It's that time of year when the world fills with love and when I confess my Christmas Music Before Thanksgiving infraction. I had held personally pretty strong until it came upon this mid-morning clear, when I just reached the snapping point. I needed a little Christmas right that very moment. I was writing my dramatic lit. paper (checking it twice), where I deconstruct the performances of the contestant designers and judges on Project Runway using postmodern practices(yes, yes, I know you're jealous, you wish you're final paper could be half as intriguing and current as mine is). When almost without knowing it, my mouse walked in a winter wonderland over to the iTunes icon. Clicked, and then rockin round the playlist tree to the Ks . . .and what does that naughty (or nice?) curser do? It clicks on Kurt Bestor's Noel. The first album of Christmas. So help me, I listened as I tried to cook my ideas for the paper like so many chestnuts roasting on an open fire. It was holly. It was jolly. And I don't regret a single note of it.

I guess there's only one thing left to say, although it's been said many times, many ways:

Let the Most Wonderful Time of the Year begin!!

Now don't keel over from the shock of hearing from me twice in one day after such an absence. But what I'm about to tell you warrants a two-post day.

It's no secret that I love theatre. And by love I also mean I am incredibly passionate about this particular art form. I go to see as much theatre as my wallet and planner allow. There are times when I am re-reminded the reasons theatre has survived for two thousand years and why I have fallen in love with it. There are also times that my pride in being a part of the BYU theatre program grows. Last night was such a time on all three accounts. Because of this:

I wept like a child and wanted to create into infinity because of this. I'm not sure what to say exactly because anything I say would probably guild the lily or cheapen the moment. One thing I will say: grow some culture and go see it. But save one ticket for me because I plan on being there once more.

(I'd also like to give a side note shout out to the BYU arts production for going back to using illustrations for the publicity posters for the shows . . .I feel as if my dissatisfaction was heard and the world was made better).

This semester (which I realize is almost over and I've neglected this little note so long that now it's probably forgotten in the back of your desk drawer) I'm taking a puppetry class. Yes, I'm learning the craft of Jim Henson, Adrian and Basil as well as the Tanglewood Marionettes.

You don't have to tell me because I'll beat you to it:

Ladies and gentleman I am a part of the world's coolest field of study.

One of our recent projects was to create a parade puppet that advocated for some kind of social cause. I was in a group of three. And for some reason I'm still trying to tease out, we, as bright, young women, who are advocates for the arts and generally socially aware, chose to create a puppet to raise awareness about not throwing your gum on the ground where birds can eat it. Once the birds eat the old gum, it expands in their stomachs and they die, or so swears one of the girls in my group. . . whether or not I actually believe it expands in the bird's stomach and doesn't just sit there like a flavorless zebra striped rock, is beside the point. The fact is, we (where we is used in a rather loose sense) chose to be advocates for little gum ingesting birdies everywhere. The validity of the cause aside, we made a pretty kick kidney puppet. Behold:

Feel free to be impressed. That loveable blue bird is probably about 500 times the size of an actual blue bird and is made of hot glue, blue felt, hot glue, styrofoam, hot glue, wire, hot glue and plastic tubing. Oh and 6 fake feathers. Bet you just want to cuddle him. Well, I'm here to tell you, he doesn't cuddle . . .but he does dance.

The musical accompaniment and artistic cinematography as well as the really cool video quality are all complimentary bits of the experience. If you're not a hip enough film consumer to appreciate the artistic choices of this little documentary, then look at content. Isn't he utterly charming when he dances? Of course he is. He's made of hot glue magic.