Mahler (not to be mistaken for somebody who goes to the mall)

I'm not the biggest fan of classical music. Well I don't mind it so much if I don't have to sit there and watch it being played. Once when I was attending an hour long student violin recital with my room mate Belinda, I had a sudden epiphany before I fell asleep in the middle of it: I will not let my kids learn piano or violin because I don't want to have to sit through their concerts and pretend to enjoy them. Call me the wicked mother, but at least I will not be a hypocritical one.

Which was why it was with dread that I agreed to go with Andrea to a symphonic concert up in Salt Lake city last weekend. The Mormon Tabernacle Choir and the Utah orchestra were performing "Mahler's 2nd Symphony" and it was apparently going to be a big deal. As I wriggled into my seat, I glanced at the program, trying to read up on the next two hours of my life. Skipping over all the fancy music terminology, all I could glean was that it was going to be about a hero's funeral, nostalgia about his past, and eventual resurrection. Intense stuff.

Even without lyrics, somehow the music spoke and unfolded the story to me as I could have never imagined it. In my mind's eye, the hero morphed into a courageous but convoluted figure - he was disciplined yet passionate, tender yet crude and his funeral - oh those cellists! Their bows hacked the poor man's soul into pieces, lamenting his passing yet confining him to the bounds of mortality. But wait! The bugles sounded in the distance - could it really be? The choir of angels appeared and summoned fallen soldiers from remote lands and star-crossed lovers from their watery graves and called the most common of the commoners to stand forth to be resurrected.

By the time the symphony ended, I was sitting on the edge of my seat, mesmerized. One of the music buffs we rode back with claimed that Mahler had "made his weekend, no wait, his week, no, his Thanksgiving!" To which, his equally enthusiastic friend upped his game and claimed that Mahler had made his year. While I did not think that Mahler was life-changing, it was probably life-changing for my future children: sorry kids, it's back to the piano for you.

What happens in Vegas

What happens in Vegas . . .

You can probably tell after reading my Subway post that I really need to work on being more spontaneous. So in an effort to throw all caution to the wind, I agreed to go on a random road trip to Las Vegas last weekend, not knowing quite what was going to happen or where I was going to sleep. Being a bunch of squeaky-clean Mormon kids, we spiced up all the Casino touring with a good dose of Utah fun, a.k.a. photo scavenger hunts. Random people would jump in our photos and one even asked for a kiss from a girl in our group. We finally succumbed to peer pressure at 3 a.m. in the morning - in order to fit in a little more, we all went and bought slurpees at 7/11 just so that we would have something to drink as well. Vegas was also the one place where I was so keenly conscious that I was underage. It also didn't help that I didn't have my I.D. with me half the time :P



My roommate, Dawn, and I were about to head back with our original group the next day when we realized that our stuff were locked in a hotel room and the people who had the key were gone bailing another member of our group out of jail. Ok, that was an exaggeration, but he was detained by the police in a holding cell. He got out fine but that meant that our ride left and we were left in Vegas for another day. More drama ensued but eventually we made it home safe and sound. This last spontaneous stint was very uncharacteristic of me but at least not I'm one step closer to being more comfortable out of my comfort zone.

Stays in Vegas

Las Vegas is gaudy. Everything is bright and over the top. Everywhere I looked was loud makeup, exaggerated laughs, and extremely tight outfits. Billboards scream for your attention and every casino was designed to lure in those lucky few who could win hundreds or those unlucky many who would lose thousands. Sometimes, I'm embarrassed to look left or right, so I stare at the ground instead, which is even worse, as it is covered by calling cards. It is a city where people lose their inhibitions, conforming to the general practice of playing to your lowest denominator. As I walked by one casino, I heard over the loudspeaker an ad that went something like this, "Show the world that you are a sinner. Let us tempt you." I could not have summed up Vegas better myself.

When we got home to Provo, I threw all my smokey Vegas clothes in the laundry immediately. What happened in Vegas can stay in Vegas, thank you very much.

Not wired the right way

I have always thought it is interesting when boys write "Be Mine!" on some sort of a card or say it to me. The image in my head isn't one of red valentine's day hearts carefully cut out on construction paper. Instead, I see clawing hands clasped around my vulnerable shoulders, making sure that I can't run off. There is a sense of possessiveness embedded in that phrase - some sort of jealous frenzy that is waiting to be unleashed. The passion behind it heightens to a whole new level when it is all in CAPS LOCK or when it is accompanied by multiple !!!

To me, those two little words are absolutely suffocating.

Somewhere in my socialization process, I must have missed a couple lessons on how not to think too much when boys tell you that they like you.