Who Do You Carry the Torch For?

"Who do you carry the torch for, my young man? 

Do you believe in anything? 

Do you carry it around just to burn things down?"

-Brand New

"The Archer's Bows Are Broken"

The Devil and God Are Raging Inside of Me

I have probably listened to that song hundreds of times. Brand New, more specifically their two albums Deja Entendu & The Devil and God Are Raging Inside of Me I usually reserve for when I'm in a melancholy, introverted mood. Brand New's lyrics always offer little gems of raw honesty, beauty, or poignancy. I could quote a good amount right here. But it's the quote above that has captivated me, mostly because I've listened to it for over four years now and haven't given it any extra thought. I was listening to some playlist on shuffle the other day and that song came on. Those are the first lines of the song and they sort of got stuck in my head. I went and googled "carry the touch" to see if it meant anything outside of the song. After some exploring and tweaking of search words, I found out the meaning.

On the word detective website, I found this entry:

Since at least 1927, "to carry the torch" (or "carry a torch" for someone) has meant to continue to love and pine for someone long after the object of affection has left the building and any reasonable hope of amorous success has passed.  By 1934, romantic ballads of lost love and broken hearts were known as "torch songs," and female nightclub singers who made them their specialty were known as "torch singers."

What a tragically beautiful thought. It gives the image of a man carrying a torch and being asked who he carries it for. He carries it for a love that has been lost and can never hope to have again. Yet he carries the torch in his fruitless attempt to find her again. Perhaps he did believe in love but his heartache has left people questioning whether he believes in anything anymore. His despair has left him cynical, as thoughts of using the torch that is meant to find his lost lover to be used instead to burn things down, to destroy. It is this idea that gives the song the poignancy that I'm used to having from Brand New.

Last night I couldn't sleep. I kept thinking who do I still carry a torch for?  Who do I still love & still hope that they will find my torch? I was haunted by the memory of four men that I fell in love with to some degree or another. Tossing & turning, trying to get them out of my head, I could see how easily it would be to stop believing in anything and to use those torches to burn things down. Once you've had your heart broken enough times, you get to the point you don't want to try again. It doesn't seem worth it.

How many more guys will I be haunted by?
How many more torches will I continue to carry?
How long can I go before I start to burn things down?

Love you.
Mean it.

Merry Christmas, Damnit. Part One

I guess now that it's November 27 and both Thanksgiving & Black Friday are over, I can officially write about Christmas without receiving too many death threats. 


Usually when I tell people that Christmas is my favorite holiday, I receive the same cynical rolled eyes from pretty much everyone. I don't blame them. It is a pretty cliché thing to say. I mean, who doesn't like Christmas? There are presents, food, family, religious services, presents... And all those things are pretty awesome. But I'm right there with the cynical people who say that Christmas has become too commercialized; that we, as a society, have lost the true meaning of Christmas. What I find odd about that statement is that it is never really explained what the "true meaning of Christmas" really is. I'll be the first to admit that I'm not a very religious person anymore. I'm not even really a "spiritual" person per se. The coming of Christmas and the celebration of the birth of Jesus Christ has awoken a major dissonance in my religious/spiritual/whatever life. If I claim to be a deist (deist: belief in the existence of a supreme being, specifically of a creator whodoes not intervene in the universe. The term is used chiefly of anintellectual movement of the 17th and 18th centuries that accepted the existence of a creator on the basis of reason but rejected belief in a supernatural deity who interacts with humankind), then obviously I wouldn't believe that God sent his Son to die to redeem all mankind from their sins. This is a matter that I'll probably attend to later in another post. But I have found special significance and meaning in Christmas that causes it to be my favorite holiday that has hardly anything to do with presents or religious meaning. 


I have a playlist on my ipod that is titled "Merry Christmas, Damnit." The title comes from an old joke between some old roommates from two or three years ago. My one roommate, who was stressed out of her mind with finals and some recent family troubles, came into the kitchen where another roommate and I were talking. The girl plopped two wrapped presents in front of us and said, "Merry Christmas, damnit." The roommate sitting by me looked at the presents then at me and we both burst out laughing. It was just too funny to us. It was merely moments before the gift-bearing roommate joined in. It still is one of my favorite memories from that first apartment I had in Manzenita on SUU campus. There is a song on the mix that is by Reliant K called, "Merry Christmas, Here's to Many More." It's become my favorite Christmas song over the last few years because of the lyrics. 

Made it through the year and I did not even collapse 

I've got to say, "Thank God" for that

I'm torn between what keeps me whole 

and what tears me in half 

I'll fall apart or stay intact

I'm tired as I stumble back to bed

I need to realize my sorry life's not hanging by a thread

At least not yet

So look at me now

It's finally Christmas and I'm home

Head indoors to get out of this weather

And I don't know how but the closest friends I've ever known

Are all inside singing together

Singing, "Merry Christmas, here's to many more.  

The reason I love that song so much is the first reflection on the past year. It has been hard and it seems like a miracle that he has been able to get through it. Then he even states, "I need to realize my sorry life's not hanging by a thread. At least not yet." He recognizes that his life isn't as bad as he thinks it is. I've thought about these words many times and have thought about my own life. There have been some exceedingly rough periods in my life, especially in the last eight or nine months. But when I really think about it, things could be a lot worse. I'm doing okay. But what makes me really love this song is the next part, "And I don't know how but the closest friends I've ever known are all inside singing together, singing "Merry Christmas, here's to many more." I imagine him coming home (to what ever place he calls his home, another comforting thought) and finding his close friends gathered around a piano, singing Christmas songs. When they see him, they all greet him with loud calls of love. Someone helps him take off his coat while another brings him a cup of hot tea. He joins them in their singing of hope for more Christmases. It's a beautiful image, even more so when you consider the significance of it. They are all wishing for more Christmases, which means they are wishing for more years. The man was reflecting on the past year and how hard it has been for him. But then, when he's home with his friends, he knows he can make it through another year. I would even argue that his friends have become a family to him. I was talking to a friend of mine last night and the subject of family was brought up. I told him that sometimes family isn't about blood. It's about who you care about and who cares back. I really do believe that. I always get an amazing feeling of love and comfort when I hear that song. It reminds me of who is important in my life and why I was able to get through all of the hardships I have encountered over the past year and years. It's because of my family, friends, and the friends I consider to be family. Christmas, to me, is a time to spend with those people you love and who love you in return, to recognize who is really important in my life. 


And I was really planning on doing this in a completely separate post, but it seems more appropriate here. The following is a list of people who have made my life better over the last eight months & fifteen days (in no particular order). Thank you for everything. I don't know what I would've done without you guys. Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you. 

Sean Kendall

Jonathan Timothy

Mike Timothy

Justin Pitts

Martin Isaksen

Freddy Desposorio

Maria Nuila

Rachel Carter

Juan Nuila

Mary Buynak

John Hancock

Josh Keele

Greg Vandagriff

Jacob Horlacher

Jacob Ludlow

Ashley McNew

Amber McNew

Paige McGuire

Mindy Haward

Paul Johnson

Andy Sherwin

Augustus Johnson

Leila Warring

Kelly Rodkey

Blake London

Joe Willis

Ammon Eddy

Kristy Denlein

Bri LeBreton

Reed Parkinson

Katie Parkinson

Seth Lawrence

Lorien Lawrence

Mace Sorensen

Chris Clark

Chelsea Sorensen

Drew Young

Lehif Martin

Dr. Mark Crane

Dr. Alan Hansen

Ben Lewis

Davey Morrison-Dillard

Devan McLain

David Ashworth

Jim Ailey

Miles Spencer

Matt Kearney

Lisa Garlock

Seren White

Steve Pew

Dave Newlin

Kelly Reeves

Love you.
Mean it. 


p.s. I had originally intended this post to be much longer and cover several more reasons why I love Christmas, but I had no idea I would spend so much time on this one topic. So I've decided to break it up and cover all the reasons over a series of posts. Stay tuned. 

Thanks for Making Me Laugh

I don't know if you remember me. We really weren't friends, just casual acquaintances who happen to be in the same class. I mean, if it hadn't been for what's-her-name calling out my name as I walked by the ELC building, I don't think we would've ever spoken.

You and her were sitting on the bench outside the ELC building. I was walking from the Braithwaite building and she called out my name. I turned and she said something about wanting to let me know she wasn't personally attacking me in class when she made a comment about something I said. I laughed it off and said I didn't feel that way at all. I ended up talking to you two for a good bit. Even when she left, you and I continued to talk. I don't remember about what, exactly. I just remember enjoying it and laughing a lot.

I began to look forward to seeing you and talking to you after class. We always had fun when we'd talk. I started to think that maybe you were the type of person that could be good for me. When we'd talk about your mission to Austria and where you stood in regards to the church at that time in your life all seemed to echo my own life. It always feels so good to find someone who feels the same way you do on certain subjects, especially if those feelings are not the norm.

I don't know if you ever got my note explaining why I had to leave. Timian said she'd deliver it but I don't know if she ever really did. It's probably for the best. It was written only an hour after I lost everything. I was a mess and the note probably didn't make sense, if it was legible at all. I sometimes wonder if you noticed I stopped showing up to class, and if you did, if you wondered what happened to me. I wonder how long it took until you forgot about me all together.

I confess, I sort of forgot about you until today. I don't know why I suddenly thought of you. Maybe it was the hat I bought the other day. I decided to wear it and the first thought in my mind was Professor Nozomi, or however you spell her name. She wore a hat that was a little like the one I was wearing. It unfortunately gave me an instantaneous dislike for the hat (which is a pity since I do look decent in it). It was her class that was the cause of us meeting at all. It's weird how that works sometimes.

I doubt we'll ever see or hear from each other again. But where ever you ended up, I hope you're doing okay and that you're happy. I hope one day you do write stories for video games, like you always wanted to.

Thanks for making me laugh, James. Even if it was only for a few weeks.

Love you.
Mean it.

Tell Me A Secret Part 2

Part 1

Love you.
Mean it.

Letter To My First Love

Last night I found out you are getting married. After a brief conversation with an old friend, I found out it's one of those "have to get married" type of situations. You got your girlfriend pregnant, so you proposed. This friend of mine assured me that you two are in love and she really thinks it's going to work for you two. I hope she's right. I don't need to tell you the deck is stacked against you, but hey, you two could be the exception. I mean, after all you're in love.

I'm sorry if I sound bitter. I'm really not. Forgiving and forgetting has never been my strong suit. It's just when I heard the news of you and your fiance, I couldn't help but think that could have been us. If we would have stayed together, it's more than likely that we would've wound up pregnant years ago. Thank God for little miracles, I guess. I think you know as well as I do that would've been a horrible situation, not only for you and I but for the kid we would've brought into this world.

But maybe you and your fiance will make it work. My friend kept telling me you two are really in love. But I just kept thinking that you and I were in love and look how that turned out. All the anger and hatred, the lies and secrets, the bitterness and the petty attacks at one another, that isn't how love is suppose end up. Despite everything that happened, I'll never deny we were in love. Did you know I still wear the claddagh ring you gave me years ago? Each one of my rings is from a significant point in my life. That one is from the first time I was ever in love. Now, nearly five years later, you're getting married, about to be a husband and a father, and I'm still trying to decide if love is really all it's cracked up to be. I've only been in love twice in my life and both times nearly destroyed me when they fell apart. I'm starting to feel like if you love someone that passionately and fervently, then when it ends it has to be just as powerful and packed with emotion. Is it even worth it then?

Despite everything that has happened between us, I really do hope things work out for you and your new family. Maybe you'll prove everyone wrong. I really hope you do.

Love you.
Mean it.

Experimenting More With My "Experiments"

Yesterday when I was suppose to be paying attention in Literature of the American Renaissance (a common occurrence not matter what the class) I started writing something that has been on my mind lately. I had every intention of posting it here--and I probably will eventually--but after rereading it a few hours later, I felt terribly depressed. It was a pretty serious subject and it sounded a bit too didactic. After rereading it for the second time, I immediately thought, "Geez, lighten up."

I'm starting to realize that I am way funnier in real-life & in person than I ever am in writing. I don't know why that is. Whenever I write something, it's like some older, more serious side takes over and I tend to sound intelligent, introspective, philosophical, and very, very boring. Granted, I can be those things in person as well, but I'd like to think I'm also entertaining at the same time in real-life. In my writing, I'm either terribly candid or horribly formal. I can't find the sweet median. My goal, when it comes to my writing, is to be like the journalistic work of David Foster Wallace. I've been reading a lot of his work lately. I'm almost finished with his collection of essays titled Consider the Lobster. The man was a phenomenal writer. He was always able to find the perfect balance between a casual, candid approach to a subject while still sounding authoritative. That's why his work is not only accessible, but also thought-provoking and real. I don't have many "heroes" when it comes to famous and/or historical figures. I tend to give the title of "hero" to people I actually know. But if I were to have a role model when it came to my writing, it would be David Foster Wallace.

Which brings me back to my original problem: How can I achieve the same balance that David Foster Wallace seemed to have perfected? ~If you're wondering why I am writing out David Foster Wallace's full name every time and not shortening it to Wallace or just DFW, it's because the guy is so awesome, he deserves to have his full name typed out every single goddamn time. Deal with it.~  The only real solution I've been able to find is just to practice; to write and write and write and keep trying to get closer to that perfect balance. Of course, I'm going to mess up quite frequently and a lot of my stuff is going to be complete shit, but how else am I going to get there? It's not going to happen instantly just because I want it to. It's like this quote I read by William Faulkner,

"Get it down. Take chances. It may be bad, but it's the only way you can do anything really good."

And that is precisely what I intend to do. So, you dear and faithful readers of Love you. Mean it., consider yourselves warned. There's going to be more experimenting involved in my "Experiments in Writing." Hope you enjoy the ride.

Love you.
Mean it.

I Don't Want To Play Anymore

"Have you ever been in love? Horrible, isn't it? It makes you so vulnerable. It opens your chest and it opens up you heart and it means that someone can get inside you and mess you up. You build up all of these defenses, you build up a whole suit of armor, so that nothing can hurt you then one stupid person, no different from any other stupid person, wanders into your stupid life...You give them a piece of you. They didn't ask for it. They did something dumb one day, like kiss you or smile at you, and then your life isn't your own anymore."

-Neil Gaiman 

Feelings of Thanksgiving

Turkey time is upon us, folks.

This year is different than most in my family because we are celebrating Thanksgiving on Sunday instead of the traditional Thursday. I don't really know why. It was a decision made by one of my mom's sisters (there are three of them). My immediate family is going to have a Thanksgiving-esque meal on Thursday as well but without the turkey. We're opting for honey baked ham, which I always thought was way more delicious.

Anyway, Thanksgiving is a time where we Americans are suppose to look at our lives and be grateful for the things we have and enjoy. I've done something similar to this earlier this year. But in order to keep with tradition, I'm going to do it again.

I'm grateful for the friendship of Jon Timothy. He's one of the main reasons I've adjusted so well to living back home.

I'm grateful for my parents, especially my mama, for being there for me when I needed them.

I'm grateful for Sean Kendall, my Numero Uno, for putting up with me and sticking by me.

I'm grateful for the chance I've had to be the assistant culture editor for the Review. It's been a lot of fun and has kept me blissfully busy.

I'm grateful for Mindy Haward for being a great editor and for being so awesome to work with.

I'm grateful for my improv group, What's So Funny? I've made some great friends and have had a lot of fun.

I'm grateful for Joe Willis for his continuing inspiration and for giving me hope in my life.

I'm grateful I have a job and it's a fairly enjoyable one as well.

I'm grateful for Dr. Mark Crane for his continuous patience with me and for helping me like UVU just a bit more.

I'm grateful for Reynolds Augustus Johnson, who has been a loyal friend and confidant for going on three years now.

I'm grateful for Dr. Alan Hansen for his help and support

And I'm grateful for Ralphie for being such a good pup.

Love you.
Mean it.

The Tragical Moments of Improv

Back in high school, I was a drama kid. My friends and I preferred the term "theater kids," as if there really was a difference. I really enjoyed acting and performing. I've never had a problem being in front of a large group of people. Whether it was a talk in church or a presentation in class, I didn't think twice about being in front of people. Stage fright was a concept that was completely foreign to me. You can probably chalk it up to my moderate case of egotism but I love being in front of an audience.

The one thing I did not like about drama classes was improv games. Granted, I understood the value of them and what purpose they tired to achieve. But I was terrible at them and therefore hated them. Looking back, I know I was terrible at them for two or three reasons. One was I wasn't terribly self-confident in my abilities. I didn't trust myself when it came to coming up with clever ideas within a second or two. Sometimes I would get lucky but more often than not, I'd fail miserably. Another reason that is closely tied to the first one was I did much better as a performer when I had a script and I knew where the story was going to go. I had time to prepare and analyze everything. With improv, that same process must be done within seconds; not an adequate amount of time when I was that young.

Things have changed. Now I love improv. I'm also pretty good at it too. My self confident has grown and my mind is a lot quicker. I'm able to think of things a lot faster and anticipate where the scene is going. I've grown to really enjoy improv and look forward to the practices every week.

Last night was an especially funny practice. There were so many points where we were all out of breath laughing, tears nearly streaming down our faces. Driving home I realized something that nearly broke my heart. When you're doing improv and everything works and everything clicks, you create something brilliant & hilarious. But as soon as that moment is gone, it's gone forever and you can never recreate it. Comedians can tell the same jokes and you can watch the same Youtube video and get the same amount of laughter every time, but improv is fleeting. You can never recreate that moment of hilarity. It's kind of magical but in a very tragic kind of way.

Besides these temporary tragical moments, I have really enjoyed making friends with the others in my improv group. They're the closest things I have to friends here besides a handful of friends from the neighborhood. I'm glad I've met them and have been able to be in this group.

Love you.
Mean it.

Tell Me a Secret

"Tell me a secret."

It's something I often say to people, usually via text, when I want to talk but have no subject on hand. I don't know what started me saying it but I still do. Sometimes they ask for secrets back. I tell them a secret back, though they vary in "intensity." I don't have many secrets. If I were to send some to post secret, these would be it.

Love you.
Mean it.

~A Teaser for Something Bigger~

We met by random chance.
We re-met by even more random chance.

He's one of those guys that seems to always be on the outskirts of my life, unable to get any closer. In this regard, I wish we hadn't re-met. He could've stayed a forgotten memory and he never would have haunted my life.

Some people believe that everything happens for a reason. I think that is bullshit. There are a few things, yes, that happen because there is a specific and legitimate reason for them to happen. But sometimes, as one of the Tremor Brothers says in the epic movie Smokin' Aces, "Sometimes fate just up-and-f***s you for no good reason." Whether having him spring up in my life once again is something that was suppose to happen or just fate messing with me, I haven't decided. But, truth be told, I'm leaning towards the latter.

~Note from Kelly~
As the title suggests, this is just a teaser. I'm working on expanding this idea a bit more but I can't seem to make it work. This is as much as I have been able to get out that isn't complete crap. I'll come back to this someday. I promise.

Love you.
Mean it.

We Didn't Even Know What We Were Trying To Escape

Last week when I was in Cedar City, I had the chance to see Joe. I hadn't seen him since we ran into each other at SUU commencement back in May. It was so good to see him and to talk to him again. I had forgotten how much I missed him.

When I asked him what he was up to, he said he was getting out there. He was applying to different teaching jobs and Ph.D. programs across the nation, as well as in England and Australia. He hoped to be gone by the end of spring semester. I sat there listening to him explain why he wanted to get out of Utah. As he talked, I found him expressing the same feelings I have had for the longest time but couldn't find the words to explain them. Utah had served its purpose in his life. He needed a change. He needed to live somewhere where he didn't feel judged or suffocated. I don't think I have ever loved him more than at that moment.

I can remember being young, barely in high school, and my friends & I talked about getting out of Provo & Utah in general. This place didn't understand us and we were going to be something in the world. We were only 14 or 15 years old. We didn't even know what we were trying to escape. It was your typical teenage rebellion, I guess. Looking back, I don't think I really wanted to leave. Provo & Utah were the only places I had ever known. They were home to me.

Home.

That's become such an odd word. I used to think that Provo was my home. Then I left and Cedar City became my home. It's where I wanted to be. It's where I felt comfortable and wanted. I felt purpose there and a sense of belonging that I was craving. When I came back to Provo, Cedar City still felt like home. But I've come to a realization over the past few weeks. I love Cedar City and I probably always will but it's not my home anymore. Too many things have changed and when I go back, I'm not going back to the same place I called home. I think what makes an area feel like home is not only the right place but also the right time. Cedar City was my home for a long time but that time has passed and I need to find a new place & time.

Joe and I talked about each of us finding a new home. I'm not sure where it might be or how I'll know it's where I'm suppose to be. I guess it'll feel like when I first started living in Cedar City. I'll have this feeling that I belong there. I'll fall in love with the area and with my life. Eventually I'll build friendships and relationships that will feel like a family to me. And for that time in that place, I'll be happy.

Love you.
Mean it.

In Five Years Time

I realized the other day that this May is my five-year high school reunion. I'm not going to go. I really have no desire to go and see the people I graduated with. There are many reasons for this. One being the people I was close to in high school I already keep in contact with. Everyone else are just familiar faces with forgotten names.

I can't believe it's been almost five years since I graduated. Looking back I know my life hasn't turned out the way I thought it would. Don't get me wrong, I like my life right now. It's taken me a long time to get to the point where I love my life. It's just not what I thought would happen. I know it sounds corny but if you would've told me five years ago where I'd be now, there is no way in hell I'd believe you. A lot has happened. A lot of things have changed. I'm not the same person I was when I graduated, which is a good thing I suppose.

Thinking back over the last five years makes me think of what's going to happen in the next five years. I'll be 27 by then. Where I am going to be then? Will I have a job I like? Will I be married? Will I have kids? There are so many uncertainties and it terrifies me. The last five years have been so unpredictable that there's no way I can even guess what is coming up ahead.

I'm discovering there is a very scary difference between what I want to do with my life and what I'll be able to do. I mean, I'm smart, fierce, stubborn, independent, and an incredibly hard worker. I know what I want and I do everything I can to get it. But sometimes that's not enough. With the economy the way it is, I can be all of those things and still be left sitting on my ass somewhere, no job and no prospects. I am a fighter. I always have been and I always ready to fight for what I want. I just don't know if I can hold out and keep fighting for what I want. I want to be a writer, yes. But how long until the world beats the fight out of me?

I want to be a writer because I want to change things. I want to reach out and let people know they are not alone in their thoughts and feelings. I want to be apart of a catalyst for change. I want to know that what I'm doing is making a difference. I used to say that I'm not cynical by nature; I'm cynical by experience. But when it comes to me wanting to help people and make a difference, I don't want to be cynical anymore. I want to tease out a little optimism and hope. And that terrifies me. Hope is a dangerous thing for dreamers. What if I can't make a go of writing? In five years, am I going to be a beaten down recovering-dreamer? I hope not. God, I hope not.

Love you.
Mean it.

Improv Show!

My improv group is having a show this Friday. YAY!

It's at 7:00 pm in the UVU Library Theater
Tickets are $2 per person or $3 for a couple.

Be there or be somewhere else!

p.s. I will be posting some actual content soon. You can stop worrying now.

Love you.
Mean it.

Today Especially

Quotes from Russia

This weekend I'm getting together with the girls I went on my Russian adventure with for Miki's bridal shower. I decided to finally type these up. They may not be funny for many people but to us, they are hilarious.

"Do you mean home or home, home, home, home, home?

-Kelly

"Heil Hitler...Wait, I'm on a German plane!"

-Maggie

 "There are dark clouds, darker clouds, I don't want to go outside clouds, second-coming clouds..."

-Katy

"Look! I've got boob pockets!"

-Maggie

"Yay! ILP actually works!"

-I don't remember who said it but it was funny.

"It's not like Korea, which is the Mexico of Asia."

-Tharon

"The battery died. You always got to remember to add oil to your lamp so you can move on."

-Elder Henderson when the translator headphone things died.

"I love your name. It's not Liza or Sonya or Nastya, or Sasha or Dasha or Masha. It's just Maggie..."

-Elder Maxwell

"And Klim...Klim is just stupid."

-Kelly complaining about her class.

"Please me point!"

-Every single Russian student

Elder Henderson: What are you guys doing?

Elder Clements: We're having an 'I miss America' party.

Elder Henderson: Why didn't you invite me???

"I used to walk down the street thinking, 'I'm going to turn right' then I'd go left and think, 'Ha! I tricked God!'"

-Elder Henderson

Every Missionary: Where are you from?

Kelly: I was born & raised in Provo, Utah.

Every Missionary: I LOVE PROVO!

Kelly: No, no, no. You only know about 200 yards of Provo from the temple to the MTC. That does not count!

"Sometimes I wish I was a thief. I think it would be fun."

-Miki

"I'm going to tie her to a chair and make her be my friend!"

-Victoria about Kelly

"Welcome to the world of everyone but us."

-Katy

"Are we going to die?"

-Kelly, in a British accent, before we crossed an extremely busy road.

Katy: Look! You never see boys holding hands.

Kelly: They're probably queer.

"How can I steal secret glances at you if you won't stop staring at me???"

-Miki

"That looks churchy."

-Katy

Maggie: I have to write a talk on the atonement.

Kelly: Just BS it.

Maggie: I can't BS the atonement!!!

Someone: Are we going to work out every day, Sharla?

Sharla: Every damn day!

"We'll have a sign taped to her chest...I don't know what it would say...something witty."

-Tharon

"I can't tear my eyes off those pants!"

-Tharon about Victoria's pj's

"Neyet, sheyet."

-Miki

"I wouldn't frolic if I were you."

-Kelly

"Kishkuman was the Godfather of the Book of Mormon."

-Miki

Katy: It's easy to stay the king when you are the king.

Amaryah: Unless you're in the Book of Mormon.

"He sounds like a fruit."

-Miki about the metro PA system guy in Moscow

"He thinks you're from England. Go with it."

-Dani

Miki: That was more than Hagan-Das!

Kelly: You keep saying that.

Victoria: Where is that scar from, Tharon?

Tharon: Alabama.

"...if you're queer."

-Miki, Maggie, & Kelly's response to nearly everything.

"I just graffettied"

-Maggie

"It's times like these where all you can think is..."

*she then plays the song 'Oh Well' by Fiona Apple on her ipod*

-Miki

Elder Clements: How do you guys drink water?

Maggie: We boil it.

Elder Clements: What are you, boy scouts?

Miki: With our powers combined, the power of my wit, Katy's energy, Victoria's animation, Dani's strength, Amaryah's consideration, Maggie's charisma, and Kelly's indifference, we have...

Maggie: The perfect person!

Kelly: Well, that was anti-climatic...

"My favorite thing about Russia is me and my least favorite thing is you."

-Maggie

"It's like you from moon."

-Sveta

"Your country sucks!"

-Kelly, yelled out the window at the passersby during a snow storm.

"You Americans are silly. You're like, 'We're free from Europe! We're going to do things crazy!'"

-Sveta on the American cooking measurement system. 

Love you.

Mean it. 

Lunch With Russian Cops

It was probably when we were lost in Moscow that Miki and I really became close.

We both have pretty laid back personalities so neither of us were freaking out when we were lost in a huge city where we were vacationing. Oh, and we didn't speak a word of Russian. We wandered around, laughing and taking in the sights. We even had our pictures taken next to a great Russian Orthodox church.

A few weeks later when we were back in St. Petersburg, and it had been a rough day for Miki. The kids had been unruly and her lesson didn't go well. Tensions had been palpable within the group and she was feeling more homesick than normal. It happened to all of us from time to time. I guess it was just Miki's turn that day. After we had finished teaching, we all gathered in the small classroom where we kept our things. I asked Miki if she'd like to go to my host family's place for lunch. I had recently switched host families. My new host family's place was within "Russian walking distance" of the school we taught at. In order to get to my old family, I'd have to walk a mile to the metro, take a 45 minute ride, and then walk about six or seven blocks to get to their apartment. To get to my new family's place, it was only about a mile and a half walk. This new family consisted of a mom who didn't speak a word of English and her ten year old son, Vlad, who was the most annoying person I have ever met. Miki agreed and we packed up our stuff and started walking.

It wasn't unbearable cold that day. Since our trip to Moscow, it had become a bit warmer in St. Petersburg. It was still chilly enough that we wore our frock pea coats. The air smelled like Russia, a mixture of car exhaust, cigarette smoke, and cold. We could see hints of spring as we walked. The city was still gray and dirty but there were various patches of grass growing green and lush. There were even some wildflowers that popped up sporadically. The sky wasn't completely overcast, like it had been for the first two months of our trip and we were treated with the sight of the blue sky. It was a dramatic changed from when we first arrived there and we enjoyed and treasured the colors.

When we arrived in the apartment, I opened the first door that had three locks and the second door immediately behind it with two. We walked in, took off our coats and shoes and walked into the kitchen. The apartment was small but well furnished. The kitchen was to the left, next to Vlad's room where I was staying. There was also a living room where Vlad slept with his mom. I guess him mom slept there all of the time. She didn't have a room to herself. I rummaged around the fridge and found some cabbage wraps and put them in a small pot of water to warm. Microwaves are a luxury in Russia and we had all learned how to use a stove to heat our food.

Miki and I chatted while I cooked the food. Suddenly there was a firm knock at the door. Miki and I looked at each other for a moment then I went to go answer it. I looked through the peephole. There were two police officers standing there, wearing bullet proof vests that had the words полиции written on the front. They were both carrying what looked like automatic weapons. I didn't know anything about guns at the time and I still don't know much but I knew those guns were intimidating. I looked at Miki who had an expectant look on her face. "It's two police officers with bullet-proof vests and automatic guns." Miki's eyes became wide. "What should we do?" she asked. "Let them in, I suppose." I replied and began to unlock the doors.

The two men stepped in without being invited in. They asked me something in Russian. I replied in (very bad) Russian, "Я не говорить Россию" which meant, "I don't speak Russian." It was about the only thing I knew how to say fairly well in Russian since I would say it about 20 times a day. The police officers asked me something again in Russian and I replied again, "Я не говорить Россию." I then I attempted to add, "Я учитель английского языка" which meant I was an English teacher. I didn't know how to say it as well and I fumbled with the words. I then reverted back to my old standby, "Я не говорить Россию." They still seemed confused and I gave up and started talking in English. "Look, I don't understand what you're saying. I'm an English teacher. I'm living with this family. My friend and I are here having some lunch." I walked into the kitchen and gestured to the food on the counter. Miki hadn't said a word. After making one more attempt to talk to me in Russian, (I replied with a snarky, "I still don't understand what you're saying") they seemed to realize they weren't getting anything from us.

The one officer went to the phone to make a few calls. The other propped his automatic gun up against the wall and sat down at the table next to Miki to fill out some paperwork. Seeing as I had nothing else to do, I went back to the stove and tended the cabbage wraps. After a few moments, I turned to Miki and said, "I think they're done." She looked at me and tried not to laugh. I brought the wraps to her and we began to eat, continuing the conversation we were having before the cops showed up. The cops would talk to each other in Russian and every now and then would try to say something to us but would only receive looks of incomprehension. Neither one of us were frightened or nervous. We were as casual as if these two were our lunch guests. We even offered them some wraps and they laughed and shook their heads.

After about fifteen minutes, the officers stood up and began to look like they were ready to leave. I stood up and walked them to the door. After they crossed the threshold, I waved to them and said, "до свидания" which meant goodbye. The officers laughed and waved goodbye. The moment after I closed and locked the door I looked at Miki, who was still sitting at the table. At the same instance we both burst out laughing. I doubled over where I stood and Miki doubled in her chair. I walked over to the kitchen, still laughing, when Miki said, "Kelly, we just had lunch with Russian cops." I stopped laughing long enough to reply, "Yeah. They weren't much for conversation."

Love you.
Mean it.

Rejection Letter #1

"Ambition, I've found, can lead only to failure. I do not read the reviews. No, I am not [writing] for you."

-Bright Eyes 

(adapted to me)