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.

From the archives: June 19, 2003

My first LiveJournal entry of all time.

EDIT: THIS WAS 8 YEARS AGO YOU GUYS WTF

Elisa succumbs to yet another trend

Magic Talking Live Journal: So, Elisa, what did YOU do today?

Elisa Koler: Well, Magic Talking Live Journal, I got up early this morning and went to my first day of work at Luke Casteel and Associates. I sorted dead corporate law files into boxes in the basement of the Fisher Business Center. I got all the way up to 1996!

MTLJ: Holy crap!

EK: Yes. It was highly enjoyable. Almost as much fun as Disneyland.

MTLJ: Can you tell me something interesting about corporate law, Elisa?

EK: I'm sorry, I can't.

MTLJ: Oh. (whispers) Is that because the information you are privy to is confidential?

EK: No. It's because there is nothing interesting about corporate law! And even if there was, I wouldn't have noticed because this morning I was asleep and awake at the same time!

MTLJ: Ha ha ha ha!

EK: After three hours in a very small room with lots of papers, I went home and ate a peanut butter sandwich. Then I went to work at the synagogue. I made and ate lots and lots of knish!

MTLJ: I LOVE knish!

EK: That is because I love knish, and I created you.

MTLJ: Yes, master.

EK: Anyway, while I was at work, my boss punched me in the kidney with a broom!

MTLJ: Ha ha ha ha!

EK: Actually, it hurt a lot. But he said he was sorry.

MTLJ: What an exciting day you have had! What happened afer you were assaulted with a cleaning implement?

EK: Well, I went home and took a shower, because I had somehow managed to get brownie mix in my hair. That was pretty much my day. What about you?

MTLJ: Well, I was just created about 15 minutes ago, and I feel great!

EK: So I guess that makes me kind of like God.

MTLJ: Yes Master.

EK: I love you, Magic Talking Live Journal!

MTLJ: You are my best friend!

EK: Sorry, I'm taken.

From the archives: Jan 26, 2004

Presented without comment, with names changed to protect some of them from seeing this when they Google themselves.

(Hi Lori! Remember this paper? Miss you.)

NOTE: In case you are bad at math, I wrote this when I was 19.

"On the morning of August 14th, 2003, I logged onto my parents’ computer with a mix of excitement and trepidation. Being the unbelievably patient person I am, I had to restrain myself from grabbing the ancient purple iMac by the neck (if it had a neck, try to picture it) as it sloooooowwwwlllly chugged its way to the BYU homepage, then to the on-campus housing, than to my name, which provided a link to the name of my future roommate and her address.

My first reaction was to laugh out loud. My next was a timorous moan, followed by a surge of fear so powerful I can still recall the way my fists clenched, digging my fingernails into my palms.

“Loralee Barratt. Allen, Texas.”

Loralee. Texas. I don’t cuss, but the closest phrase that I can think to describe my feelings right at that moment is “Oh, s***.”

The next morning I went out for drinks with my best friend, her boyfriend and our World Literature teacher, mentor and former Texan Rich Sandford. He asked about my imminent departure for Utah, and I told him my roommate’s name and origin.

“Allen, eh?” Rich commented. “That’s a small town near Dallas. Near the University of Texas.”

“The University of what now?”

Rich chuckled. “Also known as the home of the George W. Bush Memorial Library. Allen’s a small town, too. She’ll probably be really conservative. Have fun.” Burt, Cori and Rich all laughed and again, a stream of panicked expletives ran through my head.

Coming to BYU was hands-down one of the scariest experiences of my life, and I have been in three car wrecks and woken up in the middle of a generally anesthetized surgery. My fears about BYU can be summed up as follows: I am politically liberal, and thus, Utah scares me. I came to BYU sight unseen, without so much as a campus visit under my belt. The stories my ward members told me did nothing to abate my fear that Utah would be isolated and narrow-minded, that my professors would be misogynistic Reaganites, and most of all, that everyone would hate me. Still, I could not deny that somebody upstairs wanted me at BYU. My other college prospects had refused to pan out for myriad financial and logistical reasons. Despite my love for all things Seattle, I had to leave the state. So Utah it was, to live with a Texan whose name sounded to me like a bastardization of an archaic Greek siren. And a Texan, no less. What would become of my political cartoon collection? My constant barrage of snide remarks about the Bush administration? For the next three weeks I bit my proverbial nails and pondered what sort of ordeal Heavenly Father had in store for me.

Loralee Barratt. Loralee Barratt. It sounded so high-maintenance. I knew that we would not get along. Well, I knew in the sense that I know that a food is disgusting before I try it. I figured our relationship would work in one of two ways: either we would completely despise each other and never speak, or we would tolerate each other’s presence and … never speak. Never did it occur to me that we might actually get along.

I took to, whenever referring to my elusive roommate, saying her name in my worst Southern drawl, My friends picked it up too, and until I left for Utah, our source of entertainment when we ran out of other material was my BYU Texan Republican roommate.

One day I checked my email and noticed a new message from a lonishia@hotmail.com. It was my roommate. Her email, which was short and completely devoid of capitalization, asked, among other things, if I was aware that we were on the Honors Floor in Deseret Towers.

“i just signed up for the honors floor as a joke. im so worried that were gonna be with a bunch of nerds.” She wrote. I am a nerd. My panic, which before had seemed slightly judgmental and unfounded, took full and horrid effect.

The car trip to Provo and long and uneventful, and when we finally arrived at the dorms, I went in unto the elevator, rode up to the seventh floor and located my new residence, 704. The room was empty, no sign of the roommate or any of her stuff. Since New Student Orientation didn’t start for two more days, I wasn’t that concerned. I took over the west side of the room, since it had a slightly bigger desk, unpacked, and slept that night at my friend’s house in American Fork. The next few days were filled with the mundane and middle school-esque goings-on of New Student Orientation, and still no roommate. I talked about her with the members of my Y Group, and we wondered if Loralee Barratt would ever show up at all.

That evening, three green Tupperware cartons, a giant black suitcase, a sewing machine and a gigantic stereo arrived at our abode, accompanied by my tall, blond, and extremely cute roommate. This was a problem heretofore unperceived: that my roommate would be much more attractive than I, that I would feel repulsive in comparison and that boys would be nice to me only in an effort to get an “in” with my hot roommate. Again with the internal monologue of expletives, although since I was now in Utah, these words were more along the lines of “Oh my hecking freak of a shoot gosh darn hot roommate.” Still, I thought a civilized greeting would be the wisest course of action.

“Hello. You must be Loralee,” I smiled my most sincere fake smile, the one I usually reserve for applying for loans or asking favors at the Washington Department of Transportation.

“Oh.” Was her response. “I go by Lori.”

The wave of relief was decidedly physical. At least she had a nickname that wasn’t Loralee. There was still the matter of her hotness, but the fact of the matter was, all my perceptions of her had been based on her name, and now I had learned that it wasn’t even her name. Lori, I figured, would be much easier to deal with than Loralee.

I didn’t see my roommate much for the next few days, since she had friends from back home that took up most of her time, and also went out on dates that lasted until five o’clock in the morning. We proved to have multiple things in common, such as a preference for loud music (although she preferred hers much later than I) and a mutual affection for my belongings. The girl borrowed EVERYTHING, and it would have bothered me except that she was equally generous with her shoes, of which she had many. She even gave me a pair of sandals she didn’t want anymore. I never wear them, but that was nice.

Lori likes to say that our roommate relationship is based on lies and deceit. That is absolutely not true, which is in itself a huge lie, because for the first month or so of our living arrangement, I was scared of Lori. She seemed so cool, and I was intimidated by her, since I am decidedly not cool. Fortunately, I had some things that she didn’t, such a computer, and Dining Plus, and the ability to use the word “good” in proper context, so I was able to be of some use to her. Thus I was able to lull myself into believing that we were on somewhat even grounds, with her social know-how and my inherent knack for owning things.

To make a long story short, Lori and I have reached a Zen-like understanding. She confides in me about boys, and life, and I correct her grammar as she does so. Lori has improved my coolness quotient significantly by helping me in my effort to wear clothes that improve my “game,” as it were. She also plucks my eyebrows and teaches me how to break-dance. It’s strange how our relationship was blossomed into the beautiful entity that it is. We laugh with and at each other, and politics rarely surfaces in our conversations, not that Lori would get upset if it did. In short, my roommate is cool, and I like her, and I’m possibly living with her next year. Who woulda thunk that a Seattle Liberal and a Smokin’ hot Texan would end up getting along so well."

A memo I missed and another I didn't.

I won't try to pretend that I was a tomboy when I was little. I did climb trees and collect bugs, but I also played with dolls until I was in fifth or sixth grade (but secretly). I never was much one for sports or roughhousing. However, I completely MISSED the whole Princess thing that most girls supposedly go through at some point. Do you think it's an exaggeration to say that most girls have a princess phase?

I never played with make-up or pretended to be a princess. I never had a Disney Princess costume or insisted on pink everything or screamed at my mother, "MY REAL MOM'S A PRINCESS!"

OK, I did once. But it was in jest.

I think the whole princess trend which is manifesting itself in very strange ways is finally starting to ebb. I hope so. It doesn't seem like the catalyst for healthy thought patterns in little girls. I'm glad I missed it.

However, lest you think it's an urban myth, I have several distinct memories of looking at my various Barbie dolls and feeling sad that I didn't look like them. How messed up is that?

In sum: American culture screws up little girls in a vast myriad of ways.

Check out the rest of this series here or the other work of Dina Goldstein here. Genius.

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.

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.

Confidentially, I think 5 of the 10 traditional Thanksgiving foods are kinda gross

It's very late and I would like to sleep, but my brain won't turn off. Because I was thinking about two things, and at least one will end up in this post. Maybe both of them. That would be ideal.

You know how in high school every kid is known for something that is either positive or negative? And I don't mean positive or negative in the traditional sense of good vs. bad, but rather like positive vs. negative politeness: doing something vs. NOT doing something, HAVING a certain attribute vs. not having a certain attribute. You can be "known" for either one, for being unusual in a positive or negative way (Remember, this is MINUS the judgment call usually inherent in the words "positive" and "negative"). For example, one kid is known for never showering (negative) or never talking (negative) or never wearing jeans (negative), whereas another kid is known for being on the stage crew for all the school plays (positive) or dating someone for a long period of time (positive) or always wearing a cat tail (positive--and there really was a girl at my high school who did that. she was cool).

Are we clear by now on the difference between positive and negative notoriety? I hope so, because I can't think of a clearer way to explain it.

This will likely come as a huge shock to anyone who knows me now, but in high school I was known positively (DON"T FORGET WHAT I WAS JUST SAYING ABOUT THE SPECIFIC MEANING OF POSITIVE IN THE LAST PARAGRAPH) as "the girl who says the Pledge of Allegiance." If you look in my yearbooks, a great number of my entries from other students mention this about me. My children will indefinitely notice it. I do not remember exactly how this whole thing got started, but I will try to provide at least some background.

At my high school, like most American schools, every morning someone came on the intercom during the first period of the day and made some announcements. About sports games, activities, warnings regarding misbehavior, stuff like that. And then all the students stood up and said the Pledge of Allegiance. I'm sure it will come as no surprise to hear that in Seattle, being patriotic wasn't seen as being particularly "cool" (except for that three-month period after September 11th when everybody went a little crazy ... no need to remind anyone of how THAT turned out), but conversely, as in any high school, making a fuss about something or calling attention to oneself by NOT participating in something as minute as the Pledge of Allegiance wasn't acceptable either. Anyone read Avi's piece-of-crap teen novel Nothing But the Truth? Possibly my least favorite book ever. But I digress.

So anyway, every morning in whatever class I was in, when the morning announcements were done everybody in the class would stand up and mumble the Pledge of Allegiance at the exact same volume as everybody else, so nobody's voice would stand out from the crowd's. I have no memory of exactly what was going on in my head the first day I tried my little experiment, but I think it was something really simple like, "I wonder what would happen if one person started saying the Pledge of Allegiance at a greater volume and with greater emotion than everybody else?"

Because I am both prone to voracious curiosity and remain a longtime admirer of gonzo journalists, I decided to try it. One morning, I said the Pledge of Allegiance louder than anybody else in my Honors World History class, and with some variation in my voice rather than the standard monotone.

I suppose, on some level, I do believe that something is only worth doing if done right, and that people shouldn't say or recite things they don't mean, but none of that underlied (underlay?) my motivation to say the Pledge of Allegiance differently that day. Because I was in a class with a lot of my friends, most of them just laughed a little bit and smiled at me. A few of the insecure kids looked at me lightly askance, but I was used to that. So I kept it up. For the rest of my high school career I always said the Pledge of Allegiance with a lot of fervor and at a normal volume, which was still significantly louder than everyone else. It became, to cop an old phrase, my shtick.

This is strange for a number of reasons. One, being known for something inevitably leads to people making a number of assumptions about you. Especially among teenagers. Because I was known as the "Pledge of Allegiance" girl, many people assumed that I really loved America and was unusually patriotic. This is not entirely untrue, but it isn't true in the way people assumed, either.

Two, people also assumed that I had undergone some sort of internal wrestling about whether or not to say the Pledge of Allegiance. I never did. Like I said earlier, my decision to change my voice that day was absolutely spontaneous. I am a very spontaneous person.

Here is what I think about America. I think it is nice. America has lots of space, and some of it is really pretty. Some of it is a barren wasteland, but I also feel that farmland has a certain charm about it, and can still manage to be beautiful in a barren wasteland-y sort of way. I feel strongly that when I grow up I will live either in the city or the country, none of this in-between suburban nonsense.

Laying the physical aside for a moment, I am happy to live somewhere where we have clean water, decent sanitation, food available for purchase, and medical facilities. I have seen places where these are not readily available, and it totally sucks. Even the poorest in America have access to more resources than many in other countries. I wish that EVERY privilege available to Americans was actually within everyone's reach. But that is a complicated question, and going on for too long about it will reveal to the world that I am a Socialist. I was talking to my brother in the car yesterday about Utah, and about how the dividing line between rich and poor is very clear: immigrants and students and young families on one side, retired people and BYU professors and business owners on the other. Ne'er the twain shall meet unless absolutely required (like the DMV). I wish America did not have such negative feelings between classes. I am as guilty of this as anyone, by the way.

I think a lot of the pride and jingoism demonstrated by America is misplaced. I don't believe that capitalism will save any nation, or even that it is doing that great of a job saving our own. I definitely don't believe our vision of rosy-cheeked pilgrims breaking bread with feather-wearing savages is in line with how it actually went down. On the other hand though, I think it's nice that once a year we actually recognize that the Native Americans tried to help their European brothers out when they were struggling. I'm sure we would have forgotten about it otherwise. Kind of how we forgot about the French helping our asses during the Revolutionary War.

I don't think most of the patriotic images we think of when we think of the word "patriotism" have much to do with actual patriotism. On the other hand though, I am not one hundred percent sure what I mean by that.

Also, I think "under God" should be removed from the Pledge of Allegiance. Mostly because the Cold War was effed. Up.

I'm really not sure why I was losing sleep thinking about this. Maybe just because Thanksgiving is such an American holiday.

Oh, and in case you were wondering, the calculations in my title were as follows:

Traditional Thanksgiving Foods (according to TV and my 25 years of life)
1. Turkey
2. Mashed potatoes
3. Gravy
4. Stuffing
5. Cranberry sauce
6. Rolls
7. Green bean casserole
8. Pumpkin pie
9. Sweet potatoes
10. Red wine

I like 2, 4, 5, 7, and 9. Hate 3 and 10. Generally dislike 6 and 8. And 1 is essentially irrelevant.

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.

I love my little brother THIS much.

Today I spent a half hour or so talking with my little brother on the phone. This was his first week of classes at Gonzaga University in Spokane, Washington. Additionally, I was talking to Cori last night and she asked me if I thought it was weird that my baby brother, almost seven years younger than I am, and I are both in college at the same time. Which, the more I think about it, makes me feel like a bit of a late bloomer. I am cool with this. I am so happy that my brother got such a nice break to attend such a great school, and--most importantly-- that for two of the three Koler children, the high school years are over. For the last one, they haven't even started.

Please don't take this to mean I am anti-teenagers or embittered to this day about my high school experience. In fact, last month I learned something new about myself. Apparently, I am going to be one of those parents who gets unnecessarily excited/emotional at high school graduations. I know this because a few months ago I was at my little brother's graduation from my own alma mater and while I was there I got that swelling feeling in my chest that generally only happens at religious events or when I'm reading an author I really like. Additionally, I actually stood respectfully and put my hand over my heart while the Shorecrest band played the national anthem, which I never do. Something about being there, watching my little brother participate in the same odd traditions, wearing the same green-colored robes and flat hat, gave me the willies, but in a good way. It also apparently resurrected some dormant patriotism inside me, though whether it was patriotism towards my school only or my country in general I don't know.

The Beach Boys sang, with little to no irony: "Be true to your school/ just like you would to your girl." I graduated from high school in 2003, ten months after September 11th. I attended, if memory serves, one football game. In fact, I went to said game in order to see a cute boy who played for our cross-town rival (ShoreWOOD, as opposed to Shorecrest) and during that game he broke his leg and had to be carried off the field on a golf cart. I decided I must be bad luck, and I haven't been to any sort of football game since. I went to a few baseball games, also to see a boy I had a crush on, but he never got injured so I suppose my curse only applies to football.

Now that I think about it, though, I don't think the baseball-playing boy I liked ever actually played.

My point is, I liked high school well enough, though I definitely wasn't one of those kids who LOVED high school. I didn't paint my face for football games or jump up and down at Caen Laida or deeply, sincerely believe that those were the best years of my life, even as I was living them. That being said, high school wasn't a living hell either. I had lots of good friends and quite a few good teachers. My school had lots of great writing opportunities and my car only got booted in the parking lot once.

I am also delighted to say that my physical attractiveness did not peak in high school. Thank God.

There were only two high schools in our school district, as I said before, and the dividing line between the two schools was ALMOST the same as the dividing line between the rich neighborhoods and the poor neighborhoods, with the exception of one small area. Shorecrest covered most of the poorer areas and Shorewood covered the more expensive properties close to the water. The one exception was the area by the mall which contained nice, big houses but fell into Shorecrest's boundaries. This was where most of the honor students lived. It was not where I lived, though most of the rich kids drove down the main drag on which I lived on their way home.

I remember feeling a sort of sick pride at being the more "ghetto" school, for you see back in my day we used the word "ghetto" as an adjective without irony. The outside perception of both my high school and my neighborhood seemed to be that we were low class. The main justification from the SW kids was that we were the school with a daycare for the teenage mothers. However, I believe we were magnet school for that program, so that reason kinda flies out the window when you think about it logically. Why people thought Shoreline was low class is beyond me. Personally, I think it's a charming little 'burb. Once Cori, (Cor, please correct me if I have this story wrong) told someone she met at some Seattle-wide event that she was from Shoreline, and the girl said in all seriousness, "Oh, I've heard of that neighborhood. The place with all the shootings."

There was like one shooting I remember in all the years I lived in that neighborhood. A few accidental deaths, but really, nothing serious. I never felt nervous or unsafe going anywhere regardless of the time of day. Perhaps I am an idiot, but the more likely scenario is that Shoreline was perfectly safe and some young people are ignorant and assume that if a neighborhood has houses that are smaller than yours, the inhabitants are therefore gang members. Silly, silly children.

I was going to write more about my high school experience but nothing is really standing out for me right now. Except that I wish someone had told me explicitly that being a young adult is ONE HUNDRED MILLION TIMES BETTER than being in high school, no matter what kind of happiness you achieve between the ages of 14-18. Also, that being rejected from various positions of prestige loses its sting over the years, and by the time you are almost 25, will cease to sting at all.

What would YOU like to know about my high school experience? Ask me and I will answer.

Formicidae and First Days

So there are lots and lots of dishes that need to be done, but I am not doing them--and not for the reason you might think, but rather because our dishwasher is infested with ants. I hate ants. I don't mind them outside, I just hate opening up a cupboard or dishwasher and seeing them crawling everywhere. It freaks me out. I would take one thousand spiders outside in a glass before I would co-exist with ants. Blegh.

Anyway, yesterday I was the one unfortunate enough to discover our little ant problem when I opened our dishwasher. I screamed really loud and scared Pamela to death. Anyway, we tried to create an ant trap using honey, but it doesn't work. So I (and I still don't understand why I had to do this) sprayed cleaning fluid on them and drowned the little bugs. I felt bad about killing the ants even though I'm not crazy about them, but as Amalia so logically pointed out, "What else can we do? Sing to them and lure them outside?" Then I (shudder) wiped off the little ant corpses so they wouldn't get on our dishes the next time we ran the machine. I really don't like ants.

Today I opened the dishwasher again today and they were back!!! Perhaps reincarnated. Perhaps the other ants smelled their dead family members. I think ants have a really good sense of smell. Is that right? I know they have superhuman strength (superant strength?). They are pretty cool creatures. I just wish they would stay outside. Anyway, I killed those guys too.

I wasn't planning to write about ants today. I was going to write about my first day of junior high. Taylor, Brooke and I were brainstorming about the latest draft of our pilot, which is about a girl starting her freshman year of high school. Then this memory came back to me, and I am pretty sure I had forgotten about it until today.

So I went to a charter school that was really awesome, and it only had about seventy kids K-6. We had our own salmon hatchery, graded ourselves, and called the teachers by their first names. I don't mean this in a corny way, but it's true: we were more like a family than a school. My graduating class in sixth grade was only eight kids, and we were like siblings. We fought like siblings even, but generally got along really well. Anyway, everyone except me and one other girl lived on the other side of the district divide, so I only knew one girl when I started my first day at this junior high of several hundred kids. As luck would have it, she was enrolled in some special program, so we didn't have any classes together.

The two things I remember about my first day of junior high was that I answered a question correctly in my science class (it was a really easy question) and everyone in the class looked at me askance, because apparently only losers answer questions on the first day of school. Also, I remember that at lunch, I had no idea where to go, because I didn't know anyone. Finally I saw a girl I knew from girls' camp, although she was in a different ward. I was so happy to see someone I knew, so I went and sat with her and her friends. She didn't talk to me or even look at me, which at the time I found really embarrassing, but now I find sort of funny. Anyway, I never tried sitting with her again.

The next day, this other girl who had recently moved to Seattle from Palestine walked up to me and asked if I would be her friend. Just like that. She turned out to be really cool. Her name was Zaynab, and she and I and this other immigrant girl from Vietnam (Thuy Nguyen) sat together every lunch until Zaynab's family ended up moving a few months later. Those girls even got me a present and sang to me on my birthday. They were so nice. Thuy and I were friends (though never super-close friends) throughout high school. She had a baby sophomore year and kept it, but she stayed in school and graduated with all sorts of honors. Her daughter's name was Eden and she was incredibly cute.

The really funny thing about the initial memory of having nowhere to sit at lunch is that I totally forgot about it. I was never good friends with that girl, but it's sort of ironic because I moved up the social ranks pretty successfully in high school, to the point where I knew pretty much everyone and was considered fairly "cool" (this was mostly because of Cori). By high school, this girl had decided that I was someone she wanted to be seen with, and because I had totally forgotten about the incident in seventh grade, I didn't have any reason not to be nice to her. I could have totally gotten revenge by rejecting her, but I forgot I had any reason to.

I wonder if I would have gotten any pleasure out of that. Probably not. She was mildly handicapped, I think, or maybe just not very well socialized, so it would have felt sort of unfair. Like killing ants outside, as opposed to inside, when one has no other choice.

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.

I don't use the internet to be left alone.

I just read this exquisitely heartfelt tribute to the "25 things about Me" fad here, and it actually inspired me to want to write one of my own.

1. I feel terrible about the way things ended with my maternal grandmother. We had never gotten along very well, but that was mostly because she was pissed off that I joined the Church (The Mormon one, I mean) in 1992-ish (?). I cut off all contact with her when I was in high school. Nor did I go to her funeral in 2006, but now I wish I had. The odd thing is, I think I would have gotten along with the young version of her really well. My mom tells me stories about her and she was a lot like me: kinda spacey, creative, loved to dance, had a hard time following rules. I did her temple work for her after I got back from my mission, and although that was nice, I still wish I had reconciled with her while she was alive.

2. For those of you familiar with the MBTI personality test, my favorites types are as follows: INFPs (because that is what I am), ISFPs (both my brothers and a large number of my friends are ISFPs ... I really think it is my favorite to be friends with), ENFJs, and ENFPs.

3. I love mayonnaise. It is my favorite condiment. I like to eat it on peas instead of butter. I know how gross that sounds, and most people find it disconcerting to watch, so I generally eat it when no one else is around. Except Pamela doesn't seem to mind. I love you, Pamela.

4. I have little to no contact with a bogglingly large number of people that I am facebook friends with. However, I will never delete anyone, because having lots of friends makes me feel cool, and I am somewhat voyeuristic by nature. It's a writer thing.

5. I love YA novels. Particularly the Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants. I like them much better than trashy books written for adults.

6. That said, when I was ten or so, my mom bought me one of those crass Harlequin romance novels, and I read it cover to cover several times. It was there that I learned several crucial anatomical terms that I am too classy to list here. However, if you ask me, I will tell you.

7. As a kid, I loved coffee.

8. Additionally, as a kid I shoplifted fairly regularly, but never liked it. I only did it because one of my cousins made me do her dirty work. I was also never caught.

9. I hate it when people use the word "just" when talking about something very important to them. "I just wanted to say that I know Jesus is the Christ." Just? Just???? I have no impetus to tell anyone else how to bear his or her testimony, but my kids will be forbidden to use such a construction.

10. I probably attach too much significance to language. If you are ever in the doghouse with me, all you have to do is SAY something nice or penitent, and all is forgiven. You don't actually have to DO anything. I know this is foolish, but I doubt it will ever change.

11. There is a certain hallway in the Provo Temple near the Celestial Room, and every single time I walk down it, I feel a strong urge to dance irreverently. If no one else is around, I sometimes do.

12. One time my friend Becca ran over my foot with her car. Incredibly, my foot wasn't broken, although it was very painful.

13. When I was 14 and had the chicken pox, the pustules were concentrated on my face, neck and chest. The first time I looked in the mirror the morning I came down with the pox, I actually screamed. I believe that this was in some form of punishment for being so vain about my skin when I was in middle school.

14. I never learned the multiplication tables. I am absolutely wretched at math. This includes counting. I hate counting out loud or doing math in my head, especially in front of other people. Once, my former elementary school teacher came into a retail store where I worked, and I tried to count her change out for her, and I couldn't do it. I was embarrassed but luckily she was nice about it, otherwise I probably would have lost my job.

15. I never learned how to type. Still can't.

16. I can easily pinpoint the specific time in my life when I was the most miserable. It was in the MTC.

17. I love dinosaurs. I am excited to die so I can go to Heaven and watch movies of real dinosaurs. If this is not possible, I will be a very disappointed dead person.

18. When I was in second grade my mom bought me a training bra even though I had no need for one. I tried wearing it to school one day, but it itched so badly I took it off in the bathroom and stuffed it in my coat pocket. Later that day, on the playground, it fell out.

19. I don't like two-faced-ness (is that a word?). If I don't like someone, I find it impossible to be nice to them. Thus, if I am nice to you, congratulations! I like you. No, really.

20. On New Year's in 2005, I cussed out an old lady in a parking lot, because she was mean to my best friend. To this day, I do not feel bad about this at all.

21. On my mission, I was grabbed and kissed by men in various states of sobriety on eleven different occasions. It averaged out to once a transfer. I kept track of these instances using stickers on the back of my nametag, but when people asked me about them, I said it was to keep track of how many transfers I had been in the country.

22. I cry more often during movies about animals than movies about people. Homeward Bound: the Incredible Journey, for example, makes me cry every single time.

23. I forged several of the signatures on my Honor Society application in high school. Not because I was fibbing, just because I had forgotten to take it around and collect all the signatures I needed. The irony was not lost on me, either.

24. My favorite Hungarian word is: fogcsikorgatás. It means "gnashing of teeth."

25. Adopting my brother in 2003 was my idea. My parents don't like to tell people this, and I've never figured out why.

Well, that was fun. If there is ANYONE in the web-0-sphere who has not yet participated in this little exercise: tag.

ANGER

There's no way to ease into these topic so I might as well just say it: my parents are getting a divorce. I have read extensively about the concept of divorce, and its adverse effects on even grown children, but now I am living it, and it's much more and much worse than I ever could have imagined.

I have read (and even experienced) that the end of a significant relationship carries one through the same grieving process as death, and I have also read about the five stage of grief:
1. Denial
2. Anger
3. Bargaining
4. Depression
5. Acceptance

At approximately 10 PM tonight I was lying in bed trying to sleep, and I felt myself smoothly transition from denial into anger. My mindset changed from attempting to to get my mind around the very concept of having two people to coordinate Christmas schedules with, to fantasizing about yelling obscenities at my dad in front of the rest of the family, so everyone would finally know what a lousy husband he was.

I can't take sides here, but most of my anger is directed towards the party who served the divorce papers without the other party's knowledge or consent. I won't say which party that was, but know that since I'm speaking English, I will of necessity be using the male pronoun. If only I could be writing this in Hungarian.

He has treated me mom like shit for as long as I can remember. I don't like to use that word, but there is no other word for it. He treated her like shit. He made her cry, embarrassed her in public, undermined her in front of us and everyone, disregarded or ignored her opinions, mocked everything she believed in, and told her, verbally and non-verbally, that she was worthless: physically and in every other way.

The really disgusting thing is that he doesn't treat all women like that. Misogyny is an ugly thing, and my heart goes out to those who are married to men who treat all women like chattel. I wonder what thought process led those women to marry their spouses. But to treat all women with respect and courtesy, except for your wife ... that is the most repulsive thing I can think of. That is the ultimate betrayal.

I am just now coming to terms to what this means for me. All I have observed my entire life is this marriage, and now that it's over, I can know with even greater assurance that it's nothing to build on. Nothing to admire. Nothing to emulate.

The married couples I really admire have one thing in common: they are all best friends. They have no need to go on fancy dates because because they have just as much fun going grocery shopping together. They don't need to plan time to talk because they just do, naturally. They face problems as a team instead of blaming the other for what could have been done to prevent it. They face the world together. Their relationship is built on respect, which stems from friendship; instead of romance, which, let's face it, stems from penises and vaginae.

Yes, that is an accepted plural of vagina. I looked it up.

Anyway, I used to think that I didn't want to grow up to be my mother, nor did I want to marry my father. The problem, I am just now realizing, is that my thinking was off. Both of my parents are fabulous, intelligent, fun, kind individuals. Unequivocally people to emulate. Individually. But them together is peanut butter and soy sauce. Chocolate and asparagus. Raisins and gravy. Any other disgusting combination you can think of.

They should never have gotten married. They were older and lonely and hadn't dated for very long. And unlike me, they were older in the real world too, not just according to the Mormon timeline. They never became friends. Never developed mutual respect. Never looked at each other objectively and decided that they would still love each other even after they got fat and gray and faced unemployment and childbirth and every kind of misery together.

A mentor of mine told me a few months ago: marry someone who will cherish the promises he makes to you. Who would never dream of hurting you. Don't just marry any guy that wants to marry you. Sound advice from a sane man. And a happily married one to boot.

I would add to that promise I make to myself: I will marry a friend, who loves me because I am fun to be with, not because I have huge breasts. Guilty as charged, but someday those same breasts will be hanging around my knees and hell if I'm getting plastic surgery to keep a husband around. That's not what women are made for, and I'm not going to do it.

I am going to marry someone who has all the qualities I want (a surprisingly short list) and who will listen to me cry on the phone for an hour even if all he can think of to say is: I'm sorry.

And the fabulous thing is, I might have already found him. Stay tuned.