Brought to you by the letter B.

I have some of the coolest friends the world has ever known. But first, inside jokes!

Those of you who have been perusing my Facebook profile of late may have noticed the scads of boob jokes that have been taking over my page in the past few days. I mean, more than usual. Here is why. The letter B is heavily, inextricably involved.

It all started with blackberries. Not the cellular device, but these:

Attractive photo of my hand brought to you by Greg.

Over the summer, Greg and Wills drove up from the Utah to visit. While they were in town, we spent an afternoon picking blackberries and making jars and jars of delicious jam that I am still working my way through.

While we picked berries and got attacked by stinging nettles, we talked about everything. This was not long after I had discovered that I had been wearing the wrong bra size my entire life. Greg and Wills are those rare, awesome kind of guys that they don't get weirded out by anything I say, so I told them the story and how much better my back felt/hotter I looked when I wore a bra that fit me properly. I even showed them the photographic evidence (clothed). I also complained about how expensive odd-sized bras are, and how I probably won't be able to afford to re-stock my lingerie drawer for a while.

Fast forward to last Saturday. My birthday. I received a package from Provo, and what do you think was inside??

TWO gorgeous, perfectly-fitting bras!! My Provo family (Wills, Greg, Justin, Chandler, Colin, Lance, Austin, Sarah, Colleen, Vilja, Ashley, and Brooke) all chipped in and sent me not only two amazingly comfortable undergarments but also cards chock full of dirty jokes! Clearly, these people know what I like. It made me a little sad to think of them getting together and telling dirty jokes without me, but at the same time, it's definitely the best way to celebrate my life. I hope they tell lots of dirty jokes at my funeral.

The cards, plus the one I got from Judith.

Here is my favorite one reproduced for your pleasure:

Dear Elisa,

Words cannot express the tender feelings in my breast. You've been such a supportive friend for so many years that this is hardly tit-for-tat. Still, these large tokens of my esteem take a load of debt off my chest. I mean it's not like I've been racked with guilt about it, but you've poured out jugs of friendly service, and this is really the best I can do, my bosom friend. I miss you loads. I thought of you while eating melons from our garden. Hope Seattle is treating you well. Hang in there.

Chandler

In fact, all the people I like are way better than the people you like. This is proof.

Also fact: my shirts are fitting better than ever. I like to think they are being held up by love.

Fam Damily.

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

Great, yes? Nerdcore fills my soul.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

David is driving here.

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

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

Seriously, we're not there yet?

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

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

Volleyball

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

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

Fact: I am good at serving.

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

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

Rafting and Trauma

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

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

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

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

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

We Have Angered the River Gods

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

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

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

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

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

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

Aftermath

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

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

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

That pretty much sums it all up.

“The hardest of all is learning to be a well of affection, and not a fountain; to show them we love them not when we feel like it, but when they do.”

--Nan Fairbrother

Image courtesy of http://garfieldminusgarfield.net

According to the Google Analytics, my readership has gone down 33% in the past few weeks. That's because I have not written anything of substance for several weeks, and the few entries I have published have been met with scornful, bitter, vitriolic disbelief (I'm looking at you, Christina).

Here's the really weird thing, though. I didn't blog not* because I was too busy being sick or working or having WAY TOO MUCH fun, and I didn't not blog because I was trying to spare the sanity of the people who had been following my blog when I had been writing every day (although maybe some of you appreciated that, yes?). I didn't blog because I ran out of things to say.

For some reason I spent a fortnight not wanting to write. Or rather, not feeling like I had anything to write about.

Dry spell is over, kids. Welcome back to my head. And if by some chance some of that 33% never returns, like maybe I broke their hearts, good riddance. Those of you who are reading now, now I know who my real friends are.

I was being histrionic for humor's sake. Did it work?

Anyway, today I spent a romantic evening at the beach with my dog. And I'm not being sarcastic, either. I have forgotten what pleasant company I am (Sego's not bad either). It's been a while since I have done something nice on my own. Riding the bus to work doesn't count.

In fact, I had planned to go to a showing of Shakespeare in the Park, but I went to Richmond Beach SALTWATER park instead of Richmond Beach COMMUNITY Park, which until today I didn't know existed. They really ought to consider re-naming one or the other. By the time I figured out my mistake, the play was halfway over, so I stayed at the beach, read an amazing book and watched the sun set. It was perfect.

I had planned to go to the play with a friend, but she was sick and needed to rest. I texted a couple of people at the last minute and asked if they wanted to go, but no one was available. In the end, though, I'm really glad I went alone. Had I gone to the wrong park with someone else I would have felt obligated to make it right. But me and Sego can enjoy ourselves pretty much anywhere ... especially any beach. I love the beach.

It's funny, the older I get, the more I relish being independent and alone. I always assume that as I grew up and continued to be unmarried, that I would become more and more desperate for companionship of any sort and less inclined towards being alone. Quite the opposite. The older I get, the more I enjoy only having myself to answer to when it comes to how I spend my time. You know what I feel like doing today? Going to the beach and reading a comic book. What did you do today?

I doubt I will ever learn to love my independence so much that I would choose to be alone rather than get married. However, sometimes I worry that I will be hurt so many times that I will stop acting on my feelings and lose all chances at happiness. Sorry, that was edging towards the dramatic again.

There was some connection I was making while I was sitting there on that bench overlooking the ocean, some connection between my love of being alone and experiencing beautiful moments by myself, and the inability I have to keep someone around me long enough to want to stay, but now that it's dark and I'm at home I think I just sound like a crazy person.

I was thinking about the quote listed above, I believe, and how I have always felt like it was written for me. I love everything in the universe and everyone who enriches my life so much, sometimes I worry about running out of steam. Or, I worry that my love is poison and drives people away, because so many people I have deeply loved have screwed** me over in the end. However, I have convinced myself that it's really just a numbers game. If you love everybody you meet, eventually some of the bad ones are going to get in there. Maybe it's even more likely. Whatever.

One thing I do know for sure is that although some people may think it's sort of overwhelming, the amount of affection I throw at people like Mardi Gras beads (for less than what they cost there, even), I doubt that it's ever going to change even though I sometimes wish it would. I have never regretted anything I have done, only the things I was too scared to do.

Know what I really think? I think the moment that I am really really happy with where I am and have resigned myself to happy hermitic spinsterhood, if that's what God likes for me, that's when some jerk is going to rumble in on a vintage motorcycle and mess things up.

I hope this post was more entertaining than a series of photographs.

*Or, "I didn't not blog?" Which makes more sense? Oh gosh. I'm rusty.

**This was originally a different word, but so far my blog has been F-word-free, and if I do break that streak I want it to be for something really really good.

I Can't Believe I Haven't Blogged About X, Day 3: Baseball Metaphors for Love AKA the Three Strikes Rule

A while ago, Bob and I had the following conversation. To provide some background without giving anything away, I had met a boy whom I thought was cool, and then changed my mind about wanting to pursue him (this will all make perfect sense in a minute).

Me: Yeah, no. I'm not going for that anymore.

B: How come?

Me: That was strike three. He's out.

B: I beg your pardon?

Me: You know, my Three Strikes rule. I've told you about that.

B: No, you haven't.

Me: Seriously? Well, did you read my blog entry about it?

B: (silently pitying me for going senile at such a young age)

Whoops. I really thought I had blogged about this at least once. But I checked the archives and ... guess not. Well, here you go. This has the unfortunate potential of being one of those blog entries that is not interesting to anyone but me.

I have a nasty habit of pursuing men long after they have proved to be bad news. Sometimes, they start out nice and then turn mean, and yet I keep mentally returning to the memory of the initial niceness, and inwardly insist that they will likely turn nice again. This never happens.

Other times, the guy is mean to begin with, but I convince myself either that:

1. He is only mean because he is so troubled, and my love will save him OR

2. He is mean, yes, but that only makes it even more worthwhile and exciting when he IS nice and is therefore worth waiting around for.

I don't have to tell you that these never end well, either.

The Three Strikes Rule is something I came up with to combat this irrational and unwise tendency of mine. I am aware it's not exactly reinventing the wheel, but I have bad taste in men*, and for now this is the best I can do.

The Three Strikes Rule is thus:

A boy I think I might be interested in pursuing gets two free passes to pull a boneheaded move (with or without proof of intent). After the third, I walk. Stipulations:

1. The move in question can be a sin of omission (ignoring me at a social event when he knew I was there) or commission (saying or doing something intentionally rude or mean).

2. As I stated above, there needn't be any concrete proof of intent, but the move must be genuinely hurtful and not just a product of my sky-high expectations (not that they're actually sky-high, let's be honest). For example, failing to buy me a present for some pointless occasion is not a strike. Flirting with another girl in front of me is.

3. Any act of physical violence counts as two. And yeah, I know that sounds soft. I never said it was a perfect system.

4. Sometimes the act doesn't have to be hurtful, but rather simple proof that said male is either not interested or interested in other people. Flirting with other women in front of me also falls in this category.

5. "You're out" doesn't have to mean forever, it simply indicates that the subject is not worthy of attention for now. The whole thing restarts after an indeterminate period of time.

I have been honing and practicing the system for approximately a year, and so far it is going OK. The really funny thing is, I don't like or understand baseball at all.

Also, if you are looking for some interesting reading, I highly recommend looking up Wikipedia's article entitled, "Baseball metaphors for sex."

You're welcome.

*With a few exceptions. You know who you are.

CELEBRITY CRUSHES

After such a heavy post earlier this week, I thought I would lighten things up a bit, in an effort to bring some balance to the Universe. You're welcome. Also, I am very excited to announce that, after a lengthy stint at the top, "Man sucking boobs milk video" has FINALLY ceased to become my number one search term on Google Analytics. This is a happy day. It dropped all the way to number four, even. This really is excellent news.

I have no idea how that search leads to my blog, so don't ask.

Anyway, so last night I was at the temple, minding my own business, and a very nice and presumably well-meaning woman came up to me and said, "You have such a pretty dress! Is that your WEDDING dress?"

Here's a Multiple Choice Question. Did I:

A. Burst into tears.

B. Punch her in the face.

C. Both A and B.

D. Smile politely and respond with something I forget what I said exactly, but it wasn't bitter or mean.

The answer is, of course, D. Raise your hand if you're proud of me.

Thank you, thank you.

I got to thinking, though, that not being in a relationship is actually pretty fabulous for lots of reasons, one being that I can listen to this song and it's kinda like a double entendre and two, CELEBRITY CRUSHES!!!!!

I always feel guilty lusting after other men whilst concurrently lusting after a real live man with flaws, especially when he is in the same room or theater with me. But if all I got is imaginary crushes, less stress for me! I have got it made.

Here are some famous people that I have crushes on. This is just a small sampling and is by no means exhaustive.

I would TOTS have sex with Christopher Walken mostly because of this music video. He is smart, funny, mysterious, and can dance. Also, he is from Queens. WIN. I know a lot of people think he has a scary face, but sometimes scary is sexy. Also, I am attracted to his mind, you shallow, shallow jerk.

According to IMDB.com, he has been married to the same woman since 1969, which is both awesome and not good, depending on how seriously I start taking this celebrity crush. Also, I found out just now that he is older than my mom. I don't care.

First of all, hi, Batman. Christian Bale was THE BEST Batman. Better than Michael Keaton, better than Val Kilmer, and CERTAINLY better than George Clooney. I mean, really. I love comic books and I would say I love Batman equally as much as X-men, slightly more than Spiderman and significantly more than Superman, especially after the latest Superman movie, which I hated. My point is, Christian Bale as Batman is really really great.

Also, hi, NEWSIES. Watching Newsies was one of the first times I realized I was attracted to men. Newsies was for most girls my age what Leia's brass bikini in Return of the Jedi was for lots of little boys. If you catch my meaning.

And finally, Rescue Dawn. He's actually not that hot in that movie. But it's a really IMPORTANT movie, and I respect him for being in it, especially since he lost so much weight for the role and I think ate a real snake too. That's badass. It might even make up for the fact that he drinks way, way too much alcohol and is reportedly kind of a douche. NEVER STOPPED ME FROM LOVING SOMEONE BEFORE.

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

Lastly, Alan Rickman. I might only love him because Sense and Sensibility is such a great film, in my opinion better than Pride and Prejudice, or it could be because he was in Galaxy Quest and that movie is really hilarious.

Clearly, I have a thing for deep voices. Don't even get me started on how I feel about Eddie Vedder.

Here is a representative quote which proves I also love Mr. Rickman for his mind:

"I do feel more myself in America. I can regress there, and they have roller-coaster parks."

Oh Alan I would ride a roller-coaster with you ANY DAY OF THE WEEK. Even though IMDB just informed me that you are, in fact, the same age as my mom. I can forgive you for that, as well as for cheating on Emma Thompson in Love Actually.

Oh my gosh, I almost forgot about Die Hard. I love that movie.

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

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

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

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

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

Here were David's picks:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And, last but not least:

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

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

On Flirting.

I'm temping in an office today. It's boring. No, scratch that, because saying it's boring only reflects badly on me--implying that I'm the kind of person who gets bored. There just ... isn't much to do. How's that? I look forward to the mail coming once a day so I can spend twenty minutes sorting it. I love it when the phone rings even if the caller has the wrong number. Or is a telemarketer. Yesterday I took a survey about office supplies over the phone. I think I have made my point.

Fact: working as a front desk secretary is essentially being a professional flirt. Think about it. I am the smiling face who greets the Fed Ex Guy and other delivery workers/couriers. I soothingly and chirpily connect callers to the department they seek. I charmingly welcome potential job applicants (all male so far). And I make small talk with my temporary co-workers, one of whom walks by the front desk much more than he needs to, it seems. I smile, I laugh, I wink, I tease. I can maybe kind of understand how office romances come to be. Not that I would ever consider participating in an extramarital affair, mind you. But I can see how, after weeks and weeks of sitting at a desk with nothing to do but flirt with people, "things" can happen.

In the white handbook that lays out the rules and regulations for Mormon missionaries, one of the bullet points emphasizes (paraphrased) "do not participate in flirtations with the opposite sex." In my second city when I was a Mormon missionary, when my companion and I were dutifully reading from the book as part of our morning studies, she paused at that bullet point and looked at me pointedly.

C: "Do not participate in flirtations with the opposite sex." ... or the same sex, right, Sister Koler?

Me: (jolted out of my exhausted reverie) Huh? Sorry, what?

C: You know what I mean.

Me: ... I'm afraid I don't.

C: You're a flirt! Not just with boys, with everyone! You flirt with kids, old ladies, our investigators' parents...

Me: Oh. (pause) I guess that's just how I am.

She was right, of course. Even as a straitlaced Mormon clergywoman, I was/am an irrepressible flirt. It's just how I interact with people. I wink, touch elbows, jokingly kiss anyone on the cheek. There was, once again in Hungary, one instance where I sat next to a teenage girl on the bus. I struck up a conversation and started asking her where she went to school, etc. Not too far into the conversation she gave me a creeped-out look and said with peculiar emphasis, "I have a boyfriend." Then I stopped talking to her because there is just no recovering from that kind of awkwardness. I can't remember if I got up and changed seats, but I should have.

Anyway, flirting indiscriminately is a good thing because 1. it makes any interaction more interesting and 2. it usually puts strangers (and myself) at ease. However, there are several negative consequences to this habit of mine: 1. it can sometimes confuse people into believing that I am a lesbian/into old people/unfaithful to my current boyfriend/a bad missionary and 2. it means that people who I am legitimately interested in often cannot be sure that I mean it when I flirt with them (or, likely as not, avoid flirting with them due to being scared like a little bunny). For whatever reason, when flirting really counts, I am unable to perform. Flirting, for me, does everything but serve its intended purpose.

I started thinking about the irony of this situation this morning at the bus stop. In Utah, I didn't get hit on by strangers very often, I assume because there is a surplus of attractive, accomplished women, many of them 10s, and I am a 6/7, on a good day. Maybe lower since I gained some weight over Christmas.

Anyway, the really great thing about Seattle is that I would say most women are in the 6-8 range. This is similar to the phenomenon that Pamela and I witnessed in Las Vegas, when I turned to her excitedly after getting checked out in a line for a roller coaster and said "Hey! We're hot in Vegas!" Accordingly, I get slightly more public male attention than I did in Utah. This is good for my self esteem but not otherwise helpful.

On Wednesday, for example, a good-looking but older (early 40s?) black guy stopped me in the hallway when I was walking through a building, told me I looked nice, and asked where I worked. I have a highly developed creepometer, so I knew for (reasonably) sure that he wasn't a freak or a rapist, just a friendly guy who liked how I looked. But even though I could sense that, all I did was smile demurely, say something non-committal, and walk away. One could theorize that I was trying to leave him wanting more, but the truth is, I'm not that clever. I was just unnerved.

Exhibit the second. This morning at the bus stop, like I was saying earlier, I was crossing the street at 6:50 in the morning, wearing a dress that came to my knees and no nylons. I stood next to a fellow commuter, a cute guy about my age in a knit black stocking cap. He looked over at me as I shivered and zipped up my coat as far as it would go, and said, "That's ambitious of you, wearing a dress today." He then made a big show of looking up and down my pale, goosey legs, and then said, "I like your style." Once again, I smiled politely, said something non-committal, and then pulled out my iPod and plugged into the nothingness.

That poor guy kept looking over at me while we were standing at the crowded bus stop, and the thing is, he seemed like a really nice guy. I don't know why I didn't encourage him. Obviously I am not self-centered enough to think my semi-rejection did him any lasting harm, but still, it would not have killed me to flirt back. I just never feel like flirting BACK, only flirting forward, when I am sure that nothing will come of it. How ridiculous.

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.

Collin and I should write a screenplay.

I'm thinking Diablo Cody-infused rom-com, minus the sex.

Him: If he doesn't talk to you, then you're going after the wrong guy, again. And I'm going to tease you, because I have yet to hear about a cool guy that you've pursued.
Me: Hey, hey ...
Him: Mostly I'm thinking about that horribly narcissistic **** guy you were so spellbound by.
Me: Oh gosh. That's my big fear honestly. It's too bad that I go for mysterious slash creative, because that is so often linked to douchebag. I should make a t-shirt that says "NO MORE DOUCHEBAGS" just to remind me.
Him: Yeah, but that makes it sound like you work for a company that supplies douchebags and that you have evidently run out of them.
Me: Shoot, maybe I did.

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.

I just had an apostrophe.

I was enumerating my celebrity crushes to my friend Collin tonight and I realized something.

My Celebrity Crushes:

1. Alan Rickman
2. Christopher Walken
3. Christian Bale

See any destructive patterns here? Emo, brooding, deep-voiced, angry, drunks.

Also, my favorite Ninja Turtle was always Rafael. He was also deep, brooding, acid-tongued and filled with rage he could neither conquer nor explain.

If only someone could tame him......

This has led to every problem I have ever experienced in love.

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.

Blessings. Most are people, one is not.

I don't know why, but lately I have been unable to summarize any of the goings-on in my life without resorting to lists. Scroll down if you need any evidence of that. Even some of the posts that aren't actually lists are, in fact, lists of convoluted and unrelated thoughts. How sad for me. Or my writing abilities, rather.

In the discourse style of one Dallin H. Oaks, I will announce my topic at the beginning to avoid confusion. I have something to say about my ward. Ward number 218 of who knows how many, the ward to which I belong.

I moved into the 218th ward fresh off my mission, unsure of what I was returning to and 30 pounds heavier than I was when I left. The only things I had going for me re: my back-to-Provo lifestyle was cheap rent at my new house and a seriously unhealthy relationship with a boy who lived a solid hour away. I moved into a house with five girls I had never met--three were 18 and the other two were also recently returned missionaries. Plus: our house had chickens and a great landlord. Minus: I had no idea what I getting into whatsoever. I don't mean that in a positive way or a negative way, necessarily. It was just a total crapshoot. And we know how many of those work out, roommate-wise.

Fact:this crapshoot paid big. I pretty much loved this ward a lot as soon as I met the people in it. Chandler and Wills were there, friends from my freshman ward whom I hadn't seen in years. My roommates were fun and easygoing, and handled my dramatic break-up and subsequent months of depression with grace and compassion. From February to June, I worked full-time, had no friends, and came home every day only to sit on the floor in my garments and cry. A dark time. But like I said, I lived in the best ward ever, which got me out of my funk a lot faster than I would have otherwise.

This ward saw me through much more than just man woes, mind you. When my parents got divorced, God sent me a Chandler to listen to me vent and remain unperturbed by my swearing. And a Melanee to go with me to the temple grounds and walk around the grass with me, even though I didn't feel like talking. He also sent me a Robbie who read me his poems and never made fun of me for crying in front of him. Although now he occasionally teases me for only calling my hometeachers when I have big problems. Touche.

Anyway, I should not neglect to mention that about ten of us in the ward (I may be overestimating, but it FELT like about ten) were vegetarian, and the good man in charge of Break the Fast (the only church activity I attend with any regularity--I'm sort of a Weekend Mormon in that way) was conscientious of us and always made sure that there was vegetarian food available. Thanks again, Greg. All of my close friends with whom I spent any significant amount of time were in that ward, at least once Ashley and Brooke moved in. It was like Heaven for a while.

I should point out that all was not perfect in Zion, however. There were two very distinct social groups in the old ward: one of the fairly standard, khaki-wearing Mormon kids (who were nevertheless older than average and thus tolerable) and the gay/herbivore/weirdo kids. Only one of us that I can think of moved between the two groups with any great success*. However, laws of civility and mutual tolerance prevailed as long as no one brought up politics in Sunday School. Specifically evolution. And God help you if you did. Seriously, though, this was a really amazing ward. I loved it.

Then came August, a time of great sorrow not only due to the imminent loss of Gordon, but a change in command at the Bishopric level. I loved Bishop Andrus, who was an introverted, outdoorsy, non-meddlesome kind of guy. Kind of like Mister Rogers meets Jeff Corwin. This is not to say that our new bishop is the opposite of that, I'm just saying that I really, really liked our old one.

Anyway, our new bishop, bless his heart, looks exactly likes Daddy Warbucks and reminds me a bit of him, personality-wise. I find him very intimidating, and he tends to put a lot of pressure on his ward-ees (?), which Bishop Andrus never did. This new bishopric puts a LOT of emphasis on dating, and getting married, and fulfilling "appropriate" gender roles (which I could write another entire tome about, luckily I'm tired so I'll spare you).

As if that change weren't enough to deal with, the Stake Presidency (also new) changed all the ward boundaries, and moved all my friends into the next ward over, leaving me all alone. I went to Bishop Warbucks and asked if I could move to that ward, too, especially since the bishop of that ward used to be in our bishopric and I already know and like him. But he fed some some lines about rules being rules and making new friends, and that was the end of that. Fascists.

Just kidding! I don't want to sound like I have a bad attitude. I'm doing the best I can, and frankly, I'm a little grateful that my current ward situation is such that I won't be terribly sad to leave it in a few months. I know that sounds awful, but I think God is just trying to make moving a little easier for me. You can't be blissfully happy forever. God always notices.

So now I'm in a ward where I am the only weirdo (well, one of two ... and there's one other, but he works on Sundays). I spend a lot of time during the flirting lessons (no joke) in Relief Society rolling my eyes or reading the Bible Dictionary. I may take up knitting again.

All this background information and whining is meant to make the following statement all the more amazing and miraculous:

Last Sunday, I sat through Ward Conference and Relief Society and I didn't cringe once.

Either the ward is getting better or I am getting more tolerant to Mormon cultural quirks.

Pretty sure it's the former.

*It was Wills.

A Treatise on Three Topics that Never Happened

All the things that didn't happen to me today:

1. I did NOT come down with the mumps.
2. I did NOT finish painting our hallway. Or any other room in the house, for that matter.
3. I did NOT eat anything worth mentioning.
4. I did NOT see, talk to, or hold hands with Christopher Walken. His loss.
5. I did NOT become fluent in French overnight.
6. I did NOT receive a mysterious package that may or may not have contained a bomb.
7. I did NOT buy contact solution even though I am out. And currently wearing contacts.

All the Foods I have Never Tried:

1. Blood pudding.
2. Haggis.
3. Homemade blue cheese.
4. Milk straight from a cow.
5. Count Chocula breakfast cereal.
6. Snails.
7. Goose liver.
8. Deep fried tootsie roll on a stick.
9. Deep fried anything on a stick.

All the Boys I Never Dated:

This is something I have been thinking about lately. Generally I try to operate under the assumption that it's better to take risks and know for sure about something than to live forever wondering if something would have worked out. And I'm not just talking about boys here, either. I am a much happier person knowing as I do that pig feet are gross, whereas if I had never tried them I may have lived my whole life wondering if pig feet were the tastiest delicacy on the planet. Probably not, but who wants to live with that kind of possibility? It's better to try one and know for sure that they are disgusting.

Another example is persimmons. Possibly the most delicious food on the planet. If Satan himself were to come and offer me one in exchange for something major, like leaving my home and experiencing hardship and agency and childbirth, I would seriously consider it. That's a lie. I would go for it without looking back. Persimmons are that good.

I was introduced to persimmons on my mission. Not because anyone offered them to me. I discovered them on my own. When I was serving with Ashley, every P-day I picked out a fruit or vegetable in the produce section that I didn't recognize, than sometime during the week I ate it. Sometimes whatever I bought was gross, but at least I knew for sure that none of the items available were poisonous. They don't sell poisonous produce in grocery stores in Hungary. A wise policy.

Anyway, so one week I go to the exotic fruit basket in the back corner of the produce section and start rifling through it. I find what looks like an orange tomato, and buy it figuring it will taste like one. Then one Sunday morning while my companion was in the shower and I had very little food left from the week, I reluctantly cut it up and tried it.

It was like a symphony on my tongue. It was so sweet and juicy and magical. The following P-day I bought like seven even though they were like three hundred forint each. Man, they were delicious. I regretted every month of my life that had not been spent eating more and more persimmons. I seem to recall that on that morning I actually went into the bathroom where Ashley was showering and demanded that she come out and taste this delight in my hands. She was so good to put up with me.

I should also add that I didn't know they were called persimmons until I returned home from my mission over a year later. I don't remember the Hungarian word for them, but I think it was something unhelpful like "Jerusalem apples" or something like that.

Some men are like pig feet. They appear to be a bad choice but you (well, I) try them just to make sure they aren't actually a whole lot of greatness in a lousy package. Always a disappointment, but never a surprise.

Some men are like persimmons. They appear ordinary, but once you try them you regret every minute of your life that was not spent enjoying everything that person has to offer. That kind of experience never wears off. I have never met a human persimmon.

Some men are pomelos. They look fulfilling and delicious but then turn out to be sour and gross. Consistently. A pomelo betrayed me once. And here I am talking about the actual fruit, not a person.

Most men, unfortunately, are like oatmeal. They sustain you through life but don't do much for you besides that. And sometimes some jerk puts shredded glass in your oatmeal, just to be spiteful, and almost die from your breakfast. It's true. I read about it once.*

Frequently, I assume someone is a persimmon, take a bite and find it filled with rolled oats, with or without the glass. It never ceases to disappoint me, though. Rest assured though, that someday I will be banging down your figurative bathroom door insisting that you try this persimmon. Meet this person.

And you will say to me, "Sister Koler, shouldn't you be getting ready for Church?"

"Let me be something every minute of every hour of my life. Let me be gay; let me be sad. Let me be cold; let me be warm. Let me be hungry...have too much to eat. Let me be ragged or well dressed. Let me be sincere-be deceitful. Let me be truthful; let me be a liar. Let me be honorable and let me sin. Only let me be something every blessed minute. And when I sleep, let me dream all the time so that not one little piece of living is ever lost."
- Betty Smith, A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, Ch. 48

*Well, in a novel.

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.