Life is an Adventure

A Nose is a Nose

2011-12-14T02:47:00.000-08:00

Do certain smells remind you of particular events or places? For instance, does the aroma of pencil shavings take you back to the first day of school, timid at the daunting task of learning long division and words like "conflagration?" Does the scent of crayons remind you of your first Darkwing Duck coloring book, when you could finally use that lonely burgundy that was always left when the maroon and mahogany had found so many other uses? How about the fragrance of bacon and its ability to conjure memories of waking up on a lazy Saturday to the sound of the smoke detector serving as the most reliable method to indicate when breakfast was ready?

They say out of all our senses, the olfactory pathway is the most powerful in evoking remembrances. I think a psychic sense would be more powerful, but who am I to question science? All I know is that when my nose picks up a scent, I better be prepared for the ride.

I grew up with a father who worked in a greenhouse. Not just any run-of-the-mill greenhouse, but 11 acres of roses. Royalty, Sunset, Fire 'n Ice, Martha Washington, Confetti... these were my introduction to nature. On the evenings when Dad needed to stay late to clean the boilers or to smoke bomb for bugs, Mom would take my sisters and me to see him. During those visits, I would wander through the gigantic-to-a-six-year-old walk-in coolers, marveling at the bundles of long-stem roses sitting in their white buckets. I would sneak down the long rows of rosebushes, catching my shirt on a thorn here and there while I enjoyed a landscape straight out of Alice in Wonderland. And when it was time to leave, I would hug my papa's midsection despite his warnings that he was covered in sulfur and soot.

The greenhouse has been gone for close to ten years, replaced by Tai Pan Trading. I can walk through that shopping warehouse and imagine what used to be in the spot now occupied by each department (oddly, their flower display is located on ground that was the break room), but I do not find myself whisked away into nostalgia. That journey is summoned instead as I pass through the plant display at Harmon's. More often than not, I am unable to resist the urge to poke my head into the standing cooler, just to get a whiff of the smell of roses and to escape back to a childhood that was full of experiences I didn't know to appreciate.

There are so many other smells that arouse my past, for better or worse. If I sniff a bit of nitrogen in the air, I immediately feel the burn of my airbags as they exploded on me during a car accident after I had broken up with my Canadian boyfriend. The pungent tang of sulfur returns me to my freshman year at Utah State, when I had yet to master the skill of wafting and instead took a full inhalation of the stuff in Chemistry lab. When I was ten, I broke my left arm when I fell off my bike on my way to piano lessons. The day I had the temporary bandage changed out for a plaster cast, I almost fainted at the doctor's office and he used a pack of smelling salts to bring me back. Even now, ammonia is a perfume that makes my wrist ache. Every time I open a new tube of cherry lip balm, I experience the anticipation of opening my stocking on Christmas morning. The smell of Estee Lauder Beautiful eau de toilette gives me comfort like only my mother can. The sweet undertones of rotting wood cause me to reminisce of my summer in Missouri. The fragrance of new cheap plastic, the kind that hits you as you tear open the bag that contains your Happy Meal toy, makes me smile as I remember my Muppet toys, my Batman pen, and my mini Barbie dolls.

Okay, so maybe being psychic isn't more powerful. God bless Claritin-D.

The Man in My Life

2011-08-09T21:53:00.000-07:00

Dear Aidan,

We met one year ago today, when your gorgeous blue eyes melted my heart and your voice made me smile. I remember the white clothes you were wearing, and how they spoke of the purity held within you. I relished the chance to hold you that day, and you responded by holding me back, making me forever yours.

The months leading to that day were some of the hardest I had faced, but the knowledge that we would soon be together gave me strength and hope. The time we have spent since then has made the struggles worth it, worth the lessons and tribulation. Those experiences made me into the person I needed to be. For you.

Over the last twelve months, we have had so many adventures and quiet moments. We have met baby farm animals in the town I love, we have admired the twinkle of Christmas lights, we have shopped until we were both too tired to hold our heads up. We have watched game show contestants guess the cost of vacation packages and automobiles, we have read countless stories and fallen in love with their feathered characters, we have laughed until we can no longer breathe but we keep laughing anyway. We have tried new restaurants together, hiked new trails, watched animals play on land and in water. These memories mean everything to me.

You have learned and grown so much during our time together, and by doing so you have taught me and encouraged me to grow. I have learned how to do new things, how to have more patience, and how to alter plans in a moment. You have taught me to endure new smells and textures, and how to select which sounds take priority. Thank you for making be a better person than I was a year and a day ago.

We have so many years ahead of us, and I look forward to each day spent with you. You are my light and my joy, the one thing that always makes me smile. Thank you for being so beautiful, for coming into my life and making it better. I love you.

Aunt Jen

We've Only Just Begun...

2011-06-23T23:27:00.000-07:00

JANUARY Jury Duty FEBRUARY rejoined the family ward, Mardi Gras MARCH turned 30 APRIL Washington DC, Logan, Young Frankenstein MAY one year anniversary at new job, Disneyland, U2 concert JUNE Les Miserables, five years with company, Grand Canyon, Las Vegas, Missouri

Coming Soon...
JULY Deer Valley Music Festival, Shakespeare Festival at SUU AUGUST first nephew turns 1, volunteer in Joplin MO SEPTEMBER Mary Poppins OCTOBER the Stanley NOVEMBER Dad turns 65 DECEMBER Blue Man Group

Who are You?

2011-06-07T21:23:00.000-07:00

When someone asks you to tell them about yourself, how do you respond? I have discovered that a lot of people focus on two things: 1) their occupation, and 2) their family status. For example, in the singles ward I recently left, new members would say things like, "I'm a teacher, and I just ended a 3-year relationship." In the laboratory world, where I admit I spend a lot of time, I hear statements such as, "I'm in electron microscopy, and I have 4 kids." Is this the extent of what defines us?

I understand that some careers are naturally a huge part of a person's identity, and parents should be proud of their progeny. But do we really lose ourselves in just two aspects of life?

So here's an experiment. Tell me about yourself. Is it hard to start with something other than your occupation and marital standing?

I am a secure 30-year-old woman with an appetite for life. I seek adventures, even the small ones that simply break up the monotony of life. I love to travel, although my passport is as-yet empty. My goal is to make it on an airplane or in a hotel at least once a month. I have expensive tastes, with frequent shopper cards at Sephora and Talbot's. I love to bake. Oddly, I do not like to cook. I prefer making the sweet endings to a meal, the lasting impression, the lingering flavor. I have developed the ability to discern Madagascar bourbon vanilla in a confection, and I know that it does not actually contain bourbon. I know random trivia, like lobsters can be blue or purple besides red, and the average cowhide yields enough material for 144 baseballs. I am not a kid person, but I am biased toward my nephew. His laugh is my favorite sound in the world. I try to be a logical person, but far too often I am overpowered by emotion. I cry. I am intensely devoted to friends, family, and God. I tend to be nostalgic, spending time on Facebook and blogs (including my own), reminiscing about days gone by. This at times is dangerous, leaving me to fear that the future is void of hope and adventure. I believe in tipping big, paying it forward, and giving credit where credit is due. I don't have time for pessimists. Speaking of time, I have over 20 watches, 11 of which are Zodiac. I like to be organized, because I'm a mess otherwise. I want to leave the world a little better for having had me in it, and I want to enjoy as much of what this world has to offer as possible. I look forward to the day when I can look back at the map of my life and be satisfied with the roads I've taken. Not all of them have been paved, not all of them will be chosen, but I will learn from each of them and they will all be etched into me.

A Good Nook is a Good Friend

2011-06-01T01:54:00.000-07:00

As the world becomes increasingly electronic, I tend to resist advances in technology. Oh, I'm a fan of smart phones and digital cameras. But you will not see me using my phone in a restaurant or doctor's office, and my favorite camera will always be the 37mm SLR my father gave me for my 19th birthday. My laptop is content to stay on my desk, rarely venturing outside of the bedroom, let alone out of the house. Throughout college, my notes were taken the real way. With a pen. My reminders create a colorful masterpiece, written on all colors and sizes of post-it's, arranged chronologically and prioritized by urgency. In short, I live my life in the world of old school. Almost entirely. Almost.

There is one little morsel of technology that has won my undying love and devotion. I resisted it, ridiculing its ostentatious ways and fearing its attempt to make my old school life obsolete. I saw a coworker fall victim to its seduction, and I shook my head in disgust, convinced that she had forsaken centuries of culture for the enticement of smug convenience. After all, how could a Nook ever compare to a book?

How could I ever allow myself to abandon the sawdust aroma that is released from the pages as the spine is broken for the first time? How could I find satisfaction in pushing a button, instead of holding the rough paper between my fingers, anticipating the developments which will unfold as I turn the page? How could I gain a sense of achievement from completing a lengthy novel, if every novel feels the same, if I cannot see the size or feel the weight of it? How could I tether myself to a battery life, instead of relishing the freedom of being unplugged? How could I assign myself to the ranks of glib techie, instead of self-aware intellect? How could I ever cross the line from book to Nook? Never, I told myself.

Then I looked at one. Immediately it called out to me, a song from the Sirens. For months I resisted, kept reminding myself that I am old school. I am a purist. A book is a book, not a file or a download. But slowly, steadily, I found myself longing for the Nook. When I unexpectedly finished a book mid-flight, I regretted being forced to make a quick decision during my layover, ending up with a novel that was possibly the worst literary purchase of my life (other than Twilight). When I reached the half-way point of Stephen King's The Stand, my hand ached from holding the thick and heavy epic. When I worried that I was too near the end of one book as I started a week of work, I wished I didn't have to carry two books in my bag, taking up space and weighing me down. And finally, when my bookcase became too full to hold a single volume more, I broke. I gave in. I bought a Nook, and in so doing, worried that I had sold my soul.

One year later, my Nook and I are inseparable. It is my constant companion, bringing me joy in tedious waiting rooms and taking me on a journey when I am stuck at work. I still keep a book in my nightstand, for old school will forever be my preference. When I am at home, my Nook is on vacation, and I once again bury my nose in the pages that it does not afford. But when I am travelling, when I am working, when I am waiting, my Nook is quietly by my side, ready to offer the smug convenience that glib technology has introduced into my life. And all it cost was my pride.

Shiny Happy People

2010-11-07T00:02:00.000-07:00

I returned from a business trip to upstate New York this week. Rochester was beautiful, and I enjoyed the chance to see Niagara Falls and to experience another part of the country. I learned a lot about clinical chemistry, drugs, and what it's like to be literally the only Mormon in a room. The biggest lesson from this week, however, is that I come from a land of nice people, and that nice people are becoming a rarity.

I tip. Probably too much, but I like to be generous to people who enhance my life in some way. So I have conducted strenuous research on the acceptable amounts to tip in every possible situation. In other words, I've read a good two or three blogs and online articles. So I embarked on this adventure with a healthy supply of small bills, prepared to distribute them generously. The hotel conveniently provided an envelope specifically for housekeeping tips. I put this to use each morning, and every afternoon I returned to my room to find fresh towels (despite the posted policy of reusing towels), replacement toiletries (including the ones I had not used), cords coiled on all my adapters and appliances, and my jewelry laid out on a white cloth in the bathroom. Placed on the nightstand, under the light which was routinely left on for me (kindly preventing stubbed toes from stumbling around in the dark), I found a note each day thanking me and wishing me a pleasant evening. Apparently Heidi at the Rochester Marriott is not accustomed to being tipped by business travelers.

I try to be patient. Becoming agitated is not likely to produce more desirable results, so I do not see the point in making someone uncomfortable who is driving me in an unknown area or who is handling food I plan on consuming. So when I ordered room service on my last night and was told they were quite busy and it would take a little longer than the advertised 30 minutes, I assured the woman on the phone that any time in the next hour would be fine. I got my dessert for free that night, as well as repeated thanks for being understanding. I guess the kitchen is not used to diners realizing that food takes time to cook.

I am friendly. My colleagues and I visited a gift shop at Niagara Falls. While waiting to pay, we inadvertently had forked the line. When we came to the split, I offered to allow Lori from Nebraska to go ahead of me. She insisted that I go first. I thanked her and stepped to the counter, clearing room for her to set her things down. The girl at the register stared at us before regaining her composure and exclaiming, "You're all so nice!" Tourists are obviously more cutthroat during the regular season.

A friend from Alabama has repeatedly told me how living in Utah for a year changed her, how she returned to the south a nicer, happier person. After my experiences of this week, I am forced to accept her explanation as truth. I live in an area surrounded by kind and understanding humans. If for no other reason, I think I'll stay here for a while and sing Primary songs with the neighbors.

Trick or Treat, Gumdrop style!

2010-10-18T17:23:00.000-07:00

I haven't done any portraits in a while, but I just couldn't pass up the chance to do a shoot with this little guy.

Just Desserts

2010-08-31T03:09:00.000-07:00

I admit it. I would rather skip my vegetables and have two desserts. My favorite part of buffets is the dessert bar, where I do not have to feel limited to one selection, but am allowed to partake of multiple morsels of sweetness. The greatest advantage of such freedom is that I am not forced to decide between the fruity and the chocolaty. I can have my cake and eat it, too... and then have some more!

This slightly unhealthy predilection has led me to explore the world of baking. Over the past seven years or so, I have experimented with cakes, cookies, cheesecake, brownies, tarts, bars, pies, fruits, custards, ice creams, and the occasional baklava. I have learned how to achieve the perfect consistency of melted chocolate, and I have grown accustomed to stocking more than one variety of vanilla in my cupboard. My kitchen has acquired the appearance of a cottage bakery, with all the tools and cookbooks one would expect to find in such a haven.

Which is why a few people have made the suggestion recently that I open a bakery. The thought of this repulses me, for I am quite certain that doing so would turn my passionate hobby into work, and eventually I would stop baking for pleasure. The idea of having commercial grade appliances and a world of ingredients at my disposal is very tantalizing, to be sure. And I realize that many people turn their whimsy into a career and are able to find great satisfaction in it. I am not one of those people. I am not business-minded, and I abhor the thought of being told what to bake and when to bake it.

That being said, I have spontaneously decided to hold a bake sale. It is a fundraiser for a very good purpose-- healthcare in the Dominican Republic. I have often contributed to bake sales and auctions, but this is the first time that I will be the sole chef, and the undertaking is a bit daunting. I am determined, however, to turn my kitchen into an idyllic artisan bakery for one week. I am resolved to transform my oven into a mechanism of creation, my pantry into a storehouse of heaven. And in the end, I will have an assortment of pastries that will make mouths water and tummies rumble.

September's forecast: warm with a light breeze of oven-fresh aromas.

Vanity, Thy Name is Licensed

2010-08-14T00:53:00.000-07:00

On my drive to work last week, I beheld a fellow coachman who was apparently quite proud of his academic accomplishments. On the thin sheet of metal intended to designate ownership and inspection qualifications, this autoist had gloriously displayed "GPA4-0." I know, my first thought was the same thing. "Hey, smarty pants, it's called a grade point average, not a grade hyphen average." My second thought was equally demeaning. It had to do with the fact that his transportation was not as meritorious as his marks.

Since that evening, I have discovered that the roadways are replete with personalized morsels of 6x12 metal. I have noted "MYNWTOY," which made me wonder if this person will eventually re-register his convertible with "MYOLDTOY" after a pre-determined length of time. I have also seen "ALTREIN," a plate that was somewhat cryptic. Were they suggesting that their vehicle is all-terrain? Because a Mustang is certainly not. Yesterday I was caught behind "ALWYS39," a motorist who is obviously very secure with their age. Now, I understand that 40 is the new 30, but I'm not sure I would advertise that I was starting to slide down the proverbial hill. My favorite was one I have failed to remember accurately, because it was just a jumble of letters. I am fairly confident that the phrase consisted of at least three words, which is simply ridiculous to try to fit into seven characters. And it is absurd to imagine that other drivers will have the ability to decipher such an obscure message while focusing on the task at hand, namely driving.

I have concluded that vanity plates are not for me. I would likely suffer a mental breakdown from the pressure of finding the perfect maxim, equally apparent and witty, while adequately capturing my personality and all its complexity. My brother-in-law found success with "MACK," paired with the firefighter emblem. Simple and yet unique, although there is in fact no K in his name. He made a compromise that I would be unwilling to endure. At the close of my week of analysis, I was fully content to bolt onto my vehicle the standard issue, special interest plates that I ordered last month. Let the world know that I am a nondescript Aggie.

On second thought, I think I would like "P52-ROX." But, then again, no one would understand it.

Name Them One by One

2010-07-11T16:25:00.000-07:00

The Atonement. Two loving parents. My testimony. Spencer. A college education. A reliable and luxurious car. Shaylyn. Two older sisters. Stephanie. The temple. My young women. Liberty Jail and Adam Ondi Ahman. Cameras. Technology. Red hair. James. My brother-in-law. The home ward. Rocky. Trials. A secure career. Steady hands. Spiritual strength. The Book of Mormon. My fashion sense. Rent-free living. The diversity of Utah. Being surrounded by the Church. Ellie. Love. Democracy. Shakespeare. Music. The YSA ward. Examples. The Gospel. Teachers. Umbrellas. Movies. Adventures. My nephew. Animals. Retention of knowledge. Honey bees. Sight. Accessories. Keen shoes. Humor. Christmas. Colors. Relative financial stability. Hearing. Clocks. Great coworkers. Health insurance. Travel destinations. An amazing support system. Good advice. Art. Mountains. Sunshine. Good health. The farmer's market. Chewing gum. Electricity. Hugs. Lip balm. Shane. The Spirit. Swarovski. D&C 122:7. Lessons from Dad. Game nights. Cadbury mini eggs. Steve. Friends, both old and new. Good night kisses from Mom. Zodiac watches. Flowers. Baseball. Barnes & Noble. Sunblock. Fruit. High thread count sheets. Smiles. History. Talents. Indoor plumbing. Thunderstorms. USU. Experience. Parties. Memories. Pinatas. Hand sanitizer. Agency.

...And it will surprise you what the Lord has done.

Weathering the Storm

2010-06-21T00:31:00.000-07:00

If you saw me at this moment, you would find a smile on my face, relaxation in my posture, and contentment in my eyes. If you talked to me, you would find cheer in my voice, optimism in my words, and hope in my outlook. If you knew me, you would find that I have changed. If you loved me, you would know it is for the better.

Referring to my earlier post, I have indeed ridden the tornado, landed my house, and followed the path through frightening wilderness and tempting poppy fields to what I hope will be happiness. Maybe I'm not in the balloon to take me home (I'm not dead yet!), but this gingham-adorned girl is living it up in her Emerald City until that basket is ready for her.

I will not name my travelling companions, but I hope they know who they are:

My Tin Man thought he lost his heart and his ability to show real love, but he has shown me what sincere love and concern can do. He has encouraged me to hold on to all the love that still resides in me, and he has allowed me to grow closer to him as we each search for our own hearts.

My Scarecrow often claims that her brain is inadequate when compared to mine, but her logic and counsel have helped me see my yellow brick road when my own eyes could not find it. She has been with me from the beginning, supporting me and helping me on my journey, and she has become one of my very best friends.

My Lion has grown scared that her life will not bring her the happiness and success she desires. But she is still there, doing everything she can to make the most of her life. In the face of uncertainty, pain, and the unknown, she has tackled life and come out stronger.

My Toto (you have to have a Toto) has surprised me in her devotion. Kansas souvenir shops have shirts with Dorothy exclaiming, "Toto, I don't think we're in Kansas anymore!" To which the dog replies, "Good." My Toto saw that my Kansas was holding me back, and she has encouraged me to enjoy my Oz.

Thank you, dedicated friends. You will never fully know how much your companionship means to me. Never before have I felt so truly loved and sincerely appreciated. I know the flying monkeys are still waiting for me, and I will have to battle them again, but I know now that I will not have to do it alone. Thank you for helping me find myself again, and to realize that I am not at the mercy of the storm, that I have had the power to find happiness all along.

There's no place like Home.

Yes the picture at the top is somewhat random. I spent Saturday with some friends, and I just really like this picture.

Shake it Like a Polaroid

2010-05-01T15:32:00.001-07:00

As I drive through an intermittent spring rain, heading to my final shift at Intermountain Medical Center, I cannot stop myself from dancing in the car. Fellow drivers may look at me with disdain or concern, but let them. Vanilla Ice and OutKast are providing excellent companionship, and I gotta move at my exclusive interstate dance party.

The winds of change are blowing hard, and I'm riding that tornado like a modern Pecos Bill. Some of the changes have not been my choice. But I am determined to take advantage of the new opportunities that lie before me. As I mentioned, I am leaving IMC and the two-and-a-half years I have spent in its depths. I am taking the knowledge I have gained in Transfusion and running like a feral tiger on the hunt for better prey. Beginning next week, I will return to the world of the Rapid Response Lab, expanding my testing repertoire from two or three tests to forty. I will march into that lofty laboratory, which is on the second floor and therefore feels less like a dungeon, carrying my grandfather's toolbox and my own determination. I will refresh my skills of looking at urine, feces, cerebrospinal fluid, and other substances. I will once again apply a tourniquet and admonish patients that they will feel a "slight poke." And when I finish my shift, I will make the much shorter drive home and arrive to see my family members awake.

Beyond work, I am walking away from the door that was described in my previous post. Just hours after sharing my resolution, the owner of that door announced to the world that he was barricading that door, that it would never open again. Well, he announced it to the world minus one. He let my friends and family tell me of his decision, and simply began to ignore me. After several weeks of therapy, I am able to finally turn and look at that hall to which my sister alluded, and I see so many doors open with friends and family waiting for me. I have been told that my support system is amazing, and I am touched to see how true that is. While I am scared of failing and of being further rejected, I am letting the winds of life blow me to the outstretched arms of those who truly care.

I see adorable and colorful townhouses, located near a shopping district as well as a temple, and I long to live in one. Courtyard style D, please, with a tandem 2-car garage and granite countertops. But my personal tornado is not taking me there, and I think I'm okay with that. I am young, and I have the rest of my life to own a home, to settle into adulthood. However, I am also blessed with a secure job and parents who tell me they like having me around. I enjoy the freedom of being single (for now), and I have developed a rather adventurous spirit. As such, I will spend the next year or two using my free time and extra financing to travel. I worry that if I put off seeing the world until I'm older, more stable, more accomplished, I'll also be more feeble, less adventurous, and more restricted. I want to be able to walk the streets of Rome free from arthritis, see Stonehenge without cataracts, feel the warmth of the Mexican Riviera without menopause. And when I've seen all I want to see, the townhouses will still be there, and I'll have some great pictures to put on the walls.

The last month has been difficult, allowing myself to change and to be carried by the winds of change. To load some more imagery into this post, I feel like Dorothy. The tornado has carried me to unfamiliar territory, filled with unknown dangers and strange experiences. But my hair still looks great, and I've got amazing shoes. So off I go on my yellow brick road toward the magical city where all my dreams will prove true.

Now, who will be my tin man, my lion, and my scarecrow?

Who's That Banging on the Door?

2010-04-06T17:58:00.001-07:00

My sister had some good advice for me today. This is the sister who has astonished all of us during the last nine months with her incredibly sensitive and, well, good(!) insight. She told me that I need to realize that there is a door that has been closed to me, and I need to stop banging my fists against it. The fact is, it was closed all along, and I have spent two years banging and kicking, trying to get the person on the other side to open it. I have enjoyed moments of him opening the door, just a crack, to see who was there. A few times he has stepped through the door and met me on the outside. But he has never let me in, and today my sister told me I needed to walk away from the closed and locked door. Completely and irreversibly.

She also assured me that if I allowed myself the chance to step back and look at all the other doors in the hallway of life, she was confident that I would find a lot of them already stood open. And she, being a good big sister, promised that even more will open with time. She encouraged me to not only walk away from the door that has been the focus of so much energy, as well as the source of so much depression, but also to embrace the experiences and the people that are waiting for me elsewhere. I quickly posted a Facebook status about this, and the response confirmed she was right.

She's pretty good, isn't she? Kinda makes up for all our fights as teenagers. She's going to be a great mother.

Taking Stock

2010-03-22T23:45:00.000-07:00

In the summer of 2008, I realized that I wanted more out of life. More adventure, more meaning, more purpose. I posted a list of things I wanted to do before I turned 30, things chosen to make me more real, more accomplished, more meaningful. As I turn 29 this week, I looked back on that list to see where I stand. Have I done any of the things I said I would?

Sky Diving I still want to, but haven't done it yet
Visit Europe I don't know if I still want to do this right now. Eventually, sure, but right now I'm more interested in seeing as much as I can of my own country.
Buy a really expensive piece of furniture I have it picked out, but I have no place to put it, so this may have to wait.
Genuinely Care Hey! I did one! And I was right, it did kill me. I have never known such heartache. But I came out of it with a deeper appreciation for the people around me.
Try Sushi I'm still scared of it, but I'm not taking it off the list.
Learn to Shoot a Handgun Another one I can cross off! Not only did I learn how to handle a handgun, but I totally rock that sucker! And now I want one.
Go on an Overnight River Trip I still really want to, but first I need people who will do it with me.
Move outside of Utah I was so so close to doing it. It stays on the list, but might not happen by the time I turn 30.
Learn a foreign language I've started to learn Italian. That crap's hard!
Read the entire collective works of Shakespeare, Poe, and Homer I don't know what I was thinking with Homer. But I'm done with the comedies of Shakespeare.
Go on a cruise This one is being planned for my 30th birthday. Mexican Riviera.
Buy a house Financially, I just don't see this happening. It's depressing, but I can't travel so much if I have a mortgage.
Live for the Moment I can honestly say that I've been doing this consistently. I signed up for a 3-week health mission to Ghana (had to back out when I couldn't get the funds together), I've gone to every concert and event I can, I joined the singles ward, I finished my BS, I see friends whenever possible, I travel whenever possible... I'm making every moment count!

So, I still have a lot to do. But I feel pretty good with all I've done and all I've experienced in the last two years. I've made some amazing new friends, I've strengthened some existing friendships, and I've reconnected with old friends. I'm a stronger, more secure person than I was even a year ago. For that I am overwhelmingly grateful. And for that, I will continue to make the most out of the life I've been given.

Out of Obligation

2010-03-07T15:27:00.000-08:00

I don't have any funny quips this time. I have plenty of stories, but no energy with which to tell them. I know this sounds very depressing, but honestly I'm just kind of going through the motions, waiting to get my mojo back. I'm struggling a bit with where I should be in life, and where the Lord wants to guide me. Needless to say, (why do we say that? we still then say what is apparently needless) there is a lot of waiting right now. A friend told me a few weeks ago that he had made a conscious decision to see the good in life every day, and to focus on it. Another friend said a similar thing today at church, that we should focus on all the joy we can have rather than let the trials bring us down. My very best friend reminded me not long ago that when Jesus beckoned Paul on the stormy sea, Paul fell only when he took his focus off the Lord and started to fear the swells. In the voice of 3 witnesses, right? So it must be true. I will choose to focus on the good of every day, and have faith that the Lord will lead me out of my current trials and into happiness. Men are that they might have joy, after all!

Now, for some updates:

My sister Chriss is pregnant. It will be the first grandchild in the family (aside from the very humanized dogs), and we are all so wrapped up in the excitement, I hardly recognize us lately. I keep reading articles and seeking counsel on how to be a good aunt, a good role model, and a supportive sister/sister-in-law.
My other sister Penny is getting divorced. I haven't spoken much of it, because it is not my story or my pain. But it does hurt to see someone I have always admired and strive to emulate have to go through such an ordeal. Her strength is an inspiration to me, especially as more comes to light concerning her soon-to-be-ex-husband's behavior.
The girls of the family spent a few days in Tampa, Florida the end of February. Our purpose was two-fold. Primarily, we went to allow Penny to visit an old college friend and form new memories. Secondarily, we scheduled our trip during Wicked's tour through Tampa, so I finally got to see it. Our seats were front row center. I was in heaven.
In an effort to come out of my shell and meet more people, I have become a little more involved in my singles ward. I no longer allow myself to make excuses for not going to FHE or activities. And it's working. I have made new friends, and old friendships have grown exponentially. Practically overnight. I love it.

That's all for now. I hope I will get some sort of boost, so that I can once again see humor in everyday life. But for now, please forgive me and accept this obligatory update blog. I'm sure I'll be back to normal before long.

Get Down Tonight

2010-01-09T15:33:00.000-08:00

My mom began discussing safety with me today. Not the generalized "be safe," or the obvious "drive safe," or the assuming "stay safe." No, this was a more specialized safety discussion. It was about glacier safety.

You see, I am going to Washington state next week with some friends. One of the possibilities on our list of things to do and see is Mount Rainier, with which I became vicariously familiar through my sister while she spent a summer on it ten years ago. I am aware that the mountain is capped with several glaciers. Glaciers have crevasses, into which hikers may fall to their assumed death and from which fallen hikers are rarely (if ever) retrieved. Apparently the proximity of such danger prompted a safety concern in my mother.

Knowing that it is the middle of January, and my travel inclinations lean more toward the lodge's gift shop rather than the mountaineering gear shop, I assured my mother that I will not fall to my death. But the conversation did not end there. She proceeded to remind me that hikers have been disappearing on Mount Hood (sounds like something out of Twilight), and if it's raining in the city then it will be snowing in the mountains. Again, I assured my mother that I will not disappear in the Cascades.

But she did get me thinking. According to Wikipedia, there are an average of three mountaineering deaths each year on Mount Rainier, with 11 in 1981 attributed to an ice fall and a plane crash in 1946 that killed 32. These deaths are primarily due to glacier conditions. So there have got to be a lot of bodies trapped in the icy layers on that mountain. Eventually they're going to have to make their way out. But how?

Mount Rainier is a volcano. Before too long, it will inevitably erupt in a pyroclastic blast, which would certainly distribute remains as far as Tacoma or Seattle. Or the glaciers could simply melt, allowing their contents to calmly flow to the base of the mountain and eventually into the Pacific Ocean. Or the glaciers could just do their thing, depositing terminal morraine, which could include the trapped victims.

Or, since at some point the dead will rise, there could be the biggest glacier party ever. Picture it, all the people who have been preserved in their own modern ice age, come alive and escape their frozen bondage. In my vision, I see a disco ball perched on the summit, with everyone singing KC & the Sunshine Band's "Get Down Tonight." You know the words: Baby, let's get together and do the things that we like to do. Get down, get down, get down, get down, get down tonight baby. There is a conga line of zombies and skeletons dancing their way down and off the mountain, with colored lights revolving to the grooviness. At the end of the party, after everyone is down and all bodies have been recovered, the mountain stands alone with the disco ball glinting in the moonlight. And this song came to mind: High on a mountain top, a disco ball does twirl. The glaciers yielded up their prisoners to the world. In all the years past, the mountain took its toll. But now they're free to rock and roll.

I like my vision for the future. Nonetheless, I will honor my promise to my mother and I will not end up in a glacier. That is, of course, assuming I don't get struck for the blasphemy of rewriting an LDS hymn right there.

A Time for Everything

2009-12-08T15:12:00.000-08:00

As I drive to work on a snowy Monday afternoon, I keep a watchful eye on the dashboard clock. 2:10. I have just under an hour to travel the distance between home and work before my 3:00 meeting. Not that I'm excited for the monthly meeting; I never am. But my attendance is expected, so I have left a full 20 minutes early to account for the storm that has settled comfortably over the Wasatch Front. I cautiously make my way through the west Saratoga Springs intersection (we have 3 traffic lights now, being the sprawling metropolis that we have become), and I feel like quite the smart little winter traveler. 2:11. I will not be one of those crazy winter drivers who seem to have seasonal amnesia when it comes to appropriate speeds. Forty-nine minutes to drive to Murray, manuever past the always busy Costco, find a parking spot in the east lot, walk into the hospital, clock in, and take my seat in the conference room. Plenty of time.

Then, through the icy snow that is being blown past my window by Jack Frost's 20-degree breath, I see a Santa hat. It is snugly perched on the head of a man who is walking up the west side of the road, going the same direction I am. And I think, "Well, he's certainly in the holiday spirit, donning such a hat with a matching red scarf. I wonder why he's out in such weather." He can't have far to go, for there is nothing past the neighborhood that is at the top of the hill. And that's when I realize that I know people in that neighborhood. For all I know, this man may be one of them, under that cheery crimson hat, leaning into the chilling wind and trekking through ankle-deep snow.

I look at my clock again. 2:13. If the weather does not get lighter as I get further north, I may be cutting it closer than I had thought. And besides, it wouldn't be safe to make a U-turn across a 5-lane road in the snow, then another one to get back in the right direction. Whoever that man is, he looks prepared for the weather. It's not like the backwoods of Alaska, it's Redwood Road! Someone will pick him up. Someone.

2:14. An image flashes in my head, a slideshow really. I see a face on the person walking up the hill. Then it becomes another face. And another. They are the faces of people whom I would pick up without thinking, if I knew they were the one on the side of the road. And in an instant I realize that it makes no difference. I steal a quick glance at the outer pocket of my purse, sitting in the passenger seat next to me, and I see the top of my pepper spray poking its head out (a girl's got to be protected if she's going to do willy-nilly things like this!). I check my blind spot before slowly turning my car around. Surprisingly, there are no cars in either direction at that moment.

I do not know the man in the Santa hat, but that doesn't matter. He is bundled up effectively and does not mind the walk, but that doesn't matter. He tells me he lives in the neighborhood at the top of the hill, but that doesn't matter. I offer a ride anyway, and I see a warmth enter his face that no hat, no scarf, no car could afford. As he slips into the seatbelt, I flip the seat warmer switch to high before making another careful U-turn.

The man guides me a short way into the neighborhood and has me drop him off on a corner. "You've been kind enough to bring me this far, I would hate to see you get stuck on the unplowed street. I can make it from here," he tells me. He quietly thanks me, and for just one second I share with this stranger the unspoken knowledge that Santa is not the One whose gifts mean the most.

As I continue my drive to work on a snowy Monday afternoon, my eye is not so conscious of the dashboard clock. I am aware that it now reads 2:20, a time when I should be cresting the point and crossing the county line. But that doesn't matter. They can start without me. I am busy feeling the same warmth I saw in the face of a man whose name I will never know. I am busy feeling myself burst with gratitude that I was in the right place to offer someone a little comfort. I am busy coming to a new appreciation of the meaning of Christmas.

The snow lifts as I enter the flow of the freeway, and I make it to my meeting on time. And I find myself humming The Byrds. A time for every purpose under heaven.

Happy Holidays.

On the Side

2009-12-05T19:08:00.000-08:00

Judging by my squatty portliness, one would not suspect that I am a picky eater. But I am. Just ask my family. And my coworkers, who think they have discerned a pattern to my pickiness. Well, actually, I explained to them the pattern and now they understand. It's quite simple, really.

First and absolutely foremost, I do not eat anything that swims. Except for the occasional fried halibut or cod (but it's fried, so it's not really food, right?). The problem with this is that Red Lobster is one of my absolute favorite restaurants. I do not eat cooked vegetables. Except potatoes, corn, and the occasional asparagus. I do not like lettuce on my sandwiches or burgers (or anything other than meat, cheese, and dressing). Except at Paradise Bakery; their lettuce is good. For that matter, I do not like shredded lettuce at all. Right up there with my aversion to seafood is my aversion to pork in any form. It really is a red meat, people, no matter what the commercials say. Ham, bacon, shredded pork, pork chops, pig on a spit... it all makes me queasy. Except the bacon at the Training Table, where they fry it (as with fish, if it's fried, it's not really food). I do not eat steak, solely due to the fact that I cannot abide pink in my meat but if you cook a steak to the point where there is no pink, there is also no flavor. So what's the use? I tolerate scrambled eggs, but cannot stand eggs in any other form. Especially on my salad. Same with tomatoes, horrible little red balls of contamination. And mushrooms.

After a recent detailing of why I would be forgoing the weekly free lunch provided by one of my coworkers, I was told I am much like Meg Ryan's character in "When Harry Met Sally." I have not seen this movie, although I have since purchased it. Apparently she orders a lot of dishes without particular ingredients, and what remains is requested on the side. Yes, that does sound like me. There is also the popular Bon Qui Qui clip, which gets quoted a lot when I go out with friends ("I got a complicated order! Don't go crazy. You can have a Coke."). I endure the good-natured prodding of my family, friends, and coworkers, because I realize that before the week is through they will be eating whatever confection I decide to bring them. They do not understand why I am so willing to cook foods I do not eat (like stuffed mushrooms or spinach-artichoke dip), but they are not picky so they eat. This is my redemption.

Hm, I think it is time for dinner. Grilled chicken sandwich, please. No tomato, no lettuce, no onion, mustard and pickle on the side. And let me have a Coke.

Litter Bug

2009-11-10T18:13:00.000-08:00

I drive a lot, living south of the border but working in Salt Lake. As such, I sometimes get a little bored seeing the same things twice a day every day. I realize I should not admit it, but I find my attention wandering to the sides of the road at times, reading billboards (hey, it reminded me to buy tickets to see Brian Regan) or noticing what businesses have opened or closed since the last time I departed from my 80 mph bee-line. Yes, I speed. You would, too, if you made this drive as often as I do.

Today the thing that caught my attention as I cruised along the second-most left lane, belting out off-tune lyrics to the latest Michael Buble cd, was the stuff that collects on the shoulders of the freeway. If you have driven along I-15 in Sandy lately, you know as well as I do that the right shoulder is populated by construction crews and equipment. And litter. Now, I'm not neccessarily a pioneering champion of the "Go Green" movement that is sweeping the nation. But I do support appropriate stewardship over the planet, starting with our immediate surroundings. So as I streaked past the orange garbage cans that serve to prevent me from careening off the right side of the freeway, my sights were focused more on what lay in the little-used right lane.

There were of course the usual culprits, the innocuous napkins and miscellaneous paper goods, the harmless-as-long-as-they-stay-on-the-ground rocks and layer of dirt. Without the constant air current provided by vehicles travelling at the speed of life, however, larger and more interesting items have accumulated on the fringes of this transportation artery. There was a tree branch, about 3 feet long. I at first assumed it had fallen off a truck or trailer that was hauling trimmings. But it's November. Do people trim their trees this late in the year? There was a tonka truck, which made me wonder what small child is at this moment throwing a fit that they can't find their beloved toy, and what poor mother is beside herself trying to figure out what has become of it. I spotted a blue tarp, which was not notable by itself, other than it was sitting in a pull-out frequented by UHP officers. I wonder if it serves as a sort of blind, throwing off unsuspecting speeders like myself. There was a tennis shoe. An adult tennis shoe. What adult removes their shoe while driving, only to throw it out the window? Were their feet hot? Did the shoe originally belong to a passenger, who removed it in order to throw it at the driver in an act of frustration, only to watch it sail out the window they had not realized was open? Or did the wearer-turned-thrower intentionally lob the footwear out the window as a manifestation of road rage? Whatever the case, I wish I knew what became of that adult and their bare foot. I wish I knew where they had been going, and how they managed to show up with only one foot appropriately clad.

As I departed from the construction zone with the abnormally widened shoulder, I returned my focus to the road in front of me, peopled with middle age men driving too slow for the left lane and spunky moms in full-size SUVs talking on their cell phones as their "sweet" children pull faces at the drivers around them. I made my way past these cars with only minimal weaving, and reflected on the treasure trove I had just witnessed. Do I know any little boys who might like a gently used toy truck? Are any of my friends one-footed and in need of a broken-in tennis shoe?

Maybe I should retrieve the branch and the tarp. I could keep them in my trunk in case I ever need a lean-to.

Pantry

2009-09-19T20:43:00.000-07:00

I cleaned out my pantry today. In the process, I found a bag of popcorn with a name on it. This is because that particular bag of popcorn has not always been in my pantry, and was once in a position to be enjoyed by someone other than its owner. But the owner gave it to me, and so now it belongs to me, with a name that does not belong to me in bold black handwritten letters. And I found it again today. And it hurt.

I want everything in my pantry to have that name. I want everything in my life to have that name.

Long Time No See!

2009-07-20T00:14:00.000-07:00

Yeah, I know. It's been almost a month. So I'm posting a "typical" sort of blog, just for those select few who may be wondering what the last month has done to me.

Well, for starters, I finished my rotations and passed my certification exam. That means that some faceless committee of "experts" in Chicago have agreed to let me perform medical laboratory science as a Medical Technologist. It's a glamorous job, and I assure you that you would just be jealous if I were to detail what my career entails.

I went on a ward overnighter. Keep in mind, I'm in the singles ward, so this was essentially a 24-hour flirt fest. It proved to be very fun and quite educational. More than that, I made several new friends and realized that my story isn't something to keep me from living. It wasn't a long trip, or a distant one, and it's not like we did a bunch of super exciting things (although I think I rock in a canoe). But it was great, and I came home with a renewed love for where I am in life.

That's really pretty much it. Exciting, eh? Mixed in there somewhere was the worst heartache I've ever felt, but life goes on. I also started horseback riding lessons and decided that I want to take golf lessons. This week I'll be going to Montana for a few days. Hopefully that will give some blog fodder.

Tool Box

2009-06-22T23:25:00.000-07:00

Moms seem to get a lot of recognition, don't they? I mean, in comparison to dads? So, keeping in form with that, this post is a little late. It adds character.

Papa Bear,

As I think about what defines you as a father, maybe even as a person, my first and lasting impression is tools. I have always been able to tell when you've been working. Whether it's the sawdust on your clothes, the grease on your hands, or the lingering smell of burning hair, this is how you exist in my memories. Your toolbox has become a manifestation of you as a whole, and each item inside a portion of what you mean to me.

First, your astounding variety of nails, screws, bolts, nuts, washers, and other small bits of hardware which I can't name. You are prepared for every situation, with the pieces that hold everything together. Whether it's a light finishing nail to hang a picture, or a heavy framing screw to stabilize a wall, you have something for every need. Likewise, you have come up with the small things that help me every day. From straightening my license plate to cleaning my shower, fixing breakfast to fixing my brakes, you do a variety of small things that keep life running smoothly.

Maybe it's on your belt rather than in your toolbox, but next comes your pliers and screwdriver in their holster. That pouch has been replaced more times than I can remember, which is how I always knew that a good screwdriver must be essential to life. After all, it wouldn't have pushed its way through if it just quietly rode along on your hip! Just as you have kept your most useful and practical tools by your side for decades, you have kept me close to you, where you could teach and protect me.

Speaking of screwdrivers, they really are the most critical part of a toolkit, aren't they? Most of yours are interchangeable, able to be fitted with phillips or flat or star, big or small. With this adaptability, one tool serves so many purposes. So it is with you. You are of course the protector, the mechanic, and the answer man. But you are also the spider executioner, the dutch oven culinarian, the iron wielder, the bathroom purifier, the human alarm clock, and of course the best shoulder kneading system in the world. You are the screwdriver with many heads, different shapes and sizes, able to adapt to whatever role is required of you.

Then there are all your specialty odd-ball tools. You are the stud-finder, seeking that portion of life that provides stability and dependability. The dremel has nothing on you, for you leave your mark without harm. The power drill achieves its task with speed and ease, usually doing it right the first time. Allen wrenches appear to be limited in their usefulness, but like you, they save the day when you least expect it. An awl looks sharp and dangerous and cantankerous, but with proper and careful manipulation, it actually serves to make life easier. Your level tells you the truth when your eyes may deceive you, providing a reliable measure of balance. And what would a tool of yours be without the characteristic initials in sparkly blue nail polish, claiming at once "I know who I am" and "I give little thought to what the world might think." Who knew that seeing BJF in a color only a 14-year-old girl would wear would teach me a lesson in independence and self-assurance?

Of course, I saved the best for last. What would a Fugal toolbox be without a hammer? Not just any hammer. A 22 ounce red-handled framing hammer, with a small chip in the fiberglass. This has been a staple in our family, as it has finished basements, built dance sets, assembled props for girls camp, hung pictures, built furniture to survive the apocalypse, and applied holiday decorations to eaves and roofs. And while you were hammering away with said red-handled framing hammer, you were creating a lifetime of memories, supporting the interests and endeavors of your family, providing places for us to enjoy life and to rest when the day was done.

And now you have distributed your tools to your children. The boys not only weld and transform metal to create other tools, they weld their story with ours and leave their mark on our history. Your daughters do not simply drill and hammer and saw, but we continue to build the lives you began. A little bit of you exists in each of your tools, and as they are used to complete new projects they lend a little of you to everything they create. These are not just tools, Papa Bear. They are your legacy.

Return

2009-06-03T19:21:00.000-07:00

This month marks an anniversary of sorts for me. It is one I have not been inclined to talk about much, but in response to a few recent inquiries, I am going to put myself out there for all to see. Please remember that this story is of a personal nature, it is one I have not told many people, and it is here with the hope that some might understand me better or might find hope of their own.

During my second year at Utah State University, I made the decision to leave the LDS church. The reason for this is too personal to post on the internet, but it came from an event that shook my core belief in the Church and in the Priesthood. I still had a testimony of Christ, of His Atonement, and of the Gospel, but I found myself questioning the validity of the administration of the Gospel through the religion in which I had been raised. After meeting with my student ward bishop, I walked out of the Golden Toaster (as our meetinghouse was fondly called) and vowed never to return. I was too apathetic to ever have my name removed from the Church records, and I think part of me wanted to regain my belief and return to full fellowship, but at that moment I stopped calling myself Mormon.

In the more than three years that followed, I lived the "free" life. I did whatever, whenever, with whoever, as long as it sounded fun and left me with some sense of satisfaction. My circle of friends experienced a complete overhaul, as did my personality and behavior. I spent that time learning more about the world than I should know, forming different memories than I should have, and having more experiences than I should be able to claim. I won't deny that I had fun. After all, there's a reason it's called temptation. But I never found whatever it was I thought was waiting for me.

After I moved home from Logan, I realized I didn't know how I had become the person I was, or how I had created the life I was living. It took several very painful decisions, but I started the journey to become a better person. It was about this time when the bishop of my home ward wanted to meet with every member, including me. My parents had told him a bit of my story, though even they didn't know that I wanted nothing to do with the Church. So when it was my turn, I was surprised to discover that I did not hate this man. I did not distrust him. I did not question his motives or doubt his sincerity.

I then left Utah. My sister and her husband were living in Kansas City, and I wanted to experience life outside the bubble. So for six weeks I saw what it was like to be a minority, to be labeled, to face the decision every day about what kind of person I really wanted to be. I love KC because I found what it was I had been looking for. I found me.

This brings me back to this month's anniversary. On one of my sightseeing afternoons, I decided to visit Liberty Jail. I cautiously entered the small building, unsure of what I would say when the missionaries asked if I was a member. Instead of the inquisition for which I was prepared, I was met with warm smiles and was allowed to quietly pass into the room built around the jail. I sat through the presentation, listening to a recorded narrator read the story of Joseph Smith's imprisonment, a story I had heard countless times. And when the deep male voice started quoting the section of scripture with which I had become familiar in high school (thanks, Spencer), I became detached from the tourist aspect of where I was. As I heard the verse I had memorized years before, the words immediately applied to me and to everything that had transpired since that day at the Golden Toaster. "If the heavens gather blackness, and all the elements combine to hedge up the way; and above all, if the very jaws of hell shall gape open the mouth wide after thee, know thou, my son, that all these things shall give thee experience, and shall be for thy good."

I sat through the presentation one more time before slowly returning to my car. Instead of getting onto 152 to go west to Gladstone, I headed north on I-35. Within an hour, I found myself sitting on a rock and looking over the fields at Adam Ondi Ahman. This is where man's trials had begun, and where eventually they would end, and my short three years were a drop in the bucket. So what now? For the first time in recent years, I turned to the Lord. I asked Him what I needed to do now that it was apparently time to return to His church.

That was June 14, 2004. In the past five years, I have rediscovered my testimony. I have rediscovered the joy of serving the Lord. I have rediscovered myself and my place in the world. And I'm never leaving again.

It's Done

2009-05-24T15:21:00.000-07:00

10 years. 2 houses. 3 apartments. 15 roommates. 4 cars. 2 new family members. 3 boyfriends. 1 fiance. 9 jobs. 4 colleges. 3 official majors. 1 unofficial major. 202 credit hours. 3 degrees.

1 long journey, which is finally over. Now on to the next.

Happy Mother's Day

2009-05-10T15:59:00.001-07:00

Mom,

Sometimes you get discouraged
Because I am so small,
And always leave my fingerprints
On furniture and walls.
But everyday I'm growing big,
And soon I'll be so tall.
Then all my little handprints
Will be hard to recall.

You have copies of this poem, or variations of it, from each of your three daughters. White paint on faded blue construction paper, trimmed with fuzzy white yarn and dated from the late 1970’s to the mid 1980’s. Reminders of days that were filled with Rainbow Brite, Strawberry Shortcake, and the Get Along Gang. We made time stand still by slathering our little hands with non-toxic color, and hinted at the progress we were all sure to make as life marched on.

So what has become of those hands?

When we were little, about the time of the classic handprint poem, our hands explored the world around us. They steadied our walk, they held our Glo Worms and Barbie dolls, they awkwardly put food and other things into our mouths. And they were often found enveloped in your own hands as you introduced us to the wonders surrounding our lives and protected us from things we didn’t know would hurt us.

As we started to grow, our hands learned to write, to follow the words which you read to us, to brush our own hair. They began to manipulate buttons, to stash surprises in our pockets, and to hold on to bicycle handlebars. And they continued to be held by your own hands as you guided us to become the people we needed to be.

We became teenagers, and our hands found more diversity. They began to span the black and ivory keys of a piano, to press the silver keys of a clarinet. Our hands all gripped the same blue steering wheel and moved the same blue gearshift, with varied success. They learned to manipulate necklace clasps and earring backs, to use the gentle touch of a makeup brush. And your hands were still there, holding ours, as we experienced our first heartbreaks and initial triumphs.

As we made our journey through school, our hands held pencils for countless hours. They took innumerable tests, wrote endless essays, and performed tedious calculations. They threw things and pounded desks in frustration and discouragement. Our hands have taken 8 AP exams, 3 ACTs, 1 PCAT, 2 ASCPs, 1 NAPLEX, 2 RIDs, and a few state licensing exams. They found their way to the occasional dissection of a frog or a fetal pig or a bovine eye, they began to speak on their own, and they were held by someone other than you for the first time. But our hands always made their way back to yours, to find comfort when we failed and encouragement when we hoped.

We are adults now, and our hands lead different lives. As time has passed, our hands have wiped tears of sorrow, joy, frustration, victory, defeat, love, and doubt. Each of our hands spend their days taking part in the healing process, whether they distribute medication, direct body fluids, or analyze medical specimens. Our hands each give love to and receive love from brown, golden, grey, and orange family members. They have held wedding bouquets and display marriage bands. They throw balls, count pills, shake tubes, communicate with others, clean homes, write poems, wrap gifts, draw blood, cook a variety of flavors, pay bills, hold reins, grip leashes, clean some more, continue to hold steering wheels that are no longer blue, press shutter buttons to capture timeless moments, wave to more and more people each day, arrange flowers, use the technology of today, clean a little more, and occasionally give a friendly jab.

And still, more than 25 years later, our hands return to you. A bit of you lives in one-half of each hand that has come from you, and so our hands yearn for yours. They are no longer entirely enveloped, for as the poem predicted, we have grown. But everything done by the six hands of your three daughters is a tribute to you, to your motherhood. They will grow more, do more, experience more, and probably hurt more. And they will again be held by the hands of the mother who grew them.

Rated E for Everyone

2009-02-26T19:38:00.001-08:00

Video games are funny to me. I grew up on the old school Nintendo system, playing games like Super Mario Bros. (2 was the best), Tetris, and Duck Hunt. I had an original GameBoy, with the attractive green tinge to the dimly lit screen. And I loved playing video games. I'll admit, my aim with the red plastic "rifle" had an astronomical margin of error, but my 10-year-old brain quickly learned that holding the barrel against the television greatly improved my accuracy. I felt a small thrill whenever my little Mario grew, a feeling I imagine would be similar to that experienced by a gardener watching a pea plant thrive.

Once I grew out of the Nintendo games, or rather, once the world grew out of that system and made my games obsolete, I left the world of gaming behind. I spent my time buried in History, Biology, and Calculus. My video game repertoire became limited to computer solitaire, and later PDA mah jong. So when I became involved with a guy who was obsessed with Dungeons and Dragons, Diablo II, and other games I never cared to discern from one another, I didn't get it. I didn't understand how a person with adequate social skills could spend their entire day and night staring at a computer screen, screaming at a person in the next room who was also staring at a computer screen, while the two battled for a fictitious reward. Over time, I grew to accept the fact that gaming can be a form of release, a stress relief or a chance to wind down. And I think the boys just liked to feel tough and violent when they threw flames at computer generated demons.

Now there is a new era of video games, and I am on the bandwagon. Some friends have introduced me to the mindless fun of Little Big Planet and Rock Band. I spent some real time with my sister this week, competing in Wii Olympics and tossing plungers at psychotic rabbits. We created our Mii characters in Wii Fit, and I felt a sense of satisfaction as her body became slightly pudgy. She, in turn, couldn't breathe when she began laughing at the similarities between my character and a cantaloupe. I rediscovered the joy of beating your own best score, and the exhilaration of beating your sister's. I never knew how entertaining it is to watch someone flail aimlessly as they try to imitate a doggie paddle or a trampoline routine. My aim has improved since the days of Duck Hunt, though skeet shooting is still difficult, as is archery. I am not very successful at driving a buggy around a cow-laden track, but I can fit over 300 rounds of a hula hoop into one game.

As I prepare my taxes and see that the federal government is once again adorning me with some extra cash, my mind is toying with the idea of stepping into the new generation of video games. I just might make that jump and continue this journey of rediscovery.

Just do not get in my way when I'm on the ski jump. The cantaloupe's got game.

Auld Lang Syne

2008-12-31T14:59:00.000-08:00

You may not know this, but 2008 comes to a close tonight. New Year's Eve has always been met with mixed emotions in my life. I'm one of those people who tend to hold on a little too tight to the past, so saying farewell is a bit difficult. However, I love the anticipation and optimism that a new year brings. I have the entire year laid out in front of me, holding unknown opportunities and memories.

As I look back for a moment at all that has happened in the last year, in my life and in the lives of those close to me, I come to two old realizations. First, life is what you make it. And second, life is nothing without people to share in the journey. I have tried to make every day an adventure, taking the time to enjoy even the little things, and it has really made a huge difference. I know the people who have shared those experiences with me have made the memories more rich and fulfilling, and for that I am grateful.

My resolution for 2009 is to live each day to the fullest. I'm not sure that's a grammatically correct resolution, but it will be my mantra for the next 12 months. I have learned this year that life twists without any warning, leaving you scrambling as you realize how many opportunities you let slip away or how many plans you have to suddenly change. I have also learned how full life can be when you hold on and take it as it comes. I want the next year to be that kind of full, so I have coerced myself into filling it with adventure, friendship, and new chances.

I hope the new year brings hope, joy, health, and promise to each of you. Whatever you choose to do with your year, do it with gusto. This is the life you were given...work it!

So this is all the rage, the 99 things you've done. I figure it's a good way to round out the year, with a quick look back at life.

1. Started your own blog (I'm with Emily, the fact that this is circulated via blogs would make it kind of obsolete to mention, wouldn't it?)
2. Slept under the stars (and got eaten alive!)
3. Played in a band (junior high and high school count, right?)
4. Visited Hawaii
5. Watched a meteor shower
6. Given more than you can afford to charity
7. Been to Disneyland (got home a year ago today)
8. Climbed a mountain (ugh, girls camp hike to the top of Baldy)
9. Held a praying mantis
10. Sang a solo (don't ask me to ever do it again)
11. Bungee jumped
12. Visited Paris (does Vegas count???)
13. Watched a lightning storm at sea
14. Taught yourself an art from scratch
15. Adopted a child
16. Had food poisoning
17. Walked to the top of the Statue of Liberty
18. Grown your own vegetables (the parents tried to turn us into farmers...my carrot was 2 inches long)
19. Seen the Mona Lisa in France
20. Slept on an overnight train
21. Had a pillow fight (what 10-year-old girl hasn't?)
22. Hitch hiked
23. Taken a sick day when you're not ill
24. Built a snow fort (well, at least we tried)
25. Held a lamb (baby animal day in Logan!!!)
26. Gone skinny dipping (for the love of everything holy, do not try to visualize)
27. Run a marathon
28. Ridden in a gondola in Venice
29. Seen a total eclipse (7th grade, made the little hole-in-paper thing that didn't work)
30. Watched a sunrise or sunset
31. Hit a home run
32. Been on a cruise (day cruises count, right?)
33. Seen Niagara Falls in person
34. Visited the birthplace of your ancestors (does Pleasant Grove count?)
35. Seen an Amish community (bought a quilt, candles, and delicious cookies)
36. Taught yourself a new language (I'm trying...Italian is hard!)
37. Had enough money to be truly satisfied
38. Seen the Leaning Tower of Pisa in person
39. Gone rock climbing
40. Seen Michelangelo's David (again, does Vegas count???)
41. Sung karaoke
42. Seen Old Faithful geyser erupt
43. Bought a stranger a meal at a restaurant
44. Visited Africa
45. Walked on a beach by moonlight (Bear Lake is probably not what most people imagine)
46. Been transported in an ambulance
47. Had your portrait painted
48. Gone deep sea fishing
49. Gone without food or water for 24 hours or longer
50. Been to the top of the Eiffel Tower in Paris
51. Gone scuba diving or snorkeling
52. Kissed in the rain (I really don't see what the big deal is...it's just wet)
53. Played in the mud
54. Gone to a drive-in Theatre
55. Been in a movie
56. Visited the Great Wall of China
57. Started a business
58. Taken a martial arts class
59. Stayed up for 24 hours with NO sleep at all (stupid AP English poetry project)
60. Served at a soup kitchen
61. Sold Girl Scout Cookies
62. Gone whale watching
63. Got flowers for no reason
64. Donated blood, platelets, or plasma (I'm a blood banker, I feel hypocritical if I don't)
65. Gone sky diving (not yet, but it's on the list!)
66. Visited a Nazi Concentration Camp
67. Bounced a check (ah, the days of Logan)
68. Flown in a helicopter
69. Saved a favorite childhood toy (Spanish Cabbage Patch girl)
70. Visited the Lincoln Memorial
71. Eaten Caviar (ew)
72. Pieced a quilt
73. Stood in Times Square
74. Toured the Everglades
75. Been fired from a job (my resignation crossed in the mail)
76. Changed a lightbulb (there are people who haven't?!?)
77. Broken a bone
78. Been on a speeding motorcycle (scared the life out of me!)
79. Seen the Grand Canyon in person
80. Published a book (no, but I was published IN a book!)
81. Visited the Vatican
82. Bought a brand new car (and then promptly had a nervous breakdown)
83. Mowed the lawn
84. Had your picture in the newspaper
85. Read the entire Bible (hey, Seminary counts)
86. Visited the White House (the outside of it, and hopefull the inside this March!)
87. Killed and prepared an animal for eating
88. Had chickenpox
89. Saved someone's life (hey, I send blood to people who are bleeding out)
90. Sat on a jury
91. Met someone famous (simply amazing)
92. Joined a book club (for about a week)
93. Lost a loved one (who hasn't?)
94. Had a baby
95. Seen the Alamo in person
96. Swam in the Great Salt Lake (stinky!)
97. Been involved in a law suit
98. Owned a cell phone
99. Been stung by a bee

'Tis the Season

2008-12-11T18:28:00.000-08:00

Winter is my favorite fashion season. Skirts can be paired with tights, making flawless legs unnecessary. Turtlenecks and sweaters are almost required on most days, which are both foolproof ways to keep one's goods from becoming overexposed. Flabby arms are contained, slimming colors are everywhere, and coats become an accessory that make a statement.

There is one statement, however, that is foreign to me. Since I began to dress myself, I have seen this holiday proclamation screaming its way through schools, malls, post offices, and parties. The usually bright holly red with a festive applique of Santa, reindeer, wreaths, or Christmas trees that is then adorned with sequins, beads, ribbons, or (if you really want the world to see your overflowing yuletide spirit) lights connected to tiny wires lying close to your body as they wind to a small battery near your liver.

Yes, I am talking about the strangely intoxicating tradition of the Christmas Sweater.

I find myself in my annual bewilderment, wondering how a person who dresses with impeccable style 11 months of the year can possibly look at the gaudy and overpriced textile and think to themselves, "Now THAT would look great on me." Do these people really have such a deprived self-image that they think a lighted nose on a felt reindeer head is the trick to getting into the holiday mood? Do they think they'll have double the joy if they buy a matching set to share with their special loved one? And then I discover these consumers proudly displaying their purchase, under the obvious delusion that they are spreading cheer, assaulting the eyes of the hundreds of other people they meet in the course of their Christmas-ing.

What baffles me more than the person who buys and wears the Christmas sweater is the designer who creates such an abomination. They make their way through design school, land themselves a job at whatever company allows these things to be produced, and the best thing they can come up with is a woven cardigan patchworked with wreaths, stockings, and ornaments. What do these costumiers do for the rest of the year?

The "it" thing now is to throw a Christmas party and invite guests to wear the ugliest, tackiest holiday sweater they can lay their hands on. I cannot quite wrap my mind around the logic behind this. The most hideous fashion imaginable is being beckoned to congregate! Now we not only find ourselves surrounded by the sparkling, twinkling, sickening effects, but we are actually seeking them, desiring them to add a little something to our December get-togethers. What has become of us?

I am going to a Christmas sweater party. Of course, I do not own anything close to what is required of me. And so, here I sit looking at page after page of eBay, until I find that perfectly ugly and overdone pile of wool. It is half a size too small, as all terrible fashion should be. I place my bid of $7 as the auction closes, and I am the less-than-proud new owner of a slightly used red sweater with a sequined green Christmas tree plastered on the chest.

Here's the best part: It lights up and plays music.

City of the Salt Lick

2008-11-17T17:55:00.000-08:00

As I leave class tonight prepared for the rush hour commute I know is waiting, just after the sun has set and left the valley in a pink afterglow, I make the decision not to follow the masses departing from the University of Utah. I decide not to skirt the mountains, but rather to dive right into downtown SLC. This is not a particularly unusual way for me to travel; in fact, it's commonly the route I take at the beginning of my day. But tonight I want to see. I want to see the pink clouds hovering over the silhouette of the Oquirrh Mountains. I want to see the glimmer of the lake in the distance. I want to see the valley laid out before me with its twinkling lights and dusky haze. In short, I want to take another look at the same scene I have seen countless times in the 27 years I have lived here, just because I can.

Perhaps it's the bewitching hour, when nature's light lingers softly, mixed with the glow of technology's color. As my pupils contract against the miles of break lights ahead of me, as my car mirror goes green to block out the reflection of the miles of headlights behind me, I turn my attention from the Kia I am following and allow myself to take in the city. The incandescent glow of the City and County Building, poking out of the trees like an old friend you rarely take time to visit. The red swirl on the Ken Garff Building, which houses a Wells Fargo Bank in its lobby, though the Wells Fargo Building towers just two blocks away. I find it intriguing that the old New Grand Hotel is home to what I suspect are somewhat dilapidated apartments, yet it always seems to have a fresh coat of paint on the 50's-era Coca Cola advertisement that graces its east wall. I drive past the boarded-up Neff Floral, the Chinese restaurant where someone was shot last year, the surprisingly busy coffee shop, and the not-so-surprisingly quiet House of Scientology. The nightclub that is known by different names depending on what decade you belong to: the Hub, Club Splash, Bliss, coming soon Babylon. Across the intersection, the bar where I used to know the bartender, where no less than 20 fluorescent signs beckon patrons to enjoy a Budweiser, a Corona, Captain Morgan, or a Coors while they cheer for the Mets, the Rays, the Yankees, or (my favorite) the Royals. This city is not as old as the more distinguished towns of the East, but I propose that it has as much character.

I am coming to a crossroads in my life. As I write this, I sit with the knowledge that I do not know where I will be in a year. A few months’ time will bring a view of my life similar to the one I enjoy as I drive past Rice-Eccles Stadium, wide open and twinkling with possibility. The doors of my career will be open, and I will have to choose whether I want to stay in home sweet Utah or embark on a new adventure ... Alaska ... Chicago ... Kansas City ... or somewhere I haven't even yet considered. Knowing that I may not be here for much longer, I dally a little longer on my drive through the grid that forms Salt Lake.

Wherever life might soon take me, this is home.

I am Me, You are You

2008-10-23T15:37:00.000-07:00

When I was growing up, I wanted to be just like my older sister. I would try to dress like her, I would repeat her quirky sayings ("cool beans" was a favorite of hers in college), I automatically liked what she liked and fought for what she thought important (I had a short phase of earthy environment activist). I tried to learn Moonlight Sonata because she played it so beautifully on the piano. I learned to play the clarinet because she did. I did my best in school so that I could graduate with a GPA and ACT score similar to hers, or at least what I thought they had been. Even now, I try to mimic her poise and classic style, I bake baklava because it's her favorite, and my dry humor resembles hers so much that it must have evolved from years of laughing at her wit.

As I left to spread my wings, however, I discovered the joy of individuality. And by developing my own sense of self, I began to understand what it was that always bothered my sister about my endless puppy-like infatuation with everything about her. Looking back, I was able to see instances when it bothered me to have someone try to be like me. Maybe it comes from having the rare and coveted strawberry-blonde hair, but I like who I am and I want to remain an individual. I think we all have had this happen to some extent in our lives, and I think most of us feel as though a little part of ourselves is being stealthily absconded. And so, I have decided to take a stand. I stand for individuality, for uniqueness, for the ability to be my own person and to appreciate others for who they are, rather than for who they are not.

A friend expressed to me today that it is somewhat lamentable that material things define us. And yet, they do. Our clothing, our cars, our houses...all of it is an outward expression of who we are on the inside. For example, I love mary janes and ballerina flats, particularly by Keen. Anyone who sees me more than twice a week knows that I am putting forth a genuine effort to convert my shoe rack to Keen. So, imagine how cheated I feel when someone close to me begins wearing the same style of Keen, a style they had previously ignored. Girls are the worst when it comes to haircuts. I have always had short hair, and now that everyone else has seen how manageable it can be, I am being forced to grow mine out in order to have the freedom to do my own thing. In general, I have developed a sense of style that fits me (structured, classic, playful). I like seeing other people who have likewise found their own definitive style.

Less materialistic, our syntax is a reflection of our character. I use big words. I always have, and I will continue to do so until I begin to forget the big words. This is not an attempt to sound precocious, to make people think I'm smarter than I actually am. It's just what I do. To shake it up, I throw in a few phrases that seem to be associated with me--"bunch of crap" seems to be the most popular. This is my way of speaking, and when I hear people using the same big words (conundrum isn't used very often, is it?) or employing the phrases that have become my signature, I feel lost.

There are lots of ways we emulate those we admire. I find it empowering to take a small aspect of my sister's life (classic trench coat) and make it unique to me (houndstooth trench with flair). Everyone always tells me that it's a compliment that others want to be like me. Is it a compliment when someone wants to use your credit card without your permission? Drive your car when you're not around? Take your television when you're not home? And yet, stealing my style is a form of identity theft. You force me to find another route, to adopt it, to define it, and to establish my association with it. The differences between us create diversity, they make life interesting by sparking discussion and passion. I will appreciate your individuality, and I am grateful you like mine. Now, let me be me and I will let you be you. And I will make baklava to stay on my sister's good side.

Captain Safety

2008-10-13T15:40:00.001-07:00

A very good friend of mine recently purchased a motorcycle. Every week I receive at least one call from the ER informing me that I will soon find myself in sterile garb, watching doctors and nurses hover over a person who has been so badly injured while on a motorcycle that the situation calls for my helpless presence. So discovering my friend's intention, and then seeing him on his motorcycle, tends to make my stomach turn inside out as I imagine this friend with his leg dangling from below the knee. But I am nice, so I tell him I support his decision.

I have a brother-in-law who insists on running into burning buildings and walking around on burning mountains. We tell him he can't keep doing these things, but he tells us he's safer than Joaquin Phoenix or Kurt Russell and that he has never had anything collapse on him. Except that one time.

These two people are very important to me, so I worry about the dangerous things I know they do. But it made think about what dangers present themselves in my own life, or in the life of the average non-biker, non-firefighter human being. Following is a list (I like lists) of what I have found:

Driving--We are all in grave danger. Well, you are all in more danger than I am. I have 8 airbags to keep me safe from you, but you have to deal with the fact that I was voted worst driver in my senior class.
Eating--Depending on who's cooking, this could be perilous. Choking, poisoning, laughing until you inhale a chunk of cheese...all these dangers could lead to a person's demise.
Grooming--Probably a bigger danger to females. Curling irons, flat irons, blow dryers, toxic fumes, goopey sticks being pointed at the eye, and pieces of metal being shoved through ears (and other places!) all sounds a little sketchy.
Talking--If you're not careful, you will say something that will piss someone off to the point that they might injure or kill you. Or accuse you of killing someone. Or, if you're talking to me, I may end up twisting your words so much that you will never live down warning me about the dangers associated with sea kayaking.
Walking--I am likely to trip, others tend to bump into people who then instigate a sidewalk altercation, and there are those who end up getting hit by a car or struck by lightning. There is also the possibility of getting mugged, shot, regurgitated upon, recognized, or otherwise attacked.
Working--Everyone is faced with some occupational hazard, from ergonomically unsound seating to the HIV-positive patients, from the meth lab to the chemistry lab, making a living can cost us our lives.
Cell Phones--There is always the argument that we will all end up with brain tumors from using our cell phones too much. I don't know about that, but these little "convenience" devices are distracting people to the point that the talker is dangerous to be around. And if you're on your phone at the restaurant table next to me or in the I-15 lane next to me, I'll be wishing a brain tumor on you.
Office Supplies--Who doesn't agree that paper cuts are of the devil? And really, do staples really need to be so sharp? I'm waiting to hear about someone losing an eye when a rubber band snaps. And I remember in ninth grade a classmate shoved a pencil so far up his nose, his parents had to take him to the ER. He ended up being a Sterling Scholar.
Wal-Mart--I know people love this store, though I can't for the life of me figure out why. I won't get into it here, but it is going to kill us all!

Considering all that happens in a day, life is dangerous. And yet, we choose to focus on the few actions that scare us, such as riding a motorcycle or fighting a fire. We all take risks, but if we think too much about them we would not be able to enjoy all that life offers. So I will continue to support my friend on his motorcycle and my brother-in-law in his fires.

It's been nice knowing them.

I'm Watching You

2008-09-24T23:19:00.000-07:00

Have you ever taken the time to people watch? I love it. When I was at USU, I would lay on my bed, look out the window, and watch the people scattered around campus. My sister and I like going to the malls near BYU so we can make our assumptions regarding how fresh the zoobies are. I find myself watching my classmates, my coworkers, my fellow commuters, or the people who stand on the side of the road, twirling a sign that is supposed to intice me to turn left (now right, now down, now left again) to explore the model home around the corner. Here is what has impressed me during my most recent observations:

Guys look silly on scooters. And they sound silly. I immediately look to the curb to see if I can spot someone with a remote control, for surely no self-respecting man would drive something that sounds like a toy.

We all need to unplug. If you and your significant other are both too busy to screen your calls long enough to enjoy a Tuesday night dinner together, do not cause my dinner to be interrupted by your annoying ringtone and your neglected children. Also, the next time my date answers a call or a text, I'm walking out.

Everyone has their own universe. I call mine J^Fizz. And I will start following the trend of walking around, caring just enough about others to determine how their universe helps or hinders my own. I will turn their stories into my own, I will make my tragedies bigger than theirs, and I will give them advice that they cannot possibly use because it is derived from my universe without consideration of theirs. After all, this seems to be the prevalent trend.

I know this is Utah, but there really are seasonal divisions. They may be fuzzy at times, so allow me to clarify that this is autumn. For the love of everything holy, stop with the tank/mini skirt/flip flop ensemble. Shaking what your momma gave ya is not the same as shivering your posterior off.

If you have ever been part of a singles ward, you will sympathize with my recent humiliation of having to stand as a man at the front of the chapel explained that I am a new member of the ward. You could almost hear the thoughts, "Fresh meat!" as I was surveyed and my potential measured.

When people speak in code, they usually anticipate the follow-up of "do tell," provided by your burning curiosity. If you have a secret, do not tell people you have a secret. That defeats the point of having a secret. If you want people to know that something is happening in your life, just tell them, rather than making an attempt to make your life sound intriguing and mysterious.

Women gesture. Have you noticed? When we are giving directions, trying to think of a word, or telling a story, our hands are never still. On the other hand, most men can do all these things while remaining nearly motionless.

Of course, all these things are generalizations. But, really, do you expect me to somehow achieve a personal relationship with everyone I watch? Judge me if you want. But while you are busy focusing on my downfalls, I'm laughing at the guy who just fell off his skateboard and almost got hit by a parked car. Gravity works!

Conversation Stalled

2008-09-12T16:41:00.000-07:00

There is a wonderful song from an era previous to my birth that contains the inspired lyrics "a time for every purpose." I like this concept of organizing my time according to function. I do not use my cell phone when at a restaurant, I do not read while watching television, and I do not indulge in conversations of a very personal matter when at work. These combinations are unsavory, because each action has its proper time and place. The cardinal offense of this theory, which seems to have become an epidemic, is what I like to call the Toilet Talker.

The Toilet Talker comes in two varieties: Public and Private. The Public Toilet Talker is the person who seems to think that any location filled with people is the appropriate place to carry on a conversation. If this person is directing their comments at you, this requires you to focus on your own objective as well as on their thoughts. Perhaps not the best time to multi-task, considering the potential embarrassment that might result if a step is forgotten. You are also faced with a timing concern, hoping that you do not delay the Public Talker with the length of time you require to perform your duty. No matter the object of the ruminations, whether a person present or on the other end of a cell phone, the Public Talker disrupts the general flow (literal and figurative) of the public restroom. The excess noise coming from this person gives the impression that they are careless regarding their own purpose, and inconsiderate regarding yours.

The Private Toilet Talker may think they are pulling off a covert errand. Most often this is the person who is presented with an urgent need when they are engaged in a telephone communication. If you are unlucky enough to be the individual who has so occupied them, the Private Talker will surprise you with the sudden sound of water falling. Rather than suspend the conversation for a moment before returning their full focus, you will be awkwardly subjected to the wonder of the renal system.

The happenings of the restroom are conducted behind closed doors for a reason. It is a private occasion which warrants a certain level of solemnity and reflection. Announcements are not made, invitations are not extended, and dialogue is not required. Postpone your parley for a more suitable situation, and the order of the world will be restored.

What's in a Name?

2008-09-10T15:39:00.000-07:00

I went to dinner with a friend the other day. The restaurant in which we found ourselves happened to have a bar, whose drinks were subtly suggested via the disposable coasters placed before us as the server asked what we would like to drink. The present advertisement was for a Bahama Mama. I, jokingly, encouraged my companion to take the bait, to which I was asked, "what's in it?" This is something I have realized for some time: cocktails generally do not have names that indicate their ingredients. Perhaps a Bahama Mama has a somewhat useful name, considering its tropical concoction of coconut, orange, and pineapple. But what of the drinks with the less convenient names?

The Mai Tai is the first drink that comes to mind, primarily because it is my favorite. I should not have a favorite, but there it is. Maybe I should change that to it was my favorite. After ordering it several times, I was unable to recite the components of this delicious fruity drink (two kinds of rum, dark and light, triple sec, grenadine, lime juice, pineapple juice, and orange juice). I just knew it would go well with grilled chicken.

Other methods for drunkenness that have often made me curious are the Manhattan (rye, vermouth, and bitters), the Sidecar (cognac, Cointreau, and lemon juice), the Long Island Iced Tea (a little of everything with a dash of Cola), the Brass Monkey (dark rum, vodka, orange juice), the Cosmo (vodka Citron, Cointreau, lime juice, cranberry juice), and Sex on the Beach (vodka, peach schnapps, orange juice, cranberry juice). Any bar menu displays a list of similar mind-boggling names that make me wonder if a patron just starts ordering anything that sounds interesting until they find something that hits the spot.

I think ordering a Coke or an apple juice is straight-forward and easy. Though a Mai Tai still calls my name on occasion, I appreciate no longer having to recite a recipe to my dinner mates. Just give me a virgin Screwdriver.

Ticket to Ride

2008-08-21T18:56:00.001-07:00

I have decided that life is a ride. A roller coaster, really. I hate roller coasters, which might explain a lot. It might explain why I spend so much energy on maintaining a calm existence, on avoiding drama, and on keeping peace with everyone around me. It also reveals that I'm a wimp who never takes a chance.

Below you will find a list of things I want to do before I turn 30. Things that I have until now shunned, either out of fear or apathy. I went sea kayaking this summer, despite how desperately afraid I am of deep water such as the ocean, and I loved it. I now realize that I want to experience more of life, to have more of an adventure! These are not all dramatic things, but they are things I want to try, and anything new is an adventure.

Sky Diving I know, this is on everyone's list
Visit Europe I don't need every city, but I want to see what the "real" Europe is like, aside from the glamour and glitz
Buy a really expensive piece of furniture It's in the works, even though I don't have a house!
Genuinely Care I know it will likely end up killing me in the end, but everyone needs someone to whom they sincerely matter
Try Sushi I just haven't been able to make myself do it
Learn to Shoot a Handgun I don't want one, but I want to learn how to handle it
Go on an Overnight River Trip Not just the day trips I've done, but one with real rapids!
Move outside of Utah My entire family is here, and they don't think I could do it, but I think I could.
Learn a foreign language I can't speak fluently in anything besides English! Maybe I'll learn Cantonese. Or German.
Read the entire collective works of Shakespeare, Poe, and Homer Don't ask me why
Go on a cruise Like I said, I'm terrified of deep water
Buy a house I freaked out when I bought a car, let's see if I can do a house
Live for the Moment When a chance comes along, take it by the hand and see where it leads

Today's post was supposed to be a simple list of things to do in the next three years. Not exciting things, really, just new experiences that might make me a well-rounded person. That's what I was supposed to write today. Instead, as my post of five minutes ago hints, I am struck with how brief life really is. The list is the same, but it is now a little (just a little) less about adventure and more about making every moment count.

We have each been given a ticket for the ride of our lives. Are you going to waste it? I'm not.

Jar at the Convenience Store

2008-08-21T18:37:00.000-07:00

Everyone sees them. Most people ponder them. Few people donate to them. Those Laffy Taffy plastic jars found at grocery stores and gas stations, with a rectangular hole roughly removed from the white plastic lid, displaying a photo of a sick child with a three-paragraph mini biography that consists of a tragic diagnosis, followed by endless hospitalizations. When your heart strings are pulled to their limit, you read the tender, "Can you help me?" A question that may lead you to dig into your wallet, pull out a quarter or even (being the generous philanthropist that you are) a dollar bill, gently shove it through the rough rectangular hole, and walk away with the confidence that you have just changed a child's life.

I do not have a rare and horrible disease. I am not seven years old and confined to a hospital bed. I do not have a single medical bill, aside from the monthly premiums that are silently removed from my paycheck. My greatest tragedy is that I am 27 and have not lived the life that the gaunt and pale seven-year-old leukemia patient wishes they could live. With that consideration, as well as today's news that my neighbor's four-year-old child will never have the chance to shop for his first day of school or to realize that girls have cooties, I am dropping my quarter into those jars at the register. I cannot improve a prognosis or bring a child back to life, but I can live my life in remembrance of those who can't. I can hold my family closer, I can make my friends more dear, and I can take a chance when opportunity comes knocking. Because not everyone can.

What Happens in Vegas....

2008-08-12T09:25:00.000-07:00

Upon returning from four days in Las Vegas, I have had the opportunity to reflect on my latest Sin City experience. Intermingled with the shopping, dining, and entertainment, there are a few lessons to be taken from Vegas.

1. Fights in the rain are romantic only in movies. In real life they simply leave you wet and ugly.

2. Even if it costs as much as a car, a ring is just a ring, and Vegas is not a place to begin regrets.

3. Wash your hands.

4. Flashing the bouncer at the hottest club will not improve your chances of getting in. It will only make you look sad.

5. If you cannot get into the hottest club, do not sit on the bench in the lobby with a forlorn look. The people who can get in are not going to give you a free ride.

6. Sometimes alcohol really does make a drink taste better. Virgin Pina Coladas just don't make the grade.

7. Wash your hands.

8. When in doubt, ask any person who looks like they work at the casino. They know the city with a deep intimacy that cannot be rivaled and should not be questioned.

9. If you are returning to your room at midnight because you cannot stand on your own, you should consider taking it a little slower next time you drink.

10. (perhaps the most important) Stilettos and drinking do not mix.

Gender Bender

2008-07-30T23:07:00.000-07:00

Welcome to summer in Utah. It is hot, usually dry with the occasional muggy afternoon that results from a light sprinkling of precipitation hitting the smoldering desert floor. When it is this hot, I find myself spending more and more time indoors with the air conditioning cranked up. It is on these days that I disregard my usual valiant efforts to minimize energy usage and preserve the ozone. On these days, I realize that if I try to help the planet live longer, I will die sooner from the heat. On these days, my thermostat is firmly set at 69 degrees.

It was on one of the recent sweltering days when I was driving down Lehi Main Street with my mother. Lehi is generally conservative, with a historic downtown of old brick buildings that have more character than all of Congress, several older homes that have been converted to salons, insurance offices, and one used car lot, and a traffic circle with a nearly life-size statue of a rodeo hero which has surprisingly not been run over by a truck. Amid the quaint and quiet Lehi afternoon, my mother spotted a man who was surviving the 8-million degree day by sporting a pair of shorts and nothing else. I did not witness this citizen, so I cannot offer an opinion on whether this man should be walking down the street in nothing but a pair of shorts. The sight, however, prompted my mother to ask me the following question:

Does it ever make you jealous that men can take off their shirts on a hot day?

Even if I were a man who could toss a shirt aside on a steamy afternoon, I would still be pasty white and soft, and would therefore prefer to keep my shirt in a position of protection against the reach of the sun and the eyes of people driving down Lehi Main Street. So my answer was no, I am not jealous that men can take off their shirts on a hot day. There are, however, other reasons that I imagine being a member of the more rugged sex is convenient.

1- Peeing in a bush. Sorry, but after years of camping, I wish I had that particular gift.
2- Short hair. Yes, girls take longer to get ready. We don't get to run a comb along our scalp and call it good. If you want us to have long hair, you have to wait for us to fix it.
3- No make-up. Again, it would speed up my daily grooming.
4- Shoes. Sure, I love my 50 pairs of shoes. But shopping for shoes can be painful. I wish I had the advantage of owning three pair: tennis, casual/rugged, formal. Nearly all men's shoes fit into those categories. Women, on the other hand, have to wade through kitten heel, wedge, flat, sneaker, dress boot, casual boot, peep-toe, slingback, mary jane, loafer, mule, tennis, pump, stiletto.....
5- Posture. Even now, as I look to my coworker for further inspiration, he is comfortably reclined, hands behind his head, squinting at his computer monitor. I, however, have my left foot hooked behind my right ankle, back straight, and would never dream of leaning back to the point where the man across the bench would be able to see my belly. Men get to relax.
6- Fingernails. I am not a member of the majority who pay for their natural nails to be disfigured by thick unnatural acrylic nails. Whether real or fake, women spend time and money to ensure that their fingernails are presentable and strong. Men can trim or bite their nails until their cuticles bleed, and generally no one cares.
7- Shaving. I am simply tired of the constant battle to keep 1/3 of my body smooth and stubble-free. Men swipe a blade over their jawline, or let it grow and achieve a manly ruggedness for a day or two. Can I say that my legs have a 5 o'clock shadow?

There are certainly plenty of things men do which fail to inspire me. They generally involve body functions or inappropriate adjustments. And I appreciate being able to carry more than a wallet and cell phone with me, a function that women enjoy in the form of a purse. But these 7 aspects of life make me envy men, just a little, and I am not sure that they realize how lucky they are.

If you'll excuse me, I broke a nail and now must trim, file, buff, and repaint it.

Suite Hotel

2008-07-21T20:10:00.000-07:00

Being the responsible consumer and paranoid traveler that I am, I got online today to reaffirm my belief that I am indeed participating in a 3-day slumber party with my parents this weekend. I positioned my digital arrow over the "confirm here" underlined in blue, and took a 0.7-second trip along the Information Superhighway to the virtual home of my temporary lodging. A small shiver of excitement ran up my spine as my slight worry was put to rest, for itinerary #53136543 is guaranteed. I took a moment to become familiar with the inside of my home-away-from-home, perusing the lounge where I will not drink, the fitness center where I will not exercise, and the ballroom where I will not dance.

Why do hotels publish such a variety of photographs? Their primary purpose is to provide a soft bed on which to find respite, and to indulge those who travel but who prefer not to venture into their destination with the perk of an extended listing of digital entertainment. Though I find myself exclaiming an occasional, "whoa," or "ooh, that's nice," I have no reason to see the three different configurations in which conference tables might be arranged in each ballroom. I will not be visiting the boardroom, either, so I can do without that image. And, while I am sure many visitors appreciate a foreknowledge of the position and quantity of treadmills, I consider the fitness center picture a rather boring piece of art.

The two areas of this grand location in which I have any significant interest are the room where I hope to slumber in safety, and the lobby where I will wheel my small blue luggage in search of a gilded elevator. I have success in finding photographs of the various styles of rooms, if only one shot per room. This means I have had a single brief glimpse of a room similar to the one I will visit. Creates some mystery, I suppose.

But before I come to the images of the ballrooms, the hallway seating, the pre-event staging area, the fitness center, the room service, the indoor pool, the restaurant and lounge, or even the close-up of someone whom I suspect is not the maid but who is nonetheless smoothing the sheets on my bed...before all that, there is the lobby. Out of the 27 participants of the photo tour, there are exactly six that depict the lobby. That is nearly 1/3 of the show. I will spend the majority of my lobby experience chatting with a young person who will likely be suited in a blue blazer with red trim, while I face a wall that is painted red and adorned with local artifacts (according to image 3). The blazer-clad young person with the gold name tag over their heart, as if to save them from some displeased and armed guest, is the one who will be positioned to enjoy the copper columns and cattle-print arm chairs. I will be staring at a red wall. Once I complete my interaction with the young person who has the aesthetic benefit of the open lobby, I will quickly take my leave to embark on the exciting journey into the room of which I have had only a glimpse. I will not need to loiter on the ground floor. The photo tour has made me fully acquainted with the lobby.

I have found that this is a trend with hotels. They place importance on their lobbies, which form our initial impressions of these establishments. Upon entering through the large glass doors, we take in the sight of the marbled and detailed lobby. But that is generally the extent of it. After congratulating ourselves on our fine choice of lodging, for surely any hotel with custom tile or a hand painted mural must be top-notch, we venture to the solace of our rooms. There we find the standard 19-inch television in the unremarkable armoire, the glass coffee table serving the overstuffed and uncomfortable sofa too big for one but not quite enough for two, the shower head that exfoliates our scalp while the curtain that clings to our lathered hips is drawn inward by the vacuum left by the missile shower. We know this is standard fare for a hotel. But we maintain that this is a very fine place because there was a large arrangement of exotic tiger lilies downstairs.

My hotel has some spiky flower that I do not recognize. It must be four star.

National Jen Day

2008-07-19T23:14:00.001-07:00

This week my calendar informed me I was missing the celebration surrounding Orangemen's Day (NIR). I'm used to having a "(CAN)" after the holidays listed on my calendar. I have come to understand that it means either I CAN celebrate that particular holiday if I wish, like Boxing Day and Victoria Day, or it has something to do with the northern country that really seems to be simply an extension of America. (Other than they call their cheese by a different name, but you'll have to read that blog .)

So I found myself wondering what Orangemen's Day is all about, and what does "NIR" stand for? After all, my calendar is not one of those universally enjoyed creations such as "Extreme Weather 2008" or "A Year of Flavor Flav." No no. It is a 16-month countdown to the end of President Bush's term of office. I will let you make your own assumption as to whether I purchased this calendar in anticipation of a new president, or whether it helps me savor the last 16 months with the current president. So, considering how very American my monthly planning assistant is, what country with the abbreviation "NIR" would have their obscure holidays advertised in it?

Like a proper scientist, I did proper research into Orangemen's Day. Obviously, "NIR" stands for Northern Ireland (silly me!), where William of Orange and his Orangemen stood up to the papal forces in the Battle of the Boyne in 1690. The battle is still celebrated, and is therefore commemorated on my calendar. America was founded by protestants, so I suppose a protestant battle has its place on an American calendar.

This got me thinking, which is an incredibly common thing I do. What other holidays am I missing? Here is an abbreviated list of holidays in July, listed by date:
1: Build a Scarecrow Day (must be big in Kansas)
2: I Forgot Day (I think I will get married on that day)
3: Compliment Your Mirror Day (isn't your mirror supposed to compliment you?)
6: National Fried Chicken Day (must be left-overs from the 4th)
13: both Babershop Music Appreciation Day and Embrace Your Geekness Day (kinda go hand-in-hand, eh?)
19: National Raspberry Cake Day (I wish I had known!)
20: Ugly Truck Day (do not visit Magna today)
23: Vanilla Ice Cream Day (just leave in the "cream," I don't want a Vanilla Ice Day)

July doesn't have all the fun, though!
January 23: Measure Your Feet Day
February 9: Toothache Day
March 31: Bunsen Burner Day
April 30: Hairstyle Appreciation Day (not the stylist, the style!)
May 9: Lost Sock Memorial Day (May 8 is No Socks Day)
June 29: Waffle Iron Day
August 6: Wiggle Your Toes Day
September 2: National Beheading Day (eek!)
October 9: Moldy Cheese Day (eew!)
November 2: Look for Circles Day
December21: National Flashlight Day (also Look on the Bright Side Day)

I am missing out on so many parties! I think we should all pick at least one obscure holiday and celebrate it with full gusto. Streamers, noisemakers, cake, a day off, and hats. Always hats. Let us raise our Dixie cups of Sprite with Cranberry, raising awareness of the forgotten holidays. Pick your holiday, throw your party, and I will come. I will support your cause.

I pick Orangemen's Day.

Close the Toes!

2008-07-05T16:26:00.000-07:00

Everyone has that one thing that grosses them out. It is usually something that other people think is benign, something that seems illogical to dislike or fear. I'm not referring to the myriad of documented phobias like spider, heights, water, or clowns--all of which send me into a state of semi-frozen speechlessness and terror. I'm also not talking about pet peeves like an unheeded timer's endless beeping or exaggerated and frequent throat clearing--both of which do not disturb my peace of mind. I am addressing those things that we all see around us and think, "How can you go out in public like that?!?" For some it is the unshaven legs of an overweight woman, the flabby arms of a person who lifts little more than a milk jug in an average day, or the way small children insist on spreading their fluids over anything you might be inclined to touch.

For me, it is flip-flops.

I have come to a full realization that I am very likely the only person on Earth who has this loathing in my deepest self. And I know I walk a very thin line, even now, by associating with the rest of the world who have an unexplainable adoration of the so-called footwear. I apologize to anyone who cannot pull themselves away from wearing them during the short summer months. I do not hate you. I hate your flip-flops.

My extreme dislike for flip-flops is derived from my assertion that feet are ugly. All feet. You can dress them up, buff them raw, file them down, and paint them over, but at the end of the day they are feet. And they gross me out. Several cultures find it offensive to show the bottom of one's sole, or to show bare feet in any situation. The Strongyloides roundworm will work its way from soil into bare feet before settling in for its free ride.

Perhaps it is the disregard for appropriate use of flip-flops that has lead to my progression from ambivalence to abhorrence. Dictionary.com defines a flip-flop as something to use "at a beach, swimming pool, etc." Wikipedia claims that flip-flops are worn in lieu of shoes when using squat toilets in Korea, or to prevent the spread of fungal infections in communal showers worldwide (a very smart idea). These uses make sense to me, as long as the toilet sandals don't make it to my neighborhood pool. It is the prevalence of flip-flops in the produce section of the grocery store, walking down the aisle of a wedding, standing with the President in the White House, slapping the bottom of feet at church, or hiking in the tick-infested mountains that has made me wonder whether these shoes need to have some sort of regulation. I have seen enough dirty toes thrown into enough dingy Old Navy rubber flip-flops in settings which might suggest the use of clean footwear (such as a wedding) or closed toes (such as a Chemistry lab) to fill my mind with general and never-ending disdain. And, like I said, feet are ugly. You may be a beautiful person on the outside and on the inside, and I am sure you spent good money and a bit of time on your pedicure, but I will think your feet should be hidden from view.

If you wear flip-flops around me, I will generally not say anything to make you uncomfortable to any degree similar to the uneasiness I feel at the proximity of your open feet to my plate of bridal shower hors d'oeuvres. After all, my legs are not as smooth as you would probably like them to be, and my arms are a bit flabby.

Land of the Midnight Sun

2008-06-30T15:19:00.000-07:00

I returned yesterday from the best vacation I've had in a long time. I spent ten days in Alaska with my sister Penny, her husband Justin, and our parents. We did so many things and have so many stories, it would be impossible to tell it all. But here are a few of the itinerary highlights:

BEARS! We took a bear viewing tour, which allowed us to watch a group of brown bears for several hours. They were eating a dead whale that had washed ashore. When we were on the shuttle through Denali, we saw seven more grizzlies--two of them little cubs!

I have decided that despite my incredible fear of drowning, sea kayaking is my new favorite hobby. We stayed close to shore so we could look into the water and see the starfish, etc. My sister says I am a power paddler; she had a hard time keeping up with me.

Train rides are very long, but it is nice to be able to move around. The bartender on the northbound train was from SLC, which made it a little extra fun to visit the bistro car. The southbound train had a tiki lounge.

The whole summer solstice thing throws you off. We didn't see it get dark the entire time. 21 hours of daylight every day. I loved it.

We saw glaciers. A lot of them. Seven glaciers are visible from the Alyeska Resort, where we had lunch our first day. We went on a glacier cruise in Whittier, during which we heard the ice crack and saw some calving. There are glaciers everywhere, just randomly tucked away in hanging valleys.

Prohibited Items

2008-06-18T22:21:00.001-07:00

Disclaimer: I apologize that this post is very similar to the one immediately previous. Apparently the world is full of strange and somewhat idiotic requirements.

In 48 hours, I will be on an aircraft manned by a company who used to have a Salt Lake arena named after them but who have recently hit hard times and therefore were stripped of the honor. And in order to get onto this aircraft, I will have to be cleared by security agents working for a federal organization that has somehow come up with the idea that 3 ounces of liquid or gel is not sufficient to disguise a dangerous substance, but that any quantity over 3 ounces is definitely suspicious and should be confiscated. It brings to mind the School House Rock song with the lyrics "Three is the magic number." It should be rewritten to include the 3-ounce rule and sung by 311 or Third Eye Blind or some other band with an equally appropriate name, like Poison.

I enjoy smooth calmness in all things. In order to achieve this, I plan on slipping through the security checkpoint at my local international airport (I'll come back to that) with ease and poise. But I realize it has been a year since finding myself filled with the exhilaration of soaring through the air in a giant tube filled with small seats and leg room (I'll come back to that, too) that could be considered spacious only by someone with no legs. So, to ensure that my plan of attack on the security gate goes as desired, with no alarming beeps, no personal searches, and no uniformed federal employee asking me to open my bag, I head to the universal source of knowledge: the Internet. I refresh my memory of the list of Prohibited Items, reminding myself that in order to travel one must take a minimalist approach to personal hygiene. After all, 3 ounces of shampoo is supposed to last 10 days. And as I glance through the list of items that must have been encountered somewhere in this great nation I call home, searching for the current policy regarding a bottle of water, I am astounded at what the government feels is necessary to call to the attention of every citizen flier.

But first, I promised to return to two small thoughts. In my family, we hold up our finger as a reminder of something we do not want to forget while someone finishes their own train of thought. Using that method, I have two very tired fingers.
1- Why is Salt Lake's airport "international?" We are so far inland that one would have to fly over a good portion of the United States before reaching this destination. And, as far as I have been able to tell, all flights from here to any other country have a layover in a bigger, more understandably international airport such as Chicago or Atlanta.
2- There is an airline, though not the one I will be using this week, that offers a few seats with additional leg room for a nominal fee. When I flew with this company a few years ago, my initial thought was, "Ooh!" Then I looked at the measurement. Up to five extra inches. Not only is it less than the length of my foot, but the full five inches is not guaranteed. I chose to stay with my seat that had up to five inches less. I had my own row that flight.

Forging on, here is an abbreviated list from the "What to Know Before You Go" page on the TSA website detailing what items are acceptable in a carry-on, and what items are not acceptable at all.

Corkscrews are allowed. Who has a corkscrew in their carry-on? The little bottles of alcohol that you can purchase from your flight attendant are not large enough to require a corkscrew.
Gel-filled bras. Do they check for this?
Lip glosses are okay for carry-on, if they are 3 ounces or less. I want to see the lip gloss that comes in a container larger than 3 ounces (my own is .15, it would take 20 of them to raise suspicion).
Toy Transformer Robots. I'm not kidding. They're on the list of acceptable items. Looks like I can pull out my old Happy Meal version of Optimus Prime and fly in safety.
Ice Axes, Meat Cleavers, and Sabers are a no. So are bows and arrows, spear guns, and golf clubs (who tries to fit a set of golf clubs into their overhead compartment? keep them off my flight).
Drills and drill bits, including cordless portable power drills, must be checked. I guess I can't remove the seat in front of me to give myself more room to stretch out. I can, however, bring a screwdriver, provided it is less than 7 inches in length. It's a long flight, maybe that seat can be moved after all.
My extensive collection of hand grenades must stay home. As does my gallon of paint thinner and my case of pool chlorine.
The good news is that, as long as each is 3 ounces or less, I can take my Jello-O, my pudding, and my whipped cream.

After paying close attention to the long list, making mental note of things that apply to me and giving a quick "what the???" to the random mentions of throwing stars and gel-type candles, I am left with one question. What is left to pack?

I'll pack light and go shopping as soon as I get to my destination.

Follow-Up: Apparently my sister did not study the list of prohibited items. She had to leave three jars of Alaskan jam at the Anchorage airport. We then found the same jams in the airport gift shop.

May Cause....

2008-06-09T18:26:00.000-07:00

I had the television on while I was making lunch today, and I found myself dumbfounded by an advertisement. Apparently there is a prescription drug (another one, at least) that has been pulled from pharmacy shelves due to an alarming rate of serious side effects, and this commercial encouraged people who have used this drug to call the toll-free number listed on the screen to speak with a lawyer who will determine if they are entitled to compensation. What caught my attention was this statement: "If you or someone you love has died due to the effects of this drug..." Couldn't they leave out the "you" in that?

It seems that the danger associated with medication will continue to increase as we demand more pills to be developed, in search of the Holy Grail Capsule that will prevent hair loss, help us shed pounds in our sleep, and turn us all into Stepford spouses (not just wives--you think Smiling Bob's wife is happy just because he has "a new boost of confidence?"). I understand that the FDA requires drug companies to list common side effects, and I appreciate the relative safety that comes from knowing what unexpected adventure I might have after taking NyQuil or PeptoBismol (according to what I see on tv, I might break out into a stupid line dance resembling the Macarena). But today's example of overzealousness in advertising, honestly inviting the deceased to seek monetary compensation for their loss, got me thinking about some of the complications that accompany a lot of drugs. Here are my favorites.

Viagra/Cialis/any other drug depicting older men who aren't ready to call it a day: Let's start with the obvious one, since I know we've all noticed it. You are instructed to see a doctor if the effect of these drugs lasts longer than 4 hours. Are men really going to run to the doctor immediately? Or are they going to parade around for a while? And why are these commercials always creepy (a line of young office girls waiting to sit on Smiling Santa's lap)? I love the one in which a middle-aged couple are sitting in separate bathtubs on top of some mountain. All they're going to do is hold hands and watch the sun set? Maybe they're tired from hauling bathtubs to the top of a mountain.

Ambien CR: I find myself rolling my eyes whenever I see the commercial with the green butterfly floating through people's bedrooms as the calm male voice recites "may cause drowsiness." Well, I certainly hope so! What good is a sleep medication that doesn't make you sleepy?

Paxil: This antidepressant/anti-anxiety has side effects that make me wonder why anyone would take it. Mood changes (isn't that the point, considering the patient has depression?), anxiety, panic attacks, irritability, and aggression. A side effect of an anti-anxiety drug is anxiety? Next.

Allegra D: In order to treat the runny nose of allergy season, you may have to put up with colds. If I'm still going through a box of tissues every day, it's not working.

Requip: This is a drug that treats Parkinson's. Here is a direct quote of its common side effects--

"Abdominal pain, abnormal dreaming, abnormal muscle movements, abnormal vision, amnesia, anxiety, arthritis, bronchitis, confusion, constipation, decreased muscle movements, diarrhea, difficulty breathing, dizziness, drowsiness, dry mouth, eye problems, fainting, falling, fatigue, hallucinations, headache, increased sweating, indigestion, joint pain, leg swelling, nausea, nervousness, pain, paralysis, respiratory tract infection, runny nose, sinus inflammation, skin tingling, sore throat, swelling, tremor, urinary tract infection, viral infections, vomiting, weakness."

Why don't they just say, "If you think Parkinson's is bad, wait until you try this!"

I could go on and on. Chantix, an anti-smoking drug, causes changes in mood. As if quitting smoking doesn't do that on its own? Alli, a new diet drug, causes such unpredictable gastrointestinal issues it comes with the suggestion to wear dark pants.

With all these possible side effects, I wonder why so many of us continue to visit the doctor and ask for a drug to take away whatever pain or discomfort we may be experiencing. Sounds to me like there's no guarantee that the drug won't make matters worse, but maybe that's the excitement that we desire. An adrenaline rush that rivals sky diving or whitewater or working in a lab.

Of course, the best drugs always include "may cause death."

Rust, sans Tetanus

2008-06-06T19:34:00.000-07:00

I left home a little earlier than necessary today, knowing I needed to visit a local outdoor retailer to purchase supplies for an upcoming excursion, and with full realization that I cannot visit said outdoor retailer without perusing the back wall of footwear. I admit it, I have an addiction.

Before I delve into my story, I have often wondered why a store that sells items for active, presumably healthy, outdoorsy folk has no less than 8 parking stalls reserved for handicapped drivers. And why do I find myself wishing I could park in one? My sister refuses to park closer than parking stall 15 when she accompanies me to this particular destination. Today I chose number 4. She was not with me, and could not chastise me.

I made a straight path for the rear portion of this store, glancing once at a shiny blue bicycle and thinking to myself, "Did I ride my bike at all last summer? I think so. I should do that this year." I spent a few moments comparing hiking socks, feeling the cushion and allowing myself to be baffled by how socks could cost so much. The only requirement I had been given is that they should be thick. I decided on the blue ones with "heavy cushion," since they felt the thickest. I then turned my attention to the back wall.

Past the floor displays, between the sandals and the hiking shoes, on the foot-long shelves that are placed from knee level to just above eye level, I find the brand that makes me drool. The top two shelves are occupied by black and brown pieces that resemble those on my own feet. Below them are tan, blue, and green options with laces, which tempt me. But there, occupying the lower three spaces, are new delights that stir a desire within me. They come in rust, black, or coffee--though it is the rust that draws my eye and creates a longing. I imagine myself sporting these beautiful innovations to work, to social outings, even to church with a casual khaki skirt and long-sleeved tee.

There is only one sales associate in this area, and there are two other customers when I arrive. They are obviously together, and only one of the girls seems to be interested in shopping. The shopper is explaining to the sales girl how she is insecure with the size of her feet and would rather not wear anything that exaggerates that feature. I see that the shopper is trying on sandals made my drool-inducing brand, which I admit have toes that make one's feet look larger than they actually are. As the sales girl disappears through the opening in the wall, another customer appears. "Surely," I think to myself (I use the word 'surely' in everyday conversation), "this woman will wait to make sure that I have been helped." Nope. As soon as the sales girl emerges, this new woman grabs her attention and tells her the size and style she wants. Shopper girl by that time has picked out three other items she wants retrieved. I am not acknowledged.

New woman tries on her selection, but does not want the color that this location has stocked, so leaves. Shopper girl requests another two pair, stepping in front of me as I make an attempt at assertiveness to catch the attention of the sales girl. It works well enough, as I soon find myself asking if they have my size. She tells me she has the next size up, but will have to check on the requested size. I'm sure she has a size 6, also, but I did not ask for a 6 or for the size she knows she has. I asked for my size. She comes out with shopper's new selections (by this time she has 8 boxes surrounding her, giving the impression that she is endeavoring to build a fort right there in the store), as well as two boxes for me. My heart jumps a little with the anticipation that one of those boxes would reveal the rust-colored piece of suede that I ache to wear to work today. Imagine my disappointment when I find that she has brought out black in the size too big (the one that she knew she had), as well as rust in a size two steps too small. I feel like the ugly step-sister, wishing beyond hope that I might be able to magically squeeze my foot into the glorious work of perfection that lay in front of me, taunting me as it rests among the tissue and smells of new leather. Thank you, I quietly explain to the sales girl, but these will not work.

As I turn my back on my latest yearning, I feel a twinge of guilt. Was it terrible of me to shamelessly seek a smaller, newer version of the blue leather that was carrying me to work? Don't people usually cheat when the significant ones in their life are not around, rather than taking them to meet the new object of affection? I feel a new appreciation for the support that I currently feel under my arches, the cushion that makes each step practically unnoticeable. I remind myself that this is perfection, this is the thing that I love enough to have triplets so that every day I am able to find myself comfortable regardless of the hours I have been standing at work or the miles I have trekked at youth conference or the hills I have hiked at girls' camp. These are the little workers that have made my life pleasant.

Tomorrow I will try another location. I will wear a different pair of shoes when I have this affair, to prevent the sudden onset of guilt.

Follow-Up: The other location did not have the desirable rust, but instead I went with the moss that will better prepare me for this month's adventure. And did you know that socks can have arch support? They can!

Insert Primary Song Here

2008-06-05T14:50:00.000-07:00

It occurred to me the other day that in my 27 years of living in Utah, I have never spent time at Temple Square after dark other than during the holidays. I do enjoy seeing city blocks covered with energy-consuming twinkles in an assortment of colors, struggling to maintain eyesight of my family and feeling in my fingers at the same time. But there is definitely something to be said about visiting the Salt Lake landmark during the twilight hour of summer. Without the hoards of people and the glaring pinks and blues, without all the extra props and the enchanting bells ringing from the horses attached to carriages filled with chilly passengers, the beauty of the temple stands out in the quiet evening as the late sunset of summer bathes downtown in its afterglow. I don't know how I have missed this opportunity for nearly three decades, but I am certainly glad I have experienced it now.

The curious thing about downtown Salt Lake City right now is the uncertainty. The stalwart institutions with which I have grown up are disappearing, creating an ever-changing maze of streets. Crossroads Mall, with its free Sunday parking, is now open space. The Joseph Smith Memorial Building has a new restaurant, right there on the first floor just off the elaborate lobby. I have come to expect and to find comfort in the idea that in order to dine in the JSMB, one must ride the elevator (I have yet to meet anyone daring enough to attempt the stairs) to the thrilling height of the top floor. To think about munching on a sandwich while sitting on street level makes me wonder why someone would do that, when they could have the dazzling view that accompanies the wallet-draining experience I have enjoyed in the past. But, then again, without the mall to block the view, perhaps one might be able to see more than I can imagine.

I did not have to worry about the changes, however, on my jaunt this week. I simply wandered around during my 50 cents' worth of curbside parking, taking in the simplicity of a calm summer evening. I took pictures of the venerable landmark that will not change, and I found peace in that.

Memorial Misnomer

2008-05-26T23:15:00.000-07:00

This weekend was the widely anticipated and overly celebrated Memorial Day weekend, the annual kick-off to the summer season that will be filled with camping, boating, off-roading, and other dangerous outdoor activities. My weekend was not spent enjoying travel or doing much of anything outside of the hospital. I was working. And as I embarked on the treacherous journey to work each day, I began to reflect on the holiday weekend.

Memorial Day has always been a day to visit the dead in my life. Since I was a smaller version of my witty self, the holiday has meant packing everyone into the minivan (midsize SUV now), carefully placing potted plants and cut roses in the cargo space (often accompanied by my sister, who "kept things steady," which I suspected meant staring at the passengers of other cars and discomforting them to varying degrees), and driving to a minimum of five cemeteries in order to stand around a rectangular rock and say hello to an engraved name. I still cherish this opportunity to see family members' names written above the dates that framed their lives, as though three simple lines are sufficient to summarize a lifetime of experience. I enjoy seeing the ways in which other families remember their loved ones, whether it includes a family picnic or a single potted mum carried by the aging widow. Of course, there is always the obstacle course created on the cemetery roads. Regardless of how many signs clearly direct visitors to "Park Right, Drive Left," or guide drivers "Left Only," there is invariably one illiterate or desperately bereaved person who parks left or turns right, thereby creating pandemonium. I have sometimes shot them an unspoken invitation to join their loved one beneath the rectangular rock. I may not be able to engrave their name, but I have a Sharpie.

The tradition that my family has never practiced with any regularity is the Memorial Day Barbecue. Perhaps it is because I did not grow up with the quintessential Cook Off, but I do not understand the association of remembering the dead of our own species with cooking the dead of another species. At what point did people think to themselves, "Uncle Hank, I miss you so much I could eat a brisket!" I think generally the barbecue crowd is not the same as the cemetery crowd. At some point in our history, a schism has torn the two groups apart, who have followed separate celebratory paths.

The unifying theme of Memorial Day is found on the highway. Here in Utah, I-15 becomes a 3-day gushing artery of traffic, the aorta of holiday travel that takes virtually all life in the area and shoots it to its final destination. Whether drivers are heading out of town or around town, to feasts or memorials, they will speed along the on-ramp and never look back. Which is the problem. A drive to work that should take me 30 to 40 minutes took 90 on Friday, thanks to the unseemly traffic snaking through Lehi in an attempt to get an early run at the weekend of fun.

ATV accidents, gunshot wounds, traffic accidents, motorcycle accidents, and falls seem to be the weekend specials on the Emergency Department's menu. As I stand in the hall of the trauma bay, waiting to hear how much blood I need to prepare for this particular hero, I find myself grateful for the tradition that my family has observed following the great Memorial Day Schism. As a rule, cemeteries do not generate accidents, except for the occasional altercation over flower placement or parking procurement. I will continue to visit my deceased relatives on this Day of Memory, while I try to maintain civility when surrounded by drivers who are convinced that summer will not properly commence without a minimum of 30 helmetless hours on an atv anywhere south of Fillmore. Welcome, Summer. May we all survive your annual stay.

There you go, Chriss. Hope you enjoy my reference to you (see paragraph 2, lines 4 thru 6)

Mmmmmm....Cheese!

2008-04-25T19:42:00.001-07:00

Every now and again, when I get surprised or excited, I do this thing with my hands. I put them in front of my shoulders, palms forward, fingers curled down, and they shake bilaterally by about an inch each direction. You may recognize this move from Wallace and Gromit. Most often this is done when I am faced with surprise and excitement together, like receiving a panini grill for Christmas or finding swiss cheese samples in the deli. Which is a fitting situation, since I also think to myself, "Cheese, Gromit!"

Isn't it interesting that mold can be so wonderful? So delectable? That it can give a person so much joy they might possibly believe they have found the meaning of life? I have a friend who is allergic to milk and so cannot know the bliss of great nachos or divine pizza or heavenly cheese biscuits, a tragedy that nearly brings me to tears as I enjoy my chicken smothered in monterey. I'm a cheddar or swiss kind of girl, being perfectly happy to snack on little cubes perched nicely on the end of frilly toothpicks. There is one kind of cheese, however, that I generally avoid. It is not stringy when melted, but more gooey. It is always contained in some form of snug wrapper, not the loose ziploc wrapper from Tillamook or Cache Valley. It is American cheese, the orphan cheese of the world.

I am alright with this anomaly being in the middle of my grilled cheese sandwich, if cheddar is not available. I am fine with burgers that are topped with the perfectly square processed yellow, when swiss is not an option. What makes me nervous about American cheese is the fact that it is not universally American. A few years ago, I was at a restaurant in British Columbia and decided to try a burger with the exotic "Canadian cheese." Thinking I was about to be delighted with the adventure of trying a new victual, I was more than a little disappointed to discover that Canadian cheese is, in fact, American. As I sat in the foreign eatery, consuming my burger with little gusto, I felt like a fraud. Was the cheese I had grown up knowing to be American, a symbol of freedom and capitalism, really a rip-off of something created by our northern neighbors? Or did the Canadians steal it from us? By what name is it known in other countries?

These burning questions have yet to be answered. Despite hours of online research (at least a good two hours over the past five years), I've got nothing. I have been unable to discern the origins of processed cheese, and therefore the true identity of Kraft singles. I recently found out that in Mexico it is simply called "yellow cheese," to distinguish it from "white cheese," another processed cheese that is closer to resembling plastic when melted (to experience the flavor and texture, visit Senor Tequila's north of Kansas City). The lack of information surrounding this mystery has left me with an aversion to American/Canadian cheese.

Maybe I should start a movement to bring attention to this. Someone needs to find out which country is blatantly claiming a cheese that doesn't belong to them. Who's with me?

Weirdo People

2008-04-23T17:50:00.000-07:00

Today was the last day of class for Spring 08. This has been my first semester back to school after taking a break following my last degree. You would think that being in college for this long would make me a doctor or lawyer or give me some other equally impressive graduate degree. But, no, this is a bachelor's degree I'm working on. Oh how the mighty fall. And then take forever to graduate.

As I sat in class this week, I began to really see the people around me. I can't help but notice all the guys who look like they stepped out of a Hollister poster (the TA seriously wears "Hollister" across his chest EVERY DAY). When did pretty boys take over? Where are the guys in regular jeans and old t-shirts, with ball caps to hide the fact that they haven't showered? There is the guy on the third row with a perpetual tan, curly blonde hair, and perfectly snug shirt; and I wonder how a surfer ended up in midwinter Utah. How often does he cut his hair? Is it naturally curly? Is it naturally blonde? Why does his belt look like a seatbelt? Is he afraid of falling out of his seat, or out of his pants? There are the soccer girls who sit behind me and put their feet on my chair while complaining about how tired they are since they just woke up. It's 12:30. Welcome to adulthood (sort of). There is the girl in front of me who came 30 minutes late. She is in white sweat pants and apparently wants to avoid showing off her panty-line, because she is wearing a thong. A red one, telling me hello from above her rolled-down waist. I get to stare at that? Thanks. Really. My favorite was the several freshman who sat behind me and talked about how excited they were to get their fake id cards. I had forgotten that fake id's were around. Mine has been real for so long I've had two styles since I turned 21.

Walking around campus is another form of amusement. The girls who wear heels with their winter parkas when it's snowing are upstaged only by the girls whose heels are attached to fur-trimmed boots and whose coats don't even come to their waist. Seeing college students wheeling around on razor scooters makes me roll my eyes as I secretly laugh at the fact that I'm glad I'm not that brand of geek. I remember during my own freshman year a friend expressing his annoyance with the fact that people walked around with cell phones attached to their heads. The concentration of those people has increased exponentially, and I think of that friend whenever I find myself in the middle of a herd in which I'm the only one with both hands free. I am tempted to call him.

College has changed a lot since I was a lost and confused freshman. Maybe it's the school in particular (I have not seen any cowboys at the U, a group I became quite used to seeing at USU), but I feel I'm now supposed to declare not only my major but also my willingness to follow the multitude. I am a fish swimming upstream, occasionally exchanging pleasantries but mostly thinking to myself, "Wow, there are a bunch of weirdos here. I hope it's not contagious." As I fight the crowd to find my own personal achievement, I discover how much I have changed. And I can't wait to be done with this new college scene.

Swedish Instructions

2008-04-20T02:44:00.000-07:00

Has anyone paid attention to the instructions that come with IKEA furniture? I appreciate that they want to make the directions universal, and so present everything in pictures. Saves me from spending time flipping through eighteen languages before realizing that English is on the back and upside down. And the pictures are not all that hard to follow.

My only complaint with the IKEA handbook is that I get sidetracked. Before starting, there is the full page that shows the simple cartoon man lifting the box with help from his curly-haired friend, gathering all the correct tools (though it does not specify if I need a Phillips 1 or 2 screwdriver), and happily commencing on his productive journey to assembling furniture that is friendly to small living spaces like my bedroom.

However, I find myself wondering why the man puts both his arms behind his back when the corner of the box is broken. Alright, don't open it. But he looks like he's either going to cry or throw a tantrum. Alternatively, if the box is in perfect condition, it apparently requires only one arm to manage. On that side of the page, the smiling man looks like he is proposing to his unassembled footstool, on his knees with one arm outstretched. When the outlined man needs help, he turns his frown upside down and calls the handy IKEA helpline from the phone that conveniently attaches directly to the IKEA store. I am left looking through my own box for that helpful phone, and become disappointed that I must not have purchased the elite line with the IKEA phone.

Once I gather my own tools (including both sizes of Phillips screwdriver, just in case), I am able to turn to page 2 and begin the exciting venture of assembling furniture direct from Sweden. That's when I am hit with disappointment. Apparently the friendly comic-like man is only the bell boy of IKEA, preparing you for the task. The man who guides you through the actual assembly is an expressionless man with clothes and hair. He looks like his eyes are closed, which makes me feel inferior that I require my own eyes to be open in order to complete my project without the need for a tetanus shot.

I have successfully assembled IKEA furniture, and I'm sure my future holds the opportunity to enjoy the experience again. Next time, however, I will be prepared. I will not grow attached to the friendly man on page one, and I will treat the man on pages two through five with civility. I just hope I find that package with the special phone.

This one is for Carly!

Quiet Time

2008-04-15T22:44:00.000-07:00

I have been told by five people in the past two days that I seem quiet. At first this caught me off guard. Am I usually loud? Does my quietness contrast sharply with what they expect from me? Am I sending the message that I am displeased with these people? Perhaps more importantly, do I know why I have been quiet?

We live in a noisy society. Industry and technology have made it so that we are constantly bombarded with the sounds of the world. And I have come to realize that sometimes a day or two of quiet reflection is not only beneficial, but might even be necessary. Does a person need to be constantly talking, humming, whistling, or otherwise creating sound in order to be perceived as happy? Or have I simply been adding so much to the unnecessary noise that my silence is louder?

I apologize to those who have come to my blog to find humor. Today you will not. Today I want to reassure those five people, as well as anyone else in whom I may have raised alarm, that I am fine. I am exhausted from being stressed, working late, having too much to do in too little time for school and church, having too little of a social life, and trying to hide how heartbroken and alone I feel. Old ghosts have reappeared, and I am having a hard time forging a future.

My mother used to listen to Simon and Garfunkel, and I always wondered about the sound of silence. Apparently I may not be able to hear it, but I am perfectly capable of making it. Worry not, I will return to needless noise before long. Until then, feel free to make enough for both of us.

Lopsided

2008-04-14T14:44:00.001-07:00

Generally speaking, I'm a fan of symmetry. I like to feel there is a sense of order in the universe. A give-and-take that allows the right side to reflect the left. A balance that suggests to me an element of justice that recognizes all contributions. An equality that grants security and opportunity. Symmetry gives me a peace from knowing that all things have their place and purpose, working together.

Apparently my pants did not get the memo. I went shopping a few weeks ago, since so many of my clothes no longer fit just right--in the self-esteem boost kind of a way. During my excursion, I purchased a pair of cargos for my summer adventures. I decided to wear them today, since the 80 degrees that register on my car's thermostat tell me it's an early summer. As I left my house for my daily northward drive, I dropped my Burt's Bees lip balm in my right pocket, and my cell phone in the left. That's when I realized that my phone was riding a little low--just above my kneecap. What the...?!?

Yep, asymmetry. While my left side has a bottomless pit, my right pocket ends just below the opening. This leaves me with two options: 1) look like I'm reaching down my pants to scratch my thigh while I pray that my phone will continue ringing long enough to guide me to its rescue from the dark abyss of my pants, or 2) survive the day with a little silver rectangle poking out from my hip, catching the light and calling attention to what is one of my three least flattering assets. Why on earth would a woman need a pocket deep enough for a swordfish to be fully concealed, while keeping the other side just big enough to carry some touch-up lipstick? I won't even mention the two pockets on the outside of the seam pockets, since I may have to resort to utilizing these saving graces and would not want to be forced to retract a comment made about their lack of function.

I have made my decision for today. If you see me, please be polite and avoid being drawn to the light coming from my right hip.

I would like to acknowledge Emily, for telling me this topic would fit well on this venue. Give credit where credit is due!

Save the Love Buzz

2008-04-12T14:34:00.000-07:00

I'm not really a bug person. Creepy crawly things that make me itch, critters that can fly up my nose, and things that spread disease while sucking your blood or using your body as a home... these are not a few of my favorite things. But I have become aware of a particular insect that is crucial to human survival, though its numbers are dwindling. So today I step up on my soap box and give a resounding cry:

HELP SAVE THE HONEY BEES!!!

This is my new cause. I still think cancer needs a cure, AIDS needs to be eradicated, Darfur should be saved, and I maintain my stand on other, more political, movements. But bees are important to everyone, so I think everyone should do their part.

Honey bees are magnificent little creatures. Leaving their hive to find food that can feed more than just themselves, they fly to 100 flowers per pollination trip. During their journey, they spread the pollen for over 100 plants, including some that rely entirely on these little striped ambassadors. For instance, almonds are pollinated only by honey bees. Each year, half of all American honey bee colonies are sent to California to pollinate 80% of the world's almond crop. Other foods like strawberries, raspberries, peanuts, pears... bees spread their love buzz to all of them.

Unfortunately, due to chemicals and disease and other unknown factors, honey bee colonies are suffering. Entire colonies will leave the hive and never return, just go off and die. The bees' immune system is failing as they become increasingly susceptible to infections. One study has even suggested that cell phone signals have interfered with the bees' navigational abilities, leaving them stranded outside the hive. Whatever the reason for Colony Collapse Syndrome, honey bees are disappearing all over the world. Einstein hypothesised that without the honey bee, human civilization would only last four years.

I like honey. I like using the phrases "Queen Bee," "None of your beeswax," and "Busy as a bee." I will be planting bee-friendly plants in our garden this year. And when we have picnics, I will not angrily swat at my new friends. I will gently tell them, "My chicken does not need to be pollinated, thank you. But thank you for the honey in my dip." I hope you all will join me in this new cause. There is a nice website, http://www.helpthehoneybees.com/, that has information and ways to help.

I'll step off my soap box now. I don't know how long it can support me, and I'm afraid of heights.

Holy Cow!

2008-04-11T14:55:00.001-07:00

I don't really know what to say about this. I met this new friend as I pulled into work today. It is a lifesize recreation of a hereford in the back of a pick-up. After I finished laughing, it made me want some barbecue.

Pearls of Wisdom from the Second Grade

2008-04-09T21:01:00.000-07:00

I am a product of the 80's. I wore red gingham overalls to school, put my hair in pigtails, and was oh-so proud of my Rainbow Brite tennis shoes with velcro straps that kept the shoes on my feet, while also providing a quick and easy escape into the sandbox. My favorite part of going to Hardee's was the big pool of 3-inch plastic balls covered with a concoction of snot, spit, pee, and mystery germs. I remember the days when the most kid-friendly TV shows were Sesame Street and Reading Rainbow, before Elmo had his own program and before Barney instilled society with a song that is used to torture war criminals. I did not rollerblade, but had plastic rollerskates that fit over my previously-mentioned Rainbow Brite tennis shoes. I played with Cabbage Patch Kids, My Little Pony, and Glo-Worm. I envied the girl who lived just behind me in the white house--she had a Big Wheel and a Barbie mansion with elevator.

School days of the 80's were probably not all that different from today. Take away those stupid shoes with wheels, the cell phones, the video games, and the Baby Einstein that has parents convinced their child is either a prodigy or a failure, and you are left with the same teachers trying to show a bunch of 5-year-olds how to write their name and recite their phone number. Stranger Danger may have a new flair with the threat of the internet, but we are still told to run away. And Nancy Reagan's "Just Say No" is as applicable today as it was when I was 8.

What has changed since the 80's are the people who wore the Rainbow Brite tennis shoes and pigtails. We are now adults, the Millenial Generation, with grown-up decisions and issues. Imagine for a moment what fun it would be to return to second grade, circa 1989, and spend the afternoon immersed in the thoughts of a seven-year-old. I did that very thing just a few days ago. While looking for a baby photo of myself, I instead found a treasure of school journals and writing projects that my mother had apparently thought important enough to save for two decades. I don't think she looked very closely at them.

There are four journals in my childhood scrapbook, neatly tucked behind certificates for being a "G-R-R-EAT Student." They are a perfect snapshot of time, revealing what parts of my life were exciting enough to share with Mrs. Hansen. On April 17, 1989, I reported that "Laura, Camille, Angela, and Amber have dumped me. Now my only friends are Laura, Amera, Becky, Amy, Jamie, and Mark." Apparently I liked having an even 10 friends, with the token boy who did not have cooties. In September of 1988, my mother is horrified to find that I wrote, "Mom told me to not believe anything Chrissy says. She always lies." Always? I mean, yes, my sister is notorious for creating her own reality, but I wouldn't say she always lies. When Thanksgiving was nearing, I expressed my love for family and turkey, then made a connection between my two loves by saying, "My oldest sister is a turkey. But I will not eat her. Maybe I will." Was I trying to create mystery? I could go on, telling about how "Both my grandpas are dead. But I don't care." Or how "I've been talented all my life." This was my lesson in the value of keeping a journal. You have to keep track of what friends abandon you and who you can trust. Plus the pictures are truly magnificent.

Let me end with a letter I wrote to my mother for Mother's Day, 1989. "Dear Lynda. I love you very much indeed. Thank you for not doing drugs. Good bye. Love, Jenny Fugal."

Thank you, everyone, for not doing drugs. Love, Jenny Fugal.

No Regrets, Just Lessons Learned

2008-04-04T21:53:00.000-07:00

I have spent the past several days thinking about the direction my life has taken since April 2004. I have put all my effort into creating a new future, abandoning past experiences and severing connections with people acquainted with the past. But this week I have discovered that I have approached my reformation the wrong way. Those experiences have played a crucial role in developing who I am, and by leaving them completely in the past I ignore my current identity.

While those moments were not my finest, and while I do not enjoy thinking about the details, I recognize that they have given me a strength I would not have found without them. The heartache, the mistakes, and the pain are a permanent part of my history, teaching me life's most painfully sweet lessons.

My recent trials sparked this retrospective realization. There is a dull and empty pain inside right now, and I find myself grasping for hope for a better future. By embracing the past, I have been able to look forward and remind myself that I have overcome pain more bitter, mistakes more lasting. By rejoicing in my progress, I allow myself to believe that I will continue to develop and change. And I will no longer harbor regrets.

First Anniversary

2008-03-31T14:38:00.000-07:00

Today marks one full year with my baby. Having grown up as a princess, I had never purchased a car, so making the decision and then signing the paper was one of the most frightening things I've done so far. So traumatizing, in fact, that I ended up in a meltdown on my drive from the dealer to work. I called my dad in tears, and when he asked what was wrong, my choked reply was, "I bought a car!" He enjoys teasing me with that one.

Since that momentous day, I have fallen in love. The soft, slightly oily folds of the leather...the comforting glow of the navigation system...the commercial-free joy of satellite radio...the warmth of the sun shining down through the sunroof I so desired...the completely smooth transitions between gears...the fun I have watching the world from the rear bumper's point of view...the power I feel when all those horses start a-runnin'. It is a transcendent experience every time I get in the driver seat and push the soft orange light that says "On."

More than the physical wonder of such a magnificent automobile, I feel a glory from the independence granted by my investment. It is the only thing I have right now that is mine, all mine. It is my haven, my safe place where I can retreat and no one can stop me. When the world comes crashing down, as it has been lately, a beautiful grey sedan is there, saying, "Let's go for a drive. Leave it all behind and come with me." As I said, I'm in love.

So, until I find a man who can fill me with a greater sense of joy, devotion, and excitement, who can keep me safe while allowing me to let loose, who will be there when I need him but is secure when I'm away, and who can warm my rear while quietly telling me the roads are icy, I will remain hopelessly smitten with my car. And woe be unto the person who tries to make me feel guilty about it.

UFOs Need a Navigation System

2008-03-30T15:49:00.000-07:00

I was checking my email today, and the first story on the AOL news feed was a UFO sighting. Apparently, a UFO got tangled in some power lines last May and a guy took a picture. He must have thought that photos age like wine, because he waited until now to post said picture on Craigslist. Suddenly, everyone remembered seeing the object, which looks to me like a giant apple slicer, but before anyone could verify the photo, the guy disappeared. There's now an investigation into what the thing could have been. My question is, why is some detective getting paid to investigate this? Wouldn't a call to the power company give some details? I doubt the thing got out of the lines on its own. With all these people saying they saw it sitting up there like a bird, someone must have seen it being taken away. Where is it?

Here's what I really don't get. Aliens can travel how many millions of light years to get to Earth, can avoid all those meteors and space stations and satellites, can apparently stay pretty well-hidden from humans--but it's the power lines that get them? I know they're probably going pretty fast, but really. As you're speeding toward terra firma, is that really the best time to take your eyes away from your driving? Or does their auto pilot need to be recalibrated? And with all their technology, why couldn't they get their aircraft out of the power lines before people saw it?

If this is evidence of intelligent life, I think I'll stick to Earthlings. They have OnStar.

La Orange Flambe

2008-03-29T10:41:00.000-07:00

So there is this ball of orange fur that makes me happier than anything else can. His name is Jafar, and he is my sister's cat. He is persian, and therefore his face is slightly concave. He always looks angry, but never really is anything other than loving. This is not your normal cat. He does not avoid you, but comes to you when you stretch out your hand. He follows the dog into the kitchen, knowing treats will soon be administered. Because he has virtually no nose, he sneezes when he purrs. And his meow is more like a squeak. He is tidy, beautiful, and my favorite animal in the world. Maybe I'm a little biased, since his fur looks very much like my hair.

The thing that I love most about La Orange is his affinity for warmth. He will sleep on a heating pad in the middle of August. He will lay in any spot of sun. He will trap himself between the door and the heating vent if the heater is on. My sister tells me he has a tendency to get into the shower with her. Between the shower curtain and liner, he will sit on the edge of the tub and let the water warm him, while he looks up at you and purrs. Then sneezes. Understandably, this habit disturbs my sister. But it's too funny to stop.

The thing that draws Jafar's attention more than anything else is fire. My sister has not had a fireplace for the past five years. I call this neglect. I, however, do have a fireplace. This is my trump card. My sister and her husband have taken the dog on a road trip to Sante Fe this weekend, so I have the cat. I have no nieces or nephews, but I have Jafar to take care of in their absence. At this moment, he has been laying in front of the fire for about two hours. He looks at his reflection in the glass, mesmerized by his own beauty. He lays on the rug I have placed on the tile in front of the fireplace. He stretches out with his belly toward the fire. I worry about him getting too close, for I am sure one of these days he will combust. I think my sister will never be able to live in a house with a real (not gas) fireplace, because Jafar would probably climb into the fire. Then he would be a ball of flames running through the house. But gas fireplaces are safe for cats, apparently. I think this is why Jafar loves me. I have fire.

So as I sit here having my lunch, thinking of all I need to do, I can't help but sit next to the cat who tempts fate. He is snoring a little, but that lets me know he is not grilled. Not yet. I am dying of the heat, but it is a small sacrifice for the happiness of my little package of orange joy.

Parking Lot Conundrum

2008-03-28T16:32:00.000-07:00

It was that lovely time of the afternoon I like to call "Impending Doom." I pulled into the parking lot of the monstrosity where I work, heading for the general area where I usually park. West of the Patient Tower, facing west if possible. I'm nearly two hours early, since class got out early and I'm skipping lunch, so I'm looking forward to some time spent either getting caught up on studying or getting caught up on sleep. I'm contemplating this big decision, being one that will affect not only my own life through the course of the next 11 hours, but the lives of the three women who will have to deal with me for 8 of those 11 hours. I have almost decided that there is enough time to both study and nap, when I find myself behind a Buick being driven by a white-haired female octogenarian. She is stopped. Fully stopped, with no indication of moving in the two hours between now and the time I'm expected in the basement.

Now, I'm used to people slowing and even stopping at this junction. There is no stop sign, but the entrance road comes to a T, where you can turn right to the Heart and Lung Center or turn left to the Patient Tower and Women's Center. There are signs on the buildings, which are about 100 feet in front of you. There are also banners on the light poles, gently guiding you to the best lot in which to leave your car while you venture inside. This is a lot of information to process quickly, especially for a white-haired female octogenarian in a Buick. And, like I said, there is no stop sign, which creates the opportunity for further confusion. And now there is a Sentra behind me, with someone I suspect is also headed to work and is anxious for the Buick to decide. Right or Left? Disease or Birth? Valet or Self Park?

I can see the Sentra is getting impatient, and I myself am becoming disoriented. Had I decided to study or sleep? Am I going to be forced to make this decision again? Why isn't this Buick moving? And I find myself ready to give the white-haired female octogenarian in the Buick a gentle tap of the horn. After all, she may not realize she is holding up two cars with healthcare workers who are ready to save lives--if they don't kill her first. So here I come to another decision: to honk or to be silent.

Patience is a virtue. I do not honk, and the white-haired female octogenarian in the Buick decides to turn right, to visit the Heart and Lung Center and allow me and the Sentra behind me to continue our journey to the Patient Tower. As I find my west-facing parking spot, I feel a sense of humanity. I just treated a patient or visitor with patience and caring. She was obviously confused, possibly scared or sorrowful, and I did not push her out of the way. I remember the first time I came to this huge campus, with all these buildings that look the same. I was confused and a little lost, and I had a map! I can only imagine what it must be like for someone to visit this hospital in a time of uncertainty, and be met with the maze of parking lot surrounding us and the network of halls that wait for them inside.

I begin my studying, and I realize that I have made a good decision today. I pat my horn gently, and reassure it, "Don't worry, there will be others."

The 21st Century already?

2008-03-28T16:20:00.000-07:00

Because of bizarrely boring afternoons in the blood bank, I have decided to bound onto the blog bandwagon. Nice alliteration, eh? I think the people at work are trying to give me cancer from being on the computer more than necessary, since they have convinced me to join "a social utility network" (utility my ---! it's an addiction, that's what it is!) and now I have a burning desire to write down my most random of thoughts. So here I go, into the wide unknown world of blogging. By the way, I remember watching Channel 1 in seventh grade and seeing Anderson Cooper report on the new information superhighway. Seemed stupid and far-fetched at the time. I think it's more like a rural road winding through farmlands with no street signs. I get lost easily here, or drive my car into a ditch.