I'm at the KCI Airport

Yes, I wrote a few hours ago.

No, that does not bother me.

So tonight my mama and my 2nd mother (Aunt Sandy) drove me to the airport. I even got to sit in the front seat which, let me tell you, is a big deal to the Bogarts. Okay, not really. But still. I got to sit in the front seat and it was fabulous because my dad's front seat has heated seats. My dad is a high roller (But not really. In fact, I doubt he has ever gambled. In any way. Unless it had to do with streaking or corn dogs... that just sounded wrong. My dad is a good person.). 

Anyway, on the way to the airport my mama, Aunt Sandy and I had a little conversation about the way in which we live our lives, only not so deep. (Notice I'm doing that thing professors hate you to do? Only not really because this is not a research paper. I did it again! I will stop now.)

So. Back to my story and not my parentheses. My aunt, Mama, and I had a good talk the last few minutes of the drive. My cousin Katy is at BYU Idaho. She is a little bit of an over achiever, which can be a good thing but also damaging. And her last semester was so traumatizing that this semester she's taking a few real classes and then classes like weight training and aerobics to help her chill out.

But let's face it: In college, we all need to chill out. Sometimes I stress out so much that I start stressing because I'm stressing. It doesn't have to do with anything else. I remember hearing a story once from one of my mom's friends who skipped all of her classes one day and had a girls day with her roommates. Being the naive thirteen year old I was, never having skipped a day of school or received anything below an A, I was shocked. How could a person just skip a day from school and totally nix her responsibilities? And then she said the magic words, "If I hadn't skipped that day, it would have been just another day. Now it is a memory." The words hit me hard. 

And they hit me a little too hard.

In high school, we were allowed to miss 15 days a semester. That means we were allowed to miss 30 days a school year. That means we were allowed to miss an entire month of school. You can let out your breath. I didn't miss 15. I missed 18. Every semester. My brother had sweetened up the attendance officer for me his years preceding me. All I had to do was smile and say "Hello Mrs. So and So" and BAM I was free. Outta class and outta mind.

Then I went to college and something happened. I had to be in class to get good grades. I never skipped class. Ever. If I had to be out of town, I'd tell my teacher two weeks in advance, all the while showing them my glittering reports and papers. I was excused then, too. Then last semester happened and I never went to Roman History after the second test except for once or twice. I'd sleep halfway through my 8 oclock which gave me a grade reduction. I'd skip French so that I could write papers. It wasn't that I didn't want to go to class. In fact, I cried once because I was sick and had to miss class. But the reason I was sick was because I had been so stressed my body shut down. I let stress get in the way of school. I let school get in the way of school.

Last week, I studied myself nauseous for an English exam. I studied so hard my eyes started to cross. I'll be honest, I like that feeling. I like to feel like I know everything. It's elating. Then I got into the testing center and I wanted to cry when I saw the test. And I knew I hadn't done everything that I could have done, which was true. I had not finished all of my reading. I had not taken notes on all of my reading. I doodled on some of my class notes. Somehow I finished the test and turned it in. Then I went home, finished grading papers, ate dinner that my amazing boyfriend made for me, hung out for an hour and a half and went to sleep, still secretly stressed and fearful that I would fail the test, fail the class, and fail my academic career. My academic career. I had done badly on the test. My life was over.

Then I woke up.

See, I learned this time last year that life is about balance. But I never put it into practice for more than a few months. Around last May, I forgot about that. I wanted everything to be perfect. I was in a terribly unhealthy relationship, I wanted good grades, and I wanted to look better. I was so stressed that I had to go on medicine to control my hormones (hello, birth control). And that didn't help. In fact, I got more stressed after the relationship ended, after I got my first B-. I got a C last semester. Yes! A straight up C. I had to try not to cry. But then I woke up the other day (Wednesday), and I had an epiphany. An epiphany that had gotten away from me. An epiphany that I have already written down: Life is about balance. 

So here is the summary of my conversation with my mama and my aunt, after so much summarization: I have a lot of things in my life: my religion, my family, my education, Andrew, my friends, my two jobs, my writing, my photography. Sometimes, okay, all the time, I want to do what I want to do, which usually means having fun. But I have fun with all these things: I adore my religion- I love faith and the happiness and pure peace it brings. It is the best feeling and I love the seemingly endless number of facets that come along with it. And I love that I get to learn more about the Church every day I am at work. It is amazing! I love my family, I love love love to learn, I don't want to write online how amazing/wonderful Andrew is to me and how much fun we have together because I don't want to make anyone jealous (he is that good), I have amazing friends who love to have fun and to chill and to be there for each other, and I loved both of my jobs when I took them, until I let them stress me out. I also want to write all the time (as obvious by the length of my entires) and I never, ever want to get sick of photography. These things are all part of me, and I shouldn't let any of them overwhelm me. So I'm going to stop. I'm going to stop stressing. Sometimes I'll get 100% on my tests. Sometimes I will get 75%. Sometimes I'll have time to cook dinner, other times I'm just going to eat a pb&j. It ain't a life or death situation. It's just life.

But I wanna keep living and loving and laughing because those are the BEST things. And if you don't love who you're with or what you're doing, you've already lost yourself. I've found myself repetitively over and I'm not letting myself get away this time. I am so here to stay. 

High School Bedroom/ When I Was Eighteen

I am in my high school bedroom. Being in my high school bedroom always turns back the time in my head. It's like I never left but at the same time, it's like I've never been here. Mostly because all of my stuff is out of it and the walls aren't yellow anymore and all of my photographs and sketches are pulled down. Now it's a guest bedroom. .

Today I went to my home ward and left after sacrament to finish some homework (I didn't finish) and start David's birthday dinner. We're pressed for time since my flight leaves at 7 something and Nathan heads home right after the baptism.

Besides being in my high school bedroom, I'm also typing on my old laptop that now belongs to my baby sister. Except she's not a baby. She is eighteen years old which blows my mind. And it makes me think of what I was like at eighteen.

When I was eighteen, I usually spelled my name "Elisa" only sometimes using "Lissa"

When I was eighteen, I stopped scrapbooking and started painting and focused on taking real photographs.

When I was eighteen, my hair was short and straight. Until I found out it was wavy.

When I was eighteen, I would hide out in my room when I came home.

When I was eighteen, I was not planning on going to college anywhere at anytime.

When I was eighteen, I decided I would go to Mizzou two and a half weeks before graduation because my best friends were going there and I did not want to get left alone.

When I was eighteen, my brother Nathan was already married

When I was eighteen, my brother Josh was dating my best friend and he was in boot camp and about to be shipped to Iraq.

When I was eighteen, my other best friend got married two weeks after her eighteenth birthday.

When I was eighteen, I kissed a boy on my senior trip who had been kicked out of BYU-Idaho for starting a fraternity.

When I was eighteen, I thought skinny jeans were atrocious

When I was eighteen, I had a puppy named Suzie Q.

When I was eighteen, I played on the tennis team and I complained about being too tan.

When I was eighteen, I moved out of my house.

When I was eighteen, I wanted to be twenty-five. Or at least twenty-one.

And I don't feel nostagic. Not one bit. Because I am so glad I am not eighteen anymore.
Oh. And I was twenty in the picture above. Not eighteen. And I lived in Salt Lake. Not Lee's Summit.

I Look Like My Brother Josh

... Which means I look like a man. Case in point? Look right above this text. That is the best poker face/scary face I can manage, plus the claws. And I still look like a man, despite my flowery headband and eyeliner and painted nails and obvious girl qualities because, well, I am a girl. A girl that looks like her brother and THUS looks like a man. Don't fight with me. [PS I only put the sepia picture up because, well, after writing this post I did not want to start my paper. Still. So I documented myself in old school tones as well. Look at it while listening to the OK Go song about being hot. You know the one. That is all.]

I do not want to write about prostitutes. Well, I do. But I don't. I don't want to write about them at this instant and I do not want to write a historiography because they are difficult. I shouldn't whine. I veto people's papers all the time. In fact, for class on Friday (that I will not be attending thanks to the baptism of my cute little brother David), my class has to read Emile by Rousseau. Want to know what I did on Monday and last night while dinner was cooking? I graded almost thirty papers about Emile. Except they focused on the parts with the priest, and I need to focus on the education of women because that is what you do in Women's Classes.

Also, last night I failed a test.

Well, maybe not. But maybe so.

I'll find out within the week.

Today in the class I bombed my test in (transatlantic literature), I sat and thought about how I would rather be writing and how this summer I want to quit my jobs and work in a flower shop and write my book outside. Because my book is waning in love. That is not okay. I want my first book to be in the publishing works when I graduate college. A little too ambitious? Maybe. I do not care. I can do it. But I'll tell you, ever since I decided (for real) that I wanted to be a writer, my grades have suffered. Because instead of studying, I just want to write. Don't get me wrong, I love to read. It is important. But I want to WRITE. And about things I want to write about. 

On another note, I do not like to make decisions or spend a lot of money, but I made some today and I bought three skirts on eBay. I know what you're thinking: eBay. Gross. You are wrong. EBay, when used correctly, is a gem. The only downside is that you do not get to try the clothes on. Like that green dress that looked super cute online and was a terror in the box. Or the white dress that never came. Whatev. Four bucks ain't gonna break no one. At least not today.

Man, I am long winded when I do not want to do something.

Scratch that, I am long winded all the time.

Lake at Sunset

Hey Mama

Hey Mama. This post is for you. Like usual.

We went to Color Me Mine today and it was splendid. You would like it. In fact, you would like it so much that you would have taken me and Anna there as small children. There was a little girl there this morning with a rumpled blue dress and blonde hair and a paint smudge on her cheek. She kept catching my eye and laughing. I told her hi when she stood by me at the paint bottles. She grinned. I bet she was all kinds of trouble, and I know I was that much trouble when I was that little. And I am probably that much trouble now (when I have the time to be).

Also, Mama, today I did something you would not be that proud of. Andrew came over for dinner when he had a break from work and guess what I wore? Pajama pants. I'm not ashamed. I wore pajama pants I've had since high school. Maybe even junior high. They're the light blue old navy ones that have weird lookin' green and white flowers. I cut them off at the knees in the ninth grade and sometimes I would be sneaky and wear them to church activities and even to school and if my professors questioned their clothing status, I would say they were capris or gauchos or something un-pajama like so I would not get into trouble. It was not a lie though, because they hit where capris do and they swing baggily like gauchos (by the way, I believe gauchos are so heinous they should be outlawed). Do you remember when I got sent to the principal's office for wearing pajama pants in high school? I was so mad. But then again, I have never liked dress codes. In fact, I think the only (or at least main) reason I wore pajama pants was because you thought they were sloppy and I thought they were comfortable and I did what I wanted. (Side note: About an hour ago, Andrew tried to teach me to say "I do what I want" in spanish. I did not want to say it in spanish because my mouth does not work that way and it is embarrassing for your boyfriend to hear you stutter a language they not only speak but teach. BUT maybe I could learn it just so I could say it in front of Nathan and then he would make fun of me). I am ready for warm weather when I do not have to wear pants. They're so constricting.

ALSO today I did go tanning like I told you I would. That is why I got off the phone with you. I had to talk to the girl behind the counter. She was tan and she had freckles, but the only reason that is relevant is because I am tan and I have freckles which is a weird combination. Then I went tanning and I did not strip completely naked. I only say this because I know it will make you feel better about the hygiene of tanning beds. So, I laid there and the fake sun felt so so good and before I knew it fifteen minutes were up. And as usual (when I wear clothing), I checked to see if I had any tan lines and I did not. Which is bogus. BUT I just checked and they are there. My legs are tanner already. I love being part Mexican. Cha ching.

That is really all I have to say today.

Now I will call you and tell you to read.

Stress and Fireflies

I am stressed.

I have a lot of theories on why that could be such as lack of sleep and a few B assignments (don't laugh at me) and a stack of tests that want to be graded. But I do not want to talk about such things. Instead, I need to take a few minutes and write. Because that is how I abolish stress. And right now, the stress is overflowing. Except for in the boyfriend department. I feel pretty excellent about that one for the first time in like, ever.

---

This is the first page of my book, tentatively titled When Fireflies Fly. You'll see why:

When I was a little girl, my brothers and I would sit in the backyard with my mother and my sister and watch fireflies sparkle. We'd stare as they stoically suspended in mid air and giggle peals of laughter when they zipped from one end of the never-ending backyard to the other. Most of the fireflies we watched had yellow lights, but sometimes they were orange and sometimes they shimmered pink. Once, my brother Andrew captured a blue one. We gathered around him and peered into his seven-year-old cupped hands. I was enraptured.

I called them Twinkle Bugs, and sometimes Mama let me catch them. I was amazed every time I held one between my childishly excited fingers. Every once in a while, I'd sneakily touch their lights when Mama turned her back and powder would trace the palms of my hands. It glowed and glittered even after I set the firefly free and I would hold my hand up almost to my nose, captivated by the swirl of light.

Before Mama gave me free range of the yard to trap Twinkle Bugs, however, she would punch air holes in the top of jars. As she did this, I collected grass and leaves to shove in the bottom. Then I would run around in the dark, cramming as many fireflies as possible in the jar, shrieking with delight. Afterwards, I'd take them to my room and climb on my bed. I'd lie on my stomach, the sticky Southern air settling in around me, set the jar at eye level and stare through the thick glass. 

They were beautiful. 

They shined bright, blinking as often as I blinked. I thought they were magic. Eventually, though, if I did not let them out in time, their lights slowly faded. Their sparkle stopped shining, and their blinks became far apart. Eventually, they got tired, laid at the bottom of the jar, and quit gleaming altogether.

I could not bear to see the Twinkle Bugs stop twinkling. I could not bear for them to look normal. They were extraordinary and beautiful and I wanted them to be that way forever. So, on nights when I felt adventurous, I'd wait until the whole house was silent and then I would crawl through the window of my first floor bedroom or creep through the back door. I'd set my tiny toes on the cool grass outside, walking as far away from the house as I dared. Then, gently, I would unscrew the cap from the glass jar, lifting the fireflies as far as my child arms could reach. And then, in an instant, the fireflies would swirl all around me. And when they flew, they were free. They were free in a way I craved to be.

--- 

This is nowhere near the front of the book:

When I was in fourth grade, Ava and I would rush to finish our work early so that we could sit in the bean bag chairs. They were next to the bookshelf lining the back of the classroom and over the books, our teacher had one of those banners. You know what I'm talking about. They say things like "I think I can, I think I can, I think I can" with pictures of the blue engine huffing and puffing. This one did not say that. Our teacher's banner said "Extra is the same as ordinary, expect for that little extra." 

I looked dreamily at that poster every day. I'd recite it in my head as I walked home and jump to it when I jumped rope. I knew that it was a life changing statement. 

Halfway through the school year, I worked up courage to talk about it. Sitting in the bean bags one afternoon, I looked at Ava and told her, "When I get older, I am going to be that little extra." She had never even noticed the poster. She asked me what I was talking about and I told her it didn't matter. I knew I was going to be exceptional. I was not going to be normal. I was not going to be ordinary. I was that little extra.

Sleepin' in the SC

Today I have done not one, but a few things.

I went to Women's History where I had to write about a reading I did not do and then I went to work and then my boss took us out to lunch and a lady who knew our boss told us (me and aimee) to never, ever marry a returned missionary who had been home less than two years and to remember that 50% of LDS marriages end in divorce and pretty much if we wanted to be happy, never ever get married.  She also told us about her smokin' (literally) great-great grandmother who loved religion but loved her vices and it was awesome. After that I went to class late, because of the lady telling us stories, and then I had a pop quiz on the first emo kid (Poe, duh) and I did not know what to say because truthfully, I opted out of the reading because I read the poem six or seven months ago and I wanted to cuddle on the couch instead. But let's be realistic, if Jane Austen had the choice of actullay being with a super sweet, cute boy or writing about one, she would have picked being with one. And since I was supposed to also be finishing a Jane Austen book, I say this comment to make myself feel better. Then I went back to work and I fell asleep reading letters. Yes, I fell asleep. So, since my hours for the day were already surpassed, I left work and now I am waiting for my next class to start up and it will be ridiculously good. Or boring. Only time will tell. I've never been on an editing staff before. I'm hoping I like it which I should, because I read most the papers and the papers I didn't read, Andrew read them to me. La. La. La.

PEACE.