via

We all know I work in news which allows me access to content from a myriad of sources among them two video servers from ABC and CNN. For about two weeks each of these servers contained a tab with the label "9/11 Anniversary." I've spent so much time looking through these, seeing new pieces I've never seen before, and witnessing how people are still affected by, and teaching the lessons America learned that day.

I've watched stories of teachers struggling with how to teach this generation, who has never known a world any different; I've watched stories of kids who all lost parents that day; I've watched widows and widowers weep in memory of their lost loves; I've cried.; I've watched so much. Ten years later and it still affects me the same way.

I've written before about my own September 11th experience, but on this monumental anniversary it felt right to share it again.

I was sitting in English class during the second week of my sophomore year of high school. My teacher had just instructed us to begin a freewrite about things we wanted to accomplish that year. I attempted to focus on the assignment; that's when another of the English teachers barreled into the room. Mr. Speicher had a tremendously horrified look on his face. He half yelled, half trailed off as he said, "We're being bombed. They've bombed America. They've bombed the World Trade Center." He stumbled to the front of the room and turned on the TV.

There, on the screen, was a still shot of the top of the World Trade Centers. Peter Jennings' voice flooded the room as we sat locked, watching in horror as the second plane hit the south tower. I remember seeing people jumping out of the building. We watched as the towers, one after another, buckled and collapsed.

I was terrified; my world of happiness, harmony, and hope for the future was greatly disturbed. The bell rang at the end of that period and people flooded somberly into the hallways desperately looking for their friends -- all too anxious for some semblance of comfort or normalcy. My best friend Holly and I stared at each other in disbelief. We hugged as tears began running down our faces. I remember praying so hard that no one I knew was on either of those planes. That everything would be okay.

The teachers left the TVs on for most of the day. We quickly learned another plane had careened into the fields of Pennsylvania -- overtaken by so many courageous men and women; unwilling to let it hurt and kill thousands. And yet another had destroyed lives and safety at the Pentagon. It was heartbreaking to learn that the planes that hit the towers left from Logan airport Our airport. The one my dad routinely flew out of.

I remember kids getting excused to learn that their family members were part of this terrible tragedy. At the end of the day parents rushed to pick up their children. They, too, needed that moment of normalcy and comfort; that life was at least some bit of what it was before 9 am.

I walked outside to find my mom waiting for me; looking so distraught. I asked how my dad was. "He's safe. Worried they won't let him home for a few days, though." He was on a business trip in some European country; and because my dad is a British citizen he was worried it would be some time before they would allow him to travel back home to his family. My mom and I sat in silence, headed to pick up my brothers. I think we were thinking the same thing; my dad flew frequently, and every flight he took to Australia was on American flight 111. The same flight that hit tower one.

Our eyes, minds, hearts were all glued to the destruction, the remnants, the horror left in Lower Manhattan, Pennsylvania and at the Pentagon. The hours stretched into days, and the horror continued. We learned people we loved were affected. They lost loved ones in the horror. In the terror.

Days stretched into weeks; weeks to months; months to years. And now, here we are. Ten years later and it still makes me sick thinking of the utter fear I felt then. I wonder if this is what survivors of December 7th, 1941 feel like. That it quickly became a date, an event for the history books, instead of a reality that destroyed the lives of people we pass on the street. Of people who have homes and lives and families and safety all compromised in this event.

I will never believe this only affected New Yorkers. I will never believe it affected just East Coasters, or Northerners. It was that day that affected Americans.

I'm so grateful for my freedom. For the men and women who fight daily to protect it. And for those who gave their lives, or lost their lives on that day victims of anger and hatred from someone they don't even know.
God Bless America.
We sure need it.

Here are some of my favorite posts I've read and felt I should share:
Natalie, Noelle, Naomi, Megan, and Krysten.
(I'll likely add more as I read more.)

xoxo.

what you don't see...

I've hesitated in writing this the last few days -- but I can't get it off my mind.

Inspiration here and here.

What you don't see when I post pictures of me is that it took me 30 pictures to find one I actually liked because I have a hard time seeing me in them sometimes. Or seeing the me I still want to be. That all I see are too short eyelashes, the zit on my forehead, a double chin in this one, a wrinkle in that one, or evidence of my bad hair day in the other one.

What you don't see is that when I say my life is crazy are the times I hide in my office bathroom sobbing because I'm not quite sure what to do with my life or how to deal.

What you don't see when I post adorable stories about my boyfriend are the worries I have that I'm the worst girlfriend in the world, how I worry that we're the only couple whose ever argued {especially over something stupid), how I wish we could just runaway for a little bit to spend work-free time together, or the nights I fall asleep in his sweatshirt because I'm lonely.

What you don't see when I post about a new jacket, or haircut, or something is the fear I have afterward that I made a bad decision in spending that much money on something because I make so little doing something I was supposed to love. How my doctor's bills give me a full fledged panic attack.

On my blog I told you my brother visited, I didn't tell you it was because I couldn't get any time off.

I told you I was homesick, I didn't tell you how sometimes I miss my family so much my heart actually aches.

I told you I had weekend plans with friends, I didn't tell you I'm often really lonely.

I told you I stayed at home for some alone time, I didn't say it was to do chores, or because my anxiety gets the best of me a lot lately and leaves me crippled in my bed.

I told you I got a cute new bookcase, but I didn't tell you I had to maneuver it through piles of laundry that have been there for weeks. {yes, weeks.}

There are times I look at other people's worlds thinking, wow, she/they really have their act together. They never fight, their house is always spotless, she's instantly trim and fit, she's so fashionable, she buys all the best shoes/clothes or takes the best trips, and I sigh thinking about how shabby my life is in comparisson.

What I need to remind myself is there probably are arguments, frustrations and even fights. There probably are dirty dishes in the sink sometimes or laundry yet to be folded. There probably are times she goes to work out, or doesn't eat something that she really wants to -- because she, too, is self-conscious of her figure. And there are (even more likely) times she scrimps, saves, or works overtime to afford the nice things, the trips, the retail therapy.

I need to remember there are always things we don't see -- and that though I see my faults, my lacks, my problems in GLARING light -- she probably sees hers that way, too.

let's chat about cleavage

Seriously, boy readers ... you may not be so interested in this.

Okay, ladies. Let's talk about boobs.

{Ha. My mom is gonna FREAK when she reads that.}

Any of you who know me in real life know that I'm not ... well, what you would call ... unendowed.

In fact, I'm pretty stacked. I have been since I was 12. When other girls were still running around chasing boys on the playground, I was trying to figure out how to run around with these new body parts of mine without giving myself a black eye.

Over the years I've come to terms with being "stacked." It makes fitting clothes more difficult, exercising usually requires 2 bras (ha. seriously.) ... and finding bras I like that will actually hold the ladies in as well as be comfortable and pretty is a feat of Illiad proportions (especially with straps for 5'2" frame).

Now I've been following this controversy for about a week ... and I needed to finally talk about it.

I doubt many of you have heard of Ashley Graham. She's a gorgeous, tall, normal-sized woman "plus size" model. She's also the focus of a recent controversy.

See, recently both ABC and FOX banned a Lane Bryant commercial from their networks for exposing too much cleavage. But an equally racy spot from lingerie big-wig Victoria Secret, got preferential air time. I'm gonna let you see for yourself:

Lane Bryant commercial

Victoria Secret "The Nakeds" commercial

How can this still be happening? We've had so many articles, movements, celebrities -- why must we CONTINUE letting the media teach us, our sisters, moms, daughters, friends, etc. that to be sexy or beautiful or desired you have to be 1) a size 0, and 2) an object?!!

My favorite way I've seen the controversy summed up is this:

"Though semi-provocative (it's a girl in her underwear, for crying out loud!), the Lane Bryant ad showed nothing that anyone who's seen a weigh-in on "The Biggest Loser" hasn't glimpsed before; meanwhile the Victoria's Secret The Nakeds ad stars flat-tummied Angels in nude-toned bras writhing like they're auditioning for a Whitesnake video ... So for those keeping track at home, here's the score: Size zero, bad. Going unairbrushed, good. Plus size...uncomfortable?"

{found here -- go read the article it's AMAZING.}

Now I'm not saying a naturally (or healthy) size 0 girl is any less worthy of love than a size 22 girl. I'm saying -- PLEASE can we just teach girls, each other, ourselves that a stupid number DOES NOT define beauty.

How about:  

REAL PEOPLE, REAL BODIES, REAL LOVE.

Sound good?!

So what do you all think?

xoxo.

memories all alone in the moonlight...

{via we heart it}

Music is SUCH a big part of me.

It's a HUGE part of my day, my mood, my life, my heart. 

Lyrics, melodies, beats ... all of it.

A song can conjure up memories, can induce heart pounding emotion, can make me smile, tear, laugh, or just plain rock out.

For me music connects me to the world, and connects people to me.

{In fact, musical passion is requisite for anyone wishing to share their life with me, i.e. boyfriends, future husband, etc.} 

I know I've discussed my passion for music before ... and likely will again.

I think we all have songs that are connected to a moment ... a time... a person ... a memory.

Heck, I have entire artists and albums that have these kinds of attachments. 

In some cases, they're WONDERFUL. In others, hearing the first few bars of that song can make my stomach turn. 

In High School on a retreat with some friends from church we were driving around Boston on the way back from the Museum of Art, my mom's friend Carrie (and my friend, too) told me and my high school BFF Holly all about this time she and her friend learned a song, playing it on repeat, so that every time they heard it the would think of that particular trip. So she decided to do the same thing with us. She picked Dixie Chicks' Cowboy Take Me Away ... and to this day, I have it on my iPod just to remind me of this trip and when I hear it ... I always think about driving past the opera house in Carrie's forest green Jeep Cherokee. 

In a different vein the song Big Casino by Jimmy Eat World almost instantly makes my stomach lurch...as it reminds me of the worst boyfriend I've ever had. It was his ringtone on my phone and even now it haunts me. That boy almost ruined Jimmy for me -- but I decided not to give him that power ... and plus I love Jimmy way too much. 

Bleeding Love by Leona Lewis ... will forever remain attached to my dad ... and Megan. During my last summer in Utah, this song played on constant repeat on EVERY local radio station. And during a visit from my dad we would hear it ALL.THE.TIME. And each time it came on (and I'm not kidding) my dad would say, "Did you know Simon Cowell discovered her?" This has also led to quite the running joke in my family with Simon Cowell now inventing or discovering everything from electricity to global warming to love to ... well everything. 

Megan has SO many songs attached to SOOOO many memories (that's what happens when you're together for so long) including Damaged by Danity Kane, to Disturbia, to The Sounds. I can NEVER hear the sounds without thinking of Meg. She had them on repeat for like six months. 

Andante Festivo by Sibelius always makes me think of Josh. That kid has more musical talent, as well as discipline, in his fingernail than I could ever hope to possess. This always reminds me of the first concert I ever went to where he performed -- and I loved love loved this piece.

Jessica Simpson's AWFUL rendition on Take My Breath Away reminds me of my middle school/high school BFF, Holly. One night we listened to it screaming it at the top of our lungs out her open car windows. And it was late. And we live in a small town. I'm actually surprised that someone's parents didn't tell on us. Holly also gets Invisible by Clay Aiken -- because we did the most amazing INTERPRETIVE DANCE to it. Seriously. Senior showcase at church -- and Holly and I dressed up like morons to move around like even bigger morons. I just hope there's no tape of that anywhere in the free world. 

23 by Jimmy Eat World always makes me think of my trip to Disneyland. It was the song I woke up to when we hit Nevada and had to stop for gas. 

The Resolution by Jack's Mannequin was playing the first time I realized I finally felt at home in Eugene -- and that I wanted to be here. 

Kate Voegele's It's Only Life was on the radio as my mom and I drove through Portland when I was moving here. We were having an intense heart to heart about life, my move, me growing up, and everything. This song was the perfect score to that moment. It made us both tear up.

What songs make you think of people/places/moments in your life? 

I'd REALLY love to know.

xoxo. 

accentuating what you really love...

My girl Mandy is counting down the days to Valentines by naming all the things she fell in love with.

And then she posed opportunity for us all to join in.

What was your first love?

(Could be a person, place, thing, activity ... the possibilities are limitless.}

So. I decided to share some of my heart with you. All good and vulnerable like.

My first love, I believe, was sunshine.

I remember, as a very small child, I remember laying outside on a blanket in our yard in Provo just basking in the sunshine. Even more so I remember seeing pictures of myself doing that very thing. But beyond my love of literal sunshine, my momma has ALWAYS called me sunshine. The word holds a special place in my heart. As a child she would sing "You Are My Sunshine" to me all the time. Nowadays, when I'm really down or when I'm feelin kinda lonely, I'll sing it to myself {or at least hum it to myself}. I collect it on art/jewelry/clothes like nobody's business.

The best part? I know I really was/am my momma's sunshine. I knew without any doubt that I was her entire world -- and that she would do ANYTHING for me, for any of us. Sunshine, the name and the big lunar mass, were likely my first love.

Then came music.

Some of my earliest memories involve music. We're a TERRIBLY musical family -- from pop, rock, classic crooners, and soul ... to broadway and old school movie musicals. There was always music in my house (and, usually, with it--dancing). My mom would sing all kinds of songs with us throughout each day. Dad brought the goods -- i.e. Phil Collins. I have powerful and strong memories about singing the Phantom of the Opera with my dad -- who has the most BEAUTIFUL baritone voice. I would sing with him any day. The man can't read music -- but play a song for him once and he'll know the melody forever. My mom has a gorgeous voice -- the most soothing sound in my tiny child world.

I would sing anything and EVERYTHING throughout the house. (Then at one point I decided I wanted to be an Opera singer -- wow, my family regrets me discovering that.) The older I got, the more music became my release. From choirs, to competitions, to instruments, lessons and performances -- I channeled my heart outwardly through music. (Hence my audiophile ways.) Even still, sitting in front of a piano and playing and singing -- just for myself -- takes away the stress like nothing else can.

Quickly, maybe simultaneously, came books and reading.

I remember memorizing Ferdinand the Bull--but making my mom read it to me, regardless. And I'd say the words along with her. Then, as I got older, I got lost in books. I explored Narnia with the Pevensie children, I got lost in the frozen wilderness with the boy in Hatchet, I learned what to and fro of the world with Wilbur and Charlotte, I rejoiced and sorrowed with Jo and Laurie, I sought for equality with Atticus Finch and Boo Radley, chuckled at the opulence of Gatsby's mansion, and generally just escaped reality.

It was through books that I was able to understand my own problems -- through the experiences of others, to escape the sadness or mundanity of my own world in the freedom and fun of another, to learn the joy of the written word and discover what I wanted to do with my life.

These are just three of my "first loves". 

So, my friends ...

What was your first love?

xoxo.

cause life's too short too hate yourself ...

I've always been a girl who's comfortable in her own skin.

I accept who I am, try to be a good person, acknowledge my shortcomings and try to grow and make myself a better person, and love the Siovhan I am. I've always been fine with my intelligence, my sense of humor, my wit and many other facets of my personality.

But, I have my insecure moments.

{Sometimes many more than I'd wish.}

The times when my hair won't do what I want it to, when I feel/look fat, when I have a big fat zit, when my jeans look awkward -- the times I just have a hard time being me.

Tonight I had an insecure moment.

Then I had a mini breakthrough.

See, the other day I took a bunch of silly photos so I could change my Facebook pic (finally).
This is the one I picked.
(grainy effect on Picnik--I love you.)

At one point tonight I looked at it and thought: 'Wow. My skin is really pasty." And then I thought: 'And it looks GREAT with my hair. I love that it's all light and creamy and un-fake.'
And as I looked through a couple more pictures from the same "shoot" I thought, "I like the way I look in a lot of these."

It may not be much -- but it's something. 

And yes, I know I have a duck face. And no I'm not giving it up just yet. And yes, that's my final answer.

And no, this is not some "sneaky" way for to ask you all to validate my looks -- it's a way for ME to validate that I like the way I am (even if just a little).

xoxo.

quirk, quirk, quirk it out...

So I think part of my staggered blogging is due in part to work ... the other is the fact that I just plain don't know what to write about, lately.

There's only so many times you can have a "Weekend Update" about how you worked all day one day, went to church the next, slept, and pretty much just spent the rest of the time sitting on the couch watching Food Network with your boyfriend.

{photo via notebookdoodles}

But as I walked around my apartment last night debating what to make for dinner (at 9:30) I realized:

I am a a big quirky mess. 

Seriously.

I was walking around thinking about a whole bunch of completely random stuff. 

So here are some random thoughts from my tiny little head... or just random facts about me.

I have curly hair...but the only times I really appreciate it are when it's wet outside or when I slept too late -- mousse, scrunch, spray and go is such an easy routine. Like this morning. But one big thing is I have a TON of hair, so when it doesn't want to cooperate -- there is no taming it, it just ends up as this massive, curly mane.

I love pineapple. I will eat it until I get that painful too-much-acidy feeling on my tongue ...and sometimes even after that. Why do you get that feeling, anyway?!

If you're my facebook friend -- you know this one.

I wish Bobby Flay and Paula Dean would get married and adopt me. Not that I'm unsatisfied with my own family -- exactly the opposite. But I'm selfish and think that you would just eat all the most amazing food EVER. OR! They could just use both of their DNA and create a like clone them ... but in one body -- and then that person can be my best friend. Mmmm. Even better idea.

I hate grownup bedroom sets that are beige with a side of beige with beige accents. Why does "grown-up" mean no color pallete?! My room will always have bright colors. Even when I'm old and married and have children and am 45. My deathbed will be sunflower yellow ... because I refuse to leave this world in beige. Seriously -- I give my support to any decorating company that adds actual color (beyond beige, maroon, and lilac) to their bedding merchandise.

I have bottle caps all over my desk. But only Coca-Cola company ones. I save them up and then spend like an hour entering codes into the My Coke Rewards program thing. I've gotten 3 free Blockbuster rentals, 2 free cokes, and a magazine subscription from it. I say, not too shabby.

I don't understand why salon shampoo is so expensive. Or why using it is such a big deal. Yes, I believe taking care of yourself is important. Yes, I love a good hair day. But seriously? $40+ for Shampoo and Conditioner?! Honestly, my hair being that "well taken care of" is not going to solve world hunger, get me that promotion, make a nice guy ask me out, or solve all my woes. In fact, it'll probably add bigger woes to my budget. That being said, I still love the way Biolage smells.

I am generally a clean lines person in regards with tableware. My dishes are either plain colored (red), red with colored lines around the edges, plain white with broad edges, or white with black and red squares on them. My silverware are all plain lines, square at the bottom ... not rounded. Except for the set I inherited from my great-grandpa ... all of those have sunflowers on them. They're cute.

I was drinking and Izze apple soda and consciously thought, "This is SO not as good as Apple Tango." This is a really weird thought because I haven't had Apple Tango since I was 17. It's a British soda and the last time I had it was on my last trip to England. The even worse part? I seriously think about that soda way more than I should. The only relatively okay substitute I've found is Jones Green Apple soda -- but even that's not as good. I need to figure out how to have it sent to me.

I was told, again, last week, for the second time in my life, "Siovhan, you are so quiet. You need to talk more." This to the girl who lived half of elementary school segregated from her classmates because she loved socializing too much. I think, mildly, that it's because I'm afraid of saying something wrong and getting in trouble or because probably 80% of the time I have nothing to add to the conversations that go on around me.

I think there are so many car accidents because people are overworked and overstressed. If people were allowed more free time, fewer ridiculous demands, and if managers had a little compassion there would be fewer people so distracted, destroyed, exhausted -- and then accidentally killing people.

The older I get the more I think Little Women may be my favorite book. It's certainly not the most intellectual book I've ever read, nor the one that stretched my thoughts of the world the most -- but it is among the most honest and sincere things I've ever read. I love it. I can read it over and over again and not get tired of it. And no matter how many times I read it, or what your debate for the ending is ... I always have/do/will believe that Jo should have ended up with Laurie. 

I found this site today: Letters to Crushes and I'm insanely jealous I didn't think of it. It's an endearing, heartfelt, and amazing site.

See!
Told you I was a crazy and quirky mess.

I hope you're all having a lovely Thursday.
We're supposed to see some sun in Oregon -- and I couldn't be more excited.
xoxo.

unflinchingly honest.

i am in a funk.

a blog funk, a scheduling funk, a serious lack of money funk, a clothing funk, a weight funk, a dirty bedroom funk, a hair funk, a life funk, a funk funk.
{despite my good hair day today. seriously, looks good.}

i'm not one to dwell on the negative.

i never have been.

i stew a little and then as quickly as the negative nancy began -- the sunshiney me returns.

but not lately.

and that kills me.

there have been times i stew for ridiculous periods of time.
and then keep moping.

i don't know how to fix it.
{and the funniest part is as soon as i am at home, by myself, in my sweats...i feel less stewy. less icky.}

honestly, there are times i barely know the person i am now.

i look in the mirror and see someone i know but only to a degree.

but not the same old me.

and some of that is okay.

learning and growing changes a person, heck, life changes a person.

but some of it is just weird and awkward to me.
but sometimes i see lots of old me--and ache for her to be all of me again.

honestly, grown up life sucks.

i know i've said it before -- but i really mean it.

being a grown up is killing my soul.

401(k)s, bills, checking accounts, credit checks, medical bills, salaries (or lack thereof) ... all things i hate dealing with that grown ups are forced to deal with.

bah. i'll even add a humbug to that.

bah frickin humbug.

honestly, i worry a lot about money.

all. the. time.

it may not seem like that ... but it's because i plan.

i plan alllllll of it. i hate calling it budgeting -- because mine's not quite as rigid. but, essentially, it is the same thing.

honestly, though, i make barely more now than i did DURING COLLEGE.

now, i know this is my first job {and supposed to be my passion} but still.

it seems like such low pay for a job that requires so much.

honestly, i've gained so much weight since i started this job.

i know some of it is the fact that i'm not hiking my sorry rear end up the RB stairs multiple times a day.

but some of it is that i've begun to be a stress eater.

and part of me thinks it's my thyroid. because i haven't been eating any more than i have before and somehow my weight fluctuates a lot. and i'm tired. and i bruise. and i ache.

i've never been the tiniest girl (i was blessed to be "really well endowed" in the.. ahem.. region. seriously. whoa girls. they alone won't let me be tiny.) but i was never "big".

i'm still not. 

but i'm bigger than i used to be/want to be.
i just need to find a regimen that sticks. one i like. and one i that will help.

i will take suggestions.

{a serious part is how mentally/physically/emotionally exhausted i am when i get off work. i know, excuses, excuses.}

honestly, i would love to be as honest as liz, kristen, gabby, lilu, and mayra (and many more -- i.e. most of YOU) are on their blogs.

but even more honestly...i'm scared to be. i hate the backlash.

i hate when people use what i put here against me. in a horrible way.

i do't want to open myself up to just get hurt. 

now, i understand this is a public space (kinda) and that when i place something on here, i do open it up to a certain amount of scrutiny and potential harm.

but guess what? it's MY spot. MY blog.

if you don't like what i write DON'T READ IT.

if you don't like ME ... DON'T READ IT!

don't assume this is all about you, or about someone you know, or about your best friend's former boyfriend's cat trainer's cousin and then try to create drama for me.

it's not worth it. 

not worth it for me. for you. for anyone involved. so let's play nice.

honestly -- if you're nice to me, i'm going to be nice to you.

so even more honestly...i think i'm goin to stop caring.

if you're creating drama for me you don't know me or deserve me.

so get to steppin.

honestly my boyfriend, man friend, hot dude that snuggles with me...is awesome.

one day, i'll introduce you.

but honestly, i've been hurt so many times before -- and with him, i don't worry about that.

the thought of not having him around kills me.

which i think is a good thing. because it means i'm beginning to trust again.

and there's no one better to trust.

and he makes my life happy. he is one of my happiest thoughts. 

honestly, reading your blogs have made me so happy these last couple days/weeks.

i love you all.

i know it sounds corny and cliche and trite -- but they make me so happy, and make me laugh, and make me excited that we are friends.

not blog friends, but REAL friends.

i hope you feel that way about me, too. we are real friends. i love you.

HONESTLY.

{that's a lot of honesty.}

have a happy friday. 

the happiest. 

i know i'm gonna try my darndest to.

{it helps that i'm wearing a hott dress to a funnnnn party!!}

xoxo.

the bard had it right...what's in a name?

Names are funny things.

They're given to us when our born ... and through the years they become a major part of who we are.

We grow into them ... they become us.

We are identified by these nomers ... for the rest of the time we're breathing on this earth.

But they instantly change depending on whose lips they cross.

When it's someone you love, your name sounds like the most beautiful melody in the world.

Like it's safe.

That nothing they would ever use your name for would be negative.

My mom is this way. When she says "Siovhan" she might as well be saying, "I love you, Sunshine."

My dad, too. My name is gorgeous with his Yourkshire accent and the level of regard he uses when that word comes out of his mouth.

The same with my boy. My name is safe on his lips. One of my favorite sounds is just how lovely my name becomes when he voices it. I love it.

Nicknames do not elicit the same thing.

And I'm not talking about shortened versions of your name ... or other versions which you go by on a regular basis (i.e. Elizabeths going by Liz, Jillians going by Jill...), I'm talking about names like Sunshine, or novel versions of your name.

Bonnie calls me VonSha or Tinymo... those don't hold the weight of my actual name.

An old roommate called me "Von." I hated that one.

And when it's someone you don't like, your name can sound like poison on their lips.

"Siovhan...." sounds like venom, dripping off their tongue.
And in your heart you know nothing you could do, say, or even be, would satisfy them -- and that your name suddenly becomes this ugly word. Not what it's meant to be.

But the sounds of my name, on the lips of someone I love...

like music to my ears. 

xoxo.

once upon a time...

{image via we heart it}

apparently i'm letting you into my soul, one terrible really awesome quirk at a time.

so here's another one for your lovely palettes.

as you know, i'm a story person.

i'm also a girl who tends to have more male friends than female friends.

sometimes this combines for a funny psyche.

when i'm really comfortable with a boy ... there usually hits a point that i wonder that if we were to ever fall in love (not that i expect/want it with 99% of them, but IF) ... i try to imagine what he would tell people was the moment or the reason he fell in love with me.

"she was my best friend, it just made sense."

"there was this one night we sat and talked for hours and hours, and i was enthralled."

"she snores."

"she sings funny words to songs in the car."

"she laughs all the time. and loud. and snorty. and sometimes she squeaks."

"she has this really weird love for fake mustaches."

"she yells louder than i do at football games."

"she falls asleep on the couch watching movies, even in big groups."

"she plays basketball ... even though she knows she's bad at it."

"she writes all the time."

"she did cartwheels all the way down the apartment hallway -- in pajamas."

"she's crazy o.c.d. about her bangs."

"she's adventurous -- she and megan used to sneak into the pool late at night, fully clothed."

"she brought me soup that one time when i was sick."

"it all happened that day we were studying on the couch. she was concentrating so hard, i knew i loved her."

"she used to leave me those long psychoticly rambly voicemails."

"she can quote aladdin and the little mermaid word for word from beginning to end."

"she read that book for me so we'd have something to talk about."

i think a lot of girls do this to some extent or another.

(or maybe i'm just a raging lunatic.)

you see if you could picture this person in your future.

and granted with my guy friends i don't expect them to up and fall in love with me...

but it would make for a great story.

p.s. this is in no way a pity post...or one pining for my story. i am perfectly satisfied with my love life right now (i have someone fantastic). it's just a musing.

when i look in the mirror

i totally stole this prompt from kristen. enjoy.

when i look in the mirror

when i look in the mirror there's a girl i don't always know.
sometimes she and i are so alike.
sometimes we're so very different.
she reflects only a portion of me.
when you look at her you see blonde hair, green eyes, and a smile not quite as sure as it once was.

when i look at her i see a girl who is so faceted, sometimes it's hard to know what she's supposed to be.

there's a kindhearted girl, easily hurt, but not readily scarred.

there are insecurities mounting over things i have no place worrying about.

a girl who cares way more about what people think than she lets on.

a girl who worries about not being liked.

when i look at her there's a girl who has loved and lost.

a girl who has been hurt.

a girl who has been pushed around and broken into a million billion pieces.

a girl who has then pulled herself back together but is still finding pieces that need to be put back into place.

when i look in the mirror i see a daughter and sister who loves her family more than life itself. 
i see a girl who misses them terribly. and constantly.
a girl who longs for the time she gets to spend with her brothers and sister.
and for the discussions she has with her parents.
for the snuggling, the laughter, the happiness, and the craziness that is her family--her heart.

when i look in the mirror i see pain, happiness, strife, sadness, laughter...
but most of all..
i see
HOPE.

memory monday...

In High School I was that girl. The complete overachiever, over-involved, overly-caffeinated student. My freshman year of high school I joined a couple activities, took honors classes, and just lived life. Sophomore year got a little more serious. It climaxed my Junior year when I was doing 4 choirs, 3 bands, church stuff, theater, newspaper, yearbook, as well as my honors classes and all the homework that comes along with them.

By the end of that year I was a blooming MESS. I was so overworked and mega stressed that I decided I needed to cut some stuff out of my life.

Well, fast forward to my Senior Year and a particularly interesting summer (read: so. much. homework. ... and time away from my family)...we hit the first day of senior year. We get all the forms for our medical records, our permission slips, our agendas, syllabus-es, and we head home. So I fill out most of my stuff but hand my medical stuff to my mom to fill out -- she's good with that kind of stuff.

We all know my mom is my BFF, but she also had a terrific sense of humor. And one VERY similar to my own. And so she decides to give me a little humor in my stressful life.

So the first week of school goes by and all our forms are due. That next week, as I'm sitting in American Literature, the office calls down to my class and requests that I come see the principal. This elicits the standard "ooOOOoooooOOoooo" from my classmates (especially since I was kind of a goody two-shoes).

I head down to the office where the secretary asks me to sit down in front of the principal's door. I obviously do what I'm told...and sat down. In my mind I'm going over everything that's happened in the last week so that I can figure out why I'm in the office. I can't, for the life of me, figure out what I could have done/seen/known about that would bring me to the office.

The principal then opens her door, calls my name and motions for me to walk inside her office. As I walk in I see the nurse sitting in the office as well. Mrs. Angelini asks me to sit down and then grabs a piece of paper off her desk. When I look closer, I notice it's my medical form. At this point I'm worried I'd written something wrong, stupid, or that there was something seriously wrong with the results they'd gotten from the doctor.

Nope.

None of these were the case.

My mother, in her hysterical wisdom, on the question labeled "educational limitations" my mother wrote: SELECTIVE HEARING.

I was called down to the principal's office to clarify what this meant ... or if it was actually true.
Which it ... probably is, to an extent.

xoxo.

eight septembers come and gone

My mind is not here today.
It's not even in Oregon.
And sitting here at my desk ... I continue getting teary eyed as I think about the day, eight years ago, that life changed.
Americans became Americans again.
When my naive little 15 year old self realized the tiniest measure of the magnitude and weight of our freedom.

I haven't forgotten.
I hope I never forget.
I still get goosebumps when I think about it.
{I have teared up at least 5 times watching these stories to rewrite them.}

Back then, I didn't have the foresight to write this down. To chronicle the impact of this horrendous massacre on one little girl in Massachusetts.

I was sitting in English class. It was the second week of my second year of high school... and my teacher had just instructed us to begin that morning's free write. As my pen touched the paper and I thought about the cute boy in the back of the classroom and attempted to focus on the assignment, another of the English teachers stormed into the room. Mr. Speicher had a tremendously horrified look on his face. He half yelled, half trailed off as he said, "We're being bombed. They've bombed America. They've bombed the World Trade Center." He walked to the front of the room and turned on the TV. There, on the screen, was a horrible shot of the top of the World Trade Centers. Peter Jennings' voice flooded the room ... and we all sat, locked, watching in horror as first tower burned and the second plane hit the south tower.

I remember freaking out. Seeing people jumping out of the building. Then we watched as the towers, one after another, buckled and collapsed.

I kept thinking. My mind was on overdrive. Thinking about what this meant for me. For America. For my peace of mind and freedom. After that class, I remember people flooding somberly into the hallways desperately looking for their friends -- all too anxious for some semblance of comfort or normalcy. My best friend Holly and I stared at each other in disbelief. We hugged as tears began running down our faces. I remember praying so hard in my heart that no one I knew was on either of those planes. That everything would be okay.

The teachers left the TVs on for most of the day. Many were on mute so we could just see headlines running across the bottom of the screen. We quickly learned another plane had careened into the fields of Pennsylvania -- overtaken by so many courageous men and women; unwilling to let it hurt and kill thousands. And yet another had destroyed lives and safety at the Pentagon. One of the most horrifying moments for me was when we learned that the planes that hit the towers departed from Logan airport. Our airport. The one my dad flew out of. The one he was supposed to leave from just days after these attacks.

At the end of the day parents rushed to pick up their children. They, too, needed that moment of verification that their children were alright; that life was at least some bit of what it was before 8:46 that morning.

My mom came. She looked so distraught. My first words were, "Has the prophet said anything?" She shook her head, "not yet." "How's dad?!" "He's safe. Worried they won't let him home for a few days, though." He was on a business trip (they were SUPER frequent back then) in some European country. And as my dad isn't an American citizen ... he was worried it would be some time before they would allow him to travel back home to his family. My mom and I sat in minor silence, headed to pick up my brothers. I think we were thinking the same thing. My dad flew frequently. And as he controlled the systems for his company's business in Australia ... he flew there every couple months. On Flight 11. To LAX -- then to Australia. He was supposed to be on that flight within the next few days. The same flight that hit tower one.

Our eyes, minds, hearts were all glued to the destruction, the remnants, the horror left in Lower Manhattan, Pennsylvania and at the Pentagon. The hours stretched into days, and the horror continued. We learned people we loved were affected. They lost loved ones in the horror. In the terror.

Days stretched into weeks; weeks to months; months to years. And now, here we are. Eight years later and it still can't compute. I wonder if this is what survivors of December 7th, 1941 feel like. That it quickly became a date, an event for the history books, instead of a reality that destroyed the lives of people we pass on the street. Of people who have homes and lives and families and safety all compromised in this event.

I will never believe this only affected New Yorkers. I will never believe it affected just us East Coasters, or Northerners. It was that day that affected Americans.

I'm so grateful for my freedom. For the men and women who fight daily to protect it. And for those who gave their lives, or lost their lives on that day victims of anger and hatred from someone they don't even know. God Bless America. We sure need it.

Three fellow bloggers, all New Yorkers to some degree, chronicled it as well.
Read it. Each of them is beautiful, and none of them the same.

And the President gave a lovely and poignant address. I agree, Mister Obama. Wholeheartedly.


All My Love,

An Ode to Cardboard...

I love cardboard.

I know it sounds random, but just bear with me.
Cardboard is PAPER.
Heavy Duty paper.

It's paper that's banded together to be able to carry and hold a whole bunch of stuff.
That's AMAZING.

Imagine what we could do if we all banded together.
Imagine what could be accomplished if your one little piece of paper met with my one little piece of paper and met a third piece.
Imagine the burdens we could carry.

I know how powerful cardboard is.
I've had enough moving experiences and boxes full of heavy, heavy books to be able to attest to it's strength.

Something so weak on its own, when knit together, becomes so strong.
Something so simple, so mundane, so blah in color -- can literally tote around people's lives.

I LOVE IT.

The world would be a better place. Surely.
If we all banded together to be a little bit nicer, a little bit more helpful, a little less concerned about "ME" and a little more concerned about "YOU."

If instead of gossiping about what that one girl in the office is wearing, you could surely compliment her on her amazing proposal or patience with the boss. If instead of getting incredibly angry when someone zips past you and cuts you off, you could instead realize that maybe at that moment...they needed that advantage. If we realized that instead of blaming our "crummy lives" on something in the past, we look forward to the future with hope, goals, and the prospect of success.

It's definitely something I need to work on.
So, I guess you could say, I hope one day ... my cardboard mentality can help me accomplish something as magnificent as this:


yes, that's all cardboard. legit.

You may say that I'm a dreamer
But I'm not the only one.
I hope someday you'll join us
And the world will live as one.

generation why.

we are the generation of the non-committal.

"are you coming to the party?"
CLICK.
"maybe."
even facebook has an outlet for our fear of commitment.

we have a hard time saying a solid yes or no.
sometimes to already ambiguous plans.
"show up around 9."
"bring stuff ... if you want."
"we should hang out sometime."

from plans... to relationships... or even the lack thereof.
we have a hard time buckling down and committing.

the ncmo (non-committal make out). casual sex. fears of what the future holds.
all stem, to some degree, from our fear of saying yes.
or even of saying no.

what if something better comes along and i've already committed to this activity/person/career/lifestyle?

well, guess what.
something, inevitably, will always come along.

and as someone guilty of the frequent maybe ... i'm learning that it usually hurts people's feelings more if you say "yeah, probably" and then never show up --instead of just saying "sorry. can't (or won't)."

my goal: commit.

and let the good times roll...

you know that feeling.
we all know that feeling.
you're sitting there, legs curled under you, and then you have to move.

that's when you realize it.
your leg is asleep.

well, you know how that feeling goes?
it's just numb.
then a tad tingly.
then an achy tingly.
then pinchy.
then almost normal.
and then finally normal.

that is how the past year has been for me.
this exact feeling.

i graduated college in a blur of too many credits, too little time, a lot of packing, a lot of finals, and then one monumental move 900 miles away.
i was numb...but i knew hoped that feeling wouldn't last for long.
and i knew i had to be here.

then came the move into my apartment.
the purchase of "grown-up" things like a couch, a table, a microwave, a freaking vaccum.
i was legit.
and i realized i was here for the long haul.

then i really realized it.
it hit me.
i was 3,000 miles away from my family.
pretty much friendless, in a strange city, with too many hippies and not enough comfort.
i had a horrible work schedule and i missed BYU terribly.
my heart ached and ached.

then i decided to stop living at my desk (or on my couch) ... and get out and make friends.
to go to activities at the institute, call people up, and to force myself into interaction.
to hang out with my coworkers.
and stop being so silly.

then i had friends.
and then my work schedule changed.
and my apartment felt like home.
i began to love my job and love my friends even more.

now i really can't imagine being anywhere else.
i don't know where i want to go from here.
i love oregon.
i adore my friends.
my oregon family.
and i'm beyond grateful for my sleepy-leg-year.
(but don't want to repeat it.)

tearing out my heart...i'd be your memory

I went to Jamba Juice this morning.

While a huge break from my regular routine of running frantically out the door and racing to work to make it in at 10:01 (I was here at 9:55 today, even with the Jamba!) ...this is not my story.

As I was leaving the parking lot, I looked up and the car in front of mine was a gold Toyota Avalon.

It wasn't anything to stop me in my tracks, but it did make me think about how the tiniest thing can conjure up a memory you weren't aware was still in your subconscious.

Once upon a time while home on break from BYU, I made a flippant remark to my mother about how I wanted a cute boy in my home ward to ask me out. As we sat down to watch a movie she giggled and said, 'maybe he will.' No joking, within the hour he called to ask me out (an unheard of occurrence in my life). The next day, into my driveway pulled a beautiful, gold, Toyota Avalon. And while things didn't work out between me and that boy (he's now married with a gorgeous baby boy). And yet, still, nearly five years later, my subconscious remembers him in connection with that car. The littlest things can prompt the best/tenderest/funniest/most random memories.

This, for me, is a tender mercy.

I love when moments like this happen.

There's a whole list of things that always make me think of particular people or of certain moments. Just thinking about it makes me smile. Things from Bleeding Love to coconut creme pie to Elf to climbing fences to slurpees...and EVEN jamba juice...all make my heart so happy.

it's a big bag of weird in there...

i used to have a roommate named lindsey.
lindsey went on a mission, to paris.
she taught me so many things.
but tonight i think about art.
about how art speaks to lindsey.
she can look at art and see sooooo many things.

we used to go to the byu museum of art together.

i loved the photography exhibits or paintings that looked like real life.
lindsey appreciated it all.
impressionism, cubism, modern art.
all of it.

art was her thing.
words, pictures of reality were mine.

i never could quite figure out why our minds worked so differently.
she loved it.
i couldn't see it.

jackson pollack--his work is lost on me.
ansel adams, dorothea lange ... that, to me, was approachable art.
but faulkner, fitzgerald, emerson, dickens...could stay with me forever.

i still wonder.
why art speaks to lindsey.
why music speaks to josh.
why cinematography speaks to austin.
why numbers speak to my father.
why computer code speaks to justin.
why the pounding of feet on pavement speaks to mom.
why catchphrases and market demographics speak to john.
why veins and i.v.'s and needles get bonnie going.
why certain words speak to lyndsi shae.
and others speak to megan.
and why a completely different sentence can make my heart soar.

mostly...
i love how these small differences...
make the world so amazing.

sigh. i love it.

Blog Fodder

Sometimes I'm at a loss for what to blog. Often I feel like my life, while humorous, is one that must be more experienced and not always optimal blog fodder (more "ya had to be there" kind of thing).

Luckily I stumbled across this: Twenty Something Writers. AAAAAAAMAZING. They have writing prompts and everything (like sunshine to my soul, seriously). Upon my search of their past ones--I ran across one that I felt inspired by. And thus...

We all have something we want to say to someone. Maybe it’s someone in your life now. Or, maybe it is something you wish you said to someone who is no longer in your life. It could even be Mr./Ms. Random Person that you saw in the local coffee shop today. What do you want to say that you were never able to?

i've been thinking about you a lot lately. which is weird, and really random. especially because for almost 8 years now i've avoided that. honestly, it scared the crap out of me. you were such a huge, intense part of my life that quickly and very suddenly became nothing. the decision for me to distance myself and, ultimately, cut you out of my life was intense. you were the first person i really ever had to walk away from. to cut my losses. i think it was harder than any decision i'd ever made up to that point, as young as i was. i hated you so much for causing me so much pain. there were so many nights spent crying and heartbroken. i could never understand your decisions, how you could even fathom doing half the things you did, but i refused to let them affect me further. i resented you for so long. years later seeing you sent a scary emotion rushing through my body. it was a mixture of pity, disgust and sheer terror. you had so much promise, and you squandered it. you were the one person in the whole entire world i sincerely feared as well as verged on hating. and besides the one horrific time i saw you at home, i never thought about you. until your letter last year. it threw me for a loop. i was enraged at first, but when i actually opened it and read it, i discovered it was something sweet. it was one of the kindest, most wonderful things i've ever received. i wash shocked you still thought of me, that i still seemed to matter (in some degree) to you. after that, i felt like i finally had closure and a semblance that in the past i really did matter to you. and lately i just keep thinking how i'm grateful that you still think of me at least fondly, as someone who affected you for good. that, at least in your eyes, my mark on the world has been a positive one. and for the first time in years, i sincerely hope you're well.

some things are better left...unsent...

the other night at institute we had a discussion about the power of words.
now, as someone who writes for a living ...and for one who is in love with words... i understand this.

brother barnes told how abraham lincoln used to write letters when he was upset, put them in an envelope, and mark them "unsent".
in fact, he wasn't the only president to do this {the above letter is from harry truman's desk}.
brother barnes went on to discuss how dangerous email is because you can write anything and send it instantly and never get it back.
and how the adage "don't write a letter when you're angry" is totally true.

well, i myself, write letters when i'm upset all the time.
i can say i think i've only actually given them to someone ... maybe once.
and even then it was a toned down 3rd or 4th draft.

but i write unsent letters all. the. time.
not all are angry.
most aren't.
most are just feelings finally voiced.

letters to my frustrated love life {an entity of its own}.
to old boyfriends.
to former friends.
to people i'm currently having a difficult time with.
to people i feel have done my friends wrong.

to myself.
to my future.
to my past.

to love here,
love lost,
love hoped for,
love long awaited.

so i'm with good ole honest abe here.
write it.
feel it.
experience it.
free it.

then mark it.
unsent.