Tag: Random Musings

Empathy for Perma-Scowlers

Posted on by Sierra

Some people–some actually nice people–have permanent scowls. It’s not that they are in any way distraught, but their default face just kinda forms into a natural stink-eye.

I think this was most eloquently described in the movie Juno:

Juno says: Your little girlfriend gave me the stink-eye in art class yesterday.
Bleaker replies: Katrina’s not my girlfriend, alright? And I doubt she gave you the stinkeye that’s just how her face looks, you know? That’s just her face. 

Then, we cut to Katrina De Voort:

Source
Now first close encounters with Perma-Scowlers can be a little intimidating. I, myself, was startled just minutes ago by a Perma-Scowler sitting across from me at this little cafe. I reached into myself and thought, “What have I done to make such a mortal enemy so quickly? Was it my sneeze? I did sneeze rather loudly…” But as I wondered about my own offenses, I couldn’t help but study my stink-eyed companion.
She scowled through an entire chapter of a leisure reading. She scowled when filling her water cup. She even scowled as she emerged from the bathroom, after which, most people stop scowling. Now, there was a slight break in the stink-eye as the server brought her food, but upon sinking her teeth into her delicious grilled chicken sandwich, her face quickly lapsed into Kristen Stewart Mode. 
Image Source
Logically I concluded after my studies that she didn’t give me “the stinkeye that’s just how her face looks, you know? That’s just her face.” 

 For Perma-Scowlers, I always just hope they’re also beautiful because I think the life of a Perma-Scowler might be a lonely existence. They are so immediately alienating that no one dares to crack beneath the surface of the slanted eyebrows!

 So next time someone gives you a big old crusty, counterbalance by giving them a hug! If they resume scowling but otherwise seem pleased, you will know that’s just the way their face looks. If they hit you after, you might assume they were scowling for a reason. But they might still have needed a hug.

*I do not endorse hugging Kristen Stewart.

Observations: A Brief Foray into Parenthood

Posted on by Sierra

When I told my dad that Jeremy and I got called to the Nursery, my dad issued a trademark Tom chortle, a little too “knowing” for my liking.

“That will either really whet your appetite for kids, or—more likely—be really effective birth control,” he said wisely.
For those of you who aren’t LDS, allow me to explain. At our church, each member is given a “calling” to serve in a specific capacity. So you might be asked to play music on Sunday, or you might be asked to teach a gospel related class, or you might be asked to be bishop of the ward, or you might be asked to serve in the nursery.
Jeremy and I have taught Gospel Doctrine to people 30-40-50 years our senior before. We were confident. But going into the nursery today among the 1-2 year olds barely learning to toddle, I whispered to Jeremy, “Are you nervous?”
“Yes,” he admitted.
“Me too.”
I actually really like kids, but when they are not related to me, sometimes I need to look through the germ layer to find the kids underneath. Fortunately these kiddos were very clean; I am convinced that Chicagoans are a super breed of human who where perfect clothes, have perfect teeth, have perfect lives, and who somehow don’t annoy me with their perfection. Especially when their perfect spawn is bacteria-free.
I found that the kids made bonds with their nursery worker of choice with varying degrees of covalence. Though Brendan* (Name changed for the parents’ privacy, and also because I don’t remember) upon his mother’s departure threatened to break glass with his screaming, Jeremy skillfully distracted him by scooting a toy car over his toes. Brendan stopped crying for the rest of the two hours—unless Jeremy shifted in his chair, or stood up too quickly, or betrayed any indication of leaving Brandon. Kid had attachment issues. Of course, in my “Sierra Assessing my Spouse’s Ability to Work With Kids” mode, I was beaming.
I was paired with Myra,* a beautiful 1-year-old. It was her first day in nursery and she seemed to be processing things very cerebrally. She spoke never, but let me hold her the whole two hours. She just looked around with intensity, glared occasionally, and gently abstained from any sort of participation by pulling her arm protectively across her chest whenever I offered a toy, cracker, book, play-doh, etc. However, Myra did find one thing that she really liked, and as if scared I would take it from her, she secretly slipped it into her mouth.
Eager to prove that I was a good nursery leader, I wanted to return the students clean and happy. Myra had other ideas. Two minutes before parent retrieval, after successfully keeping Myra clean for two hours, she slipped her secret orange fruit snack from her mouth and kneaded it between her fingers, strung it in her hair, and smeared it across her face. We didn’t even have fruit snacks at snack time. 
So today I have learned the age-old parenting technique—If your kid is being quiet, she is hiding something. In her mouth.
Also: Kids are Sticky. Even Chicago kids. 
Image Source

Deep Thoughts: Taylor Swift

Posted on by Sierra

I’m thinking of creating a blog label for all of my “deep thoughts.” For all my posts on like, you know, The Bachelor and like… hair products and stuff.

So, Taylor Swift has committed two offenses against me, but I have recently decided to forgive her for them.

Her Offenses: 
1. Dating Jake Gyllenhaal
2. Having an old boyfriend of mine say to me, “I WISH you looked like Taylor Swift.” (He wasn’t kidding).

So, understandably, Taylor and I haven’t been buddy-buddy for the last year or so, but after seeing her cute self on Ellen singing with Zac Efron (who I NEVER liked before that), I have to say, Taylor and I are back on speaking terms… And I think she’s adorable. Also, it doesn’t hurt that Jeremy doesn’t find her overly attractive.

Another reason I like Taylor Swift so much: She is a TOTAL dork, and in my family, being a dork is a really good thing. You might not know she is a dork by just looking at her on the red carpet looking like this:

After all, she looks INCREDIBLE here, and dorks aren’t usually this beautiful.
 But I assure you, Taylor Swift is a dork. Let’s examine the evidence.
1. Lyrics/ Music Video to “You Belong with Me.” — 
“But she wears short skirts, I wear t-shirts

She’s cheer captain and I’m on the bleachers.”
–The music video depicts a pig-tailed, band geek Taylor, totally owning her bleacherism. I think this speaks to a past life of social awkwardness, that Swift can now embrace, and win best female music video over.
You Belong with Me

2. She occasionally sings… awkward things. It’s ok to out “Drew,” whoever he is, because no one knows him. But it seems a tinsy bit too forthcoming by singing about John Mayer (way too old/perverted for you), and Taylor Lautner (besides, you can do better, Taylor S.). And I’m not going to get into the forgiveness song she sang to Kanye at the 2010 VMA’s, because the awkwardness makes me feel a little uncomfortable, to be frank.
*If she sings about Jake Gyllenhaal, her career is over.

3. The most indicting evidence for the geekism of Ms. Swift is here, and this is the one that makes me love her more than anything: The Girl Can’t Dance.

And just as she seems to be America’s sweetheart right now, watching her geeking out, totally aware of her enthusiastic dorkdom, I admit she’s capturing my heart. This may be because I too (and hold onto your knickers, because this may surprise you), am a total dork who cannot dance, who is way too white, and who, if she ever went to high school football games, would have certainly been on the bleachers too.

So yes, Taylor. Let’s be dorks. We can have a slumber party, and wear our retainers together. 

The Hormone Cocktail

Posted on by Sierra

In fourth grade, when we got a new teacher (before the days of picture roles), Rachael Miesen and I switched names. For the whole day, I was Rachael and she was Sierra. It was hard to get used to, but we sure did get a lot of laughs.

Today, at the high school, I got my comeuppance, with interest. 

For those of you who don’t know, which is probably most of you, I got my school placement for next year, complete with a “Big Girl Wardrobe” (which involves khakis, I am sorry to say) and the title “Mrs. Penrod” (or PR as one student called me all day). I am delighted to announce that I will be teaching English at a local High School with an ambiguous degree of permanence. I am thrilled for this opportunity. Since I still look like a high schooler, I figure I may as well own it, and make my life out of being in high school. I really thrived there back in the day, anyway.

Admittedly, however, today as I entered the “hormone cocktail” that is the 10th grade English classroom, I almost reconsidered my career choice. It was first hour and the students came in with real chips in their sleepy, slouchy shoulders.

“I thought she was a new student, not our teacher!” said one, when he found out that I was teaching that day. This is a prime example of something that is OK to say about yourself, but cuts a little too deep whenever someone considers you to be their 15 year-old peer.

Lemme tell you about high school tenth graders. They like attention. It doesn’t matter if it’s from the girl they are sitting next to, or the rest of the bros in the class, or even negative attention from the teacher. They just want it, and lots of it. And “PJ” and “New Zealand” (their names are changed), were in fine form. They were the “Name Switchers.” When they weren’t busy harassing the girls in class or making racial slurs, they were actively busy not doing the assignment and persistently distracting others from doing the same.

I suppose this story doesn’t have a real arch or anything. But just as I almost began to reconsider my teaching career, I was delighted that second period clapped at the conclusion of my lesson instead of glaring, and several of them asked me to make sure to teach 11th grade next year. They also grasped the concepts I was teaching quite nicely.

I am learning that teaching is probably a lot like that. One minute, you might lose all hope in the youth of the nation, but the next, they always reward you with a little bit of kindness and a whole lot of potential.

Image Source

PS: Bethany had her baby today! And he is such a handsome little devil. Momma Bear and Little Cub are both doing well.

Here’s a Slice of Senioritis

Posted on by Sierra

I legitimately have a list of things to do that is taller than me, and before you insert a short joke here, consider how daunting 5’3″ tall To Do list would look, even if it was written in a big font.

I have A LOT to do. So I scripted my To Do list, which was enjoyably stressful, as always, and I planned on going to the store to start our crock pot dinner, and then start the crock pot dinner and then get started on my 27,000 list of things to do. I was feeling as optimistic as a bright young cherry might if a cherry knew how to feel. I was planning on conquering the world tonight. I saved myself a Dr. Pepper, which I try to only drink now when the world needs conquering.

It looks worse in person, if you’ll believe it.

But you see, I got derailed. First, I had to find out who went home on The Bachelor, and now I think Ben is an idiot. So I had to mourn for a minute about who went home on The Bachelor. And then I thought I should get started on my homework, but instead, I took a nap, watched this Ellen video about fifteen times, got hungry, ate instant soup, tried to start my homework, showed my husband the Ellen clip, took another nap, cuddled with my husband, and then made a Lean Cuisine (which, I don’t even like, and didn’t really eat). This whole procrastination process took six hours. I have become a procrastination expert. 


I am choosing to blame Super-Senioritis, which is what happens to you when you were supposed to graduate a year ago, but then you had to stay even longer, and your brain is so addled that if you ever have to read another poem or critical essay again, you might decide to intentionally run over a trashcan with your car just because you’re horribly fried, and for some reason, that sounds like a good idea, and also use run on sentences because that also sounds like a good idea. That’s what Super-Senioritis does to all your thoughts and sentences that used to be neatly organized inside your brain and out.

I don’t remember having Senioritis this badly before. Certainly not senior year of high school, although admittedly my senior high school teachers were quite obliging; you’d get an A for participation if you said “Bless You” when the teacher sneezed. But in college, I still have 16 grueling credits, all of which would be totally awesome if I had taken them any semester except for this one.

And here’s the thing. My To Do list is still 5’3″ and this blog did little to help (though I think I will count it as a Slice of Life to make myself feel better).  I think it might actually be time to start on my homework.


After I watch that hilarious Ellen video one more time. 

Brace yourselves. It’s world-conquering time.
My poor untouched backpack, casually flung
 and disregarded on the floor

Morning Rivalry.

Posted on by Sierra
I’m a morning person, I just am. I take pride in it, I suppose. Every morning I like to push the limit to see how functional I am at any given hour in the morning. Can I grade papers at 5:00 AM? Can I write papers at 6:00 AM? Can I read and comprehend Proust at 7:00?
Even though I’m usually a little groggy, I really do enjoy the 7:00 AM hour the most. I feel like it’s not early enough to be obnoxious, but it’s still early enough to belong to me and me only.
But Not So this week! This week, the inn has tenants directly above us who are early birds. And they are not doing the quiet, reflective, “getting the worm” kinds of things that I like to do in the morning. No.
They are clomping around like hippopotami in high heels. They are shouting and laughing like it’s noon! They seem to be eating jackhammers for breakfast, and pacing back and forth while they do it. They are dropping frying pans on their floor (my ceiling). They are sneezing at uncomfortably high volumes!! And I swear on my life they chose 7:00 AM to rearrange all the furniture in the inn. They are “early-birding” all over the place and it makes me mad. 
My worm, Early Birds! MINE!


Wednesday Weirdness

Posted on by Sierra

     The weirdest thing just happened: It was a Wednesday night, and I finished all my homework for the week.

     It’s times like this where you want to summon all the blogger powers at be–funnel all of that creative energy that’s been building inside your writer fingers for weeks but just hasn’t had time to be released from your fingertips–and write something truly prolific. 


But all that comes out are a few fragmented thoughts:

Concerns that gyms are only really for people that are already in shape.
Vague realizations that Disney has done bad things for females’ perception of love.
Consternation about your personal uselessness in fixing Bahrain or rebuilding Japan.
Unnerving realizations that sentence combining is something you consider a hobby.
Bitterness that you never built yourself a treehouse where you could burrito yourself into a blanket and read by flashlight into the wee hours of the rainstorm. 
The dull but omnipresent junior high hurt of recognizing that cliques still exist and your still not part of them.

So my dear readers, nothing profound or prolific for you tonight. Just thoughts to chew on for a bit. Also, Here’s an indie photo for you to salivate over. Thought it capped off my blankness nicely.

I’m off to go read a YA lit novel. And I feel great about it.

Happy Wednesday to you. 

Warming Trends

Posted on by Sierra
Usually, in February, the cold fronts—metaphorical and physical—start to move in. Big frosty waves amble across the airwaves, glittering on our car windows and haunting our brittle bones. The snow is incarcerating, the frost taste-able, and the clouds enveloping. But I’m finding, the most frustrating thing about Cold in February is that it is typically more of an emotional personality rather than a state of physical temperament.
But even though today, February 1, is probably one of the coldest days of the year, I’m finding that February Cold is losing conviction, giving way to temptations, and having something of a love affair with Warming Trends. Thus, my emotional forecasting is predicting: temperate.
Though I like to think I project outward warm waves, I know that internally when I decide to let someone in, there’s some inner-ice that needs to be broken.
I suppose, this February evening, I am grateful for those people who suit up, buckle down, and ice skate across my inner-ice, turning my soul into hot chocolate. So thanks to these special people; you’re the reason for my unseasonable warming trend.

Starting Over Number 1

Posted on by Sierra

        It has recently come alarmingly to my attention that I should have written in my blog more during 2010. Unbeknownst to me, a special someone was collecting my blog posts, gathering them up, and binding them in a special little book, so that I could feel the joy of being published. And I petered out in September. Not to diminish the extreme treasure this little book is to me, or to diminish the extreme treasure the giver of the book is to me—but it feels incomplete—just like all the other projects and goals that I was so excited about at the beginning of 2010.
        But let me explain something. I love new beginnings. I love a clean slate. I love the first of the month. I love blank notebooks that are ready to be filled with a gigantor list of all the things I want to do that day/week/month/year/instant. I love birthdays and holidays, because all of these times are “Starting Over” times for me—times that I can recommit to stop biting my fingernails (which have been growing strong since my birthday in early December, in case you were wondering), or to start working out, or to write in my blog more often.
            Yet, seeing as every day is not a “starting over point,” and seeing that I stopped “starting over” with my blog in September–this leads my to my newest New Years Resolution:  No more “starting over” landmarks. 
Every day is the first day. 
Tackle your goals as if it’s the first day of the year, and this is the year you finally decided to start using dental floss.  
Fill your notebooks with scribbles, and letters, and pictures, and thinkings so that at the end of the year, your book is full.

You lived your life. At least that’s what I’ll tell myself by the end of 2011. 
            I’m back, blogger friends, and it feels so nice. Happy Starting Over Day #1. See you on Starting Over Day # 2.

The Love Discourse: Installment One–Crushes

Posted on by Sierra
A Crush Defined
I was the kind of kid that brought her toys to recess. Whether or not I had friends at recess was sort of a day-to-day variance, and in the boyfriend department, when others were starting to get their first crushes and romances, I was woefully behind. Then Evan Coad moved in.
Evan Code was a sixth grader. He was apparently taller than Mr. Erickson, the sixty-five-year-old math teacher, which was (quite literally) a big deal. Fifth graders were all a buzz about the blonde new arrival. I, of course, allowed my innate sense of “boys are gross” to kick in, and insisted that “Evan Coad [is] disgusting!” This was before I had ever seen him. But I had an alarmingly cavalier assurance that Evan Coad was, in fact, male, and therefore, not worth my time.
A fated assembly brought Evan and I together… by proximity anyway. Mrs. Covert’s class was the last row of fifth graders, and Ms. McDowell’s class was the first row of sixth graders. And I think it was Danielle Guyerson, though I could be wrong on that one, who leaned over to me and said, “Oh my gosh, Sierra! You are so lucky! Evan Coad is sitting right behind you.” So I turned. I looked. And I finally beheld.
The sixth grade Paris, himself. Brad Pitt in miniature (only not that miniature because he was really tall). Blonde hair gelled up in a hairdo that looked like a breaking wave, blue eyes the color the wave might have been were it real. We made eye contact, before I promptly turned around and tried to spit up the butterflies in my stomach. Evan Coad was my first real crush.
He was the kind of crush that I come to know very well. The kind of crush where your heart just whips out the white flag and surrenders. The kind of crush where giraffes do jumping jacks in your stomach (an interesting visual, I’m sure). The kind of crush that requires a jaw massage periodically throughout your day because you’ve been grinning for twenty-four straight hours (yes, even in your sleep).  The kind of crush that one specifically designated for middle school, but crops up every so often in the middle of your college French class.  Crushes are the sweet-suffering for an unobtainable someone, and the emphasis is on the “unobtainable” part.