Today is Father's Day. I get to that at the end.

I should definitely mention that I went to a SIFF documentary screening with Allen, who clearly knows what he's doing in terms of how to win my eternal loyalty. The topic of the doc: Kevin Clash, creator of Elmo from Sesame Street. And of course, we all know how I feel about that show, and puppets in general.

The documentary was remarkably similar in theme and scope to his recent-ish memoir, My Life as a Furry Red Monster (see my not-very-helpful review of that here). But there were some very cool video clips and a tour of the Muppet Studio that were amazing. Furthermore, Muppetry is such a visual medium that Kevin's life story ought to have been a documentary in the first place. I loved seeing him at the screening, and the movie was fun. I only cried a little bit.

I don't know what else to say about it, really. To be blunt, Clash seems like a bit of a workaholic--a well-meaning one, to be sure. On the other hand, is any genius NOT a workaholic, someone devoted to their creations at the expense of all else? Is that the price? And even if you don't think Elmo is that great a character, you have to admit that his status as a cultural phenomena is pretty incredible, and it didn't happen by accident. It was engineered in large part by Kevin Clash, and a lot of the projects related to puppeteering and development of Sesame Street in general can be attributed to Kevin. He's been at it for decades.

One of the more poignant moments was seeing Kevin Clash at his teenage daughter's birthday party. He was clearly giving everything he had to make her party incredibly memorable (a video of celebrities wishing her happy birthday, a cake that looked like it belonged at a Sesame Street-themed wedding) but I, at least (not sure if the viewer was meant to) could sense a detachment from father to child, greater than the usual distance between a teenage girl and her parents. Maybe I was reading too much into it.

On the other hand, if millions of children benefit at the expense of one visionary's family and friends, is that 100% horrible? Do we cluck our tongues at famous scientists who never see their families because they're too busy working on a cure for cancer? It's tricky, because some causes take an entire self, with nothing left.

I remember when my dad was working on a case that took him away from home whenever he wasn't at work. He would either be gone or in his office until 1 or 2 in the morning. The case never went anywhere, either, and it wasn't exactly noble--some sort of revenge on a former client that way way south. My point is, that was the last time I remember feeling somewhat sad that my dad wasn't around much (I was in high school). Ever since then, he's been around a lot, even if we don't want him to be. He hasn't always been the kind of dad you write blog posts about. But he has been around. I guess that's good?

I know this isn't a really platinum endorsement. Reminiscent of this Vonnegut quote, yes?

"If I die, and I hope I don't, I want my tombstone to read, "Someone. Sometime to sometime. He tried."

I going to go out on a limb and say it's better to have a dad who tried than none at all.

Not Being Naked: day 15

I put on clothes today, guys!! A dress, even.

black t-shirt + black leggings + short red dress + no shoes = 10/10 for comfort and bliss

Things I am Thankful for:

1. My badass family

2. My beautiful friends

3. Good music

4. Star Wars

5. Tofurkey

6. Jim Henson

7. Sego

8. Podcasts

9. Texting

10. Hot water

11. Cuddling

12. Jesus

13. Snow days

14. Being barefoot

15. Scrabble

16. Books

17. Missions

18. Persimmons

19. Lists

20. Everything

Being in Pajamas: day 2

I am so sorry about this. I didn't get dressed today, either.

Excuses:

1. There is too much snow to drive anywhere (remember, we live on a hill).
2. Vacation is all about doing things you would not have time to do otherwise.

This is what passes for "things to do"

(sitting on couches, eating, watching movies, dog snuggling)

This is what passes for "getting dressed"

This is what passes for "hair"

Happy Ante-Thanksgiving, everybody!

On weddings.

I used to dread my own wedding. I am not much one for "special days," if that makes any sense, mostly because of the added pressure for everything to be perfect that often leads to everyone freaking out instead of enjoying the special day, which was the purpose of the special day to begin with. I always assumed that weddings cannot be fun--at least not for the bride and groom. They are usually too tired and stressed and stretched to the limit to remember anything, let alone enjoy it.

However, last night I went to my cousin's wedding, and I remembered why special days are actually kind of nice. The bride and groom actually seemed to be enjoying themselves.

She looked beautiful. He was wearing a suit. Everybody in my family was there and dressed up and sitting together. Another cousin read a poem. Another made a drunken toast. We ate hummus and dolma and feta cheese and did a Turkish dance in a circle. Everybody got drunker and drunker and danced more and more stupidly (including me, though I was not drunk) and it was just a big, crazy party.

I know I have been writing a lot about how badass and gorgeous and fantastic my family is, but that is because it is true.

Also, I am TOTALLY playing this song on my wedding slideshow.

Fam Damily.

Do you like MC Frontalot? I do. I especially like this song. It amuses me that I am sharing it here.

Great, yes? Nerdcore fills my soul.

So there are various genres of bad blogs, if you will, but one of my least favorites is the "album"-style blog, which consists exclusively of photos from personally significant events (usually vacations or some such) with minimal commentary, and no word-based posts to break the monotony of facefacefacebuildingbuildingSILLYfaceOMGSOBORING. Some people should just start a Flickr account, know what I'm saying?

If you think I am talking about you, I am not.

Anyway, I went on vacation last week and I regret to inform you that I am going to post some pictures now. Don't worry, though, I will also post some stories to keep things interesting.

The stories and the picture are not going to match most of the time. What, you think I need to post a photo of me white-water rafting if I am already GOING TO TELL YOU ABOUT IT IN VIVID DETAIL WITH MY WORDS? I don't have to prove anything to you through photographic evidence. I'm not a freakin' journalist.

Ahem. Last week we had a family reunion at the Skalitude Retreat in Methow Valley, WA. It's in Carlton if you know where that is. You don't? Well, Carlton is kinda near Winthrop? Still no? Well, it's like three hours northeast-ish of Seattle. It has trees, but rattlesnakes, so it's like this weird mix of Western Washington and Eastern Washington. The retreat center had cabins with showers and electricity, but solar power and composting toilets, so it was also this weird mix of living large like swanky vacationers and being green. It used to be a commune. Also, lots of us slept in tents, so it was kind of like camping.

I should preface this by saying that my extended family is quite close, and we actually enjoy spending time together, and so a family reunion for us is something to be looked forward to rather than dreaded. I have anecdotal evidence that this is somewhat unusual.

We were there from Saturday to Friday. It was very pleasant.

David and I drove there all by ourselves like big kids.

David is driving here.

We brought Sego along with us, too. Here is a photo series about Sego's attitude on long car trips.

I get to go on a car ride? I promise to be very very good.

Seriously, we're not there yet?

We're never going to get there, are we? Not ever ever.

Luckily, Sego can't talk, so he can't complain. This is a rare instance where Kids = 0, Dogs = +1.

Volleyball

One of the main pastimes of Koler Family Reunions is the playing of volleyball. Nobody in my family is all that good at volleyball, and yet because we are as a general rule pretty competitive people, most of the volleyball tournament players are out for blood. Even myself, even though I suck at volleyball (having two eyes would up my advantages some). I like winning, and I would say the team I played on won about 50% of the time, which isn't bad. My trash talk, however, was awesome 100% of the time.

We played boys versus girls, shirts (or bras) versus skins, and random selection games. I got noticeably better at setting after an errant hit knocked over someone's beer and pandemonium ensued. Many of my family members gave me some HOT TIPS and explained some of the rules that I had never really understood, so overall the daily volleyball playing was a success. Also, there were millions of flies that landed on our bare skin and made us feel like barnyard animals while we played. They didn't bite, they were just annoying.

Fact: I am good at serving.

Here are some photos of the meadow where we played volleyball and where I walked Sego on a regular basis until I heard a rattlesnake one day and got a little paranoid about him being bitten. He basically had the best vacation ever. No leashes, three other dogs to play with, and lots of attention from kids and adults alike.

Remember that one week in August when I lived on a commune with my family and went for a walk every day in a gorgeous meadow? Yeah, me too. Also, I have since cleaned my camera lens.

Rafting and Trauma

I had never been white water rafting before, but David and my dad had been a few times (boy scouts). Two of my cousins are actually licensed river guides, so we got to go rafting for cheap and I got to be yelled at for my bad paddling form by a relative instead of a stranger. Paddling a raft is really counter-intuitive, I feel. Maybe I have just spent too much time in a canoe. I think I need to go a few more times before paddling will make sense to me kinesthetically.

Despite my lack of paddling prowess, rafting was extremely fun until the last fifteen minutes of the trip. Until then we were all enjoying the sun on our skin and watching the kids pull the adults into the water and float around in their life jackets. Then suddenly we approached some rapids that we weren't expecting and all but seven of us were out of the boats. There wasn't any time to reach the people who were in the water, so they had to just float through. Watching my eleven year-old cousin's head go underwater in a rapid two or three times scared the SHIT out of me. Luckily he was fine except for some bruises. He was actually the least panicked of all of us.

A couple of the adults who weren't as buoyant as the kids got banged up a little more. My uncle who is a doctor got the worst of it. I don't think he'll be going white water rafting again anytime soon.

Aside from the fifteen minutes of sheer terror and thinking that my uncle was dead when we pulled him into the boat and he had his eyes closed, it was a successful trip? Is it sick that I really do want to go again?

This is not the river we went rafting in, but it is a river.

We Have Angered the River Gods

So after that kinda scary day of rafting, we thought we would recover the next day by doing something quiet and relaxing in the river. Apparently, the river sprites do not like my family.

We planned to drive a couple miles up the river, park our cars, and then float down the river in rafts and inner tubes until we reached the swimming hole where the little kids and less adventurous adults would be hanging out. The only problem is, we couldn't find a place alongside the river to park, so we ended up driving a little further than we planned.

My cousin from Sweden and I were in a raft together, and while we floated along we had a great chat about pretty much everything you can think of. We had a pretty nice raft so we ended up getting ahead of everyone else (who were in inner tubes and a sucky raft, respectively). At one point, we realized that we had been in the water much longer than the two hours that we had planned, and my aunt mentioned that she and I ought to paddle ahead and send someone with a car to pick everyone else up.

Pretty soon she and I were floating in the raft alone, with no end in sight, with no food or water or other people. I don't remember what else happened because we were both delirious with the heat.

Eventually we arrived at our destination after over four hours. We were both really sick, but luckily another cousin gave us the clothes off his back (literally) and someone else brought us hummus and beer (because beer will hydrate you! wait ... ).

I do not think I will do another activity involving boating in rivers for a few months.

Aftermath

If you know me, you know that I hardly ever complain of being hot. I am almost always cold. So when I woke up at midnight the night after River Fiasco the Second because I was too hot to sleep, I knew something was really wrong. I went to the kitchen and drank a glass of tonic water, a glass of juice and ate slice of watermelon. My cousin who is an EMT came in, felt my forehead and determined that I pretty much needed to poison myself with water to make my fever go away.

We went outside and watched the meteor shower and drank insane amounts of water and talked. He pulled out a joint after a couple of hours, which made the conversation even more entertaining. At about four in the morning, we determined that my fever was gone and I could go back to sleep.

I love that there are so many people who take care of me.

That pretty much sums it all up.

Merry Mattmas.

An old friend from BYU is crashing on my floor futon this evening. He missed the first ferry from Port Orchard so he won't be arriving until after midnight. We are going to rise uncomfortably early and take the light rail to the airport/work together.

Carlos is so excited he is sleeping on the floor in front of the front porch, like he's waiting for Santa Claus.

My Favorite People, Days 6 & 7 (combined): My Brothers

My brothers: a free-association photo essay.

1. Sports
2. Faces.
3. Christmas.

4. Monkeys
5. 'Tude.

I could apologize for the extra-long blogging hiatus and express relief that this silly goal is now over (lesson: goals are for chumps), but I'm not gonna. Now I can write about whatever I want. Thank God Almighty I am free at last.

Note: the scanner is broken so stay tuned for an installment of "My Mom Was Awesome" at a later date.

A much, much, later date.

I Can't Believe I Haven't Blogged About X, Day 2: Science Fiction

This may shock you, because it kinda shocked me, but I have NEVER WRITTEN ANYTHING ABOUT SCIENCE FICTION ON MY BLOG. This is one of those massive, embarrassing oversights that needs to be corrected, STAT. It's true, I have mentioned offhand my love of Star Wars and Star Trek a couple times, but, much like my ode to sandwiches yesterday, which I hope you all enjoyed (And thanks for the recipe, Aims!) I have not yet given my love of science fiction its due. So, here it is.

I love any movie or television series that is set in space. Or any movie that centers around science fiction, however remotely. You know Hugh Dancy's character in The Jane Austen Book Club? Pretty much my dream dude.

My family didn't have a lot of traditions when I was growing up. At least, not ones that I can remember. However, one weekly tradition that I still recall with fondness was sitting together in our living room and watching Star Trek: the Next Generation every week. My parents got the off-white couch that was actually a hide-a-bed (which was so heavy that we cursed its existence every time we moved ... which was often) and I got the green bean bag chair which was filled with ACTUAL BEANS. Around season five of the show, the beans started leaking out and driving my mother crazy. She took to vacuuming during the closing theme each week.

Non-believers will mock me for saying this, but Star Trek really does have something for everyone. In any given episode of TNG, there was usually a romantic/human interest subplot and an action/adventure subplot. There would be moments of humor and tenderness and tension all packed into one glorious hour. My dad is very much a heavy-handed crime show/sci-fi kind of guy, whereas my mom leans much more towards light-hearted mystery novels and romantic comedies. At the time, I was like six and enjoyed anything with interesting-looking people that I could pretend to be on the playground. We all thoroughly enjoyed Star Trek. It was a really, really good show.

I never watched Star Trek: the Original Series, but I watched Next Generation and Voyager faithfully. My parents were really into Deep Space Nine, but when that show was on the air I was too immature to understand the slightly more mature thematic elements that characterized DS9, and was thus easily bored by it. By the time Enterprise came along, I was living on my own without a television. I would say that my love of Star Trek lay dormant for many years, for although I watched the one season I had of it on DVD when no one else was home (until an insane klepto roommate made off with it a few years ago) I never really admitted to liking Star Trek in public. Then, one day, I saw this preview at the Cinemark 16 in Provo, Utah and I very nearly pissed my pants with excitement. J.J. Abrams, I may not love all you do, man (*cough cough LOST cough cough*) but thank you, good sir, for making Star Trek sexy again. Assuming it ever was.

The truth is, I have always really loved and admired the Star Trek universe, and by extension all Science Fiction universes, even though some of its most ardent devotees are admittedly kinda crazy. My dad made me watch Star Wars on a fairly regular basis as a child because he felt I was too "full of passion" (probably true) and needed to be reminded of the danger of succumbing to pure emotions such as anger. He also made me meditate all the time. I wish I were joking. Perhaps this tainted my fond memories of Star Wars with a little bit of daddy issues, but I still really enjoy the movies, so don't worry. I plan to continue the Thanksgiving tradition I totally stole from my Provo family (specifically Ekitzel) of watching all three Star Wars movies after Thanksgiving dinner (the original theatrical versions, for crying out loud). Future husband, you have been warned.

I think the reason why Star Trek appeals to me slightly more than Star Wars is that it is more orderly and humane, and thus a lot less realistic. Everything in the Star Trek world is clean and generally peaceful, and even when people die, there isn't any blood. That was the kind of life I craved during my topsy turvy childhood. Star Wars is messy and scuffed and people are just as complex and greedy as they are in real life. It was still escapist, mind you, but slightly less so. In the Star Trek future they don't even have money! It's a liberal dreamland!

Oh, my gosh. Is Star Trek the reason I became a Socialist?

Star Trek is the future I wish for, even though Star Wars is the future we are more likely to get.

Moms.

Have you heard of StoryCorps? I had heard of them but wasn't really aware of what they did until someone passed along to me this video, which started out as a story on NPR until StoryCorps animated it.

Q&A from StoryCorps on Vimeo.

It's a great interview. I love moms.

Moses Lake, I love you but you're bringing me down.

After a rather stressful week, if I say so myself, things took a turn for the better when I drove up to Spokane this morning and picked up my brother. He is done with his freshman year of college and will be home for four months, and he is like my best friend, so that is pretty much the best news ever.

On the way home, in Moses Lake, because we are awesome, we stopped by this random record shop where they had a bin of CDs for ONE DOLLAR. Many of these were the WORST CDs YOU CAN IMAGINE.

We agreed that we would each choose several CDs and purchase them, and the rule was WE HAD TO LISTEN TO THEM ALL THE WAY THROUGH NO MATTER HOW BAD THEY WERE.

Some of them, however, we bought just because they were so awesome.

Here were David's picks:

Monty Python Live at City Center, 1976. This was a really funny CD even if it was a lousy recording. We had to keep adjusting the volume at weird intervals. But, you get what you pay for.

Ray Charles, Genius & Friends, 2005. This one was mostly for our dad.

Johnny Cash, Ragged Old Flag, 1974. Um, how could you NOT buy this CD, I ask you?

And here were my picks. I was a little more adventurous.

Deep Blue Something, Home, 1995. Remember that song, Breakfast at Tiffany's? Well, I do.

Batman Forever soundtrack, also from 1995. The Offspring, Massive Attack, Seal, Nick Cave. Delicious.

Sabrina the Teenage Witch soundtrack, 1998. Apparently I was in a very 90s mood today. Also, CHECK OUT THAT LINE-UP. Additionally, I have fond memories of listening to this very soundtrack with Cori when we were younger, but still old enough to know better.

And, last but not least:

Lou Bega, A Little Bit of Mambo, 1999. This CD sucked even more than you imagine it sucks.

As you can imagine, it was a pleasant roadtrip. I feel like now that my brother is here, everything else will be OK.

This will explain a lot.

Anyone who is close to me has probably noticed that I fret about my friends' health and safety like a neurotic mother hen. Many people assume that I will be one of those overprotective mothers who won't let her children cross the street until college. I hope this will not be the case.

I like to think that I am only rattled by situations that are a genuine cause for concern. Real health hazards instead of imaginary ones. I mean, I let D jump on the couch, so I can be too bad, right?

Don't answer that.

I blame my father for my constant worrying about safety. The following conversation will illustrate why.

Scene: I have just gotten home from the dog park and am making some lunch. My dad comes downstairs from the attic.

Dad: I need your help installing some insulation.

Me: OK. Right now? I'd like to eat something first.

Dad: No, in a few minutes. I'm taking a break. (starts rubbing his eye)

Me: Is your eye OK?

Dad: Just some dust.

Me: (putting two and two together) Have you been wearing goggles?

Dad: I don't know where they are.

Me: What the hell? I am NOT helping you up there without goggles.

Dad: Oh, it's just dust!

Me: NO, IT'S NOT!!! IT'S FIBERGLASS!!!

Dad: You'll be fine!

Me: I am not risking getting fiberglass in my eye. No. Goggles. Where are they?

So he proceeded to find me some goggles, all the while grumbling about what a "baby" I am.

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

??????????????

WTF??!!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!!?

This is why I am deeply concerned about the physical welfare abut everyone who is dear to me. Because apparently my own father is cool with me installing insulation without regulation safety equipment. I mean GEEZ.

I LOVE YOU DAVID aka "We're either siblings, or friends who look nothing alike."

Here are the ingredients for a delightful evening.

Grapes.

Strawberries.

Local soda. Flavors: lemongrass, grape, root beer, and other.

Pigs in Blankets.*

*Mine are vegetarian. Please note that I marked mine with green food coloring to distinguish them from David's all-beef kosher franks. They look alike when cooked. Everyone in my family says that veggie hot dogs are vile, but I like them. They remind me of the nitrate-y taste of cheap meat that I love so much.

Movies.

Brother.

In my opinion, David and Christina should move to Seattle, pronto. That way almost everyone I loved could be in the same city. That's what I think.

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.

My History in Junk Food, part 1

1988

This was the year my aunt Cheryl visited my family from Sweden, with her husband Gunnar, an all-around terrific guy, and one I wish I had around more often. I remember him being much more funny than my other uncles, and more interesting to young children because he had a beard and liked to draw. He had the unique gift of being able to tease young children by being actually funny instead of cruel or condescending. He taught me how to draw realistic(-ish) looking clouds.

One night while the entire family was sitting around playing a board game or arguing politics, I noticed that Gunnar was eating a small carton of ice cream. He told me that it was coffee ice cream and that it was very expensive. Since he was a kind, childless, easy-going sort of uncle, he offered me a bite and it was the most delicious thing that I had ever eaten in my entire life. I remember feeling rather hyper for the rest of the evening, but that could have just been because I was four.

22 years and one baptism into the Mormon Church later, I still think coffee ice cream is the most delicious food item on the planet. This has led to approximately fifteen hours of difficult soul-searching, and I think three blog entries. Look it up.

1989

My favorite house that I ever lived in is only half a mile from where I live right now. I still drive past it every once in a while and admire it, the apple tree in the front yard, and the two-foot square window my father spent an entire weekend installing in the crawlspace so I could have a indoor playhouse. Most of my positive childhood memories are from that house even though we only lived there two or three years. It had a creek in the backyard.

It was also an ideal house for a five year-old because it was only two blocks away from a dingy, locally-owned money laundering operation wholesome corner grocery store that sold CANDY. LOTS AND LOTS OF CANDY. My equally health-conscious mother and I would often go for rejuvenating "walks" that ended up at that store. Because my favorite candy at the time was, of course, Gummy Worms, I called that little place "the worm store."

The summer of '89, one of my cousins was in town, who was a mature eight to my five. It being a simpler time, she and I got permission to walk to the Worm Store alone. We did not have any money with us, however. This is how I learned to shoplift.

We stole Gummy Worms, naturally, and for an extra dose of irony, candy cigarettes.

1991

My mother was pregnant. We lived in a different house, one with no real usable backyard, just a hill with dead grass, and no crawlspace. It was, by all accounts, an inferior house to the previous one. However, it had three bedrooms, and it it possible that our former house had not. I honestly can't remember.

The important thing is that my mom was pregnant. She is so tall and stately that she actually looked pretty good pregnant, in my opinion. She was so forgetful, though, that at seven years old I took charge of the housekeys sometimes and almost every week she drove away from the drive-through bank with that futuristic tube thing still in the car. Then we would have to drive through again to return it, so going to the bank always took twice as long.

Also, she craved borscht. I don't know if it really was a pregnancy-related food craving, or it it's just a coincidence that my memories of eating borscht with my mom also involve her being pregnant. Anyway, there used to be a little Russian diner on fifteenth right by our house (where the Ichi Bento is now) and I loved going there, not for the Russian food, but for the 1. onion rings and 2. ice cream sandwiches.

On no other occasion had I seen or eaten an ice cream sandwich, except at that little Russian diner. Until I was embarrassingly old, I actually thought they were a Russian food, an exotic import for the East. Whenever I craved an ice cream sandwich, I always asked my mom if we could go to the Russian diner, or later on, lamented its passing. Considering the weight problems I had as an adolescent, I think it's probably a good thing that I didn't know one can purchase ice cream sandwiches wherever cold confections are sold, until much later in life.

Parasymbology

I want a job, but I still haven't found one. In order to add to my piddling, hideously inadequate paragraph of qualifications, today I spent eight hours learning CPR and first aid by practicing on Red Cross manikins of varying sizes. The course covered infant, child and adult methods, so we got to practice pressing on little baby Claire's (apparently that was her name, according to my instructor) chest and creating a seal over her tiny nose and mouth in order to fill her minute lungs with air. It took only the slightest puff of air from my grown up lungs. The video instructor kept reiterating, ludicrously, I thought, to always keep in mind that "babies are very small." Yeah, duh, I thought smugly as we watched the video. But then when I really had to practice resuscitating an infant, it hit me--holy majoly, babies are really, REALLY small.

Also--and this is so pathetic I hesitate to write it, but it's important--I have forgotten how easy it is to let my mind and body assume that a plastic doll is an actual infant. I loved dolls as a kid, and played with my baby dolls in secret long after my friends had ditched them for make-up. While we were listening to Judy's instructions on infant CPR, I was unconsciously holding the manikin the same way I would hold a normal baby of about four months--back resting against the crook of my elbow, head leaning forward on my breast, my other arm circling the opposite way supporting her legs. Next to me, the cute nineteen year-old boy who had come with his father, twice stricken with heart attacks, started absently bouncing the baby doll on his knee. I looked around the room and everyone else was also holding his or her baby doll as if it were real--the burly mid-forties swim teacher, the mother of four who is hoping to start an in-home daycare, the woman about my age, perhaps younger, who is going to adopt a child. The only one who didn't seem to get in the spirit of holding Baby Claire was the security guard immediately to my left, who I think might have been mildly handicapped.

The really bizarre thing, even more bizarre than a room of reasonably educated adults playing with dolls on a Thursday afternoon, was how much I (consciously or unconsciously) enjoyed holding that manikin. I tried to send a text to Brooke explaining the scene and how it made me feel, but I couldn't whittle it down to 160 characters so I gave up. She is accustomed to me unloading my broodiness on her more often than I unload on anyone else I know, for she is one of the few people on this earth who doesn't think I'm freaky or obsessive or sad or pathetic or demented for liking children, for wanting children. Actually, she might think I am all those things and just hide it very well.

Here is the truth. I love babies. And not the way I love giraffes or penguins, although God knows I like those too. I have no illusions about how exhausting infants can be, and how terrifying and dangerous it is to be responsible for eight pounds of organs and nerves and skin that could go limp at any moment when you might have to use two fingers to pump oxygenated blood through their lilliputian body while trying not to break their little ribs. However, there are only two things I am good at. At least, good enough to be able to admit in public that I am good at them. Good enough to be able to say yes, I think this is one of my gifts. These two things are writing and taking care of children. This is a poorly written piece so please ignore the former, for now the latter is my matter of subject.

From the time I was about eight years old, when people asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I never had any fast opinions about it. Because, to be honest, the only thing in my head was who cares? I just want babies. Even amongst Mormons, it is not considered hip to like babies too much or talk too much about wanting children. Not because it's not expected, but rather because it's not really under your control, when or if it happens. Assuming too much about when you will get married and have children, or whether you will get married at all is dangerous. I have recently, in my old age (psh), come to the conclusion that in many ways, it is better to plan for the worst, a life of spinsterhood, and then be surprised when you somehow end up fulfilling your duty to the universe along the way. Better that than to sit on your hope chest all your life. Also, to tell others about how much I have disappointed myself in the past quarter century of life, how far my life is from what I had expected and hoped for, always sounds too sad to explain to others, especially when it connotes being somehow unwanted.

How did this end up being a post about being angry at God? It always comes down to that, though. I know God, and I know that He can deal with my anger just fine, so there are times when I just can't help throwing a little bitterness His way. I have never literally shaken my fists at the sky (that I can recall) but always my reaction, when I see a picture of another friend's baby or read another article from a parenting blog I still follow even though I am no longer a nanny (Embarrassing true confessions galore!). Sometimes I'm even jealous of my acquaintances who are stuck in miserable marriages because hey, at least they have kids. It's times like that when I can really let God have it, with words (in all caps) along the lines of HEY BUSTER HAVE I OFFENDED YOU IN SOME WAY? I MEAN REALLY? HOW IN THE HELL IS SHE MORE DESERVING OF CHILDREN THAN I AM? And so it goes. Of course, I am able to recognize the many ways in which I have been blessed. But that doesn't make it any easier when people I know, especially people I don't particularly like, kvetch about the difficulties of parenting small children. That's when I look up at the sky and say (again in all caps) SO THAT'S A CURSE HUH? WELL, SMITE ME, B*TCH!!!! Also, when people I know with children try to comfort me with words like Hey, it's not all fun and games. That's when I say OH WOW I KNOW THAT OKAY? Usually though, I just sort of grimace in response.

I can throw platitudes about patience and the Lord's time and all that jazz at myself even faster than other people can throw them at me, but the fact is, reassuring myself that someday MAYBE I will have children feels about as effective as telling a sick person about Heaven. Soothing in theory, but in the thick of the moment more frustrating than anything. It's much preferable to be cool--and oh! I really want to be cool!--and pretend that it doesn't bother me. That I have better things to do even though I am not sure what they are. One more shaken fist at Heaven for that, if you'll permit me.

If this is starting to sound like thousands upon thousands words worth of bitching, that's because it is. However, I don't think I have laid out my feelings on the matter in such an honest way before. It feels good. Still pathetic, but good.

You know what I was intending to write about tonight? This movie. I saw it at the Admiral and it was pretty good. Not what I expected, and I little absurd for my taste, but definitely enjoyable. Here is a quote from tonight's film that struck me, patched together from my memory and the internet:

“Your life is like a river. If you’re aiming for a goal that isn't your destiny, you will always be swimming against the current. Young Gandhi wants to be a stock car racer? Not gonna happen. Little Anne Frank wants to be a high school teacher? Tough titty Anne. That's not your destiny. But you will go on to move the hearts and minds of millions. Find out what your destiny is and the river will carry you. Sometimes events in life give an individual clues as to where their destiny lies."

It would, given everything I have just written and my mindset and the line about Anne Frank, who I assume wanted to grow up and have adventures and die in her sleep as much as I do, be easy for me to remember that quote and think to myself: OH SHIT*. Perhaps being a mother is not in the cards and I should just buy a tract of land and raise dalmatians.

I choose not to interpret the quote this way. Rather, that there are missions for each of us to fulfill in life, and sometimes things work out differently or not at all, and it all turns out OK. You recall my botched trip to Thailand. There was also the time in high school when I tried out for the school dance team and I was good, really good. Good enough, I thought, to make the team. Then I botched the audition and got rejected and hated myself. But a few weeks later while I was in Hawaii, I went swimming during a thunderstorm and busted my knee when a wave threw me onto a rock. So I wouldn't have been able to dance, anyway.

I still get notices from that hospital in Hawaii every once in a while informing me that my bill is paid in full.

I am currently choosing to believe that everything that has happened to me so far will eventually lead to all the things I have wanted all my life, but perhaps will be better or (certainly) more appreciated because of all the time I spent anticipating them. Like getting to eat ice cream for a week after getting your wisdom teeth out!

My mother made terrible analogies, my children will say.

*I know I've been working on the cussing thing. It's a process. Allow me this one indulgence, will you? Thanks. Also, please note that I starred the other cuss because I only wanted to do eight minutes of abs tomorrow. I have a busy day planned.

Conversation.

Me: Remember that one week where all we did was hang out and eat pizza and In N Out and watch Star Trek and the Simpsons?
My brother: Thanksgiving?
Me: No! Now!
My brother: Oh. But that's all we ever do, right?
Me: Yeah.
My brother: Yeah.

Oh please don't go! We'll eat you up, we love you so!

Note: This my super biased, slightly smug review of the new film Where the Wild Things Are. If you don't like reviews that give away the plot, do not read this, because I give away pretty much everything. Don't say I didn't warn you.

I don't like Spike Jonze. To be fair, I don't hate him either: I have seen one of his skate movies, as a matter of fact (Thank you, skater brothers) and I like the work he's done with the Beastie Boys. However, this is mostly because in my view, the Beastie Boys can do no wrong. But that's neither here nor there. Especially since I've changed my tune in the past twenty four hours.

Anyway, when I heard that Spike Jonze was slated to direct a film adaptation of Where the Wild Things Are, a brilliant book with a strikingly relevant yet minimalist plot, I along with the rest of humanity knew that this film could go one of two ways: beauty and heart wrenching, or unadulterated suckiness.

Sleep well, dear children. It's an awesome movie.

The movie starts out with some tidy backstory, and this may well be the first time mere exposition in a film has made me cry. Max (Played by the seriously-is-that-a-pseudonym-or-what Max Records) is an imaginative, rowdy kid who chases the family dog around in the first scene, and is then shown building a snow fort in a generic New England-ish cul-de-sac. Most of the film is shot at Max's eye level, using hand-held cameras, which helps you see Max's universe the way he sees it: the entrance to the snow fort isn't just a hole in a pile of snow, it's a sanctuary. The fence is a row of disobedient soldiers. The actor who plays Max was apparently only nine years old at the time, and he is so beautiful I actually did want to eat him up, a little bit. He has dark, intuitive eyes, and in general broke my heart.

The part that made me cry initially was when Max tries to get his older sister to play in the snow fort with him, and she completely ignores him. Max is meant to be sort of an everykid, and the film manages to evoke the way everyone has felt at one time or another: wanting someone to imagine with. Claire, who has maybe seven minutes of screen time, if that, isn't a villainous older sister, as portrayed in many movies about sibling relationships. She doesn't sneer at or abuse Max, she just ignores him, and it evoked in my mind every single time I ignored my brothers, and when I saw the look at Max's face of longing and disappointment when she rejects him, that's when I lost it. In the end, this movie isn't about a kid who travels to a monster island and wreaks havoc with animatronic robots from the Creature Shop to the strains of indie music. It's about the universally felt need to be appreciated.

Because I feel like writing again.

I just made some cookie dough. They didn't make the transition to actual cookies, because I liked the dough so much, and by the time the dough was completely ready I had lost the will to bake. I ate about half of it with Dave and Pamela and froze the rest.

This cookie dough was the best I've ever made. My Ghirardelli Opus, if you will. This was my Melon Collie and the Infinite Sadness of baking--I may never bother making cookie dough again, because any follow-up would be both pointless and embarrassing (I hope you're listening, Billy Corgan). Seriously, if Jesus made cookie dough, it would have tasted like this. It was the greatest cookie dough ever to make contact with any mortal's lips.

Seriously, it was pretty good.

I have been thinking a lot lately about stereotypes. Specifically, humankind's tendency to demonize some groups of people and unrealistically idealize others. I fall into both of these categories obviously, as seen below.

Ways in Which I am Ideal:

Woman
Mormon (By some ... certainly by many espousing said religion)
College student
White
Buxom (Man, I love that word)

Ways in Which I am a Demon:

Jew
Catholic
Liberal
Feminist
Vegetarian
Writer
Dog person (Meaning that I prefer dogs to cats, not that I am half human, half dog)

I think demonizing anyone is stupid. It pisses me off when people make negative assumptions about what kind of person I am just because I fall into certain demographics. Just because I am a vegetarian does not mean that I am virulently anti-dairy, for example. However, I have noticed lately that the unhealthy idealizations we make about others can be just as harmful, if not more so.

Here is an example.

When I was 19 I went in to my first day at a new job. I had mentioned to my boss during my interview that I went to BYU, but since we were in Seattle I had no idea if she knew what that meant. When I walked in that morning, my new boss looked at me and my outfit (I honestly have no memory of what I was wearing), then turned to her husband and said, "I thought Mormons were supposed to dress modest."

And I said inside myself, "Damn."

For the rest of the time I worked there, I felt awful every time the Church came up in conversation. Even though in this case I definitely deserved it, that combination of my bad choices and someone else's preconceived notion of how I should act cut off at the pass what could have been a pretty interesting conversation.

Anyway, a more recent and crucial example that has been on my mind lately is the way a lot of Christians talk about women. Most men in the LDS Church in particular often sing the praises of femaledom to the point where it borders on the ridiculous, to the point where I feel that simply because I am a woman, I should be naturally endowed with all good traits and be of the disposition that would naturally shun all evil. I am not like this, which is unfortunate, but, as I am inclined to believe, pretty normal.

I saw a book in Borders in the LDS section yesterday entitled "All Mothers go to Heaven." What in the world? I recognize that I'm in no place to judge who goes to Heaven and who doesn't but that line CAN'T be right. I know of plenty of mothers who are less than ideal. My mother was decidedly human, and though I hear of some people who sing only the celestial virtues of their mothers, something tells me they are probably suffering from selective memory.

Along the same train of thought, I ran into an acquaintance of mine last week who just had a baby. We sat on her front lawn for a minute and she told me about her thought processes since she had become a mother: that she often found herself bored, resenting how much time parenthood sucked from her life, shocked at how different even going to the grocery store had become, and--this is the key--feeling insanely guilty for feeling this way. All her life she had been told that mothers are selfless, mothers give always and don't resent it even for a minute, then suddenly it's not her bishop waxing poetic about a distant demographic anymore. It's her. And nothing is going the way she assumed it would.

I may be going out on a limb here, but I feel the unrealistic stereotypes the LDS Church often perpetuates about women did more harm than good in this case.

I have been in several relationships in which my partner treated me poorly or otherwise did not deserve me (Not be a narcissist, but in this case it was true). I actually remember at some point realizing that those boys weren't up to snuff, but because I had also heard so many times that in any relationship, the woman is better than the man, I honestly figured that my being unsatisfied in that way was normal.

As my dear friend Ekitzel would say, no bueno.

Now, I am not saying that LDS men should speak ill about women. That's bogus too. But it is possible to praise without setting unreachable parameters. Observe:

Tonight I made some cookie dough, because I was hungry and chocolate chip cookies sounded good. I found the cookie dough extremely satisfying. It may have been the best cookie dough I have ever made, with the possible exception of the chocolate chip cookie dough I used to make in Hungary, in which I used chunks of Milka bar in lieu of chocolate chips. However, THIS cookie dough used organic sugar and flour, cage-free eggs, and lots of vanilla. It was truly exceptional, and I felt happy while I ate it.

How much better is that? Honest, heartfelt, and nobody gets hurt.

Tunkintell

When I was little my mom used to put me to bed. She would kiss me and say something her mother had always said to her: "I love you more than tongue can tell." However, the way she slurred her words, it would always sound to me like "Tunkintell." I pictured a little man, like a mix between William Tell, Robin Hood, and a leprechaun, who for whatever reason was not nearly as lovable as me. Apparently she loved my brothers more than that weird little guy too.

Today in my singles' ward three people my own age, two men and one woman, obviously none of them mothers, spoke about motherhood. Or rather, they had been assigned to speak about their mothers and the lessons they had learned from them, but each of them in succession started to speak about their own mother, then stopped and talked about something unrelated. They expressed love and gratitude for their mothers, but once that was said, it was like they ran out of steam. I believe this is because expressing one's feelings about the woman who bore and raised them feels overly intimate, maybe even a little sacrilegious. It's easier to talk about faith in the abstract than the faith you learned from your mother.

Every mother's life is connected not only to her daughter's, but to her own. I am tied to my grandmother as much as my mother is tied to me. We cannot be separated anymore than our names in a long line: DorothyKathleenElisa. My mother, Kathleen, told me little about Dorothy, my grandmother, until I was an adult. I have pieced together as much of her life as I can, but much of it remains a mystery to me. I wish I had known her better when she was alive, but now the stories about how and the reflections her life has in her only daughter's life are all I have to work with.

My grandmother lived in Spokane for most of her life. By all accounts she was an incontrollable sass, from the time she was three or four. She loved dancing and smoked a pack a day (sometimes more) for over seventy years. She married young and already pregnant in a time where marriage was the only option for unwed pregnancy. (I promised my mother I wouldn't share this information with anyone until after she (my grandmother) had already died. I hope she doesn't mind that I'm sharing it now.) Her first husband drank too much. He beat her and chased her around with a knife in front of their three sons. I am fuzzy as to whether she left him or he left her, but they were eventually, mercifully separated and she moved across the country with her oldest son no older than 6. Once, on her way to work as a secretary in a doctor or dentist's office, she got on the bus, looked down and realized she had forgotten to put on her skirt. She was only wearing a slip. She laughed about that story for years, my mom says, which makes me think I probably would have gotten along better with her under different circumstances. It's the kind of thing I would do.

Later, Dorothy fell in love and married Edgar, my grandfather, and had three more children. my mother was the oldest of this newer set. My grandparents were deeply in love and never fell out of it, even though they were poor and couldn't afford a wedding ring at their marriage. Dorothy used to put on records of Hawaiian music and pretend to dance the hula when my mother had friends over. Once, she broke a plate over my mother's head when Kathleen was being especially horrid. Dorothy and Kathleen shared a love for professional baseball and little ugly dogs.

I have only heard one Mother's Day talk that did not involve the extravagant praise of one's mother. It was in my home ward many years ago. An older brother in my ward spoke about forgiveness, and his effort to understand that his mother did the best she could in raising him and his siblings. We all need a bit of that charity towards our mothers, I think. For me that recognition of the woman behind the mother did not come until a few years ago. But seeing that human being underneath, with quirks and fears and insecurities, makes every mother more lovable to me, not less.

My mother entered the convent upon graduating from high school. The Church paid for her Master's degree in biology, and although she had previously considered becoming a research scientist, as a nun teaching was pretty much her only option. She played guitar and smoked cigarettes (though not as obsessively as her own mother) and didn't get along with her Mother Superior. At the same time, she spent hours praying and meditating. She filled two gallon buckets with water and held them straight at either side of her body for as long as she could. She marched in support of the Civil Rights' Movement. She took off her veil when it itched. Later, when she left the convent, she took a job at a women's prison, where she met my father.

As a child, my mother was everything that was safe and reliable. I refused to go down any waterslide until she agreed to go down with me. I still hate waterslides. She was so much older than the mothers of most of my friends, but unlike many of them, she had a mind of her own. Real life experience. She had lived through enough of life to not be one of those eerie overbearing mothers that most first children have to deal with. She let me walk to the store alone. She let me climb trees and ride my bike and sit in the attic for hours if I wanted do. There was a tremendous amount of freedom in being my mother's daughter. Yet at the same time, when I was frantically finishing a poster or paper in middle school, she would drive me to Kinko's or check my spelling, but only if I asked her to.

I also saw the Kathleen in my mother every once in a while. When she lost her temper with me and told me to go to hell, I saw her Mother drop to reveal the human being underneath, just for a moment. Or when one of us kids would demand the same stupid book she had read to us every night for a week, she would roll her eyes and flat out refuse. She wouldn't buy me the trendy expensive toys I wanted. We had to play with math games and anatomically correct dolls. From a very young age, I was fascinated by babies and childbirth. She indulged this fascination and even bought me a copy of "Our Bodies, Ourselves" when I started puberty. She never treated me like I was too young or too stupid for the truth. Which is why to this day I have no patience for people who talk to children as if they were idiots.

I see myself in both of these women. Not only in my forgetfulness and brutal honesty, or in my near-constant cravings for cigarettes (though I don't give into them), but in all the things that make me who I am. My mother wrote this to me in a letter soon before I left for college:

"You are, first of all, my first child. You changed my life--and your dad's--so incredibly much! Your dad stopped riding motorcycles because of you. I never read the newspaper the same way after you were born. I quit my job because I couldn't bear to leave you. We watched you grow up, delighting in you daily."

Later, she pointed out the ways that I have followed in her footsteps:

"You know the joy of forgiving and have tried to mend fences and work for peace, in your personal life and in the world. I watched you go each Saturday to to stand with the group against the war in Iraq out of conviction that killings others is not the solution. You accept all different kinds of people and are slow to judge others."

The older I get, and as the possibility of my being a mother to someone becomes more and more real, the more I realize how much I want to emulate my mother. I want to love the world and work to make it better, the way she did. And inspire my children to do the same. Happy Mother's Day, Mom.

Ode to My Mom

Here are the benefits of having a mom who is a biologist:

1. Help with your biology homework.

This would have been quite quite useful for me had I either taken upper-level science classes in high school (I took the bare minimum) or had a science teacher who was not an idiot in the science classes I did take. My sophomore year, I DIDN'T GO to my biology class for the entire last quarter, and somehow managed to get an A-. What in the world? Granted, the entire last quarter of biology was the dissection of various animals, to which I was morally opposed, so I suppose I kinda had a legally viable excuse for not showing up. I was a conscientious objector of sorts. This broke my mom's heart. She loves dissecting things.

I admit that, in college, I have called my mom a few times to ask for help with my GE science classes. It probably would have been more helpful if I could have seen what she was madly gesturing about over the phone. I did not inherit my mother's natural aptitude for science. Which is evidenced by my grades in my GE science classes, which I am too ashamed to admit here. I'm sorry, Mom. I never meant to disappoint you. And I'm pretty sure Carlos is headed towards a career in science, so there remains hope for your posterity.

For little boys, there are no disadvantages to having a scientist mom. She took us to all sorts of cool science exhibits and museums and camping trips, and she usually knew more than the tour guide and the signposts. It was awesome. I admit that after our third trip to Mt. St. Helen's, I got a little tired of Mom waxing poetic about the amazing pyroclastic activity. I have no idea if I even spelled that right. But bless her for her efforts, because I am pretty sure Carlos will grow up to be a volcanologist. Or one of those guys that blows up old buildings.

However, as a little girl who loved dolls and wanted more than anything to fit in with her peers, there were some disadvantages. To be fair, my mom was picky about toys to begin with. She wanted our toys to be "educational" and in line with her political/social beliefs. Nothing wrong with that. However, she is deeply, morally opposed to any toy that violates basic laws of biology. Like this toy right here:

Remember this? It's Puppy Surprise!!!! Which sounds like a terrible dish at a shady restaurant. But I digress. It's a "pregnant" mama dog with a velcro tummy full of little puppy dolls. When you buy it, the puppies are inside the mama dog, so you don't know how many there are, but then you buy her and bring her home and rip open her cloth tummy, and you have a surprise number of puppies!

Dear Lord that's disturbing. My mother was right.

Anyway, I loved animals then as now and oh how badly I yearned for a puppy surprise. But my mother refused to buy one for me, claiming that it was a "misrepresentation of nature." Sometimes, she would remind me about how baby dogs and humans were actually made. I had learned about sex at five when she was pregnant with David, so that was old news.

Let's not forget this little gem, which my mother also refused to buy for me.

I think I mostly just wanted a little Barbie baby. I didn't much care about the untimely ripping of the pictured infant from the poor Barbie's uterus. Also, in an act of revenge and treachery as of yet unparalleled in my life, my dad bought me a cheap knock-off of the the pregnant Barbie at a dollar store. My mom was pissed, but I think I ended up throwing the freaky Barbie away and keeping the baby anyway, so no harm done.

Don't get me wrong. I had dolls. They were just all anatomically correct. Because I was so used to it, I don't recall it ever fazing me that my dolls had little bitty penises and vaginae. But it caused quite a stir when I had friends over.

My roommates and I were sitting around reminiscing about the Good Old Days (when did we get so old?) and about all the cool toys we had growing up. This is when I remembered what a little freak I was in elementary school. Both Celia and Pamela had all those odd little misrepresentations of nature to play with, just like my playmates in first grade did. They did not, however, have anatomically correct dolls. I forgot to ask, but I'm gonna go out on a limb and assume they didn't have the toy dinosaur excavation kit either.

And that's why my mom is awesome. The end.