Girl, where you BEEN?

Over here:

There Once Were Some Lemons

Pretending to be somebody's wife already.

Peace.

A Word on Cold Sores

My people are plagued with cold sores.

Whilst on our grand end-of-2010 tour of Europe and the Middle East, two of my four sisters, along with my mom, contracted cold sores. They're obnoxious, festering, and ugly (the sores, not the sisters). They're contagious as [insert uncomfortable and embarrassing disease of your choice here]. They're also impossible to cure, though there is a vaccine for the fortunately unaffected, which I strongly recommend. I italicized that adverb, so you best be listening to me.

Then, less than 48-hours of leaving my family for Provo, I noticed a small bump under my left nostril. Weird. Suspiciously pre-cold-sore-y. But, I mean, my nose hole? Unlikely.

Oh holy Hannah, the next day was horrible. I had a huge long blister, or series of blisters I suppose, under that same left nostril. Another little blister mocked me from the right edge of my bottom lip. Throughout the next two days, a twin blister spread under my right nostril, making me a mouth-breathing monster. The kicker: the cold sores erupted on the first day of my new job. Oh, rapture. Hello, magazine industry, behold thy newest intern. On second thought, don't look at her, she's hideous.

What I find most ironic is that on my first day, HR wanted my photo for a new ID. This in itself isn't ironic; it's normal at a new job. The kicker is that for the last two photos taken for my BYU ID, I also had, you guessed it, cold sores.

So, you know, the universe shines on all creatures, including its most pathetic, namely me. But life rolls on, and I'm a happy girl at my internship and in my personal life. (Hint: boy.)

More Delinquence...

It's been a long time since I've posted. That's all I'm going to say on the matter.

Announcement: Life is sweet.

It is so, so good.

I feel so blessed to be interning with the Friend magazine, a publication for children produced by The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. I get to read mail from kids all over the world, write stories to my heart's content, and pitch new ideas for the magazine. Oh, and I'm in charge of the recipe, art, and poetry departments, which is about as fantastic a job as I could hope for.

You can check us out at the Friend website, which features the normal magazine departments, as well as coloring, cartoon, and activity pages. Or keep up with us on our Facebook page (managed by yours truly).

In other news, I've submitted an essay for the David O. McKay Essay Contest, and am prepping submissions to BYU's Inscape and the BYU Magazine Essay Contest. Fingers crossed for some moolah!

In other other news, I'm (trying) to get ready for the GRE. Grad school, here I come!

Here's to another outstanding year.

"The Dog Ate My Homework."

I was brave and emailed this to one of my English Ed professors -- a female -- explaining my absence today. I don't have the chutzpa to send it to my male English Ed professor, whose class I also missed. So, due to my cowardess, I will post it on the World Wide Web for all to see:

Dear Dr. Dean,

Since I am not in class right now as I should be, I thought I'd write something tragic and comical to explain my absence.

I am on my period right now, and like any responsible female with a menstrual cycle, I carry around a small supply of tampons with me at all times. Today, I felt even more responsible since I remembered to pack a nutritious lunch of yogurt, soup, and an orange. "Wow, I am a competent, happy adult," I thought to myself.

It was going to be a great day. Or so I thought.

Pretty early in the morning, at work, I knew something was wrong because of some serious cramping. Perhaps it was not going to be a great day, but since I was prepared for the worst my period could throw at me, I did not fear.

By the time Engl 420 with Dr. Crowe was about to start, I knew I needed to go to the bathroom to change my tampon. My flow had been heavy today, and it would be my second trip before noon to take care of things. Imagine my horror when I reached down into the depths of my backpack, only to discover that my tampons -- conveniently paper wrapped, with a cardboard applicator, all so wonderfully absorbent and eager for moisture -- were soaking wet. In chicken broth. With parsley flakes clinging to them. In my backpack. On a very heavy period day. And that the chicken broth had also leaked onto homework. Books. A leather keychain from Uruguay. Post-it notes. My work notebook.

I do thank my lucky stars that my backpack is inversely waterproof, because the broth formed a small lake in the bottom of my backpack, prohibiting even one drop from escaping. No, everything sat in a lovely chicken broth marinade for probably an hour or more. Lucky me.

I improvised for Dr. Crowe's class, thinking I might make it and that miraculously I wouldn't smell too strongly of chicken soup as I held all my books and papers outside my backpack, piling my other smaller personal items in an upper, external pocket away from the chicken broth sea in my bag, with lumpy chunks of sodden paper towel frantically absorbing the mess. The mess was contained, but beyond that I still stunk of chicken, my things were getting more ruined by the minute, and I still needed a tampon desperately. So, I'm sorry to report that I fled for the confines of my tiny home south of campus.

And that is why, Dr. Dean, I was not in class today. I'll contact a classmate to get notes for the day, but would you please send me any handouts from today? If it is more convenient, I can pass by your office tomorrow, too.

Thanks,

Hilary

PS - This story is 100% true. Devastatingly, horribly, wonderfully true.

You've Come a Long Way, Baby

This made me guffaw. Happy Wednesday!

In other news, NaNoWriMo is hard! 1,667 words is a lot of words to write in one day, and when you're inexperienced like me, well, sometimes I feel like someone's asking me to do 20 cartwheels per day when really I can't even do one. Anyway.

It is nice to have your no. 1 responsibility be to write and not necessarily to craft. So it's just pouring out the words and worrying about all the details later. Yay novels!