This Christmas break I am going to...
Sunday, December 12, 2010
This Christmas break I am going to...
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Then, I would buy this:
if you were famous for something...what would it be for?
Author or athlete.
what did you do to get boys attention in junior high? for example i smeared glitter all over the top of my flat chest before church dances. it didn't work.
Yeah, Laura, you taught me that glitter trick. Remember that little pink bottle of roll-on glitter? I sure do. Probably still have it somewhere.
Now what? I tag people? Do I have to come up with questions now? I want these people to answer the same questions:
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Monday, September 27, 2010
Monday, September 20, 2010
Friday, September 10, 2010
I have had quite a few changes in my life recently.
Friday, August 13, 2010
Starting tomorrow, I am homeless. No worries, I've done this before. I'll find a place to live. And yet here I am, blogging. Well anyway...
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Friday, July 9, 2010
Whenever I was invited to go to some girl’s birthday party, I would ritualistically go to the store (most often Target) with my mom and we would get what seemed like the best present anyone could ever dream of, a caboodle complete with all things miniature. A mini hair brush, miniature toothpaste and a miniature toothbrush, miniature makeup, a mini mirror, a Mini Cooper, a miniature poodle—you know, all the best things in the world. The process of buying all these gems and putting them all perfectly in the several compartments within the pink, sparkly caboodle was enough to cause me to keel over from excitement. I practically had a heart attack every time I got to experience this sort of occasion. You would think I would have tried to make more friends with girls just so that I would be invited to their birthday parties. My brain hadn’t yet reached such cleverness, though.
And speaking of rituals and birthday parties, my mom and I went through another ritual that I thought was pure genius right before I left for the birthday party. She would tell me to sometime during the party call her to “check in” with her. She would then say quietly, “Audrey, do you want me to come and get you?” If I said no, that meant I was having a good time and wanted to stay for the remainder of the party. If I said yes, that meant (obviously) that I wanted to get the crap out of there. The fact that that was even an issue still causes me to wonder to this day. It wasn’t unusual for me to respond, “YES.”
And speaking even furthermore on rituals and birthday parties, my mom 99% of the time would not allow me to sleep over at a sleepover. She would always come and get me late at night right before everyone went to bed. Sometimes it was maddening. But now I look back and realize that her reasoning for not wanting me to sleep over makes perfect sense. With all those sickos out there, my children will most likely not sleep over at sleepovers either.
Friday, July 2, 2010
Thursday, June 10, 2010
When I was seven I had a cat named Kitty. Real original, I know. She was always kind of a sickly cat and she took to peeing on our stair landing. Strangely, other cats we owned after Kitty followed in her footsteps. My mom was ready to kill those cats. Anyway, one day when my family and I came home from our painfully long three hour church service, I saw Kitty come out of a closet under the stairs looking a whole lot skinnier than she usually did. Either she had coughed up a couple hundred hairballs or, which my mom suggested, she had been pregnant and had given birth. A normal family would have opened the closet door to discover the kittens, but my siblings didn’t believe in cleaning (except for you, Ann!) and this closet had stuff piled up about eight feet high. And this closet is big. When it is actually cleaned out you can walk around in it. So we started unloading all of the who knows what crap was in there (probably old shoes, deflated soccer and basketballs and camping gear). Finally, there they were in the very back of the closet. Five tiny little kittens all huddled up together. Kitty laid down next to them.
Those kittens were maddeningly cute and I was glued to them for the next six weeks. I started naming them. One was black with a white spot on his chin. I named him Smokey. One always seemed to be eating and was consequently fat—Puff Mama. She had grey fur that was longer than all of the other kittens’. One was white so naturally I had to name him Whitey Tighty. Then there was Feisty (probably named after myself) who was dark grey and liked to pick fights with the other kittens. And then the last one. Light grey, affectionate and sweet. I never did think of a name for that kitten that stuck. Seth suggested Sweetie, which disgusted me. And my younger brother Seth, who was addicted to toy weapons and sword fighting and sports and all things little boy-like had suggested the name Sweetie?! It blew my mind.
My mom warned me that after six weeks I would have to give the kittens away. I dreaded this more than I dreaded the dentist. We went to the Smith’s grocery store and I sat out in front of the store with all five kittens in a cardboard box. One by one they slowly disappeared. The kittens KNEW what was happening—they whimpered as the litter dwindled in size. And I whimpered right along with them. Then a biker dude came up--he was probably 9 feet tall and 500 lbs. A Goliath man, really. He had a bandana on over his bald head, and wore a black shirt with a black vest, black pants and black boots. He had to have been the leader of some Harley Davidson club. He took one of the kittens and said to his nasty little sidekick, “This will keep the Doberman company.” And then he laughed a sinister laugh. A Doberman?! Those spawn of Satan dogs that always have spiked collars and eight inch long canine teeth?! Evil thoughts raced through my head as he walked away with one of my kitties. I wanted to run him over with his own Harley. When all the kittens had new owners I was completely traumatized and swore I would get every cat I owned thenceforth spayed or neutered.
Wednesday, June 9, 2010
In first grade I liked a boy named Spencer Wanlass. One day I hit the jackpot when I found out that my older sister Laura was friends with his older sister DeAnne. So naturally when Laura invited DeAnne over I would invite Spencer over too. Well one day exactly that happened. My actions showed that there was some sign of a girl inside of me—I wanted to look pretty for him. I curled all 45 hairs on my head and put on a little pink jumper that came just above my bruised knees. It was like I was anticipating Christmas—it was THAT exciting. The doorbell rang. Laura opened the door and there was DeAnne! And no Spencer. I was completely crushed. After not seeing Spencer again after first grade until twelve years later I learned from Spencer himself that he was too scared to come over. Spencer and I ended up dating for ten months during our freshman year of college.
I’m proud to say that when I was three years old I discovered the art of feistiness. When I was in the hospital at age four with a shattered femur, my granny came to visit my body casted self. I laid there in the hospital bed SURROUNDED with stuffed animals and other various toys. People pitied me. It was great. Anyway, when Granny came she brought another toy for me. Some sort of toy that rattled. My response was, “What am I? A baby?” You think being in a body cast in the hospital would have humbled me. Apparently not. I blame that on my age at the time.
It seems as though Granny remembers my feisty attitude the best—probably because I picked up that gem of a trait from her. She reminds me frequently that it was common for me to tell people to get a life. She also reminds me that I would tell her that she had cracks in her face. I guess I was blunt, too.
Monday, June 7, 2010
Somehow, when I was little, I had the ability to draw in boys pretty well. Probably because I was more like a boy than anything else. I was confident, too. I had barely any hair on my head, a gap between my front teeth that my older brother Scotty liked to call “the Grand Canyon”, and to make it even WORSE, a missing tooth right next to my top right front tooth. I was born without a tooth there—it never grew in. Those things seemed to not phase me much. Because I was cool. The hair that I did have on my head was white blonde and always in a ponytail, and I had brown skin and I was athletic. I could beat all the boys in the mile run during P.E. and kick the ball the farthest out of all the girls in kickball. In fact, when teams were chosen for kickball, I was usually one of the first chosen. And I apparently was good at tetherball. One day in fourth grade, a girl named Deah came up to me and asked if I wanted to play tetherball. I didn’t really ever play tetherball, but I agreed anyway. Deah was the tetherball queen. But then I beat her, and her reaction to her defeat was, “Your name should be Audrey Bitchell.” Looking back as an adult I think I would have stood there with a straight face and blinked a couple of times. But I am sure having been raised in a home where cussing is bad (I still think that swearing makes a person sound uneducated) would have caused me to feel shocked that a fourth grader just said the “B” word. Anyway, as previously stated, the boys loved me. Who knew that a boy could score a girlfriend that was just like him? It worked out perfectly. And I somehow discovered at an early age that you can win a boy’s heart with mere food, especially candy. Most likely because my heart could be won the same way. One day in fifth grade I saw my boyfriend Jordan talking to a new girl under a tree ALONE during recess. She wore make up. I couldn’t believe it! She was practically a woman! That night I looked in the mirror and thought that I would look that good too if I wore makeup. (Who was I kidding? I could stick the neck of a toothbrush in “the Grand Canyon” and my body was frequently covered in bruises.) Well I wasn’t allowed to wear makeup so I did the next best thing to win Jordan back. The next morning before he came into class I put a note that probably stroked his ego and taped starbursts all over it. He was sold.
Wednesday, June 2, 2010
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Provo-->Las Vegas-->Florence, Oregon-->Las Vegas-->Harrisonburg, Virginia-->Washington D.C.-->Las Vegas-->Provo
I know, I know. That title was way longer than it needed to be.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
"Well thanks Audrey."
And I bet he will remember that because I make comments and participate in class, and I always say thank you to him after every class. So basically if you play teacher's pet without being annoying about it, you're golden. A+ in PGP this semester? Oh I'll get it.
Ok ok I know it doesn't always work like that, but I really do believe those cheese ball, cliche sayings like, "If you put your mind to it, you can achieve anything" blah blah blah. But it is true. You want to get on the good side of a professor? You ask him/her questions that convince them that you are genuinely interested in the subject they teach. You participate in class, etc. and you are bound to be better off than if you have no interaction whatsoever with that professor. I had some good interaction with my history teacher, Professor Fluhman, today too. He probably loves me now. (Charley can agree that Prof. Fluhman is the shiz).
Alright alright, so that might be a no brainer, but I swear I come up with better stuff than that--stuff that I will write in a book one day and sell millions of copies, yo.
No more boring talk. Any updates with me? Nope. Except I will probably be getting glasses tomorrow. No more squinting.
Buh bye now.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
I just want you to know how much I love you. I was thinking yesterday about how much you accomplish on this earth, and it reminded me once again how important you are. Here are just a few reasons why:
You are one of my best friends.
In fact, you are a best friend to all of us in the family, and to many others outside of the family.
You are a great wife to Brian.
You are a great mom to your kids.
You have an eye for beautiful things, and you incorporate them into your home.
You are pure.
You are spiritual.
You make lots of people laugh.
You are willing to serve anyone and everyone.
You are nice to everyone--it doesn't matter who it is.
You are a MIRACLE.
Like I said, this is just a list of a few. I hope you know how much you mean to all of us.
Pootsie Poo Poo