My First (and Last) Undergraduate English Class

This past semester I took my first real English class in almost four years, and my first at BYU. (I’m not counting Technical Writing because it was technical by its very name, and not at all about literature.) After bouncing back and forth between the math and engineering buildings for my entire college career, I thought it was time to sneak in a proper English class for my Letters GE requirement. I was intrigued by what my EE 485 (Digital Communication) teacher told our class last winter — that we would “melt” in humanities classes. They were that hard.

Oh, really, I thought. I’d have to try it out.

Turns out, I didn’t “melt.” Engineering and math classes still are harder for me. But it wasn’t a waste of time. I still learned things which were applicable to life in general, which is kind of the point of general education classes.

Here are some of the lessons I learned:

1. Good authors choose their words carefully. I was skeptical the first day when my professor insisted that every alliteration, every stress on each syllable was chosen carefully if the author knew what he or she was doing. But as I’ve read more poems, plays, and novels throughout the semester, I’ve come to see what he was talking about. There is a great deal more planning that goes into good literature than I had anticipated. Coincidences just aren’t this consistent.

Of course, there were times where it seemed like my teacher went overboard, like when a passage described trees which were “blocking breezes.” “‘Blocking breezes.’ Isn’t that just beautiful?” he raved. Personally, I like alliteration just as much as anyone else, but I don’t judge a book based on it. Yet my teacher did. In fact, he said, “That’s why I couldn’t get through Harry Potter. It just didn’t sound pretty.” He said similar things about Twilight, namely, “I read it. I had to finish it. But it was like chewing on this wall here.” And I think he has a point — there’s more to a book, play, or poem than just the story. If story were the only issue, most of us would probably be content watching it than reading it. It’s the words themselves and how they connect together that make something worth reading.

2. There’s more to literature than theme. Ever since seventh grade, I’ve been hardwired to find theme in literature. “This story is about love.” “This story is about family.” “This story is about the futility of wickedness.” “This book is about inasmuch as ye keep the commandments ye shall prosper in the land.” So like many of my classmates, I was ready to find the theme in all the literature we discussed. But on the first day, my teacher basically said that he didn’t care for theme. What? No themes? What was literature without theme?

But now, having read literature without looking for themes, I think I know why my teacher had an issue with them. It’s the same issue I have with picking favorites. Questionnaires with too many “favorite” questions have always been a bit painful, to be honest. What’s your favorite color? What’s your favorite animal? What’s your favorite ice cream flavor? What’s your most embarrassing moment? (Okay, that’s not a favorite, but I still hate that question.) How do any of these really help you know me any better? It’s great that you want to know my favorite candy bar, and I’ll probably be really touched if you give it to me for my birthday, but I think there’s a lot more to me than just my made-up-on-the-spot favorites.

And the same goes with literature. There is a lot more to a good story than its moral. There’s dialogue! Action! Plot development! Character development! The way the words flow together on the page! Must we force every piece of literature to have grand meaning? Can’t we just enjoy it for what it is?

3. Literature is like a mirror.  Over here in the electrical engineering department, we believe in doing research for a reason. We like building new things: bigger telescopes, faster chips, algorithms with lower complexity . . . you get the idea.

And so I think many students and professors in the Clyde Building look at the research done in the “Great and Spacious Building” (the JFSB) with a bit of disdain. Who really cares what Hemingway was thinking? What difference does it make if someone was an existentialist or not? Why write about Shakespeare again????

Having sat through an English class, I can now see why they want to write essays about old stuff. You see, I now think good literature is carefully fashioned as a sort of mirror. There are definitely things the author puts in for everyone to recognize, but somehow there are also elements of a good story or poem that are flexible enough to mean something different to anyone who reads it. For example, I read the short play Sure Thing by David Ives. It was set up sort of like the movie Groundhog Day where the two characters Bill and Betty get chance after chance after chance to go back in time and fix their words so the relationship could progress. Since I had more than my fair share of boy drama before I met Kevin, I really appreciated the play, especially with the way awkward encounters were handled. David Ives had no idea that I would be reading the play and bring my specific experiences along, but he did word things in a way I could relate to them. Thus, I was able to write a paper that pointed out things that my teacher had never noticed before because he hadn’t experienced them the same way. And I think that’s why they keep publishing papers on old literature. There’s still more to say, even if the authors didn’t originally intend for people to read everything they do into the literature that they do.

4. Aristotle is lousy when it comes to science, but he did know what he was talking about when it came to literature. Since about, oh, eighth grade, all I’ve heard about Aristotle was that it was his stupid ideas that kept Europe in the Dark Ages, since he didn’t believe in experimentation, so none of the Europeans believed in experimentation either til the 1600s or so. I saw the video about Galileo dropping the orange and the grape and them hitting the ground at the same time, and how everyone thought he was cheating or something because Aristotle said that running tests introduces bias (which we’re actually finding to be true at the quantum level).

But yeah. I had this notion that Socrates and Plato were smart guys, but Aristotle was just completely crazy. Now I haven’t actually read any of these philosophers (and I call myself an educated person . . . *gasp*), but my professor has read us some Aristotle in class, and I have to admit that Aristotle wasn’t completely crazy. I think he understood the elements of a good story, be it tragedy or comedy, and he had good things to say about “causes” in literature. I don’t think I’ll actually seriously study any of his work, but at least I can forgive him now for thinking that men have more teeth than women (seriously, man, just count them!) or thinking that the earth was at the center of the universe, since he did have good ideas in other areas.

5. English is not entirely subjective, and engineering is not entirely objective. It was kind of funny learning about poetry terms and the technical side of literature because at the same time in my control theory class we were learning about design and tweaking things. Thus, it seemed like my English class had the equations and my engineering class had the delicate, artsy side of things. The point is, for both the humanities and for engineering, there are lots of bad answers, and there’s a wide spectrum of good answers. The trick is knowing what makes things good and implementing it into both your writing and your engineering.

6. This stuff is hard. Not everyone can do Fourier Transforms, prove calculus, or design controllers. But nor can everyone write well and read carefully. Like every other art (music, dance, animation, visual art, etc), there are subtleties and nuances that make it more than just a fill-in-the-blank exercise.

And that’s very hard for me to accept. When I play piano, I like to just throw chords down and assume that they sound good on the first shot. I’m decent at improvisation because of this . . . I can’t afford to fix my mistakes while I’m performing, so I have to know a couple of basics and just go from there. But good music and good writing are carefully planned out and revised. This doesn’t really appeal to me.

In fact, that’s probably one of the reasons I never considered doing an English major. If you had known me when I was younger, you might have never guessed I would end up doing math since I wrote plays, poems, and stories long before I cared about Pythagorean Triples or differences of squares. Yet I have done very little non-academic writing other than journals, letters, blog posts, and Facebook statuses since I came to college. Why is that? It’s not because I was bad at it . . . though to be honest, a lot of stories I wrote were pretty terrible (but no worse than anything else people my age wrote). But I didn’t want to take the time to perfect them. And I didn’t want to spend four years in college trying to perfect something that could never be quite perfect. So I went for math and electrical engineering instead, where answers came more easily, and where “good enough” was preferable to perfect. (Of course, it also helps that those have much better job placement, and I slept better at night feeling like I was developing things which could help starving children in Africa.)

So this class reiterated what I already feared about literature — it’s hard to write. And even when it’s written well, only well-educated people will appreciate its true value. Yet for those who do pursue this route, just know that there’s plenty of respect coming from the Clyde Building.

The Best Treasure Hunt EVER

I’ve always loved treasure hunts. For several years, on Valentine’s day, my mom would make each child an individual age-appropriate treasure hunt to find our little box of Sweethearts. Since I liked those so much, I started making treasure hunts too. When my cousins came to visit, if we didn’t put on a play, we made treasure hunts. Some of them required us to go traipsing around in the foothills behind my house, and I think someone threw up and another person got a gash in their leg, but hey . . . there’s still treasure at the end! Some treasures were more disappointing, like the little baggie of Marshmallow Mateys buried in the sandbox one time, but to me the thrill of the hunt was just as awesome as the treasure at the end.

The more elaborate the treasure hunt, the better. For example, I loved setting up treasure hunts where the treasure ended up being in the same room everyone started in. I remember one family home evening lesson where I sent everyone off to look for clues I’d already planted, while I set up the tootsie pops I had bought for the treasure. I think it was supposed to explain how we lived in heaven before we were born, but we had to go to earth (aka, the treasure hunt) to get the treasure at the end. It made sense when I was 9, okay?

I remember another treasure hunt I set up when my parents weren’t home, and I decided I wanted to make homemade pretzels. I sent my sisters and their friends on a treasure hunt while the pretzels were cooking, and then just before they got to the location of the treasure, I put the pretzels there. I think the pretzels were formed to spell out “You found it!” or some other encouraging message. Food is always a good treasure, right?

And the fun didn’t stop in high school. One of my favorite parts of date dances was the treasure hunt aspect — finding the bulky envelope under the globe in the library, decoding the obscure message about taffeta gowns, solving the sudokus to find out who was asking me.

But then I came to college. Suddenly there was no reason for treasure hunts. If a boy was going to ask you out, they weren’t going to waste time and energy asking you out. There wasn’t really anyone to make treasure hunts for like siblings or cousins, anyway.

So I kind of forgot about them. I got busy with other things. Occasionally I would walk around on campus and suddenly think about things in treasure-hunt mode. For instance, I was standing between the Harold B. Lee Library and the Herald Clark building and thought, “I’m standing between 2 Harolds! This would make a great clue . . . for what?”

But then Kevin and I started dating, and he in his infinite kindness and patience decided to humor me. One Wednesday afternoon last November while we were eating lunch, Kevin said, “I’ve got a special date planned.” After a bit of pestering from me, he finally admitted, “I’m planning a treasure hunt.”

“What’s the prize?” I asked. “A toaster oven?”

He paused for a second. Then, “Sure. Yes, the prize might be a toaster oven.”

And that was all he would say about it. The thought of this treasure hunt started driving me crazy! I knew he was going to propose any day, but I thought for sure it was going to be after Thanksgiving. After all, he had to ask my dad for my hand. So . . . what was the point of this treasure hunt?

Well, Friday rolled around, and after my terrible EE 313 quiz, I got a piece of engineering paper with instructions and mysterious matrices on it. Since “love note matrices,” as we liked to call them, weren’t unfamiliar to us, I was able to decipher it pretty quickly. (I have since learned they’re actually called Hill ciphers. Yay for cryptography class.) Where were we going to dinner? The decoded message said, “Australia.” In other words, Outback.

I’ll be honest, I didn’t pay much attention to anything that day. As I took what I mistakenly thought was a very easy Complex Analysis test, I kept thinking, “the sooner I finish this test the sooner I’ll go home and go on the treasure hunt!!!” I finished it and came home and got ready for my date with Kevin. He came around 5 with a beautiful bouquet of 5 roses. I found a vase and put them in. “Did you notice something about the roses?” he asked. “No . . .” I responded. “Aren’t there usually . . . 12 roses?” he hinted. I then looked at the plastic which the roses came in. Yep, there were supposed to be a dozen. Thus, the mission was made clear: recover the missing seven roses.

As we drove north on State Street under a beautiful, fiery sunset, I continued to pester Kevin. “What’s the prize going to be?” “I already told you, it’s a toaster oven!” Though Outback was packed, Kevin had already made a reservation. As we ate our steak, we talked about life and love and our relationship. When the waiter came with the check, he also brought a rose and an envelope. “Congratulations! This is a great idea, by the way,” he told Kevin. “I think I’ll use it for my girlfriend.” Did I catch on? No! I was so convinced that he was going to propose after Thanksgiving that even this huge slip didn’t faze me. I think when the stakes are high enough, even those who pride themselves on being ungullible can be surprised.

I read the note which said, “Go to the place where we had our first date and look for something that makes noise.” I smiled and said, “The Malt Shoppe.” (I could write another blog post about this long about how this first date even happened, but I’ll leave that for another time.) So off we went, looking for something that made noise. Kevin helped a lot, pointing to a pillar, then pointing to a particular spot on the pillar until I finally saw the whistle. I looked at Kevin quizzically, and he said, “blow it!” So I blew it and there from the darkness came one of Kevin’s roommates. He gave me another rose and envelope, then gave a slight bow and backed away into the darkness.

This note told us to “dig for treasure! X marks the spot”, or in other words, go to the Museum of People’s and Cultures to look for treasure. So off we went to the sandbox by the totem pole at the museum we had gone to a few weeks previously. We both dug and dug until we found another whistle. I blew it again, and Kevin’s roommate Ian came with his girlfriend Emma, both wearing warrior paint. Another rose, another envelope, and they too disappeared into the darkness.

This one told us, “Let’s hike the Y!” I said that jokingly almost every day as we walked home from school. Was he really going to make us do it? Luckily, the whistle was just waiting at the base of the Y, attached to a flashlight which was dangling from a branch of a tree to make it visible. Again, I blew the whistle, and one of our engineering friends emerged from the darkness with another rose and note.

The note informed us that the next clue would be waiting where Kevin had first seen me. It was in August 2008. He was fresh off his mission, and I was working as a Math Lab TA during a Math Refresher Course. Though we had never talked to each other, he had still remembered me and recognized me when we became friends 5 months later. Once we were in the math lab, I looked around a bit for the next whistle. Once I found it, I blew it, and there came Kevin’s roommate (the same who had delivered the whistle at the Malt Shoppe) with another rose and envelope.

All that was on the next clue was a door code. In we went to the CAEDM lab, where our friendship had first developed, where we first started to throw staples at each other. (We were shameless flirts.) We walked in, and there was a whistle in plain sight on a table. But there was a problem. Even though it was a Friday night, there were still people in there doing homework. I hesitated, and Kevin said, “You have to blow it.” So I did. A nice loud screech. The tapping sound of people typing stopped, and I could feel everyone looking at me. It felt like eternity before Ian and Emma finally showed up with a rose, a note, and a . . . toaster?

“See, I told you the prize was a toaster oven! Or at least, a toaster!”

“A toaster?” I asked. I examined it more closely. There were bread crumbs in it.

“It’s ours. You actually have to give it back.”

Ian and Emma took some pictures with us and the toaster and then left. I read the note. “Congrats! You’ve finished the treasure hunt!”

Kevin then said, “There are only eleven roses. But I know where the last rose is.” I would hope so.

We drove up University Parkway past the Marriott Center, then turned on 900 East and drove past the MTC, past the temple (wait, past the temple? My suspicion was wrong), and then Kevin took a right and we ended up at the temple after all. Oh boy. By this point I knew for sure what was coming. The butterflies in my stomach began to flutter excitedly. Kevin led me to a bench with another rose and another whistle. I blew the whistle and Kevin pulled a letter out of his pocket. I read it and teared up a bit. When I had finished reading, there was Kevin on bended knee, holding a beautiful ring out. “Kyra Michelle Moon, will you marry me for time and eternity?”

“Yes!”

And that was that! The best treasure hunt of my life ended with the best treasure I could ever dream of! I was engaged to the man I loved! (It turns out he had called my dad earlier that week but failed to mention it so I could still harbor the delusion that he needed to ask.)

This past year has been so happy and so fun, and I’m so grateful to Kevin for everything he has done to make me so incredibly happy. I love him lots!

Scrabble Babies

I've developed a silly habit over the years --- making up ridiculous baby names. For years I insisted that I would name my first daughter Egbertina, for example. When Kevin and I got engaged, the names Kyrvin and Kevira were added to the list of names. Whenever I heard a pretty crazy sounding name, I would ask Kevin, "Ooh! Can we name our baby that?" "No," he would respond firmly, though he would laugh too.

So the game we made up Friday night wasn't completely out of nowhere. Is it a game you would play on a first date? Of course not! Is it a game that would actually help you choose a child's name? I hope not! But it made us laugh, at least.

The game requires scrabble tiles. We used the tiles from our Scrabble Apple set. Turn them all face down. On each turn, pick up up to 6 tiles. Try to arrange them into a name. If you use fewer than 6 tiles (say you don't use the tiles with 'U' and 'X' on them because somehow you ended up with a name like Bill), on the next turn you must use the tiles from the last turn. Everyone's a winner (except for your future baby).

Here's what we ended up with:

Yeah, we really didn't end up with many normal names. Bob is normal. Lanae is kind of normal. Koree is normal enough. But Xobert? Cwuti? Tetano? This game is harder than it looks!

Note that Udeath rhymes with "you teeth", not "you breath." Still an unfortunate name, but not quite as morbid.

Okay, so you wouldn't really use this to determine your future child's name. Then again, you never know . . . your child may like the name Doipai after all.

(and no, we're not expecting.)

Since it's Halloween . . .

I'll be honest -- I haven't been a huge fan of Halloween this year. The Halloween decorations came up about 1 hour before company arrived, I only bought enough candy to feed 2 or 3 trick-or-treaters (since I'm not eating candy this year, there's little point in buying a lot of it), and it was only in the hour before the ward party that I actually decided to wear a costume, which consisted of normal clothes anyway. Call me a scrooge, a grinch . . . I don't really care. Those are Christmas terms, anyway.

Despite my lack of holiday cheer, I still get excited for Halloween every year for one reason: Pop Rocks. Time to quote it to whoever happens to be in earshot (read: Kevin).

Since I have a blog, and since today is is the 7th anniversary of the poem's inception, I decided to share it with you, too. Enjoy!

The Pop Rocks

(Based on Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Raven”)

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I wandered weak and weary,

Over a many snow-capped lanes, wondering what’d be my last remains,

While I trudged the treacherous trail, hoping my searchings wouldn’t fail,

Walking through the sleet and hail, hail that through the head would bore,

Suddenly, I reached a door, and opened it, and did implore,

“D’you have candy? I need more!”

Ah, so vaguely, I remember, it was not in bleak December

But Hallow’s Eve, I trick-or-treated asking for the junk I needed

Eagerly in sly disguise, I begged from basement to high rise

The craving was so very strong that I would burst out into song,

And I would sing with vim and vigor, as I went from door to door,

“I need Pop Rocks, nothing more.”

Kisses, Starbursts, Bertie Botts, Rollos, Twizzlers, suckers, Dots

Laffy Taffys, jelly beans, in colors yellow, pink, and green,

Skittles, Milky Ways, and Twix, M&Ms and Pixi Stix

Mints and Tootsie Rolls and Snickers, Crunches, Reeses, scarecrow stickers,

But not the candy I loved best, not anywhere from door to door

Were there Pop Rocks anymore.

The night was long, and I was tired, but dreams of Pop Rocks kept me wired

Though ice had formed on every hair and my jacket was threadbare

And all my fingers were near frostbite and they’d turned off every streetlight

And my hands would not stop shaking and truly, I thought of forsaking!

But I knew I had to find them, though my body was so sore.

Weren't Pop Rocks still in a store?

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,

I had to find them, or I’d die! -- so I looked with searching eye,

I knocked at every single dwelling, I’d ask all people, nearly yelling.

I’d rant and rave and make them wish they all had Pop Rocks in a dish.

But no one had them anymore, so I would long for days of yore

When I could get Pop Rocks galore.

My body weak, my spirit low, yet wishfully on I did go.

Determined I went on . . . but lo! Look at all those feet of snow!

I then ran home, so fast I ran: Life would be hard as a snowman

So into home I went to stay, then got online onto eBay

And typed in ‘Pop Rocks,’ sat, sat more, till came a phrase I hoped not for:

“This candy is sold nevermore.”

“Thing of evil!” I proclaimed. “Pop Rocks. Inc should be ashamed.

Depriving me of what I crave will surely lead to something grave.

The candy made was so exquisite that all the world must surely miss it.”

With that, I typed again the name, but the message was the same:

“This candy is sold nevermore.” Yes, that it said; it made me roar!

“This candy is sold nevermore.”

I typed in ‘Pop Rocks’ once again; there was a buzz and beep, and then

It said, “Your reference isn’t found. We’ll find it, though, so stick around.”

And, I am waiting, never flitting, still am sitting, still am sitting

Until the blessed, joyful day when Pop Rocks will be here–hooray!.

I’ll order thousands, tons galore! but seeing as they’re not in store,

I’ll stay here, moving nevermore.

Books!

So, I'm being a bit of a copycat in listing the books I read each month. I completely left off August (what with all the vacationing, I'm not sure I finished a single book or just read a few chapters here and there of some) and only have one book for September.

11. Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows

So . . . yeah. I just don't read as much during the school year. Imagine that!

This isn't quite accurate, of course. I read good portions of Harry Potter 1, 2, 3, and 6. But the only one I made it the whole way through was 7.

And I didn't even read it cover to cover! Just . . . hmmm, let's start at the battle. Wait, what happens at the beginning? Where's the part where they're in the forest? I would read 3 or 4 chapters at a time. And before I knew it, I had finished the book in a week.

Not the best idea during the school year. But it was still good. Harry Potter is just as good as I remembered.

Wisdom Teeth

As you may know, last Friday I got my wisdom teeth removed. And it really wasn't too bad. On one hand, I'm always one for a good story; after all, pain is temporary but the story lasts forever! On the other hand, why wish for pain? Why not just sit back and enjoy everyone else's horror stories rather than trying to "top" them?

That being said, I've had enough pain and discomfort and I'm quite glad that I'm basically recovered for a number of reasons:

1) I can smile again! Those swollen cheeks and painful sockets no longer afflict me. I don't laugh and then hold my cheeks together and beg, "stop making me smile/laugh!!!" Since I can smile again, I'm in a better mood.

2) I don't have to take any more HUGE pills. I am not a pill-taker. I remember those days in 7th grade where I decided I needed to learn how to swallow pills. My mom suggested practicing with mini M&Ms, but we didn't have those so I just tore tiny pieces off of Hot Tamales. Hours later, I think I might have gotten a crumb or two down without chewing.

And it hasn't gotten any easier. Oh, there were times where I forgot that I didn't know how to take pills, but by senior year of high school my esophagus had basically closed up, with a lot of nudging to get where I am now (still a lousy pill taker).

Anyway, we got home from the oral surgeon's office and lo and behold there were pills upon pills I was supposed to take to alleviate pain and prevent infections. The first few were the easiest, ironically--I think it's because I forgot that swallowing pills was impossible in my slightly dazed state (though I was actually quite coherent after the surgery, to my relief and Kevin's disappointment [he was hoping for some funny quotes]) .

But then it didn't get any easier! Yes, my mind became more and more confident. There was precedent. I had done it before and could do it again. But my body became more and more adamant. "You don't want to try and swallow this," it said. "You could choke. It could scratch your throat. You want it to stay on your tongue forever." And then there was my mom's voice, coaching me with, "Swallow! Swallow! Swallow!" I can't remember if she ever actually coached me like that, but I wouldn't be too surprised. Of course, the trick was to forget that I was trying to swallow it, which only worked when I wasn't thinking about not thinking about it as well as not thinking about thinking about it.

Suffice it to say, I'm glad I got through all that. Those were big and nasty, but somehow I got them down. And I got incredibly hydrated in the process.

3. Food! Don't get me wrong. I like smoothies. I like jello. I like yogurt. I like soup. I love ice cream. But I also really like tortilla chips and pretzels and carrots and pizza. And it's good to have them back without fearing that I'll wreck my mouth each time I bite down.

4. I don't look like a chipmunk anymore. The "Hamster Dance" song is no longer in my head nonstop. Thank goodness.

Anyway, that's my wisdom tooth story. Come to think of it, it's not really about the surgery itself. It wasn't that interesting, anyway. IV in, Kyra out, Kyra awake, gauze in cheeks, going home. The end.

There Are Two Sides to Every Taco

Winter Semester of 2010 was an extremely busy one for Kevin and me. We had 13.5 credits together, with 13 of those being junior/senior Electrical Engineering courses (and we both had 3 additional time consuming credits), planning our wedding (or at least responding to all the emails from my mom who was planning our wedding), working, church, trips to Logan and Duchesne . . . and we still had to eat sometimes. A good chunk of the time, our meals were tacos at Kevin's apartment. They've got lettuce, right? . . . totally healthy.

Anyway, by the time Brant and Margaret (Kevin's brother and sister-in-law) invited us to Color Me Mine one night in February or March, tacos had become quite entrenched into each of our subconsciouses. As we perused the shelves for something to paint (absolutely NO MUGS . . . I had spent way too long in apartments with mismatched cups and dishes), we suddenly both glanced at the napkin holder.

It was useful (a must for a home occupied by two engineers). It wouldn't become some annoying mug or ridiculous bowl that wouldn't stack in the shelf, since it wasn't a mug or ridiculous bowl in the first place. And most importantly, it looked like

"A taco!" we said simultaneously. It was decided. The taco napkin holder would be our first real decoration.

As we painted it, we basically let each other paint however we wanted. Kevin took a more methodical approach and I took a somewhat random approach, which is typical of our personalities. At times we'd compare our work and laugh about how differently we'd chosen to paint things such as the lettuce or cheese. (This was when the incredibly profound phrase "There are two sides to every taco" was first coined, which is likely to become a family saying in the same category as "there are always more dishes than you think.") However, by the end, our styles somewhat converged and we had a masterpiece on (and in) our hands.

Oh, how we loved that taco napkin holder. I would point it out to just about every guest who came to our apartment. It was always a welcome guest at the table.

Kevin's side

My side

But the good times were not to last. One afternoon I came home from campus, opened the freezer to see what meat we had, and realized too late that the napkin holder was kind of perched on the top of the freezer door. In horror, I watched as the taco napkin holder fell from the top of the refrigerator, bounced off the counter in slow motion, and then smashed onto the floor with a shattering "CRASH."

Then, silence. I sighed, picked up a broom, swept up the mess, and didn't cry until Kevin came home to the tragedy.

But life goes on. You don't have to have your napkins in a napkin holder. Still, we wanted to recreate it someday.

And that day came last Friday. Kind of. When we went to Color Me Mine, there was no taco-shaped napkin holder. Nor was there a moment of "aha" where we both somehow "knew" what we wanted to paint.

Nevertheless, I think we found something that represents our lives the same way the taco did while we were engaged: a darling little yellow house.

Kevin's side (the windows have shutters over them)

My side (the back of the house)

(and yes, that is an offshoot of Rice Chex in the background)

Just as the taco represented our life while we were engaged, this house represents where we are now (both metaphorically and geographically . . . the house across the street looks a lot like this one). We are starting to build a home together. Each day we discover new similarities and new differences. But each side of the house is needed to make it whole. There are two sides to every taco.

Books!

I actually have books to report on this month since we actually own quite a few books thanks to the bridal shower at the end of June. It might be a good thing that I didn't have all these books to read during most of college, otherwise I would have never gotten any schoolwork done.

(In somewhat chronological order:)

1. Caddie Woodlawn

2. The Pushcart War (actually the only one I hadn't read before)

3. The Peacegiver

4. Standing for Something

5. The Giver

6. A Wrinkle in Time

7. The Witch of Blackbird Pond

8. Catching Fire

9. Princess Academy

Besides these, I've read various cookbooks, picture books (which are too short to be counted in this list), and my textbooks. So, it's not as many books as I might get through during Christmas Break, but it still feels like a lot with everything else I'm doing.

Our ever after is so happily we don't even DISAGREE--our opinions slash preferences . . . may DIFFER, but we defiantly don't disagree . . . we VARY.

Sometimes it's uncanny how similar Kevin and I are. Same major, same interests within the major, same interests in general (piano, reading, nerdy stuff, movies, etc.), similar senses of humor . . . we're even basically the same height.

But just when I start to fear that we're too much alike, we have conversations like the one we had yesterday:

*Lunch time*

Me: "Did you ever watch Fantasia?"

Kevin: "Parts of it. I could never make it through the whole thing."

Me: "Because of the dinosaurs? That was so boring! I mean, it was lame music and then a mud pit would bubble. I hated that part. I'd always skip it."

Kevin: "No, the part I couldn't stand was the Sugar Plum Fairy part."

Me: "What??? That was my favorite! The fairies, the dancing flowers . . . "
Kevin: "I thought the dancing flowers were stupid. Come to think of it, that was the part I always hated in Alice and Wonderland, too."

Me: "That was the only part I liked!!! I can't believe you didn't love those talking flowers."

Kevin: "I really didn't like them at all."

*Stunned silence*

Conclusion: We are not exactly the same. Shocking, huh? Who would've guessed I liked fairies and flowers more than Kevin? Oh well. At least we agree on the things that matter in life, like tacos and chocolate donuts.

A published post about publishing music

When I'm feeling especially nostalgic, I like to go through my folder in my mom's filing cabinet. It has the scribbles from preschool, the finger paintings from kindergarten, the calendars from first grade, and the thankful journal from third grade. But my favorite piece of paper in the folder has a bunch of lines and circles and an awkwardly formed "Fall in Love."

It's the transcription of my first composition, written in 1994. The words basically go like this: "Fall in love with everything. And this is what it is."

And then it stops. I remember why. Up til there, I just played the song with my right hand. But after that, I thought the song needed left hand too. Only problem was, I didn't know how to play with both hands at the same time. And so the song just ended since I didn't know where I could go with it given my limited ability.

Sixteen years later, I find myself running up against the same problem. I've written quite a few songs since then for Reflections, seminary, Freshman Ward Musical, and other purposes. Although these songs are finished, they might as well be as unfinished as "Fall in Love" because I haven't done anything with them.

And that's partially my fault. I was afraid of becoming a Composition major because (a) there's plenty of music out there, so my stuff would just be another pile of sheet music thrown into the melting pot of music, (b) I didn't want my "style" to be changed by a well-meaning professor who thought I needed more exciting rhythms, and (c) I didn't want anyone to criticize my music. In my mind, sharing my music with someone knowledgeable was like letting someone see into my soul. If they disdained my music, it was the same as disdaining my soul.

Since then, I've been able to counter some of these arguments. (a) I've done math and engineering research for about a year now, and when I get my papers published, they will just be other papers thrown into the melting pot of research. At least someone could get some enjoyment out of music I've written. (b) I'll admit it . . . my style isn't all it could be. Exposure to other music could expand my horizons. At any rate, I doubt it would hurt my style. (c) Like basically every other college student, I've had to do a lot of writing, which means I've had a lot of my writing torn apart. I'm finally realizing that if someone disdains my writing, they don't disdain my soul. The same thing probably applies to music.

While it's a bit late to become a composition major, I still think there's hope for me. I may not see Talitha cumi on the 2012 EFY CD or make Mediocrity the theme song of incoming freshmen, but it's still possible to achieve my childhood dream of getting a song published.

At least, it's worth a try.

Adventures in Provo

I've taken to reading people's blogs recently. And it seems like everyone is somewhere "cool," be it Cambridge, Taiwan, Austin, Arkansas, Philadelphia, South Africa, or Uganda.

Well, not to make anyone jealous or anything, but Provo is waaaaay more exciting than any of those places. Yeah, you might have seen a penguin the other day, but I saw a robin. A real, live robin. And although getting lost in London is exciting, I get lost in my church building just about every week. It's that complex.

In all seriousness, though, Provo is a fun place to spend a summer. Granted, it's boring enough that I have time to read everyone's blogs, but we've still managed to have a good summer.

Here are some of the adventures we've had since we got married:

~Cooking. We have had lots of fun looking through all the cookbooks we received for our wedding and experimenting. In the process, we've learned some valuable life lessons:

--don't leave butter on the stove when something is in the oven

--don't leave a cookbook on the stove, particularly on a burner that's on. Oh well. The charred-on concentric circles will make a great story for the kids

--don't melt chocolate kisses in a pot. The pot still has little kiss-sized circles burned on.

I guess the moral of the story is this: Don't use the stove at all.

~Piano. Fortunately, we haven't had any mishaps with the piano like we have had with the stove. It has been such a huge blessing to have the piano. We checked out the Liszt Rhapsody #2 duet from the HBLL and it has been a blast. I'd say it ranks up there with Sleigh Ride, the Sugar-Plum Fairy, and Heart and Soul. Besides being able to play duets, it's just been nice to have it there. If Kevin wants to play the Revolutionary Etude or I want to muddle through Liebstraum, we can just turn the piano on and practice. It's also helped reawaken some of my creativity, for better or for worse. Poor neighbors.

~Squaw Peak. This has probably been our biggest adventure yet. Especially since it hasn't happened yet. It always begins the same way.

"We should hike Squaw Peak."

"Yeah. Do you want to try for this Saturday?"

"Sounds good to me."

. . . . then Friday comes. "I bet it's going to rain tomorrow."
"You're probably right."

. . . . then Saturday. "Um, it's raining, and we can't even see the mountains for all the clouds."

"Well, that's lame. We'll try again another time."

And so it goes. I'm sure if we ever get to hike Squaw Peak, it will be epic. But in the meantime, we'll be super busy having crazy awesome adventures.

(Note: I apologize for the roughness of this post. It's been a while since I've written. I promise later posts will be more interesting.)

Hello World!

We decided to start a blog.