Women!

I'm feeling really annoyed with certain members of my sex.

1. Women who are freaking out over New Moon the movie, and the Twilight series in general. Ok, I admit I've read all the books. I thought the first one was good, and that the fourth one was decent in the way all the loose ends were tied up. There are reasons why these books are bestsellers; not everyone who's read them is an idiot, ok? But here's the thing. This series is about an obsessive relationship, so it's most appealing to people who have obsessive personalities. I just didn't realize there were so many women like that. I find it really disturbing. I find it particularly disturbing to see women who are supposedly in a healthy marital relationship and should know better obsessing over these books/movies. Obsession is not healthy, ladies. It's not true love. Obsession blinds you to to things like, oh, for example, your lover is a controlling, blood-sucking monster and you're being a jerk to all the people around you because of your attachment to him. Obsession warps your ability to see things clearly, and that is a bad thing. Stop investing yourselves in unhealthy, obsessive fantasies. Stop shelling out money to support a movie industry that already churns out increasingly worse rom-coms. And PLEASE stop the squealing.


2. Women at BYU who are freaking out over BYU's recent decision to close the Women's Research Institute. See this article, "BYU students rally to champion women's research" from the Salt Lake Tribune. This quote from Sara Vranes made me laugh:
   

   It is significant, if only in a nominal way, that the only space at BYU explicitly dedicated to disarming the hurtful effects of silencing women will now be, beyond argument, silenced.

   
   First of all, has this person heard of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints? It's really into this charity thing, getting people to recognize their limitless divine worth, and highlighting the importance of each gender in the Plan of Salvation. Every part of the Church, including BYU, is prepared to "disarm the hurtful effects of silencing women"—or any other group that deserves to be heard (which would be any group that believes in peaceful discourse, regardless of differences in belief or opinion). The presence or absence of this institute is irrelevant to the Church's viewpoint towards women, which has always been and will always be one of great care and respect.
   
   My second thought is, it's strange how the people who fight for equal rights seem to be the last ones to realize that winning the fight means being treated like everyone else. You're not special anymore. Whatever hurts and indignities your group has suffered are over with, they're history. You are not entitled to extra money and attention just because of something you were born to. I wonder how long Sara Vranes will feel personally victimized by silencing she has never had to endure. I went to BYU. I never interacted with the WRI and hadn't even heard of it until I read about this, actually. I never felt like BYU, the administration running it, or any person I met there presented any barriers whatsoever to my happiness or success because I was a woman. The fight is won, ladies. If we still want money and attention, why don't we do something that merits it, huh?

Fortunately, the members of these two groups do not represent a significant number, if any, of my closest girlfriends, so I plan to completely enjoy our Ladies' Night Out tomorrow!

When the truth hurts, should it be uttered?

THE TRUTH LIVES!

I tend to think that the truth should be told more often. Things like, people should know if they're dating a jerk; people who lie to you or to themselves should be told to cut it out; people should hear that their inconsiderate, rude behavior is unacceptable; and people should be warned if they're about to make the stupidest decisions of their lives. What stops me? Lots of things:

• I might say it rudely. Usually when I most want to point out truth, I'm feeling very frustrated by the apparent blindness of the person involved. Would it be right to share it, even if I might be angry?


• I might not have the place to tell someone the truth. Either because it would be hypocritical of me or because I'm not really involved as a parent or other authority-type figure. But truth is truth, no matter what the source, right?


• I might not be right. Maybe what I think is true in the situation is not quite true—doesn't take into consideration facts that I'm not aware of or is biased by my own experience. Bias is inevitable, though, and all human perception is limited. Surely that doesn't invalidate all insight.


• They might not be able to handle the truth. Sometimes I get the feeling that a person is not ready to face up to it, like this is just something they'll have to learn sometime later down the road. Then I start worrying about whether there's actually going to be someone standing there, ready to share this truth, once the person is finally ready to hear it. What if nobody's there?


• They are not listening and wouldn't hear truth even if I said it. Yes, there are plenty of folks like this. Sometimes, though, words have a way of weaseling their way into the stubbornest of minds. Case in point, I still remember several things my Mom taught me when I was feeling my moodiest and most rebellious. I scowled at the time, but the words stuck. I thought about them for a long time and had to conclude, if sometimes begrudgingly, that they were true. Who knows what will stick and what won't? Should I deny someone the opportunity to learn and grow?


• The time and place might not be appropriate. It wouldn't be right to embarrass someone—but then again, what if they've just been very rude? What if they're embarrassing themselves already? Wouldn't it be a form of true friendship to point out truth?

This has been my quandary off and on for several months. It's not like I think I'm the receptacle of all truth or anything; I just think that we all see times when we could speak up and point out things, especially things that are patently obvious to the sensible and considerate but to which other people seem to be becoming increasingly blind. When do you speak up? When do you hold your tongue? Obviously it's best to be as loving and good-intentioned as possible, but sometimes truth has to be served without butter or honey. Sometimes truth hurts. How do you decide when to dish it out?

Comfort Movie

And I said, "What about Breakfast at Tiffany's?"
She said, "I think I remember that film,
and as I recall, I think we both kinda liked it."
And I said, "Well, that's one thing we've got."

Deep Blue Something, "Breakfast at Tiffany's"

Something about the slow advance of autumn and winter makes me want to see this movie over and over again. For some reason it strikes all the right chords in me. I guess it's mostly because of Sandra Bullock's character, Lucy; I feel a real kinship with her. Unlike the heroines in most of the rom-coms of the last few years, Lucy is smart, goofy (but not in a stupid or ditzy way), and most importantly, she's genuinely kind and interested in doing the right thing. So I actually care what happens to her. It's not a "real" story, and it's not realistic in every detail, but the characters are real and the feelings are real. So yeah, when I feel dreary or lonely, this is my comfort flick.

Do you have a movie that you watch just to feel comforted or relaxed? Maybe it's music or something else for you instead of a movie. What's your comfort media?

The Single Life

I wander through the still of night,
When solitude is everywhere—
Alone beneath the starry light,
And yet I know that God is there.

Theodore E. Curtis, "Come unto Him"

I've recently spent several days helping a friend—a single mother, a year or two younger than me—as she recovered from surgery. This friend's life is very difficult and hectic, even when she's feeling well, and her two-year-old is definitely an independent spirit. I was glad to help out so she could rest, but I was surprised how hard it was for me and how tired I felt afterward.

In the aftermath, I've caught the flu or something. It hasn't been very bad. Actually . . . I'm almost enjoying it. Weird, huh? But I'm really enjoying how, without a pang of guilt, I can pamper myself as much as I want. As I make myself some soup or put on a movie or mix up a pitcher of orange juice, I think, "Isn't it nice that I don't have to drive a kid anywhere or take care of a toddler who needs care no matter how mama feels? Isn't it nice that I work from home anyway, so I can stay in bed all day like this? Isn't it nice that I don't have to take care of anyone else but ME?" Yes, it is nice. It's exceedingly nice.

Nope, I don't have a husband to bring me soup and orange juice, worriedly caress my fevered brow, or other things I sometimes imagine. But I also don't have a husband who has to leave me for work every day anyway, and I don't have to feel guilt or resentment over a husband who doesn't nurse me the way I hoped to be nursed. I don't have roommates to rush to the store and buy medicine if I need it, but I also don't have roommates who make noise at all hours of the night or germophobically quarantine me to my small area of the apartment. It's a comfort to know that I have family and friends nearby to help me if I need it, but it's also nice to be sick without worrying about spreading germs or being in other people's way.

Like anyone else, I'd love it if someone stopped by to see how I was doing or brought me chicken noodle soup, but I've learned that people (including myself) don't really think about what sick people might like until they're sick themselves, so it doesn't bother me when no one does anything special. I'm glad to have the means and the know-how to do for myself. This is what my time in this rather selfish time of life has taught me: everyone is selfish most of the time. Most of the time, everyone is thinking about themselves, their lives, what they're doing or saying. Knowing that makes me glad to be single, because I have a valid excuse for at least some of that selfishness.

So here I am, in my quiet, peaceful place, resting on the couch among blankets and soft pillows, with a movie playing and dinner and water close at hand. Flu or not, life is good.

Waiting

I don't know how much of my life I spend waiting for things, but it's probably a shockingly significant amount. I've been waiting for this move to finally be over, to finally be settled in my new place, waiting for movement in a relationship, waiting for a bit of free time to dote on my unearthed dollhouse. And I've been waiting for this stuff to happen so I could write about it.

Well, let's put an end to waiting, shall we?

Yes, I found an apartment here in my hometown, not too far from the family home, and right now about 98% of my stuff resides therein. The rest of it is scattered here and there around the old house, for me to retrieve during future visits. It's proving hard to totally leave this place, mostly because I don't really want to. It turns out I love being close to home. I'm loving it more now that I have my own space to retreat to. I love that I don't have to say long goodbyes to my family anymore; I love knowing I can drop by and see them whenever I've a mind to. I wonder why on earth I put it off as long as I did. Why did I linger so long in Utah? What was I waiting for?

Oddly enough, it was when I went back to Utah on vacation last week that I realized just how settled I've become in New Mexico. I realized that I finally do have my own niche here, which is something I'd hoped for. Thus it was that almost as soon as I got to Utah I wanted nothing more than to go back home and live this wonderful life I've found here. I took pleasure from visits with family and friends, but part of me was just waiting to go home again.

Of course, reality tends to intrude at rose-colored-glasses moments like this. I came home and rediscovered that yes, it's a great life, but there are a few unsettled bits at the moment. To love life, I have to appreciate that there are ups and downs to it. The biggest down right now involves waiting. And waiting. Waiting for someone to decide what he wants and make it a priority, or for my feelings to ebb away and follow a new direction. I'm more patient than I used to be, but I still don't like how helpless I feel waiting for something that's out of my hands.

Why wait? Today I'm going to do. I'm going to smile, get some boxes unpacked, and enjoy dinner with my family. I might have to wait on other things, but I don't have to wait to enjoy life.

Contemplating a Lake Activity

My legs
in the lake
are fine, I can take
the shimmering pale,
the wavery line.

Somehow,
above,
when I stand in my suit,
I'm nothing but pale,
out of shape, and hirsute.

Slogging Along

I'm feeling bugged. Latest peeves?

People on Facebook who make their status a daily update of their wedding-day countdown.
People who turn mean and spiteful when other people break up with them.
People who only go to church when it's their turn to teach the lesson or do this or that assignment.
People whose opinion of me matters so much to me that, try as I might, I can't make myself act remotely normal around them.
People who see other people floundering and sit and watch, critiquing, instead of getting up and helping.
People who are perky in the mornings.

I guess another, background, general irritation is the housing situation. I haven't quite hit just the right combination of Motivation to Apartment Hunt + Time in the Day + Availability of Helpers to launch a successful move-out. And if I think about it, I don't actually own a bed. A bed would be important. Wanting to move out and not having done it yet bugs me.

I realize that sometimes I'm just lazy, end of story. That bugs me too.

Update Since This Article Has Been Sitting in Drafts: Might've found a place! More news to come.

Caring for Your Introvert

I came across this and had to share it. So freaking true.

Seeing with New Eyes

Ever had an epiphany, a thought, or even something more mundane, like a random comment someone makes, that changes the way you see the time ahead of you? I had a couple experiences like that recently.

The first was when I talked on the phone to my old boss, who said he'd like to have me back again. At that point I'd spent about four months unemployed and looking for a job. I'd been hoping to get my old job back, but hope stretches pretty thin over weeks and weeks, especially when the end is not in sight. Before this conversation with my boss, the week ahead of me loomed onward, empty of much to do or to look forward to; one more length of a span so long that traversing another week of it could scarcely be called progress. But suddenly, after talking to my boss and setting a start date for the very next Monday, this same week transformed into a precious last few days of freedom. The same morning sleep-ins and unscheduled hours that I had considered with weary resignation suddenly became beautiful things, and suddenly I was anxious that this valuable free time should not be wasted. In the last week before I started back at work, I made myself busier than I had been for several weeks previously. So yeah, I probably should re-evaluate my motivational paradigm, but more than that I was struck by how differently I perceived that last week, and by how quickly—in just a few seconds—that perception changed.

The second one happened the other week. There's this guy I'm rather fond of, and as I'm sure most girls do, I've imagined how fun it would be to spend time with him and be his girl, and of course, how glorious our wedding would be. Well, the other week he said or did something that suggested that maybe he was interested as well. That was a little bit of a shock to my system; I'm extremely accustomed to unrequited interest. Anyway, amidst the myriad thoughts that filled my mind as I considered the implications of this potentially mutual interest, another transformation took place. I've spent . . . mmmm . . . a fair portion of time and paper expressing my frustrations about singleness, and like I did at the beginning of that last week of unemployment, sometimes I've looked ahead and seen gray, lonely, empty years stretching forward for me, and I've sighed resignedly at the prospect of living them. But if someone that I liked could like me back, then it was possible that someone I loved could love me back, and that I could actually find true love and marriage in my future. Imminent future, even. At the thought, suddenly that same time ahead of me that I despaired to look at was something precious. The last of my time as a single girl, with no one else's needs, careers, or family tangled up in mine. A precious time to make friendships, to spend time with my family, and to make decisions based on what I'd like to do. I wondered what I'd be thinking if I was engaged. What would I do differently if I knew I'd only be single for a little while longer? It was pretty interesting to consider, and more importantly, it was a lot more enjoyable to go through my days with this perspective.

So I was just struck at how much a change in perspective changed the way I felt and behaved. And both times, the change was positive. Without any change to the week of unemployment itself or to the weeks/months/years of singleness to come, I felt better about them. If the way I look at something affects whether I love it or hate it, I wonder why I would ever choose to look at it to hate it. Why make that choice? If perspective is unavoidable, and I believe that most of the time it is, wouldn't it be nicer to choose the perspective that makes me happy, even if it's harder to find than the other ones?

Just a thought. What do you think? Ever had similar experiences?

Postscript: Birthdays

Thanks to everyone who sent me birthday wishes last week. It was a good day and it was good to feel loved.

Since writing the last article, I've paid more attention to the effort, if any, others around me put into subtly hinting that their birthday is coming up soon. This is why it's been slightly irritating but really amusing at the same time to read the statuses of a few Facebook friends who are posting daily birthday countdowns. "ONLY 11 MORE DAYS LOL I CAN'T BELIEVE IT I'M SUCH AN OLD WOMEN!" Today one soon-to-be-birthday-girl wrote about how irritated she is that her friends are spoiling her birthday weekend by not wanting to hang out with her.

The fun thing about scruples is that they give you grounds to make fun of those without them. Bwah ha ha! The less fun thing about scruples is that you're too polite to share your disdain.

The fun thing about blogs is they're above scruples. Right?

The Birthday Conundrum

You're older than you've ever been and now you're even older
and now you're even older
and now you're even older
You're older than you've ever been and now you're even older
and now you're older still.

They Might Be Giants, "Older"

So . . . my birthday's coming up, and that means the yearly birthday conundrum has descended. After nearly a quarter-century of practice, I'm still not sure how to walk the line between humble nonchalance and HEY MY BIRTHDAY'S COMING UP PRESENTS PLZ!!

Not that it's presents that I really want, necessarily. I just want some extra attention. Maybe some people are okay with admitting their birthday passed two weeks ago, it's no biggie if you missed it; I might say that, trying to be brave, but I might burst into tears if you don't take the bait and say, "No, no! It is a biggie! Happy birthday, you're amazing!"

Would that be terribly shallow of me? In light of my endeavors to avoid shallowness the rest of the year, I submit that no, it would not. Still, I realize that reminding all my acquaintances every day for three weeks before my birthday is not the best way to ensure I get a gush of goodwill. So I employ more stealthy strategies. I ask other people when their birthdays are, so I can tell them mine when they politely ask back. If I need to reschedule an appointment or talk about an activity conflicting with possible birthday activities, I say, "Oh, gee, I can't. It's my birthday and I'll be busy that night," or "Huh, that's happening the same day as my birthday. What a coincidence!" Stuff like that.

I feel like I also have to be extra careful because I have a March birthday; it turns out that being born in March is almost as popular as Sarah is for a name. In my current social sphere, it seems like it's been someone's birthday every other day. I try to make sure I give birthday cheer liberally (otherwise I couldn't expect it in return), but I realize that after the dozenth cake-and-candle ceremony, it starts to get old. So I try to keep expectations tamped down, but I still worry about how everything will go.

This year I had an awesome idea. Why don't I write a desperation-cleverly-disguised-as-arrogance-expressed-with-a-self-deprecating-wink-type entry about it on the blog? Think that'll work?

New (Old) Posts

Hi folks. I've added a selection of old posts (and occasionally some comments) from a not-currently-functioning family blog. They're a bit more newsy and less poetic than what I typically write here, but they're my favorites from the old blog and I'd be happy to know they were being read again. Since I posted them with the original dates, they won't show up in a feed, so here's what's new:

All the 2007 posts

2008 posts (oldest to most recent):

Beating the Winter Blahs
There are 51 states now. Who cares?
Spring? Maybe?
Acting Class
Coat Backwards
Auditions!
Flooded!
Navigating a Crossroads
Talking like a Brit

Random Science Fact

Okay, so yesterday I learned something kind of amazing. If you've been working with garlic and want to get the garlic smell off your hands, all you have to do is get your hands wet, then rub them against any stainless steel surface.

Why does this work? No idea. But it does!

Birth Day

Goodnight, my angel
Time to close your eyes
And save these questions for another day
I think I know what you've been asking me
I think you know what I've been trying to say
I promised I would never leave you
And you should always know
Wherever you may go
No matter where you are
I never will be far away

Billy Joel, "Lullabye (Goodnight, My Angel)"

To this day we have our own family mythology, our collection of stories about the day my youngest brother was born, and we rehearse them, almost ritually, in our circle around his flat headstone.

There's the one about Mom fainting in the shower while Dad got us all up for school. He told me to get the littlest kids ready for the day, if I could, because they were going to a friend's house while he took Mom to the hospital. He said Mom wasn't feeling so great, and I got up and dressed the babies and went through my day as happy as they say larks are, because I knew what it meant when mothers felt sick at the end of their pregnancies and the kids had to go to a neighbor's house. I was almost twelve and had been through this three times before, that I could remember. I told all my classmates at school that by the end of the day, I would have a new brother or sister. I didn't hear about the fainting until long afterward, though. Fainting wasn't quite right.

Then there's the one about Brina, my little sister, who got her hand bitten by a dog that day, at a friend's house, and went to the hospital (no stitches, if I remember correctly) and got to see Mom before any of the rest of us. That's the funny part, such a random accident.

Foremost in my memories is when Dad told us that we had a little brother, Thomas John, who had been stillborn. The placenta had separated, and Mom lost a lot of blood and was still in danger. I didn't understand all the words, but I knew the important ones. I didn't sleep well that night. I remember the radio was on, turned down softly for comfort, but it seemed to me that it kept playing the same song repeatedly, because I kept hearing the same descending chord progression over and over again until it became a grim, horrible organ accompaniment to my frustrated attempts to sleep and to know what was going on, whether my mother was alive or dead.

I heard many other stories later. How Mom said she hadn't been given a choice between the peace of heaven or a return to her family, but she would have chosen to live anyway, because she knew we needed her. How the first thing Mom wanted to know when she woke up from the emergency c-section was how her baby was. Since she had a tube down her throat and couldn't talk, she signed the letters for "baby" to a friend who was there with her, who knew sign language because his son was going deaf. How the midwife, carrying my baby brother to Mom for a last goodbye, sensed something of his spirit remaining in him that wasn't there when she carried him away again, like Thomas John wanted to say goodbye too.

Mom stayed in the hospital until she could breathe in hard enough through a tube to make two little balls float up high in this toy-like contraption the nurses gave her. She was cheerful and had us all try it out. When we all went home again, Grandma was there, flowers stood in vases on the table and around the house, and people came every day with dinner and words of comfort. Our neighbor down the street, a friendly man whose daughter was our playmate, came and talked to Dad about what had happened. "That must be hell," he said feelingly. I was slightly shocked, since "hell" was not a word we used in our house, but I said nothing, and Dad, who took a long time to believe that Mom was really going to be alright, simply nodded.

I remember flipping angrily through the book we had about babies to find the chapter on how sometimes things went wrong and the baby died, feeling betrayed when there wasn't one. And then for a long time I felt rather bitter when I saw moms at church with their perfectly healthy, perfectly alive babies. I know Mom's pain was more acute than mine. But long before Thomas John came and left this world, I knew where people went when they died, and I knew when I helped carry his tiny blue coffin to his graveside that I was merely escorting his physical body to its resting place; his spirit had returned to the place of ancestors and those yet born, to wait a while longer to be reunited with us. We're an eternal family, and death is only a temporary separation. Even if it didn't take away all the pain, knowing that was a primary source of comfort and strength.

We tell these stories to each other each time we stand in the cemetery together next to Thomas John's little grave, and as the years have passed, the stories blend together and each story is part of our own memory, and now visiting the cemetery is part of it too, with tales about the little angel statue that used to guard Babyland but was taken down (we think) for fear of vandals, the planes zooming down over our heads toward the little airfield that used to be right beside the cemetery, and most of all, the other little graves around Thomas, each one for a precious baby. We think about them, brushing the dirt off their headstones too and picking up flowers or balloons that have fallen over. We think about their families, hoping that they're doing well and that they know they'll see their little ones again. We feel sad sometimes, remembering how sad we were to lose Thomas, but what else can we be but grateful when Mom is still here with us and when we know we'll see our brother again someday? We know each year that we visit, as we get taller, older, and wiser, that we're part of a story that will never end.

Ignorance Is Bliss

I think one of the most important parenting skills I've learned recently is how to ignore a child. I'm not talking about ignoring children's needs or abandoning them; I mean ignoring them in much smaller ways. It's the only way to stay sane, really. Here's an example involving my four-year-old sister:

(Mom, Savy, and I are sitting at the table, having lunch. Mom is reading a magazine as she eats. I'm staring into space. Savy, being quiet for a few seconds, is staring at me, munching away. Suddenly, struck by a question that has long haunted mankind, Savy opens her mouth.)

Savy: What if chips burn?

(Mom continues reading her magazine.)

Savy: What if chips burn?

(I'm not reading anything, but I'm quiet. This is Savannah's 5,395,392,388th what-if question of the year. Sometimes if you answer, she just comes up with another one.)

Savy: What if chips burn?

(I look at Mom to see if she will respond. Savannah, undeterred and not in the least offended by our unresponsiveness, continues.)

Savy: What if chips burn? (Waits for an answer.) What if chips burn?

Mom: (looks up from her magazine) Mmmm. Then I guess they'd be burned. (Looks back down at magazine.)

(Savy, perfectly satisfied, resumes eating.)

Repeat that about three billion times, except that at dinner she's more talkative and gets offended when there's not total silence for her comments or when she gets interrupted, and you know what mealtime is like with a little kid. That's just one. Witnessing this, I can't help but think back to those years when we older ones were all little, so Mom got to sit at the head of a table filled with kids spouting weird questions and conversational drivel. I imagine that sometimes she wondered to herself what it would be like to speak to another adult at the table. (Dad read books.) If she hadn't ignored us for her own thoughts at least some of the time, she would probably be a raving lunatic. Kids are great, no mistake; they're just, as Cosby would say, brain damaged. Good thing it gets better and better through the years.

Thanks, Mom, for ignoring us when we needed it.

Our Ranks Are Dwindling

I put my feet in front of me, lean into where I'm going
What is this banner in my hands, torn streamers worn and blowing?
Why carry I this lonely flag whose bearer fell today?
Why, squinting, do I carry on? I cannot see the way.
Six years ago we led the charge, my dearest friends and I;
Shoulder-shoulder, weapons drawn, to fight, perhaps to die
I've watched so many 'round me break, and faintly smiling fall
I doubted once, but now it looks like love may conquer all.

Cool Site

I've been having some fun with Obamicon.Me. Check it out!

On Burping

I grew up sandwiched between two brothers, so I suppose it's only natural that, along with them, I perfected the art of burping at will at a young age. I occasionally outstripped them at it, even. I admit it. This was a talent that I naturally did not display at church or around young women my age, but it wasn't something I considered "gross," seeing how I knew the effort it took to gulp down enough air to save up a big one. I enjoyed delivering shock value at home. Mom could never abide burping at the table, but Dad thought it was great, and for a while so did I.

Then I went to college and had a roommate who burped often and unrestrainedly. Loudly. She was so used to doing it that she didn't even hear herself anymore and would deny burping if told she'd just done so. That was the troubling part: she couldn't even control it anymore. Shock-value burps delivered every day lose their ability to shock and just, to me, became the disgusting sound of her innards, prominently declaring that she had no control over her body and no desire to take control either, not for politeness' or roommates' or anyone's sake.

After living with her, I can't stand it when girl friends burp out loud on purpose. Especially when they think it's funny. When you're over twenty, it means something more than that you've got air in your throat. "I can't help it!" I sometimes hear. Yes you can. It's called closing your mouth.




That said . . . . . . . . . . . . .

I still think this is hilarious.

On Beauty

Sarcastic envy makes me bold
in mocking virtue I behold,
missing, my heart's cockles cold,
in everyone a strand of gold.

I know that beauty isn't everything, but sometimes I forget. Particularly when I come across someone who is stunningly gorgeous. When I see a stunningly gorgeous girl surrounded by admiring young men, my thoughts go like this:

Beauty = Admiration by males
Admiration by males <= Love
Love = Happiness

Therefore,

Beauty = Happiness

I knew a stunningly gorgeous girl in one of my wards (church congregations) at BYU. She was one of three girls with the same name, we'll say Brenda. To distinguish the three Brendas, me and my roommate made up nicknames. One of them, who made my cheeks ache just looking at her, we called Smiley Brenda. Another was just Brenda, because she had no obvious characteristics from which to hang a moniker. The third, the stunningly gorgeous one, was Barbie Brenda. It fit like a charm. She had all the signs: bleach-blonde hair, perfect complexion, and a ditzy lilt to her voice. Oh, and boys mooned over her like coyotes over the . . . well, the moon. One of those boys, who I knew since he was one of my home teachers, was crazy about her. He remained crazy about her all through his mission and I saw them together afterwards. I was pretty sure they'd be getting married. I was just surprised she hadn't gotten married before he came back. Even at the meatmarket that is BYU, where girls outnumber boys two to one (notwithstanding the myth of equal numbers), you could tell Barbie Brenda was a hot commodity.

That was the way I thought about her. Sarcasm made me feel better about being jealous. I chuckled with my roommate over Barbie Brenda and then after that school year I mostly forgot about her.

Still, I remembered her when she added me as a friend on Facebook. "How does she remember me? I'm not a boy. I don't remember if we even really talked," I thought as I paused over the button to accept her. "Eh, why not." Suddenly we were friends. I was curious about whether her statuses would give me more to chuckle over.

Ironically, she's the one who introduced me to TAMN. She said she loved this new blog and put the link in her status. Because it came through Barbie Brenda, it took me several articles, during which my jaw dropped and my sides ached from laughing so much, to realize it's a satire. It never occurred to me that Barbie Brenda, who I thought was a perfect candidate for "besties" with TAMN, would be deep enough to appreciate that kind of humor. It was only then that I began to think maybe Barbie Brenda wasn't the shallow one here.

I've looked a little more closely at this friend of mine. Strangely, she's not married at all. Like me, she's done with school for now. She spent some time doing social/humanitarian work in Mexico, and now she's not sure what exactly she wants to do with her life (also like me). She was engaged for a little while, but that broke off and it really hurt her. I followed her out to her blog and began reading some of her articles. Blown away. Her prose flows in smooth, image-laden sentences that make mine seem stodgy and rigid in comparison. She has sincere feelings and thoughts that rival the beauty of her face.

I began to think about what it would be like to be Barbie Brenda. I imagine that she is hated for her good looks just as much as she is adored for them. Maybe she feels more pressure than many single girls our age to be married, because she's got a face that's supposed to guarantee young love. She probably knows better than me or most other people that in the truly important areas of life, beauty doesn't count for anything. Beauty is not really the same as happiness. I bet she's come across a lot of people in her life who were sure they knew who she was just by looking at her. I would hate that, but yet I did it too, for the sake of my own pride. As I read her words, I was astonished at my own harsh insensitivity.

It's not much, but for what it's worth, I just wanted to say, Brenda, I am so sorry. I hope to prove myself a better friend in the future. And I mean it when I say you are beautiful.

Happy New Year, I think

For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne,
We'll take a cup o' kindness yet
For auld lang syne

Robert Burns, "Auld Lang Syne"

Happy New Year, everybody! I hope your Christmases all happened beautifully and you got plenty of time to relax and welcome in the new year. The holidays at my house were crowded, chaotic, and wonderful as usual (yes, even with the desolate hole left by the absence of minest elder brother and his fam).

I always get to pondering conclusively at holidays and ends of things. Holidays are times for memories; they're like measuring sticks to my life as I think about where I was and what I was up to at this holiday in years past. However, I think sometimes it's just better to abstain from thinking about things. Examples:

1) I've been a little bit irritated with some people at certain times during all this Christmas hullaballoo. The thing with being irritable around Christmas, though, is that I always feel particularly guilty about it. But I noticed something one day when I was grumpy, and that is that I was sitting there fixing all my thoughts on how annoying people were. The more I thought about it, the more annoying they became. I realized that the feelings that were making me miserable were not generated by the people around me, but by the thoughts in my own head. I was making me miserable. Why would I want to do that? Feeling better meant abstaining from blaming, annoyed thoughts.

2) The other day I played a charades-type game (which ended up being a rather interesting gender commentary, but I'll save that for another day maybe). One thing that struck me was how reluctant some people were to get up and act things out. Some of the girls I was sitting with were embarrassed. Because I wanted to fit in, I pretended to be shy and embarrassed for a little while too. But then I thought, "What on earth is there to be embarrassed about? In this kind of game, the people who lose their inhibitions and make gigantic fools of themselves are the coolest." That's what acting's all about, really. Once I realized that, I stopped thinking too much and acted out "underwater basket weaving" with flair. Someone guessed it in just a few seconds.

3) I've been doing a lot of thinking about my story over the holidays, but not a lot of actual writing on it. It wasn't even the good kind of thinking, which usually happens as I'm writing, staring at the paper or my computer screen, visualizing the next part of the scene; it's the "oh, I'm bored, so I'll sit here and think of my favorite part of the story that's coming up" kind of thinking. Then I just play one part of the story in my head a couple times. But because I'm not actually writing it down, I'm not focusing on it enough to make alterations and improvements, so I just get bored of it and then I have to redo it when I write it out anyway. Does this make sense to anyone not living in my head? Maybe not. But the key is, less bored thinking, more writing!

Okay, so it's not so much that one shouldn't think, but that one should avoid thinking too much, thinking about negative things, and thinking instead of doing. I should do a better job managing my thoughts.

I guess I have one new year's resolution now . . .

Note about the photo: No alcoholic beverages were consumed for the taking of this pic. It's Cherry 7-Up. Just in case you were worried.