A Green Christmas

It's been seven years since I lived in the Pacific Northwest during the winter, and I have to say, as much as I hate the snow it's a little weird to be coming into December without it. 

And Then There Were Four

I attended my very first concert in 2007. Snow Patrol, a new listen for me, and OK Go opened the concert for them. It was a cold March night in Salt Lake, and I went with a boy who'd broken up with me a month before, but we were still friends. The concert was loud and overwhelming, but so fun, and the lead singer shared a great anecdote about singing Set Fire to the Third Bar in San Diego.

Really crappy photo taken on a phone before the iPhone existed.

My next concert happened a little over a year later. In May 2008, while home for the summer, I drove with Kirs and her good friend Sarah out to Bend to see Death Cab for Cutie, with The Decemberists and Mates of State opening. As we waited to get in we could hear the band tuning, and as they ran through What Sarah Said it started to rain and the entire line began to sing along with the band. It was magical.

Kirs and I waiting in line.

Sarah and I at the concert. We were smashed up in the front.

My last concert was probably the most fun. While I was in Jerusalem Kait and Erik started dating, and they got engaged the following May. I discovered Erik's love for Kelly Clarkson on Kaitlyn's birthday, and that spring of 2009 when Kait was home in Oregon but Erik and I were still in Provo I accompanied him to the Kelly Clarkson concert at UVU. I have only seen Erik more excited one other time in our friendship (the day he and Kait got married) than when we went to that concert. He was beaming; it was just as much fun to watch Erik as it was to watch Kelly Clarkson. And her live version of Miss Independent was better than any recording possible.

A double rainbow over the stage. The rain was rockin'.

Tonight will be my fourth, and quite probably best, concert. At 7:00 p.m. in the TD Gardens, McCall and I will dance like crazy people while listening to Coldplay. I finally get to wear the glow-in-the-dark musically-coordinated bracelets, and see the patented Coldplay confetti. I can't wait. 

You're young enough to cliff dive, Mom

On Saturday, Mel and I met up with Calvin and Reed downtown to watch this year’s cliff diving competition. That’s right, cliff diving. We watched men jump off the 88 foot ICA into the Boston Harbor, doing dives I’ve only ever seen before in the Olympics. It was amazing. Our favorite diver was named Slava Polyeshchuk. His name was cool, but really I loved him because he was 45. 45 years old and diving off 88 foot buildings. Wild. He didn’t win (poor Slava), but he was still the most impressive because of his age. Which, today, is the same age as my mother. I hope she doesn’t care that I just broadcasted that on the internet. But when I mentioned the similarity to Calvin, his response was, “Your mom is a baby.” So 45 is young, Mom. You know Malone thinks so too.

The older I get—and we know that 23 is so, so much older than 45—the more I realize that I am becoming my mother. At times this concerns me, because if the pattern follows and she becomes her mother and my grandma becomes her mother then that means eventually I’ll be like my Great-Grandma Marge, and I’m not sure I’m entirely comfortable with that (though don’t get me wrong, I love Grandma Marge). But the fact that our birthdays are a mere two weeks apart has always made it easy to compare. To play Dad’s favorite game, “If your life were like your mother’s,” I’d be married three years with a one-year-old. Strange thought.

Really though, I’ve inherited many excellent qualities (and maybe a few not so excellent) from my mom:

My love of Gone with the Wind. It was her favorite book first. And her mom’s before that. I’m sensing a strong pattern here.

My love of shoes (though, thankfully, not her wide feet). I’ve been told when my parents were first married my mom had about a hundred pairs of shoes, and Dad’s brothers were astounded when they helped them move into their new apartment. But they didn’t grow up with girls, so they wouldn’t understand.

My love of American history. My mom majored in American Studies and seriously considered going to law school (then she got married and had me instead). Don’t tell my grandpa, but there is always a part of me that wishes I could go to law school.

My love and knowledge of the English language. I’m a bit more (okay, a lot more) fanatic about linguistics than my mom, but she certainly instilled in all of her children a desire to read, and an ability to use words well. While on newspaper staff in high school, if we could not come to an editing agreement Malone would have me call my mom, and she was the deciding vote. We went with her every time. I still ask her opinion on occasion when I can’t remember something and Chicago is unavailable.

My love of studying medical information. My mom loves to hear about illnesses, surgeries, the way the body works. I, too, like it as long as I don’t have to see anything. I loved living with premed/nursing/public health roommates while at BYU so I could ask questions and learn a little bit about their anatomy/physiology/virology classes. They’re fascinating. And maybe part of the reason I’m a bit of a hypochondriac.

My love of mystery/detective shows and books. Mom still watches Perry Mason and Magnum P.I. when she folds laundry. I introduced her to Psych and Bones, and I think she’d probably like Covert Affairs. She let me read all her Nancy Drew novels as a little girl, and I’ve read every Mary Higgins Clark book in our house and Grandma’s multiple times (except for A Cry in the Night because that one still creeps me out too much). We both love Laurie King’s Mary Russell series too, though sadly my mom does not share my love of Sherlock Holmes. But she might like John Buchan’s The Thirty-Nine Steps. That one was a lot of fun.

My love of garlic and chocolate (but not together). French bread is a frequent purchase, sometimes not making it out of the store completely whole. Mom keeps brownie mix in constant food storage rotation, and whenever it is 10 for $10 at the store I purchase at least four boxes. We also have at least three cartons of ice cream in the house at any given time, but I have a feeling that’s more a product of Grandpa Nels and Dad than it is of my mom.

My love of design. I realized that my attraction to the design aspect of publishing is probably due in part to my mom’s scrapbooking. I don’t scrapbook like she does (I still haven’t finished my Jerusalem book and it’s been almost three years), but scrapbooking is very design-oriented. I think that’s probably part of the reason I can see things so well, even if I’m not as good at producing them myself.

My love of knowing things. I want to know everything that is going on with everybody. Not to use the information, just to store it away in my head. I get this from my mother.

My love of classy decoration. My mom has a specific style when it comes to paints, fabrics, furniture, light fixtures, handles, appliances, and anything else with which you fill a home. It’s an excellent style, and other people appreciate her opinion (Mom helped Lisa with some decisions in the new house, and they were quite lovely). While my own style deviates slightly from hers, I definitely get my sense of home décor from her.

On her 40th birthday.

Happy birthday, Mom! You could dive off a cliff if you wanted, you're still young. I hope you at least make Megan and Jessie take you to Brick Oven for dinner since you're in Provo. Or Los Hermanos. Oh, and eat a mint brownie! And Graham Canyon ice cream. Man, I wish I could come too.

Come and see me and we'll brush up on bad habits

I did not hear my alarm this morning. This is the second time in two days.

Not good.


I think it's partially because I've become incredibly lazy since leaving BYU. Let's review the last 18 months of my life, shall we?


January 2010: Begin final semester of school (15 credits). Begin dating a boy. Complete three grad school applications. Work 20 hour weeks. Completely booked schedule 8--5 daily. Fill evenings/weekends with boy, homework, roommates, (very rarely) reading.

February 2010: Begin selling my soul to Stowaway. Begin applying to summer jobs. Receive Emerson acceptance; worry about decision. Continue dating a boy. Continue working 20 hour weeks. Continue completely booked schedule 8--5 daily. Fill evenings/weekends with boy, homework, roommates, (very rarely) reading.

March 2010: Begin to panic about my IS course that is rapidly nearing its deadline. Begin major sociolinguistics project. Completely sell my soul to Stowaway. Break up with a boy. Receive NYU acceptance; worry about decision. Continue applying to summer jobs. Continue working 20 hour weeks. Continue completely booked schedule now 8--6 or 7 daily. Fill evenings/weekends with homework, Stowaway, (rarely) roommates, (very very rarely) reading.

April 2010: Continue completely booked schedule now 8--10 or 11 daily. Continue working 20 hour weeks. Finish IS course in two weeks with -5 days to spare. Finish sociolinguistics project with three hours to spare. Finish three rounds of proofreading changes for Stowaway with two days to spare. Finish all other projects and papers by the skin of my teeth. Finish five finals. Do not fill evenings/weekends as they no longer exist. Graduate. Find a summer job. Make a decision (Emerson).


And here's where things change (drastically) . . .

May 2010: Quit work at IS. Begin work at InfoTrax. Play with roommates and Spokane boys.

June 2010: Continue work at InfoTrax. Look for Boston housing. Attend weddings. Visit home. Play with roommates and Spokane boys.

July 2010: Continue working at InfoTrax. Look for Boston housing. Attend weddings. Play with roommates and Spokane boys.

August 2010: Continue working at InfoTrax. Find Boston housing. Attend weddings. Pack. Quit InfoTrax. Play with roommates and Spokane boys. Move to Boston.

September 2010: Start evening classes. Look for a job. Explore Boston. Visit Washington DC.

October 2010: Continue classes. Look for a job. Explore Boston. Visit New York.

November 2010: Continue classes. Look for a job. Explore Boston. Visit Washington DC.

December 2010: Finish classes. Look for a job. Explore Boston. Home for Christmas.

January 2011: Visit Provo. Beat a snowstorm. Start evening classes + internship. Look for a job.


Now this is where things pick up again . . .

February 2011: Continue classes + internship. Find a job. Start a job.

March 2011: Continue classes + internship. Work 40 hour weeks. Continue completely booked schedule 8:30--11 daily. Visit Washington DC. Fill weekends (no evenings) with homework, roommates, (very rarely) reading.

April 2011: Continue classes + internship. Continue working 40 hour weeks. Continue completely booked schedule 8:30--11 daily. Begin Salman Rushdie paper (and obsession). Visit New York. Visit Connecticut. Fill weekends (no evenings) with homework, roommates, (very rarely) reading.

May 2011: Finish classes + internship. Finish Salman Rushdie paper with eight minutes to spare. Develop nasty cold. Continue working 40 hour weeks. 


But then another downhill spiral . . .

June 2011: Continue working 40 hour weeks. Visit home.

That time that slowed down between May 2010 and March 2011 was too long. Almost a year not filled with an insane schedule, and the two months back wasn't enough to get me to focus. So I'm back to wasting tremendous amounts of time.

Blast.


Good news is, one week until the insanity starts again. And this time it won't end until May 2012.

Here's hoping I survive it.

What happens when you don't see a doctor

So apparently (per 500 Days of Summer, one of the greatest movies ever made) Henry Miller once said that the best way to get over a woman is to turn her into literature. I am not trying to get over a woman (cue sigh of relief there), but I am particularly irritated with some of my limbs today. Perhaps the suggestion applies to difficulties other than unrequited love.

This is a story of acute physical pain. Now, I haven’t broken a femur or been in labor, but apparently my experience was pretty close.

Four and a half years ago as a dorm-living freshman at BYU, I ran down my dorm stairs to go to watch the Tuesday devotional with Kait, and I tripped. Luckily, it was the lower end of the stairs and not the upper end, but I still fell and subsequently rolled my ankle and broke the fourth metatarsal in my right foot. (That’s right, I know anatomy terms.) Although it hurt, I was not aware that it was broken, and because of this (and my previous negative experiences with doctors) I did not get it checked for six months. And then not again for another six.

A year after the initial break I began seeing a podiatrist in Provo who tried a variety of methods to fix said broken bone: A brace, medication, three weeks in a boot (in Provo in February). After none of that worked, he suggested giving me a shot of celestone, a steroid that would help soothe the inflammation around the joint that was broken so it could heal itself properly. So, on the allotted day my dear roommate Jamie walked with me to the podiatrist’s office to get this shot.

Jamie (on left) at her bridal shower, a month after her heroic accompaniment.

Going to the office I think Jamie was more worried than I was. She stayed in the waiting room while I went back with the doctor, but by the time I was in the chair and he was preparing the celestone, I was nervous. I asked him how much it would hurt.

“Well, more than a normal shot, but less than childbirth.”

???

Could you possibly have given me a wider range of pain? (NO.)

As I mentioned before, I’ve never been in labor, but I am absolutely certain that this injection was much closer to childbirth than a normal shot. Apparently Jamie heard me whimpering from the waiting room (the walls are pretty thin there, don't think I was being really loud) and panicked. It definitely hurt worse than the broken bone, and I stayed off my foot (and on my couch) for two days.

This is what I looked like while in the boot. Actually, this is what I looked like most of the year regardless of the broken foot. That was my couch, and so help me, if I was home no one else could sit on it.

Two years later the same podiatrist gave me the same injection for a last-ditch attempt to solve this problem. I reminded the doctor of his description two years prior, and he said, "Oh. Well, we'll talk you through it." He then tried to carry on conversation as he was inflicting my foot with fiery pain: How's the summer? When do you move to Boston? Are you excited about Emerson? But I really only remember managing this response: "It's really hard for me to form coherent sentences right now."

This time it was my lovely roommate Kim who took me to the doctor, and knowing how badly it hurt the first time, I had her drive me straight home rather than going back to work. 

Me and Kim (and Melis) the day after, at Annie's wedding.

We were on our feet the next day for Annie’s wedding. Holy goodness, did that hurt. But these guys took care of me, and didn't even complain (much) when I asked them to get things for me so I wouldn't have to walk. Thanks, dears.

Dunkball in tuxes. Heck yes we did. (Photos stolen from Melis.)

BYU Independent Study, this is Allison

The summer I worked fulltime for BYU Independent Study was, for the most part, a good, happy summer.  I loved my coworkers and my boss, and I was (dare I say) excellent at my job. The only downside was how terribly slow my particular position was during the summer—while everyone else had to fly through hundreds of emails a day, I was lucky if I got fifteen.

Once the rest of the department slowed down as well we started finding ways to make the eight hours pass more interestingly: MASH, Dusty Britches, bocce ball, daily trips to the Creamery, online quizzes, blog stalking, and an occasional lunchtime adventure.

My favorite lunchtime adventure came at the request of my boss, Lauren. It was a dreadfully hot day in July, and we were both tired of work and starving. If I remember properly, about half the department was out as well, which made time move even more slowly. For whatever reason, that day Lauren was not able to leave for lunch, but she desperately wanted (craved? she was pregnant) Wendy’s. After discussing this for some time she said, “Allison, if I give you my keys and my credit card would you go pick up some food for me? And an orange drink. Get something for yourself, too.” Happy for any reason to leave the office when it was that slow, I obliged.

I took the keys and credit card, along with my purse and sunglasses, and left the cool office for the scorching heat of Utah in July. The car Lauren drove was small and yellow, with black stripes (or was it a checkered pattern? now I can’t remember) along the sides. I got inside, put the key in the ignition, and the car wouldn’t start. Nope, it set off an alarm instead.

I somehow stopped the alarm and tried again. No dice. What the crap is wrong with this car? Or maybe it’s me. I did have trouble starting my own car on the way to that piano recital. And I can never get home from Powell’s properly. Maybe I have bad car karma. (That was a nice little phonetic joke for you.)

Somewhat shamefacedly, I went back into the office to tell Lauren that I didn’t know how to start her car without alerting the police, not to mention the entire neighboring area. Thankfully, there was a reason for it. What reason I certainly do not remember, so if ever I come across that car again I’m absolutely sure I would set off the alarm.

But I made it to Wendy’s, and we had a delicious lunch.

In Memoriam

Photo of Provo City Cemetery found here

I’ve always loved Memorial Day weekend. Not because of the weather or the day off or the soldiers (sorry). No, I loved it because it meant a weekend with Dad.

Every Memorial Day weekend that I can remember existing meant Mom would pack a small bag of clothing, a large bag of photos and paper, and fly to Provo, Utah, to spend three solid days scrapbooking and eating M&Ms with Krista and Shelly. While she was there, we would play games and go on adventures with Dad, often involving a trip to Sweet Tomatoes and maybe a bike ride. The best part, though, was that on one night during the weekend, Dad would let us eat ice cream in his bed!

(DON'T TELL MOM!)

In later years, my favorite part shifted from the bedroom ice cream to the small Memorial Day service held at the Winona Cemetery. Some things are said by the cemetery committee, Taps is played, fighter planes fly overhead. We were always given small red poppies to wear. And sometimes cookies to eat.

The two summers I spent in Provo I was sad to know I wouldn’t be going to the Winona Cemetery or eating ice cream in bed. I was able to participate in the scrapbooking weekend (albeit somewhat begrudgingly included by my mother), but it wasn’t quite the same. The Monday following Memorial Day, though, I went to the Provo City Cemetery with my ward to clean up all the flowers left there the week prior. That was always a good experience, particularly when they let me drive the truck with the bed-load of flowers to the dumpster.

This Memorial Day I’ll be heading to the Mount Auburn Cemetery in Cambridge. Gotta keep some traditions alive, right? Maybe when I get home I’ll eat ice cream in bed.

This post is dedicated to Katelyn Anderson

A little over a year ago, I was still working at BYU Independent Study, ready to embark on a summer adventure filled with software I didn’t understand, my first real foray into public transportation, way too much Dr. Pepper, and an overwhelming abundance of male coworkers. As I was preparing to leave the job I’d had and girls I’d loved for over a year and a half, Katelyn suggested (requested?) that I start a blog, “so we can keep up with your life.” I did that, a year ago, today. And I have never catalogued my life in so detailed a way than I have the past year (except perhaps for a series of letters that once found their way to Europe). So Katelyn, thank you. After nearly 23 years, I have finally figured out what medium of journaling works for me, and it is because of you.

On a sadder note, Melis left me yesterday (then Dema went on a date and JM was studying and another friend bailed on me too; poor, sad night for Allison). We had a lovely weekend, none of which I captured on film (or SD card). But I did take two photos on my phone at the MFA.

There is an exhibit currently featuring the work of Dale Chihuly, a glass artist from Seattle. Oh man. Gorgeous stuff; if you live in the area, go see the exhibit. If you do not live in the area, go to his website and see where some of his work is near you. It was so cool. I felt like I was under water the entire time. I will probably be heading back at least once before the exhibit ends.

Because everyone left me last night I ended up running in the rain, and discovered a few things: A) Running in the rain is way more fun than running in the sun. 2) Running to JEW is way more motivating than running without any music. D) . . . I don’t have a D.

But I did have left over Indian food for dinner.

It's Been A Year

BYU has been on my mind this week.

It was finals week in Provo, and I talked a lot to various friends and family members about their state of aliveness throughout the week. Thankfully, they all survived well.

I talk to them on a regular basis, often about school, so that wasn’t abnormal. The striking thing about this week is that it’s also graduation—and at this exact hour a year ago I was graduating. A year.

Yesterday evening I was talking with a dear friend who happens to be in town and he mentioned that he was really glad I moved to Boston. Partly because we’re now on the same coast and see each other more than just at Christmas, but more because I was able to leave Provo and the whole BYU scene. While I agree that I would not want to live in Provo again and I am so glad I am here, it made me realize how much I do value that time in my life. A year ago I was certain that I would look back on my four years at BYU in a very specific light, shadowed by very specific experiences, and that view really frustrated me. I didn’t want all of my memories dominated by these experiences.

But it’s been a year, and they aren’t what I remember anymore.

I remember how blessed I was to have so many educational opportunities in devotionals and forums, something that I greatly miss.

I remember how much I loved my program, professors, and classmates. I still love them.

I remember how amazing my Jerusalem trip was, something that I could not have had at any other school.

I remember how nice it was to live so close to Todd and Allison, and to spend a year in the same city as Megan and Desiree.

I remember how I met some of my best friends, who are such great examples.

A year ago today. It went by so fast.

Like a jackal.

General Conference

It's my favorite weekend of the year (plus the first weekend in October). Eight hours of spiritual recuperating, plus listening to the nuances of Dieter Uchtdorf's gorgeous German accent.

And today we heard from President Samuelson! Oh, Cecil. I felt like I was back at BYU.


So take a gander, why don't you? It will be well worth your while.


Unrelated, why do we say "take a gander"? Actually, I may be the only person in existence to use this phrase anymore, but it's definitely the second time I've said it this week. If you can enlighten, I'd be much obliged.

Dead (Potentially)

I'm getting sick. I can feel it coming; it started Tuesday night, although I don't think I realized it then. It was creeping through me yesterday, I could feel it in my bones and behind my eyes. Plus I had hot and cold flashes all day long, but my office is the same temperature it always is and I'm only 22.

Why, hello fever. Nice to see you too. Couldn't you have come in FEBRUARY? Like always.

Nope.



Tonight BYU plays Florida in the Sweet 16. While they performed outstandingly well on Saturday (seriously, so well), I'm a little nervous again. K, no, a lot nervous. Since my bracket is completely shot after last weekend I figured I could cheer for my alma mater, though I do hate all the emails they send me. I'm not a student anymore, I don't need to know about deals for sports events. Sheesh.

But come on BYU! Be good just this once. Again.

Also, go vote here.

I think this one might be my favorite:

This Way

As I walked home in the freezing cold from the bus stop tonight, I realized something:

The snow is mostly gone.

Spring is coming, people.


In other news, I got to see a good friend tonight that I didn't expect to see until May. No, not Melis, although that would have made my month. A friend from freshman year and the ELang program was in town babysitting her nephew and I found out this morning, so we set up dinner. Went to Wagamama in Harvard Square (quite delicious) and then J.P. Licks for dessert (black raspberry chocolate hard yogurt with hot fudge = so. freaking. good.). I loved seeing her and talking to her about my life and her life and linguistic-y things we've been noticing lately. She should be back with her husband (who I also love; he hollered for me at graduation) in May, so hopefully I'll get to see her again. I was always glad that we were friends; I admire her a lot. And her nephew was so stinking cute.

Tomorrow I want to go to Brookline and search through some of the Jewish shops. I have an idea percolating, and if it actually works out it will be fabulous.

'Night, darlings.

Speedy Fast (Like a Jackal) Post, I have to get back to India

I would be remiss if I didn't mention the State of the Union address. Actually, there are a few things that run along those lines I've been wanting to discuss.

However.

I've spent tons of hours alternating between reading A Passage to India and the history of British colonialism in India, specifically the Mutiny of 1857, for the last three days and my brain is completely exhausted. As are my eyes. But those don't really make much of a difference while thinking.

Which means, I'll discuss those things later in the week. Instead, today I'm just going to say that at 9:30 p.m. when my physical being will be almost out of my literature class, my spirit will be in Provo, Utah. Specifically Pizza Pie Cafe. Hopefully eating some delicious cheese bread and the one dessert pizza Michael thinks is so great. Spiritually, of course. Meaning my spirit will be there, not I'll be eating religiously. Usually I don't make such long treks in the middle of winter (and another blizzard coming), but when they're celebrating for this guy

Who could stay away?

Happy birthday, Thomas.