To All the Girls With "Pretty Faces"

I've been ruminating on this topic for some time. The title came to me a while ago (seems kind of like a riff on Cormac McCarthy's All the Pretty Horses because of the repetition with the ending sounds), but the words have taken a while to form. In fact, I'm not quite sure I've got them nailed down the way I want, but we'll work from here and see where it goes.

I think this idea really started to percolate when a lovely friend (known simply as "B", but we usually type it "b" because she's small in stature) was talking about some friend-of-a-something-someone-or-other who gets paid to publish a blog about the daily pains of being large-breasted. An inconsiderate male in b's life recommended she write one about being flat-chested. This isn't a post about boobs. Heaven knows I know plenty about that, but I decided to stick with something I know better and have known even longer.

This is a post about being fat.

We're not talking "I'd really like to lose three pounds" pseudo-fat. We're talking flabby-arms, lumpy-wrists, cankles, dimply-knees, back-fat-hanging-in-folds, multiple-rolls-on-the-belly, thighs-have-never-not-rubbed-together, I-didn't-even-know-I-had-collar-bones, my-facial-shape-might-be-something-else-under-these-mounds-of-round, I'm-afraid-to-cut-my-hair-short-because-it-shields-less-of-my-person, my-belly-button-is-a-cavern, I've-never-been-pregnant-and-am-covered-with-stretchmarks, the-fashion-world's-concept-of-XL-doesn't-even-begin-to-cover-one-of-my-butt-cheeks-let-alone-my-bust, I-don't-fit-in-the-airplane-seat, F-A-T fat.

I hope you're laughing. You should be. It's funny. Have you ever noticed how most comedians are fat, or not-attractive, usually both? The world expects fat people to fall into one of two polarized groups: fat and funny, or fat and bitter (of course there is the veiled fat-and-bitter-who-feigns-funny-to-make-people-happy-while-secretly-loathing-them, but we won't go there. The world's not ready to relinquish it's stereotypes). There is also the expectation that all fat people secretly feel like the contestants on The Biggest Loser who bawl about never being loved, kissed, etc.and that we all have a deep yearning to "be like everyone else."

Newsflash: The super-duper secret answer (for this fat girl) is I do and I don't. See, fat people can be complicated, too!

Sure, it would be nice to shop at any store I wanted and to know that the outfit will look the same on me as it does on the mannequin in the window. It would be nice not to have my love-handles ache for three days after a transcontinental flight because they were mashed under the armrests in the economy section of the plane. It would be lovely to dance and not feel like one hip-swish caused reverberating shock waves across the rest of my gelatinous sub-dermal-self.

But it's also very much a part of who I am. It's kind of how I identify myself. I've always been the biggest. It's nice not counting calories every meal. It's funny to see how surprised people are at my flexibility and agility (fat and active, there's a new one for ya!). And to be perfectly honest, I may not love every bit of who I am every minute of the day, but I know who and what I am. I know my body this way, and almost every day I love it. I love me. I don't care if I am like everyone else.

I do care if I'm healthy, and lately I've been trying harder to monitor what fuel I'm giving my body to ensure a long, active life. I don't resent people who are thin. I'm not a recluse who eats a tub of ice cream in a single sitting. Really, I'm not that much different from thinner people who have poor habits. My body simply doesn't process things the same way theirs do. Is it fair? Not really, but neither is life. It's also not fair that I don't study or work hard at school and still get A's when I know people who pour hours of their lives into mentally grueling study sessions only to barely pass.

I dislike all the politically-correct terms people use. "You're not fat, your healthy." "I'm sure you're not that overweight." Overweight. Does that mean my body has a prescribed weight? Is there someone out there who magically assigned a certain weight to every individual person? Is my magic weight 192.3 lbs? So if I drop to 175 are people going to become suddenly concerned about my being 20 lbs underweight? Chances are not so good. The people who love me get very defensive and prickly when I flatly tell them, "I am morbidly obese." In return I get, "You just carry it so well." and "But you still have such a pretty face." I'm sorry, since when did being fat affect my apparent facial beauty? Or since when was being pretty in the face a consolation prize? Is that one redeeming quality supposed to set the cosmos right and realign karmic balance in the universe?

Apparently.

I learned years ago that I could've been thin. I could've been born with thick, full hair. I could've been born with smaller feet. I could've been born with longer eyelashes. I could've been born shorter. I could've been born a faster runner. I could've been born nicer and not had to learn in a very painful way to not be cruel. But I wasn't. I was always fat. I have thin, fine hair. I have huge feet. I have stumpy eyelashes. I'm a certifiable giantess. I'm a freakishly slow runner. And I'm still working on not being cruel. So what does this all mean?

I am fat. I love me. And I have a pretty face to boot.

The FUN Has Arrived!

Ok, so once again it has been about a million years since I posted. Lame. I know. I do this a lot. You should be used to it by now. Or I should be more reliable. I'll go with the former and absolve myself of all guilt. Ah, I feel much better now.

So basically I've been crazy-busy with school and work. I forgot how much work school was. That or when I was in school before I didn't care like I do now. Hmm...probably the latter in this case. At any rate, it pretty much consumed my life for the month of June. I still have a monsterous paper due on Friday (which, for all intensive purposes, I have yet to begin), but then I'm home-free until August 23. Then it's going to be doomsday. See, I thought I was busy with one normal class, two online classes, and two jobs now. Come August 23 I'll have four English classes (curious aside: they are all taught by women), one Spanish class, and still have two jobs. Suicidal much? No. Not yet anyway.

Yet in all reality life is good right now. Like really ridiculously good. Honestly, if there was one thing in my life I would want to be working for me right now that currently isn't it would be getting to the gym (no, I don't date currently, but I think I should start going to the gym again before I try that so I won't feel like the fat funny friend that guys want to hang out with and not just be friends with). But we're not paying attention to that! Because so many other things are good.

It's almost kind of scary-crazy to me how bad off I was just a few short months ago. There are literally four months of my life that I don't remember. No, I wasn't intoxicated. I was depressed. Then one day it was like I woke up and saw myself in the mirror for the first time in those four months and I didn't even recognize myself. It wasn't like I had moped around and slept all day. I had a job that I went to everyday, picked up two other jobs along the way, and got ready every day. I just did it all on autopilot.

I vaguely recall realizing I liked music again. It was as though I had shut all of "me" into a tight little box and my body just kept going until I decided to come out. Seeing myself in the mirror was part of that awakening. Listening to music was another. But I think the thing that kicked down the door and said, "I ain't gonna do this anymore!" was going back to school. I've really enjoyed most of the jobs I've had since I graduated from college, but none of them ever caused me to feel like I was "going somewhere" or "doing something" with my life. I just existed.

Now there is the increased incentive that what I'm doing will make a difference--for me and for the world (you know, the world being the people I interact with, which might by like, 50 people. Or according to Facebook at least 355). I get some of that now working at the residential treatment facility for recovering drug addicts. Being here has really changed my life for the better, and hopefully I've had some kind of positive effect on some of them, too. So yeah. That's about it.

Oh, and three days ago there was a marching band marching down my street. Yes, I am that cool. That's all.

Musings and Ramblings

It's been ages. My excuse could be time. Or traveling to London to fulfill a life-long dream.

London was a dream come true. It was like living in a fantasy. Now all I want to do is go back, since I never wanted to leave in the first place. Everybody keeps asking about favorites. It's hard to pick since I just remember loving it all--except the part where I felt like a little kid again when I couldn't keep pace with my professor. That man speed walks, I swear. Well, if that's true, then so do all the Britons. People walk fast there. People walk with purpose. Leisurely strolls don't seem to exist, even in parks. That's where the "fitties" do their training.

I start back to school on Tuesday. I'm scared shitless. It's been three years. Is it possible to forget how to be in school? If so, I think I've done it. This week I've been writing essays for my study abroad classes. I swear it's taking me twice as long, and the writing isn't nearly as good. I can't imagine going back after a long break. It makes me appreciate people like my mom who went back with a family after 13 years of being out of classrooms, or my brother-in-law who is finally pursuing his dream of earning a bachelor's degree.

But with the beginning of my return to school comes the close of the regular school year. I will miss my beloved Kindergartners. Working with them has been life altering. I am amazed by them and the things of which they are capable. Yesterday I was at Walmart behind a mother with her two children, I'm guessing ages 2 and 3, a girl and boy, respectively. Of course their little minds are bombarded with the diabolical impulse items. As soon as the boy asked for a treat the girl went into full-out tantrum (as in laying underneath the shopping cart pounding the floor). I remember having a conversation with my sister about having kids throwing a tantrum in the store and passersby giving dirty sneers, or even worse saying, "Oh somebody must be having a bad day." Instead, I politely watched this stalwart mother stand her ground without making faces or sympathising with the children. She picked up the girl and seated her in the cart, and took the boy by hand. He looked back to see how interesting my purchases were. His cry was clearly false. And my only thought was, "Your mom must really love you because she said, 'No.'"

Working with recovering drug addicts I am convinced that the world could use a whole lot more "no." But not just the blatant no, but nurturing because-I-really-care, "no." Tonight I'm grateful for parents who not only supported me in all good things I wanted to do, but also told me no when I needed to hear it. A timely no leads to a world full of yes. I have a lot of yes right now because of their nos (even those I chose not to hear).

Be grateful if you had a mom who loved you enough to say no.

Tulips, Daffodils, and Miracles

The last few days, weeks really, have been cause for lots of reflection, continual prayer, and much gratitude. The weather has been less than temperate with several inches of snow, and winds at gale force just this week, but today I caught an all-too-brief glimpse of something resoundingly Spring. In a little plot near the mailbox at the front of a simple home was a brilliantly blooming flower patch. Rising up in mellow beauty were fully opened daffodils, a delicious butter and lemon color. Just in front of them a clump of scarlet tulips open to the sun, as if spreading arms out wide to welcome and embrace it's warming rays. And in that truncated glimpse, lasting perhaps less-than half a second, joy seeped into my limbs, infused my person, and nestled comfortably in the heart of my soul.

In my mind has been repeating this quote from President Thomas S. Monson, shared some two autumns ago. "Mortality is a period of testing, a time to prove ourselves worthy to return to the presence of our Heavenly Father. In order to be tested, we must sometimes face challenges and difficulties. At times there appears to be no light at the tunnels end--no dawn to break the night's darkness...If you find yourself in such a situation, I plead with you to turn to our Heavenly Father in faith. He will lift you and guide you. He will not always take your afflictions from you, but He will comfort and lead you with love through whatever storm you face."

I was not fully aware until just yesterday of all that has been transpiring with my immediate and extended family. Within the last two weeks we have undergone a series of remarkable things.

Miracle One: My great-grandma of 92 fell from her bed and for four days complained of pain until she was taken to the doctor where they found she had broken her neck. They call it the "hangman's break" because it was the break that killed those hanged. Doctors were shocked at her survival, and perplexed in knowing how to treat her. She was too old and frail to survive surgery, and there was no way to simply live with the break, so the result has been putting her in a halo. She's doing fine.

My 17-year-old cousin has been suffering from an unknown ailment since January and went in for surgery this past week. Her situation has not much improved, and is ongoing.

Miracle Two through Seven-thousand two-hundred thirty-six: Then on Tuesday at 2:30 am my aunt (only a year older than my mother) fell out of bed in cardiac arrest. Her husband called 911, and began chest compressions until emergency personnel arrived. A friend of mine is an EMT and was on call that night. She responded on the second bus, and told me the next day, "That was scary." Hearing that from someone who has seen lots of things like this before is humbling. Later she informed me, "That's the only call I've been on where someone coded and actually came back and lived." Drs. informed my uncle yesterday that survival only happens for 10% of people with this condition who have a similar type of episode.

Information trickled in through long hours of silence in sporadic bursts that didn't give much greater insight. MAJOR coronary event. Responding to painful stimuli. Fighting the respirator. Sedated. 

After a long night and life flight to a larger hospital 45 minutes away the diagnosis came back. Cardiomyopathy. Then more waiting. How long was she without oxygen? Will she have a memory? Will she come out of the sedation or slip into a coma? Images of Terri Schiavo flashed through my head. The next morning they decided to start weaning her out of sedation to see if she could breathe on her own. The first drip missed and she woke. She was able to speak and told her husband she loved him. Her memory comes and goes, but overall she's improving. Today they will implant an internal difibrilator, and she may be home as soon as Monday.

Miracle Seven-thousand two-hundred thirty-seven: Wednesday my 16-year-old cousin (brother to he 17-year-old) was driving to a scout event west of town in an area called Three Peaks. He was alone in a truck hauling equipment, following another truckload of boys. While driving he had the impression he was going to slide. Nobody is sure if he hit the brake, the gas, or over-corrected, but the truck rolled several times down an embankment until it landed upright. He was without a scratch, and the truck was still running. He could see the top of the embankment and thought if he gunned it he could make  it back up. He gave it the gas, but miraculously the truck stalled part-way up. It's a miracle because it was not the embankment he thought it was to get to the road. Disoriented by the roll of the truck he was heading straight for a drop off into an old mine. His Bishop came over and said, "You must be the most righteous boy in the ward." Police officers couldn't believe he survived the roll. The truck is totaled. He is a little sore, but otherwise unharmed.

Bless the soul of my grandmother. I've always thought she was special in a saintly kind of way. At eight months pregnant she dealt with the shocking death of her 36-year-old husband, and managed to take her four children to another town and start a new life. I cannot imagine what it must've been like for her to see her daughter in a hospital bed in a situation so closely paralleled to that of her husband. And yet she does not despair. She does not decry her lot and say, "Woe is me. God has forsaken this family." Instead, these are her words, "Aren't we blessed that they only happen one at a time! And everything keeps turning out good." I overheard my mother say, "At night when you pray it seems that all you can say is 'thank you' because of everything that has happened, and you almost feel like you can't ask for anything else because we have been so blessed."

In the midst of all these other dangerous, potentially life-threatening things comes perhaps the sweetest miracle of all. My dear, beautiful friend gave birth to her first child. Paul Edward. He is perfect. Nice chubby cheeks, lots of thick, dark hair, and healthy. 9 lbs 15 oz, 21 1/2 inches long.

At the end of every bitter Winter is a glorious Spring. And even when the late storms encroach on the budding season there are those early bright spots of lemon and scarlet that bring hope. Winter cannot last forever. Winter will not last forever. Spring. Spring will come, and it will be perfect.

Advice: Part II

Some new gems!

"Move your feet."

"Go get em!"

"The score doesn't tell the whole story."

And my new personal favorite...

"Push through the pain."

Dental Floss and Willing Against Nature

It's 5:32 am. I'm working a graveyard shift listening to the irregular snoring rhythms of those over whom I watch and am trying not to be jealous of their slumber. And, after having spent the last hour reading Kelle Hampton's blog I am feeling all kinds of inspired and inspirational...or at least satirical.

With that, I begin.

I've never really cared for our dogs, Roxy and Winston. They bark a lot. They've never properly house-trained. And they like to get into the garbage.

Roxy has the peculiar trait of pilfering my used dental floss. Not quite sure why, but that is her thing.

The other morning while getting ready I noticed a few strewn-about pieces of tissue and knew the pests had been running amok. I gathered the scattered rubbish, redisposed of it, and continued my morning routine.

Quickly I dressed for school, pulling my nylon knee-highs so I would not be bare-footed in my dress shoes. The day progressed with no real abnormalities. Then, as I was sitting in a staff meeting I crossed my right foot over my left knee, exposing part of my ankle and lower calf. I did a rapid assessment of what I had narrowly caught in my peripheral vision. What was that curious white line in the middle of my leg?

Dental floss. As soon as I recognised the culprit my powers of deduction when whirling into reasoning explanations of how the offending hitchhiker came to be located in such a place. The only thing I could figure was that I had stepped on it while getting ready and had worn it all day.

Perhaps the most curious thing of all was that it had been stowed quietly away for eight hours already, but once the unwelcomed tagalong was found out it became the bane of my existance. I developed a sudden and completely nonsensical itch in that very spot simply because the floss was there.

Cursed dog. Leave the dental floss where it belongs!

Also, another quirk in my albeit very random personality. I do this thing where I try to will nature into changing on my timetable. For instance, I am not a hater of winter. I rather like snow and what most term "bad" weather. Yet, lately, with the push of daffodils, the swelling of buds on trees, and general greening up of things in this rather greenless place, I've begun to look forward to spring.

But not a stormy tempestuous spring. A nice, delicate, gentle spring with gradually warming temperatures, the return of birds' songs, and just the faintest tinge of sharpness in the night's air. So, in order to state my direct opposition to a continued streak of cacaphonous weather I hung all of my heavy winter coats in the very far depths of my closet, signaling the end of my need of their heavy liners, hoods, and general protection.

For a day it all went rather smoothly. Then yesterday I awoke to three inches of snow, and tonight as I stepped out of a friend's house I was met with sideways hail and sleet. Well I don't care what you say, Mother Nature, I'm not pulling those heavy coats out, and you can't make me!

Advice

I think most people in this world, myself included, seek advice. Sometimes we find it in unexpected or even strange places.

I distinctly recall while serving as a missionary for my church being extremely distraught about something, and just praying in my heart to God, asking Him how I was supposed to continue. While driving down one of the narrow highways I saw the marquee of a smoke shop. The only word glaring from the middle of the sign with the flashing arrow was "BELIEVE," and in that moment, my soul was calmed.

However, there are some places where I do not think advice or words of encouragement are very appropriate. Allow me to share one such recent experience.

A while ago I received a sample pack of Playtex Sport tampons. They seemed to have a better feel, so I purchased a box the next time I needed some. One day, while doing my business during that specific time when such accouterments are requisite I noticed writing on the wrapper of the tampon. Being a curious person I picked it up and read, "Do your best!" I could not help but laugh. Some wrappers contained two sayings (don't worry, I didn't ruin the surprise and read them all in a single sitting, I allowed myself to receive these little nuggets one at a time). I was fortunate enough to have bestowed upon me, "Make your best good enough!" "Push harder next time!"

Really? Truly? Were these things printed on my tampon label? Now, in a different context these could be motivating--say in a sporting situation. As it was, my mind first jumped to the task at hand, applied the saying, and laughed so hard a little bit of pee came out.

So the next time you feel like you could use more encouragement and positive motivation in your life, just grab a box of Playtex Sport and let the building up begin.

Random Happenings

To explain my prolonged absence I could claim busyness. Afterall, in the last three weeks my parents put their house up for sale (some of you may wonder why that affects me, let it be known I am a slovenly leech who still resides in their basement, therefore, my house is up for sale as well), I found out I'M GOING TO LONDON!!! (only 15 days, but it's better than nothing, right?), and I started a third part-time job (love what I do, even though it's intense--I'm working in a residential treatment center for substance abuse).

However, I've learned from treatment language that this would be simple denial, and I need to own that I've just been putting off getting on here. I'm in a much better place now than I have been for a while, and it feels really good. The jobs are all good, and I'm enjoying keeping busy (no, I don't feel like there is extra money because it's all been usurped by the fulfillment of a life-long dream--LONDON!).

I'm not quite sure what the future will bring, but that's ok. Life's meant to be lived one day at a time. I'll do my best to plan, and figure out the rest as it happens.

As for something humorous--or perhaps disturbing--I was working in a Kindergarten classroom today with children who were writing about what a Leprechaun would do if the child found one. A little boy wrote, "he trikd me 38 tims." As I was mounting their writings on construction paper for display a boy sitting to my right began a monologue rather reminiscent of the one Syndrome in "The Incredibles" begins on--about ruling the world. It was also rather Pinky and the Brain-esque. So I asked him,

"Jim [name has been changed] how do you plan to rule the world?"

"I'm going to destroy someone?"

"Destroy someone?"

"Yes, destroy someone."

"Destroying is not good, people won't like you if you destroy someone."

"I only have to destroy one person, and he lives in space."

"Oh? Who lives in space, Jim?"

"God."

"You're going to destroy God?"

"Yes. I'm going to destroy God and then I'll rule the world."

I am a firm believer that every person is born with the Light of Christ and has intrinsic abilities to sense good from bad, right from wrong, and all that, but there is something seriously amiss with this child. It doesn't help that he has pale, pale skin, and flaming red hair (if I wanted to exaggerate I would also claim that he had yellow eyes, like the bully from "The Christmas Story.").

Mouthbreather's Anonymous

Bless the soul of my Father, he is not a bad man by any means. He does, however, possess the uncanny knack of describing people using their least attractive qualities. Even when he attempts to describe people in a flattering way it comes across as an insult.

One of his rather ingenious verbal inventions is referring to "stupid-looking" people as "mouthbreathers." The term is rather self-explanatory. For a simple visual cue sort back only so far as John Heder's unforgettable performance as Napoleon Dynamite. Nappy-D (as Jared Hess, creator of "Napoleon Dynamite" refers to the main character)  is a notorious mouthbreather.

Of late I have been afflicted with a rather severe headcold, which renders me incapable of inhaling or exhaling through my nasal passages. Thus I am left to breathe through the only remaining respiratory orifice--my mouth. Is it fair to claim that I feel less intelligent for having to respire through my mouth? Be it ridiculous it is, nevertheless, true. I cannot help but to feel more sluggish in thought, as though my synapses are layered in unforgiving mucus that deteriorates cognitive thought.

I join the intellectually indigent throng. A mouthbreather I am.

An Open Letter to the Hateful Secretary on the Third Floor

Dear Hateful Woman,

Following our less-than-pleasant exchange yesterday I chose to vent my feelings of frustration and hurt in an open letter that you will likely never read, but others will laugh in mockery of your lack of character as I expose your faults herein, and, pathetic creature that I am, this will make me feel better. So much so, in fact, that I will not seek retribution in the form of an official complaint filed against you.

I realise you were enjoying the high that comes from the slightly over-full feeling of lunch when you found me in your office waiting. I also realise you were not anticipating finding me there. The surprise is forgivable. The accusatory, impatient tone in which you asked if you were the one I was waiting for is not. Yes, Administrative Assistant. I traipsed from beyond the opposite end of campus, caught in a moving crowd, forced to listen to a hardly adolescent girl painfully vie for the attention of two equally immature boys, up to the third floor of your building just to meet with you. Perhaps it is a lack of understanding, but do people often make appointments with you? I didn't think so.

Startled by your insipid reception I stated my intentions to meet with the administrator whom you are to assist. Again, rather than offer a reasonable or kind explanation the haughty, "He's not here. He's gone to meetings for the rest of the afternoon." Was all I received. I'm sorry, did my presence offend you? Had I done something to warrant such penurious treatment? Perhaps I am bias, but to the best of my knowledge I had done nothing either socially or communicatively errant. I had come to an office where I was told I could meet with an administrator. I came during a time I was told he would be available. I came prepared with information so that the meeting could be productive. And yes, I had showered that very morning.

From what egregious flaw did I illicit your callousness? The best I can figure is you are a hateful person, bless your heart. If I may be so bold, I dare offer some advice. Your official title, I believe, is that of "Administrative Assistant." I have searched many job listings for that very position. They are filled with descriptors such as, "pleasant", "welcoming", "helpful", "positive." None, dear woman, are applicable to you. Not to mention the root for the latter part of your title, "assist." To be plain, pack up your surly attitude and start doing your damn job. Otherwise, heaven help you if you ever seek alternate employment. With the affability you offer a corrections facility wouldn't begin to contemplate your employ.

Very Sincerely and Whole-Heartedly,
Me

The Bachelor Degree Part II

The day most people graduate with their degree from college is a happy day. They've survived. Time to enter the workforce. Time to quit being an economical suck and start getting their's.

The day I graduated was not a very good one. I remember it well. A darker spot in my not-so-recent-past. But never did I ever think I'd be going back. To school, yes. I've always been interested in graduate work. But for a second bachelor's degree? No way, no how.

Alas, here I am. Reapplied to SUU for a Bachelor of Arts in English: Teaching Emphasis. What I really wonder is if I'll be as good of a student as I was the first time around. I wasn't amazing by any means, but I fear I'll come off as jaded from having done this before. Humility. It's the new staple of my diet.

Beautiful Disaster

My life feels like finely orchestrated chaos. Making decisions is like throwing a dart into a tornado, my surroundings are as calm as an tempest, and to top it all off the place where I can feel solace, peace, and where I belong has become a no man's land.

A leader of mine (shall we dub her USS Dramaticus?) has, of late, accused me of trying to sabotage her social life (you can just call me the Flub-marine). It was a long sordid affair that I do not care to repeat, but in no uncertain terms while the USS Dramaticus was feigning peace talks with a little white-flag waving dingy on the starboard she was really just setting depth charges from the port side. Meaning, while she made the preemptive strike to explain she was not having any communication with a known, unstable foreign despot she was knowingly sending coded messages to the same individual.

Needless to say, trying to stay seaworthy in the wake of USS Dramaticus is challenging at best. The true kicker of treason was the communique I received today praising my virtues of intellect and beauty. My thoughts? Don't try to blow smoke up my torpedo launchers, my periscope works just fine.

My war game tactic? DIVE! DIVE! DIVE! and just float under the radar until USS Dramaticus is assigned a new post.

The Wedding

The decorations are taken down. All the dishes are washed, the leftover food packaged and stored. The dress is hung in the closet under the protection of plastic to likely never be worn again. My shins are issuing tortured screams of abuse. There's still a lot of hubbub about things--where to put everything, having some family in town--but I'm wondering how I'll feel when it's all over. Mama talks about a "let-down", or the after-event-post-high-of-planning-and-pulling-off-something-amazing crash.

I'm not going to lie. I am THRILLED to have this wedding over. It's completely consumed all of our lives for the last five months. It will be so nice to quit talking about the never-ending "to-do-list" for the wedding. However, words cannot begin to describe the incalculable loss I will feel in the absence of my baby sister. She has been my friend, my companion, my stylist, my hair dresser, and camp-out buddy. Without her I don't know that I ever would have been able to survive coming home. I am so excited for her to start this new adventure, this new leg in her journey. I also cannot fathom what my life is going to be like without seeing her every day.

Fortunately, I adore her husband and think he is an absolutely fabulous match for her. May the Lord bless them with all they need and provide me the strength to move forward as well.

Medicated Powder

I went to visit my older sister not too long ago. Usually when I travel I have all of my mini-toiletries together in a one gallon Ziploc bag (thank you various terrorists for downsizing my luggage--it's now much easier to manage, and has reduced my number of spills). But when I go to my sister's I take advantage of the hospitality borrowing toothpaste, shampoo, Q-tips, etc, etc.

As I stepped from the shower and commenced my preparations for getting ready I began looking for some Baby Powder (to be fair, I use the variety of cornstarch, not as fine and a little more sticktoitiveness). Now, for those of you who do not have thighs that rub together, or a decolletage that sags together as mine so unfortunately does (my sincerest and most heartfelt apologies if you do) you will likely not understand the necessity of such a thing. Let's just say it helps everything to keep moving smoothly and reduces sticky friction when moving about.

Well the only bottle I could find was of an orange variety which read "Medicated Powder." I opened the top, shook some into my hand, from my basic analysis it appeared to be what I was looking for, though it had that hint of Menthol scent to it. I thought it was kind of minty and fresh. Routinely I fluffed and patted the requisite areas and moved on with my get-ready routine.

I was waiting for the rest of the women to ready themselves for departure when I felt the beginning of a strange, cool sensation. At first I thought it was just cold, then I realised the only place I felt cold was between my legs. Had I unwittingly peed my pants? I looked down. No telling dark spot. Again the sensation swept over my nether regions. What was happening to me? I kept feeling these cooling bursts, so cool they were almost burning and uncomfortable. Truly, what had happened to me in the last hour to cause this?

Without warning or cause it dawned on me. Medicated powder. Menthol. Ah. The mystery was solved, but there remained the question of what to do. Should I strip my clothes from the waist down and try to rinse it off? If I tried wiping would it get spread to other areas? This lead to imagining further reaching sensations. It stopped me cold. No, no. I would leave it and pray that as the day wore on the sensations would subside.

From now on when I go to my sister's I still don't bring my own powder, I'll just remember to raid the baby's room where the mild stuff is kept.

Aging with Grace

Today I witnessed something I will not soon forget while shopping at Walmart with Jamie. We were near, what I believe is termed, the "personal care" section when we encountered two women.

These women appeared to be rather advanced in age, and were utilising the wonderful electric carts provided to those customers who need assistance. These dear ladies also appeared to require the assistance of dentures, though neither was making good on that option this afternoon.

One muu-muu clad cart driver was still in an aisle, while the other had moved into the mainstream, but was stopped. The woman parked in the aisle was repeating the word, "Tampons! Tampons" very loudly. However, because of her lack of teeth she was unable to correctly articulate the word. Therefore, it came across as more of a loudly uttered, "Pampons! Pampons!" Perhaps the crossover between diapers and tampons? Her counterpart finally acknowledged her cross-aisle yodel and responded, "I don' wan'o wase my money on those righ' now."

With a 42 pack of Poise already in her own cart, the concerned friend nodded, and the pair wheeled on.

Completely unrelated post script: I passed by the new site for "Sweet Basil" again today. What is Sweet Basil you might ask? Cedar City's very own THAI Restaurant! Who's excited? I'M EXCITED! Oh yes I am!!!

Home for the Holidays

I had my first Thanksgiving home after being gone the last two during the mission. It was a lot of things I remembered--the family, the noise, the delicious food--and a few things I didn't want to remember. The tension, the arguing, the general lack of familial spirit. Or, perhaps, the prevailing one. Jamie and I ditched out early to head to Nephi where we spent the rest of the holiday weekend.

I mostly hung out with Natasha and the kids--went to the craft fair, met Santa (for Isaac's first time), watched "Horton Hears a Who" more times than I care to recollect (but the proof is in the pudding, I actually still like the movie!), and was able to go to the Manti Temple with Natasha for my first time. That part was truly memorable and very neat.

Jamie and I drove home late Sunday afternoon. I was shocked by the constant stream of northbound traffic. It was incessant. At some points we could tell the cars weren't even driving the speed limit because they couldn't for lack of space.

During our stay in Casa de Dansie in Nephi we received communique that we would be putting up the Christmas tree Monday night. I was surprised and, surprisingly, not happy about the news. But I tried today to change my attitude, and was even looking forward to the meat rolls, the Christmas music blaring, the assembling of the fake tree, stringing of the lights, etc.

I think the part that people leave out about the "absence makes the heart grow fonder" is that absence also alters the fondness of memories, dismisses the bad, hyperbolizes the good, and works best when one is still absent.

Lately I just get the feeling that everyone keeps saying they're so glad I'm back or here, but I don't feel wanted here. Not that I blame anyone, I don't think I'm making myself the most affable company. So now it's on to the next step, still figuring out what to do with my life.

Paradigm Shifted November

So every November it's all about elections, Veterans, ME, and Thanksgiving complete with the whole pilgrim and Indian "first Thanksgiving" at Plymouth Rock-esque renditions of memory, along with many talks on gratitude and people speaking of thankfulness, graciousness, etc.

I guess that's all there, but this year it's somehow different for me.

First, last night I experienced a new use of turkey (the obvious staple of Thanksgiving Dinner) I have never before considered. Turkey Bowling. One uses a smaller, perhaps five pound, frozen turkey as the bowling ball. Our experts laid down sheets of plastic. The pins consisted of two liter soda pop bottles 1/4 of the way full. By the time we finished one turkey was completely out of the bag, it had been so brutalized. I was waiting for the accumulated pressure of the remaining carbonated soda to explode one of the bottles on impact. To my everlasting dismay this did not happen. Alas, it was still a really enjoyable experience.

Second, today we had the opportunity to walk to the local Paiute Tribal Building to enjoy their tribal dances, drum circle, and story-telling in the native Paiute tongue. What a marvelous experience! The grass dancers, the traditional and fancy dancers, the shawl and jingle dancers. Their regalia alone was a presentation of art and dedication, but to see the skills that have been inherited, taught, and passed down from generation to generation was incredibly moving. And the reason for it all, November is American Indian Heritage Month. Whoever knew? Certainly not me. To see children ages three to teenagers at 19 stand in front of their peers and perform was truly an experience of a lifetime.

Perhaps the most moving part came at the end when an Elder, who had been asked to offer a prayer at parting, explained, "We are not Pagan. We are not Heathen. We are people. People who have a mind. People who have a heart, and we put them together." It stirs within me the desire to know more, and a greater sense to be more closely attuned to my own heritage.

The Absence of Me

I cried my last tear for you months ago,
so why did I cry myself to sleep last night?

Your pleading moves through me, decimating my defenses,
making ruins of my forward motions.

Why can't you stay on the shelf of my memory?

You broke me before--I'm still gathering the shattered pieces,

and last night you tore them
from my fingers.

So why do I feel like the bad guy for saying no to you?

Forget you ever met me, and
let me do the same.

You claim to love me. If you mean it,


leave me alone.

Surviving Rejection

I knew the streak would have to end sooner or later (I was hoping for later). I had hoped it would not end yesterday, but it did.

I received my first rejection letter for a job I interviewed for. Not that I've interviewed for lots of high-end jobs, but I was somewhat proud of the fact that I'd never been turned down for a job where I interviewed.

At first I was indignant, who wouldn't want me? But the longer I looked at the form letter that conveniently mail-merged my name in I had a new thought. Just the other day I visited with a former professor, and we discussed things not working out. His only response was, "Good." He expressed that when things don't work out it's because it was headed for some kind of disaster in the future, so be grateful it just didn't work out in the beginning.

It reminded me of Elder Joseph B. Wirthlin's talk and saying, "Come what may, and love it."

So instead of incinerating the letter, I think I might frame it as a mark of a turning point I could not have predicted that will put me on a path to a future that is yet unknown.

Good. Come what may, and love it.

Looking into the Past

The title is two-fold; first, I haven't posted in forever (even though I've had lots of great fodder that was totally blog-worthy); and second, what I've been doing the last two days has caused a lot of reflection.

A couple of weeks ago we went down to Tuacahn to see "Footloose." The other plays were "Aida" and "Annie." I would have chosen either of those over what we actually saw, but Mama had it in her head that "Footloose" would be best, so that's what we saw. I'm not gonna lie, every time I've been to Tuacahn I have really, really enjoyed what I've seen. This time, not so much. It seemed very high-school and was unimpressive. But we did go to Red Lobster for dinner beforehand, so that mitigated the three hours of my life I won't get back.

Last week--thanks to my friend Rachel!--I was able to get tickets to the USF's production of "The Complete Works of William Shakespeare (Abridged)." It was what my friends Lola and Bethany describe as "pee funny"--meaning you laugh so hard you almost pee. The only sad thing (and pointedly comic part of my life) is the guy I asked couldn't go. So I asked five others. They couldn't go either (granted, the five others had short notice--we're talking two hours). I ended up taking my friend Juli (YAY!). Downside to our GREAT Orchestra section tickets...they weren't together. Not only were they not together, they were very, very far apart. I was two rows up on the far left of the row, and she was on the far right of her's. I sat next to some middle aged ladies whom, I was afraid, were going to be offended by the rather suggestive undertones, but proved to be good sports who laughed heartily at the "Othello Rap" (which was, barring the blow up Godzilla and the monkey dance party, up there as one of my favorite parts). I hadn't laughed that hard in a very, very long time. It was almost cathartic.

Moving on to other aspects of my life beyond my attempts at being "cultured" (ha!), I am going on two weeks of waiting to hear about a job I interviewed for that would really be more of a career and really incredible. I really hope it, or something else, comes through soon because my student loans are going into repayment starting next month and working 3 hours a day as a TA is just not going to cut it (even though I love my job).

Which works well as a transition to the second part of the title. Mama has been feeling unwell and lost her voice, so I've been playing Kindergarten teacher for the last two and a half days. Working with them in the morning as an aide is completely different. I see so much more from the front of the room, and hear all their funny remarks. It's sent me back to a place of remembering my thought processes from when I was their age (yes, I'm weird like that and I remember). The biggest thing I remember are my huge lapses in attention. It's hard for me now to maintain strict control of the class when I remember being just like them. Yesterday we went on a field trip to the bus garage. It brought back a memory of me riding the bus to school in Kindergarten. I climbed on the bus, found my seat, and sat down. What I don't remember doing (because it happened completely subconsciously) was just dropping my backpack by the bus driver's seat as I walked past. Somebody called my name and said I dropped my bag. I insisted that I had not, and felt around my back for it. At this point the bus driver had stopped the bus, and walked my bag back to me.

Yeah, I was spesh.

The Week in Tissues

I should like to recount my week in the use of tissues. Not actual Kleenex-style tissues (those are too pricey for this snozz), but rather in the form of two squares of two-ply toilet paper. I've successfully whittled down nearly an entire roll, and not all uses have been directed toward my new companion. Others have shared the duty--the leftover Subway napkin, the roll already hung in the bathroom, a napkin or two, and even the corner of a paper towel--but for the most part it has been the single roll and me.

I'm going on my seventh day of being sick, and haven't worked a lick all week. Until today. I didn't want to work today. I don't actually think I'm well enough to work today. I still had a lingering fever and nausea yesterday, but my boss is leaving town and my co-worker doesn't know how to operate the heavy (albeit light in the scheme of things, since it's only a Bobcat) machinery, so that leaves yours truly.

The honestly sad predictor is that yesterday I decided I should be feeling well by now (since, you know, you can just decide those things--like which cereal to eat, whether or not to shave, and how far over the speed limit you will justify driving) so I opted to help Jamie run some errands for Mama. Those errands included delivering four pans stacked with bread and at least six pans of cinnamon rolls to Grandma's house (don't worry, they were covered and I didn't breathe on them!). A fair load, but nothing unmanageable. Except for me it was. I was completely starved of oxygen. It took me nearly ten minutes to recover, and I only made two trips!

I felt as though I was sucking air through a straw clogged by milkshake, I couldn't get enough fast enough. Over cinnamon rolls and bread! It was then I hit a very low point and realised I was still not well. In fact, after we returned home I slept for four hours out of pure exhaustion. So you can begin to understand why the prospect of getting dressed actually making myself presentable, and going to work for a six hour shift is less than appealing. So much less than appealing that I almost feel degraded to tears.

Sadness and self-wallowing aside, there is a funny anecdote to be had from this week's tragedy.

I fell ill Sunday afternoon. By Tuesday night I was in the full in the clutches of what I am self-diagnosing as H1N1. I heard a soft knock at my door shortly before retiring to bed. Daddy opened the door. At first I entertained fanciful notions of him checking on me because he knew I was not well. That is, until he spoke.

"Are you taking anything for that cough?"

"Yes."

"Do you have a cough drop in right now?"

"No."

"Well get something because your coughing every 90 seconds and I'm trying to sleep!"

Right, Dad. Sorry my potentially (though very improbable) fatal illness is an inconvenience for you. Wait, wait it gets better. So yesterday, still sick when again I hear a tapping on my door in the early afternoon. Again Daddy is at my door. You'd think by now I'd know what to expect, but I thought he'd only just come home. Alas, I was incorrect in presuming he was coming out of concern for me.

"Aren't you tired of coughing yet?"

"Yes actually, I am."

"Are you taking anything for it?"

"Prescription strength Sudafed and Equate's Severe Cold capsules."

"Are you taking enough?"

"I'm taking the prescribed dosage."

"Does Mom need to stop and get some anti-cough and sinus stuff for you?"

"That's what I'm taking."

"Well it doesn't seem to be working."

"Yes, I realise that, which is why I don't think more will help."

He closed the door at this point. And I coughed.

The Rubber Band Effect

Have you ever stretched a rubber band so far that when you let it go one part of it is permanently disfigured because it was overstretched? My emotions feel kind of like that right now. Overstretched. It's been a bit of a roller coaster ride these past few weeks. I have my good days and bad. I have bad moments in good days, and vice versa. Wednesday was a bad day. Mama picked up my dress. It has remained in its same repose on the bench in the kitchen where she laid it when she brought it home. I haven't been able to bring myself to look at it or touch it.

On the brighter and more positive side of things, I have developed a new obsession. Origami. It all began when I went to my homepage and they featured a DIY (do it yourself) origami lamp made of folded lotus flowers out of waxed paper, a food storage can, a light kit, and a hammer and nails. I have issues with the design flaws, so I've spent the last two weeks trying to figure out how I can modify it in order to be more functional. I've come up with a few ideas that I'm pretty excited about :) Not only that, but I have found a bazillion little things I want to try! Today my friend Bethany (who is super artsy) and I are going to craft. I picked up my origami paper today and can hardly wait to rip into the package, while avoiding ripping the paper that is, and get started!

Speaking of things I picked up today, I have had a story ruminating in the back of my brain since about Tuesday of last week. I was journaling when I used the phrase, "The trees have no words for me." And I could sense literary genius in it. Ever since characters have been coming to life in my mind with stories deep and untold that, apparently according to my subconscious, need telling! So today I picked up a notebook and some new Sharpie pens to begin writing. You may think me archaic, but I cannot "write" a story on a computer, I actually have to do the manual work. There is something about the movement of the hand and the flow of ink across a page that is inspiring to me creatively. That, and I think "writing" on a computer is too easy. If you dislike an idea you simply backspace it away, or just Control+X (in the case of Apple users, Open Apple+X) it away. But sometimes you lose something great in that process. You cannot reclaim it from the unforgiving digital memory of the machine where information is written, erased, and written over again. It makes editing less careful, less thoughtful. When you write you don't want to waste pages of paper (that's a lot of time and ink and trees!), so I think you focus more constructively on what is being written rather than just writing to get it all out.

At any rate, I'm really looking forward to starting to write this. It feels like the story is a deep basin within my brain that is going to start overflowing, and I need to get a release valve going before I lose anything valuable. Hooray for literary genius.

Too True & Tragic Not to be Shared

Perhaps I should start with the tragic first so we can end on a positive note (since the tragedy came at the end, as it always seems to do, thus rendering chronological order the enemy of comedy in this case).

So here it is, for all the world (not that the world reads this). I ended my engagement with Paul on Monday. Following a conversation alluding to the fact that we were not on the same page relating to commitment and desire to commit I opted to cut losses and call it quits. It is a strange thing for me. I don't quit things. But I realise that this change was for the best for both of us, and so thus it is.

I have surreally begun picking up the pieces of my life in an attempt to figure out what on earth to do now. Go become a live-in nanny in Europe and bankroll my way through my student loans? Continue living in Cedar? Go become the champion of the downtrodden? So very many choices, and so very little direction.

Now, on to more pleasant things.

Last Friday Jamie and I went dress shopping for her and (since, at the time I was still engaged) to pick up some odds and ends for me as well. Upon visiting one of only three bridal stores within 50 miles of us (it also happens to be the store where I am still purchasing my dress from--love those agreements they make you sign!) a woman in her late 60s was assisting Jamie. This fine proprietor was wearing a deeply cut v-neck shirt with no kind of undergarment to support her albeit shrunken and sagging decolletage. Rather, she wore a v-neck shaped Dickie (for those of you unfamiliar, it is a mock turtleneck with a faux shirt front that only comes down to about the bust). However, during the many maneuvers required to get a bride-to-be into a dress the unfortunate Dickie began to slip, exposing a PG-13 view of the wrinkled skin of said woman's unmentionables.

Too funny not to share.

Also in the vein of humor, Sunday we attended church as a family (under the misinformation we were going to see an Apostle of the Lord speak). It was, however, Stake Conference and there was a choir on the stand. Before I continue let it be known that I have no discriminatory feelings toward any persons, but for the sake of this story certain facts about the individual's appearance are requisite to draw an accurate pictures. Consider it editorial license if you will. One particular member of the choir was a woman of large stature. In fact, a folding chair was set up behind the rest of the choir to accommodate her comfortably. During the course of the meeting my mother leaned over to me and whispered to take note of the woman's actions. To our surprise, and eternal amusement, she was trying to discretely peel string cheese near her lap and nonchalantly purvey it to her mouth. Three cheese sticks later we are all irreverently snickering at her irreverent snacking, at which point she produces a two-liter sized water bottle to, presumably, wash down her dairy deliciousness. We continued to watch as she then occupied her hands with a small clipboard. Mama queried, "What do you think she could be writing?" To which I gave the following supposition, "Mid morning snack? Check."

Mama began laughing so hard she was shaking, small snorts intermittently escaping her attempt to control herself, tears streaming mercilessly down her cheeks. Her whole-body-reaction caused me to begin laughing. It had quite the domino affect on our little party, and has become the brunt of our most recent family jokes.

Once again, too funny not to share.

Plans and Plotting

So many, many crazy things have been happening! Kassie and the baby are doing well, and so are things at the nursery. Paul and I have officially picked the date for the wedding (that has been a wicked roller coaster in and of itself). We decided on Saturday, February 6, 2010. I was a little sad, just because I wanted to get married sooner, but in the long run it will be good. And the pressure from planning everything has totally been erased.

I think that is due in part to my little sister announcing her engagement (well, not official, but unofficial). Her wedding will be January 8. That's right. Our weddings will be 29 days apart. Bless our dear mother's heart. We both have our colors picked. Her's are hot pink and black. Mine are grass green, sage green, and white.

Oooooh! I picked up my ring, and a fabulous pair of shoes--"the" shoes. I will need to check while wearing my dress to ensure they aren't too tall (3.5" heels!). Did I mention I found the dress? Oh yeah, totally found the dress. It's *perfect*--just like the ring and the shoes and the groom :)

Now I just need to find a job and a place to live in California!

Miserable Blogging Failure

Man, I used to at least blog when I didn't journal. These days I don't even do that! There has been a lot going on, but that's no excuse.

I don't really even know where to start. Paul came out to visit again. Bless his heart, he drove the 11 hours all alone :/ Fortunately, he made it here and back safely, and so did the dogs (Jewel and Pluto). Although, we did have a mild scare when they were able to outsmart their leashes and ran off. They were found three houses down stuck in a bush. We had a great cookout with several of my friends and their significant others.

Now I'm just super busy at work. Kassie had the baby. He was born last Thursday (I think she said around seven pm). He was 20" long and weighed 8lbs 11oz. In case you are wondering, that is a *HUGE* baby for her, she's only about 5'2" but she's taking it like a champ. However, the day he was born we had a shipment of over 300 shrubs come in, and the next day we had a truck of over 200 trees come in. Guess who was responsible for them...your's truly. Saturday I didn't even get lunch because I was busy helping customers. Needless to say, I'll be grateful for a change of pace. Granted, that probably won't come until I move.

Which brings me to my next piece of news, I'm moving to California the first part of October (so if you know anyone I could rent a room from or who is hiring in the San Jose area hook a sister up!). I'm really excited, a little anxious, and just a wee bit trepidatious (yes, I know that's not a real word, but I like it. I believe it's going to catch on and people are going to start using it, then Merriam-Webster are just going to have to add it to the dictionary. You watch, I so called it.).

So that's the quick'n'dirty update. Sorry for the lack of info lately. I'll try to be better (no, I don't make any guarantees).