, I have very little, if anything to gripe about.  Except ice skating. WTC.  Why am I supposed to enjoy blades strapped to the bottom of my feet?  As if we didn't have enough to worry about with the economy, carcinogens, and obesity, let's trade shoes for deadly weapons and run around on a slippery surface.  How is holding hands supposed to help?  So instead of one fatality there's two?  I'll never let go Jack.  Unless you eat it.  Then I'm headed for the hot chocolate, probably chuckling all the way.  But really, who is good at ice skating?  And why?    

Wednesday, January 7, 2009

"Future."  It gives me heart palpitations.  It turns out that "I want to write" is a less than acceptable  answer to the plans inquiry.  Turns out that  pursing my lips and throwing my eyes doesn't deflect the well-meaning questioners.  And it turns out that no one, wish as I might, is going to sit me down and spell out the rest of my life for me, probably because I don't have gypsy friends.  Fetch.