A chronic problem: Punctuality

I used to be the sort of person who was on time for everything. If you told me that we were hanging out with friends around 7:00, I was be there at 6:55. Being fashionably late was a thing I just never did, I always chose to be fashionably early. I was also the sort of person who showed up to soccer practice 15 minutes early because I was not going to be the reason the team had to run extra laps. I firmly believed in the old adage: If you're not ten minutes early, you're late.

But since the days of high school, I have ceased to be punctual. I even had to erase "punctual" from the list of qualities on my resume. I have now become anti-punctual, and am a follower of the newer and more modern principle: If you're ten minutes late, you're still on time.

And the horrible thing about being anti-punctual is that no matter what I do, I am always running late. I can wake up an hour early and still be rushing to my class, or work, or church. How does this happen?

Because I am constantly running late, it has become my excuse for everything. And it's not even a lie.

Why didn't I do my hair today?
I was running late.

Why am I eating a packet of microwave oatmeal for lunch?
I was running late.

Why didn't I shower today?
I was running late.

Why was I late to class today?
I was running late.


I wonder if this disease is incurable...

2012: The Year of Stardust and Hermione Granger

Nine days into the year, and I am (remarkably) still alive. I believe that in their spare time, university professors practice scare tactics. For some it must be a favorite pastime. Each begins the first day of class piling loads of stress upon the shoulders of their students by poring over their carefully crafted syllabi and through blunt statements such as, "This class will kick your trash." While in my head I think, "I don't really need any extra help with getting my trash kicked. Somehow my trash will always find a way to be kicked. Sometimes I even kick my own just to make sure it doesn't get comfortable."

And then as tears begin to pool at the bottom of my palpebra inferior (lower eyelid), in my mind I reaffirm, "No! This is 2012. The year. The Year of Stardust and Hermione Granger, and I will not be defeated!"

Regarding The Year of Stardust, I admit that I am not actually sure what that entails as my roommate, Holly, and I came up with the idea (we recently ended Classy 2011)while in an extremely giddy mood. But whatever it is, it sounds great. (We have reason to believe that it has something to do with reaching for the stars and/or finding romantic interests this year).
The Year of Hermione Granger is a personal goal. This particular desire is the result of my having read the Harry Potter series all during my Christmas holiday. And for the benefit of those who are not familiar with the exemplary qualities of Miss Granger, I will relay those which I find to be exceptional.


1. Hermione Granger is a person of high moral character.

2. Hermione is a top-notch student. Exceedingly clever. She always has all the answers.

3. In the movies, Hermione is played by Emma Watson, who is incredibly classy for this day and age. She wears great clothes and is never promiscuous in style nor demeanor.

4. Hermione helps Harry and Ron (and Neville!) defeat a the darkest of all wizards.

5. Hermione is British.

6. Hermione eventually marries Ron Weasley, the best of all male redheads.


So this year is dedicated to my efforts to fill my life with Stardust and become more like Hermione Granger, who happens to be one of my very favorite female literary (yes, literary) figures. Don't be surprised if I start speaking with a British accent or popping my hand up in class and crying, "Mandrake root!" or at least having all the answers for once.



May your year be as successful as mine is going to be.

When all is said and done.

There comes a time in every semester where one is utterly satisfied. It is the moment when every final and every project is finished, and grades do not matter because they have not been posted yet. This period is incredibly ideal.

At the moment, I can't think of a better feeling, than to be satisfied with your own efforts. Usually, I fight to keep myself from feeling this satisfaction because I know (in retrospect) I could have spent more hours in the library and less reading Anne Frank, I could have paid more attention in class and paid less towards the other shenanigans I was looking forward to. But I am satisfied now. And I will think those thoughts another day. If others aren't quite as satisfied with my performance, that doesn't matter at the moment. I am satisfied with me. I mean, I sprinted (clad in woolen coat and heavy boots) through BYU campus to turn in one of my final projects because I was not going to be late. That was pretty satisfying. And no one can't say that I didn't do my best.

And what makes it all better is the fact that I know that I will be home soon. Home. And that is more satisfying than anything else.

Merry Christmas.

If there was any control before...well, it's gone now.

Last semester, due to an inordinate amount of stress placed upon me by this wonderful school that I love so much, I wrote a post about my inability to control my emotions. Namely the fact that I lost control of my tear ducts and they instantaneously erupted into an impressive geyser just because I was talking about my love for Little Women. I am afraid that not much has changed since last April.

The Lion King is a movie I haven't seen since I was a young cub myself, but today I experienced it anew. The movie never ever had much of an emotional affect on me as a child, but all of that changed when I discovered with these new "adult eyes" some deeper thematic issues, that the younger Kelly never picked up on. Mufasa died, and I bawled like a baby. I cried harder than Simba, and Simba is Mufasa's son. I feel like he has every right to cry more than I did, but for the sake of time in the film, he only was given a few measly minutes, while I on the other hand made up for the lost time with a half-hour's worth of irrepressible sobs.

But now unfortunately, other emotions are coming into play as the last week of the year is upon me, and as I finished up the cursed two-week period from Hades. My stress is now being displayed through these various means:

1. Alarming bouts of competitiveness

2. Inability to be touched by another human being without wincing and/or yelping

3. Severe irrationality

4. Colossal fits of sarcasm

5. Boisterous temper tantrums

6. Unsupervised planning of diabolical schemes (See No. 3)

7. Lack of desire to put on pajamas or to change clothes ever

8. Excessive use of the following phrases and/or words: "What the devil?" "Mother of pearl." "Hoity-toity." "Mamby-pamby." "Wishy-washy."

Disclaimer: I was very tired when I wrote this post, so I may not be entirely accountable for all that was said above. Add extreme exhaustion to the list. But don't fret, it will all be over on Friday, and then it's home to the Land of Sunshine and Happiness.

All systems are go and all bets are off.

Last night I wanted to cry.

Not only was the Thanksgiving holiday over, but once today dawned it was the beginning of the two worst weeks out of the year. The two-week push until finals.

These two-weeks are horrible. And let me tell you why.

The time for procrastination has ended. If you procrastinate now, you will procrastinate your little rear end right out of Brigham Young University.

These two weeks are very much like the parable of The Ten Virgins. Some of us are quite on top of things, we have our extra oil at hand. The rest of us didn't have time to go to the market to buy extra oil because we didn't start looking for our lamps until it was time to go. And do you think that there is going to be any sharing of oil? Absolutely not.

I think the one thing that miffs me the most about these two weeks, is that it is ten times harder than actual Finals Week. Finals are a cake walk. A breeze. Child's play. Easy peasy, rice and cheesy. Comparatively.

For the next two weeks, I will be scrambling. Whipping out ten-page papers. Speed-reading articles on Shakespeare. Fingerspelling myself into a frenzy. So don't be surprised if you don't hear from me until December 16th, when all of this is over.

And this was my last act of procrastination until then. I need to go find my lamp.

Bon voyage!

The joys that I call "My Boyfriend"

You may be shocked, and even a little dismayed.

I am in a relationship. And I didn't even change my status on Facebook. The nerve.

My new BF (all the kids are calling boyfriends "BF's" nowadays) is more than I bargained for, and if you know me at all, you know that I am indeed a bargain shopper.

The BF says all the right things.

He never interrupts my need to do homework.

He is never jealous.

He is a wonderful listener.

The BF is hilarious, and yet so deep, he often reduces me to tears with his philosophical, psycho-analysis.

He and I are perfect for each other.

Sometimes we do dastardly deeds, and break curfew to stay up until the wee hours of the morning with each other.

I don't mind waking up early if it means, I'm eating breakfast with The BF.

Spending time with him is the perfect excuse to get out of any and all social events and/or dates.

I don't need any other friends, because I have the perfect boyfriend.

And his name is Bill.

Mary Poppins was right.

People who get their feet wet must learn to take their medicine.

I am heading home to get a spoonful of sugar before the snow freezes my tosies.

-KM