From the archives: July 13, 2003

The book of Elisa, chapter 7, verses 1 - 10

In the beginning Elisa was sleeping. And lo, her mother did call up the stairs, saying "Hark, lazybones, church doth start in half an hour. Thou must getteth out of bed and get dressed." And it came to pass that Elisa did so, and her hair remained unwashed, and her skirt was very wrinkled. And behold, the lesson at church was on marriage, and it was the third lesson on marriage this month. And Elisa bethought herself that perhaps the overriding theme of life was being revealed unto her. And the woman next to Elisa saith, "Behold, my son is a law student at Gonzaga, and his prospects are exceedingly fine, and his face is glorious to look upon, and he is like unto Abraham in his righteousness, and wouldst thou like to meet him?" And Elisa said "Nay, nay, for he is exceedingy old, and I am not in the market for a husband, but thank you." And the woman waxed wroth, and walked away, and her countenance was like that of a sad person. And Elisa kept these things, and pondered them in her heart, and thought to herself the reason why everyone wished her married so quickly, and she could find none. And Elisa went in unto her friends, and they had gone watersikiing the previous day, and their bodies were adorned with the pinkness of the sun. And Juliana was exceedingly sorrowful, for her senior pictures were in two days, and her face was like unto a tomato. And Elisa had not gone with them, because she had been toiling and serving food to the Jews, and she mourned. Then Carlos went with Elisa into the third meeting of church, which is called Sacrament Meeting. And Carlos said "Yea, I have to go to the bathroom." And Elisa saith unto him, "Fine." And he did return to her exceedingly wet, for he had wiped his wet hands on his shirt, and Elisa did roll her eyes. And one hour later Elisa drove home, and ate some nachos, and she did wonder why Cori didst not call her, that they might go for a walk, and partake in other such goodness. And Elisa retired, and napped, and thus ended the day of Elisa thus far.

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."

Truly Outrageous

Raise your hand if you remember this show:

I don't remember it super well either, frankly. But I do remember that I had a Jem Girls lunch box. I wish I still had it ... it's probably worth money.

As it true with lots of pop music, all of Jem's songs pretty much sound the same.

The other night, my pals and I were hanging out in our pajamas, eating sugary cereal and watching 80s cartoons (you wish you were this cool). While we were watching the first few episodes of this fabulous show, we started discussing the incredible music videos that punctuate each episode. Sometimes two or three per half hour!

Bob: You realize that someone actually sat down and WROTE these songs?

Me: I can do that.

Bob: Could you?

Me: Give me a topic and I will write a pop song right now.

Bob: Before the end of this episode? [note: the episode was nearly over]

Me: Sure.

Bob: OK ... um ... the Burmese conflict!

I finished it while the credits were rolling. Thelma, I dedicate this pop song to you.

The Burmese Conflict

Once we lived in peace and harmony

in our homes and with our families

But then it became hard to be Burmese

Chorus:

Yeah, it's hard to be Burmese

out in the cold, we sob and sneeze.

Western world, we're on our knees

please bring justice to the Burmese

Once the Karens and Buddhists sat down to tea

united in our love of democracy

But then the violence of the BSPP

led to political hostility

Help our people to be free!

Chorus:

Yeah, it's hard to be Burmese

out in the cold, we sob and sneeze.

Western world, we're on our knees

please bring justice to the Burmese

I think I will drop out of school and become independently wealthy as a writer of pop songs. Don't worry, I will use my wealth to take down oppressive political regimes.

I Can't Believe I Haven't Blogged About X, Day 4: My Villanelle

The first image result from the search term "writer's block."

I used to write poetry. I haven't in years, but some of it was pretty good. Even after I switched my major from English to Linguistics, I took all the poetry classes I could weasel my way into.

SEEMINGLY UNRELATED TANGENT!

The summer I was 20, I was crazy in love with this 29-turning-30 dude in my ward/condo complex named ... for privacy's sake, let's call him Dan Blatt. He looked like a potato and was severely mentally ill, but I liked him because he was "interesting." Terrible idea. But let's not waste time revisiting my bad taste in men.

Anyway, that Fall semester, I enrolled in my first poetry class, which I was really excited about. Our professor was a really quirky cowboy-type guy who insisted we could only write form poetry--"No free verse until you've earned it!" Our first assignment was to write a villanelle, and we had almost three weeks to do it.

I kept trying to write love poems to the aforementioned boy, but nothing came. A fortnight passed and I started to get really, really frustrated, and even doubted that I had any future as a writer at all.

Then, on September 11th, he dumped me. I came home from eating ice cream with my best friend and this poem came pouring out of me, just like butter. Go figure.

Until now, the only people who have seen this poem are my 319 class (which was like ten people), Cori and Brooke.

Ode to Dan Blatt (September 11, 2005)

"You won't be needing THIS."

Dan Blatt, I hate your stinking guts.
How could you be this cruel to me?
Dan, you are such a freaking putz.

It's not like I'm one of your sluts!
I know there's nothing wrong with me ...
Dan Blatt, I hate your stupid guts.

Your apartment stinks like cold cuts.
I wouldn't stay if you paid me.
Dan, you are such a filthy putz.

To think I liked you, I must be nuts.
I'm taking back my heart's key.
Dan Blatt, I hate your lying guts.

To think that I was such a klutz
to love the way you called me "E."
Dan, you are such a two-faced putz.

Before I kick you in the nuts
I have something to tell you--see,
Dan Blatt, I hate your stinking guts.
You are such a big fat freaking putz.

On Narwals.

Here is a haiku I wrote in a writing workshop with two ten year-old boys.

Narwal queen and king

dancing in the ocean breeze.

They will stab your face.

I've said it before, and I'll say it again, I am a ten year-old boy in a twenty-five year-old woman's body.

I feel pretty good about what I have decided to do with my life.

I really like teaching. The more hours I spend in the classroom I am volunteering with at Room Nine, the more convinced I am that this is the vocation for me. That being said, I am glad I majored in something else for my undergrad, because I think I will fit in better at the UW's teaching program than BYU's. Assuming I get in. Fingers crossed.

Anyway, today I was helping some fourth graders prepare for the writing section of the MSP (which used to be the WASL, which used to be something else ... which is just one symptom of the disease that plagues public schools these days ...but that's not what I'm here to talk about). I took three of them into a tutoring room to help them do a practice worksheet for the narrative writing section, where they give you a prompt, ask you to write a creative narrative piece, and then grade you on it. Super counter intuitive. But again, beside the point.

I thought it would be a helpful example, and also only fair, if I participated in the dreaded exercise with them. The assignment is to take the open-ended prompt they give you, do a pre-writing exercise, write a first draft, and then write a final draft.

Here is the prompt.

"One day you receive a special gift. It is a very old watch. You put it on. In several paragraphs, write a story telling what happens."

Inspiring, yeah?

I talked through my pre-writing process with the three ten year-old boys I was working with. Here is what I came up with at first.

1. Get present (in the future).

2. It's a watch.

3. Watch explodes.

4. I get hit by a truck.

The truth is, I am a ten year-old boy in a twenty-five year-old woman's body.

So anyway, in the first draft stage we talked some more about my story and agreed that it was super awesome. However, it still needed the following additions:

1. An alligator.

2. A dinosaur.

3. A veterinarian.

And now, I present to you the story I wrote for the fourth grade Washington Skills Test. I imagine it would get top marks. Maybe even extra points for being so awesome.

**************************************************************************************

It is the year 3000. The world is a very different place than it was the year I was born. For starters, man now lives to be several thousand years old, which has its good points and bad points. I certainly appreciate the medical miracles that allow for such lengthy and pain-free lives, but the monotony of day-to-day life over so many years can get tedious. Also, I have way too many relatives.

The only thing that really keeps me grounded nowadays is my pet alligator, Robert Palmer. I call her Bertie for short. She has a very genial disposition and always listens to me. Feeding her can get expensive, but when she gazes at me adoringly with her beady yellow eyes, it's all worth it.

Today is my birthday. I am 1016 years old. After so many years I have completely run out of birthday party themes: pirate, cowboy, French food, Salem witch trial reenactment--I've done them all. Plus most of my friends are dead or cryogenically frozen. I decided to just have a quiet birthday dinner, me and Bertie.

Knock, knock. A visitor? Nobody ever visits me. Not even door-to-door missionaries. the "BEWARE FEROCIOUS ALLIGATOR" sign is a bit misleading, but I don't feel too bad about it.

It was the Fed-UPS driver with a package for me. After a retinal scan to confirm my identity, he handed me a small package. It was from my Uncle Eugenio. He and I have never gotten along. What was his angle? Maybe he was trying to make nice. I quickly tore open the package.

It was a calculator watch. The kind I had when I was a pretentious 25 year-old hipster, almost a thousand years ago. I couldn't believe Eugenio would get me a present I actually liked. I put the watch on.

KA-BOOM!! The force of the watch's explosion sent me flying through the air, over my front lawn and into the adjacent road. Stunned and slightly singed, yet unhurt, I staggered to my feet just in time to see the truck barreling towards me.

The next thing I remember, I was on my back in a white room, Bertie at my side, and a dinosaur in a lab coat was shining a flashlight into my eyes.

"Good afternoon," she said somberly. "If scientists hadn't proved the non-existence of luck six hundred years ago, I would say you are the luckiest person who has ever lived."

Dazed, I tried to sit up, but she pushed me back down with one three-fingered hand. "Nope. Rest. It's a good thing Ms. Palmer brought you in immediately. I don't believe in God, being a dinosaur, but somebody deserves to be thanked."

"Thanks, Bertie," I mumbled weakly. She nuzzled me with her snout and nipped affectionately at my silver space pants.

"You can go home now, or whenever you want," Dr. Rex called over her shoulder as she bustled out of the exam room. "I need to attend to a few solar panel burns. Feel better!"

Bertie and I ambled home slowly, her pausing every few seconds for me to catch up. I felt sore all over, like I had been hit by a truck, which made sense. But as we were finally within sight of my house, I saw that familiar sinister van parked in my driveway. A white van with no windows. Uncle Eugenio!

He stepped out of the car slowly as soon as we arrived at the sidewalk. His golden teeth glinted in the sun, as did his greasy mustache.

"So, you survived my birthday present," he snarled out that last word.

"Why, Uncle Eugenio?" I asked, choking on the term that indicated we were of the same blood. "Why would you want to kill me?"

"Why?" He screeched. "WHY? Because our grandmother died and left her massive fortune to all her descendants! Split evenly! Do you know how much I received?"

I racked my brain, trying to recall how much my share had been.

"A dollar?"

"FIFTY CENTS!" He sputtered, flecks of his saliva striking me in the face. "Millions of dollars amounted to nothing for us all! Why? Because there are TOO MANY OF US!"

"So ... "I began, trying to figure out where this left him and me.

"So I am going to destroy every member of our family until I receive a decent inheritance. You rabbits," he said, cocking a pistol at my forehead. "I will now finish what I started with you, you alligator-loving bunny."

Before the shot was fired, however, there was another sound. A sickening crunch, like burning logs. I looked down and saw Bertie, with Uncle Eugenio's leg from mid-femur down, in her mouth.

Robert Palmer continued to work her way methodically through her meal on my front lawn. I watched for a few seconds and then went inside to fix a cup of herb tea, guiltless.

**************************************************************************************

I expect a letter regarding my Hugo Award sometime in the next week or so. If you want to ensure I get the recognition I deserve, go ahead and submit my name for me. I won't be embarrassed.

For you.

The "you" is someone who needs to hear this, not a "you" who broke my heart. Nobody who has ever broken my heart reads this blog, I don't think. If you are: Hey. You broke my heart and I resent that, because my heart is kinda defective to begin with. Go screw yourself. Bye.

Ways To Cowboy Up and Heal Oneself of a Broken Heart

(in semi-chronological order)

1. Cry. A lot. Even if it makes the other people in the bathroom or movie theater or ethnic grocery store (true story!) uncomfortable. Cry as much as you like. Try to believe that one day you will be able to experience a trigger memory that will not make you cry again. Even if it seems unlikely.

2. Spend time alone. Go on walks, read scriptures, all that introspective stuff you see broken-hearted characters do in movies. DO NOT read old emails or journal entries initially. Build up to that gradually, starting with easy stuff like looking up his name in the phone book.

3. Spend time with people who love you. People who will either listen to you without being too pushy, or who will find other interesting things to discuss. Go shopping with someone who walks at a slow pace. Discuss movies with people who have the same taste as you. If you absolutely have to go to some sort of wedding, do not go alone. Take someone who will crack jokes the entire time and maybe help you steal some centerpieces.

4. Write stuff down. You might want to destroy it afterwards. Makes lists of his physical and personality-related flaws. Write him hateful letters. G-chat with your ever-patient friends and ask them if they had any inkling your relationship was a ticking time bomb of misery and despair. If they did feel that way and just didn't tell you, write them angry, confrontational letters, and destroy those too. Write about things you may have learned or may not have learned. Write until you feel like writing about something unrelated. That's a good sign.

5. Take everything that reminds you of him and put it in a box. Then write a date for at least a few months (I like six) in the future for the box to be re-opened. Hide the box. Open it later, and then decide what you want to get rid of, and what you want to keep around. Do not get rid of your phone, car, bedsheets (except maybe the pillowcase), infant child, or can opener (another true story). No seriously, don't.

6. Do a Google Image Search for "brown recluse spider bite." Say this out loud to yourself while staring at the aforementioned images: "It could be worse." Say it thirty times or until you believe it, whichever comes first.

7. Read the Song of Solomon in the Bible. If anyone tries to convince you it's not worth reading, tell them to shut up. Picture in your mind someone existing who sincerely believes your breasts are like two young roes that are twins. Then picture that handsome person beating up your previous paramour. Repeat as many times as necessary.

8. Research weird stuff. Whatever makes you feel human again. Cheap flights to London. Turkish food. I like to look at online memorials of people who died in the September 11th terrorist attacks. Don't attempt to explain why you are interested in the weird things you are interested in. I never do.

9. This last one is Choose Your Own Adventure! First, pick how you are feeling right now. Are you filled with rage? This is usually me. Or are you moping about your lost love despite all the bad stuff he did?

Rage is A. Moping is B.

A.

You are right to be angry. Even if you contributed in some way to the end of the relationship, and you almost certainly did, it is perfectly normal to feel angry when someone hurts you. However, an unnamed (because I can't remember) Holocaust survivor once wrote something along the lines of:

"I choose to forgive Hitler for what he has done to me and my family, because I do not wish to bring Hitler with me to America."

If you spend too much time being angry and plotting revenge, and going over every interaction you ever had and poisoning it with your newfound poor opinion of your ex-lover ("That time he was texting while we watched X-Men? I'll bet he was texting HER!!! Also, who texts during the greatest movie of the year 2000? What a douche.") one or more of several things will happen.

1. You will become so boring and scary that no one who loves you will want to spend time with you anymore.
2. You will become a vengeance-crazed vigilante and potentially end up in prison.
3. You will go on a date with someone great and ruin your chances with him/her by unloading about your past failed relationships. Carrie Bradshaw from Sex and the City refers to it as being "emotionally slutty," and it's not cute.

So, let go of your anger. Pray. Snuggle with a puppy. Give it some time. However, because I brought Hitler into the argument, this entire paragraph has become, in a small but important way, completely unreliable, so you must now proceed to item B, anyway. Ha!

B.

First of all, you are a better person than I am, or at least a more forgiving one. I'm going to stick with better. A lot of blog articles, magazine quizzes, etc. focus on the idea of STOPPING your love for someone as part of the healing process, as if continuing to love someone who has hurt you is somehow neurotic. It's not. In fact, I would say that the ultimate goal in life is to love everyone despite--perhaps even because of--how they have mistreated you.

I know this sounds like talk-show infused Buddhism, and maybe a little stupid, but hear me out.

First of all, without suffering there can be no compassion, so when push comes to shove, we can be grateful for all those who have caused us suffering, because it provides us with the incomparable gift of sympathy for others and compassion for ourselves.

Secondly, if you can love someone for all the good experiences you had together without allowing other events to render them inconsequential, that is very, very good. Also, I would love to hear your secret.

Lastly, recognize that perhaps you will always love the person who hurt you, and that's OK, and you care still able to move on with your life without purging yourself of that emotion. You probably shouldn't hang out with him on a regular basis, but concern for his welfare and a genuine hope for his well-being in the future is exactly what Jesus would want for both of you.

10. Consider moving to another city, or at least another neighborhood. Even if starting over isn't in fact the best idea for you, realizing that it is POSSIBLE is good for your soul.

So that's a foolproof , extremely original untested (at least on a clinical scale) and potentially totally useless list for you. Feel free to switch up the pronouns as you see fit.

Good luck.

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.

Parry and I were bored at church

Awkwardest Possible Things to Do on a First Date:

1. Make Punnett Square about potential hypothetical children.
2. Say, "We should get married!" and laugh.
3. Make sure to include mission stories, relate them to everything you can.
4. Call your parents and make your date get on the phone and say hi.
5. Invite your date to a family reunion or other family event.
6. Show him or her a scar normally covered by your clothing.
7. Inform your date of your secret desire to be prophet someday.
8. Talk a lot about past dates, past relationships, ex-girl/boyfriends, when you were previously engaged or about the missionaries you are currently writing.
9. Be from Utah ... kidding ... mostly ...
10. Tell a deeply personal repentance story. Cry.
11. Ask how many kids he/she wants.
12. Tell him/her you already have a ring and a wedding dress and a contract at BYU married housing.
13. Wear a facemask, and never take it off, even to eat. When asked why, mention Swine Flu, SARS, etc.
14. Be extremely over-formal: before you do anything make sure it is announced. When conversing, ask a question, and and make sure everybody in your group (if you are in one) answers the question before moving on. Make sure to repeatedly outline all the date's activities, etc.
15. Check out other people while you are going places or walking.
16. Discuss natural vs. medicated childbirth, pros and cons.
17. Tell them that their fly is down, then reach over and zip it up.
18. Tell everyone you are celebrating your two-hour anniversary.
19. Gloat about your future riches, success, and/or righteousness.
20. Show him/her pictures of your dog or cat in costume(s).
21. Tell him/her you are vegetarian AFTER he/she orders oysters for both of you.

Parry claims he wants to try to do ALL of these on a future first date. I say he wouldn't survive past number eleven.

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.

Day 8: Allow me to bitch at you for a few hundred words

6 July 2009...........................................................................At the "hotel" 5:30 in the freaking morning

I hate Amsterdam so far. We are in a fight. It's not entirely Amsterdam's fault so I know I am being a bit unfair, but I can't help but hold him (DEFINITELY a him) at least partially responsible.

So last night my train got in at 11:30 PM. I was pretty tired but otherwise feeling OK, until I took out my map and realized I had NO IDEA where I was. I tried to figure it out using the map, and I could see where I needed to go, but because I couldn't figure out where I was starting from that didn't do me any good. I tried to buy some time on the computer but their cash register was broken (How do they stay in business?) and because it's the middle of the night it's not like I can just start walking. So I do the only thing I can think of besides sleeping in the airport. I take a cab.

Taking a cab in Europe is now on my list of top ten things I hate most in the world. Although it's 5:30 AM and I'm SUPER grumpy so I may not be thinking straight. Oh, don't worry, it could have been worse. The cab was clean, the driver wasn't lecherous and he knew how to get to my "hotel" (more on THAT debacle in a minute). However, there is nothing more frustrating and few feelings so powerless as watching that meter rack up two weeks of Parisian groceries, and there is NOTHING you can do about it. It's not like I could tell him to let me off here and walk the rest of the way. So I paid upwards of sixty American dollars for a five minute cab ride. Infuriating. But my time here gets better.

My mom had, as a gift, used her "points" from some travel organization she belongs to, to book me at a place known as the "Inner Amsterdam Hotel." Word to the wise: avoid at all costs staying somewhere with the word "inner" in the title. Anyway, I knew I would have to get up pretty early to make it to the conference on time, but since I'd be in a room by myself, no problem. Also, I don't have an alarm clock and I knew my phone wouldn't work in Europe, but I figured I would just ask the hotel folks for a wake-up call. Oh, had I but known.

[INTERJECTION FROM NOW ELISA: When my mom booked my room in Amsterdam through RCI, she was told that I would be staying in a hotel and have a private room. Because I was so cracked out when I wrote this piece, I neglected to drive home that rather crucial detail. Back to your lives, citizens.]

This is not a hotel, it's a hostel. Which is fine by me, but I wish I had known this, because then I would have brought 1. a lock for my luggage and 2. a stupid alarm clock. I share a room with three other bunk beds, and there's no phone. So I had to say a substantial prayer that God wouldn't let me oversleep (Oh, He's a funny one) and went to sleep trusting my circadian rhythm to wake me up at seven.

It woke me up at five. Which I didn't find out until I was already showered, dressed, and downstairs. So now I have nothing to do but wait and curse my fate. Bad combination.

On the plus side, the hot cocoa here is good even though it's only from a machine.

I could really use a drink, but I'm probably only thinking this because I'm sitting in a bar.

/bitching.

6 July 2009..............................................................................................................................8:30 AM

I must resume bitching now: as if things couldn't get any worse, I just fell down the stairs. My ankle is twisted, but not broken, so I guess that's something.

Day 7: I am mistaken for a drunk and almost captured by a gypsy

5 July 2009................................................................................Train back to Amsterdam

If you ever wish to have your faith restored in people (and you are a woman--unfortunately, I don't think this would work with a man) all you have to do is maneuver a very large suitcase from the Chapelle metro stop all the way to Gare du Nord, and then onto the train. I tried it just now and my faith in humankind was restored for AT LEAST the rest of the day. First, a really skinny African guy who easily weighed half that I do helped me get my suitcase down three staircases. Then, when I was struggling to get my suitcase through the narrow ticket aisle, a mid-40s guy from India helped me find my way to Gare du Nord. Then the most beautiful man I have seen in recent memory helped me hoist my suitcase onto the train. No, seriously. The man was A GOD. Like an Italian Adonis mixed with that one professional soccer player I find really attractive, forgot his name. Certainly much more attractive than a certain ponytailed so-and-so. Anyway, what was I talking about? Oh yeah. Yay for nice people.

Church today was really great. It was testimony meeting and this really nice girl form Geneva sat next to me and translated the whole thing. The Bishop was from the D.R.C. and those that spoke hailed from Haiti, Ghana, the Ivory Coast, and the rest presumably from France. One of the elders and I swapped mission stories for a few minutes afterward and I think made his companion mad.

On my last day in Paris with nothing else planned, I decided to actually GO to the Eiffel Tower and see what all the fuss was about. In a word, not my scene. Too many people, not enough to see. It's a gorgeous piece of architecture, but I like it better from far away.

Some addenda to my previous list:

14. Carry a water bottle (like a Nalgene) with you at all times. There are no public water fountains in Paris and that mineral stuff is wicked expensive.

15. French watermelon = heavenly.

16. Screw what they said about everyone else walking around in high heels. It's hardly true, and all you get for your effort to fit in is sore everything below the waist and at least one sprained ankle.

17. Watch out for dog crap. No one cleans up after them here. Yet another reason not to wear high heels: they slip easier.

18. If you have a laptop and a long train ride scheduled, bring it on the train. The Thalys cars have wifi.

19. I reaffirm what I said about avoiding the Eiffel Tower and the surrounding area if you can. There was a gypsy woman there who I am sure wanted to kidnap me. She was possibly related to the one in Hungary who gave me tuberculosis. Not sure. Anyway, she walked up to me and bulged her eyes and murmured "English? English?" with a very convincing accent. I don't THINK so! I pretended not to understand and ran away. Except I was wearing high heels so it was more like a mince.

20. Lastly, be sure to embellish every little thing that happens to you in Paris so everyone you talk to will really understand what a vibrant, interesting city it is.

5 July 2009..................................................................................................................One hour later

Here's another helpful tip from me. If you are on a train and wish to journey to another compartment, AND fall into any of the following three categories:

1. Blindness in one eye
2. Wearing high heels
3. Being a sort of clumsy person generally

Attempt this at the peril of tripping quite often and stumbling/falling onto people exactly like a drunk, and then blushing and turning red EXACTLY like a drunk, which will, of course, lead all the good people on the aforementioned train to assume you are drunk. This is a particularly serious danger if you are heading towards/away from the train compartment that is also a bar, even if you were only looking for something to eat.

If by any chance you fall into categories 1, 2, AND 3, MAYDAY! Do not even attempt to stand up.

Day 6: My second Independence Day as an Ex-pat

4 July 2009.................................................................................11:15 PM Aurelia's house

Ironically, this may be the best Fourth of July I've ever had. Then again, this is my absolute least favorite holiday, because I hate hate hate fireworks. I'm glad that after 24 years, I am finally secure enough to admit this.

Anyway, today I went to the cemetery two blocks from Aurelia's house. I decided when I entered that looking at the map with the marked graves of all the famous people felt a bit like cheating, that visiting someone's grave (unless conducting family history research) needs to be an organic, spur-of-the-moment sort of thing; ergo, I was just going to walk around instead of navigate myself to various graves-to-see. Yes, I am aware that I am very strange. Apparently Jim Morrison is buried in that cemetery, but I did not come across his burial site. I did, however, come across the burial sites of several famous French people whose names escape me now. My point is, it was a very pleasant, very long walk, and it enabled me to indulge in my most secret, most shameful and most enjoyable hobby: looking at names and creating mental (and sometimes actual) lists of names for my future children. Shut UP. I'm awesome!

Anyway, after that I continued the "walking" theme of today by walking around Paris and buying a few items of clothing. Fact: I have in Paris purchased the following (totally awesome) articles of clothing:

•1 neon green purse.
•1 pair of blue lace gloves.
•1 infant t-shirt that reads: "Dormir la nuit? pas d'accord." (Shut UP! I'm AWESOME!)
•1 pair of black hammer pants (the kind I mentioned earlier--no seriously, they are so cool).
•1 brown peasant blouse.
•1 brown dress that is really hard to describe, but trust me, really cool.
•1 pair yellow nylons.

I already have a SWEET themed Sunday outfit in the works which I won't wear on my first Sunday back in the States, because that would be overkill. However, I am looking forward to people complimenting these items of clothing (and oh, will they) whenever I wear them (except I won't be wearing the infant t-shirt ... I'm saving that ... shut UP!) and when they ask me where I got it I'll say "Paris." Oh yeah, that'll be sweet.

After going home and hanging out with Liv for a while (I'm actually able to communicate quite well with her now ... mostly because 98% of her conversations revolve around the word "princess" which is an English cognate) the three of us went to the park. Aurelia and I had a pleasant chat while Liv alternated between playing in the sandpile and tattling to her mom about what the other kids were doing. It was pretty hilarious.

Then we came home, I ate dinner and packed, and we all watched Blade Runner. Renaud's friend was visiting with his daughters, ages 12 and 10. Everyone drank lots of wine except me. Tomorrow I am going to Parisian church. And a good thing too.

Day Zero, or, Don't be fooled by the post dates, read the real ones

29 June 2009 Flight from Salt Lake City to Cincinnati

Airplanes are boring. I like trains better. I don't hate flying like some people do, and I relish the time alone to read embarrassing magazines without feeling like there's something much more productive I ought to be doing ... actually, forget what I just said. I'm not bored at all. Just hungry. I don't know what time it is in the sky currently, but by my calculations it's approaching dinnertime. And I'm on a Delta flight, which means food costs money and I'm sure much of it would be inedible (not just for my vegetarian self, for anyone). I finished American Born Chinese and figured out exactly which presentations at the IAFL conference I absolutely MUST attend (3 are about child abuse! I'm excited about that ... Is that weird?) so now it's either nap, which I'd rather not do, or write, which I am currently doing. I'm applauding myself for not bringing my iPod. It makes me feel more present. Also, the three year-old boy in the seat directly in front of me reached out his little hand and put it on my knee a few minutes ago. I couldn't see his face so I'm not sure if it was intentional or not.

Some other things I've noticed so far:

1. The very old man in front of me in line was very nice. His name was Carl. He looked clean but didn't have any luggage, only a plastic grocery bag with his meds in it. He definitely should not have been traveling alone. His flight left ten minutes before mine so I made sure he was ahead of me in the security line so he wouldn't get lost. I hope he made his flight. He had trouble understanding the ticket agent's directions.

2. A woman, also in line in front of me, had a blue canvas bag with a patch on it that said: "Utah Knitters Guild: Wanna make something of it?" along with a picture of some sheep. It reminded me of Olivia.

3. While I was boarding the plane a voice came over the intercom saying there was a "David Koler" who needed to recover some lost property. I immediately texted my brother and told him of the strange coincidence.

4. Ohio looks like an earth-tone patchwork quilt with a long ice cream stain on it (blueberry).

5. I just saw the border that joins Kentucky, Ohio and Indiana. Really? Apparently, I don't know the geography of my own homeland at all. Everything between the Intermountain West and the original 13 colonies is just a blur.

6. At the airport in line behind me (until she cut) was a woman with a baby in a sling and a toddler on a leash, accompanied by her own mother. During check-in, Grandma got Leash Duty and the little boy decided he was DONE with this indignity, lay on the ground and refused to get up. Inwardly, I applauded. Leashes are for dogs, not children. Power, miniature brother.

Preamble to a long string of themed posts

To my dear and loyal readers,

Let me just start this off by saying that quite often I remind myself of Howard Hughes, and not in a good way. By that I mean that I fixate on things, sometimes to my detriment. If I get a concept or plan or value in my head, frequently I can think of NOTHING ELSE until either I develop a new fixation or I change my mind and abandon it completely.

In retrospect, it's a wonder I only changed my major four times instead of two hundred.

Sometimes this can be a good thing, because I devote a lot of passion and energy to things (or people) I care about. However, it can be limiting if I'm fixating on one thing and so refuse to participate in another thing that might be equally beneficial or even better. Also, sometimes I fixate on something to the point where I am unfortunately and unnecessarily inflexible.

One of these subjects upon which I fixate is the fact that banana ice cream, when fresh, is the best kind of ice cream in the known universe. No one could possibly convince me otherwise.

My latest victim of fixation is photography. Specifically, my hatred of tourist photography, or rather my hatred of pictures of myself. This is the first time I have travelled abroad without a camera, and I have found that my wish to commemorate my trip in ways that are not visual has made me a much more observant and present sort of traveller. Because really, no one wants to see pictures of me in Paris or Provo. You all know what I look like. And if you wanted to see photos of Paris or Amsterdam, you could find much better ones on the internet. I feel no need to prove to anyone that I actually went to the places I went to. My descriptions of them, if I am as good a writer as some of you think I am, will prove that on their own. I like being able to enjoy and describe where I am without feeling the need to document it through a camera.

I spend an inordinate amount of time thinking about this, and thus, I spent an inordinate time writing while I was in Paris.

I am in Amsterdam now. But we'll get to that in good time. There must be an order in all things.

I now present to you my first collection of travel essays, tentatively entitled Än American in Paris, which of course is meant to be ironic.

With love and excessive formality,

Elisa A. Koler

P.S. Seriously. This is a TON of writing. Don't say I didn't warn you.

"Women’s bodies are built to remember—men’s to forget." Lisa Piorczynski

Warning: This blog entry has been rated PG for content. Also, I use the words "blood," "childbirth," and "menstruation." You have been warned.

I am 24 years old, and I started my period when I was 11. That's thirteen unlucky years. I find it strange and disconcerting that I still have a hard time, thirteen years later, waking up one morning a month with that strange feeling between my legs, looking down and seeing myself covered in my own blood. I'm old enough not to be afraid, to recognize that's it's natural, just part of being a woman. But my blood is so red like primary school paint, and there's always so much of it. Thirteen years later, it still scares me.

I've been thinking a lot lately about why God created women's bodies the way He did. I think there's something to Piorczynski's quote that I cited above: for better or worse, I will never forget the first time I saw my hand covered in blood that wasn't the result of a cut, that didn't mean I needed a band-aid. Nor could I ever forget my first "real" menstruation. For whatever reason, the first few times didn't hurt. But I will never forget the first time my body took on a life of its own and sent me doubling over in pain. It felt--and still feels--like someone scraping my insides with a shovel. At an age when I did not want my mother to see me as vulnerable, that was exactly how she found me, lying in the fetal position in the shower, sobbing. Wet, naked, terrified, in physical agony, and lying on the floor, crying like a baby. It doesn't get much more vulnerable than that.

There was a purpose though, even in that incident. My mother never treated me the same way again. It was like I had enlisted in an army. Women are bound to each other in their mutual monthly pain and discomfort and pissiness, in a way that no man will ever understand. That night when I was 11, when my dad tried to yell at me for taking a shower in the middle of the night, my mom told him off, which she never did. My father never questioned my bathing habits again, and he also never looked at me the same way. With him though, it was with a new distance, a recognition that I had gone somewhere he could never go.

It occurred to me today that maybe there's a purpose in that vulnerability. Once again today I was sitting on the floor of the shower, whimpering a little, but not crying, as something inside me kicked and scraped and sent spasms of pain from my lower back to my lower stomach, right where my jeans sit. The hot water helped a little, but nothing really helps that much. Then Pamela came in and handed me a vegetarian egg roll, which I ate right there in the shower. (We like to eat in the shower at this house.) She knows what I am going through, because the same thing will happen to her next week. We take turns being vulnerable, feeling like whales with sharks swimming inside of us. We all know how it feels, so we take care of each other.

I also remember the way Cori's older brother fawned over her when she had her period. He would make her tea and bring her hot pads to lie with in bed. I still haven't figured out if this is a good thing or not, but female vulnerability seems to bring out the best in some men. The good ones at least. Maybe women were created to experience this pain to keep the men around, to keep them taking care of us. I don't necessarily like it, but the idea seems fairly rooted in our evolution. The Bible is full of analogies about walking through the valley of the shadow of death, of bearing children in sorrow and misery. Woe unto those who give suck in the last days, it says. I think it was Martha Beck who wrote about that scripture in particular, saying that a woman by herself can fight or run from danger, but a woman with babies is toast. A lot of times, the pain I feel each month feels separate from me, like a kicking creature, and I wonder if this is what childbirth will feel like. I also wonder how anyone would be able to endure something this painful without holding another person's hand. I don't think I could do it.

My friends who have had babies talk about how it feels like menstrual cramps, but stronger, that it feels like going to the bathroom, but more difficult. "Pooping out a watermelon" is how one friend so eloquently put it . Why do out bodies start preparing us for that experience years before it matters? Why does an 11 year-old need to worry about the pain of bringing babies to earth? It's all there, though. The means of doing it, and the physical foreshadowing of what it will feel like. The other thing I've heard from everyone, conversely, is that once you finish and hold that baby, you forget how much it hurt. You kinda want to do it again. All the pain is worth it--and I like to think they're talking not just about the pain of childbirth itself, but all the pain that led up to it. All the years of spending three days feeling like everyone on earth hates you and is looking at you wrong, then waking up one morning smeared with blood, showering it off until the only thing left is that dull, aching pain, an angry little man inside you stomping on your ovaries, scraping out your uterus with a shovel. A rusty one. It's pointless, I feel like telling him. Nothing there. All this pain is a waste of my time. But when I think about what it's preparing me for, I suppose it isn't.

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.

On dichotomizing (That word looks weirder and weirder the longer I look at it.)

Dichotomies are useful to a point, but it's a pretty short point. Kind of like how a trowel is useful for starting a hole, but not for creating an entire foundation.

I believe that God gives us tools for understanding people. Psychology has to be from God in its purest form, even though its strongest adherents often lean towards atheism. But tools are just that--instruments for God's purposes, and nothing more. I have been thinking about this sort of thing for several months now, and I firmly believe that any branch of psychology must be used to further love and understand people, not to compartmentalize and reject them.

I was at a grocery store with a friend of mine once. The store was swarming with people, and my friend was of the persuasion that all people are either deep or shallow, and most are shallow. He looked to me sadly and asked, "Doesn't it depress you that nobody here is like us?"

Additionally, my friend Mo just knocked on my door and handed me an invitation to her upcoming wedding. This was a particularly sweet gesture if I stop to think about the fact that we have only hung out once. I met her at the yellow house when I was visiting with Thelma last winter, and I felt an instant connection to her. We sat and talked like we had known each other for years. Since that night we have made plans to spend time together, which have always fallen through. And yet, I feel a closeness to her that I can't explain.

To utilize one way of looking at the world, Mo is an INFP, and so am I. But I wonder, would that connection I feel exist if she were extroverted, or sensing, if she lived by logic or categorized people in her mind? Something complex about why she is the way she is makes her special to me, but it has to be more than just falling on the same side of four dichotomies. It has to be.

Further evidence exists for this by the fact that I feel the exact same connection to a girl who is my almost-complete opposite: an ESFJ. One could argue that she is an atypical ESFJ, but wouldn't it be easier just to accept that people are more than their chemical tendencies? I love this girl because of our eerie similarity that transcends genetics--we are alike because of what has happened to us throughout our lives.

I also love the girl who does my hair. I don't know her personality type, and frankly, I don't care. I can't think of anyone I would rather chill in a salon with and talk about dogs and movies. If we were to take a picture together, it might even look like a dichotomy in color and shape. But it doesn't matter. We're friends. And I felt a connection with her the first time I met her as well. I thought to myself, I want this girl to be my friend. And she makes my hair look good. It was a September miracle.

When I meet someone, I do automatically wonder about their chemical composition and what sort of genetic tendencies they have: which I express via MBTI typology, because it's what I am most familiar with. But that's a starting point the same way that my comment about her cute shoes is starting point for a real conversation. People are far too complex to categorize flawlessly. That almost makes God a finite people factory, when we all know that He has never made a replication in all history. We are shaped by forces we cannot understand. But that doesn't diminish my faith in God or science. It strengthens it.

Writing about EVIL.

Note: this is a response to this, this, and oh-my-goodness I love that.

I remember believing in God before I can recall being taught He existed. I wish I could remember learning about satan. I don't, but I assume I learned about it in Primary (this was the source of most LDS-specific doctrine I learned as a child). Of all the unique doctrines the LDS church espouses, I think our beliefs about Satan are truly unique, and yet very rarely talked about. Now obviously all Christians believe in the devil. Even other, non-Christian religions claim there exists some form of opposition, be in the form of man's fleshy carnal instincts, evil spirits, or whatever else. But our belief that Satan was a guy like us who chose to fall from grace and now fulfills (albeit begrudgingly) a crucial role in God's plan for opposition in all things...that's some nightmarish stuff. Because Satan isn't some jerk in a red Halloween costume. He's guy just like us who made really bad choices. Making him not only difficult to identify in a crowd, but almost sympathetic. I know we can't (or rather shouldn't) empathize with Satan, but really, who doesn't empathize with being too smart for your own good and, upon being rejected from everything you've ever known, seeing no other viable option but to seek the destruction of all who didn't commit to the good vs evil dichotomy as passionately (one way or the other) as you?

Okay. Maybe not everyone can empathize with that. But I can. And I'm not meaning to sound like an advocate for Satan. That douchebag is trying to destroy my life as much as yours, and I definitely resent him for it. My point is that the real satan is scarier than the satans in Renaissance paintings. Because he doesn't carry a pitchfork and run around throwing cobras into people's faces (at least, not literally). He actually seems alright. He makes some excellent-sounding points. As President Faust pointed out, if satan's voice didn't sound so good, no one would ever listen to it.

It's important for us as writers to realize that. That most villains in fairy tales are a vast oversimplification. That evil is a subtle thing. And that's how it ought to be portrayed. Oftentimes in movies (both those made by Mormons and those that are not) evil is portrayed as something fairly easy to recognize. Like Professor Snape (even though he turned out to be good ... which was part of the genius of that story). The ugly guy in black is always bad. Now obviously to some degree, evil can be recognized with the aid of intuition and the spirit. But it's not easy. And if we make it seem so, we would be doing ourselves and the gospel a disservice. I think it's really important that when we talk about or write about satan and his followers, we make it abundantly clear: EVIL IS HARD TO PICK OUT. If it weren't subtle, if figuring out the difference between good and evil weren't really, really, tough, why else would we need the assistance of the Holy Ghost to figure it out? Exactly.

Another freaky thing about satan is that he's not alone. Maybe I'm off here, but in my opinion most of those so-called "satan-worshippers" are too dumb and too messed-up to be much of a threat to God or his aims. They don't know enough about anything to be entirely accountable, or else they wouldn't do it. It's the people who worship satan unconsciously who are the real threat. There shouldn't be any Sauron-type characters in Mormon media or in any media. Evil for the sake of evil doesn't make any sense, and nobody in our generation is going to fall for it.

Finally, we need to make it clear that being enticed by evil or even having experience with evil does not doom anyone. Yet another general Christian concept that some Mormons seem to miss: we are all sinners. Everyone has fallen for satan's tricks many, many times. Obviously in the next life the divide between good choices and bad choices is much clearer, but in this life, those that mess up do not automatically join satan's forces and start raising hell, as it were. I think it's really important that we recognize we're in a war, but the sides are nebulous. There's all sorts of crazy stuff going on in the mortal world, and like Scott said, we would be dishonest not to portray all of it.