Lemme esplain...No, there is too much.

Lemme sum up.

In light of the fact that it's been an eternity since I wrote you, I thought I'd throw you a bone and give you an update on my life . . . such as it is . . .

Cougar Once More

Considering that I rooted mostly for the Aggies all last year, I'm glad to announce that I am a true-blue cougar again! Halelujah! I have repented of my ways, and this year, I'm going to all of the sporting events here at BYU. Now that I'm a sports-aholic (thank you very much, Jordan), I can't see the colors on the mountains change and not go to a football or basketball game. This last Thursday, I saw the BYU Cougs beat the Washington State Cougs . . . although, they should probably be classified as kitty-kats after we walloped 'em like that: 30-6! But what's a good walloping if you don't have crazy fans to enjoy it with? Luckily for me, I've got some of the craziest—Joel Anderson and Trent McFadyen. And I quote, "Give 'em the big, stinky, cheeseball!"

HTML Closet-Case

Being back at BYU means that I'm also back at work in the dean's office at the College of Mathematical and Physical Sciences, or more affectionately known as CPMS. Some refer to us as the College of PMS, but we're trying to steer people away from that one . . . . I edit and write for the college, but more often, I post stories and updates on the website, which means that HTML code has come back to kick my trash. Oh dear. This is what my days are filled with: </i></span><div><br><a ref></div>. Not too pretty, right? 

Relief Society President? What the . . . ?

Well, it finally happened. Heavenly Father thought that I could handle it, but I'm not so sure! We'll see how it goes. At first things were very unorganized in my head, but they're getting better now. Plus, I've got three awesome counselors who are so kind and helpful. But it's like they always say, "The Lord calls you and then qualifies you." So bring on the insanity! I'm ready to squash these RS sistas with some serious love!

Climbing the Octaves
I've recently gone from singing the rep of a mezzo-soprano to singing that of a full on soprano. This has been an odd adjustment for me. Not musically, but mentally. I always felt like being a mezzo set me apart a bit, since the world is full of sopranos, but my voice knew otherwise. One day I'm singing the hairy-chested, Viking-crowned alto music, and the next thing I know, my voice has totally lost its beefy, lower core and I'm up in the high ranges of Madame Butterfly. Oh well, I guess the heart knows what it wants right? Or in this case, the voice? Don't ask me how it happened, all I know is that I'm thrilled to be singing some of the most beautiful music ever written.

My Love Affair with Folk Music

You may have thought that folk music went out the window with bell bottoms and lava lamps in the ’70s, but I am here to tell you that some of the greatest folk music is still out there, being made fresh by cool artists with some of the tightest harmonies I’ve ever heard. So sit back and let me take you through a few of my favorites. 

First Aid Kit

I love their music because it makes you feel like you’ve just been beamed to 1972 by Scottie himself.  The band consists of two sisters from Sweden who sound super back-woodsy, and they even have the straight, hippie hair to match their Karen-Carpenter-eat-your-heart-out sound.

Ray Lamontagne

Alright, his voice just exudes rough, folky goodness. His is the type of folk that verges on country, but never crosses the line. It’s twangy and sweet. If you haven’t heard of him personally, I can guarantee that you’ve heard at least one of his songs in a chick flick movie. You’ll see what I mean.

Eva Cassidy

The story of this folk artist is one of the saddest of all. She has such a smooth style of music that some may not classify her as folk. But the way she covers the folk songs and jazz songs from Simon and Garfunkel and the like—well, it’s simply amazing. Her voice isn’t very well known because her career was short lived. She passed away in 1996 at the age of 33 from a very aggressive form of skin cancer that quickly infected her lungs and bones. But her music was released posthumously, which is how I found it. She has one of the most character-rich voices I’ve ever heard. 

Brandi Carlile

I have recently rediscovered her music. And it's completely filled with soul and folk style. Her words and her musicality drive every song straight to the heart. Very thought-provoking stuff. I just love her!

 

I hope you enjoyed the music as much as I enjoyed choosing it. Just broadening your horizons a bit. So there you have it. Are jazz and folk dying off? Hardly. 

Robbers and Vandals and Thieves—Oh My!

Boy, do I have a story for you. You remember all that time I raved about how much I loved living in the city? Well, now the city is trying to make me eat my words. Sunday morning, I went out to my car to go to ward council, and what do I find but a car full of shattered glass. My poor Little Boy Blue suffered one of the worst experiences a car can have: a smash and grab. That’s right folks—welcome to the west side of town.

So after a small freak-out and a heartfelt prayer, I called my dad, my relief society president, and the Salt Lake PD. When the officer came, I reported the crime and gave an estimation of what I thought the thief(s) took when they broke my window and snatched my backpack:

•  Knock-off Ray-ban sunglasses from Madagascar
•  Four or five CDs, some in French (Joke’s on them because they won’t understand the lyrics!)
•  A small Book of Mormon that my mission president gave me  
• The book Mockingjay by Suzanne Collins (I was only half-way through!)
• Two opera scores from the BYU library
•  A mezzo-soprano aria songbook  A portfolio of all the other music I’ve ever sung

The officer went around to the surrounding garbage cans looking for my belongings. I was hoping he would find some stuff because I thought there’s no way an eighteen-year old boy would want the musical score to La Bohème. But the officer came up empty-handed. So I literally swept up the pieces of my car (it being all glass), and got on with my day. Luckily, a few friends helped me clean out my glass-covered seats, dashboard, carpet, cup-holders, steering wheel and gear-shift.  After church, yet another friend came by with a shop vacuum that sucked up all of the remaining, tiny pieces of dangerous glass.

This morning, I realized that the deductible on my insurance would probably be more than the actual amount needed to repair the broken window, so with thoughts of spending about $300 today, I set off for the glass shop. I handed over my keys and headed to a nearby Taco Time to wait with my book. I thought, “Well, this is pretty low. Reading a romance novel while waiting in a Taco Time for over an hour, sipping just a lemonade the entire time because you shouldn’t buy a $4 taco if you’re about to pay $300 for a new window, while other, more privileged customers in wife-beaters and miniskirts enjoy their pricey, seven-layer burritos. Oh, the shame.”

But the story gets better. Really, it does. My mom called me and told me that a nice man in Rose Park had miraculously found some of my papers and had them at his house. Apparently, his neighbors had a rowdy party last night, and some of their loot (a.k.a. my prized possessions) had landed in his gutter. I was so grateful thinking that maybe I would get even a few of my things back. When I got to his house (forcing myself to drive down the street where Little Boy Blue’s ferocious violators live), I saw all the contents of my backpack on this man’s living room floor. Literally, all of them.  My Book of Mormon. My portfolio of music. My library books. My songbooks. And every small scrap of paper that was in my backpack.  Those punks had even dumped out my grammar flashcards that I left in my bag in case of editing/grammar emergencies. I know—I’m a total square.

So, after the whole ordeal, I only had to pay $200 to have the window replaced, and the only things I really lost were my backpack (which went to Madagascar and is incredibly old and beaten up) and my sunglasses from Madagascar. That’s it. A large miracle, in and of itself. So, my life may not be peachy keen here in SLC, but I know that Heavenly Father hears my prayers. And I know that He looks out for me in the large stuff and the small stuff. I’ve decided I’ve got nothing to complain about. I might as well laugh about it now and enjoy the new, sparkly, clean window in my car. One less thing for me to wash, right?

All Hail the Blind Date Queen

Confession: I cannot remember how many blind dates I have been on because I have been set up so many times. Does this shock you? Somehow, all my friends think I deserve to be with the perfect guy, and they always seem to know the perfect guy for me. I can almost see myself as the quirky, loud friend in the chick flick movie that every female viewer identifies with. That goofy girl that the leading lady sets up with her geeky coworker. That girl who makes everyone else laugh, but who’s still waiting for that one guy who can make her laugh. That’s me. The blind date queen.

If you must know, it all started my junior year of high school. My best friend had an older cousin, and she tried to set me up with him. We talked through email, but when I met him, it was clear that it wasn’t going to work. Then the tradition continued as a senior when my student teacher in my French class had a friend who had a brother who wanted to go out with me, but who didn’t say more than three sentences at a time. And the saga continued all throughout college. I went out with older guys, younger guys, musical guys, athletic guys, geeky guys, handsome guys—but did any of them take? Nope. Even on my mission, while my heart was “locked away,” I had people trying to get it back out of the box! At least four companions, one zone leader, and even my mission president tried to line me up with some “great guy” that they knew for after the mission. I’ll admit, I did date one of those “great guys” for about eight months. And he was a great guy. But we didn’t have that much in common—a typical side effect of the blind-date relationship. So the question remains, “Why do they seem to work for other girls, but never for us?”

You’ve all been there. First you get so excited at the prospect of meeting a new guy. “Could he be the one?” The “twitterpation phase” has set in. Then you meet him and the “reality-check phase” hits. Either the guy is so incredibly attractive that you just spend the evening making weird noises like “Buh, buh, buhmmmm . . .” instead of coherent sentences while you stare at his grandeur. Or they are so completely not your type that you literally start to contemplate not eating half of your burger just on the off chance it might make you skinny enough to fit through the back window of the ladies’ room. Can anyone commiserate with this!?

In the past two months alone, I can count at least seven people who have mentioned that they would like to set me up with someone they know. Seven! Isn’t there one great guy out there who wants to set me up with himself? We’re talking about at least twenty guys who have met me through a blind date. Twenty guys! And what do I have to show for it? Just this blog and a really heavy date box.

P.S. My sister was cool enough to send me this link for dating tall guys . . . just a helpful tool for any other tall girls out there. What do you guys think? Should I try it?
http://www.datetallmen.com/

Opera—My Happy Pill

I'll start this post as if we're in the middle of a conversation and as if we're the dearest and oldest friends—which, for lots of you, is actually the case. You know how I go from one topic to the next, one conversation to the next. Sometimes I think my attention span is no better than my brother Dave’s.

So I have decided that opera is my happy drug. It’s what I would listen to during my hours and hours of writing that I did this past semester. It's what got me through so many nights at the library until midnight. I would blast it in my headphones in the library, and I would be able to write in English without being distracted, because quite frankly, I don’t understand 99% of the Italian in the music. I pretend to know a bit, but I just memorize the words and pronounce them real well. That’s all. No cognition involved.

I love all the greats: Luciano Pavarotti, Anna Netrebko, Placido Domingo, José Carreras, Rollando Villazon, Renée Flemming, and Elina Garanca. Don’t worry if you have no idea who those people are. Only the really opera-crazy people do. Here's one of my all-time favorites:

I love listening to and singing opera so much that I have continued to take voice lessons for the past ten plus years. Lots of people ask me why I don’t study opera as a career. They ask me what I’m going to do with my voice. And honestly, I don’t have a ten year plan for it. Heavenly Father gave me this voice and the resources to cultivate it, and so I know I have a responsibility to share it as a blessing for others. But if I were to enter the performing world professionally, in three years I would be unhappy, beat out, and burnt out altogether. The cut-throat competition is not for me, and don’t get me started on how much my knees shake when I sing in public or in auditions.

In short, I sing for my own enjoyment and not to squeeze every penny I can out of my voice. Music is one part of the pie of my life, just not the part that will make me money. I know that it’s a hard profession to break into, and that’s why I plan to stay on top of it. Not break into it and win every competition, but dabble in it when I can. When I put too much pressure to beat other singers, or when I feel that pressure heaped on me, I become so nervous I could pass out. So I’ll continue to sing the best I can whenever I can—yes, this includes singing the hymns at church, the national anthem at baseball games, and pop songs on the radio. I know I sound like a square, but once you’ve been classically trained, you don’t just go back to stinky technique—no matter where you are. It’s ingrained in your brain.

So I’ll keep on singing and pretend that no one can hear me. Because really, I always sing my best when nobody is listening. 

The City Girl Within

Well, I took the plunge. I finally started a blog, and it was a long time coming. Since I work with and pore over words all day long, I thought it only appropriate that I use my words to my advantage and launch them all into cyberspace.

As I brainstormed for a title that would accurately embody my whole self and personality (as if that's even possible), I thought about how my perfectionism always kept me from starting a blog before, because I knew I would just edit it and proof it until I wouldn't even want to write anymore. So I decided to call myself a lazy perfectionist. And it was a good name too, because it took me five minutes after labeling this blog to realize that I had misspelled "perfectionist." If that doesn't scream laziness, I don't know what does.

But I'm a perfectionist with words in magazines and books, which brings me to the subject of this post. I just started two internships at some magazines in Salt Lake City (a big move from down south and the BYU bubble). I work for Utah Bride & Groom, Utah Style & Design (owned by the same company), and at LDS Living, which is in the Deseret Book Corporate offices. So this blog, in its early stages, will be dedicated to the insane/funny/freaky experiences that I'm having and I'm sure I will continue to have this summer.

I love everything about the city (so far). But I already knew that I would love being a city girl again, since I lived mostly in big cities during my mission to Madagascar and the island of Reunion in the Indian Ocean. I love that the skyline is filled with buildings—steel, brick, stone, you name it. The night lights bring me back to ocean and city views of my mission (gosh what I wouldn’t give for an ocean view right now). I like that there’s always something new to discover, and I love that feeling of mapping out places I know and then making mental maps. I love becoming knowledgeable about the neighborhoods and finding shortcuts or streets that seem to pop out of nowhere. Nothing beats the diversity of a city. Its nuances, its noises, its rhythm. This city is a life-form that has multiple personalities. Good thing I’ve got sides to my own personality that seem to fit in the different places I discover: Temple Square, the West side, City Creek, Trolley Square.

So here I am, life. Ready to take on the next challenge/chapter you’ve got to give me. I’ve worked my butt off to get here. Stinky streets? Pick pockets? Drunks? Elbowers on Trax?

Bring it on.