La Dolce Vita

There are some words in Italian that I love. They make life sweet. Here's a list of just a few of them:

1. dolce: It sounds so much better than "sweet." There is more substance to it--it's less airy. Dolce is more sensual-sounding

2. caro or tesoro: Calling your boyfriend dear and treasure is so much more meaningful than "boo." We should treasure the people we love.

3. mi manchi: Making "I miss you" reflexive makes you think about it differently. Try thinking about it.

4. orologio: It's just fun to say.

5. baci: C'mon. If you know me at all, you knew this one would show up on the list.

6. vendetta: Ever since that Simpson's episode I've loved this word

I'll add more later.....

Festival of Colors

So yesterday had a bunch of highs and lows. I was so excited to FINALLY get to go to the festival of colors. Rugby and work had managed to keep me from it for 4 years, but I had magically avoided any obligations this Saturday that would prevent me from going. So I thought. It turns out that going on a big group date to the festival wasn't my sure-fire way to make it. I was the last one picked up--almost 2 hours late (I KNOW!) and we got stuck in traffic. I almost cried when I saw everyone already leaving covered in chalk. We decided to go check it out anyway. As we approached the temple we found out they had sold out fo chalk and started the throwing earlier than scheduled. There was a little consolation though. My cousin Mandy and I ran away from our dates through the crowd finding people who still had chalk and begging them to throw it on us. We stayed to mosh and rock out to the Krishna band. Every time someone had some chalk left, a huge cloud would go up in the air and the crowd would push into it violently. Mandy and I got pretty good and getting chalked up. I say it's all the punk concert experience. Anyway, after all of that and a rather awkward encounter with a certain party of Marylanders, we went out for sushi. This is where it gets really good. My date had never had sushi and didn't like it so I basically got to eat three long rolls all by my self! I think my favorite part fo the night was when I got in the shower and the colors slowly melted off my body. I watched entranced as first a muddy purple from my feet and legs washed away. Then the pink from my neck and shoulders, the orange and green from my face and hair were next. Finally, the last bit of yellow swirled down the drain. It was magical. Ironically, it was the yellow paint that was still stuck in my hair this morning. After washing it two more times, I can report that it is mostly gone. I'm torn between relief and sadness at the fact that it washed out. Yellow chalk--mi manchi!

There's a Pain in my Stomach from Another Sleepless Night--Jack's Mannequin

http://kidshealth.org/kid/feeling/thought/nightmares.html

"Remember, nightmares are not real and they cannot hurt you. Dreaming about something scary does not mean it will happen in real life. And it doesn't mean you're a bad person who wants to do mean or scary things. Everyone has nightmares now and then.

You aren't a baby if you feel afraid after a nightmare. If you need to snuggle with a parent or even a sister or brother, that's all right. Sometimes just talking to a parent or grabbing a quick hug may be all you need.

Nightmares may be scary for a little bit, but now you know what to do. Sweet dreams!"

ANYBODY WANNA SNUGGLE? (Doctor's orders)

Parsons Dance Again

Ok so I just got back from a run and I have way too much energy to be sitting here and writing or reading even though those are number 2 and number 3 on my list of what I'd (realistically) like to be doing right now. Parsons dance was awesome! The video for CAUGHT doesn't give it justice. It was much more awe-inspiring in person. If the sheer athleticism of it wasn't enough, the silence killed me! Here this man in flipping in the air and running around a huge stage, trying to hit marks for the strobe lights and we NEVER heard him land or run or anything! The illusion was incredible! The dancing was sensual and romantic from the start. It was modern, but the roots and hints of traditional dance were evident in every movement. It wasn't like most modern dance I've seen. it was more dance than bending and twisting. It reminded me of something I think Picasso said (correct me if I'm wrong). Something about having to learn the rules of painting before you could break them. (or maybe it was Monet?). Anyway, the point is that you can see the evidence of old techniques in their new art. I saw that in their choreography. I especially loved the last number with the Earth, Wind, & Fire medly. Who knew dancing disco could be sexy? And on a slightly unrelated note, hearing "September" always makes me want to cha-cha [or cha-cha-cha ;)] because we danced to it in 180 last year.

Parsons Dance: The Most Sensual, Athletic, and Creative Dancing I Have Ever Seen at BYU

I'll write more later for sure... but I'm addicted to a book at the moment and I want to read before i go to bed :)

La Jolla 15's Song of the Moment

Further Proof That I *AM* Gidget

There is a line in the first Gidget movie when Gidget runs her fingers along her book shelf and says something like, "All my life I've found the answer to all of my problems in these books. But who wants to solve their love life with poison or a dagger?" I just like to think she didn't have enough books. Whenever something bad happens or something happy happens, my first instinct is to think of something I've read and make connections. That's one of the reasons I love to read books over and over again. When you bring new life experience into the book, it because new and familiar all at the same time. The world of books is magical in that way. I was up a lot of the night reading. Thank goodness for GoogleBooks because most of my library is in Maryland right now. I took a detour into a few movie scripts too.

L.M. Montgomery has a way of helping me get lost in the language. I have a special kinship with Anne Shirley--but I think most girls feel that way. Rugby is my one true love that has managed to stick around through my college years. So, naturally, my rugby ball's name is Gilbert--it's a fun play on words because that's also the brand of rugby ball he happens to be. :) I immediately turned to Anne of the Island. I thought of Schrodinger's cat experiment model and Anne's thoughts about possibilities. When the possibility of something better enters your mind, whatever you have at present--no matter how wonderful it might be--just doesn't seem good enough anymore. L.M.M. speaks about it in terms of love, but I think it can be applied to more than that. "The rose of love made the blossom of friendship pale and scentless by contrast."

The Great Gatsby--what a fabulous book! If we've ever talked about this book, you know how I feel about the color symbolism alone.... it is amazing!!!!! If I ever teach high school English, you KNOW my students will be reading this!!!! Nick says, "tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms further... So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past." Wow. It's rather pessimistic in a way, especially in comparison to my post on "Come What May, and Love It," but it spoke to me last night. I was thinking a lot about how our pasts never leave us--they are part of us now. We wouldn't be the people we are today without all of our yesterdays. I think some people do get caught in their pasts. Strike that. I know we ALL do sometimes. Sometimes we are in positions where we are going against the current and, as we try to move forward, we are pushed back into our pasts.

ok sooooo I might have been watching this movie and I might have changed the words a little... but it's been a long night and I think a little cheesy, teeny-bopper poetic license is permissible under the circumstances. Bear with me or skip ahead haha just be forewarned that I indulged my girly side last night... weird.

I hate the way you talk to me
And the goofy things you wear.
I hate the way you win at cards
I hate it when you stare.
I hate you sleeping on my couch
And the way you read my mind.
I hate you so much it makes me sick.
It even makes me rhyme.

I hate the way you're always right.
I hate it when you lie.
I hate it when you make me laugh;
Even worse when you make me cry.

I hate it when you're not around
And the fact that you didn't call,
But mostly I hate the way I don't hate you;
Not even close;
Not even a little bit;
Not even at all.


Ok, now forget I was being such a teenage girl. I don't think I indulged
that side of myself enough when I was a teenage girl to get it out
 of my system completely haha.

Back to books.

The other night someone quoted Shakespeare to me. I found
it comforting, but now I'm not so sure I should have. 
"Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more.
Men were deceivers ever. One foot
in sea and one on shore, to one
thing constant never. Then sigh
 not so but let them go and be you
blithe and bonny, converting all your sounds
of woe into hey nonny nonny."

Enough said.

So back to "Come What May, And Love It" and back to
Anne of the Island. Learn to laugh! Professor Woodleigh says,
 "Humor is the spiciest condiment in the feast of existence.
Laugh at your mistakes, but learn from them;
joke over your troubles, but gather strength in them;
make a jest of your difficulties, but overcome them." 
Today it's time to laugh.

Come What May, And Love It

http://tr.im/hxFYThis is one of my favorite talks and a good, old friend reminded me of it tonight. (Thanks Mark!) It's so hard. It's hard to love people you don't want to love....but I think it is even harder to love things that happen when you really, really wish they hadn't. It's easier to be sad and embarrassed when you trust someone and they hurt you--even if you have nothing to be embarrassed about. It's easier to bear the pain than to love the pain.

For years I've complained about how, for the life of me, I couldn't be like other people who could just shut down and take a break from relationships and flirting and people really. I didn't get how they could just stop, but I wished I could so I could be spared some heartache for a while. But the truth is, I'm just not one of those people. I try and try to build up giant walls and develop trust issues, but I can't. I wish I could. It seems like the easier way out so many times. When I sit down and think about it though, it's actually easier to keep opening up and keep going through this stuff over and over. It's sounds crazy, but I think it's a lot like what Elder Wirthlin says about learning to laugh.

It's actually easier to laugh at things--to love the situation that you are in--than it is to be upset and brooding and distraught. I'm not saying it's wrong to feel hurt, but to go on feeling hurt and to hate the experiences that come your way is not easy. Bearing a burden of negative feelings is not easy.

It's been my own personal experience that I get over things in my past by going on with my future. The memories (good and bad) that haunt me from the last relationship, job, or whatever slowly disappear as I open my heart to make new memories. I don't believe you are truly over someone or some experience until you have started the next.

It takes a lot of faith and trust in the Lord, in other people, and especially in yourself to let go of the heavy feelings, to take a step in the dark, and to try something new while the ghosts of your past are looming all around you. It takes so much to say "come what may." Tonight might not be the best time for laughing, but I know I'll laugh tomorrow. I know the tears I cried will be compensated. I know that faith and trust are things that need to be tested to grow and I love a challenge. So che sarà, sarà. I love it!

MSN Surprises

Do you ever get distracted by crazy one-liners on big websites? Like today I went to MSN.com and there was a blurb that read, "Help! I want to lose my 'man boobs!'" That was so funny! I was scared that if i clicked on the article there would be gross man boob pictures, so I didn't touch it, but I did laugh for a good minute from the shock.

For My England Family---good times :)

My Ah Ha Moment

So I was on the phone with a close friend today and I had an Ah Ha Moment.. or maybe I've seen too many of those commercials lately. Either way, it was suggested that I suffer, not from full-blown Scarlet O'Hara Disorder (Jeepers! I would HATE to be just like her), but from some sort of mild syndrome.

Among the many memorable quotes from this movie is one from Rhett Butler. He holds Scarlet inches from his face. She closes her eyes, puckers her lips, and Rhett stops. He holds her further away, tells her to open her eyes and says, "No, I don't think I will kiss you, although you need kissing, badly. That's what's wrong with you. You should be kissed and often, and by someone who knows how."

So there it is. My Scarlet syndrome. Some women make dresses out of curtains, some women marry for money, some women are obsessed with their waist measurements, and I am among those cursed with the constant need to be kissed--not just kissed, but kissed often and well.
I protested the theory and explained it away with claims that kisses came with love and love makes people happy or the sheer enjoyment involved in being so close to someone on other levels that let to kisses. Anything sounded better than the idea that everything that was wrong with me could be fixed with the simple, unattached act of being kissed by someone who knew how.

It's been my own personal experience that the only men who have truly known how to kiss me were also in love with me and I still can't separate love from the best kisses of my life. I still argue that love is part of the cure--not just kisses.
So I did a little research. Scientifically kisses both connected to love, as well as those unconnected, have medical and psychological benefits.

Here are some of my favorites:
1. The extra saliva produced by kissing washes bacteria off your teeth, which can help break down oral plaque, says Mathew Messina, DDS, a private practice dentist in Fairview Park, Ohio, and consumer advisor for the American Dental Association.
2. Bryant Stamford, PhD, professor and director of the health promotion center at the University of Louisville said, "During a really, really passionate kiss, you might burn two calories a minute -- double your metabolic rate." (This compares to 11.2 calories per minute you burn jogging on a treadmill.)
3. Tension Relief/Meditation: Joy Davidson, PhD, psychologist and clinical sexologist in Seattle said that kissing is also "a sensual meditation. It stops the buzz in your mind, it quells anxiety, and it heightens the experience of being present in the moment. It actually produces a lot of the physiological changes that meditation produces."
4. Kissing involves extreme invasions of personal space which build feelings of trust and safety.
5. Sharing germs adds to your internal defenses
6. I even read somewhere that "The endorphins produced by kissing are 200 times more powerful than morphine. "
7. Studies have shown that those who kiss their spouse goodbye every morning live 5 years longer than those who don't.

There were a lot more, but I thought those were interesting. Maybe I am better off getting kissed all the time. But I still refuse to believe it's my cure. I will admit that I'm a person who loves physical interaction with people. Isolation would be torturous for me. I like being hugged, snuggling is the best thing in the world, I melt if someone plays with my hair--I think you get the picture. I like to be touched. It makes me feel appreciated and liked and a million other things.

Huggers are known to have lower blood pressures and heart rates. Tickling leads to laughter which is also good for your heart and acts as an abdominal workout. MRI's have shown that stress in women is reduced when someone holds their hands.

So maybe Rhett was just ahead of science. Maybe Scarlet had blood pressure issues--Goodness knows she was stressed during the Civil War! I still think it's more beneficial and less stressful to have these interactions within a relationship, but the research is starting to convince me that I need kissing, often and badly, from someone who knows how. Then maybe I won't be so crazy?

Daddy

I've been thinking a lot about my Daddy lately. It happens in March. My dad served a full-time mission for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in Ireland, so St. Patrick's Day is kinda a big deal in our family. When I think of my dad I think of generosity. My dad's favorite hymn is "Because I Have Been Given Much." For anyone who's not familiar, the basic gist of the hymn is that the speaker has been so blessed by the Lord that he feels the need to share everything he can with others--both physically and spiritually. Whenever I hear that hymn I think of my dad and I tear up. My dad is still alive and I talk to him frequently, so I can only imagine how much the waterworks will turn on when he dies one day. My dad is so willing to give to everyone, especially to me. He is the one I call when I need to hear words of encouragement and to know that I am loved. Daddy makes me feel special. He makes me how much he loves me and, as the song says, he shares the love he feels from the Lord with me through "word and deed." My daddy is a wonderful example of showing gratitude to the Lord by sharing what he has been given. The thing my dad shares most with everyone is his precious time. I'm so glad and grateful that he always has time for me. Thank you for always taking the time to make me feel safe, hopeful, pretty, and loved. I'm so proud to call you "Daddy." I have been given so much because I have you for a father and I hope that I can remember the things I've learned from you and be even half as generous with the people I interact with and my children. I love you!

Feathered Foes aka the bird essay

“Feed the birds, tuppence a bag, tuppence, tuppence, tupppence a bag.” These Mary Poppins bedtime lyrics carry a warm, fuzzy feeling with them for many children. One might even venture that they are “practically perfect in every way.” They calmed Jane and Michael and, I suppose, you’d expect that they hold the same tender place in my heart. WRONG! I’ve never heard a more terror-provoking song in my life. This one goes right down in the books as a nightmare cleverly hidden by rhyme and innocent voices next to Ring-Around the Rosie (You know, the jolly, dance-accompanied nursery rhyme about the Bubonic plague!).

I shall forever remember the horror and anticipatory dread that filled my soul on the day our study abroad group got to tour St. Paul’s Cathedral in London. I had no problem leaning as far out over the top of the dome as the impeding bars would allow, or climbing the steep steps that others thought would lead them to their doom. Oh no, those were nothing. It was lunch I was afraid of—lunch on the “feed the birds steps” of St. Paul’s.

The Plan: Eat anything a bird might even think about eating inside in the catacombs of the basement, then, very, very reluctantly meet the rest of the group on the stairs.

ü Eat pita.

ü Crackers.

ü Crisps.

ü Cover head.

ü Pray.

With every step of the plan enacted and the designated meeting time drawing nearer and nearer by the second, I located my inhaler in my pack and headed out into the sunshine to face my inevitable doom—death by bird.

I spent the next 15 minutes surrounded by my friends feeding birds and beckoning them closer as I sat hugging my knees to my chest and my hood over my head haunted by bad experiences. My earliest memory of being attacked by a bird was when I was about four years old, at some sort of farm or petting zoo with a lot of my extended family. My older cousins had been tormenting a turkey. At this point in my life, dogs were the only every-day animals that scared me and I was wandering around the other birds not yet aware of the potential danger of fraternizing with foul fowl.

As the giant, walking-Pilgrim-dinner came squawking around the corner, I was the innocent victim of a livid bipedal, warm-blooded, oviparous vertebrate animal. I was knocked off my feet with one swift blow and then he started pecking at me. I was dirty and hurt and traumatized for life.

One of my particularly scarring attacks happened when I was 18, on a date in Baltimore’s Inner Harbor. The harbor is always filled with boats and is the home to many fabulous restaurants and the National Aquarium. My high school boyfriend, Devon, wanted to take me out for a fun day on the harbor before we said goodbye and I headed off to Utah for college. We decided to eat on one of the decks of the restaurant we went to. As the meal progressed, I started to notice more and more seagulls and pigeons swooping down to grab food from the abandoned tables around us on the deck. I started to tense up and Devon, knowing my ornithophobia, tried to comfort me and said that we could go inside as soon as we were done. As we rose from our seats, I noticed a kid pestering a pigeon near the door. He had bothered it to the point of retaliation and the winged demon was poised for attack as we came closer to the door. With wings flapping and taloned feet pushed forward, the pigeon came at the boy with an awful, squawking war cry. The boy ducked and in the confusion the pigeon ended up tangled in my hair and pecking at my head for a good 15 seconds. I started to hyperventilate and I ended up having an asthma attack when my inhaler was at home, 35 minutes away.

Another time, I was walking down the streets of San Antonio, heading towards the Alamo when a random pigeon swooped down, pecked my head, and pulled my hair with its beak as it flew away. There was no provocation, no rhyme or reason as to why I was chosen for the fly-by pecking over my taller companion other than birds are pure evil and always after me. They are programmed from birth, it seems, to assault me when the most emotional damage can be done. Like the young boys of Sparta they are trained from birth to attack their enemies; and, for reasons unbeknownst to me, these winged warriors have chosen me as their victim.

Some of my most harrowing encounters have not ended in attacks, though the potential was there, and I was saved by my own paranoid reactions of covering my head or screaming as I run under some cover. Many people, especially those nearest and dearest to me, find great joy in seeing me feel scared and laugh at the trauma that a near-death experience with birds puts me through.

When our study abroad group first arrived in London, we hiked about in Kensington Gardens after getting off the train. We found the designated meeting point, the Peter Pan statue, where our professor John would meet us with our underground passes. As I sat on a bench quietly minding my own business and eating my lunch, my “friend” Kimberly decided to attract all the birds closer to us by feeding them in the hopes of leading a full fledged battle—Melissa vs. The Birds. Dozens, hundreds, thousands flocked to enlist with their blonde general and all my other fellow students who had decided to sacrifice some of their lunch to feed the devil’s front line troops. I was freaking out, but worst of all I was trapped. With trees behind me, a pond beside me, and a swarm of ravenous fiends on all my other sides, I realized there was no where to escape, and I went into fits of squealing as their population grew exponentially. Cornered, surrounded like the Continental Army in New York City in 1776, I had to find some way to escape the certain attack and crescendoing terror. With each squeal the satanic beasts seemed to mirror their leaders’ taunting cackles. I found myself reversing the battle techniques we had learned about in the castles we had visited. When surrounding a fortress or castle, all the dominating army had to do was wait and starve their captives out. In my mind it came down to this—defeat when I had to succumb to my dire need to find a toilet or to come out victorious by reversing the techniques and waiting for my friends to run out of supplies to feed my captors. Whose motivation was greater—the birds’ to molest me or mine to avoid wetting my trousers? Thank goodness that, as their supplies ran out, the troops dwindled and a group was off in search of a toilet in the park, so I had escorts to cover my flight from the bench.

London, with all her art and splendor, great Indian food, and fabulous shopping has one great downfall—ALL THOSE BIRDS! Many of my companions were looking forward to touring the Tower of London because they had been reading about the wives of Henry VIII on the side. There were a lot of things there that I wanted to see too, but my guidebook had put a damper on my spirits when I read about the tower a few weeks before our visit. There were giant, scary ravens guarding the tower. And, after all those years of pecking on all those people who had been beheaded on the tower green, the ravens who guard the tower had inherited a taste for human flesh.

Page 136 of Fodor’s Guide to London 2007 read, “Don’t get too close to the ravens: they are prone to pecking and not particularly fond of humans, unless you are the Tower’s Raven Master.” That’s reassuring! I really want to wander around the tower green with birds that are PRONE to pecking. A frequent victim and attack ravens—not my idea of a winning combination! The book goes on to describe the ravens’ diet of blood-soaked biscuits and meat. These black, ominous flesh-eaters are also described as “territorial.” Add to all of that my previous history of attacks and the fact that everyone is out to get obnoxious American tourists. I knew I was doomed!

Thankfully, I spent most of the afternoon without seeing any of the ravens, but sure enough some crazy tourists started throwing bread and a larger-than-life raven swooped past my head too close for comfort. I took shelter in the Waterloo Barracks. It seemed like my safest bet because of the added security surrounding the crown jewels. As an ode to my terror and to one of my favorite American authors, I penned my own version of “The Raven.”

Full of feathers, always squawking at my golden head come knocking

Devils that delight in flocking to terrorize me by the shore,

O’er my head they’re always plunging, etern’ly threat’ning with their lunging

Horrid monsters hov’ring, waiting for a chance to peck my head till sore

‘Will it ever stop?’ I ask, ‘Will I e’er be fearless out of doors?’

Quoth the raven, ‘Nevermore.’

People call my fear irrational and a lot of people get good laughs out of my reactions. I personally find the fear completely rational: birds have attacked me more than once and, therefore, I am afraid of it happening again. To me, unless they’ve actually been trapped in a small space before, someone who is claustrophobic has more cause for being called irrational than I do. So, I feel completely justified in covering my head when flocks come flapping over head, waiting outside as my friends tour a bird house at the zoo, and walking a half block out of my way to avoid the duck pond on the south end of campus.

Dancing It Out vs. Dancing Through Life

I love the musical Wicked, but that's beside the point. There are some people who really do get to dance through life. People who get things handed to them, people who put in some effort and reap the enormous benefits. People who work hard and have the light of good fortune shining brightly upon them. Whether they elegantly waltz, sensually salsa, or pointedly pop'n'lock--they're dancing through life all the same.

Then there are some of us who have to dance it out. Life happens. Stress comes. For me, one of the only ways I can deal with it is to dance. Don't get me wrong... I dance when I'm happy too, or just because I like to move my hips, but dancing can be a huge relief too. I also clean when I'm stressed. So, if you peak through my blinds, you might find me doing the twist while I wash the dishes or twirling around and getting caught in the vacuum cord. From Van Halen to Missy Elliot, if it's got a good beat and I've got some watts behind it dancing to it makes me feel better. Pent-up energy, sexual tension, stifled screams can all be let out while I jump up and down and shake it like a Polaroid picture.

Sometimes, with my body so preoccupied and intoxicated by the rhythm, my mind is free to either let go completely of anything thought ailing me or to reach a level of clarity comparable to that reached by meditation. Either way, dancing it out always leave me feeling better--like a runner's high.

It sucks not to be one of those people who gets to dance through, but getting to dance things out to get through life is something I wouldn't trade for a trouble-free tango. PLUS it probably burns more calories.

Big Girl World

I have the tendency to get obsessed with a song and play it over and over again for a period of time. Usually it's because I've become attached to something in the lyrics that reminds me of my life at the time, making it part of my soundtrack for a while. There's this song by Kendall Payne called "Scratch" and it's kinda my song of the moment right now. I keep playing it over and over on my ipod.

On Saturday I got rejected from grad school. With that window of opportunity closed, the weight of the real world that I have felt every day since my college graduation last August seemed to double. The first lines of "Scratch" are "It's a big girl world now full of big girl things...How can you dream when you can't fall asleep?"

I tossed and turned most of the night. I woke up this morning with college in the past and absent from the near future. It was scary. I had anticipated getting in, which meant I knew where I would be for the next two years and most of what I would be doing. As a person who plans, that would have given me so much peace of mind and made me feel really safe. Now, with a wide open future with no specific prospects I'm starting to second guess myself and freak out about what I'm going to do. Kendall goes on to sing, "I used to think I was special, but only I have proved me wrong." Doubt creeps into my mind and I start to think of all the things I did wrong to screw up getting into grad school. Proving to yourself that you didn't deserve it--that you're not so special after all--is maddening! (Not to mention completely wrong and unproductive.)

So what am I going to do? Well, for now I can keep looking for that elusive "real job," pray a lot, become Mary Tyler Moore (another theme song of mine at the moment), and listen to "Scratch" until my ipod dies or my roommates threaten to kill me.