Summa Cum Laude.

A little over a year ago, I announced via Facebook that I had finally earned my B.S. degree and was now determined to receive my MRS.

One of my friends aptly suggested that I take my time on the 2nd degree, "Have fun, travel and live!"

Today I am happy to announce that I did. And have.
I explored the UK with my family, spent a year living the life of a true college 'crazy person' with my roommate bestie/other good buddies and had so much fun it should be illegal.

And I'm even happier to announce that, true to my word, the diploma for my 2nd degree is on its way in the form of a little piece of paper I like to call 'marriage certificate'.

I won't actually be walking until June 30th. Commencement will take place at the Mt. Timpanogos Temple at 11:00 AM.

I'm particularly pleased with my class ring.
The designer did a superb job picking exactly what I wanted.

I fully expected that it would be on my finger when I came out of surgery. A little surprise for when the anesthesia wore off.

A fact I animatedly told my mom and all of the nurses as soon as I was lucid.
Or at least as far as they could understand, my mouth being stuffed with gauze and all.

Apparently, I'm a bit chatty when I'm drugged.
And don't follow instructions to stop talking very well.

When I told the BF , he said, "That would have been nice to know..."
Poor guy. But that kind of would have defeated the point of a surprise, no?

And even though things didn't go exactly according to plan and all of his grand ideas were thwarted, I wouldn't trade my simple late night front porch proposal for a grand recreation of our first date, the flashing lights of a JumboTron or all of the flowers in Red Butte Gardens.

I figure it's the perfect ending to the long lesson on patience that has been our courtship.

Because all those weeks of waiting became incredible worth it when he tried to slip that little sparkly ring on the wrong hand... It was adorable.

And believe me you, as soon as these holes in the back of my head heal up, I'm gonna give that boy a kiss he won't soon forget.

Word to the Wise.

I'm bummed.

A week from today, I'm having my wisdom teeth out.

And will become wisdom-less.

They told me that I'd have enough room. That they'd all come up fine.

But apparently, they lied.

I'm bummed for two reasons:

A) Using 'I still have all my wisdom teeth.' for the game Two Truths and a Lie will no longer be possible.

-AND-

B) I have a large distaste for needles.

And I hear they are kind of a requirement for said surgery unless you would like to feel every crack and tug on laughing gas.

Granted, without pain but disturbing none-the-less.

Not to mention that I've never had laughing gas and therefore have yet to experience how it affects me personally. Come to think of it, I've never had an IV either.. So this should be fun.

Why am I willingly undergoing such procedure, you might ask?..

Oh, just because one of my wisdom teeth decided to be lame and fuse to my jaw before coming up completely. (And because I'm taking advantage of my parents' dental insurance while I still can. Love you Mom and Pops!)

Nice one, wisdom tooth. Real mature.

What did the other three, happily emerged wisdom teeth ever do to you??
Now they're all going to have to come out. And it's all your fault.

I cringe to think of the pain I endured while teething the first three. (In case you were wondering, 'teething' is equivalent to 'birthing' in the dental sense.) And I don't care that my sisters laughed at me when I complained at the time because it hurt! Sarah feels my pain.

And if I die from the terror of having a needle stabbed into my arm or say something in a half-drugged stupor that I would be horrified to reveal, I'll never forgive you.

They may call you wise, but I know the truth.
You are anything but wise. Dare I say it, foolish.

Because four gaping holes in the back of my head is not my idea of a pleasant weekend. No it is not.

'Dog'-gone It.

Last night, I dreamt I had a dog in my bedroom and he lived in a kennel under my bed. Every once and a while I'd peek down at him and he'd look back unaffected. He was a good a little dream doggy.

This little exchange went on for quite some time. Months, I'd wager, in dreamland. Until one day I realized something..

My dog had been living under my bed for a very long time now and not once had I taken him out. Not to play, not to eat, nothing. Then I came to another terrible realization.

I had never taken him out to go potty.

Terrified, I slowly pulled his box away from the wall and opened the door, fully expecting to find six month's worth of turds piled in the corner. In preparation, I had somehow fashioned gloves out of old Macey's plastic bags in an effort to shield myself from the impending nastiness.

Tilting my head away so as to avoid the smell, time slowed as my pooch stepped from the cage to reveal...

a stack of old books.

Confused, I made a closer inspection.
Sure enough, there were no feces to be found. Only a random assortment of antique looking novels. And that is where the dream ended.

This, people, is why I prefer not to dream.

Apparently my subconscious is bat-sh**-crazy and has no business being given free rein to create such atrocities.

The BF insists that dreaming is the greatest thing ever. Almost every night, his fantastical brain sends him on adventures of epic proportions.
And he always emerges victorious.

I, on the other hand, very rarely dream as I've mentioned before.
But when I do, it always leaves me slightly disturbed and utterly confused.

When I told the BF about my dream doggy and the imaginary poop pile, he offered this interpretation: "Well, you see me as something to take care of and you are worried that I will be messy. But really you are going to gain a lot of knowledge from the experience."

Would anyone else like to join me in a round of applause for this brilliantly succinct explanation?? I laughed for ten minutes straight after reading it. Only the BF could take such nonsense and create a fairly logical explanation.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not saying that I think of the BF as a dog (which I loved despite his supposed filthiness in the dream, mind you) who will inevitably make a mess that I will be forced to clean up. Nor am I saying turds can magically change into books of wisdom. It would be ridiculous to believe any of that.

But oh. My subconscious does.