Friday!

Check this out for a preview of coming attractions. Pictures of us for sale!
http://www.sharpshooterimaging.com/Templates/is-search2c.php?imageset=/0&vn=&destLocation=&resetselected=true

You can buy a copy if you want. That would be a little weird, but...whatever.

In other news, I'm posting the story below because it makes me happy. This was an add-on story between me, Shelley and Laura--I think it was a long time ago. If any of you want to finish it, I'm dying to know how it ends.

Once upon a time there was a girl named Shellinskaya who liked to sit and read by her pool. She read all sorts of books; Books about love, books about vengeance, and books about how to win friends and influence people. One day, as Shellinskaya was sitting in her favorite spot by the pool, the sun beating down on her intent figure…

A handsome young brute happened by and said "My...what a nice figure."He said this to himself because, well, thinking aloud is generally frowned upon. The strange thing about the brute is that he was lost. He had been busy fighting dragons and slaying filthy rich rastards from the Netherlands when suddenly, *POOF!* he happened upon the fair Shellinskaya at the pool. It seems he'd entered some kind of time continuuuum vacuuuum wormhole and nobody has ever understood those so just go with it. He greeted Shellinskaya with a "Holla back now!"
Shellinskaya battered her eyes. Actually, she battered her fries and batted her eyes. Yes, that's it. Her eyes. "What up, G?"
The Brute, thus addressed, firmly replied, "Wiggidy wack. Love."
His name was Peter. Oddly, the main character in our heroine's book was named....Petro.
"Do I know you?" Shellinskaya asked, wondering where the brute came from and why he was talking to her. Peter explained that he was a secret agent for the Russian government and was fighting dragons from the Netherlands. The last word Shellinskaya heard Peter say was Russian. You see, Shellinskaya loved Russian novels and dreamt of visiting the motherland one day.
The odd thing about Shellinskaya is that although she had a Russian name and loved Russian literature, she was actually a very small and shrewd African-American who has been denied all the luxuries of life--thus we enter into a B-movie with little to no plot line but some very good dancing...
Peter and Shellinskaya continued their strange conversation, which only continued to get stranger as Shellinskaya confused Peter with Petro, the character in her book (Petro, as we all know, means Peter in Icelandic). Peter explained, as people often do in these sorts of stories, that his greeting to Shellinskaya was actually a secret code...that she failed with flying colors.
The even odder thing about this odd pair is that they had managed to enter the time vacuum device together and now found themselves on a beach in Madagascar. You know, spider monkies and such. Well, thankfully S-Dawg was a small shrew--er, shrewd--Africanish woman, so she knew all about spider monkies. But did she know about mad, rabid, evil-terrorist-plot spider monkies? A good question. That's where our story gets interesting. Spider monkies are known for their anti-Russian-African-Scandinavian-American tendencies, and this one was no different. As soon as he spotted the twitterpated couple he began plotting against them. The goal? To kill their love, their puppy, and their very souls. In that order. Or maybe love and souls are synomous. Semantics. (Narrator interjection: If you'll recall, semantic is different than semitic. So if you hear a band called Anti-Semantic, don't alert the ACLU. Can't we all just get along?)
So anyway, the evil arachna-monkey anxiously awaited his opportunity to destroy our main characters. And he waited with a swichblade...

On happiness

I am happy.

Completely incomplete, convincingly content, and incredibly, wonderfully happy.

When thinking of what to update on this little bloggity-blog, no great big awesome changes come to mind. Indeed, dear readers, I swear this happened without the help of a) a boy, b) money, or c) dramatic weight loss/promotions/accomplishments, etc.

Here's what happened: I realized I have nothing to be unhappy about.

I would consider myself a typically upbeat person, even though I'm pretty cynical sometimes. But typical Stef became Happy Stef early on in 2008. One day I woke up and felt a mysterious anticipation. That feeling lasted all day, though nothing big happened. All I could think to say to everyone is that big things were about to happen. I felt so excited, for whatever reason. I had the best day in the world and nothing really happened.

I haven't been able to shake that feeling. Yeah, there have been a few things here and there that bum me out for a minute, but for over a month I've been annoyingly happy. And oddly enough, good things have happened. Big, good things are still happening, which leads me to wonder: Which came first, the chicken or the egg?

I think good things happen to happy, positive people. And I think we can decide to be those people. I know there will come things to be unhappy about, but we always have a choice in how we react and how we view the world.

Thus, my 2008 theme: Positive thinking.

And the best example of it that I can think of is President Hinckley. If a prophet in this day and age--in any age, really--can maintain a positive outlook, then I definitely should. My perspective doesn't even stretch very far beyond my four walls, which are in pretty good shape, so I have no reason not to be optimistic.

So, I've learned I can just decide to be happy. I'm not delusional, I'm not refusing to face reality, and I'm not being fake if I do. I'm realizing all the things there are to be happy about, and choosing to create opportunities for more by being open to them. Cheesy? Yeah. But I'm having the best time. Weird that I wanted to flee the country not too long ago, eh?

Del Doce

Today I ate 12 tacos.
If you ever want me to do something ridiculous, just tell me that I can't. Then sit back and watch while I cause myself physical pain just to prove I can.

I love my job and I love the people I work with. Some of the boys started a club called Del Doce. Thank goodness I speak Spanish so I can translate that for you: It means "of the twelve". More accurately and less literally, it means that you can eat a dozen of Del Taco's finest cat meat tacos. I, my friends, am the first and only female member to join.
I'll spare you the gory details, but let's just say that one has to be real hungry to really enjoy anything from Del Taco in the first place, but even intense, ferocious hunger wears off by Taco 8. From there it's just sheer willpower. And the stifling of gag reflexes.

I'd like to thank the following:
Brett, Chris, and Craig--The originals
Matt J. for telling me I couldn't eat more than 6.5
Crystal for staying with me through the dark hours of Taco 10
Del Scorcho...without which I would not make it past the first bite.

LoveQuest 2008

I think it's high time I did a Dating Review #2 since it's been awhile since I had anything to report.
Winter was never my season. I tend to have success in the summer months, if at all, so I wrap things up before October and settle in for a long, cold winter alone. This season started no differently. I've held numerous electric blanket tryouts, only to find myself shivering in the aftermath. However, things have taken an interesting turn of late...as follows:

Date #1 - The Set-up: My co-worker decides I would get along great with her friend because we're both (and I quote) "young at heart". Oh good--I've long been looking for someone as immature as me. I was warned that we don't share similar religious beliefs, but I agreed to give it a go. She plans the double date and proceeds to begin calling him my boyfriend.
We enjoyed Thai food and various chunky desserts, punctuated with discussions of dental hygiene, his desire to succeed as a Bellman (pronounced BELL-mun), and everyone's love for my co-worker's dog.
Highlights: Did I mention he's very good looking?
He grabbed my head when we hugged goodbye.
A certain talent for blowing yogurt balls with bone-chilling accuracy
Lowlights: I kind of hate the dog
Um...church
Temple square has never been more full of kissy-face couples
Wrap up: I sort of want him to call and I sort of don't. Pretty sure he won't.

Date #2 - The Mistletoe Avenger: This is one of those guys I've only ever seen at parties, usually dancing and speaking soley in short, flirty phrases. The last time I saw him he kissed a stranger under some mistletoe. At that point he had my number but apparantly didn't find the motivation to call until weeks later. Very nice and gentlemanly, but seemed surprised to find that I have opinions. I usually wait to deliver that little bomb, but I couldn't help it--the definitive statements just kept coming out. That, coupled with extensive talk of Italy (which I don't think either of us found very interesting), made for an awesomely boring me. I think I'm losing any charm I may have thought I had.
Highlights: Getting that huge bed out of the basement
I didn't run into my ex-crush
Overwhelming drowsiness is a blessing sometimes
Lowlights: The awkward moment after he attempted to catch me under his mistletoe and I just said "Heh hehh...yep." and walked away
Fearing I would run into my ex-crush the whole time
Disappointing Spaghetti Vongole
Wrap up: Nice guy. Haven't called him back...for lack of something to say.

Date #3 - That Guy: It took a few instances of me (and a friend) approaching this guy before he took the bait. And by bait I mean phone number. It took a few months before anything materialized. Finally, we go out. He did tell me I have something in my teeth, which sucks but totally scores honesty points. He has mentioned several things that he's not. For example, he's not 'that guy' who does improv and can't shut it off. He's also not 'that guy' who flakes out. Oddly enough, when I describe to other people the event at which we met, they inevitably say "Oooh, that guy."
Highlights: Multiple dates
Electric blanket material
I like how he dresses
Lowlights: ADD
Seems to think I'm his girlfriend and should do girlfriendy things. Doesn't he know I hibernate until, uh, July?
I still really hate New Year's Eve
Wrap up: Enjoyable, yes. Head over heels? Not so fast. I fear he just isn't That Guy, you know what I mean?

Well, there 'tis. I think I shall request that you stop praying for me to get dates and start praying that the end will come soon. Preferably swift and painless, ok?
Bring on Valentine's Day, suckaz!

Tagged

Silly blog culture abounds as I find myself tagged. This means you get more useless information about me, but this time in convenient, numbered format!

I am to give you 6 facts about me and then tag 6 bloggers. I'm pretty sure Bill Gates will share his fortune with me if I follow through. That, or 66 thugs will slash my achilles tendons when I go out to my car some dark evening if I don't...and that kid with cancer won't get his heart transplant.



1--My guilty pleasure is Hilary Duff. Can't say I like her that much, but I'm so intrigued by her since the Lizzie McGuire days that I have to stop and watch whenever she appears. You can blame a lot on the pre-teen girls you babysit.

2--My impossible dream is to sing on Broadway.

3--I once attempted to try out for The Bachelor. I still wish for the opportunity to show up in front of Mr. Desperate in something with sleeves and with a personality and see how fast I get kicked off. You know the other girls would HATE me while they secretly wanted to be me. Modest is hottest!

4--I was meant to surf and play volleyball...I just came to the wrong climate. And body.

5--I have a super-human sense of smell. Cinnamon, vanilla, and lemon are my favorites.

6--I'm attracted to skinny guys. Nerdy ones, usually. Do you think this is just a reflection of my desire to be skinny? To pass skinny genes on to my kids? Do I enjoy being the bigger half? I'll never figure it out.



I tag..hmmm...do I even know 6 bloggers? Lohra, Shells, Kaydi, Shan D., Feline, and Natty.

Angels in the End Zone

It was half-time, or thereabouts.
I was getting slightly distracted—which isn’t all that surprising, considering I become bored quickly when I completely lack the talent necessary to be competitive. The score was 3-1. My team was winning, no thanks to me. I was doing a great deal of running around, however (because when you’re unable to catch a football you just keep busy by running around), so I’d already removed several layers of clothing. With just a thin pair of gloves on, I felt a new surge of energy, a desire to attempt contact with the ball. I made myself wide open—not difficult, considering most people had forgotten I was even there—and motioned to Laura to pass me the ball.

She fired; I missed. Slippery little bugger. We repeated this killer play three times before I decided to remember that I have no talent and begged everyone not to throw me the football ever again.
“Why wasn’t I born with athletic abilities?” I asked myself in agony. The wide, unfriendly sky gazed down on me as if to say, “Because you were given such an abundance of ugly face-making abilities.” Not the most comforting, though I agree that ugly faces can be useful. But why couldn’t I be like Laura, who caught numerous passes, scoring touchdowns and gaining rapport with fellow players? Or like Gretch, who pretty much tackled anything that moved?

I recommenced running around aimlessly, occasionally two-hand touching anybody I saw in case they might be involved in the game more than I was. When the captains declared that we wouldn’t call the game until one of the teams reached four points, I groaned audibly. “Can’t we just have a dance off?” I asked, in a pitiful attempt to gain some of my self-respect back. Alas, the game continued.

And then it happened.

My team had inched through the snow and ice toward the end zone—again, no thanks to me. We lined up for our fourth down, last-ditch attempt. I trucked it toward the end zone and found myself alone. I made eye contact with Oh Captain, My Captain, and I saw that mad gleam in his eye that could mean only one thing: He intended to pass it to me. Panic seized my body and I meant to scream, “NOOO! Throw it to anybody but me!” but shear terror pinched off my vocal chords and I just stared stupidly at that pointy, spiraling, missile of death coming at me as if it meant to seal my humiliation with a pigskin kiss…I think I closed my eyes…and awoke to find myself tackled by my teammates and a hundred screaming fans. I looked at my hands and was startled to see a football clutched therein.

How did this happen? Well, I’d like to bear my testimony of miracles. Happy, happy miracles. It’s not every day yours truly has the pleasure of making the game-winning touchdown.
Next time I’m shooting for MVP.

Blog Wars Revisited

My dear readers, be thou not distressed.

Some of you think I've died. I assure you, I have not. Others think I've become apathetic to the cause of blogging. Again, this is not so. And may I most vehemently protest those who think I've been cowed by the presence of other, clever-at-best, cocksure bloggers-To this group I simply ask, where is your faith? Is there not just reward for patience, for hope, for holding out indefinitely for that which you know is right and good?

I am here to tell you I have not given up on blogging. I will never let another blogger think they've won this war.

Rest your weary hearts and look forward with joy to the time when I shall post again. Twill be soon!