update

Exhibit A: Tim and I snowshoeing. We are happy.

Exhibit B: The ring that Tim tastefully chose. (Good work, Timmy boy.)

The Story:

On New Year's Day, Tim brought over a dozen red roses and french toast from Kneader's for breakfast. We planned on going snowshoeing that day after breakfast. We were going to rent from Sundance, which has trails and a rental place. Amber Naumann happened to be in town that day, and I had talked to her about hanging out. I asked Tim if she could come with us, but he insisted that we needed to go snowshoeing alone, which was suspicious. So we went rock climbing instead with Amber at the indoor climbing gym. By the time we were done climbing, it would be too late to go snowshoeing because the rental place at Sundance was closing at 5 p.m. Tim seemed disappointed (also suspicious), but we rescheduled for the next day. Friday (the next day) came, and we went. We didn't rent, even, because his roommate happened to have snowshoes we could borrow.

We drove up to Aspen Grove and started on the way. We finally found the trail to Stuart Falls and snowshoed up to that place where there is the big circular concrete structure. I suggested we climb on top of that, but Tim wanted to go up to the left a ways to see if there was an outlook with a view. There was. I was taking pictures or something. It was very beautiful. Then Tim told me he loved me and pulled out the ring, and asked, "Will you marry me?" The ring was nice. He picked it out himself, but it was very similar to one I'd shown him that I liked. So when he asked, I held out my hand to grab the ring, first. "Wait! You have to say something first," he told me. "Okay!" I replied. Then he let me take it, and I let him put it on my finger. Yeah . . . It's cool.

We called the Mount Timpanogos temple and scheduled the ceremony for the 21st of March at 2:00 p.m. Weird, huh? It's pretty neat-o, I guess!

The Grape-Spitting Game

I enjoy this game quite thoroughly. Wanna play?

Merry Christmas, Lights Out

Yesterday was the Christmas program in our ward, featuring the ward choir. I used to be comfortable in my position as the pianist for sacrament meeting, but then Meredith asked me if I would be choir director.

I told her I was probably not especially qualified for the position. Honestly, I don't think I sing. At all. But I also said that I'd be willing to do it if needed. I guess that's all it takes.

So after a couple months of some scrambling, we threw something together. And I was nervous, but it was going well, I thought, until someone came in late and apparently bumped the light switches. Then my little flock was immersed in darkness.

They faithfully continued singing, and Jean, dear girl, even plodded on with the piano beautifully for a couple of measures.

There was scattered laughter in the congregation and I could feel the impending disaster coming: would we keep singing or simply stop? It was that moment after you realize something happens but you don't really realize what is supposed to be done about it quite yet, and you are sort of waiting for someone to fix it, etc. You know that moment?

Gratefully, we were shortly restored to light. It was a nice little addition to the program.

I got nothin'.

Today I experienced difficulty in deciding what to wear. This "I have no clothes that I like" event occurs about once a month, it seems, and also appears to be entirely unrelated to the clothing I actually own. 

In any case, after ten minutes or more of putting on and taking of different combinations of outfits, I decided on something. As I walked to school, I looked down and noticed that the shirt I put on (a long-sleeved shirt that I haven't worn since last winter, probably) was dirty. Hmm.

Some people do not follow cultural codes.

I came to the library (where I am now) early this morning in order to do some homework. As is my normal morning routine, I put Vitamin E on my face (specifically, my scar). That's what the doctor told me to do.

As I walked through the third floor on my way to the LRC (incidentally, a place where talking is not recommended), some boys paced in with my step. One of them looked over at me as if about to say something, so I turned to him with raised (in questioning, I thought) eyebrows.

"Are you sad?" he asked.

"Am I sad? Umm . . . no, do you ask me because my cheek is wet?"

"Sure," he replied.

And then I proceeded to tell him about my morning routine. How I wake up and then I usually take a shower--or don't shower, depending on the day--then, I get dressed, brush my teeth, floss (sometimes), eat breakfast, read scriptures, etc.

Actually, I didn't tell him all that, although I should have, because he was defying cultural codes, so why shouldn't I? I just said that I have to put Vitamin E on my face because I have a scar.

The conversation didn't end there. "No, you just looked sad," he said.

It always bothers me when people say that, which thankfully, does not occur very frequently. It's not as if I walk around like this all the time, is it? (Notice how my scar is wet with VITAMIN E OIL. You can't even see it, in fact! And it's healing. Noted?)



In any case, for some reason, he kept walking with me. All the way up the stairs. "Who are you?" he asked.

I should have said, "I'm a child of God," because that would've been weird. But no, I have to say something completely normal. "I'm Amanda. What's your name?"

Seth, as he is named, then tells me, "We (my roommate and I) were just wondering why people come to the library early on a Saturday morning."

At this point I should have forced him into the women's bathroom and flushed his head down a toilet. But instead, I said, "Maybe they have a lot of homework, like I do."

It's been a rough morning.

The most excellent (worst) driver license picture ever.

The guy said I could retake it.

But there was this woman before that was embarrassing . . . she got her picture taken, and then, "Oh my gosh. You CANNOT make that my picture. My hair looks horrible."

Then, "My hair looks like crap today?" The guy that works at the DMV smiled indulgently and said, "No it doesn't." And I don't know what happened after that, but she went on for a few minutes. 

So when it was my turn, he said, "Smile!" And this is what I came up with:

I had previously determined I would smile without showing my teeth, but apparently something is wrong with my mouth, and only half of it actually smiles when I do that. 

Hmm.

Compare to my old picture:

Well, you know. . . what can you do, except laugh?

Ha. Haha. I can't wait to see the real thing.

Stalker? You decide.

Sometimes I look at photos on Facebook of beautiful, ordinary friends of friends. Or blogs, for that matter. But I don't actually know them. I find it fascinating regardless.

Sometimes, though, when I'm on a computer in the library or something, I get to thinking. What if they walk up behind me? And they just happen to look at my computer? And then they see a picture of self? And then they look at me? And then they begin to feel creeped out?

Yeah. Be careful about the photos . . . you never know who's watching.

weird.

I just saw this story in the newspaper.

"Woman jailed for 'killing'"

TOKYO (AP) — A 43-year-old player in a
virtual game world became so angry about
her divorce from her online husband that
she logged on with his password and killed
his digital persona, police said Thursday.
The woman, who has been jailed on
suspicion of illegally accessing a computer
and manipulating electronic data, used his
ID and password to log onto the popular
interactive game “Maple Story” to carry out
the virtual murder in May, a police official
in the northern city of Sapporo said. He
spoke on condition of anonymity because of
department policy.
“I was suddenly divorced, without a word
of warning. That made me so angry,” the official
quoted her as telling investigators and
admitting the allegations.
The woman, a piano teacher, had not plotted
any revenge in the real world, the official
said. She has not yet been formally charged.
If convicted, she could face up to five years
in prison or a fine up to $5,000.

Theives, the lot of them!

I have this bad habit sometimes of using my bike (Rachel's bike) to get to a place I'm going (campus for example), and then finding some other way home.

Walking.

Getting a ride.

Never going home. . .

A little more than a week ago, I rode my back to Macey's. Tim met me there and I left my bike locked up in the bike racket near the entrance.

I picked it up Sunday. As I hoisted it into the trunk of the car, I noticed something slightly awry. It took me a few seconds before I realized that it wouldn't be possible to ride this bike.

The seat was gone.

Camelbaks and Longs Drugs.

Picture it . . . (oh, wait, you don't have to) . . . The glorious Camelbak water bottle. It is probably the best invention ever. No, not probably. Definitively.

When I was in third grade, we did a project where we had to come up with an original invention. Mine was a straw connected to the top of a baby bottle. (I think I was still sucking my thumb at the time. I admittedly forfeited Barbies and thumb-sucking at a comparatively late age. )

My invention didn't work too well. Which is why I'm not rich now. But Camelbak came to me in my moment of need.

Try (pause for dramatic effect) adult pacifier plus water at your convenience. It can't get better than this, girls and boys.

Perks? You don't have to tip the bottle. Despite some indiscreet leaking, there is no possibility of spillage. You don't even need hands (although I wouldn't recommend carrying around the bottle in your teeth; I've tried it, and it's not the best idea).

I also drink more water than a pack horse. (Appropriate comparison?) Ask any of my friends from high school what they remember about me most and they'll probably say something about water bottles, and maybe that annoying head-pushing stage. (But we'll just pretend that never happened.) The point is, I like water. Hydrate or Die, it's your choice.

End of story. Camelbak's new-ish water bottle is, simply put, the best thing ever.

Also, I ordered a textbook online and received a surprise inside. It's a video membership card for Longs Drugs in San Anselmo, CA, belonging to someone named Sir Francis Drake. I believe this person's existence is fraudulent (see the real deal here), but if Sir Francis Drake happens to come across this blog, I want to tell him that I still have his membership card, and am holding onto it valiantly, in the advent of his video rental need. (Comma count in previous sentence: 4)