The bosom of fools

I am angry nearly every day of my life, but I have learned not to show it; and I still try to hope not to feel it, though it may take me another forty years to do it.
Louis May Alcott[Character of Marmee in Little Women]

“Be not hasty in thy spirit to be angry: for anger resteth in the bosom of fools” (Ecclesiastes 7:9).

I generally am an even-tempered person. I am easy-going. But I have realized lately that there are some things that stir up my insides and for some reason I feel it necessary to share my insights into my imperfections

1. Not being able to do something seemingly simple makes me angry. I start a task, like beginning a sewing project when my mother gave me a sewing machine for my birthday, and I am all excitement and creativity. I have sewed before so this will be a piece of cake. Not so. I spent about 45 minutes (that is not an exaggeration) trying to thread the machine and after all of that exertion, I never successfully threaded it. I was filled with anger. An abundance of anger. A throw the sewing machine up against the wall kind of anger.




2. Computer viruses make me angry. What kind of person decides that they are going to devote their time, effort, and genius (not a productive genius, mind you) to computer programming that destroys the property of another person and can potentially steal valuable information. Obviously such a person possesses the skills to earn decent employment and a more than decent income performing tasks that could improve technology and do a lot of good. Instead, they choose to drive people crazy. This makes me angry. Very angry.




3. Racquetball makes me angry. I really have no idea why. I generally enjoy sports of all varieties, but for some reason, when I step through that dwarf door into that cave-like room, I transform into a Hyde-like personality. Forrest and Laurel can testify, I am really not pretty when I play racquetball. I do not know whether it is because the caveness of the court amplifies any and every minimal sound which consequently rings inside me head or whether it is because I am not yet skilled at helping the ball move from the back wall to the front wall; but whatever it is, it makes me furious.




4. Failed cooking attempts make me angry. One time I found a recipe online that looked delicious and I happened to already have all of the necessary ingredients in my possession. However, a recipe that claimed it would only require 35 minutes preparation time, in all actuality required over an hour’s worth of preparation time. I literally spent over 30 minutes standing at the stove, stirring some type of rice concoction that ended up tasting like glue. Almost as infuriating were the two times within a few months of each other that I burnt a frozen pizza. Who burns frozen pizzas? Apparently I do.




5. Comments about how LDS women are oppressed (whether the comments are stated by LDS women or other women or men) cause much anger inside of me. I am an LDS woman, I was raised by and LDS woman who was raised by an LDS woman and I was raised by an LDS man who was raised by an LDS woman and I was raised by an LDS man who was raised by an LDS woman. My father’s grandmother traveled from Sweden to the United States on her own. She married my great-grandfather (who already had children from a previous marriage) then they had six children together, all of which she raised, while she learned English, cooked meals, ran the house, sang in choirs, etc. My father’s mother raised six children, cooked a million meals, read extensively (I have heard that she would pick a section in the library and then try to read every single book in that section), taught in local schools until retirement, taught Sunday School to both men and women at church, served in the community until she died. My mother’s mother raised six children, moved and lived in countries all around the world (including Iran and the Philippines), was an expert cook, an expert gardener and flower arranger, an expert seamstress, and an excellent pianist. My mother, who I know more of than the others, does more with her time and self than any other person I know. She is more accomplished and well-rounded than any other person I know. She has raised six children, she is extremely well-read, could be a seamstress professionally, could write professionally, is an accomplished singer (is working on becoming an accomplished pianist J), is an excellent cook, and a lifelong learner- a dedicated student and teacher (she received a full-ride scholarship to BYU and maintained it all 4 years). I am proud of who she is and what she has accomplished. Her beliefs, yes her LDS beliefs and her LDS husband, have only encouraged and helped her in becoming as wonderful, as talented, as well-rounded as she is. I know that my beliefs can do the same for me. I love who I am and it makes me so angry when people tell me that I am being “oppressed” or that I am being treated as less of a person because I am not a man. Nothing could be more far from the truth.




6. Some things about society makes me angry. Pornography (not just that men allow themselves to partake of it but that women allow themselves to produce it), trashy movies, trashy music, trashy language, abusive behavior….it all makes me angry.
   
   So there is my list. On a happier note, the things that bring me joy, far outnumber those things listed above which are catalysts for my anger. You know what makes me the opposite of angry? Things like dictionary.com and people who contribute wonderfulness to the world (like whoever invented jellybeans and the author J.M. Barrie.) I am sorry that you had to read all of this. I really do love life!
   

If you have some time on your hands, read some of the quotes below (maybe you can read one quote a day….)

Recently I discovered David Bentley Hart (an Eastern Orthodox theologian and professor) and I love some of the things he has written. I think his words will stir your soul:

About the Janet Jackson Superbowl incident:

“…there is still something odd in the symbolic importance this event has assumed for many, given that far worse evidences of the rapid coarsening of our culture surround us on every side all the time (examples are too numerous and obvious to cite). I suspect that among those who professed their dismay after the game there were many who as a rule are willing to tolerate most of the corrosive influences that invade family life—from advertising, films, popular music, the internet, video games, the language we have all become accustomed to hearing every day—so long as those influences continue unobtrusively to operate in their “proper” places.”
Is there a remedy for this cultural/moral dilemma?

“I say this because my first impulse is to suggest that the simple (if not sufficient) answer to our cultural dilemma is probably censorship, against which almost every argument in the abstract is predictably fatuous. Upon this, it seems to me, any sane society should be able uncontentiously to agree. And yet ours cannot. That such a prescription should be either controversial or scandalous—as in fact it is—suggests that something is profoundly amiss in our culture, some defect that runs far deeper than any mere division between the pious and the profane, or between the puritanical and the hedonistic. Certainly there is nothing in the constitutional charter of free (political, religious, ideological) speech that obliges us to permit any product, no matter how depraved its content, to be created, sold, promulgated, procured, or kept. More importantly, though—and this should be obvious—a society that refuses all censorship is in some very crucial sense extremely unjust.”

Hart, David Bentley, “Freedom and Decency” In the Aftermath: Provocations and Laments, p.71

Censorship as stripping the artist the means to make great art ( I especially liked the passage below, probably because I have seen all of the movies he is referring to :)

“Consider one of the most obvious cases of commercial standards abandoned, that of cinema. For all the ponderous parochialism of the old motion picture code, it did at the very least demand of screen writers the kind of delicate technique necessary to communicate certain things to mature viewers without giving any hint of their meaning to the children also watching. Thus films had to be written by adults, and the best films required writers of some considerable skill. After all, everyone of a certain age in the audience was well aware of what things occurred between men and women in private. They understood, therefore, what may have happened between Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman when the camera cut away to the watchtower’s revolving beam of light; what had failed to happen when Spencer Tracy quietly slipped out of Katharine Hepburn’s apartment, neglecting to take his hate with him; what it was that Katharine Hepburn was both relieved and offended to discover had not happened when, on the previous evening, her inebriation had required Jimmy Stewart to carry her to her bed; what Bogart and Bacall were really discussing under the veil of their equestrian metaphors; why Glenn Ford was treating Rita Hayworth with at once such tenderness and such malice; and what (and I fear one needs to be something of a Preston Sturges aficionado to catch this reference) Barbara Stanwyck was implying when she wrapped her arms around Fred MacMurray’s neck and murmured, “But, darling, we are at Niagra Falls.”

Well, nostalgia can be a particularly dangerous opiate. Obviously many extraordinary films have been produced since the Hayes Office vanished [. . .] and among them have been many that could never have appeared under the old code. Even now, one is occasionally astonished by a gleam of gold amid the dross. Nevertheless, the current state of cinema seems to suggest that where good or at least clever writing is not a commercial necessity, and where there are no artificially imposed limits within which writers must work, the general intellectual quality of the medium cannot help but decline, and do considerable cultural damage as it descends. It would certainly be hard, if nothing else, to argue credibly that artistic expression has been well served by the revolution in standards that has made script=writing an occupation dominated by sadistic adolescents, or that the art has exactly flourished in an era in which it has been proved that immense profits can be generated from minimal dialogue but plenteous bloodshed, and in which practically nothing is considered too degraded or degrading for popular tastes.”

Hart, David Bentley, “Freedom and Decency” In the Aftermath: Provocations and Laments, p.75-6

“As it happens, by far the worst argument against censorship is the one likely to carry most weight with persons on both sides of the cultural divide: that, were certain cultural products legally proscribed, we would be denying people things they want, denying them the right to choose for themselves, putting limits upon expressive freedom, refusing to trust in the law of supply and demand—all of which is of course quite true. But to find this a compelling argument, obviously, one must already be convinced of the inalienable sanctity of choice, over against every other social good, and convinced moreover that freedom and choice are more or less synonymous. It is indeed true that many of us manifestly do want unimpeded access to explicit depictions of sex and violence, and to mindlessly brutal forms of entertainment, and to artifacts born solely from the basest impulses of the imagination; but surely, in point of fact, no society that simply concedes the prior right of its citizens to have whatever they want can ever really be free.

This is the crucial issue, I think: not what we understand decency to be, but what we mean when we speak of freedom. [. . . ] We have come to believe—more or less unreflectively—that the will necessarily becomes more free the more it is emancipated from whatever constraints it suffers.”

Hart, David Bentley, “Freedom and Decency” In the Aftermath: Provocations and Laments, p.77

“[. . .] freedom is possible only through constraints [. . .] True freedom, at least according to one venerable definition, is the realization of a complex nature in its proper good (that is, in both its natural and supernatural ends); it is the freedom of a thing to flourish, to become ever more fully what it is. An absolutely ‘negative liberty’—the absence of any religious, cultural, or social restrictions upon the exercise of the will—may often seem desirable (at least for oneself) but ultimately offers only the ‘freedom’ of chaos, of formless potential.

[. . . .] For instance, if one wishes to become honorable (a word so quaint and antique as now to have the power to charm but not to compel), one must accede to any number of elaborate restrictions upon one’s actions and even thoughts; and these restrictions unquestionably confine and inhibit desire and volition, and are themselves often more a matter of ritual comity and factitious grace and painful reserve than of practical necessity. And yet, as one learns to consent to a common and demanding set of conventions and duties, one also progressively acquires an ever greater purity of character, a stability and hence identity, a unified ‘self’; one emerges from the inchoate turmoil of mere emotion, and is liberated from the momentary impulses and vain promptings of the will, and arrives at what can truly be called one’s essence. The form, as Michelangelo liked to say, is liberated from the marble.”

[. . . .] This understanding of freedom, however, requires not only a belief that we possess an actual nature, which much flourish to be free, but a belief in the transcendent Good towards which that nature is oriented. This Christians, Jews, and virtuous pagans have always understood: that which can endure in us is sustained by that which lies beyond us, in the eternity of its own plentitude. To be fully free is to be joined to that end for which our natures were originally framed, and for which—in the deepest reaches of our souls—we ceaselessly yearn. And whatever separates us from that end—even if it be our own power of choice within us—is a form of bondage. We are free not because we can choose, but only when we have chosen well [. . .] The consummation for which we should long, if we are wise, is that ultimately we shall, in St. Augustine’s language, achieve not only the liberty enjoyed by Adam and Eve—who were merely ‘able not to sin’—but the truest freedom of all, that of being entirely ‘unable to sin’, because God’s will works perfectly in ours.”

Hart, David Bentley, “Freedom and Decency” In the Aftermath: Provocations and Laments, p.78-9

“Democracy is not an intrinsic good, after all. Where the moral formation of a people is deficient, the general will malign, or historical circumstance unpropitious, is quite unambiguously wicked in its results [. . .] And a society that can no longer conceive of freedom as anything more than limitless choice and uninhibited self-expression must of necessity progressively conclude that all things should be permitted, that all values are relative, that desire fashions its own truth, that there is no such thing as ‘nature,’ that we are our own creatures. The ultimate consequence of a purely libertarian political ethos, if it could be taken to its logical end, would be a world in which we would no longer even remember that w should want to choose the good, as we would have learned to deem things good solely because they have been chosen. This would in truth be absolute slavery to the momentary, the final eclipse of rational dignity, the triumph within us of the bestial over the spiritual, and so of death over life.”

Hart, David Bentley, “Freedom and Decency” In the Aftermath: Provocations and Laments, p.80

“[. . .] I am not convinced that we are in any very meaningful sense in the midst of a ‘culture war’; I think it might at best be described as a fracas. I do not say that such a war would not be worth waging. At the moment, however, most of us have already unconsciously surrendered to the more insidious aspects of modernity long before we even contemplate drawing our swords from their scabbards and inspecting them for rust. This is not to say there are no practical measures for those who wish in earnest for the battle to be joined: home-schooling, perhaps, or private “trivium” academies; forbidding one’s children video games and attempting to instill a love of good music in them; Greek and Latin, great books; remote places; archaic enthusiasm. It is generally wise to seek to be separate, to be in the world but not of it, to be no more engaged with modernity than were the ancient Christians with the culture of pagan antiquity; and wise also to cultivate in our hearts a generous hatred towards the secular order, and a charitable contempt. Probably the most subversive and effective strategy traditionalists might undertake would be one of militant fecundity: abundant, relentless, exuberant, and defiant child-bearing. Given the reluctance of modern men and women to be fruitful and multiply, it would not be difficult, surely, for the devout to accomplish—in no more than a generation or two—a demographic revolution. Such a course is quite radical, admittedly, and contrary to the spirit of the age, but that is rather the point, after all. It would mean often forgoing certain material advantages, and forfeiting a great deal of our leisure; it would often prove difficult to sustain a two-career family or be certain of a lavish retirement. But if it is a war they want, they should not recoil from sacrifice.”

Hart, David Bentley, “Freedom and Decency” In the Aftermath: Provocations and Laments, p.81

“It is good to be reminded from time to time—good for Christians, that is—that their relations with the liberal democratic order can be cordial to a degree, but are at best provisional and fleeting, and can never constitute a firm alliance; that here they have no continuing city; that they belong to a kingdom not of this world; and that, while they are bound to love their country, they are forbidden to regard it as their true home.”
Hart, David Bentley, “The Pornography Culture” In the Aftermath: Provocations and Laments, p.91

Shirts and Such

The last time I spoke with Logan, I mentioned a blog that I was planning to write, a blog that was going to be, in a word, hilarious. This is not that blog. This is a blog about something completely different.

We live in a small apartment, and therefore do not have a lot of storage space. Our closet, on the other hand, is a very large space. The only problem is that it is very large depthwise, and not lengthwise, so it is hard to get to anything that is in the back. When we first moved in we purchased a rolling clothes hanger thing to roll under the clothes rod. It promptly broke (under the tremendous weight of Elin’s clothes, perhaps?), and we have been dealing with it ever since. Well, last week, I bought a new thing to hang clothes on, and Elin took advantage of the transition to get rid of many tops that she doesn’t use anymore. And there were a lot. Elin is not much of a clothes-shopper, but she does manage to accumulate. Anyway, I took it all to DI on Saturday, and then felt inspired to create some space by getting rid of some of my clothes. And an interesting thing happened: I didn’t want to get rid of them. As I looked at them, I realized they all represented in some way significant times of my life. So, dear reader, I am going to privilege you with some memories from my life, represented by sundry items of clothes.

1. CTR/Superman shirt. I’m pretty sure this shirt was a birthday present my sophomore year, although possibly my junior year. I really liked this shirt, and wore it quite a bit to start with. I have two high school memories of this shirt. One year on Halloween I wore it under a button down shirt; replacing my contacts with my glasses completed the Clark Kent costume. Whenever anyone complained that I hadn’t dressed up, I simply unbuttoned my shirt a little. The other memory associated with this shirt is seeing the Superman symbol with the letters “CTW” taped to various lockers. An outcry against me I guess.

2. Red Tommy Hilfiger polo shirt. I love this shirt. A lot. The only reason I am getting rid of it is because there are large holes under the edge of the sleeve. I bought it at TJ Maxx as I headed into my junior year of high school. This shirt constitutes 33.3% of the worthwhile items that I have found at TJ Maxx throughout my entire life. The shirt represents a time in my life when looking good and fashionable was of the utmost importance. I distinctly remember wearing it to school for the first time, tucked in. I was openly mocked by one Corey Cozzens. I guess it was a little too preppy for Rocky Mountain High School. I never wore it tucked in again.

3. BYU-Idaho shirt. This shirt only recalls fond memories. While I never attended school at BYU of the I, I have been to Rexburg several times and to campus once or twice, and on one of those visits, I got this shirt. My senior year of high school my good buddies Jory Woodis, Nick Sponsel, and I went on a road trip. First we went to Provo to visit BYU and Nathan (I received my first speeding ticket on the way. 96 in a 65. Ouch.). It was a great time, and after a couple of days we left for Rexburg. Somewhere along the way (to be honest, I know exactly where) my navigator missed a turn, and we ended up 60 miles outside of Boise. Eventually we made it to the ‘Burg, and stayed with Logan. During our campus visit I was given this shirt, and it has been with me ever since, including to Brazil.

4. Quicksilver Polo shirts. These shirts were purchased in Missouri, possibly in Branson. I can’t remember exactly. I do remember that I was selling satellite dishes door-to-door in the awful humidity of southern Missouri (commonly referred to simply as Misery), and that Nathan’s then-fiancée Lindsay was visiting at the time of the purchase. Although I know that that summer was, for the most part, miserable, I still look back with fondness.

5. Close-up of the Superman/CTR shirt. See those little holes on the left? Those are burn marks from the summer after my freshman year of college, immediately preceding my departure for my mission. At this point I had already had this shirt for a couple of years, which is why it had become a work shirt. I also had met and dated my wife-to-be. I was working for Bishop Blackburn, as a metal cutter. The holes are from bits of molten metal that would occasionally splash on me, burning through my shirt and underclothes, and then burn me. I was working with Jory, Rachell, Justin Harper, and Jeff Minchow. It was delightful.

I am sorry that this blog is so long, and probably boring. It is interesting how things that are important to one are not important to another. I wonder if authors simply write to entertain themselves, and then luck into other people liking the same things they do. To sum up my feelings, I am going to use a quote from a book that Elin introduced me to, that I have never read. It is from a book called “The Pit,” by Frank Norris, and is about a girl who just married. While I am neither a girl, just married, nor as attached to these shirts as she is to her things, it still works:

“Alone she ran up the stairs, and gained the second story; then paused a moment on the landing to get her breath and to listen. The rooms near by were quiet, deserted. From below she could hear the voices of the others--their laughter and gaiety. She turned about, and went from room to room, looking long into each; first Aunt Wess's bedroom, then Page's, then the "front sitting-room," then, lastly, her own room. It was still in the disorder caused by that eventful morning; many of the ornaments--her own cherished knick-knacks--were gone, packed and shipped to her new home the day before. Her writing-desk and bureau were bare. On the backs of chairs, and across the footboard of the bed, were the odds and ends of dress she was never to wear again.

For a long time Laura stood looking silently at the empty room. Here she had lived the happiest period of her life; not an object there, however small, that was not hallowed by association. Now she was leaving it forever. Now the new life, the Untried, was to begin. Forever the old days, the old life were gone. Girlhood was gone; the Laura Dearborn that only last night had pressed the pillows of that bed, where was she now? Where was the little black-haired girl of Barrington?

And what was this new life to which she was going forth, under these leaden skies, under this warm mist of rain? The tears--at last--were in her eyes, and the sob in her throat, and she found herself, as she leaned an arm upon the lintel of the door, whispering:

"Good-by. Good-by. Good-by."

V-Day

I have decided that it is time for me to post again – 1. Because it makes me uncomfortable opening our blog and seeing that ripped, smiley, unclad man on the front page and 2. Because in two days is the month of February which is the month of Valentine's day.
I want you to know that I love Valentine's with all of my heart. In the past, several of my (girl) friends (sometimes cynically and bitterly, other times merely humorously) referred to holiday as Single's Awareness day. On the other hand, several of my (boy) friends would endlessly rant about how it is a holiday designed to break a guy's bank. How depressing! If only I could express in words my felicitous feelings towards this day of all days. I suppose, though it will be inadequate, all I can do is make a list (I love lists) of reasons why I love V-day so much:

An Exposition of Elin's feelings towards the approaching holiday: A list in no particular order

1. If you do not want to write out Valentine's day or say it a million times, you can simply refer to it as V-day. What other holiday can you do that with? Not to mention that V is such a strong letter. When I think of V, I think of Victory, Valiant, Vicissitudes, Velocity, Volt, Very, Vehement. V-day! Wow! What a nickname.

2. It is a day completely dedicated to that indefinable, indescribable, undeniable emotion of the heart: love, love, love. Whoever decided that there needed to be a day wholly devoted to informing all of the important people in your life that you love them deserves a prize. What a good idea! Not to mention all of the fun, creative mediums you can choose from to express that love. Poetry, flowers, chocolates, cakes, little pieces of cardboard paper with the faces of the current teen pop sensation or favorite cartoon faces on them, balloons, ridiculous looking stuffed animals, rose petals strewn strategically from one point to another creating a path to a desired surprise location (such as the kitchen table where a homemade chocolate cake shaped like a heart with the words BE MINE written in sprinkles across the top awaits you). You do NOT need a significant other to celebrate Valentine’s day. That cake can be for your best friend, your parents, your favorite co-worker, and the list goes on. (You of course can change the words that are sprinkled on the top of the cake as you find necessary and eliminate the rose petals.) Need, I repeat, V-day is a beautiful thing?

3. It is the holiday that Mama Roberts’ gi-normous, personalized, heart-shaped sugar cookies smothered in frosting arrive in the mail. Never have I known before the thrill I experienced when I opened the package last year and saw that heavenly treat.

4. Valentine colors are Pink and Red and White and those are the happiest color combinations (except for maybe yellow). Seriously, if you walk down the V-day aisle of a grocery store, the mixture of colors alone will boost your level of happiness by at least 25%, I guarantee it. It's science.

5. Speaking of walking down aisles, try walking down the BYU candy counter aisle during the V-day season. V-day candy is the absolute BEST candy of the year, if you ask me. First of all, it is the only time of year they sell these delicious gummy, tangy candies that are shaped like X’s and O’s. Delightful. Second, there are cinnamon gummy candies shaped like lips. Delightful times 2. Third, the m&ms are red, pink, and yellow and they sell bags of m&ms that are completely green (and everyone knows green m&ms are the best). Delightful times 3. Fourth, they sell the DOVE chocolate heart with the sappy V-day sayings on the wrappers (only rivaled by the DOVE chocolate eggs they sell during Easter that are the perfect size for your mouth.) Delightful times one million.

6. Conversation hearts. (I know they are candy but they deserve their own number. They taste like dirt, but I still purchase them.)

7. Sappy love songs

8. I don’t even think I need to continue….What more can I say.

Happy Valentine's Day!

Life

Tonight is the beginning of a long weekend, and I decided I would post my first non-whining post. There is not a lot to report, but here is what is happening in my life, in pictures that I stole off the internet: This is what I am going to look like at the end of the semester, minus the fuzziness and black-ness; keep the baldness. I added beginning weight lifting as a block class, both first and second block, right at the beginning of the semester. The reason for that is I needed one more credit to give me enough for my half-tuition scholarship to be applied, and two PE courses= 1 credit. The reason I needed one credit is because I dropped the 4-credit Math 112 class I was supposed to take. The reason I dropped it is because I looked at the pretest to see if I could handle 112, and it told me no. I couldn't do anything on it. So now I am in 110, which is algebra. Kind of embarrassing, but for the best. I am enjoying the weight class so far, though.



This is the score I got on my first Math 110 test, which I took about 8 hours ago. I was pretty excited, but to be honest I owe at least ten percent of it to luck. I had to make some educated guesses. This is only the second perfect score I have had on a test at BYU, and the first doesn't really count (Book of Mormon-a monkey could do that. Well, if he was a member). One other time I got a 99, but that still isn't 100%.


All my faithful blog-readers will recognize the above symbol. That is right. I am in another chemistry class. Two, actually. I am taking Chem 106, which is essentially an extension of 105 but based more on the kinetics of reactions, and 107, which is a lab where we create reactions. Neither have been bad so far, but it is only the second week. Just give it time...

Above we have some gneiss (pronounced nice) and schist (pronounced, well, schist). So, together, they are gneiss schist. Oh ho, just a little geology humor there. The rocks represent my geology 112 class, which actually isn't about the rocks as much as it is the history of the rocks. And believe you me, they have a history. Not as gneiss as you might think...

Last but not least, as far as school goes, Doctrine and Covenants, second half. This is a really good class, actually. The teacher is what makes it good, I suppose. And since it is so good I will be able to show off all my newly acquired knowledge in Sunday school this year.

I gladly give my time for this subject, of course. She is very good to me, and lets me spend lots of time on the above things. If I could I would spend all my time on her...well, maybe not Saturday morning football time, but all the rest. I also spend time at/on church, but I am tired out from blogging.

As a last thing, I would appreciate some comments on this blog. Our last post didn't garner many, and as we are relatively new to the blogging world, that might just be enough to cut our careers short.

Let the Merry Bells Keep Ringing

I am going to brag about Forrest for long enough to say that he made straight A's in his Fall 2008 classes with the exception of, well, chemistry for which he earned a......B-. Not bad at all, eh?

Anywho, forward and onward to our commentary on the "happy holidays" of 2008. For Thanksgiving break, we drove to Frannie and spent 4 days with the Roberts' family. It was delightful. Good food, good football, an air mattress that did not deflate, a Thanksgiving table that spanned two entire rooms, a captivating niece, an adorable nephew, and a mom and dad that sacrificed their own bed and room so that their children could sleep in the same house.

Then Forrest headed into finals week and Elin helped her entire office move from the southern tip of campus to the southernmost tippiest building on campus that exists.

Before long Christmas was upon us and we flew to Houston and Houston would not let us leave. Literally. It was 11:00 p.m. and our connecting flight to Dallas was long gone and Continental threatened to not let us leave Houston until Sunday- two days hence. Unwilling to stay the night in an airport chair, we jumped on a shuttle headed for a Days Inn (which Elin mistakenly believed was taking her to a Holiday Inn.) The shuttle driver was insane and talked incessantly about the O.J. Simpson trial (the first one), all the time craning his head back to talk to us face to face while the road went swerving ahead of us. Elin almost had a heart attack. Luckily, the crazy man did not take us into the dark woods. Instead he safely delivered us to the "sorry we are under renovation: please excuse the mess" Days Inn. Roughly translated, that means ghetto, television with 3 working channels, a wonderbread with peanut butter and jelly continental breakfast (not packets of peanut butter and jelly but costco jars of pb & j), and huge, gaping holes in the hallway floors.

Happily, the following morning around 11:00 a.m., Daddy Jenson showed with Elin's faithful sister Laurel who rescued us. They left Allen at 7:00 a.m. to drive to Houston and save us. Christmas Miracle. We love them. Christmas in Allen was delightful. Good food, good football (the Allen High School Eagles won the state championship for the 1st time ever), bad football (BYU....), a pregnant sister, the two oldest Jenson boys, a family volleyball match, a digital camera (thank you Nathan), a new wardrobe for Elin (thank you mom Roberts and mom Jenson and Rachell), and lots of ping pong. (Thank you to the Bills family for the wonderful dinner and magical game night!)

After spending time with the Jensons, we felt like it was time to return to Frannie for some more fun. We very happily spent New Years with the Roberts. We learned how to play a pirate game and an Incan gold game and we went sledding! On our way home, South Pass decided to become treacherous. After a noble effort by Forrest to put chains on our tires (they were too big), we were forced to stay the night in Lander. Luckily, the Best Western was considerably nicer than the last hotel we stayed in. The following day we eventually made it back home. Our little chevy metro is a hero and took us through snow and ice safe and sound. However, it made some scary noises on the way home from work today so who knows if it will start tomorrow. It probably gave us all it had. Well, it is a good thing car prices are so low right now, eh?

The moral is we love our family a million!

(bytheway...My laptop would not let me post pictures but I will post them soon, nonetheless!)

Chemistry Sucks

Ok, so when I first sent out the email notifying family that Felin had created a blog, I mentioned that sometime I would post something about my chemistry class. That time has arrived.

First, a little background about myself and scholastics: I like to do well in my classes. In fact, I like to be the best in my classes. When I was in second grade I remember deciding that I would be valedictorian, or at least salutatorian. I also wet my pants in class the same year because I didn't want to take the time to go to the bathroom before handing my assignment in, so that I could be the first one done. I had a 4.0 in high school (granted, it was RMHS), and then I came to BYU. My ideals slipped a little bit my first semester (3.14), but have been on the rise ever since. When I was coming back to BYU for my first semester after my mission, I overheard some advice given by some post-college grads to a new freshman. They told her that if she had a professor that was going to be tough, then she should get out quick. I couldn't believe my ears! I felt that we were here to learn and that avoiding work wasn't the way. Example: Through all my classes (not just chemistry), I have missed only one class period this semester, because I was taking Elin to the airport. I do every reading, I go to every lab/recitation, and I do extra problems. When my scores drop, I work more. Well, things change. Now I am in my 5th semester, and I am taking Chem 105.

Chem 105 is one of the most dreaded GE classes on campus. I was nervous about it, because of things I had heard and because I have never taken a chemistry class (big mistake, I know). The class started out fine, although the homework was brutal. My effort on my first test garnered a 75%, right on the class average. My second test, which I felt well prepared for, came out to a 70%, while the class average rose. Not good. Last Friday I took my third test. 50%. Yeah. My worst score on any assignment, ever. Since then, I have heard that the class average was 68%, and a kid behind me in class said he got a 35%. That doesn't make me feel better--that makes me mad.

Let me tell you what a test score like that does to me: it crushes my ideals. It makes me want to look for the easiest professor around, and take classes only from him (or her, as the case may be). It makes me NEVER want to do chemistry again. I actually didn't pick the book up till yesterday, and for me, that is a long time. It makes me not want to go to class. After that test, I didn't want to do any homework in any class. It makes me want to change my major to that Family-something major that all females outside of education are in. I am pretty sure that a monkey could get a 50% on a test, without going to class or doing homework, so why should I? The only chemistry I want to know and do is one that would allow me to do what's demonstrated below to the chemistry building.


That's all, I am done. Enough time has passed from the time I got the score and started this blog that I am too calm to complain more. Pity.

La la somebody has a birthday. Our dear little....

This is the Forrest Daniel Roberts that I fell in love with 4 years ago. Forrest likes this picture because his neck looks really thick (apparently guys aim for this physical trait?) and I must admit, he is a very very attractive man inside and out. I met Forrest his first year at BYU because he lived in my apartment complex and he was in my ward at church. That September, everyone thought that he was at least 21 years old, when in fact, he had not even reached the ripe old, mission-serving age of 19 yet. Admittedly, he looked older and acted older than he was (perhaps thanks to the examples of his three older brothers?) and I think he enjoyed when people (especially ladies) mistook him for a missionary returned.



I took my first look at Forrest on the first Sunday of the school year during church. He was sitting next to fellow Wyomingian and current roommate, Jory Woodis, and I admit, my first reaction was similar to that of our peers: 1. I thought he was a handsome man 2. He looked like an RM

Soon after that church meeting, I pointed him out to a friend and asked who he was. From that conversation I learned his age, and well, that put an end to any thoughts of dating Forrest Roberts....that is, for about 4 months. That was my initial response to Forrest.

Ironically, I spent quite a bit of time with Forrest during the semester, but it was always at the invitation of one of his roommates. The second time I spent a prolonged period of time with Forrest was when Jory asked if I wanted to go see Spiderman at the dollar theater and Forrest tagged along (or maybe I was tagging along...I am still not sure). At this point in time, half of Forrest's face was frozen and he couldn't move his left eye or left side of his mouth. (see picture below) Jory kept making mean jokes about his handicapped face, so I thought that Forrest's condition was permanent and that his face was just stuck that way. Anything that ends in "palsy" sounds permanent to me. This was my second impression of Forrest.




I saw him and spent time with him sporadically through the rest of the semester. His brothers Ben and Logan came down to Provo and I went to Divine Comedy with Jory and all of them and Ben put his hand on my leg thinking it was Forrest's. Who would have thought that Ben and Logan were going to be my brothers?! Then, Christmas came and went.....before long..January came. And then Forrest showed up at my apartment and asked me if I wanted to go ice skating in 5 minutes. Apparently, his roommates had planned a group date and he wanted me to go last minute. I actually had friends at my apartment that I had invited over for the evening, but I said yes to Forrest, put on my coat and gloves and went ice skating. That is pretty much how I have felt about Forrest ever since (although, hopefully I would never be so rude as to just leave a roomful of friends again.)

It seems that I found everything I could have ever wanted in Forrest and I am so lucky to have him and his wonderful family. He lets me sleep extra in the morning and he makes me breakfast before work and he packs my lunch every day. He gets up at 6 a.m. to read his scriptures and he studies for hours every night so that he will excel in school. He reads in his spare time because he likes learning. He is dedicated and works at and fulfills everything he commits to. He knows and loves the gospel. He loves everything related to football and he can put up a pretty good fight in just about every sport (except maybe baseball and hockey?) He is witty (smart-funny) and he laughs at my unwitty jokes. He has an uncanny ability to counsel and advise and comfort (a trait inherited from his father, no doubt) and he is a better friend than any a girl could ask for.
My sister Laurel thinks I'm ridiculous but every time she and I would watch a movie together, I would think that the guy in the movie had the same facial expressions or looked or acted exactly like Forrest. Here are some examples:

Why the tribute? Because its his 23rd Birthday on Saturday! Happy Birthday Forrest Roberts! I love you.