Christmas Memories- 2008

I think I peaked at this moment.

22

I turn 23 tomorrow, isn't that weird? Twenty-three seems so much older than 22. Looking back, I think 22 (or as I called it, double deuces) was one of the best.

When I turned 22, I had just finished an awesome internship, I was moving in with one of my best friends and I was about to start my (super)senior year at BYU.

This year I made some really great friends (kindred spirits + glitter girls). We ate and went to Target a lot. We "traveled" to St. George, where I almost died (not really, but almost).



























I got really involved with the PR program on the eboard and through the Bradley Lab. I had the best job ever at University Communications. I got to go to Orlando for PRSSA National Conference. My team was a finalist for the Crisis Communications exercise at PRSSA Regional Conference and my team won the Bradley Semester Review.

I graduated BYU, moved home and was unemployed for two terrifying months. I got to live with my family for the first time in five years. I got a job and moved across the country to a city where I literally knew no one.

 

22, we had a good run.

My Family

First off, Happy Mother's Day to the best mom in the world. Thanks for teaching me to sing Shania, cook a mean Texas sheet cake and notice beauty in nature. You're the best and I love you.

Dang. The '80s look good on you, and that's saying something.

While I was digging through old scrapbooks to find these pictures, I found some serious family gems.

I'm the only one with chunky legs. It's my burden in life.

Is there a "Precious Family Picture of the '90s" contest we can submit these to? Seriously.

That hat. Miss it.

My face.

It doesn't get more '90s than this picture. 

You can BET we were rocking matching outfits. Always. 

So many memories. Like how between the ages of 6-8, the main source of contention between my little sister and I was that she thought that tigers hatched from eggs. Or the time that grandma's cat literally died in the middle of her living room floor and no one wanted to say anything. Or playing with cousins. Or getting all the kids to play "Neighbors," which was a glorified game of House and definitely the most boring game ever, but we had the entire neighborhood in on it.

My family's kind of the best. Sorry, everyone else. 

Wake Up and Smell the '90s

But seriously. I love the 90s. I know it's kind of like the cool thing to do now, but whatever. And remember how everyone in the 90s would always talk about how it was the 90s?

Golden.

   

Homesick

Alabama, Arkansas I do love my ma and pa

Not the way that I do love you

A couple weeks ago I mentioned that I was from Arkansas and some kid goes "I'm sorry." I'm sorry? Rude. If you asked me five years ago if I would ever miss Fayetteville, I would have laughed in your face. After high school I took off and never looked back. 

Big mistake.

Most of the time I'm trying to find to throw Fayetteville into random conversation (Did you know it's been voted the best place to retire? Fayetteville is the indoor track capitol of the world!) or I'm comparing everything to something from Fayetteville (Chipotle's good...but it's no Flying Burrito, Downtown Provo has a lot to learn from Dickson Street, etc.)

How many places do you know have a Confederate Cemetery? Really, though.

Or get their main street shut down for a bikers gathering?

Well, lots of places have Farmer's Markets, but they probably aren't as awesome as this one.

Calling the hogs? Best in the world. I remember watching the Sugar Bowl last year with an Ohio State fan and he was completely blown away that I knew the entire Arkansas fight song, word for word. Like, duh. How could you grow up in Fayetteville and not know it?

Full disclosure, the "A-A-A-R-K-A-N-SAS for Arkansas" part always tripped me up, but I made it through.

Oh Fayetteville, it's been way too long. I'll be back soon, I promise.

Happy Birthday Mom

 

 (Ignore whatever is on my dad's face. I'm pretty sure the frame this picture was in was dirty)

Today's my mom's birthday. My mom is awesome. You know the whole shortening words trend? (Presh, totes, etc.) My mom started that way before y'all. I learned to shorten words at my mother's knee. My mom calls Hobby Lobby "Hob Lob." She uses the word "generoo" for generous.

I am eternally grateful to my mom for telling me in no uncertain terms that I could NOT cut my hair like Mary-Kate and Ashley from "Passport to Paris." All I wanted to do was cut the front section of my hair an inch shorter than the rest so I could do the awesome "ponytail with the bangs parted in the middle" look pictured below. I thought my mom was so mean, but now I feel like I owe her my life.

 I remember when I was in 7th grade and my mom took me to get my first purse. We went to Target and spent over an hour looking at all the purses and wallets to fit my lip glosses and middle school student ID. We were cracking up the whole time. We finally decided on this black one with a flower border. It was made out of wool or something and to this day we call it the "dog hair" purse. Speaking of Target, when we finally got one in Arkansas I'm pretty sure my mom wept tears of gratitude and joy.

My mom's the one who took me to the mall when my senior prom date backed out on me a week before the dance. And my mom's the one who helped me get ready for prom when he came back around. My mom's the one who bought me two pairs of the most beautiful Steve Madden chunky shoes that I'm pretty sure made me the envy of McNair Middle School (at least in my mind).

My taught me about keeping it together and being sparkly. She taught me about serving. I remember calling her and she was driving through a trailer park trying to find this lady to visit teach. My mom is the best teacher. Literally. She can just explain things and engage her students. She taught me to learn to love reading, and now even writing.

I love you mom. You're the best.

Santa and St. Nicholas

Disclaimer: I had a very happy childhood and I loved Christmas growing up. My happiness has not been diminished in any way by what I'm about to say. 

So growing up my parents didn't teach us about Santa Claus. We didn't leave out cookies, we didn't write letters, nothing. What was their reasoning you ask?

They thought that if we found out they were lying about Santa we would think they were lying about Jesus.

It makes sense if you think about it. However, I have yet to meet a kid whose testimony was shaken by the realization that their parents lied to them for eight or so years about the existence of a man in a red suit.

I knew who Santa was, but for as long as I can remember there was always an older kid around to cast doubt on any budding belief I had in the guy. So when a female relative who shall remain nameless pulled me aside and offered to tell me the truth about Santa and where babies came from, I found the latter a little harder to believe. (A couple years later my mom gave me round 2 of "the talk" and I kept quiet to see if the stories matched up. They did.)

I did, however, have a magical period where I believed in St. Nicholas. The St. Nicholas celebration is a German tradition where children leave their shoes outside on the night of December 5 and St. Nicholas fills them with candy and toys.

This year St. Nicholas came to me, Alex and the brothers. 

Ryan thought that if he put out bigger shoes then St. Nicholas would fill them to the top with candy. But St. Nicholas saw straight through that crap.

90s Kid For Life

I ran across this article today.
Hilarious.

My personal favorites:
5. In some inevitable shift of the time-space continuum in which James Cameron continues to rob humanity of all that is good and sacred in this world, Fern Gully will be known as that movie that ripped off Avatar. It will be up to us to crusade for what is right. It is up to us to explain that Fern Gully was not only a predecessor to Avatar, but far better, in that it contained both Tim Curry as a singing pile of molasses and Robin Williams rapping about animal testing in the pharmaceutical industry. (As a side note, if you have not recently listened to the full lyrics of the “Batty Rap,” I recommend you do, as they are horrifying.)

I. Loved. Fern. Gulley. It also scared the crap out of me. Something about the singing slime monster just creeped me out.

7. Though on the surface, they are the exact same thing in every conceivable way, whether you liked The Backstreet Boys or N*SYNC said more about your character than all of the terrible macaroni art you could ever make for your child psychologist. Essentially, liking *NSYNC meant you liked Justin Timberlake, as he was clearly the Seabiscuit in that race from the get-go. You even liked him with his terrible, icy-blond mini-fro. Liking the Backstreet Boys gave you a bit more of a cultured palate, as there was no clear Diana in those Supremes. Nick was kind of the wholesome, if northern-Florida-redneck safe choice (save for his humiliating younger brother, Aaron). Brian was the shy, sensitive type. AJ was the hottt, dangerous meth addict. Kevin Richardson was mute with sexy, sculpted facial hair. No one liked Howie. Choosing between the two groups was like choosing between two beloved children, but once that line was crossed–there was no going back.

I'm an NSync girl till the day I die. But I loved Lance, and I feel like that says a lot about me.

8. “I wanna really really really wanna zig a zig ahh,” has a meaning, and all true nineties kids know it, but we must never share it. Like the Illuminati, it must remain between us, the keyholders. With great power comes great responsibility.

Ah yes. Spice Girls. We used to play Spice Girls in elementary school. I was small, I was blonde, I was born to be Baby. But my mom never let me see Spice World.

9. Lisa Frank is not the name of a woman, it is the name of a movement, a culture, a way of living. It is a theory, a concept, a belief in something greater than yourself. It is the belief that all girls are entitled to dolphins covered with rainbows, jewel-encrusted frogs, and unicorns in acid-trip colors hugging each other. It is the ideology that no notebook is complete until it literally hurts your eyes to look at from so much color saturation. It is the hope that no school supply, no matter how insignificant, will be left un-bedazzled. It is the knowledge that your eraser cap, and that of your granddaughter’s, and her granddaughter’s after her, will not be some boring little nub–it will be a diamond covered with butterflies in a rainbow of colors. It is the dream of a better tomorrow.

 Accurate. Too accurate. How many Lisa Frank folders did I have? Too many.

10. Incredibly depressing women in Indiana covered in cats and glass figurines they buy at The Hallmark Store used to troll the web 1.0 to invest thousands of dollars in tiny stuffed animals filled with plastic beans. That happened. Beanie Babies were not just significant, they were the first example most of us had of envy, greed, and wrath. If someone messed up that little heart-shaped Ty tag, so help you God, that was the end of whatever contact you had with that monster of a human being. That tag-less Beanie Baby was now trash, and you had to deal with the consequence. It was at that moment, that de-valued Beanie Baby moment, that most of us accepted the truth… we’ll never have nice things.
I CRINGE at this one. I have a MILLION Beanie Babies. I have the full set of cats named Flip, Skip, Chip, Whip, Zip, Kip, Dip, Lip (I don't even know, I'm making that up at this point). But I remember I had a beautiful unicorn one named Mystic that I brought to show and tell. AND GUESS WHAT HAPPENED. My so-called "friend" ripped the tag off. I'm pretty sure I cried. And never spoke to her again.

RIP forever, Mystic.

The Hunger Sickness

When I was little, I believed in this disease called the "hunger sickness."

Let me explain.

My first experience with the "hunger sickness" was when I was about five. We had just moved to Colorado and were living with my grandmother while our house was being built. That was a great time. I walked to school and had two teenage uncles that would watch me perform on a daily basis. My uncle Justin worked at pizza place and knew how to toss the dough in the air like they do in the movies. I was amazed.

Anyway, when I was five I was a pretty picky eater. If it wasn't mac and cheese, hamburgers, or bean burritos I pretty much hated it (I still love all those things, by the way). One day my grandma made something I didn't like and refused to eat.

I woke up in the middle of the night STARVING. I tried to get out of my bed, but my legs were so weak that I couldn't walk. I was convinced that I was dying and needed food stat. I crawled slowly to the stairs that led upstairs to the kitchen.

I didn't make it to the stairs. I fell asleep in the middle of the floor. I crawled some more. Fell asleep. Crawled up a few stairs, fell asleep again. By the time I made it to the top, it was early morning and my uncle Jason was up getting ready for school. He walked in on me face down at the top of the stairs.

"What are you doing?"

I looked up at him and whispered in a pathetic and heart-wrenching voice:

"Jason. I have the hunger sickness. I can't walk. I'm dying."

He propped me up on one of the kitchen stools and gave me a Carnation Instant Breakfast. I drank it like it my first meal in years. Then I feel asleep on the kitchen counter.

I still get the "hunger sickness." Except now it's usually solved by heading to McDonald's and ordering a #1 with a large drink.

The Best Shake

My dad is meticulous. I swear it will say that on his tombstone. I have so many childhood memories of my dad painstakingly putting together some toy or game.
My dad is also good at a lot of things. He built me a bed that I saw in the Pottery Barn Teen catalog, no sweat. He is a mean basketball player and graduated Magna Cum Laude (Latin for higher grades than Melissa will ever get in her life). However, of all his achievements, the finest is his perfection of the mint chocolate chip shake.

Troy Connor's Famous Mint Chocolate Chip Shake:
Ingredients:
Mint Chocolate Chip Ice Cream (Make sure you get the kind with flakes, not chips. This is usually the generic Wal-Mart brand. The flakes sink to the bottom of the shake you can scoop them out after.)
Water (you'll see)
Chocolate Syrup.

First, you pull out the ice cream and let it sit on the counter for a while. This allows the ice cream to get nice and soft. It also allows you to take a couple bites out of the carton, you know, to "test it."



Then, you scoop the ice cream into a tall cup. Two scoops was the limit when we were kids, but I'm pretty sure last time I was home my dad gave me three scoops. Welcome to the big leagues.

Next, you turn the sink on a very low stream. Remember what I said about being meticulous? You let the water trickle into the cup very slowly so you don't make it too watery. It's probably best to stop and stir it a few times to make sure the consistency is just right.




Finally, you stir in some chocolate syrup, as much as or as little as you want. I like my shake to be a little thicker but with lots of chocolate syrup. But whatever. Do what you want.




Voila! Delish.

So what? I'm still a rockstar

When I was in 7th grade, I auditioned for Woodland Jr. High School's show choir. The auditions involved one day of learning a chereographed dance, one day of learning and singing a group number, and a third day of singing a solo.

I rocked the chereographed dance. (The dance was basically a couple jazz squares and spirit fingers to "Hello Dolly," but whatever. I nailed it.) The group number was easy too. After nine years of Primary programs, I could sing a group version of anything. I was sure I had show choir in the bag.

Then came the solo number. I chose "The Way You Love Me" by Faith Hill. Keep in mind that these auditions fell between the glory years of the boy bands (1997-2000) and my Shania Twain obsession (2002-2004). I think I hear "The Way You Love Me" once on the radio in the dentist's office, so I chose it.

My twelve-year-old heart was thumping as I got up to the microphone. I knew this. I could do it. I had sung this song a million times in my mirror and in front of my mom. This was easy, right? Wrong. As soon as I got in front of the twenty other girls, I froze. I heard the first few twangy bars coming from the tape player and I forced myself to open my mouth.

"If I could grant you one wish, I wish you could see the way you kiss," I whispered in the microphone, awkwardly swaying with the music. I think this was around the time the absurdity of my song choice struck me. I hadn't even hugged a boy and now I was singing about kissing one? I pushed forward, but my voice never really increased in volume.

All the other girls looked at each other and smirked. My choir teacher put her hand to her ear in the international symbol for "I don't care how good you were at the chereographed dance, if you don't get your crap together and sing there is no way I'm letting you in show choir." I struggled through the next two minutes of the song and people politely clapped. I ran back to my seat and hung my head in shame until my mom came to pick me up.

Needless to say, I didn't make it.

Ever since then, though I've had this unstoppable dream of becoming a rockstar. I've sung karaoke and I'm a mean singer in Rock Band, but they have not quenched my desire to sing in front of a thousand screaming fans. I can see myself up there, running up and down the stage, touching my fans' adoring hands, punching the air and letting the crowd sing the lyrics. Maybe even smashing a guitar.


Hayley Williams is my idol.