Author: Sierra

Our Story

Posted on by Sierra
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.

A Literally Sweet Victory

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Fear not, friends. This will not become a cooking blog. But I did want to report on my relative success that was the Nutella cupcake.
No, No, it’s no “Cocoa Bean,” or “Sweet Tooth Fairy.” But thanks to Jeremy’s manly whisking ability, my immutable persistence, and pulling the cupcakes out of the oven five minutes too early, I think we ended up with a real hit here!
Be proud of me a little?

Jumping In… Cupcake Style

Posted on by Sierra

I’m a complete disaster with an apron and a whisk. I missed that part of “Life 101” where you learn to cook and bake and stuff. Recently, however, I’ve felt this weird magnetic pull to all things actually edible instead of processed… and I’ve been cooking! A lot! To great success by-and-large.

But mostly, I just leave the baking to the pros. Baking is very different. Baking is hard. There are a lot of mistakes to make when you are baking. Typically I make all of them, and that is just with the Betty Crocker mixes too.

But not today! Today, I found a recipe for these:

And you know what? I’m going to make these dang NUTELLA cupcakes if it kills me. 
These are probably some of the more advanced cupcakes in the world. From what I understand, it involved injecting nutella into the center with a pipette. I’m still trying to understand the science to this. It’s probably madness to start baking with a cupcake of this caliber.
But I promise you this: These cupcakes will not look this beautiful. They might be burnt and they will likely be crumbled. But watch out world. 

Today, Sierra Robinson is putting on an apron. 

Writer Fingers

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I’ve never felt quite at the top of my writing game as I did when I was in France. I was an au pair for a lovely little french family, the Michea’s, and they had a charming little balcony that overlooked their little villa. I could lean over the railing and touch the romantic laundry billowing from the romantic laundry lines. Nightly I would pull up this little table, while Laetitia would make me a cup of Lipton herbal apple cinnamon tea (a treat I still cannot find in the states), and I would light this little lantern and write by tea light. And it was magical. All the writer powers that be were with me those nights.


Yet writing is a fickle talent. 

Sometimes the words through your veins like blood cells, and sometimes they clot the second they reach the page.

But tonight, I’ve got the fingers. So I put on my french singer mix, lit myself a tea light, and I am going to let the words come out.

Tell me, dear readers, what are your talents? Are they fickle too?

Tell Me True

Posted on by Sierra

So, a recent survey of Google Analytics yielded some interesting results. I have readers in Yemen!? What?!

Basically, I am curious to see where my blogger readership actually comes from. Who is simply surveying my site, while who is actually reading it? Please comment on this blog and provide your state or country, but you can exclude all personal username info.

However, if you would like to tell me anymore about yourself, I am dead curious to know :).

Thanks friends!

I’m finally hardcore.

Posted on by Sierra

You must understand: I am a pansy.  I have reason to suspect that I am cold-blooded. I am always cold if the thermometer drops below 70 degrees. And even sometimes if it is 70 degrees, my feet are typically cold anyways.
So whenever I see a “hardcore jogger” jogging in any sort of inclement weather, I give them a vicarious shudder from my passing car, and burrow deeper into my sweater.
However, since it’s basically the summer months, I have decided that it’s about the right time in my life to finally work jogging into my life’s regimen. So this morning, resolute in my determination, I looked out the window. If there is even a teensy cloud in the sky, my jogging outfit consists of the following:
1.     1.Whatever shirt I was wearing to bed…
2.     2. Covered by a warmer long sleeve shirt
3.     3. Customary jogging shorts
4.    4. Woolen Leggings beneath the shorts.
5.    5.  Sweatpants on top of that.
6.    6. Snowboarding socks
7.    7.  Also, usually last nights smeary make up to ward of creepy construction workers that whistle at you while you jog. Gives me peace of mind anyway.
Still, I braved the perfectly fine looking morning and began my jog.
Have you ever been in one place and it’s not raining, and then step into a place right next door and it IS raining in that place? I literally ran headlong into a storm that passed over my apartment and began torrential downpour right along my path. Not only that, but winds reached hurricanic speeds, yanking the blossoming white flower petals from the trees. It looked like I was running through a tornado of snow petals! I realized with pleasure that if I had driven by myself in a car, I would have shivered vicariously for myself!
On my way home (which, admittedly occurred five minutes after the start of my jog), I passed a bunch of other hardcore joggers along the way. Rather than pitying and admiring them, I finally felt a sense of solidarity with them (even if they were wearing shorts and t-shirts). With pride and pleasure, I crossed “being a hardcore jogger” off my life’s bucket list in one day!
I’m never doing that again!
Don’t you just like the look on her face? Hardcore. Determined. Warm.

Noah Installment 2: Hand Bell Day

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The hand bell tables indicated that it was going to be another horrible day in music class—another day where we had to shove our hands into smelly gloves worn by other smelly fifth graders, another day where we had to play “Hark the Herald, Angels Sing,” for the fiftieth time. We ushered into the classroom with various groans and found our numbered spaces on the risers with juvenile melancholy.
 “No Noah today?” Asked Mrs. Reynolds, her graying eyebrow twitching with ill-disguised pleasure. Class without Noah at least made things a little easier.
  The class exchanged perplexed glances. Hadn’t Noah ushered in with the rest of us? Hadn’t he uttered a dirty word under his breath when he saw the hand bell tables?
 Mrs. Reynolds perched herself behind her hand bell table and began another tiresome lecture about how we were never to touch the bells (lest our fifth-gradery-ness was contagious and infected the barrel with cooties). Behind her frameless glasses, she gave us looks that could raise our blood pressure.
The first time it happened quickly. Only a few people barely spotted the massive blue cabinet door open and close behind Mrs. Reynolds’ lecture. A slight whisper exchanged ears. The next time, Noah decided to savor the reaction a little more. The cabinet door opened, just a crack, and he inserted one index finger out the crevice. Slowly, and one by one, all of his fingers joined his index. From the risers, we just saw a disembodied hand waggling his flirtatious phalanges at us. There was giggling from the risers.
 Mrs. Reynolds chose to ignore it at first. Until various appendages of kept materializing from behind the cabinet door every five minutes or so. She started to blush, and get agitated as the giggles mounted. She checked her dress, and felt her bum for a wedgie. She ran her tongue across her teeth to see if breakfast was still lodged between two of them. Figuring that her appearance was normal,  she strapped each one of our souls to a lie detector with her eyes, but none of us yielded the secret source of our laughter.
 Finally, after a prolonged absence (Noah had a way with comedic timing), Noah decided to reveal his true identity. Slowly languishing in the laughter that sustains a class clown, Noah peeked his entire head out of the cabinet door. The risers erupted with uproarious laughter now. Mrs. Reynolds swung her head around frantically looking for the final source of the eruption, but Noah had nimbly tucked himself behind his safe haven again without nary a snap of sealing cabinets. Mrs. Reynolds was flummoxed and upset.
About midway through the class, Noah got bored or hot or something. The cabinet door opened its final time, and Noah silently crept out. The class collectively inhaled, certain that Noah would meet his doom. Noah darted right past Mrs. Reynold’s foot without being noticed. Now he was hiding underneath the hand table, so the entire class could see him except our woe-begotten teacher. Unfortunately, it seemed that there was little way to get to the risers from his current location. Then that characteristically devilish grimace slid across Noah’s face as he caught sight of Mrs. Reynolds’ foot. The class was silent, in solidarity for our comrade and his quest.
Noah reached down, every second of his hand’s dissent feeling laboriously slow, and then he pinched Mrs. Reynolds’ foot. She hopped, and yanked her gaze downward, but Noah was as quick as a jack rabbit. He withdrew his hand, and darted silently back onto his numbered spot on the risers. Mrs. Reynolds never even realized he was back. I think she even chose him to be in the first batch of students to play the hand bells that day.

You Try Being A Fifth Grade Girl

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Every teacher has a Noah Osborne: You know, one of those kids that, as a teacher, you’re supposed to discipline. But Noah Osbornes make you laugh so hard that you can’t even inhale enough air to support your laughter, let alone breathe out the word “Stop,” with any sort of conviction that that is what you would like them to do. Basically what I mean is that Noah Osborne was a class clown. 
And he was good at it.
  To paint a picture of Noah Osborne for you, I turn back to fifth grade. The Growing and Changing unit: The unit pre-adolescent girls dread with their whole hearts and souls, and the only science unit wherein pre-adolescent boys give their rapt attention. To this day, I’m not quite sure fifth grade boys, or even girls for that matter, can handle words like “ovulation.” Perhaps this story will illustrate my point.
I remember one particularly alarming video that was supposed to assuage the girls’ fears about their changing bodies. For some reason, they allowed the boys to watch it too. I still remember this unnerving narration (complete with ANIMATED VISUAL, to make everything worse):  “Therefore, girls, do not fear. It is perfectly normal for one breast to grow larger than the other.” I remember as a collective female, the girls hung their heads in shame. It’s not like we had them anyway, but now we had to worry about size differentiation in addition to ovulation. The Growing and Changing unit was shockingly unfair.
  Noah had been one such young male who had given this video rapt attention (and if he feels like I’m singling him out just now, I assure you, he was not the only one). That day, during recess, he decided to put his newfound knowledge into practice. Claiming, what I can only guess, that he had the bloody nose from hell, Noah pilfered an entire box of tissues. He stuffed one side of his generic boy t-shirt full to bursting with Kleenex. I can imagine that this involved a sculpting process.
The other side of his shirt, he left completely empty.
Then Noah pranced into the classroom after recess, right in front of Mrs. Covert, chest proudly jutting out and announced.
“Look! I’m a girl!”
It allayed our fears better than any dang video, that’s for sure.  At least we would never look like that. We hoped.
Wanna hear the second Noah Osborne installment? Vote funny enough times and I will enlighten you with that one too.

This Blog Is About Wren

Posted on by Sierra
Today I am going to reward myself for waking up earlier than I had to by writing a blog.
This blog is about Wren.
I don’t know Wren very well; in fact,we’ve only ever met once, but Wren is an inspiration, my latest hero, and if nothing else, Wren deserves a blog.
Wren is taking Arabic.
Wren used to be a doctor.
Wren wears a stunning green plaid polyester jacket with a tie to school every day.
And an old man cap.
Which is appropriate, because Wren is Eighty-Seven years old.
Allie introduced me:
“This is Wren,” she said. “He is 87 years old, and he is taking Arabic.”
…At which all of the wrinkles in his perfect face defied all sorts of gravity laws by dancing into a grin.
“Aren’t I stupid?” He asked, chuckling a slow chuckle.
“On the contrary,” I replied. “You are very smart, and still quite stylish.”
I don’t know why, but I just got the feeling that Wren was recently widowed. I pictured him each morning over a lonely bowl of cereal, straightening his tie and shining his shoes, because classy is the only appropriate attire for school—or at least that’s how it was back in his day. Allie later confirmed: “His wife died eight months ago. He is a retired doctor and is trying to stay busy. He is hoping to go over and be a doctor in the Middle East now.”
I call for a Hurrah for Wren! Hurrah for a man who takes on such a difficult class! Hurrah for a man that loved his wife so much that he needed such heavy distraction. Hurrah for a man of courage,  a man who truly understands “Go Forth to Serve.” And Hurrah for Green Plaid Polyester Jackets too.



Hurrah for you, Wren. Hurrah for you.

Potty Humor (PG 13)

Posted on by Sierra

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.”
It was the nicest thing anyone has ever said.