Seeing Things As They Really Are

Last week (or maybe two weeks ago, my days and weeks tend to blur together) I reached the point in the year where the weather has turned warm enough, and I'm busy enough, to be truly lazy about my hair style. Every year, around this time, I stop doing anything with my hair. I comb it out, throw in some curl-enhancing goopy stuff, and call it good. To be perfectly clear, I do this because I am lazy. I do not especially care for my hair when it is au natural, mostly because it feels out of control and always in my face and stuck in my lip balm. In fact, I generally find the wavy/frizzy mess to be annoying, just not annoying enough to pull out the blow dryer, flat iron, or curling iron. Eventually, I reach a critical mass of annoyance and I go back to styling it on a regular basis.

The irony of this whole exercise is that these weeks of hair laziness are when I get the most compliments about it. Everyone but me seems to love the wavy/frizzy mess. They, apparently, do not see it as a wavy/frizzy mess. They see something completely different. Something that I don't, can't, or won't see.

During the first week of the laziness, I was speaking to a friend and coworker who told me to stay where I was, ran and got her phone, and took a picture because she thought the wavy hair and the sun shining on it through the window looked great.

When she showed me the picture, I couldn't see what she was talking about at all. I immediately saw the messy hair, the lack of make-up, the signs I need to be more diligent about my diet, the way my smile is all upper gums and no bottom teeth, the decades of difficult-to-bad skin, the sausage fingers, the dark circles under my eyes, all the flaws on which I base my mass of insecurities.

This, along with the multiple posts/articles people keep sharing on Facebook about it, got me thinking about how I see myself versus how other see me.

I see the flaws; they are usually all I see in myself. I don't see them in everyone else and they don't see them in me but I operate under the assumption that they do. I assume that they must see the laundry list of things I see, small and large every time they look at me, and are judging me for them. Nearly all my insecurities rest on this list, the things that make up why I don't date, why I can't get a job in my field, why I'm not married, why things don't seem to ever go my way. 

I need to find a way to stop my way of seeing and find a way to see myself the way my friend and coworker did. I need to stop feeding the insecurities, starve them into submission by refusing to fixate on what I see as flaws, when it is readily apparent they aren't the neon signs I believe them to be. Because if I'm even a little bit objective, this is not a bad picture.

Mothers and Daughters

Six years.

Six years is both a lifetime and a fleeting moment.

Nothing is the same and everything is the same.

My life is different. I am different, changed by the ups and downs of six years, by the ebb and flow of mortal life.

The ache, the longing, the sense of loss, and the constant wish to pick up the phone and talk to her is the same; the never-changing constant in my up and down, ebb and flow mortal life.

Around the time we found out my mom was dying, I discovered a book by Joan Didion called The Year of Magical Thinking. It is a memoir of the year following her husband's unexpected death, an explanation and written exercise in grief. A year that also coincided with the repeated hospitalization of her only child, a daughter, because of complications due to an illness.

I read The Year of Magical Thinking at least twice the fall before my mother's death and again, at least once, after it. Not only am I fascinated, as a wannabe writer, by Ms. Didion's writing, her structure and syntax and ways of stringing words and sentences into coherent thought, I was drawn to the subject matter. Ms. Didion's way of explaining the experience of grief, of sorrow, of loss, and of the pain of being the one left behind brilliantly captured and put into words what I was feeling and experiencing. Despite our circumstances being different in all respects, Ms. Didion could say what I wanted and needed to say about my experience of my mother's death.

Shortly after The Year of Magical Thinking was published, Ms. Didion lost her daughter as well. Five years after her daughter's death, she wrote another memoir Blue Nights, about both the extended experience of that loss, of the one left behind, of aging, and of the relationship between mothers and daughters.

Again, despite our circumstances being different in all respects, Ms. Didion has said in writing what I have been needing and wanting, but unable, to say about the experience of being left behind, of being a part of a mother/daughter relationship that has been fundamentally altered by death. What Ms. Didion ultimately says is that it is a relationship central to our beings, complicated beyond measure, and haunting in its impact once the relationship is altered by death.

The same fall I was devouring The Year of Magical Thinking, my brother was being much more productive and forward-thinking and asked my mother to record her story of her life on video. For various reasons, none of us actually watched it until after her death. Shortly, maybe a day or two after her funeral, my brother suggested (or perhaps insisted, my memories from those days are hazy and incomplete) we watch the video. It was difficult to watch. Even in my numbed and shell-shocked state, there were moments that made me flinch. I don't remember why but I do remember that she had structured it so that the video seemed like an extended conversation with my brother, a private conversation in which things were phrased in a way that seemed to exclude me from the conversation. I was not the center of her universe.

I was far too old for that to have been a surprise to me. But it was. My mother was amazing at making people feel like they were the center of her universe.

I have not watched the video since.

Not long ago, my brother asked my father to make a photocopy of the few journals of my mom's that remained (my mother kept notebooks of writing, especially during difficult times, but they seemed to disappear, either lost or repurposed or destroyed). I haven't read it from front to back, but as I skimmed pages, I had the same reaction.

I have not looked at the journal since.

Exactly a week ago, an email notification from YouTube popped up in my inbox, informing me that my brother had uploaded the video to YouTube. An image of my mother, the first part of the video, was the only thing I could see. I closed my inbox immediately and have kept junk mail, offers from Land's End and ThinkGeek and a myriad of other online retailers, in my inbox on top of it so it is not the first thing I see every time I open my inbox.

I assumed it was because I was selfish, vestiges of sibling rivalry, of remaining displaced anger that I should have to live the rest of my life without my mother.

But, as I contemplated my reading Blue Nights, new and different reasonings for my reactions came into play. The whole book is a personal exploration of how perception in the moment and subsequent perception of the past in the leisure of the present can cast doubts on memories, on experiences, and definitely on the understanding of who you thought someone was. It is a secondary sort of loss, the realization that the person you have been mourning and grieving for might not have existed in the precise form for which you have been mourning and grieving. It is a reopening and an expansion of an old wound because the one person who could answer the questions and make sense of it for you is not there to respond. All that remains is a gnawing question to which the only answer available is that you have somehow misunderstood something. Something you can never put right.

I am not a crier. It is rare for books, movies, television shows, etc. to make me cry. Real life can occasionally make me cry. But, as I read the final passages of Blue Nights, I cried. Cried because I understood why I cannot revisit my mother's written words, cannot revisit the last images and spoken words I have from her.

I will quote a portion of that passage here. Hopefully no one sues me.

   "The familiar phrase 'need to know' surfaces.
     The phrase 'need to know' has been the problem all along.
     Only one person needs to know.
     She is of course the one person who needs to know. . . .
     I imagine telling her.
     I am able to imagine telling her because I still see her. . . .
     I know that I can no longer reach her.
     I know that, should I try to reach her -- should I take her hand as if she were again sitting next to me. . . -- she will fade from my touch.
    Vanish. . . .
    I know what it is I am now experiencing.
    I know what the frailty is, I know what the fear is.
    The fear is not for what is lost. What is lost is already in the wall.
    What is lost is already behind the locked doors.
    The fear is for what is still to be lost.
    You may see nothing still to be lost.
    Yet there is no day in her life on which I do not see her."
                 ~ Joan Didion, Blue Nights, New York: Vintage International, 2011, 186-88

There is no day in my life on which I do not see my mother.

My Two Cents . . .

are not going to Scouting.

On Sunday, at the beginning of the Relief Society meeting, it was announced that class would end early to make time for a special announcement. I felt this was an odd announcement, seeing as how the time it would take to talk about the special announcement could just as easily be taken at the beginning of class. I decided it might just be something they were leading up to with the lesson or that it was supposed to be super inspirational and they wanted to end on a high note. Imagine my surprise when the ward's Scouting specialist got up to make a spiel about the Friends of Scouting program and to ask for donations because Scouting is expensive. 

Now, I think Scouting is a fine program. My brother liked it, my dad is his stake's go-to Scouting guy, and I think it does a lot of good. However, as I listened to the continuing plea for funds by this woman and, ultimately,  her testimony of the Scouting program, I got angry. I realized that even if I had more than two cents to spare, I would not be giving it to the Friends of Scouting. Initially, I was not going to publicize my decision, but then I read this entry at the Tumblr site AmenAlready (which is a site guaranteed to make me laugh daily and also make me think about my assumptions. For reals.) and decided I needed to say something.

I got angry listening to the extolling of Scouting's benefits and the plea for funds not because it isn't a good program but because as a girl growing up, and as a woman in the Church today, it often feels that the Scouting program is run at the expense of the girls and young women of the Church. For example, have you ever tried to get permission, organize, or participate in a fundraiser for Girl's Camp? It is a nightmare. You have to do something big, it can only be once a year (please correct me if I am wrong), it has to be in exchange for something (not just soliciting donations), and you have to strong arm people into helping. I speak from personal experience as someone who went to camp 7 times, who had to get people to buy cookbooks filled with ward recipes after having to beg them for recipes to put in the cookbooks, who had to convince people to buy homemade pizzas. What do the Scouts do? They have an individual get a calling to go around to ward meetings and straight up ask people to whip out their checkbooks and write them a check. Which people do. That tells girls and young women that the people in their ward do not value their development as much as they value the boys' and young men's development, that the limited funds of the ward and the individuals in it should be given to the boys and the young men, and that whatever is left over will have to worked for and scraped for by the girls and young women themselves.

I got angry because the unequally funded programs are also unequally recognized. I can't speak for the Primary Activity Days because I have no experience with them. However, I have never heard of an equivalent recognition night for Activity Days achievement for girls like the Cub Scout pack meetings that recognize the achievements of Cub Scouts and mark advancement through the ranks on a monthly basis. I do have personal experience with the differences between Personal Progress and Boy Scouts. I'll share the most glaring. When I was in Young Women, Personal Progress required that from the ages of 16-18 that I do multiple projects, two each year, one of which had to be specifically focused on service. Each were expected to take at least 30 hours to complete. This was on top of the other Personal Progress goals required in the previous four years for each of the, then, seven values of Young Women (Faith, Divine Nature, Individual Worth, Knowledge, Choice & Accountability, Good Works, and Integrity). Time-wise, if a young woman did Personal Progress right, it was roughly equivalent to the time required by Boy Scouts and the Laurel projects were roughly equivalent to the time required for the Eagle project. The expectations were similar, but the recognition was vastly different.

I received my Young Women's medallion the same year my over-achieving brother received his Eagle Scout. The work we had done was equivalent, his was just packed into a shorter amount of years (which you couldn't do as in Young Women when I was in it lo these many years ago). I was given my award over the pulpit in Sacrament meeting, without advance notice, on a Sunday in which both my parents were in other wards for their respective Stake callings. I didn't even think it was my place to ask that maybe the Bishop wait until a Sunday when my parents could actually be there. It wasn't something you did. You just went up when your name was called, shook the Bishop's hand, said what one of your project was, got the medallion, and sat down. It took all of 30 seconds. Now compare that with an Eagle Scout Court of Awards. The Court of Awards is a separate meeting that can include multiple Eagle Scouts or be held for one Eagle Scout. It is a night dedicated to the Eagle Scout(s). It is a special event in which people are specially and specifically invited to come recognize and celebrate the Eagle Scout(s) achievements. There are large displays of the project(s), time dedicated to ensuring that everyone have a chance to look at, understand, and comment on the project(s). There is a whole ceremony dedicated to recognizing the accomplishments and achievements of the Scout(s). My brother had the night to himself. My parents ordered a cake with an image of the award and my brother's name on it. Family members traveled to attend the event. Even though I knew that my parents loved me as much as they loved my brother and that they would have done the same for me, there wasn't the opportunity to do it. It wasn't, and isn't, done. 

I don't fixate on this discrepancy, I don't let it influence my testimony or my faith. However, it does send a clear message that the girls and young women of the Church should just get used to not being recognized, that their work, their achievements, and their progress spiritually, emotionally, physically, and intellectually is of less importance than that of their male counterparts to their families, the members of their wards, and the Church as a whole. 

And that is why I will not be donating to Friends of Scouting. And why I will definitely be supporting my ward's Young Women's fundraiser this spring, even if it is only two cents.

I Felt Like One of the Women in Annie

And unfortunately it wasn't Grace Farrell.

A few nights ago, after a particularly long, chaotic, emotionally exhausting day, I was lying in bed trying to get my brain to turn off. I needed something to relax the insane speed and disorder with which thoughts were racing through my head. Usually I would listen to one of the playlists I have created for just such occasions, however, my iPod was already docked in my alarm clock cued to play my wake up playlist that ostensibly motivates me to jump out of bed and get moving but never really does. Additionally, it seemed like a lot of work to find my headphones, listen for a while, and then re-dock and re-cue the iPod.

Another great way of getting my brain to calm the heck down when it is at DEFCON 3 is to listen to something equally soothing. That equally-soothing something being Mr. Benedict Cumberbatch's reading of "Ode to a Nightingale" on YouTube. His voice is mesmerizing and the poem's rhythm and subject are nicely suited to lull one to sleep. Despite my best efforts I have been unable to find a legal way of getting the mp3 or hard copy of the disc of poetry for which he read this. So YouTube it is, even though I can't watch the video that accompanies the reading without feeling like a stalker.

So, as I pulled my laptop up onto my bed next to my pillow, I had a flashback to that scene in Annie, right before the "Little Girls" number, in which Miss Hannigan is curled up in bed whispering sweet nothings to her radio.

On the plus side, I dress better and have never brewed bathtub gin.

Torn Between Two Archetypes

On the one hand there is the man who has a specific skill set at which he is brilliant but causes him to be rather megalomaniacal. He has tunnel vision, ignoring the things, the people, the situations that don't fit into his small view. But within that small, specific world he inhabits he is master. No one can compete and that makes him dangerous to others and, more especially, to himself. 

On the other hand is his friend or accomplice or partner or companion, a man who is equally or nearly as equally brilliant as the other, but with a wider world view that means his brilliance is more diffuse, used in more areas and therefore seen, especially by the first man, as less-than. This second man sees value in humanity and society, respects the conventions of society and social morality more, and lives accordingly. He is, however, drawn to the experiences and adventures inherent in the life of the first man and his dismissal of these same conventions and morality. He also acts as the voice of reason and morality in the actions of the first man, a check to his impulsive myopia. 

Half the shows and movies I watch play with these archetypes. Psych, Sherlock (the BBC series), House, Sherlock Holmes (the movies), White Collar, Burn Notice, and even Doctor Who. I think the reason I like the shows so much is that I'm torn between the archetypes. I can't decide who I like better, who I would ultimately choose. Shawn or Gus, Neal or Peter, Sherlock or Watson, the Doctor or Rory. On the one hand, the brilliant, myopic man lives an adventurous life, an extraordinary life away from the mundane. However, there is no room for the ordinary, for the relationships or the day-to-day that must be lived and can be extraordinary.  There would be no possibility of a relationship with him, as that is exactly the sort of mundanity he dismisses because it doesn't fit into his world view.

On the other, the reasonable, more conventional man appreciates the ordinary in life and understands how the small and the mundane can be beautiful and extraordinary in its own way. He would actually see the value in a relationship. Although we might both be more drawn to the extraordinary and adventuresome ways of the first man than either of us would care to admit.

Perhaps I just want to BE the friend or accomplice or partner or companion. A female Watson. That would be the best of both worlds; I wouldn't have to choose. Which is why, I suppose, I love Doctor Who so very much. There is a constantly rotating cast of Watsons, mostly female, who get the opportunity to enjoy their time with a brilliant, myopic, extraordinary individual and have amazing adventures. If only a madman in blue box would arrive on my doorstep. I can worry about adjusting to life post-adventures later.

Existential Exhaustion

Here is the thing; I am tired.

Like, bone-deep exhaustion tired. I am tired of being dependable.

Tired of being someone who takes on all the responsibility for things, even when other people offer, tired of the accompanying guilt when I falter under the weight of that responsibility, or when I allow people to take one some of that responsibility and they struggle.

I am tired of being seen as dependable and smart and, therefore, intimidating.

I am tired, so existentially tired, of being constrained by other’s conceptions of who I am, of what I am, of who I should be.

I am tired of keeping all my crazy, less-than-dependable, less-than-nice thoughts to myself.

I am tired of being alone, of being the person that people depend on and the dull, endless ache of missing the one person I could always depend on, who would always be there for me.

I am tired of the guilt of feeling I somehow failed her, the stupid, ridiculous guilt of thinking I somehow should have been able to save her or to at least make it not so hard, not so painful, not so ugly and awful.

I am tired of being so consumed with my own pain that I don’t have the energy to get to know all the women I am now responsible for.

I am tired of not knowing how to help myself and thus unable to help them.

I am tired of feeling like every part of my life that truly matters is one epic failure after another.

I am tired of lying in bed not being able to sleep because my brain is full of worry and fear.

I am tired of waking up exhausted, of falling asleep in the middle of the day and having vampire dreams.

I am tired of being intimidated by life, by the unknown, by the idea that I am set up to fail.

I am tired of not being the girl I remember, the girl who would spin around in her Wonder Woman Underoos thinking she could conquer the world. The girl who could confidently pose in her Teela and She-Ra costumes and mean it. The girl who didn’t yet know that when people told her she was smart and strong and responsible it wasn’t a compliment; it was a sentence to being given more work, more responsibility, more to do. The girl who hadn’t yet realized that Wonder Woman and Teela and She-Ra and all the smart, confident, strong women she loved to pretend to be were alone, left to save their worlds by themselves. That such women were branded ‘intimidating’ and to have any sort of life outside their strong, confident, world-saving selves had to create cover identities in which they pretended to be less-than and that only then would they have friends, but not really because they weren’t who they really were. They were who people wanted them to be.

I am tired of not knowing how to be that girl anymore, of saying yes when I desperately want to say no and saying no when I should say yes.

I am tired of putting off finding how to be that girl.

So I am going to take some time to myself, to figure out things I should have figured out a long time ago. Which means I might not be around for a while and I might not answer phone calls and I might not be the person you are used to.

But I’ll be fine. Because I am always fine.

Halloween And Assorted Other Uncertainties

In an effort to be outgoing and in honor of my new calling, I went to my ward's Halloween dance/party. I wasn't feeling particularly creative and my Daphne (from Scooby-Doo) costume had seen better days. So I just slapped on some goth nail polish, a bunch of black eyeliner, a black leather cuff I found at Claire's in the 'Claire's for Boys' section, and my beloved Supernatural Metallicar t-shirt and went as my evil twin. Not particularly creative, but I wasn't feeling particularly festive. Part of it was the hellacious week of presentations-being-criticized-by-the-professor-in-the-middle-of-them-in-front-of-the-rest-of-the-class and other school stresses. Part of it is that Halloween was my mom's second favorite holiday and celebrating it is hard still (seriously, almost had a complete and total meltdown on the bus two weeks ago because I overheard a man telling his daughter about the Great Pumpkin). And part of it was the fact that in the days of Yore, Parker, Treat Queen, and I (and any other assorted friends we could drag into the mayhem) would make Halloween fun, whether we did anything grand or not. So, the evening consisted of me trying to be involved and join groups and make friends and dance and enjoy the festivities, all the while thinking "if only Parker & Treat Queen were here." I can't lie, I breathed a sigh of relief when I left the party at 11. It just wasn't the same without my good friends. So many inside jokes, cryptic references, collective memories that were missing. And sometimes I don't know if I have the energy to start all over.

It Is Confession Time

First of all, I just wanted to tell all five of my readers that I haven't disappeared nor abandoned you.  Most of my free time has been spent making this for my soon-to-be-born niece, Gummi Bear:

Which is why this post has been sitting around waiting for me to blow the dust off and finish it. Without further ado, onto the confessions!

I spent a great many years of my life trying to keep people from realizing what a huge dork I am.  I knew I would never be 'popular' but I did want to preserve some semblance of cool. However, in retrospect, this quest for coolness meant I kept a lot of things locked up in my head because they weren't respected by my friends or peers.  It is my goal to stop worrying so much about others' opinions of me and just be myself.  So as a first, tentative, step toward full disclosure, I thought I would start with a blog post revealing something I normally wouldn't.

I wasn't quite sure what I was ready to share.  I had to start out small, but not something insignificant. But obviously it couldn't be an admission that any mocking would send me into a catatonic state. It all came together when I saw Get Smart. (Side note:  I thought it was a fun movie.  I would recommend it just because Steve Carrell could make me laugh just reading the phone book. But there is fun to be had outside of Mr. Carrell, so go see it!) What was the epiphany that led me to this post?  That Dwayne Johnson ('The Rock' is apparently out) is kind of hot. Maybe it was the wardrobe (I have no defenses against a secret agent in a French blue button down w/ rolled up sleeves. None. I blame David Duchovny.  And Michael Vartan). But that confession is not all, my friends. I have compiled a list of other actors who I have heretofore been loathe to admit finding attractive.  You may mock, I won't be offended.  But I'll be ecstatic if any of you agree!

Back to Mr. Johnson, I was originally very dismissive, as he was a professional wrestler.  Then I saw him a few years ago on SNL and he wasn't half bad.  Then he stopped being so beefy and put on the Standard-Issue Government Agent Uniform I mentioned above and was all nice to Steve Carrell in Get Smart and all of sudden he is attractive.  

Next up is another actor who kind of grew on me.  I never got into Buffy the Vampire Slayer or Angel although two roommates tried valiantly to get me hooked on Buffy the Vampire Slayer. But while I never got obsessed (which I think had more to do with my love of the original movie than the quality of the show.) I kept tabs on David Boreanaz and now that he's not in a show as a character whose only moods are sad and evil, I can say that he is hot. And the fact he wears the Standard-Issue Government Agent Uniform the majority of the time is a plus.

The Matrix worked because Keanu Reeves needed only to look confused and/or concerned through the entire 136 minutes of the film. Also, the all black look works on most men. The thing is, even though his acting genius seems to have peaked with Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure, I feel compelled to watch him. As in, literally stare at him. He is the worst thing about Much Ado About Nothing, but he also spends some time shirtless. 

George of the Jungle, The Mummy I & II, School Ties, Bedazzled: these are movies I have seen multiple times. Not because they are necessarily good; most of them are not. Why do I watch them repeatedly? Because I find Brendan Fraser to be completely disarming. He spends most of the time in these films being the affable goof. A very tall affable goof with a six pack.

I have long been at the mercy of class clowns. I loved several during my school career. Currently I am quite enamored with one Mr. Seth Meyers on Saturday Night Live. His dry delivery on Weekend Update nearly always sets me giggling. And a man who makes me laugh is always attractive.

And finally my deepest, darkest, most difficult confession. I find Denis Leary to be dead sexy. I don’t even know how I came to this conclusion, as I think I have seen maybe one movie he has ever done, a long forgotten Disney flick called Operation Dumbo Drop (Research shows he also played Smalls’ step-dad in The Sandlot. So that’s two). Everything else is pretty much unwatchable, as he is known to be a foul-mouthed comedian. But I still have to stop and stare whenever I see an ad for Rescue Me.

So there you are, dear readers.  Secrets I have been loathe to admit for some time and which will definitely cause a few of my friends' eyebrows to go up.  Now I'm off on vacation. I'll be back with stories and pictures!

I Haven't Run Away to Australia, I Promise

Well, dear readers, it has been a while. I have been running around like a crazy person for the last few weeks. There have been two weekend trips to the Pudget Sound, a bunch of Young Women’s stuff, work, visiting teaching, errands, staying with my friend with Down Syndrome so her parents could be with another daughter when she went through the temple, etc. and I’m so exhausted I have been turning my alarm off in my sleep even though I go to bed at 9:30 at night, like I'm some sort of Florida-dwelling retiree. Last weekend I slept 13 hours in one 24-hour period. Mostly because I was a big ball of stress most of the week before.

See, Saturday I had an interview with the Western Washington University’s Masters in Teaching program. I drove up to Bellingham last Friday and some family friends took me on a tour. I can totally see myself living there. The historic Fairhaven area has a 3-story used bookshop just one block from a gelato shop. I know! And in between them is the Village Green where they screen movies in the summer. Check out pictures here and here, as I am an idiot and forgot to grab my camera out of my suitcase and put it in my purse. And I forgot my phone has a camera in it. Yes, I’m Queen of the Idiots. Saturday consisted of a group assessment and an individual interview. I think it went quite well. Anyway, keep your fingers crossed for the next couple of weeks. They said we should hear yea or nay around the second week of May. I’m trying to reign in my obsessing, but it is going to be a long wait for that letter. Also when I live there, you all have to come visit, as it is an awesome place to explore.

In other news, all my favorite TV shows are back on, but The Office is starting to make me very uncomfortable. I don’t know if I signed up to deal with a coke habit. Or with Andy and Angela being more popular than Jim and Pam. It’s like Bizarro World Office.

In other entertainment news, I'm reading The Ghost Map by Steven Johnson for book club.  It is about the 1854 cholera epidemic in London which led to the discovery that cholera was a bacteria and changed the face of urban living.  It is really good and extraordinarily engrossing. The downside: everytime my stomach grumbles or even feels in any way unusual, the irrational part of my brain screams 'ACK! I got the CHOLERA!'

And one final word of advice. Your brain cells might suffer if you are forced to watch Beauty & the Beast, The Jungle Book, Aladdin, and The Lion King in a row. I'm just saying.

The Withdrawl Is Always Fierce

I have mentioned previously that reading Jane Austen is the literary equivalent of crack. And I am full blown addict. I have been giddily watching the Masterpiece airing of the BBC adaptation of Pride & Prejudice. Honestly, how hard is it NOT to grin like a doofus while watching Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth Bennet awkwardly meet at Pemberly? It fills me with delight and false expectations to watch the story unfold. Delight because they are wonderful characters and false expectations because, well, the story is a fiction that feeds into one of the most elementary of female fantasies.

Why is it that I can revisit Pride & Prejudice, Persuasion, and Jane Eyre (and the rest of their kin by Austen, Bronte, Glaskell et al) in both their literary and film versions repeatedly? I find these three novels deeply satisfying in a way that is, perhaps, not completely healthy. They are, all three, stories of women who, while neither the great beauties nor wealthy heiresses of their worlds, inspire grand passions in strong, intelligent, desirable men. Despite not possessing the two things (great beauty and wealth) highly prized by society, these heriones completely enthrall the gentlemen in question. It is not just a passing fancy or a genial respect. The heroes of these novels determinedly face down class distinctions, familial and societal disapproval, and even eternal damnation, to earn and own their lady's love. That, my friends, is a strong fantasy indeed. I gave up on being a great beauty long ago and have no fortune to speak of, which makes the fairy-tale endings of these novels all the more alluring. I identify with Elizabeth Bennet and Jane Eyre and, most especially, Anne Elliot. And I'm looking for my Mr. Darcy, Mr. Rochester, or Captain Wentworth.

I am 29 years old and have never inspired a grand passion. I have had a creepy psychostalker or two, but that wasn't so much inspiring a grand passion as exciting an unbalanced psyche. I would think that at some point in the past ten years or so, some member of the male species would have seen something admirable enough in me to inspire a grand passion. But, alas, one has not. So I will content myself with living vicariously through the fictional experiences of the Elizabeth Bennetts and the Jane Eyres and the Anne Elliots and the Eleanor Dashwoods and the Emma Woodhouses and the Margaret Hales of the literary world until reality crashes in, yet again, and I have to face the real world.

Therapy, Anyone?

I have been mentally drafting a post about something serious and important that has been on my mind, but the writing of it is not coming along as I would like, so instead of my Serious and Important Post, you are getting a post on my bizarre dreams. I'm not quite sure what they mean, exactly, only that my subconscious is trying to tell me something that I haven't deciphered yet. Since you, dear readers, are smart and lovely, I thought I would open it up for discussion by posting the two dreams I have had in the past 3 days that make me think I might need to Deal With Some Issues.

Two nights ago, I had a dream that my dad decided to by a condo by the airport. (No such thing exists in real life, by the way.) Consequently the house we live in was to be sold. He was so excited about the new place and took me to see it. It was a lovely townhouse with a main floor, an upper floor where the one bedroom was, and a basement that housed a home theater. The whole place was gorgeous, but I got a little sidetracked by the fact that a) it cost $250,000 and I was worried my dad couldn't afford a condo that cost a quarter of a million dollars and b) there was only one bedroom - his. There was obviously no room for me in the condo, unless I wanted to sleep on the couch in the home theater. It was distressing.

Then last night, I had a dream that I had moved into a lovely apartment but that with the moving, everything was chaos and the kitchen was a disaster of dishes that had been in storage too long. Also moving into the apartment were several of my roommates from college, including Parker, Hoopsta, and Jubbs Stubbs (the later two are happily married in real life) but they were all busy doing other things so I spent hours trying to get the kitchen clean and in order and find places for the stuff of at least 4 adults who all had their own stuff. I was starting to get really frustrated. The kitchen was finally clean (and let me just say that the whole apartment looked like one of those amazing wood-floored, ceramic-tiled places on TV shows) and I started to look for my stuff, when I realized that there weren't enough bedrooms and the only place for my bed was in the massive dining space next to the kitchen and that I didn't even know where my bed or any of the my other stuff was. I was trying to figure things out when I decided to make sure all the outside doors were locked. I found that the back door, which led directly to Parker's huge and beautifully appointed master suite, would not stay closed, let alone locked. After struggling with it for a very, very long time, I had to give up when Parker got back from whatever she had been doing and had no problem with the door. Also, I must point out, she was wearing cropped pants made out of shiny black pleather and 5 inch stilettos. I was so confused by the outfit and to why, exactly, she was wearing it. And at that point my alarm went off and I woke up.

It has been suggested to me, by a loving and experienced person, that perhaps some sort of professional help, like grief therapy, might be appropriate after the craptastic year and a half I've been through. Maybe she is right. But that opens a whole can of worms I'm not quite ready to deal with at the moment. Any interpretations, suggestions, or comments are more than welcome!

Saving Me From Myself.

I fear I am becoming one of those girls. The ones with the curtains of hair who will cut one if one so much as mentions cutting their hair. They can be seen quite frequently in BYU singles wards and on What Not To Wear. They seem to get their sense of identity from the curtain of hair that falls from their head to near their waist. My hair has never, ever fallen anywhere near my waist, but it has become quite long. And I started having panic attacks when I thought about getting a hair cut. Even though this is what I have been dealing with:

That, my friends, is a long, ratty, prone-to-tangles mess. And that picture was taken on a particularly good hair day. Nothing I did kept it from looking shaggy. So I was faced with a choice: look like a homeless person or cut my hair. Which started me hyperventilating again. The craziest part is that my hair grows quite quickly. The picture taken below was taken almost exactly two years ago:

My hair was barely chin length then, meaning my hair grew around 12 inches between December 2005 and December 2007. Which, if I'm doing my math right, means that my hair grows about 1/2 an inch per month. I should not be having anxiety attacks about cutting my hair; it grows like a weed. Which is why today after work I faced my fears and paid my lovely stylist to do this:

I lost 5 or 6 inches and gained a lovely auburn shade. But more importantly, despite the somewhat sullen expression in the above photo, I got a hair cut I love. And if I really want them back, I'll have those lost inches by next Christmas.

Sidenote: I just realized I'm wearing three different sweaters in the exact same shade of blue-green. Maybe someone should alert What Not To Wear after all.

I Wouldn't Even Make It To Initiation

I just returned from seeing Enchanted (I know, I'm way behind in my holiday movie viewing), which I thought was a fun show on several levels. As I superficially pondered the themes in the film, I realized something. I could never be a card-carrying, capital 'F' Feminist because I identified with Idina Menzel's character, Nancy, more than any other. I like the fantasy of being rescued from the stresses of this world and jumping down a manhole (I have some experience with that) into Happily Ever After. Also, I'm sure having animated hair would be fantastic. It never tangles. So, since I don't have anything else to talk about, I thought I would post all the other reasons I could never be a card-carrying, capital 'F' Feminist.

• One my favorite Christmas songs is "Baby, It's Cold Outside." Which is a fun song, but with some rather sinister implications if one truly thinks about it.
• I like James Bond films. I don't care that he goes through more women than vehicles in each film. It is a smart, sexy, man with a British accent and a really, really nice car. What's not to love?
• I believe in the power of cosmetics, perfectly-shaved legs, and amazing, gravity-defying, foot-crippling shoes.
• I think staying at home and raising children is one of the greatest things a woman can do.
  
• I don't care about breaking glass ceilings or the fact that the ERA never passed or climbing my way to the top of the corporate ladder. Maybe I'm lazy. Maybe it strikes me that using a traditionally "male" template for success just plays into the myths behind gender inequality.
• I love fashion magazines.
• I'm a sucker for romantic happy endings, which is why I enjoy stories like Jane Eyre, North and South, and anything by Austen repeatedly. The thing that keeps me from reading "romance novels" is my literary snobbishness, not Feminist (or even feminist) ideals.
• If one of my most beloved Fantasy Boyfriends converted, moved next door, and declared their undying love for me, I might start re-thinking the whole going-back-to-school thing.
  

The Aftermath

I've been mulling over this post for sometime now. I didn't know if I should even publish it, seeing as how it is Christmas and the season of Joy and merriment and whatnot and this post is none of those. But, it is my blog and my Christmas this year isn't so much about the joy and the merriment, but rather about surviving whilst avoiding turning into an unholy combination of Ebeneezer Scrooge and the Grinch. So, read at your own peril.

Two Sundays ago was the six-month mark. It seems simultaneously forever ago and like yesterday. After all the family and friends left, I told myself that the only way to survive this was to run as hard and as fast as I possibly could until I got far enough away that I could deal with it. Maybe that was the wrong way to go about things, but it seemed the only way. And, I did it. I focused on anything that could distract me and kept busy. It wasn't so difficult with it being the busiest season at work, having a new job in Church, and looking after my dad. Halloween and Thanksgiving were a little difficult, but I had things to focus on, like a trip to my aunt's or the trick-or-treaters, or making sure I cooked the turkey well enough to avoid food poisoning. But it is still as sharp, as surprising, and as searing as it was six months ago whenever I am side-swiped by a reminder of her absence.

It isn't the things one would expect that do the side-swiping either. I can look at family pictures without a twinge. I can tell my book club about her reading Mary Poppins to me as a child without incident. But, a Sarah McLachlan song on a CVS/pharmacy commercial that I don't know if my mother ever heard can cause me to sob uncontrollably. Flying home from California, between Oakland and Seattle, a glimpse of Mt. Rainier dropped me to my knees (figuratively, of course, as such sudden movement on a plane these days would bring the U.S. Marshalls running). I never know what will push the misery from manageable to overwhelming in an instant or how to keep it from happening in the most public of places and the most inconvenient of times.

I do know what does not help. It does not help to have aquaintances, however well-meaning, comment on how hard it must be for my dad and I right now. Or to further suggest that knowing that she is in a better place makes it somehow easier. It doesn't; I'm not mourning for her. I, better than nearly anyone, know what it was like for her the last days, weeks, months, and years of her life. My worst nightmares these days are that she is alive again, but still sick and wasting away while I have to stand by, helpless, and watch. What I'm dealing with, and I suspect my father as well, is the anger, the grief, the ache of her absence. In that aspect it doesn't really matter what my beliefs about the afterlife are, because what hurts is that I'm separated from her in my life, here and now. Grief, even in its purest form, is ultimately selfish.

Coke & Lime 1, Scully 0

I succumbed to the genius that is the Coke & Lime this afternoon after a valiant struggle of three and a half days. The past three and half days have not been pretty. I have not been happy. I have been exhausted and miserable and plagued by a nasty headache and neckache. And after the post-Institute existential crisis I enjoyed last night, followed by a morning of work issues, I felt I couldn’t face the County Courthouse without one. One day at a time, right? Although, after depressing myself with calculating that most of the Institute attendees had been in kindergarten when I was sitting in the exact same room my first year of Seminary, and that after 14 years I had ended up back where I started, possibly in the exact same desk, I doubt I’ll be returning to Institute. But like Parker said, “A for effort.” And like Scarlett said, “Tomorrow is another day.”

5 Signs Scully Is Completely Frazzled

1. It takes 24 oz. of Dr. Pepper to get me through the day. 12 oz. in the morning and then 12 more on the way back from the County Courthouse after doing the day's recordings for work. There is a Dr. Pepper machine outside the County Auditor's office that hums the siren-song of caffienated beverages and I just can't say no to happiness-in-a-can for a mere $0.55. And ZB and Miss Parker were right, Dr. Pepper is better from a can. And as a rule, I don't even like soda from a can.

2. I excitedly ordered the book North & South by Elizabeth Gaskell from Amazon.com last week. I anxiously tracked its every move via their website. What I got today in the mail was not North & South, but rather a book called Cranford by the same author, a book of which I had never heard, but had accidentally ordered, rather than North & South. Now I have to wait for my refund (minus shipping fees) to kick in before I can order the right book. I have no idea how I missed the fact that I ordered the wrong book when I a) perused my cart before checking out and b) checked the tracking daily, but I did. What an eye for detail!

3. All I ever want to do is sleep. I know I cannot sleep during my lunch hour, or when I get home from work, or in the morning while I read my scriptures, or in the shower, or while sitting at my desk, or while waiting in line at the County Treasurer's office, but that is what I really want to do. I want to sleep 20 hours a day, despite getting what feels like a good night's sleep every night from 10 pm to 6 am. But I long for the sweet oblivion of sleep All. The. Time.

4. I have started to eat whatever is put in front of me. Since I get home from work last and Mime and Mrs. Mime are on break, they pretty much do the cooking. Today, I ate a hamburger. Last week I had 3 bites of a pork chop. Yeah, I know!

5. I'm too exhausted to give in to the constant temptation to go to the drug store and buy some hair dye. I haven't dyed my hair since October and I miss my auburn locks. My hair has almost completely reverted to its indecisive red/blonde/brown mixture that is not distinctive at all. And considering my hair is a mere 2 inches from the top of my bra strap, it would look stunning in a shade of auburn. But, alas, I can't drag myself to the drug store and make a decision about color. Which might be a good thing, seeing as how I should really find a stylist to do it.

Random Thoughts

I am completely scatterbrained lately, for obvious reasons, and have not been able to put a coherent thought together, so here are a bunch of random thoughts.

-- I realized last week that I actually like my job. I know! I haven't felt that in, well, ever. I'm training to take on another position and am actually feeling like a part of a company. Such a new and wonderful feeling.

-- I forgot how beautiful this place could be in spring and early summer, before the weather hits 90+. The green of the circles, the smell of freshly-cut hay and growing mint, the contrast between the irrigated fields and the dry edges. The blue of the sky. I'll have to take pictures to share with you all.

-- Everyone should go see Ocean's 13 because it is just plain fun. Plus, it is two hours of George Clooney, whom I adore, and lots of other nice-looking men who I know lots of people enjoy looking at, but who fade into the background when compared to my beloved George. Don't mock, I know I'm obsessed and I'm fine with it.

-- People should not tell me, in all seriousness and with no HINT of humour and/or sarcasm, that my mother can now help me find my eternal companion. EVER. It is not comforting and is rather insulting. Like I need divine intervention or I am completely unmarriageble. Hello?

-- I am completely addicted to caffeinated sodas. I crave them on a daily basis. I really must do something about this, but as I'm still exhausted after sleeping from 10:30pm to 7:15am, I don't really know what.

-- Even though I like my job, I still feel I'm being punished every morning when I have to drive to work and none of the children are going to school. I think we should ALL get June through August off.

Things I Can't Handle Today

People who don't understand the word no.

People who somehow think they are the exception to the rule.

People thinking invading my space and giving me a hug is somehow the best way to comfort me.

Thinking about the future. Even if I did get an interview for that art center/museum position.

Listening to anyone who wants to tell me how wonderful my mother is, or how much they love her, or what an amazing person she is. I know all that. Better than they do.

The guilt about not being able to do anything to fix this situation.

The guilt about getting enraged everytime a kind person tries to do something for my family and me.

Pretty much anything other than staring blankly at a computer or tv screen.

Ten Quirks

Lovely ZB outlined her ten(ish) quirks on her blog today and since I can't think of anything good to write about except how excited/sad I am about The Office season finale tonight I thought I would accept her invitation to do the same. So here are ten quirks you may or may not know about me.

1. I like it when people's names are symmetrical, as in the first and last names have the same, or nearly the same, amount of letters in them. For instance, I find the names George Clooney or Michael Vartan infinitely more aesthetically pleasing than John Krasinski. I find the balance soothing, I guess.

2. I am normally find country music grating and not a little annoying. However, when I am sad or depressed or sick, I watch CMT. I have no idea why, but it makes me feel better.

3. When I eat candies like M&Ms or Skittles, I organize them in a pyramid according to color. Like the bottom row is purple, the next red, the next green etc. The order depends on how many of each color I get in a handful.

4. I hate using other people's bathrooms. Whether they be at work, at someone's home, or a public facility I absolutely hate it. Maybe it is a fear of being walked in on at my most vulnerable, maybe it is my latent germaphobia, I don't know. But I hate using them.

5. The smell of hospitals makes me nauseous.

6. I believe that someday soon one of my TV boyfriends will sweep me off my feet after falling madly in love with me, thus solving all my problems. Really.

7. I don't like red meat, but the smell of pot roast makes my mouth water.

8. For someone who has wonderful parents, great friends, and in general a good life, I have a lot of rage issues.

9. All I did for the first couple of years I lived in Salt Lake was complain about living there. And now that I don't, I miss it.

10. I still have dreams about people I knew in high school and about boys I crushed on over seven years ago.

I Knew IT!

I have long suspected, possibly since the pivotal moment when he urinated in my face two days after coming home from the hospital, that my younger brother would sell me down the river. And my life-long suspiscion was validated this weekend. My parents and I went to the tundra town of Rexburg, Idaho to visit Mime and Mrs. Mime for a long weekend. During one of the many hours we were huddled in their living room trying to survive the sub-zero weather, talk turned to memories of high school and people we knew. Mime had the (mis)fortune of trailing me in high school, being a freshman when I was a senior. He started talking about what it was like to be known as Scully's Little Brother. Most of the teachers expected my geeky scholastic aptitude and were slightly disappointed by Mime's scholastic apathy -- he could do it, he just chose not to -- and comparisons were made (conversely, the gym teachers expected nothing and were pleasantly surprised by his natural athleticism). As he was complaining, he mentioned a nerve-racking moment when he was on the freshman soccer team. A senior -- let's call him Adonis, for he was gorgeous -- saw our last name on Mime's jersey and called him over. Thinking he was in for some sort of hazing, Mime reluctantly complied. Adonis asked him if he was related to me, and then said "Oh, she's cool." and subsequently became Mime's benefactor and protector.

Just a little backstory on Adonis. We had known each other since sixth grade, having survived one of our elementary school's less stellar experiments. They made a combination fifth-sixth class and gave it to the kookiest teacher in the school (for Halloween she dressed as a social studies book, got stuck in the passage that connected our classroom with the next, and had to be removed by the janitor). We bonded over being forced to read a book about Mao Zedong's march through China by Mrs. Kookypants and were the Tin Man and the Scarecrow in her overly-optimistic class production of The Wizard of Oz. We both ended up in the same Honors classes in junior high and high school. He was a class clown and I always enjoyed a good joke, so we were sympathetic classmates. However, he was several social rungs above me, based on looks, having a doctor for a father, and having spent some years in Japan while his dad was a military doctor. It would have been taboo for me to even admit to having a crush on him, let alone acting on it. Plus, he was Catholic, so doubly taboo for this LDS girl. We always got on well, and could enjoy a witty repartee, but that was that. I haven't seen him since graduation and haven't a clue where he is or what he is up to. But back to the story at hand.

It seems Adonis' protection came at a price. Mime was invited to sit in the relative comfort of the back of the bus with the senior players, so Adonis could pump Mime for information about me. Information Adonis admitted he would use to tease me. Mime shared with him the story of my falling in a manhole walking to the seminary building, which Adonis had heard something about, but Mime of course filled him in with a first-hand account. Needless to say, I was not pleased when I heard this. When Mime teasingly informed me that he had filled Adonis in on my admitted crush on Mr.Perfect (the LDS boy who pretty much excelled at everything) the room kind of went dark and I felt a panic attack coming until Mime said, "Just kidding." Luckily he hadn't shared such personal information. But even ten years later, I can't believe my younger brother would betray me like that. I can't imagine the panic attack that would have ensued if I had found out about this when it was actually going on. I don't know how I can possibly face the reunion this summer knowing I was the subject of multiple conversations amongst the senior soccer team.