When I was a little girl, I opened the door to go outside and play, and found that my front porch had become the resting ground of a baby bird who had flown the nest much too early. I closed the door and broke into sobs, so devastated by the crumpled wings. Later, when I’d gathered my emotions, I went out to give the baby a birdie burial. But I heard my dad on the other side of the door.
“Uh oh,” he said to someone, I think my brother. “We better take care of this before Sierra finds it.”
He knew about my tender nature. He knew that my first love, before I loved writing, or theatre, or movies, or hanging out with friends, I first loved animals. I even wanted to become a vet before I realized that I had no brain for science whatsoever.
I still think that the very saddest day of my life was the day my dog died. Now, you might say that I haven’t had a very hard life, which might be true, but I tell you that to illustrate that really, I have a deep and profound love for animals.
The love lay dormant for a few years. Once I got into college, I didn’t have time to think about pets or animals of any sort. But a little over a year ago, my friend asked me to pet/house sit their dog, Sadi, and it was easy to remember why I love dogs so much. I was having a sad day, and Sadi got up onto the couch with me (I assume that was allowed) and very intuitively placed her paw in my open hand. I didn’t ask for it or prompt it. The dog was just a good. And it made my whole day better.
Our current apartment is not conducive to any sort of critter, and Jeremy doesn’t have paws, but he has found a way to help me through sad days.
*For my usual readers, you may notice “SOL” placed in some of my blog titles over the semester. This means that they are a “slice of life,” an assignment given my writing class to, make the seemingly mundane moments of life take on a life of their own. It shouldn’t be terribly different from my regular blog posts, so I invite all to read. However, I must warn you about the contents of this specific entry.
Are you ready for this particular slice of life, dear readers?
Here are the quick stats of the last 24 hours:
Hours Slept: Total? You mean, combining all of those little mini-sleeps caught here and there on the way to the bathroom? About 3 composite hours of sleep.
Times I (attempt to quaintly say) Rid My Stomach’s Contents: We lost count after 10.
Hours Spent in the Hospital: 3 1/2
Needles That Went Into My Body: 3, and several to look forward to tomorrow
Times I Cried Like a Little Wussy Girl: Like, 7.
In short, I’ve been throwing myself a right pity party for the last 24 hours because I have had the stomach bug that Lucifer, himself, concocted in his special misery pot, and sent up straight from Hades, just for me.
And yet, while I have made plenty of time to feel miserable, this nasty experience has also produced one of the most tender moments of my life. It was around 4:00 AM. My stomach was finally starting to settle down, and after hours of escorting me back and forth to my couch (I got too weak to walk around 1:00), after hours of back rubs, and holding my hair back, and grabbing things at my every need, after hours, sleepless hours, I asked Jeremy to go to bed—he had 9:00 AM class. And as I finally felt myself drifting off to sleep, a thankful pull into oblivion from Heaven above, I expected Jeremy to go and do the same. I wantedhim to do the same. But as I opened my eyes in my final moments of consciousness, Jeremy was there. And when I woke up a half an hour later, Jeremy was still there, my ever-vigilant watch dog. He sat in a stiff chair while I took over the couch. I could only make out the dark outline of his body, his exhausted, sleep-deprived body, but I could tell he wasn’t asleep. He was checking on me. Above everything else, he gave me his worry, and honestly, sometimes that’s a nice present. He couldn’t have served me any more, and yet somehow he found a way. He was my knight in shining armor all night, and then some more all day.
Marriage is good like that. Even when you feel like you are in the depths of hell, you can fall in love all over again. I hope everyone marries a husband like mine.
I know about fiber, so I should have known about fiber. I first heard about fiber and its ills my freshman year of college. Laden with Jamba Juice, courtesy of our Dining Plus Meal Plans, I was enjoying a pleasant walk back to the dorms with Chloe Skidmore.Our friendship was still a young spring chicken newly hatching—I didn’t know her well, but she trusted me wholly and lovingly enough to stop us dead in our tracks, double over in front of me, and let out a cavernous moan.
Chloe confided in me—on a streak of nobility, she’d opted for a fiber boost in her Jamba Juice, and its effect was immediate. After several minutes of stomach-clutching, we were able to move forward. But I was forewarned. And I’ve never even been tempted by a Fiber Boost ever in my life. Plus it was a defining moment for mine and Chloe’s friendship—I saw her through her gas, and I liked her still.
However, four years later, I recently found myself the possessor of a package of Fiber One bars. And it looked just like an innocent granola bar should—yellow packaging, chocolate chips, peanut butter, and joy.
I packed one in my lunch, but got so excited about it that I ate it on my way to school. And the taste was better than any Nutrigrain I’ve ever tasted. It was candy! And I was wild about it.
Several hours later, I started having abdominal pain. I have a lingering fear about a rupturing appendix, so I was fairly sure that was my mere little problem.
If Only, Friends. If Only.
By 1:00 PM, my pain had become severe, but I recognized a variable. Whenever I would… how you say…pass wind… things felt better. Yet, you can obtain no reprieve when you’re sitting in the middle of your relatively silent Modern Literature class. You have two options: Sit and suffer in pain, or sit and allow others to suffer, if you catch my meaning.
But by 3:00 PM, inflicting suffering on others had become involuntary. The fiber had worked its way through my system and was wreaking its havoc.
I told my friend about my plight and she exclaimed, “Fiber Bars! I only eat those around my sisters!”
And then I remembered, with horror, that I had distributed one other fiber bar earlier that morning. My husband was travelling to Chicago for a big time interview for an internship that will basically determine the rest of our lives. In an attempt to show love and support, I had packed a little care package for Jeremy, complete with Fiber One.
Frantically I sent Jeremya text to warn him not to partake! But it was too late. Jeremy had been “Passing Wind” in his interview all day long.
So…we won’t be offended if Jeremy doesn’t get the job. It will have been all my fault.
Lately Jeremy’s been playing me this little lullaby to lull me to sleep, which usually helps me wake up on the right side of the bed. Several mornings ago, I woke up holding Jeremy’s hand. I don’t know who initiated the hand-holding session, but I felt perfectly romantic and a little bit like Ron and Hermione when they fell asleep holding hands in the seventh Harry Potter. And I apologize for another “Now I’m married OMG OMG blog” but being married is still such a novelty to me, and it’s like I got the holographic Charmander, so naturally I need to talk about it.
Waking up hand-in-hand is sublime. You feel like you’ve just dreamed an epic adventure together. I think one of the best parts of being married is The Morning Cuddle (and no, this is not a euphemism). When sleep has healed the wounds of last nights’ homework. When you can’t yet remember the ever-generating To Do list for the day. Where you can just tangle your knees together and transform into awake-ness, slowly and gradually and with a friend who wants you to stay in the covers just as badly as you want yourself to stay.
Here is a photo journey of our Honeymoon to Victoria, British Columbia.
After a long day of airplaning, ferrying, and bussing to the island, we made it in time to see the legislative buildings all lit up. If the Eiffel Tower lights up, and Victoria’s legislative building lights up, can’t we at least put Twinkle Light Mustaches on Mt. Rushmore?
Please note, despite the hours of mass transit and lack of sleep, Jeremy and I went to great pains to ensure our hair still looked good. Our server captured the good hair experience nicely. Also, he somehow managed to get the legislative building in the background without any window glare. He got a big tip, even though we weren’t entirely certain of Canadian tipping customs.
There is a very specific sort of gear for whale watching in Canada. A coat that makes you look distinctively Oompa Loompa.
I had a soft spot for these lazy seals. The tour guide called them rock sausages. I thought that was a little unfair. I think they at least look like burritos.
This was the alpha sea lion of the pack, and a seagull coming to poop on him because that’s what seagulls do.
A mature male bald eagle! Thank heavens for optical zoom and a cool new camera, Penrods.
These are our Orca Whale friends. They were a little cliquey at first, but they warmed right up to us in the end. They swam right underneath our boat, thereby welcoming us into their pod.
Let it be known, henceforth and forevermore, that I, Sierra Lynn Robinson Penrod, rode a scooter all by myself. I got up to 30 km per hour, and slowed down several cars. All were patient and kind to me because I would mouth “I’m so sorry” to them at red lights. Also, Jeremy made me pull over periodically so they could pass me and my slow scooter (it was the scooter’s fault, I assure you).
Somewhere hidden in the shadows of the Butchart Gardens is a honeymooning couple. Since it was our honeymoon and all, we liked to stick to dark corners… 😛
We were happy to emerge from the shadows however to see the splendor of this pretty place.
I just love the shots of the plenteous fields of gorgeous flowers, and the gardens arranged by color so nicely. Also, I am shocked to find that plenteous is actually a word.
There is, how you say, a butterfly in this picture.
This is not a joke. This is actually a flower. We couldn’t believe it either. It’s like when Jackson on Gilmore Girls crossed a kumquat and a raspberry and got a Raspquat.
This is to remind Jeremy what my favorite flower is. It’s a dahlia. And it is nice.
Put your glasses on for this one, the locals never did get picture-taking with our Ultra Deluxe Thank You Penrods Camera quite right. It’s blurry, but we’re happy and there’s a heart in the bench, so it made the cut.
These were the Japanese Gardens. They were SO cool but our photos don’t do them justice quite the same way. But I felt like Turning Japanese, I really think so, the whole time.
Now it’s REALLY concrete. Jeremy PINKY PROMISED me he would help me with a garden one day. But just in case, I may use this picture years down the road insisting Jeremy PINKY PROMISED he wouldn’t make me go to a football game, or Jeremy PINKY PROMISED he would take the trash out for the rest of our lives.
This begins the food reel, Jeremy’s favorite part of the trip. This was my butternut squash ravioli. Also, good hair.
This was Jeremy’s seafood risotto. He won that day. It was to die for. Also, he’s wearing a cardigan, and I don’t hate it.
This is my lobster and Jeremy’s Surf and Turf. Next time, I won’t get the whole lobster. I did not take joy in that particular journey.
This was our exploding dessert! Americans! Take note! SPARKLERS IN CELEBRATORY DESSERTS! I repeat: SPARKLERS IN CELEBRATORY DESSERTS!
(And, for good measure, in case you weren’t listening: sparklers in celebratory desserts.)
AND PANSIES IN CELEBRATORY MOCKTAILS!
AND WHITE CHOCOLATE CONGRATULATORY REMARKS! Henceforth! Forevermore!
The husband might object to the photo editing I cooked up here, but this concludes our journey to Vancouver Island.
Unless he has the exact right pillow under the exact right place under his neck, he will snore. Sometimes his snores are not just snores—sometimes they are long, drawn-out, cavernous bellows. Sometimes they are little sizzle snores that start low and deep at the grumble pack in his throat, and then travel up to his nose where they peter into a dull wheeze.
Also he talks in his sleep. Last night he woke me up so we could have this conversation:
Jeremy: Harang the Mitsu Plank.
Me: (Consulting the clock. 5:30 AM) Huh?
Jeremy: (With a little more desperation) Harang the Mitsu Plank!
Me: (Desperately searching for meaning in this through a cloud of sleep haze) What, Jeremy?
Jeremy: (Definitely frustrated now) Harang the Mitsu Plank! Psshh. Gorglefunk (At this point, Jeremy rolled over defiantly, and promptly began snoring again).
But sleeping Jeremy was on finest form on our honeymoon, when I woke up to Jeremy humming a delightful little tune. Assuming he was awake, I tapped on his shoulder and his body seized, as if he was being pulled from a coma. He allowed his eyes to focus, probably as surprised to wake up to a wife as I still am to be waking up to a husband.
Me: That was a pretty song love—Whatchoo singin?
Jeremy: Was I singing?
Me: Yes, and it sounded like the theme song from CatDog.
Jeremy: I don’t know the theme song from CatDog. But I do know the theme song to Angry Beavers. I can play it on the trumpet (he hums it, to prove it).
We spent 3:00 AM in Victoria singing and humming all the old Nickelodeon theme songs from our youth, and then cuddling until sleep overtook us. I am finding bedtime to be one of the greatest learning experiences of all…. Now I know the Angry Beavers theme song. You don’t? Oh, Gorglefunk.
When Jeremy Penrod and I first met, I looked like this:
It was in that pivotal moment in Stage Makeup Class, winter 2009, that he probably knew that I was the one for him. While the other girls in the class hauled in male models to apply a beard (thus the reason for Jeremy’s visit in class that day), I decided to skip the hassle of tracking down a boy that would come in early to get spirit gum applied to his face, and apply spirit gum and a beard to my own face instead. My thought process was like this: “Who can resist a lady in whiskers, right?”
Right. Apparently Jeremy Penrod was smitten.
It took several months (and several significant others) in between for Jeremy and I to finally be on the same page. When one significant other and I severed ties, Jeremy pounced. Knowing that I was an avid blogger, he eagerly accepted my request to re-vamp my blog (this very blog, in fact). Rather than taking me on elaborate dates and asking me what color my toothbrush was, Jeremy synthesized my personality and applied it to this page, seeing as he is an extremely talented web designer. We got to know each other in those waning hours of the evening, and Jeremy Penrod began to heal my troubled soul and tame my wild heart. He made me feel special again. He let me know that it was ok to be human. He validated my emotions and fostered my ability to feel. What a special guy he is. How lucky I feel.
On Friday, May 6th, Jeremy picked me up at my door looking extra handsome. As we walked to his car, I plucked one of the dandelions that have infested Provo from the ground and made a wish that I would get proposed to that night.
We set off for Happy Sumo to pick up the sushi (my favorite) that Jeremy had pre-ordered, and headed up Provo Canyon, where we often retreat when we want to get away from the world. We pulled up to our park and headed deep into the dark. We stumbled upon a small picnic set up that was barely visible in the darkness.
You know those boys that shame the guitar, those boys that serenade you with the ONLY SONG THEY KNOW, which is probably “Hey There Delilah,” and they want you to swoon and think that they are oh-so-drippy-with-awesomeness? Jeremy is not one of these boys. First of all, he is actually good. And second, Jeremy often refuses to serenade me, even after I beg and beg, and it is only on exceptionally lucky occasions that Jeremy will whip out his guitar and sing me a song.
This night was an exceptionally lucky occasion. He played “our song,” shaking with nerves, then unearthed the ring box and asked me the question girls dream about for a lifetime. But I had to say yes before I could see the ring.
So I did.
And then after sweet kisses and happy rejoicing, we raced, hand in hand, up a hill and to a pavilion where we could see my ring in all its splendor. We clambered on top of a picnic table and held each other close.
And so, I’m engaged to Jeremy Penrod. And I mean this without an ounce of sarcasm and with all sincerity and elation—Lucky, lucky me!
This is Jeremy expressing his excitement about the engagement.
These are the people that helped Jeremy execute the perfect proposal.
The ring that Jeremy wouldn’t let me see ’till after I said yes.
My boyfriend and I have reached a level of intimacy where I am starting to get to know the way his toilet flushes. So, though I won’t yet use his bathroom without turning on the sink to create a healthy obfuscating white noise that blocks out any potential bathroom noises, he still gets in his car and drives all the way to his apartment whenever his Mother Nature beckons, so at least I’m getting comfortable with him.
And since I’ve let myself finally get comfortable with him, I have learned to spot any anomalies in his toilet’s flushing tendencies—and on my last visit to Jeremy’s restroom, there was an “anomaly.”And so after I got over my initial ten-minute shock and humiliation by pretending to casually eat my grapes and quesadillas Jeremy had just made for me, I decided it was time to test my boyfriend’s love for me.
I buried my head into his chest and asked, “Do you love me?”
Jeremy: “Yes. Why?”
Me: “How much?”
Jeremy: “What’d you do?”
Me (Barely audible): “I may have clogged your toilet.”
Jeremy (relieved and laughing): Is that all? Oh, geez.
I then immediately retreated to the couch and attempted to bury my whole body under its cushions, under the guise of needing consolation for my humiliation; really, I was just trying to bide some time for the bathroom to air out before we descended upon the Clog.
When finally we braved the Clog, I insisted that any smells present already existed. Jeremy mercifully assured me that the Clog probably lingered from a previous occupant. And then we went in. Together. Scared, but oh-so-brave.
And the toilet flushed perfectly normally. Of course.
“That’s it, Sierra!? That’s it! You didn’t even need to tell me, and I never would have known! There was nothing even wrong!”
“Jeremy!” I insisted, “It flushed different!
Jeremy (still laughing): “Did it, Sierra? Did it flush different? Did it act up? Did it misbehave?”
Me: “Yes! It did! I swear!”
Then, in the special sort of euphoria that only comes from not clogging your boyfriend’s toilet, I tackled him onto the couch, where he assured me that he could handle a lifetime of unclogging toilets with me. And then in a moment of utmost sweetness, he said to me, “Sierra, I love you. But sometimes, you’re retarded.”
I collect idiosyncrasies; which is to say that I’m kind of an odd duck. One such idiosyncrasy is my peculiar affinity for having blood drawn. Since I was tested for mono in the 9th grade (test positive, thank you very much), I realized that once the needle was in, it felt kind of like a little sucker-fish sucking on a teeny hole in my arm—and for some crazy reason, I kinda liked it.
An unfortunate Robinson reality: I have yet to break the 110-pound limit required of blood donors, so I’ve never gotten to wear one of those nifty criss-crossy colored bandage thingies that you get, along with complimentary juice, that one receives after they donate. Thus, I persuaded two of my most trusted BYU acquaintances, Miss Chloe Noelle (who you’ve met before) and Sir Jeremy Penrod Esquire, to donate their red humor in my stead.
Chloe. Was. Nervous.
Jeremy was obnoxiously nonchalant.
Jeremy, after finishing the question and answer session, which sounds more akin to a PPI, was escorted to the donation chair, where they juiced his arm up with iodine and inserted an impressive needle. I played the role of the dutiful girlfriend-type-thing, and gasped and grimaced in all the right places. Jeremy charmed the male nurses, all the while maintaining a positive demeanor, and cheering Chloe on as she made her begrudging death march to her own donation chair.
Chloe. Was. Still. Nervous. She declined my invitation to hold her hand, and opted for Jeremy’s masculine (albeit a tad clammy) hand instead. The nurse was appropriately sarcastic with Chloe as me, Jess (another cheerleader), and Jeremy gathered around her and watched her squeeze the blood out of her arms. Chloe expressed her concern, not about the pinch of the needle, but of the lurking fear that she would pass out after the deed was done. Jeremy made wise cracks about the impossibility of the whole affair.
And then, he mentioned that he perhaps ought to get something to eat.
And then he turned paler than Edward Cullen.
And then I thought he was merely trying to psyche my woe-begotten friend out by falling, face-first, almost in slow motion, on top of her as the blood drained from her arm.
“Jeremy!” I said harshly. “That’s not funny! Stop faking it.”
Jess was quicker on the uptake. She realized that my boyfriend-type-thing was indeed fainting—genuinely. There was a slight panic as the nurses eased Jeremy’s pale, momentarily lifeless, and excessively limp body to the floor.
Chloe got up and got juice like it was nobody’s business.
