From the archives: December 15, 2004

Wishing you one of those days...

College has made me dislike Christmas. Why, finals week, why? Why must you precede the fun-filled and significant celebration of Christ's birth? Why must I get through you before there can be any semblance of holiday cheer?

It's like having my teeth knocked out so I can have some ice cream.

From the archives: June 22, 2003

Can't live with him, can't…*sigh*

Want to hear a sumary of my relationship with my youngest brother as applies to X?

No? Here it is anyway:

Carlos: Elisa, buy me X.
Elisa: No.
Carlos: Pleeeeeaaaaaasssssseeeeee.
Elisa: (firmly) No.
Carlos: But I want X! I neeeeeeeed X!
Elisa: No! I have absolutely no/very little money!
Carlos: (throws huge embarrassing tantrum)
Elisa: (turns red. goes home.)

In a word - arghhhhhhhhh.

I hate these strangers.

The worst feeling, aside from getting elbowed in the boob, is having to return a library book before I am done with it EVEN IF I HAVE LOTS OF RENEWALS LEFT because some buttmunch has placed a hold on it.

I do not like these people. YOU CAN HAVE THEM WHEN I'M DONE WITH THEM GOSH.

And the library always sides against me.

2011 Books: the books I didn't like edition

Buy-ology by Martin Lindstrom

I admit to enjoying a Malcolm Gladwell book every once in a while, but often those "entertaining non-fiction" genre pieces turn out to just be one massive exercise in stating the obvious. This book claims to revolutionize our ideas about why people respond to advertisements the way they do, and some of the brain studies he mentioned were kind of interesting. But he seems shocked to learn that people lie. Duh. Of course people aren't honest about why they buy things, because the real answers are usually pathetic. I know this, and I am neither an advertising expert nor a scientist.

Additionally, in his afterward about the 2008 financial crisis, he mentions that since the recession, condom sales have gone up. Lindstrom postulates the reason for this is that in times of stress, people find solace in their sexuality. Or maybe people are just worried about getting pregnant during a financial crisis? Sheesh. Idiot.

Clan of the Cave Bear by Jean M. Auel

Remember Twilight? Of course you do. This is 80s Twilight for the sexually deviant. I hated this book, but I had to finish it because it was part of my banned books project AND I DO NOT ABANDON MY GOALS JUST BECAUSE SOMETHING SUCKS.

I wish I could articulate all the reasons why this book was so awful. The writing was cheesy, and incredibly repetitive. I don't know where/if Ms. Auel got her English degree, but apparently she missed ALL THE LECTURES on showing vs. telling. Here is an exemplary paragraph, written by me:

Krum glared at Ayla, his eyes filled with rage. He was furious. Ayla was sad. Tears ran down her face. She knew Krum was angry. She thought he did not love her. He had told her he loved her before. But maybe now that he was angry, he did not love her anymore. The thought broke her heart. She sobbed.

Imagine 468 pages of that kind of repetition. Hopefully you know understand why this book made me want to claw out my eyes.

Also, in Jean Auel's crazy universe, cavemen did not know that sex makes babies. Somehow, they know that when animals mate, the lady animal gets pregnant, but they have not extended that logic to themselves. Which is basically just an excuse to write a bunch of uncomfortable rape scenes.

Bad writing + bad history + sexual deviance = I will not be reading the rest of the series.

A post about Dating or, allow me to bitch at you for a few hundred words.

Today is February 18th. For those of you who really live in the moment, four days ago was Valentine's Day. I have never been a huge fan of said holiday, even as a kid, especially not since Spencer Bolton put a Valentine in my fourth grade mailbox that said, "You're stupid." I tattled on him, so I got my vengeance. But still. Not cool.

Don't worry, this post isn't about that overwrought fictional holiday. It's about what I did that night. And a decision I've made that I may or may not stick to.

So seeing as V-Day (or VD for even shorter) fell on a Monday eve this year, church folks put together a massive all-Seattle-metro Family Home Evening, so that all the sad single Mormons between 18 and 35ish could get together and flirt and potentially heal themselves of their tragic, crippling loneliness. It was to be a potluck/open mike night, which is a totally awesome idea. And the food, to get my positive thoughts out of the way from the start, was delicious.

Although large-scale activities are not always my thing, I was excited about this one. Lots and lots of people, and because Seattle attracts awesome people, a majority of them were bound to be cool, right?

If you are attempting to predict what I am about to say, you're probably wrong. I'm not going to complain that I felt too old to be there (silly you, that was the Sweet Meet). I am not going to complain that there were no cute guys there (there were lots). And I am not going to complain that there were lots of cute guys there but none of them paid attention to me (eh, not really applicable).

So what was my problem, then? It was threefold. All of them fall under the general umbrella of "actually, even in Seattle, a lot of Mormons my age are assholes."

Grievance the first. The first act at the open mike was a sweet girl from my ward who dressed up and did a monologue. It was ADORABLE. And she was GOOD. Also, she has balls the size of watermelons (figuratively) because doing a monologue in front of a couple hundred people is SCARY. Unfortunately, the thing about insecure people is that they like to undermine people who do things they are too puss to do. So, not only did approximately three quarters of the people keep talking while this girl was performing, a whole lot of them made snarky comments about it.

What's worse, for the rest of the open mike event, hardly anyone shut their damn mouth-hole. That pissed me off, maybe more than it should have. But seriously, if someone took the time to prepare something for an FHE, the least you can do is shut up and listen to it. That is literally the least you can do. Anything else is dehumanizing and disrespectful.

Grievance the second, and yeah, they are all this petty. After this extremely well-attended event was over, there were still lots of people milling around. There was also a TON of trash everywhere. Lots and lots of disposable dishes and empty soda cans and spilled food etc. My poor friend Erin was spinning off her rocker with stress, so a couple of other girls and maybe two guys started helping her clean up. There was lots and lots to stuff to do and it was pouring rain outside. Meanwhile, there were easily fifty or sixty dudes just hanging out, hands in pockets, talking to each other, not doing anything.

They kept standing there for another hour. Nobody offered to help clean up, nobody offered to take out some of the overflowing garbage bags outside to the dumpster. I could say something about chivalry being dead, but we all know that it's been dead for decades. Helping to clean up is just basic human decency. By this point, I was livid.

The last grievance is that when another friend cut her finger and got a little sick to her stomach at the sight of blood, none of the guys who noticed offered to help with that, either.

Seriously? SERIOUSLY? Anyone who knows my history of relationships knows that my standards are not exactly sky-high, but I could not believe what insensitive jerks those boys were. I was so upset I may or may nor have walked by one group of them and hissed "I can't believe nobody is helping. No wonder no woman wants you." Sadly, I think only one of them heard me, and he had the class to actually look guilty.

I would rather be alone for the rest of my life than bother with any boy who would be that rude and inconsiderate. Even thinking about it right now makes me want to punch someone. Because what I just complained about is NOT too much to ask. It's not like I'm upset because nobody played the guitar for me outside my window. Really, it has nothing to do with me. Nobody helped me, which is fine because I am not that cute, but nobody helped any of the cute girls who were cleaning up, either. Except for Laird. And some tall Asian guy.

It blows my mind sometimes how unsympathetic Mormons can be. No empathy for others, only boo-hoo I'm twenty-eight and I've never been laid woe-is-me. It's psychopathic. It's immoral.

In short, Mormon guys can suck it until they learn how to be kind, because they suck. Did you see how I used suck in one sentence, but with two difference meanings? That means I'm too mad to care about potential semantic confusion. That's really mad.

Also, if anyone wants to protest that THEIR super classy Mormon husband is the exception to the rule, or you, yourself, are the exception to the rule: save it. I don't believe you. It's a numbers game, and everyone in this city is a loser.

THE END

Note: after reading this through, I get how ironic is it that I am responding with such unsympathetic vitriol to people I see as unsympathetic. It's like how I judge people for being judgmental. I get that I'm a hypocrite. But you wanted to know why I was pissed off on Monday, and now you do. Purged. XOXO

Why Some People Think I am Eccentric

Because if enough people think something, it has to be true. Especially if it's on the Internet. Duh. Evidence annotated below.

Happy Solstice! The universe has conspired against me and made me menstrual and ill in conjunction with the full moon. I couldn't fall asleep last night and then woke up at 4 AM with back pain so severe it made me throw up, which was less than fun. Then I couldn't fall back (get it?) asleep. I went outside in my underwear and a fur coat (1) to see if the eclipse was still visible, but of course by then it was over, and anyway it was far too cloudy to see anything. When my alarm went off at 6 AM I hadn't slept at all and I was so disappointed I almost started crying (2).

The only good thing about last night is that Sego spooned with me and he is the best huge furry hot water bottle in the whole wide world.

Even when I was starting to feel sick yesterday afternoon, when my boss called while I was watching Fire in the Sky (3) I foolishly agreed to take a work assignment for tomorrow/today. I could really use the money. So far I don't really regret it because even though I am tired and in a lot of pain, it's better to be in pain and distracted by work than in pain at home with nothing to do. Although I still have some craft projects to finish for some Christmas gifts. In some ways, crafting is more of a chore for me than regular chores (4).

I also have 17 more books in the queue that I need to finish writing about before the end of the year. When did this become an actual goal instead of just something to do because I was no longer in school? I don't know. (5)

There is this boy at church whom I find fascinating for a number of reasons, but the biggest one is that he seems really, really content. As in, comfortable in his own skin, happy with the way his life is right now. I am jealous and also curious as to what he knows that I don't.

Lastly, when I was cleaning out some boxes of high school memorabilia I found--wait for it--an autographed poster from the band Jericho Road. I never liked or listened to their music, but all you need to know about them is that they were a Mormon Boy Band and that they were ridiculous. One time I was at the Deseret Book in Bellevue buying some scripture markers on my way home from the temple, and those guys were just there, all alone. They struck up a conversation and invited me to their show, but I was busy. They gave me an autograph anyway. Bless their hearts.

Any chance that would be worth money? Doubtful, I suppose. Might put it on the eBay anyway. (6) You never know.

Not Being Naked: day 22

Today I worked eleven hours. That is a lot.

This photo is blurry to represent that my eye started twitching like crazy around 5PM.

I was wearing black hooker boots + other grey skirt + black t-shirt + long white sweater + red scarf (thrifted) + orange earrings (no idea ... maybe inherited from someone?) = by the end of the day, I am pretty sure I smelled bad

Check out my droopy, droopy eyes.

The End

Not Being Naked: days 11, 12, 13 (sorry)

This has not been my week. Sorry about the delay, here are some pictures/excuses.

On Friday, I wore brown skirt + brown peasant blouse + long white sweater + red superhero boots. It looked OK, but I got blood* all over it. Then I had to change into non-approved clothes because all my laundry was in the dryer. Like I said, not my week.

On Saturday, I wore this:

It is neon green shirt + denim skirt + long blue sweater + fake snakeskin shoes (I had been home for a while when this picture was taken and forgot to put them on) + opal necklace (gift from my aunts when I was like 8, which I love because it hits my collarbone really sexylike) = 9/10 (-1 because why am I standing like that? It does not look cool)

On Sunday, I wore this:

I wore it with other orange sweater + red superhero boots + opal necklace, but I spilled water on the sweater (WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME?). I also wore my mission coat, which always gets made fun of, but if you've been following me up to this point you know I don't care/enjoy it.

I am almost caught up! Now I need to post a photo of the clothes I wore today lying on the floor because I am once again in my pajamas, watching The Tick.

*From my nose.

Not Being Naked: day 8 WORST DAY EVER

Can you believe that a day could go so horribly wrong even in an outfit like this?

other grey pencil skirt + orange sweater + black hooker boots + white blouse = 8/10 (-1 for the wrinkled skirt, -1 for not fixing all my problems)

Outwear in lieu of accessories = khaki coat (thrifted) + blue scarf (gift from DHB)

I guess the cool thing is I cannot imagine Day 9 being any worse, eh?

These are my 10 favorite movies.

Fact: I have been working on this list since March. I was going to add a critical analysis of each movie explaining why it is good but the truth is, I don't have to explain anything to you. These are my ten favorite movies, and that's that.

1. Drop Dead Fred

This child was me. High voice? Check. Vivid imagination that got me into trouble? Check. Issues? Check.

Fortunately or unfortunately, I have pretty much turned into the adult version of Elizabeth as well ... before her cool transformation. I suppose now would be as good a time as any to become hot and confident, though, right? What do you think?

1. Harold and Maude

When I become old, my goal is to be EXACTLY like Maude.

Also, this movie has the best and most subtle comic timing in the history of comic timing.

1. Little Miss Sunshine

I like movies about families.

1. Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind

I like movies about people falling in love. That are not cheesy.

Also, you know that scene where Jim Carrey tells Kate Winslet that she's not ugly? That scene is my favorite scene in movie history. I tried to find it but alas, I could not. Go watch it.

1. Love Actually

I like movies where people's lives overlap in interesting ways. Especially British people.

1. New York Doll

I like movies that touch on the subject of religion without slipping into cliches.

Fact: this is the best Mormon movie ever made.

1. X-men

OMG I LOVE COMIC BOOKS. And Hugh Jackman. And Patrick Stewart.

1. When Harry Met Sally

I really like movies about friends who fall in love. Unfortunately.

1. Star Trek

I want to marry this movie. I just love Sci-Fi so, so much.

1. Return to Me

On the other hand, though, sometimes I just want to watch a girly movie with babies and romance and nuns and old people.

1. Beauty and the Beast

All nerdy girls love this movie. Belle is OUR Disney princess.

If you disagree with me about these movies, know that I am extremely on edge this week and may scream at you. That is all.

Ain't Nuthin' But a G Thang (I promise this will be the only pun)

I would like to register a complaint. If you shy away from TMI, stop reading now, and don't say I didn't warn you.

Dear Victoria's Secret,

I was about to make a joke about having found out your REAL "secret," but that's a little too punny, and I'm trying to get away from that (see above). So let me just start out by saying that I am really, really, disappointed in you guys. You have broken my heart. Or rather, the upper ventral region of my torso, in general.

For years, I have been a loyal customer. I do believe I have 300-400 dollars worth of VS swag in my top drawers. Expensive bras--many of them bought on sale, but nevertheless at a much higher cost than the cheap cotton slings one can buy for 3-10 dollars at Target or Wal-Mart. I believed in your product. I believed in you. I believed that you had the best interests of us top-heavy gals in mind. That was how I justified spending all that money at your product. I do not currently own any bras from any other stores.

I have, fortunately or unfortunately, been fulsome in the chest since I was about ten. For years, I tried to hide them using an ill-conceived combination of sports bras and big t-shirts, but when I was in college, I discovered that in some circles, having large breasts is considered an asset, one to be shared with the world. My best friend insisted that properly fitting bras can do wonders for one's figure and self-esteem, and because she shopped at Victoria's Secret, so did I.

I have been measured at Victoria's Secret quite a few times, and every time was told I was a D (in my early twenties) or a DD (later on). This I accepted without question. I was given very little information about how a bra is supposed to fit, and so accepted my VS bras without reservation.

Until last weekend. My girlfriends and I were laying about talking about our breasts (as we are wont to do) and Leah suggested we figure out how much our boobs weigh so that we can subtract it from the "weight to feel bad about" equation. I mentioned that, having the smallest breast size, mine would likely weigh the least.

Me: Isn't it weird that my bra size is so much smaller than yours?

Leah: What is it?

Me: DD.

Leah: What? No way.

Me: That's what they've always said at Vicky's.

Leah: Well, yeah. But how far do their sizes go?

Me: Up to a DD ... Oh my gosh.

Leah: (pokes me in the sternum, because that is what friends do) Um, your bra is NOT fitting you properly. That is supposed to be AGAINST your skin.

Me: WHAT?

Bridgette: It's a plot!

Leah: Why don't you try on one of B's bras. She's a G. See if it fits any better.

From my experience trying on my buxom friend's bra, and being fitted at Nordstrom (which carries bras nearly to the end of the alphabet), I discovered that I am not, in fact, a DD, but rather a G. Even the poor sap at Nordstrom, who I think must have been new, had trouble figuring out my size, but Sarah made it happen with her chutzpah and Nordstrom's measuring tape. But it's a sure thing now. I am a G.

aaa/aa/a/b/c/d/DD/e/f/G.

You bastards. I could see stuffing me into a bra ONE size too small, maybe, but THREE SIZES TOO SMALL?

Do I look like the Grinch to you?

I feel so lied to. To add insult to injury, it's not like there's a big market for used bras, even really expensive ones. I hope your water bras flood your headquarters and destroy your entire evil empire.

Also, Bravissimo, I think you have won yourselves a brand new customer.

Hs and Ks,

Elisa

The Seven Deadly Sins, Day 6: Envy

“Envy consists in seeing things never in themselves, but only in their relations. If you desire glory, you may envy Napoleon, but Napoleon envied Caesar, Caesar envied Alexander, and Alexander, I daresay, envied Hercules, who never existed.”

Bertrand Russell

I was going to post a bunch of pictures of women I am jealous of, but my attention span is already waning really dramatically, so I am just going to say: Mr. Russell is right. Envying others is pretty silly, because the grass is always greener on the other side of history, etc. If we could all read minds, no one would be envious of anyone else, because all your pain and low self-esteem and horrible memories and cellulite would be obvious to everyone else, instead of just you.

I do legitimately envy people with kids even though I am fully aware that parenting is really really hard. But, what are you gonna do.

It has seriously tapped all my remaining energy to write as much as I have. I would just like to say that sometimes I get sad that I don't look like her:

Then I get over it. But it's always painful.

The Seven Deadly Sins, Day 4: Wrath

Sorry, guys. Apparently I took the "sloth" thing a little too far yesterday and forgot to post. Fail. To be fair, I was helping my aunt clean her house and then walking around Greenlake with Judith, so it's not like I was lazing about getting fat. Anyway, I thought about posting this one retroactively but I think I will just post twice today. Consider this a day of many sins.

Were you mad that I didn't post yesterday? Probably not. But if you were, that's a sin. The sin of wrath (which is basically anger) is one of the SEVEN DEADLY SINS. I assume that righteous anger is not a sin, however I also assume that only Jesus has truly righteous anger. What do you think?

In honor of wrath, here are some things that really piss me off.

1. Bad parenting.

2. Bland food.

3. When people lend my stuff out to other people without asking me.

4. Being asked about my finances by adults I don't know.

5. Overly aggressive salespeople.

6. People who insist on being exclusive for no good reason.

7. Capital One. It's story for another time, but those bastards are going down, just as soon as I draft that letter to the Attorney General. Hey, guys. Remember how you gave a third party company permission to withdraw money from my checking account without my permission? REMEMBER THAT??

8. Bad writers who act like they are really good writers (I'm looking at you, Nicholas Sparks).

9. Misogyny.

10. Homophobia.

11. Eh, bigotry in general.

12. People who are so loyal to one genre that they close their mind to all other genres. I'm think of Indie Music, but there are lots of examples.

13. Stretch marks.

Um, that's all I got.

I Can't Believe I Haven't Blogged About X, Day 7: My Butt

Perhaps the fact that I have yet to blog about this until today is not so shocking? Oh, well.

When I die, assuming I do not outlive my good friend Ashley, she plans to eulogize me as follows:

"Elisa had a gigantic rack, and no butt."

Then she will sit down and people will wonder if they are being punk'd. I love the idea of my last concrete influence on earth being a surreal experience. I like to make life a little bit surreal every day as it is. Which is why I gave this eulogy the green light when Ashley and I were serving as missionaries together in Pécs.

She's right, unfortunately. I am overall a curvaceous person, but my butt is embarrassingly flat. This breaks my heart a little bit every day. This is also the reason why I don't wear pants very often.

Sadly, the only way to obtain a more voluptuous backside involves gaining weight, and I certainly don't want to do that.

I am resigned to a life of never fully enjoying the following songs (NSFW):

This one is by far the best video.

Luckily, I can still enjoy this because it makes no reference to size. Good thing, because this one of the best movies of all time.

https://new.familysearch.org plays with my mind.

Thanks a lot, jerks. Maybe you could pour some lemon juice on that stinging cut upon my heart, while you're at it.

I know my blog entries have been sub-par and obnoxious and whiny lately, guys. Don't worry, I've got some decent stuff in the works. Strap on your moonboots for the month of June, 'cause it is going to be an awesome ride.

This is why I am sad.

Tomorrow is the last day that I will be hanging out with these little gals on a regular basis.

Aren't they delicious? Every time I look at them my ovaries cry.

Remember that story in the Bible when Jesus was like "Guys, guys, don't eat that corn. We don't want anyone to get the wrong idea."

Photo by Carl De Keyzer, copyright 1990, Magnum Photos, from Slate.com

On March 21st of this year, I wrote the following in my journal during a particularly unsettling Sacrament Meeting. The girl who spoke about obedience and prophets, bless her heart, almost certainly has no idea how close I came to leaving the Church because of my thought process that stemmed from her talk.

"The line between thinking for yourself and becoming your own prophet is a confusing one. 'We are false prophets to ourselves.' Wait, what? I wish I had no brain. I wish I didn't have to think about everything so much."

I can't blame this girl entirely, I don't even know her name. But ever since that day, my downward spiral into serious doubt and the personal crisis of faith I experienced in the foyer outside Multipurpose Room One, I have been struggling.

Sometimes I wish I had not served a mission for this very reason. Don't get me wrong, it was the greatest, most important experience of my life. But by the same token, I think I would be simpler, more credulous, and therefore happier if I had not gone. It would be easier for me to believe without questioning. Ignorance is bliss etc.

Before my mission, I was happy to obey rules for their own sake: not always, but more often than not. I recall one time when I wore a pair of athletic shorts to the grocery store because I didn't feel like getting dressed. Wearing shorts above the knee is against the stringent BYU Honor Code, of course, and it technically applies on campus or off--you know, all of the time. I was talking to a friend on the phone while I was walking home that night, and laughingly mentioned that I was "breaking the Honor Code" because of my outfit. Rather than laughing with me as I expected, she responded with horror. "How could you do something like that? You promised you wouldn't."

That sentence, "You promised you wouldn't," is a fairly apt summary of almost the entire Honor Code at BYU. We were asked to kick boys out after midnight and not dye our hair unusual colors not because those things were against the Commandments or even inherently wrong, but because we had been asked not to. Before I was a missionary, that actually worked for me. If someone said to me, "Hey! That's against the Honor Code," I would blanch with embarrassment. It was that easy. Even though I knew in my heart that most of the rules were arbitrary and silly, I still obeyed them.

Lots of people argue that BYU standards or standards like unto them are helpful because they keep you so far from sinning that it never even becomes an issue. Like, if breaking the Law of Chastity is a tree, the Honor Code is a fence around the said tree. I would argue that it's an electric fence and plenty of people who aren't even meaning to get near that tree are regularly and consistently burned by it. Anyway.

When I was a missionary, my distaste for rules took on horrifying new proportions. I was a good missionary, for the record. I worked hard and loved the people and helped my companions. But the idea of "Perfect Obedience" was never my priority. Lots of missionaries would run down the sidewalk in order to make it back to their apartments by 9PM. I walked. I sometimes wore t-shirts with my skirts instead of the requisite blouses. One time, I kissed a 90 year-old man on the cheek. So you see, I may have lived on the edge by mission standards, but I was still a good person. Obeying the rules to the point that I managed to, even, was exhausting. And don't worry, as a former Catholic, I beat myself up real bad about any indiscretions, real or imagined.

My last few transfers in the country I was fed up. I was exhausted and was starting to feel that maybe I (or rather, my lack of obedience) wasn't the real problem here. I started looking at the rules and listening to what other missionaries said about obedience and I couldn't help thinking to myself, "That can't be right." There was a woman in my last area who was only a few years older than me, and she had three young children that I am positive she neglected most of the time. Her youngest son was six months old. I should note here that one of the highly emphasized rules for missionaries is that we are not supposed to hold babies or children. Anyway, one Sunday in my last transfer, I went out into the hallway during Sunday School and heard what sounded like a baby crying. Upon further investigation, I saw that this idiot woman had left her son in his stroller outside the building. In the snow. The baby was screaming his head off, and the other missionaries and I were the only ones in the hallway.

I said to one of the Elders, "Eff this" (or something to that effect) and brought the baby inside. I held him for the rest of the hour. And I'd do it again. So would Jesus, I can assure you.

Probably someone I don't know will comment on this entry and argue, "Well, WHAT IF something horrible had happened because you held that baby? The purpose of these rules is to keep bad things from happening, ever." My response to that is, just like with good things, if God wants a bad thing to happen or not happen, it is going to happen either way. I have spent many years trying to avoid becoming a sign-seeker, trying not to see God as a hallway monitor with a big sheet of paper on which he marks my pluses and minuses. I stubbed my toe? Must be because my prayers this morning were insufficient. That light turned green really fast! That is because I pay my tithing. God doesn't work that way. He is much cooler than that.

Part of me still wonders if maybe I have insufficient faith and that's why I have such a hard time being perfectly obedient. But I don't think so. Rather, I think the real problem here is that sometimes God says, "Thou Shalt Not Kill," and sometimes He says, "Take That Guy By The Hair And With His Own Sword Cut Off His Head." Sometimes the right thing to do is to tell the absolute truth and obey all orders without questioning, and sometimes the right thing to do is disobey the direct orders of a king and then lie to him about it (Thanks, James). I'm not saying that God is the problem here, for the record. But I am saying that trying to apply the same rule to every different situation in existence is oversimplifying. It doesn't work.

Here is my real problem. I can get away with holding the occasional baby or wearing a tank top to the beach (before I was endowed, obviously) but what about the big stuff? I'm still, for all intents and purposes, in favor of Gay Marriage, despite what has been said about it. I've prayed and studied and all that jazz but I still don't have a testimony of Thomas S. Monson, mostly because of Prop. 8, unfortunately. I don't think he's NOT a prophet, but I wouldn't follow him into the wilderness for 40 years, either.

I worry about talking about this with anyone because I feel the reaction would go one of two ways:

1. Horror that I have let my salvation be jeopardized so badly/concern that I am beset by sin so badly as to be beyond repair.

2. Shock that I have stayed in the Church this long and that maybe I should just abandon ship.

Fact: I am not leaving the Church anytime soon. I like it. I believe in God and I enjoy being religious. Also, I really really love going to the Temple and my understanding is that once you leave the Church you can't go to the Temple anymore. Also fact: I am unsure as to what to do next. People are going to tell me to pray. I do that. Study. I do that too. No, no, STUDY SOME MORE. Which seems to be the only thing left.

In that journal entry I mentioned earlier, I started very reasonably and methodically laying out what my life would be like if I did leave the Church. I would get my nose pierced, for one. And ... that was pretty much it. Even if I didn't belong to any organized religion, I would still believe in God. I believed in God before I was Mormon so it makes no sense to stop now. Additionally, I am pretty solid about Joseph Smith and the Book of Mormon being true, so even if I weren't participating actively in the Mormon Church, I would still believe in everything. It's the details of the doctrine that leave me floundering, not the doctrine itself. Ergo, it makes no sense whatsoever for me to stop being Mormon just because I have a few hang-ups about some very specific issues.

Even though I am solid about not leaving the Church now or ever, I am completely baffled re: what to do next. Luckily for me, I went to a Fireside last night and one of the speakers struck me as someone who might be a kindred spirit. She was a feminist doula who talked about sexuality and the Priesthood and all these cool things, and I decided I wanted her to be my friend. I talked to her very briefly and got her email address, so hopefully our conversations can shed some light on how one manages to be a thinking member of the Church without losing one's mind.

If that doesn't work, I suppose I will try something else.

On Love. All kinds.

I love this song. I love her hair.

I don't always like the feeling she is singing about.

Loving people is scary. It hurts way too much of the time. Often it makes me wish I had no feelings. Today I watched a video of the song that dear Colin Hatch wrote for one Gregory Vann's birthday, and I began to miss my friends in Utah so much that I started shaking.

Hate it hate it hate it.

Damn you, Southwest, you won't be holding onto those cancelled tickets for long.

You blew up my car. I LOVED that car.

Once upon a time I was working full-time as a nanny. I had just gotten back from my mission and I was deeply unhappy. My days were spent commuting in the snow, taking care of children and sitting in my room. I had no friends. This is starting to sound a lot more pathetic than it actually was, for although I was lonely and sad most of the time, that kind of solitude only makes one more appreciative of all the things one can do alone. I started working in the temple. I went for runs. Nobody pulled me out of that darkness. I pulled myself out. Then, fortunately, I made some of the best friends I have ever had, and that was incredible.

During the course of my pulling-myself-from-abyss time, I decided I wanted to buy a car. This is harder than it sounds when one is working off the books and lived in a foreign country without employment for the previous year or so. I talked to some people and they were sympathetic but ultimately unhelpful. I remember the following evening well. It was a weekday and I decided to pray about buying a car, which probably sounds ridiculous. Whatever. I totally did it anyway.

The prayer went a little something like this. It will sound quite casual and perhaps irreverent to your ears, but that's just how I pray.

"Hey, God. So I've been thinking I want to buy a car. I'm working now and I definitely think I can afford it. My commute is currently an hour and a half both ways and if I were to get a car it would probably only be about ten minutes. That would save me a lot of time and I have better things to do. At least, I'm pretty sure I do. Also, I promise if I had a car I would use it to serve others. I think people other than just me would benefit. And I could drive to church when the rest of my house is ready to leave and I am not instead of just staying home. Essentially, we would all win if I had a car. I have no idea how this could possibly happen since apparently I don't qualify for like a loan or anything because of my mission--thanks a lot for that, by the way ... just kidding!!! Anyway, I feel this would be a good thing but I can't make it happen on my own. Thanks for listening."

I kid you not, the NEXT DAY my father called me and said that my godmother was looking to sell her old car, and would I be interested in buying her old Kia?

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

This solidified my belief that God listens to my prayers even though the things I say are often kind of stupid. This probably also explains why I frequently offered to lend my car to friends in need. It was part of the bargain.

My godmother smokes several packs a day, and I don't think my car ever REALLY stopped smelling like cigarettes. My friends claimed that they didn't notice, but I think they were just being kind. Also, another previous owner was a pothead who had driven the car into the ocean (true story) and so the engine had some pretty bizarre salt-water damage, which is worse than regular water damage. I spilled a big thing of grape juice on the passenger seat when I was trying to drive to a party for the kids in my Middle English class with the dog in the car (bad idea). And I scraped the passenger door pretty badly when I tried to back into the narrow driveway at my first house. I was out of practice, having not driven in several years + being blind in one eye has always made me a poor judge of distance.

However, this car was paid off by me. I OWNED it. It was the first grown-up thing of value that I actually owned. Which was a crazy feeling. I assumed that I would drive it until it died, or until I decided to move somewhere where owning a car would be practical, such as New York City, or anywhere abroad. Although it was a depreciating asset, I had an ASSET, for crying out loud. So even though it was kinda musty and full of dog hair and such, I did love that car.

And I suppose, technically, one could argue that I did in fact drive it until it died.

Poor baby car.

I don't remember exactly what happened. What I can remember is that I was driving my car on northbound I-5, and I looked down for a split second, then I looked up again, and there was a car right in front of me that appeared to be stopped. I later learned that it wasn't stopped, but that's physics for you. Anyway, there was a loud crash and then I heard nothing, and then through the smoke I saw the car in front of me drive away (in my shock, I thought that was because his car was completely undamaged, which of course wasn't true). I sat there for a minute and stared at my smoking hood, realizing that there was no way I would be able to drive my car even to the side of the road. So I reached for my phone and dialed 9-1-1.

Apparently, it's a big unusual to report your own accident, presumably because most people are either too injured or too disoriented to call anyone. Or they can't locate their phones. I thought about calling my dad after I got off the phone with the 911 operator, but that's a phone call nobody wants to make. "Hey, parents? I just crashed my car on the highway and I'm waiting for the ambulance to take me to the ER. There's not really anything you do at this point, though. Bye!" So I just sat there and waited and thought to myself, shit. My car is broken. And I crashed my car like a stupid teenager. This is so humiliating. And then I cried.

I did not cry because I was grateful to be alive. I want to make that perfectly clear. I cried because I had owned something that made me an adult and then ruined it in a very un-adult fashion. And because I was embarrassed. I really don't think I have ever felt so stupid. I should note, though, one thing I did that was not stupid was turn on my emergency flashers. Even though they were on, it is an absolute miracle that nobody hit me from behind while I was waiting for the ambulance to come.

An ambulance came. The EMT was about my age and asked if I knew what year it was. Then she asked who the president was. I laughed. A state trooper opened my passenger side door and asked me some more questions. Someone else strapped a neckbrace to my head. A firefighter asked if I had any allergies, seizures, blackouts, did I use drugs, was I on any medication. No, no, no. Just an idiot. They wouldn't let me walk to the ambulance. I had to be carried on one of those board things. Another firefighter taped my hair to the board.

In the back of the ambulance it was just me and the EMT who arrived first and asked me what year it was. A state trooper stepped in and informed me they would be issuing me a ticket. I almost said something rude but I held my tongue. We drove to Harborview without any sirens. While we were in route to the hospital, I started laughing hysterically, then crying again. It must have been kind of unnerving. The EMT kept telling me to take deep breaths, which was a bummer for her because I almost always hyperventilate when I cry. She put me on oxygen.

Triage at Harborview is always really crazy. I lay on the stretcher in the waiting room and signed consent forms. One of them asked about what religion I was. Then the rolled me into another room with some other people who also looked like they had been in car accidents. Lots of doctors. They kept poking me and asking me to evaluate my pain level on a scale of one to ten. Apparently, if I had exaggerated just a tiny bit, I could have gotten some cool narcotics. Oh well.

By this time I had figured out that I probably wasn't hurt very badly and I just wanted to go home. Oh yeah, and I called my dad from the bed. I had always thought that cell phone usage was forbidden inside hospitals. Not true! Anyway, they put me on an IV and did a bunch of CAT scans and X-rays. It wasn't painful except (TMI) after the IV was in for a while I had to pee really badly and learned how to use a bedpan. That was cool. Also, (MAJOR TOTAL TMI) did you know that one of the ways they determine whether there is any paralysis in the lower back is through a rectal exam? It's true.

They put some morphine into my IV and suddenly, I was very very grateful to be alive. I realized that had there just been a few more inches of intrusion into the car or if my airbag hadn't deployed properly, or if someone behind me had been as spacey as I had been, I would almost certainly be dead. What would have happened if I had died? I ruminated. It would have been sort of anticlimactic, I think. I haven't even done anything cool. But maybe the Dead Girl's Blog would have been published. That would be neat. But my parents would have cleaned out my room and found a lot of embarrassing things. These were my actual thoughts.

I don't think I need to be the one to tell you that the damage is irreparable. The damage to my car, that is. My body is surprisingly fine. Some bruises and soreness, but overall alive, well, un-paralyzed. Apparently I am some degree of invincible, because I got into a serious car accident on the highway and I DIDN'T DIE. Of course, one never knows when one has fulfilled all of one's destiny and can safely die in a fiery car crash, so I won't be pushing the "Invincible Elisa" thing too far, I promise you.

In case you were wondering, I talked to the guy I hit on Friday, and he is fine. He didn't even have to go to the hospital. His car is totaled as well, though his damage wasn't nearly as bad (it was an SUV, but an older one). He was gracious and understanding and my insurance seems to be taking pretty good care of him. Additionally, I am very grateful that his kids weren't in the back of the car on Thursday. I would never have forgiven myself for that.

I hate to reference specific companies on my blog because I don't receive revenue from anyone, but indulge me in saying that the people at Geico have been extremely kind, helpful and understanding. They are covering my medical expenses and giving me a small amount of money for a new crappy car. Bless their corporate hearts.

It's great to be alive, you guys.

This song is only sort of related. I just really like it.

HALLOWEEN BOX

A big part of my life since I moved back in with my ailing, infirm father is attempting to subdue/organize/donate to charity all of the MOUNDS of crap that have accumulated in the house for the past few decades we have lived here, without him noticing. It is an epic amount of crap, and I say crap in its truest non-scatological sense: this is stuff that ought to be discarded or given to someone else, that serves no purpose whatsoever for anyone who lives here. Right now I am living in the "Kids' Room", which David and I shared until I got boobs and he started asking embarrassing questions (remember, we are seven years apart), then it was my room only, then David's room only when I moved to the attic, then it was shared by Carlos and David, then it belonged only to Carlos. Now it is mine, and due to its many past occupants, it is filled to the brim with Kid Stuff. In the course of my subtle attempts to organize and clean this room I am currently residing in, I have been able to get rid of lots of things without my dad noticing. HIS NOT NOTICING is vital to the plan because if he sees me carting any bags or boxes out the door to take to DI, he will inevitably go through said containers and insist that the McDonald's toys/games with vital pieces missing/clothes that fit no one are somehow ESSENTIAL TO OUR LIVES AND CANNOT BE THROWN OUT.

I love my dad, for the record. But this drives me INSANE.

I have (please do not tell my father this) been able to stealthily eliminate over ten boxes of useless junk to DI while my dad was at work, asleep or otherwise away. It makes me feel like a superhero, and I've got big plans for the rest of the house, so watch out.

One reward of going through boxes that haven't seen the light of day in years is that you can find cool stuff. Some of it is cool enough to keep or donate to a really specific cause (like my boxes of Japanese children's books that I saved when I thought I would one day want to teach my children Japanese) but most of it I am comfortable smiling at nostalgically and then unceremoniously KICKING IT TO THE CURB. Literally.

Then again, sometimes I find stuff that is SO TOTALLY WICKED that I want to share it with the world.

Like the Halloween Box, AKA the Box of Awesome.

I assume every family had a Halloween box--a box of costume pieces left over from weird school projects and the costumes of former years. Because I am the eldest and the only girl, most of the costumes in the Halloween Box are kinda boy-centric. Some of this stuff, I seriously have no idea where it came from.

Below is a short video I just made in tribute to the Halloween Box. Stay tuned for the entire minute and twelve seconds because the last costume is FOR SURE the most terrifying.





Now I am going to take that box to the DI, where it can bring joy/terror to more children, Brave Little Toaster style.

Oh, and the music is "Satan's Bed" by Pearl Jam.