What is the Weight of All of Michael Phelps's Medals?

My post begins with a query asked by my dear friend Melody. Melody is currently on an internship in Kenya (because she does stuff like that. Ugh, pretentious), but we still find time to chat about useless and random things, almost like we still live together.  One morning (night for her, morning for me) last week we were having one of our usually witty discussions via Facebook, when a challenge arose..

I was focused on other things (such as work and being somewhat responsible) and as such forgot about our chat until the next night. It was late and we were having one of our normal conversations.  This chat included such topics as: Russia, playing Oregon Trail when we were in elementary school, sloths, Voldemort, and the differences between initialisms and acronyms.  As I bid goodnight, Melody reminded me of the challenge I had chosen to accept.

By the next night, Phelps had won his 22nd medal and finished his Olympic racing career. It was go time. As a SlytherPuff (see previous post), I am good at finding things. Useless information is my forte. I thrive on knowing information that a normal, sane person would not. Call it a gift, call it a curse, call it my way of ensuring that I'm useful to people. I started researching and found some interesting facts, none of which actually helped me all that much.

So continued my plight. Google kept failing me. I didn't want to know what each medal was worth, I wanted the weight. If there was a difference between the weight of the gold, silver, and bronze it would be even better! I couldn't believe that not one person had ever embarked on the quest I was attempting. Eventually I was able to come up with some numbers, some calculations and some answers.

Look at that. I'm probably more proud of this than anything in my recent history (and I just graduated college). I am so proud of it that I wrote an entire blog post on my own accomplishment. Go Murphy. 

I hope that I have helped at least one random Googler who was pondering the same question that two lifelong friends were asking one night. To my blog readers, if you ever get the chance to weigh all the medals that Michael Phelps has won, please let me know if the weight is close to 11.358222 pounds. If it isn't, please don't bother to let me know. I like to live in my delusions of grandeur. 

This Is What Happens When I Procrastinate

I have to give a talk in church tomorrow. It terrifies me. I've had bad experiences in the past when speaking (aka laughing hysterically because of nerves) and it sure isn't going to help to be entirely unprepared like I am now. I can't help it if Olympics and general laziness are distracting me!

A few nights ago I got distracted by looking at wedding photos online. A timesuck if there ever was one. Ugh, I'm the worst. I could have used that time to do something productive, like clean my room or do some laundry. I could have gone for a walk or painted my nails. I could have even done things that are just as useless but more enjoyable to me like reading celebrity gossip or checking out Major League Baseball news. But no. I chose to look at pictures of strangers. I need to get out more.

In more upbeat news, my stalking skills are finally being put to good use. Being easily able to find addresses online for clients is a skill that many years of creeping has developed well. I'm a finder, what can I say? I'm a Hufflepuff! (In actuality, according to Pottermore, I'm a Slytherin.  I'll compromise and say SlytherPuff, just because it's fun to say and freaks Melody out)

My family visited last week! The main reason I say this is so I can show a picture of myself and my sisters in a big tree.

Now that I've officially wasted even more time, maybe I can motivate myself to write a talk.  Probably not. Ooh, swimming's about to start!

California June

As you no doubt already know if you are reading this blog (and thereby know me), I am no longer residing in the state of Utah.  I, being the brave girl who never stresses out at all (guffaw), packed my bags and came out here to California knowing nobody. I've now been here for five weeks and things get better every day. I now have a house and a bed and am eating semi-regularly, which is more than I could say when I got here.

Without further ado, my observations about California.

1) There are skylights everywhere. Very thrilling first observation, is it not? I guess when snow caving in your roof is not a threat, you can have windows in the ceiling. This has caused me problems. I have an incessant habit of making sure the lights are turned off and the sunlight tricks me into thinking there are lights on. Darn you sun! A few days ago, I was grabbing breakfast when the room suddenly went dark. Instead of a logical explanation (such as a plane), my immediate thought was 'Godzilla!' Nice one, self.

2) Traffic is a beast. This goes without saying. The word association between 'California' and 'hellish traffic nightmare' is strong, and for good reason. Motorcyclists can drive between lanes legally here, making me hate them even more when they fly past me and I'm stuck waiting behind cars that don't know how to pull off to the side of the road to turn right. Every stoplight is equipped with cameras, which only adds to my paranoia that my first traffic violation of any kind will be me running a yellow light. Don't question my paranoia.

Also, I can only turn left at stop lights and I hate the oppression.

3) People know nothing about what I know. I say this in regards to Utah and Mormons. One roommate of mine didn't know where Utah was. When I first moved in, somehow the rumor was spread throughout the three of them that Mormons don't celebrate birthdays. I'm sorry, I have Harry Potter and Jersey Shore birthday parties I've attended that will highly dispute that claim. So the most I can do is answer questions (and politely decline the offer to get a tattoo).

4) Bay area radio stations are worse than Cache Valley stations. Gasp. I know, hang in there with me. I finally got around to figuring out some radio presets for my car this week. Going through all the radio stations twice, I found eight that had songs I at least recognized. Little did I know that six of these stations seemingly share the same eight song playlist. I was in the car a total of forty minutes today and heard "Starships" by Nicki Minaj seven times. Not even exaggerating. After the third time I started counting to make sure. The other stations play soft rock, and I might have to deal with that. And get some new music on my phone before I go crazy.

5) It's not hot here. Today was 82 degrees. Compared to the rest of the country, which is seemingly being swallowed by Hell itself lately, it's wonderful. But it gets cold at night, much colder than I'm used to in the summer. If I tried to sleep outside here I would probably be killed, and if I wasn't, I would be an icicle (don't worry, Mom, I'm just slightly exaggerating the risk of my murder!)

All-in-all, life in California is different, but not entirely terrible. I'm grateful to have a job and a place to live. And internet, so I can keep up on my celebrity gossip.

Peace and blessings.

Farewell to a Fallen Comrade

I have a confession. I am not the most graceful person in the world. In fact, balance in general has always been something I have struggled with. This is why I walk like an old woman in the winter, with my back hunched over and my eyes glued to the ground, watching my small, shuffling steps. One of my most embarrassing moments involves ninth grade, flip-flops, rain, and a large set of outside concrete stairs. You can only imagine the humiliation.

Over Spring Break, I took a cruise to Mexico with 15 people I am quite fond of. I made new friends and, as a whole, had a wonderful experience. However, there was a casualty on my trip.

Cabo San Lucas. Gorgeous day of 80 degree weather. We decided to head out to Lover's Beach. You need to take a water taxi to get to the beach.

Lover's Beach

A bunch of us decided to take a tour around the beach, which was beautiful. There were interesting rock formations, sea lions and crazy waves. After taking pictures and mimicking sea lions, we headed to the beach. I now had to get out of the water taxi. Remember, I have no balance (Case in point: the day before I had fallen on another beach getting into a water taxi. Wet jeans are no fun). The boys were helping us out into the shallow water. I had the brief thought that I should hand my bag to someone while I hopped out. I dismissed the idea, took Porter's hand for assistance, and jumped.

And landed fine.

And then fell over.

While I was holding my bag.

With my iPod inside.

And my camera.

And now they are ruined.

Imagine me jumping and falling

Eric has told me many times how funny it was to watch. I agree, it is funny. I've had to learn to laugh at myself and not dwell on how stupid I look. C'est la vie.

I'm wearing a green shirt in this picture.

I'm behind other people so you really can't see me.

And I'm pretty okay with that.

The other sports are just sports. Baseball is a love.

29 days. Not that I'm counting or anything, but that is the amount of days until the beginning of the Major League Baseball season. One month until the first official games. I promise I'm only a bit obsessive.

Baseball is part of my life blood. From April to October every year, an irrational feeling runs through my body. Everything I do will somehow affect the team located 1,869 miles from where I currently sit. I cannot house a negative thought in my mind because it will somehow affect the Atlanta Braves and how they play ball. It's completely absurd to think that not knocking on wood will affect something I have no control over, but I am a special soul sometimes.

I have always been destined to be an ardent fan:

Both of my parents grew up watching and loving baseball. Strike one.

When my parents first got married, TBS showed Braves games almost every day. The love affair with the Braves began. Strike two.

Here's the kicker: when my mother was nearly 9 months pregnant with me, the parents drove from Utah to San Diego to see the Braves play. Strike three.

This road trip was all designed to meet one man, the exceptional Dale Murphy.

Two-time National League MVP and all-around kick awesome person Dale Murphy. My namesake. And one of the reasons I will always be connected to baseball (My parents did meet him, but my mother forgot the camera in the car. Thankfully, 16 years later they were able to meet him again and actually take a picture. It's on our fridge).

The season is quickly approaching. Spring training has started and rosters are being determined. And I will be here in Logan, Utah, constantly checking scores, news and trade rumors. Because baseball always has been and always will be part of my life.