Miss Carrots: Completely Ordinary

I'm Going Republican

2012-01-26T06:47:00.001-07:00

Okay, while I'm prone to extreme angst, I'm not nearly as angsty as this song. I just love me some Bob Forrest/Thelonious Monster, and, let's face it, this Republican primary stuff is stupid.

It's a circus. The weirdest part of the past week hasn't even been how Stephen Colbert transferred his Super PAC to Jon Stewart so that he could encourage people to vote for Herman Cain in the South Carolina primary. (South Carolina does not allow write-ins, and by the time a poll revealed that Stephen Colbert was leading Jon Huntsman in South Carolina polls 6% to 5%, it was weeks too late to file, so Stephen Colbert encouraged people to vote for Herman Cain as his proxy.) And then Herman Cain got 1% of the vote, or more than the other three dropped out candidates combined.

The longer this goes on, the more disdain I have for almost all of the candidates. I've hated Santorum from the outset, because it is impossible for me to respect someone who frequently compares homosexuality to bestiality, incest, or pedophilia. Newt Gingrich is a scummy, hypocritical, racist human being who has embarrassed his party and congresspeople in the past but is somehow a breath away from his party's nomination anyway. Mitt Romney continues to waffle, and this business with his taxes doesn't make me nearly as peeved as the way he has talked about his taxes. (He says, I don't think you'd want a president who paid more taxes than he should legally. We should say, You fought hard and lobbied hard to keep your tax rate there. And then you turn around and criticize the poorest Americans who pay no income tax because they want to live in a welfare state. I have to agree with Jon Stewart and just point out that poor people have [crappy] lobbyists.)

Oh, Mitt. I was on your side up until now. Now I hardly care if Newt wipes the floor with you.

So where does that leave me? Ron Paul? I'm a liberal, for crying out loud, so I don't have to like any of these guys, but it depresses me that the only person I can respect in the field as a decent, consistent person and politician is the person with whom I possibly agree the least. It depresses me that it's January and I already know who I'm voting for in November, no questions asked, and I'm not even that jazzed about the guy. At least I know he shares most of my values and I feel like he really does do his best most of the time and I agree with him on more than a couple of issues.

This election cycle blows. But here's another Thelonious Monster song because I'm hardcore loving them right now. And this song is perfect for today.

Potentially Triggering, But It's Really About Working With Young Teenagers Now

2012-01-20T07:42:00.000-07:00

One day in Mrs. Prock's seventh grade English class, I asked someone the type of question that makes you a very observant twelve-year-old though even a few years later it would have qualified as ignorant. I had noticed that a good friend of mine had stopped eating lunch or treats teachers provided in class, and I had noticed that she was in the bathroom a lot. I wasn't sure what all of this meant, and I barely knew any terminology surrounding the topic, but I figured that directness and a confident front would be the best way to get a confession. "How long have you been anorexic?" I wrote in gel pen before folding the note into a childish rectangle with a "pull here" flap, creating quite the obscene contrast. I expected denial but there was none. "Not long," my friend answered before further detailing her descent into the eating disorder that still impacts her today, eleven years, three stints in treatment, and one hospitalization later.

Not that that should have surprised anyone. We were, after all, the ripe old age of twelve, and once her eating disorder became more obvious I became aware of many other girls' eating disorders. Later that year I would purge for the first time, and I would also stop eating for 100 hours to see if what they said was true about not feeling hungry after the first couple of days. (It was.) The same friend and I had both self harmed for the first time when we were eleven. By the time I was thirteen I had graduated from erasers to razors, at least a lot of the time, but don't judge erasers as a self harm implement because they can hurt like no other if you do it right, and I did. By the time I was fourteen, not only did I have peers who were drinking, though they had the good graces to not invite me (thank goodness), but I had peers who were drinking specifically to numb themselves by their own admission. I must have had peers who were experimenting with other drugs, though I wasn't aware of it at the time. I also remember having my first sexuality-related thought about a girl (about anyone) when I was about twelve, which was a scary experience.

I bring all of this up because at one of my jobs I work with kids who are between the ages of seven and fourteen. When I look back on these types of experiences and then interact with kids who are these ages, it's a wake-up call about just how young those experiences start to hit kids thick and fast and how ill-equipped they really are to handle them. While I told adults about some of the more troubling behaviors my friends exhibited, I never, ever willingly told an adult about anything related to me until I was in college, and by then I was in a lot of psychological pain and I was having some trouble functioning. It's unrealistic to believe that none of the kids I mentor are facing any of these issues or others that they should not have to face at this point in their lives.

I'm not sure what to do about it, but it is good to remember what can be and let that have an impact on the way I make healthy relationships with these kids. It's good to have open eyes and ears, and it's good to provide a safe place.

Dear Salt Lake City,

2012-01-15T06:06:00.000-07:00

I am completely in love with you.

Maybe it's because I grew up in one of the world's weirder metropolitan areas which somehow manages to be 100% suburban and, like a true southwestern girl, really big cities intimidate me. It's comforting to live in a place where you are so familiar with all facets of the local culture, even if the local culture drives you bananas sometimes. This is especially true with you because your culture is the most reasonable of all the surrounding cultures, and it's set off with healthy amounts of gay bars, liberals, and arts venues. Your downtown is safe, mostly, and you're full of parks and near mountains and rivers and lakes. Mostly I love how toward the end of a 70-hour work week I can go a few blocks, eat at a fantastic Thai restaurant, visit and hip coffee joint, and see a film at an indie film house that plays Grieg (the particular Grieg pieces that I associate with my father) before the showing. And you know, growing out a pixie cut and looking more and more like a lesbian soccer mom every day is surprisingly un-awkward in what is supposedly the gayest city in the country.

Not that it doesn't suck, because oh man it sucks. I've almost cut my hair approximately 2,842 times. And the movie was fine, thank you. Meryl Streep was superior, per usual, even if the plot did leave me a little, okay she has some senility issues, wait we just spent all that time on the Falklands and now the Wall is coming down, didn't we miss something? Gorbachev, it totally sucks that your part got written out.

As soon as my lease is out I'm going to move downtown. I can't wait. I'll be yours completely this summer.

Yours,
Cari

Driving Tips from a Recently Immigrated South Korean Elementary Schooler

2012-01-12T04:50:00.000-07:00

I yawn, he says, "Sleepy driver? We die!"

My coworker has only one hand on the wheel, he says, "Two hands or we die!"

He's hungry and bored after picking up all the other kids and we're stopped at a red light, he says, "Enough red, go go go!"

A Whole Lot of Nothing

2012-01-12T04:10:00.002-07:00

Now that I'm used to extreme sleep deprivation, I can see the pros that come with an ultra-structured lifestyle. I'm so much more productive than I've been since living on my own. Take today, for instance. In a 24 hour period, I will have worked for sixteen hours, driven a total of three hours, taken Shelby grocery shopping, slept for a couple of hours, taken care of my cat, and cleaned my bathroom. And I anticipate seeing a lower number on the scale tomorrow morning.

I am woman, hear me roar.

Also? It's true what they say about structure for regulating those pesky emotions. It's no secret that my moods have gotten me in trouble in the past, but these days I'm normal-person stable, other than the whateverthatwas in early December. Even that, though, was small potatoes, comparatively. It's almost like I can be wrestled out of my own head with a few years of practice and the final push provided by an insane schedule, who knew?

It is maddening to take whole-day naps, however. Whole days, wasted! I've accepted that they are necessary for my continuing functioning, though, and my sleep schedule somehow has not reversed itself, so we're doing okay.

There are definite downsides, though. My whole life is my two jobs, my cat, and whatever NPR I catch on my way to and from work. Other than the Republican primaries, I don't feel passionate about much. Maybe that's a good thing, as I do tend to passion myself into emotional oblivion, but still, it's a little sad. And relationships? They are so hard to maintain. Literally any time I could devote to them is a very real sacrifice. And I definitely miss romantic relationships, ever since I spent months on that one that never did completely materialize. There's no way that that one is going to happen while I'm on my current schedule, and the lack of smooches is a definite bummer. And emotional intimacy? What's that?

But the money is good and the experience is great and the jobs themselves suit me perfectly. So what am I going to do when the school year is over? Your guess is as good as mine.

LGBTQ/SSA and LDS Study Results

2012-01-09T03:18:00.000-07:00

A few months ago I participated in a study meant to report the experiences of individuals who identify both as LGBTQ/SSA and as having some connection with the LDS church. The very first reports on that study are out now. No big surprises, mostly demographics and stuff so far, but it's good to see. You can find it here.

2011, In Review

2011-12-31T18:28:00.001-07:00

2011 was... intense. 2006, 2007, and 2008 saw me get progressively crazier, and 2009, 2010, and 2011 were about trying to improve that situation little by little. Clearly, there is still a ways to go. I need to calm down, be more realistic with my expectations for myself, and nix some habits. Still, I'm proud of myself, and proud to be a better person than I was in late December 2010. Here are some highlights and lowlights of 2011.

In 2011:

Thanks to everyone who made 2011 what it was. Now, onward and upward.

It Seems Like Years Since It's Been Here

2011-12-30T01:37:00.000-07:00

Make sure you see the most recent guest post by Michele of Quiet Mischief and Company. Lurves.

Remember how little Sylvia was in her last picture? Look at her now, all dressed up in her Christmas collar, thanks to mama believing that all cats, even Sylvia, deserve to be mocked:

She's a good-looking cat, to be sure. Now I just have to teach her how not to wake me up so many times during my Day of Rest that I have angst dreams about her.

I forgive her, though, because the angst dreams were balanced out most agreeably by a couple ridiculous happy mini-dreams thanks to some bravery I showed while I was in Las Vegas. I'm not a coward, but I don't like to take risks in social situations. I can almost always get what I want with my own social techniques that make up for in effectiveness what they lack in directness. I chose directness and boldness in Las Vegas, though, and I'm proud of myself. Even better is the fact that it paid off and I have the residual butterflies to show for it.

Christmas day itself was my favorite Christmas in a very long time. Thanks to everyone who was accommodating and forgiving so I could join their families in their celebrations. I got to spend time with Holly, Caleb, Jack, and Lucy; Julie and Corbin; Kelsae, Mike, Nick, and their families; and my parents, Nathan, Brittany, Shelby, and Lindsay. The day also included working until eight in the morning and a flight to Las Vegas, so it was a very busy day, but I think that helped with the overall holiday angst I usually feel. I am Charlie Brown in the Peanuts Christmas special, but rather than involvement my problems were treated with structure and it was fantastic. I felt so much love for everyone involved and I cannot believe how lucky I am to have so many amazing people in my life.

While I was in Vegas I also had sushi with Philip, Mike, and Daniel, and on a separate day I went fishing with the family. When the salmon eggs ran out I thought my chances of catching anything were over, but I got lucky on some pink power bait. My nephew Joseph wanted to help kill the fish, so I let him have a go for a second, but then I felt so bad for the fish that I banged it with an inordinate amount of gusto and ended up splattered with fish blood. I might have looked pretty hardcore except that when my sister-in-law Brittany caught each of her fish she killed them unceremoniously with a karate chop, Nathan-style. I guess I could have done worse, maybe by adopting my mom's fish killing style and Morse Code tapping the thing to death.

When my mom's family went on road trips, my grandparents sometimes kept their kids busy by offering a dollar to the first person to spot a deer. My mom continues that tradition and then some, offering dollars for things like first deer seen each day on road trips in Canada and first, last, biggest, and smallest fish caught on fishing trips. I left Las Vegas with a dollar for Most Violent Fish Kill. Read it and weep.

Guest Post: Quiet Mischief and Company

2011-12-29T18:04:00.000-07:00

Hi everybody! I had such a fantastic Christmas and mini-vacation in Las Vegas, and I hope your holidays were equally rewarding. That's not what we're here to talk about today, though. A good friend of mine, Michele, is running a promotion for her business. They make such cute products! Check them out before the end of the year for free cute products, which is sort of as good as it gets.

Hello all of Cari's readers! I'm Michele, and I run a business called Quiet Mischief and Company. If any of you have seen Cari's duct tape rings, that was us.

My shop on Etsy has had a fantastic year, and we recently hit our goal of having 1000 sold items by the end of the year. Because of this, we've decided to have a Customer Appreciation Week, and Cari has graciously agreed to help us with promotion, hence this blog post.

From now until late Monday Jan. 2/early Tuesday Jan. 3 any purchase from our shop will have a free gift sent with it. Heart and rose rings will get one or two braided rings. Friendship bracelets will get a matching tiny bracelet set. Tiny bracelet sets will get an extra tiny bracelet or two. And the more you buy, the more gifts you will receive!

QM & Co. means a lot to me. It's gone from a little hobby that takes a few hours a week and grosses maybe $100 a month to a legitimate business that takes up to 12 hours every day and currently grosses over $1000 a month. I don't have to leave my home or even get out of my pajamas to go to work, and I'm doing work that I love. Every item in the shop is handmade from start to finish by either me or my sister (she's my duct tape artist) and we take a lot of pride in our work.

Please, kind friends of Cari's, support us! Even if you don't want to purchase anything yourselves, sharing this post or our shop with your friends will give us exposure that we need. Thanks in advance, and I hope all of you have a wonderful new year!

Here are some of our best sellers:

Duct tape ring tutorial

Rainbow plaid friendship bracelet

Neon rainbow duct tape ring

Rainbow of tiny friendship bracelets

The World's Hardest Bass Clarinet Solo

2011-12-24T01:38:00.000-07:00

Gather around children, it's time for one of Cari's favorite stories, though it has somehow never been told on this blog. It's vaguely Christmas-themed and I was reminded of it today, so it's time to end that travesty.

Once upon a time, I was a bass clarinetist who took herself far too seriously, despite my best efforts. If you can't understand that sentiment, you obviously did not go to an arts high school.

I got supremely lucky at all-state auditions when I was a freshman and was awarded first chair. After that, I was undefeated in all my auditions through my junior year (okay, okay, except all-state junior year, when I came it second, but that was to my bass clarinet guru, to whose fan club I belong, who just knows that she is the best, and I beat her soundly at honor band, so we'll call it a draw). This isn't nearly as impressive as it sounds because, let's face it, I was playing bass clarinet. Going into senior year's band camp, which determined band placement and seating, I practiced maybe three times over the summer. I still scored in the 90s, so don't judge me, folks; the music was just that easy. But wouldn't you know, a clarinetist from the year before decided to switch to bass and he spent the summer getting help on his music from a couple of top-band clarinetists. He beat me by something like a point and a half. I have never been so embarrassed.

I was so embarrassed, in fact, that when the time came for reseating a couple of months later, I completely psyched myself out and had the worst audition of my life. This time I was marginally beaten by the third person in our section. Oh the pity and the judging I endured from my friends on that one, and I couldn't blame them.

Ugh, listening to myself talk like this is making me ill. Strong work giving up organized music, me.

The time came for the Christmas concert with me dejectedly sitting second chair for the second concert in a row. Our band director, Mr. Townsend, decided a few days before the concert that our program needed a little rounding out, so he added one of his favorites from his limited, joyful Christmas repertoire, this arrangement of "Twas the Night Before Christmas."

I had played this piece with Mr. Townsend before, when I was a freshman, so I knew there was a bass clarinet solo in it. For all of you non-bass clarinetists out there, bass clarinet solos are exceedingly rare. Bass clarinets are like the underappreciated tubas of the wind section so they don't get featured much. The fact that I was sitting second chair at this juncture made me want to punch a baby in the face, not because I really wanted to play a solo, but because I was not able to play the solo that, by all rights, was mine (though, of course, it wasn't).

I got even more upset when it became clear that my current section leader could not play the solo. She played the solo much like it sounds in the above clip: silently. (Go here for a better, but still lame, rendition. My bass clarinet guru, who believed that everything should be played fffff, would not approve.) Her fingers got all messed up as she worked her way down the run, so she didn't try out of fear of embarrassment. (And who can blame her, with me apparently feigning supportive sectionmate?) This annoyed me to no end because the solo is not hard. And I could play it! Hello, over here! Next door! Suffering in shame! Mr. Townsend, who was hurriedly preparing the rest of the band to play this song, didn't notice the complete lack of important run until the day of the performance, when he looked quizzically at our section, and then moved on. It was probably a smart move: he recognized that at that point all he was going to do was embarrass my section leader, and it was just a fun filler piece anyway, so he ignored it. But it frustrated me within an inch of my seventeen-year-old sanity. Up until that point, all my friends, who of course had noticed the lack of satisfactory bass clarinet goodness, had urged me to point out the flaw to Townsend, sure he would reseat then and there, which band directors frequently do in such situations. But he didn't.

That night, the time came to play "Twas the Night Before Christmas." Mr. Townsend raised his arms, and split seconds before the opening down beat, my section leader leaned over to me and said, "I can't play the solo, you do it!" "No no no," I responded, not out of humility but out of genuine fear, not having practiced said solo alone, let alone with a group, for three years. "Do it!" she said again, and I agreed.

There are not many moments between the beginning of the song and its tribute to Tchaikovsky, and I spent all of them in a tizzy. I didn't know how loud to play the solo with this group, what about timing, what about balance, if I slurred the whole thing would it sound terrible? But then the moment was upon me, and I just let it rip, thinking that I was over it being silent and too loud would be better than that had been.

I had the benefit of knowing what was coming; my friends and Mr. Townsend did not. People's eyes got huge, my flute-playing friends Nick and Philip shamelessly turned their heads around to look at me in shock, Mr. Townsend glanced over at me directly with a twinkle in his eye and a little surprised smile on his face. The solo was blaringly loud. The next day, upon hearing the recording of the concert in band class, my then-boyfriend would kindly say, "Well, you certainly played it loudly enough." The very first thing my dad said to me post-concert was, "Stealing people's solos, are we?"

Not that I was embarrassed, because I honestly wasn't. And before Christmas break, I successfully taught the little run, which would henceforth be known as the World's Hardest Bass Clarinet Solo, to Philip in about five seconds.

Highlights

2011-12-23T05:56:00.000-07:00

Shoutout for the second song selection goes to Miss Shelby Dahl. I believe it is her favorite Christmas song, and I listened to it for the first time in years when I remembered that fact. It reminded me of singing in the choir at Gilbert Magnet School and all of the incredible, incredible times I had there. Seriously, Gilbert is one of the greatest places on the whole planet.

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I had such a great time at the Christmas party I threw last week. Thanks again to everyone who came! I smile whenever I see the tree that the little kids helped to decorate, and I still haven't killed off all of the peanut butter bars. It was so wonderful to see everyone. Christmas and I have made our peace this year because of this party, and I'm still on a little bit of a post-party high. I can't overstate how glad I am that everyone came.

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The night after the Christmas party, my niece and nephew, Brylie and Beckam, slept over at my house. Sylvia thought that having them over was the World's Greatest Thing because they played with her for almost as long as she wanted. They inaugurated Sylvia's laser pointer, which is now the far and away favorite toy in my apartment. (The Badass Morose Cat now methodically checks the spots where I frequently point the laser, just to see if it is hanging around.) The kiddos helped me make the homemade hot chocolate one of my bosses gave me for Christmas, and they ate it with graham crackers. We made enough of a time-appropriate ruckus that my downstairs neighbor banged on their ceiling at least three times. (Hey, downstairs neighbor! Stop being a Grinch! Also, this is a kid-friendly complex and we weren't be that loud! And you know what, come knock on my door the next time like an un-whanny!) Brylie won again at Candyland (I swear, Beckam and I are never going to beat her) but refused to tell me what French phrases she has learned at school ("Uhm, Cari, I'm on Winter Break, so I don't have to do anything."), Beckam made a spectacular bed-nest on my roommate's froofy camping chair and made favorable comparisons between Sylvia and Tigger Diablito SatanCat. And I resisted the urge to make them make traditional Brylie-style Jesus Birthday Cake with me. You're welcome, and you can come over to my house any time at all.

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All the piano and rock band kids pulled through at the celebration last week. One girl lost her piano book sometime between final rehearsal and the performance, and she didn't tell me about it. Instead, when it was her turn she sat at the piano and began to play. It wasn't "Deck the Halls," exactly; it was more like some modern composer got hold of "Deck the Halls" and arranged some minimalist impression. Still, I admired her tenacity, even if it did nearly give me a heart attack.

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Kelsae and Mike are such rockstars. I've been trying to take advantage of my lighter schedule this week to get down there and see them more. One day I went to speech therapy with Mike and Kelsae. Mike was practicing some phrases like "I want to eat" and "I am fine." At one point, repetitions of "How are you?" slowly morphed into "I am tired," which was probably super appropriate. Then, Mike was supposed to be practicing "I love you" when his therapist encouraged him to say it to Kelsae. Something got a little lost in translation, and it came out more like, "I llllam tired." Mike let out a wry chuckle, and then looked at me, grasped my hand and said emphatically, "I am tired."

Mike Stentzel, I think the world of you, and you are kicking such insane amounts of ass. You're still looking better every time I see you. Someday you're going to finish conquering this thing. Your brain is going to say what it means all the time, and your right arm and leg will stop being such (insert insult you and Kels were practicing the other day, of which my mother would not approve). And I can't wait to see it when it does.

Graham and Stentzel families, I have been so touched by the way you have been so welcoming to me. You are the greatest and I'm glad I've gotten to know you all better.

And Kels, you know what I think about you. After this, nobody, I'm talking people, nations, nobody, had better make you angry, because you can do effing anything.

Christmas Cat Pee Thought Jumble

2011-12-15T02:56:00.003-07:00

In Cariland, we have been hard at work, even for us. We finally (finally!) had a couch delivered; we've finally unpacked the last boxes since moving; we bought and (mostly) decorated a Christmas tree; and we've done our best to figure out how we're going to work all of our hours, have a rock band and a slew of beginning pianists perform at the celebration Thursday evening, and throw together a Christmas party on Saturday. Other projects have included exploring Sylvia the Badass Morose Cat's increasingly inventive locales of urination. I mean, who goes to the trouble of working a heavy drawer open just so they can pee on the sweaters inside? It's not as if she pees everywhere, and she does use the litter box appropriately an astonishing majority of the time. It just seems as if two or three times a week, she can't think of anything to do other than find some place she has not yet peed and then pee there.

Moral: Cats are jerks. Adorable jerks.

Actually, this is sending me back to my time working with kids in rehab, when three- or four- or five-year-olds who had been potty trained for months or years would suddenly begin to have accidents due to insecurity in their new environment and with their relationships. I worry that Sylvia isn't adjusting well or that I'm a bad cat mamma. Then I remember that the definition of a well-adjusted cat is that she be a jerk, and then I feel a little better.

Dearest Sylvia, we are going to work this out someday.

Anyway, I didn't come here to talk about cat pee. Let me just say that it is nerve-wracking to watch kids who I have taught perform, especially on as tight of a time schedule as I've had. Putting my own performance out there is bad enough, and I have performed enough times to know. This is much worse. This is why I'm not a real music teacher, probably.

My after-school job is just a couple of blocks from Temple Square, and I keep meaning to meander down there after work one of these days to see the lights, little to no effort added, but I just haven't found the time yet, and that's depressing. Also, going alone seems a little sad. Also also, Christmas, particularly at Temple Square, is a little confusing.

Also also also, that's another hour out of the day when an unsupervised Sylvia could be peeing in my shower.

Another Christmas Song I'm Always Talking About

2011-12-09T07:38:00.006-07:00

Today for our "field trip," my age group (seven to nine-ish) is staying in, enjoying having the building to ourselves for a change. We're going to watch Elf and make Buddy spaghetti, you know, with syrup and sprinkles and the whole deal. I haven't told the kiddos yet, but I think it's safe to assume that I am far more excited about this than they will be. Oh the puzzled looks I am going to get. I can just see the Recently Immigrated Child's face now.

Also, this is one of the greatest things ever.

Hallelujah, Noel, Be it Heaven or Hell

2011-12-08T02:35:00.004-07:00

I reference this song every December, but trust me, this is the background music for this post.

Maybe it's because it's winter.

I'd blame Christmas, but things are usually okay until December 25, and last I checked it isn't Christmas Day yet. I'd blame all the hours I'm working not sleeping, except I'm mostly fine when I'm busy. It's when I sleep or when I'm taking a break that things get bad. I'd blame loneliness, but who has time to be lonely? And, honestly, I'm seeing way more of friends and people in general than usual, owing to my regular trips to Provo and the 40+ people I interact with at work every week. And I only remember the person who was my social filler for a few months there when I wonder how I used to spend all that money.

I've been struggling to hold it together for weeks. For a long time I blamed a lot of valid, extraneous bull, but I'm just getting worse. I've actively tried to try more than one negative coping skill, but luckily they didn't pan out.

Today I decided that my problem is not enough Christmas. This actually seems very valid to me, so I bought a Christmas tree and planned a party. Once it is set up, it's going to look like Dr. Seuss blew up, but it will make me smile, as will the company.

And a certain feline who woke me up the other morning by gently combing my hair with her claws and purring. Then again, I caught her peeing in my shower, so I guess, like with all things, you have to take the good with the bad.

In Three Parts

2011-12-01T03:49:00.004-07:00

Somebody, I'm not going to name any names, left claw marks the whole way up my shower curtain. What she did once she got to the top is anybody's guess.

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Today I got offered a promotion at one of my jobs. It entails working six more hours than I'm working right now and getting a pay raise. Six more hours takes me from 56 to 62 hours a week, 32 of them still in the middle of the night, still with a long-ish commute, and I just don't think I can do it. I'm telling myself that my worth is not incumbent upon my ability to go without sleep, work insane hours, or balance huge time demands faster than a speeding bullet. We'll see how that works out.

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Every day I sound more like my old band directors. I hear Engle, Whitchurch, Jackson, and Townsend all the time. The fact that we're playing Blink 182 doesn't seem to make a difference.

Introducing Sylvia, was Ewok, Badass Morose Cat

2011-11-29T21:55:00.007-07:00

Side note: I Googled "boss synonym" to come up with an adjective for Sylvia's title, a la Zeus the Totally Boss Rat, and this website suggested I use bang-up or whiz-bang. That, my friends, is boss.

Once upon a time, a friend of mine had a cat who had many kittens. I was perusing pictures on Facebook, when I saw this.

I am the saddest of ~~pandas~~ kittens.

If you know me, you know what happened next. Instalove.

Then I moved. Then I quit my job without giving notice. Then I got two new jobs and started working nearly 60 hours a week and never sleeping. Then I started driving to Provo most days. Then, when the cat was about five months old, I finally took her home. That day was yesterday.

The cat was called Ewok at her home-until-yesterday. Because of the peculiar way her markings make her look so morose, Kelsae suggested I name her Sylvia, after Sylvia Plath the poet. It just stuck. I may or may not have put Andrea Gibson's newest collection on my iPod for the drive home from Provo, Sylvia in tow, so we could listen to some angsty poetry together. Sylvia was busy yowling, protesting being in her carrier, and she didn't hear any of it. That's a shame though, because there were some doosies that she could have written in her diary later, such as:

A doctor once told me I feel too much
I said so does God
That's why you can see the Grand Canyon from the moon.
-Andrea Gibson, "Jellyfish"

I've made Sylvia spend her first 24 hours and change living in my bathroom, just until I'm sure she's settled. This is a new cat mamma's way of saying, "Just until I'm sure she won't pee under my bed." She retaliated by meowing loudly on and off all night long. One could call it cat-yelling. I went into the bathroom at 3 AM and told her to write a terrible adolescent poem instead of making all this noise. She probably did compose that poem, but she did it out loud, at the top of her voice, because teenagers are like that.

Today we had supervised exploring time of most of the apartment, but Sylvia spend almost all of it on my lap or in the smallest spaces possible. She made up for all of that meowing with a lot of blissful cuddling and purring. I may have told her at one point to act like a cat and put on some airs already and get some emotional independence. All mammas make mistakes.

There are no current pictures yet, but there will be. For now, just know that Sylvia is a wonderful cat with a loud voice whose favorite hobbies include somehow opening drawers that block mamma getting into the bathroom and not using any of the fancy stuff mamma bought us. We prefer to just sleep behind the toilet.

A World-Class Whine

2011-11-19T03:22:00.004-07:00

Right now, I am drinking tepid coffee and eating an unheated hotdog straight out of the fridge. My car is sitting in the snowstorm outside with a blue plastic dropcloth taped around its rear driver's side door since that window decided to, without provocation, open more and more and refuse to close starting a few hours ago. I had to boyscout that dropcloth into submission with huge flakes already coming down, the kind of snow that falls slowly but covers you so quickly you wonder how it was possible. I have had six hours of sleep since (what day is this?) Wednesday morning. I have no idea how I'm going to do all the things I need to do before I (hopefully) leave for Vegas Tuesday afternoon. There is no hyperbole in that last sentence. And I still couldn't cry. This might be the most emotionally constipated I have ever been.

It's a mixed blessing, though, maybe, probably, sort of. If I weren't this busy, I could be in trouble because I'm in the sort of mood where I could make terrifically awful choices.

I know how much of this is my fault. I know that these are not the world's biggest problems. Try telling me that and see what happens to you. What's an applicable equivalent of, "Well my dad's a judge, take that!"?

There's Not a Word Yet for Old Friends Who've Just Met

2011-11-18T01:51:00.004-07:00

When I became a member of my local NPR station, I chose The Green Album as my thank you gift. I didn't really look at it too closely, and I assumed that it was just a collection of Muppets songs as originally performed. Turns out that it is a whole bunch of covers of Muppets songs, some okay, some blah. The Rachael Yagamata version of "I'm Going to Go Back There Someday," however, is sublime. I can't find a recording of the whole cover online, so take solace in the original.

Self-Indulgence

2011-11-17T04:24:00.003-07:00

Number of times I started this entry from scratch: 4

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There is at least one way in which my being so unprecedentedly busy has been a blessing: it helped me stick to my guns when I ended a relationship this week. I haven't even given it a thought. This is a big deal because I am notoriously poor at not giving people so many more chances than I set out to give them. I did what was best, and now I don't have a minute to give that a second thought.

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There is a young boy at the afterschool program who is just learning English as his second language. He's pretty fluent while speaking now but his reading is far, far behind where you would expect a native speaker's to be at his age. When I started reading with him, he could not read the most basic sentences and he had no awareness of basic mixed sounds, such as "sh," "ch," or "ing." He would avoid reading and homework with everything in him, probably because it was just one long lesson in how much he did not know. Today he read me The Giving Tree with remarkably little help, and it was a beautiful moment. My favorite part, sans the stumbles:

"But the boy stayed away for a long time. And when he came back, the tree was so happy she could barely speak. 'Come, boy,' she whispered. (pause, then in a seductive whisper) 'Come boy.'"

In addition, my rock band has learned one whole song in a week and a half, which amounts to about two hours and fifteen minutes of rehearsal time. Take that, y'all.

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I want to be able to fix things that I cannot fix. I want it so badly that it hurts.

I might have been pushing myself too hard lately, but the truth is I have no idea what to cut. Nothing can be cut. Truth is, I don't want to cut anything.

Sometimes things really are easier to face once you've written them down on a postcard, addressed the postcard to PostSecret, and sent them on their way.

I'm starting to worry that the brave face might be stuck, the way your mother warned you would happen when you stuck out your tongue or rolled your eyes.

Guest Post: Jennifer of J Squared

2011-11-12T00:41:00.004-07:00

Jennifer is one of those people who would be mortified to discuss her socially awkward ways in person, yet somehow doesn't mind sharing them with the world over the Internets at J Squared. She has an undying love for her family, hot chocolate, and using parenthetical asides in her writing. She also has an irrational fear of spiders, teaching first graders when she substitutes elementary school, and making phone calls to strangers.

When I was in high school, I recall being very stressed out over something (I think it had something to do with calling some people on the phone) and laying on the floor of our living room, moaning to my mother, "I'm so stressed all of my hair is going to fall out!" My mother, being the sympathetic, tender woman she is, responded, "If your hair falls out, we'll buy you a high quality wig."

While this didn't help my telephone woes, it was a small source of comfort that if the need arose, she would be there to make sure my scalp stayed covered.

In the last few years, I've been wondering if I might need to take her up on this offer. While I was growing up with three sisters or living with five other roommates, it was easy to blame the mass of hair that accumulated on the bathroom counter or on the floor on the other females that lived with me. However, as my husband's hair is neither long nor brown like mine, I've come to accept the horrifying truth: I have a shedding problem.

Now, this is something I've known deep down in my soul for years, but when the woman who cut my hair a few months ago commented on how much my hair shed, I started to wonder if something more serious was happening to my hair.

A few days ago, I couldn't contain my curiosity anymore, and I did the only rational thing: I turned to WebMD for answers.

After ruling out several causes of hair loss, such as pregnancy and menopause, I (naturally) allowed myself to briefly worry that I had a thyroid disorder or anemia. Then my rational side kicked in (it has been known to make rare appearances) and I decided that before I jump to any more hasty conclusions, I needed to determine if I actually had a problem with hair loss.

The website stated that most people lose between 50 to 100 strands of hair each day, and up to 250 strands on days when the hair was washed. The choice to me was clear: I was going to have to count every strand of hair that fell out over the period of one day.

So yesterday, I conducted a very scientific study regarding my hair loss. Before engaging in activities that tend to result in hair falling out, such as washing and combing hair, I thoroughly cleaned the bathroom counter and the shower walls, removing any hair from the previous day that might skew my data. When I combed my hair, I carefully removed hair from the comb one strand at a time and counted it before throwing it in the trash.

(About halfway through doing so, I came to the realization that counting hair one strand at a time is actually quite gross, especially if it's the hair that fell out during the shower and had been accumulated into one wet clump of hair. But I persisted! It was in the name of science! And in the name of either justifying my fears or putting my mind at ease about this hair loss.)

And throughout the day, when I noticed that more hair had fallen out, I recorded the location or activity that resulted in the hair loss, as well as the number of hairs that fell out. Turn your attention to the highly informative data table below for further details:

Now, as scientific studies go, this had a very small sample size. If I had wanted to be especially thorough, I would've repeated this experiment over the course of a week or month or year, averaged the results, and possibly ran some tests to determine the significance of the results. But due to budget cuts and time restraints, such a study would be too exhaustive for this blog post.

And anyway, as it turns out, I could've lost 67 more hairs and still have been within the normal range of hair loss, considering I washed and conditioned my hair yesterday. So I guess I won't need a wig. But considering how some hair got into my food during two meals yesterday, I may want to invest in a hairnet.

Guest Post: Holly of So Dang Brilliant

2011-11-10T02:58:00.005-07:00

Holly can't help herself from keeping it real about motherhood, womanhood, and personhood at So Dang Brilliant. The blog chronicles her adventures in pop culture, personal nostalgia, mothering, and self-betterment. Her interests include being her best self, Elvis Presley, and admiring all things handmade. And boys! And ice cream! And TV! And boys again! She is also your biggest fan.

Check her out on Twitter!

I started the year 2011 off boldly. I was called out on some bad behavior and decided to make some changes. Unfortunately, that meant cutting ties with one of my dearest friends. Turns out that he was what The Man calls a toxic friend: someone who encourages you to make poor choices to suit their needs and will potentially turn on you at any second, only to beg you for forgiveness when they are ready to have you around again.

I'll say that I did not see my friend that way. He was so fun to be around and made me feel so good! My friend was so weirdly smart and knew way more about a lot of things than I did! He even let me talk to him about anything! He was one of my oldest and closest friends.

But having him in my life created a conflict of interest so mammoth that at times, I literally felt the ghost of a porcine weight hanging over my head. So, he had to go. Outta here. Peace out. Bye. Here is what I did to make my life a little less life-threatening.

Holly's Tips for Getting Rid of a Toxic Friend

Inform your friend of your intentions: I did not have the dignity to do this, as my situation was dire and I can also be a big, fat jerk. But you should do it. Gently let them know that for myriad reasons, you can't see them anymore. Your toxic friend will assuredly pull the "I can change" card or the "Let's have one last hangout" story -- I mean, they're toxic, of course they'll pull these shenanigans. But you are going to say no, this is what's best for you and you deserve to do what is best for you.

Avoid contact with your toxic friend: Disregard the phone calls, texts, emails, and passionate 2 a.m. visits you are sure to receive. If you must see your friend, because you are coworkers or in another arena where you are forced to be together, adopt a cool air of indifference towards your toxic friend. I believe that your toxic friend will try to get your attention in any way possible, but keep reminding yourself that you have a list of reasons why this person is toxic. My friend has contacted me very few times in the last year, but he knows how to tug at my heartstrings and his scant messages were filled with big plays. I stayed strong and resisted response. But you guys, it was hard!

Fill up your schedule to replace the activities with your toxic friend: Your toxic friend likely took up a lot of your time; toxic friends are needy, and therefore want to see you when it is convenient for them, which seemed to be frequently. Or, if they couldn't see you, they would call or text you. Or if that didn't work, they would Facebook you or email you frantically, wondering why you weren't responding to them. Does it sound like I know your friend? It's because I do. Without your toxic friend, you are going to find yourself with a lot of free time. And idle hands are the toxic friend's playground, so get to getting. Busy yourself with projects you have laying around the house, see some friends or family that you have been neglecting, or watch a marathon of your favorite TV show while you play solitaire on your coffee table. If you aren't busy, you will succumb to your toxic friend's pleas.

Remember the good and remove yourself from your feelings: Remember how I said earlier that my toxic friend was one of my oldest and closest? That means that I had a lot of good times with him, even if they were scattered with kind of crazy times. You probably have a similar experience. Write down all of that good stuff somewhere, and let yourself revisit it every now and again. But pals, if you reminisce too fondly about those good times, you are going to unwittingly give yourself permission to "get back" with your toxic friend. And you can't do that -- you just can't.

Be bold, readers of Cari's blog. You too can be rid of your toxic friend. As days turn to months and months into years, you will be glad you did.

Hospital Musings

2011-11-10T02:25:00.007-07:00

First, be aware that Miss Carrots is going to be hosting some guest entries coming up very soon, like, possibly starting tonight. I am super excited to host some work by more talented friends, assuming they think this blog is worth enough time to whip something up.

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I've been spending a lot of time in a hospital. I don't say this to complain, because, truth be told, if I could get away with it, I would spend much more time in that hospital, but I'm still working far too many hours and several weeks ago I agreed to dogsit for a friend of mine this week, so I'm having to touch base with a certain tiny Yorkie once every few hours. Whenever I'm not at the hospital I'm thinking about the hospital and, more importantly, the people in it.

Maybe what I haven't communicated adequately is that this best friend whose husband is in a coma, that one, she is a big part of the equalizing that happened in my life that took me from super crazy to dramatically more stable. She has been my rock in so many situations, almost since the day I met her. And this man in a coma, he's her rock. And every time I'm around him, he grounds me. In so many ways, he is the gentle, supportive yin to my yang.

These people mean the world to me. But that isn't what I came here to say.

My friend and I have been taking walks around the hospital, especially if I happen to be there during a shift change when nobody's allowed to be back in the ICU room. Walks during life-changing situations are good for deep talks, and we have had our fair share. One that has motivated continuing thought on my part was our discussion about religion offering comfort in situations that potentially include the end of a life. Both of us are post-Mormons, and we grew up in environments that included a lot of I-just-can't-imagine-how-people-cope-in-this-situation-without-the-gospel talk. And that's all well and good. People should get comfort wherever they can in this screwed up world, and religion offers some excellent opportunities for comfort.

However, neither of us feels like we are missing out on anything in that department. Clearly my friend is not functioning perfectly at this point, but I think it would be supremely unhealthy if she were. It's just that I don't think either of us can imagine somehow having more peace in this situation if we truly believed in a personal, benevolent god and were attempting to forge a relationship with it. In fact, I think we find it more peaceful to imagine that no such being exists in this situation. This blows my mind because the Cari of five years ago could not have imagined that this perspective actually exists.

My friend and I dropped off prayer slips in the designated bowl in the hospital chapel. Mine said, "Dear God, if you're there, I don't blame you for anything that has happened, which I think is completely fair, considering." I am very comfortable with that, and only that.

Is the Blood Still Good?

2011-11-06T01:56:00.003-06:00

Today I went to the Circling the Wagons Conference in Salt Lake, which was hosted by Mormon Stories and, per the event page, the mission of the event was to "create a space where LGBTQ or SSA individuals and their families and allies can gather to acknowledge, explore and honor shared experiences" and "establish a shared space where all who have ever self-identified as Mormon and have experienced same-sex attraction can speak truthfully and respectfully." This is the reason I went to the conference, to support this open dialogue between LGBTQ Mormons and everybody else. There is so much pain for so many people, both gay and straight, where there does not have to be pain. As I was telling my mom about this event on the phone earlier today, I said something like, "Gay people and Mormons...," and my mom responded, "I'm not sure there's a difference." In this context, that's exactly the point.

Thank you, Mom.

I only went to the first half of the conference so I could spend the rest of the day at the hospital, but the part that I attended was very, very worthwhile. Lee Beckstead and Carol Lynn Pearson spoke during the opening session. Mr. Beckstead is a therapist, and he delivered remarks about the dangers of polarizing thoughts and beliefs which, of course, is a problem in the LGBT Mormon community. It seems that either the church is perfect or it is completely worthless; one's nature is either wholly evil and needful of change or it is not to be bridled at all. This can lead to bitterness, closed-mindedness, and unhappiness. Carol Lynn Pearson presented her poem "Pioneers"

and delivered an address per her usual standard. The conference, I presume, was named after her book No More Goodbyes: Circling the Wagons Around Our Gay Loved Ones. (Side note: if you have any connection to the Mormon LGBT community, and you do, you should read that book.) All she had to do was read the first two lines of her poem ("My people were Mormon pioneers./Is the blood still good?") and I was ready to weep. Those lines succinctly express a feeling that I have great difficulty facing or expressing. It was so comforting that even a straight woman could conceive of that feeling in connection with my situation. I hope that Carol Lynn Pearson is right about the afterlife so she can get the reward that she deserves.

During the breakout session, I chose to go to the class on the history of LGBT rights in Utah, lead by Jim Debakis and Ben Williams. It was not quite as organized as I expected or, it seemed, as the group leaders intended, but it was an absolute treasure trove of information. I have read a few of Ben Williams' columns here and there, but I had no idea of the absolute wealth of information he holds about the development of the gay community in Utah. I had no idea that there was even an organized gay movement in Utah in place to fight Anita Bryant in the 70s or to mobilize against the AIDS epidemic in the 80s. I had no idea that the editor of The Advocate was based in Salt Lake, and I had no idea that vaudeville drag shows were popular and advertised in the Deseret News at the beginning of the twentieth century. I want to do nothing but follow Ben Williams around, do nothing but hear all of the historical information he knows about us, what got us from the late 60s to Equality Utah's 10 in 2010 campaign and beyond.

Somehow I find it so easy to forget how much of the gay movement has already been accomplished because of the hard work of people who have lived and died already. Coming out and advocating for the LGBTQ community is hard enough now, but the only reason that we can safely have the conversations we are having is because of Stonewall and Frank Kameny and Barbara Gittings and people like Ben Williams. Since I moved out of Provo, I live in a county where my housing and job are protected regardless of my sexual orientation and gender identity, even though I live in maybe the most conservative state in the country. This is only possible because decades ago queer people made unimaginable sacrifices. There are still incredible tragedies like that slew of suicides last year, but I think young people like me are too quick to forget the Matthew Shepherds; the Harvey Milks; the whistle-carrying residents of San Francisco; the countless victims of job loss, complete social ostracism, and disownment. How many of us honestly know that gay pride events happen when they happen to mark Stonewall? We are on the cusp of all the rights we could ask for, and sometimes I think we get caught up in that. We, meaning gay adults, not bullied kids, get caught up in maybe losing some friends when we come out or having the courage to show up to a gay pride event. Those are legitimate struggles, but they pale in comparison. That wasn't really the point of today, but it's a big part of what I came away with.

Mostly I'm just proud and excited that an event like this could happen. And I'm proud to be here now to be a part of it.

Someday This Will Be Over.

2011-11-06T00:45:00.004-06:00

I'm used to being asked to help out with unfixable situations. That's been my norm since the sixth grade. Somebody is facing some insurmountable emotional situation and they just want someone to listen, so I get that late-night phone call, that hesitant chat message. I listen, and when nothing is resolved hours later, at least there was some catharsis and some emotional validation.

I am ill-equipped to deal with this week's situation. I've never felt helplessness like having my best friend's husband in a coma following a brain aneurysm.

I don't want to co-opt this or make it my issue. It very clearly is not my issue. I just want to say that helplessness like this is very hard to deal with, and I therefore cannot imagine what my friend is feeling. She is being so amazingly tough through all of this. Someday when this is all a memory I will sit her down and tell her how inspirational she's been over the past four days. Right now, that just seems patronizing and irrelevant, though it is neither.

In the meantime, I have been reminded to make the most out of every day, in case you have an aneurysm while you aren't so lucky to be surrounded by medics. I have been reminded to have the confidence to stick to my guns. And I have been reminded of the amazing people that surround me.

Well, Hot and Heavy, Pumpkin Pie

2011-11-02T02:33:00.004-06:00

I want to feel like this.

This One Goes Out to My Aunt Becky

2011-10-30T18:04:00.005-06:00

Some of you guys have let me know that it's hard to post comments on my blog for some reason. Sorry about that. I get a lot of spam comments, which is what all of that approval nonsense was for. However, I think I've figured out another way around those comments, so it should be easier to post comments now. Hurray for that!

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On Thursday night, late-ish, I got a text from my sincerely wonderful coworkers at the afterschool program, asking me to dress up for the next day's Halloween festivities. You have to understand that at that point I hadn't had more than four hours of sleep each day in almost four days, and I knew that this weekend was going to be an awful one as far as sleep was concerned, though it was awesome in every other way. So my first response was an expletive followed by the word "no." You can use your imagination.

Then I softened. I have a couple of costumes buried away that don't take too much work. Unfortunately, the old lady costume of two yester years is sort of falling apart and I didn't have time to fix it, and I didn't have the necessary grey hair spray anyway. So I went with this old favorite. I got halfway into the wig before I decided that it really wasn't necessary. I just brushed my hair forward, donned the hideous pants (those are not costume pants, I bought them from a clothing store!) and the glasses, and did what I had to do. It turned out way better this year than it did in 2007.

Still, no fewer than five kids asked me if I was supposed to be Harry Potter. The worst one, though, was a fifth grader who walked up and asked, "Are you a cowboy?"

As punishment, I made him listen to Yoko Ono singing. And that's a true story.

Wyla

2011-10-27T07:11:00.005-06:00

Whew, two longwinded ones in one day. Sorry, y'all. Totally worth it, though, at least for me.

Last week, Wyla Hollingsworth, the woman who taught me piano for ten years, passed away. I wrote a little bit about her husband Howard's passing last year. Both of the Hollingsworths had a huge impact on my family. Wyla taught five of the Dahl kids for many combined years. Going to Wyla's for piano lessons was a rite of passage in the Dahl house. It marked the moment when my dad was both frustrated enough with teaching you and confident enough in your abilities and work ethic to send you to someone else. Wyla was a very gifted musician and a very patient woman, all things considered.

She lived in a house in the older portion of North Las Vegas. In her front room she had the old upright and a beautiful baby grand piano. Howard wouldn't let her teach lessons on the baby grand, so every week we plucked out our lessons on the old upright. During recital season, once we were good enough, Wyla would have us go over to the baby grand to feel things out before the big day. Recitals at Wyla's always included Mormon punch and a dozen kinds of cookies and little composer busts as keepsakes.

Wyla and Howard had a passion for dollhouses, which Howard made from scratch and Wyla showed off. Wyla had the largest collection of houses for her holiday village I have ever seen, and she would set it up every year on tables of different heights. In its full glory, it took up the entire front room of her house. After I started lessons at her house, she redecorated that front room, and it was her pride and joy. She got beautiful new couches and a gliding rocking chair. My favorite new acquisition was a very deep dark green carpet. I would lie on that carpet doing my homework during my siblings' lessons. Shelby always read and Nathan always read the backs of all of Wyla's movies.

Wyla had many stories about playing piano in one function or another. One involved playing "Rustic Dance" during passing periods when she was very young, which she learned just to prove that she could when a girl a little younger than her mastered it. (It's worth noting that I still can't play "Rustic Dance"; it and I were never meant to get along.) She played for a ballet studio, and she once accompanied a group that toured with Roger Williams, who died three weeks ago. I thought of Wyla when I heard that news on NPR.

I am not the pianist that Wyla was or that my dad is, and I never will be. Still, Wyla gave me a huge gift. Because of the strong base in music theory and expression that she provided me with, I had enough of a head start to have the musical know-how necessary to compete with much more talented contemporaries in band through high school. This afforded me amazing opportunities while I was in high school, not the least of which was the opportunity to befriend the people I befriended and participate in one of the very top high school band programs in the country. This, in turn, allowed me to get the job at the afterschool program that I have now and very much enjoy. It's primarily because of Wyla that I have the experience and knowledge required to do that job.

When I think of Wyla, I will always think of Lizst's Liebestraum, a piece that she challenged me with for my final recital, and which I am still trying to get right five years later. Thank you, Wyla.

Wherein I Betray My Inner Wordy Nerd of a Relief Society Sister

2011-10-27T02:01:00.002-06:00

Girl, around ten years old, about the song "I'm Walking on Sunshine": That is so not even possible! How could you walk on sunshine without getting alliterated?

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Today at my afterschool job, which is, as luck would have it, also the source of the quote above, a boy in the fourth grade told me, "I'm finally used to you."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Well," he said, "when you say you're going to do something because we're, like, not listening, you do it."

Thanks for the compliment, kiddo. I sincerely appreciate it.

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Last week I visited a rare book store downtown with a friend on a whim. We found all sorts of interesting stuff, including several first edition copies of volumes of the Journal of Discourses (only $750!). I did not expect to walk out of the store with a Christmas gift for my dad, but that's what happened.

Dad, if you've chosen this time to start reading my blog, come back in January.

Anyway, there I was in the autographed LDS books section, when I happened upon a copy of a book called Roundup: Raymond, 1902 to 1967. Apparently, in 1967 the good people of Raymond, Alberta got together and put together an in-depth history of their town. Now, if you've known me for longer than ten seconds, you know that I am intensely and perhaps irrationally proud of my southern Alberta heritage. I'm intensely proud of all of my ancestors, but for some reason I really identify with the pioneers in my family who helped to settle Raymond in the early 20th century and hung out there long enough for my nineteen-year-old Nanna to emigrate from Australia out of her desire to be nearer to a temple and meet and marry Grandpa. All of this after those ancestors emigrated from their respective lands of origin, walked across the country, and settled in places like Sanpete and Goshen, of all the exotic locales.

Anyway, the book. Right.

I learned a lot of new and interesting things about my Canadian ancestors on my most recent trip to Canada this past summer. These things included facts like my great-great-grandfather John William Evans held many civic offices and my great-great-grandfather Arthur Dahl was the first president of the Alberta Sugar Beet Grower's Association. (For you folks out there who are not in some way tied to Raymond (what a shame!), sugar beet farming was the industry that allowed Raymond to exist in the early days.) All those facts were added on to what I already knew, stuff like my great-grandpa Rulon Dahl was an important figure in Raymond's sports (which were surprisingly competitive, gotta beat Magrath!) and he and his wife Phoebe were dedicated teachers and members of the community. I figured that Roundup would just have facts like these, which would have been fine by me. It was still a cool find in a random bookstore.

But! Not so! (I know, you were on pins and needles, weren't you?)

This book includes all sorts of awesome details, like the minutes from my great-grandpa Rulon's first ever Sacrament Meeting as a bishop. From membership lists I learned that my two sets of great-great-grandparents were in the same musical society (the "Jolly Serenaders"), probably before the marriage of my great-grandparents. (This was, for me, an especially interesting tidbit, seeing as how my parents met. It seems to be the thing to do in the Dahl clan.) John William Evans was a higher-up in the local agricultural department, and Arthur Dahl also served as a counsellor to several mayors. I also learned a lot more about Emma Dahl, a woman whose piano was recently added to the Raymond museum. My dad didn't know her, so I asked one of the people who works in the museum about her, and she figured out that she was my dad's great-aunt (those museum workers in Raymond are amazing, they can tell you anything!) and she told me that Emma was a prominent figure in Raymond due to her being involved in all things musical. In Roundup, Emma is featured repeatedly, and each time she comes up the musical society who features her oozes their gratitude for her decades of service to them. I may not be related by blood to Emma, but man, what a cool lady. I'm glad that a brother of Rulon's had the good sense to marry her.

So, I've decided that Roundup will not be a gift so much as a loan. Hands off, siblings, the book is mine. Not that I think I'll have much trouble persuading them to not steal it, because, let's face it, I'm sort of a freak.

Bad Juju

2011-10-23T05:20:00.004-06:00

On Wednesday, I was making my weekly pilgrimage to Provo, when I ran straight over a wooden pallet on the freeway. I didn't have much choice. It all happened very quickly, and it was in the middle of construction so I was boxed in. In the split-second decision between collision with another car and plowing right over a huge wooden pallet, I chose the pallet.

I wasn't the only one. Three or four other cars pulled off at the next exit with me, and we all pulled into the same hotel parking lot. We all crowded under the brightest lights and crouched to check tires and undercarriages. I called my dad in a panic who reassured me that as long as there wasn't fluid everywhere and as long as none of my tires was flat, the worst that happened was probably that my tires were crazy unaligned. I'd take the car in to a mechanic in the morning to make sure, but for now I was probably okay. I drove the rest of the way to Provo, jarred, but mostly whole.

After Shelby had gotten her groceries, we were driving through a dark neighborhood when I noticed a black streak off to the side of the road. I slowed down quickly but my heart sank as I heard a dull thud as the dog made contact with the passenger side of my car. I stopped the car, calmly put on the four-way blinkers, and had gotten as far as stepping out of the car when I heard the dog's owner yelling that the dog was alright and to go ahead. I drove ten feet, and then yelled. Passionately.

It was at this point that Shelby suggested I might want to look into the services of a shaman or other individual who could cleanse my car of whatever devil spirit had taken it over. It was also at this point that I called my mom to update her on the situation ("A dog! Ran into the car!"), and she reassured me by saying that these things come in threes and she would say a prayer for me.

Luckily, nothing else has thrown itself into my car's path so far. But if you're the person behind all of this, please have mercy on me and my poor car. If anything else happens in the near future, I see two possibilities. Either I move to a huge city that will allow me to do nothing but take public transportation (and where I will, no doubt, become the raging liberal that everyone already thinks I am, but let's face it, it could be a lot worse) or I build an underground bunker and never come out again.

...Wait. Is that your plan?

Ode to Jennae (and Candy Corn)

2011-10-23T04:59:00.003-06:00

Once upon a time, much longer ago than it seems, I shared my freshman year dorm room with a beautiful girl named Jennae. Jennae and I had a providential amount in common (our interest in psychology, for instance, or the fact that when we moved in we were both seriously dating boys named Michael). One thing I could not understand, however, was Jennae's love of candy corn. Jennae would periodically receive care packages, and they always, always contained candy corn. I grew up hating the stuff so I did not understand her unbridled enthusiasm every single time she held a bag of candy corn in her hands.

I would like to let the universe know that I was wrong. I just gave candy corn another chance, and whether it is the season, the lateness of the hour, or the way it sets itself off against my cup of coffee, candy corn has to be the most delightful thing I've ever eaten.

This could be sleep deprivation-related delirium setting in. I'm just going to choose to believe that Jennae was right, I was wrong, and my tastes have graduated to some higher plane. Higher planes named sugar, confectioner's glaze, and corn syrup.

Angst Addendum

2011-10-19T05:49:00.003-06:00

The other day, the Utah legislature finally passed a final plan for redistricting. The holdup was, get this, a disagreement between House Republicans and Senate Republicans. Democrats were simply not a part of the discussion and it shows. The final plan carves Salt Lake City into three parts and combines each part with a portion of rural Utah. The fourth district is just more rural Utah without the stain of any yucky yucky liberal voice at all.

It's good to know that my vote counts for even less in this state than I already thought it did. This plan effectively dilutes any existing liberal voice in Utah until we've got no chance of electing a progressive to Congress. Democrats weren't shouted down in the process; they were simply ignored and completely left out of discussions, all of which happened behind closed doors.

But hey, it's cool. Who doesn't like to be gerrymandered out of validity every once in a while?

So Much Angst, So Little Time

2011-10-19T02:41:00.004-06:00

Recently, I feel as if I've been having fast and furious relationships of all kinds. I meet someone, things get intense, and then, just as quickly, kaput, they're over. And that kaput, it's optimistic, because sometimes instead of a whimper they go out with a bang. This worries me because, well, hello, symptom of a personality disorder, anyone? Not that I think that I'm personality disordered, but I know this behavior isn't the healthiest of all the behaviors out there. I know I'm doing it to myself, but I don't really know how all the time. Maybe it's just that I'm still getting used to relationships in a post-school, post-Mormonism world, where I don't interact with hundreds of my peers each week and can therefore transition seamlessly between people and friendships. Maybe I'm so busy that I'm bored and I'm creating drama and excitement on purpose if unconsciously. Maybe I'm a poor judge of character, though I have never believed this of myself. Maybe some part of me enjoys being just to the other side of sane.

Still, things are sane on the home front, for the most part, and I want to keep it that way.

---------------

I know that Herman Cain's 9-9-9 tax plan isn't being heralded as the Right's new tax policy or anything, but the fact that it is getting so much attention annoys the crap out of me. Any flat income tax plan annoys me very much, but I guess that's my job as a liberal. Flat income tax systems like to pretend to be fair because 100% of people get to pay them at exactly the same rate as everyone else. Bah, humbug. What really annoys me about 9-9-9, though, is that it throws in a flat 9% sales tax to boot. Fair's fair, right, and everyone will be paying exactly the same thing.

Sigh.

Dearest Herman, first of all, 9% of a wealthy person's income is not the same as 9% of a poor person's income, but we'll leave that one alone. We're focusing on the sales tax, I swear. So, a wealthy person gets their income taxed at 9%, and then proceeds to do all sorts of things with their money. Investments, savings, all the benefits of being a wealthy person whose input exceeds their output. Poor people, however, often spend at least 100% of their income on rent and goods. All those goods are taxable, so poor people are paying a higher proportion of their income in sales tax than wealthy people. Because they have to. Because they're poor.

Class warfare indeed. Because 9-9-9 is supposedly so fair and equal we can forget the part where it is decidedly unequal as far as lower income people are concerned. Heaven forbid that we propose that the wealthiest Americans pay a Clinton-era (not even Reagan-era!) tax rate, but we can go after the poor all we want, because the poor don't have a gazillion well-paid lobbyists.

Also, get those protesters off of Wall Street. Damn hippies.

---------------

To the person who used an epithet to describe their server and the adorable couple at the next table at the restaurant last night: Get over yourself. You're a douche. I hope some day you have to move out of this little bubble you've created for yourself so you can realize what a douche you were back in 2011. Then I'll give you a hug. But, as of right now, I'm still disgusted.

An Open Letter to BYU Students Who Are on a High Horse

2011-10-16T02:37:00.005-06:00

I haven't done a political rant in a long time, but this is one of epic proportions. Ye be warned.

If I see this picture

followed by a sentiment like, "This is exactly how I did it, and this is my response to those whiny whiny protesters," on any more BYU students' Facebook pages, I am going to explode. Preferably all over them.

Because, BYU students, you did not do it just like that person. You did not go to a "moderately priced in-state university." You went to a private university that is sponsored by a religion whose adherents subsidized 70% of your tuition. Do the math, y'all. Without those subsidies made possible by millions of tithe payers, you're not paying a measly ~$4,000 a year. You're paying $15,000. And, as my college graduate behind is working ~56 hours a week in my area of study for the great honor of making a little more than $20,000 a year after taxes, I don't think you could have covered $60,000 without any debt, especially if you only started saving when you were 17. Also, I was a valedictorian in high school with a perfect GPA, a SAT score of 1460/1600, four years of all-state musician-osity, volunteer work out the wazoo, membership and leadership in various clubs, and six passed AP tests, and my offer from my less sucky in-state school with scholarships and everything was more expensive than BYU before scholarships. And, while we're on the subject of that in-state school, what happens if my home state does as some in power suggest and shut down 50% of my state's universities due to budget problems? What happens to half the kids in my home state who want to choose a "moderately priced in-state university" then?

I don't care how you feel about the Occupy Together movements. I don't know exactly how I feel about them. But for just one second take a deep breath, get off your high horse and ponder the fact that you shouldn't have to be rich, a valedictorian, a native of the right state, or Mormon to get a reasonably priced education.

Everybody Pulled Their Socks Up, Everybody Put Their Foot Down

2011-10-14T05:11:00.003-06:00

Now that I've (almost) done a full Monday through Friday at both of my new jobs, I feel like I can handle this.

Tonight between jobs I met someone new and delightful and they asked me what I do besides work. Sleep, I told them. And, you know, that's accurate. You try working three graveyard shifts during the workweek when you are also working 2:30 to 6:30 in the afternoon and see what happens to you and your sleep schedule. I grab sleep where I can get it, and overall it isn't bad at all. I also think it will normalize a little as I get more into the swing of things. And I'm walking out of this with benefits, which is a dream I thought I gave up when I told Copper Hills good riddance.

And, can we talk about how I really like both of these jobs? I now have a good rapport going with the kids at the after school program, and reintegrating music into my life has been a wonderful experience. That kind of open, artsy, creativity-bursting-at-the-edges environment is what I was made for. My graveyard job is just easy. It's precisely what I need right now. I feel like I get all the perks of do-gooding with only half the work. This is especially nice since I'm now going to be working ~56 hours every week for the foreseeable future.

But, like I say, I really like both of my jobs. I had a minor panic moment when one of my superiors at the after school job told me recently that one of the reasons they hired me was that they thought I could whip their kids into shape, discipline-wise speaking. I had flashbacks to restraints and complicated points systems and soul death. Then I realized that they just hired me because they think I have good limit-setting skills and they've all been around for a while, which makes anyone a little more complacent than they would like to be. Their kids are awesome. Nothing scary necessary. But I've tightened up my limits a little, brought back my Love and Logic skills, brought back more of the me I liked at House of Hope.

So I'll take living on nothing but caffeine when necessary. I'll take making peanuts and working lots of hours. This is fine by me. Fine fine fine.

NCOD 2011

2011-10-11T04:11:00.003-06:00

October 2010 was a strange time. Let's be real, most of 2010 was a strange time. I'd spent most of the year letting go of big secrets, secrets that probably weren't secrets at all except in my delusions. Then all of those suicides of queer youth happened, followed by President Packer's talk, followed by huge reactions on both sides. And before I knew it, I was celebrating NCOD 2010 by coming out on my blog of all places. Confounding.

Still, I wouldn't take it back for anything. Coming out was liberating in more ways than I can verbalize. I suppose that is because there is such power in taking something that you have feared and despised about yourself for as long as you can remember and deciding to let it go, deciding that you are good enough that if the world chooses to use it against you in ways you have always been terrified they would, it doesn't matter. Once you have taken that kind of chance on yourself, you automatically value yourself more. You value all the parts more, even the parts that never really grasped why on earth girls get crushes on boys.

Because, you know, LGBT folks aren't damaged. They just are what they are. Straight people are straight, cisgender people are cisgender, and the rest of us are "other." And whatever us "other" folks choose to do with our situation, what we are is all right. It's whole. To me, that's what "gay pride" and days like today are about. They are about standing up and declaring our wholeness in a society that too often deems us broken, lacking, perverted, ill, or confused and refusing to internalize those perceptions anymore. Days like today are to say that you can be what you are in the open and people will love you as much as you should love yourself. You should never feel that you must allow your secrets to continue to eat you alive from the inside. That is never true.

No matter what your painful secret is, you can tell it. You should tell it. You're worth letting it go and reaping the benefits, one of which may be ridding yourself of the people who tell you otherwise.

Happy National Coming Out Day, y'all.

Passing Thoughts

2011-10-07T01:51:00.003-06:00

I want to buy a bass. And join an all-girl garage band.

If I can learn to dress like my boss at the after-school program, I will be able to die happy.

I went from INSANE UGLY AWFUL JOB to a super easy artsy job and a job that is more low-key than House of Hope. And it's awesome.

My coworkers at the artsy job remind me of all the best parts of high school, and they make me wonder why I ever gave up music and my other artsy pursuits in the first place. They also make me hate BYU culture even more than I already did, because it was such the opposite of this.

Starting at 11:30, I will work or commute 19.5 hours out of the next 24, and then I'll continue working for over five more hours. This is a one-time-only deal, I hope.

I love Joanna Newsom.

One Thing I Will Do, and One Thing I Might

2011-09-29T23:22:00.003-06:00

I will: stop referring to myself as a pescetarian. I will still eat meat sparingly, but I will stop feeling guilty about vacations, times people cook for me, etc. It's been a year, I enjoyed it, and I'm going to make a ham and egg sandwich to celebrate before I (almost) go off meat again.

I might: grow out my hair. I've been having lots of dreams about having longer hair, and they are so wonderfully tempting. Still, it's been over a year since I had anything longer than a couple of inches, and what my hair doesn't want me to remember is that the only thing that used to keep it from devouring small children was the grace of God. I have far more hair than anybody I know, far more than the threshold where any hair stylist I've ever met can keep their mouth shut about it. And it's also just plain unruly. This, and my love of my haircut, is what keeps it short. And I'm fine with that, too.

I Refuse to Quote the Song Referred to in this Post

2011-09-29T22:50:00.003-06:00

These days, I always have one particular song stuck in my head. Always. And it isn't exactly my kind of song. Behold:

Oh, Pearl Jam. If I was going to pick a grunge song, we both know it would have been Nirvana. And the kids didn't pick it either. The song was picked by my boss, owing to the fact that I didn't appear on the scene until some precious class sessions had already been lost, because getting hired took so long.

Even after I've heard the song one billion times while adapting it, I still don't know the words. This makes it especially annoying when it rolls around my head for hours at a time.

Also, the kids in the rock band refer to Pearl Jam as "hippies." I tried explaining that they were two decades too late for that, but no response. The bandmembers' slightly younger counterparts could not comprehend the difference between 80s glam rock and punk, though, so I don't know what I expected.

Still the kiddos are doing an awesome job picking the song up, and we just might make it by the end of the session. Maybe. This is an exciting challenge.

Weekend Musings on Missionaries

2011-09-25T22:11:00.003-06:00

It's a strange experience, being tracted into by missionaries. I've seen them around our complex so much recently that I think they and another set of companions must live here. And, I mean, who is surprised? Not me. I lived in Provo for five years and upon finally escaping to the far-away lands of West Jordan, how could I feel content unless I was running into missionaries all the time?

Not that it's necessarily a bad thing. They seem very nice. Today they offered to help my carry my groceries to the top floor. I've often seen them conversing kindly with the many disabled people who live in the complex.

Still, I did have to deal with the fallout from one situation. While I was in Redlands, they tracted into my roommate, who is Catholic, and apparently strong-armed her into taking a copy of the Book of Mormon while telling her within ten minutes of ringing the doorbell that she would have to accept the LDS church or not make it to heaven. I'm sure that they are great guys who are maybe over zealous and a little unsympathetic. Still, you try telling that to someone who is already chafed by Church culture after living around here for her entire life.

One of the things they asked her was if she lived with anyone, and when she mentioned her roommate they asked if I might be interested. For future reference, she asked me how she should respond to that. And truth is I shy away from that on purpose. I've avoided the missionaries around the complex ever since one time when I was getting out of my car and greeted them with, "Hey, elders," only to become instantly aware of how memberish it was of me to address them that way due to the way their expressions changed. Because, honestly, what does someone in my situation (uninterested and inactive, but hopefully mostly angst-less) say to missionaries? How do I even identify to them? "I'm a member," sounds disingenuous, though I am, while, "I'm inactive," sounds like, "Reactivate me!" "I'm not interested," sounds like, "I hate everything you stand for," to me and, "I used to go to your church," doesn't represent the level of devotion I felt toward the Church for so long. "I graduated from BYU," sounds like code for, "I'm a pretentious jerk, and you know what that means, PRIDE ISSUE. I left the church because I just can't get over myself." Which could be true, I suppose.

And while I'm on this topic, who gets to say they're Mormon, anyway? Kelsae and I saw a play that focused on this theme a while ago, and to me, it was one of the most worthwhile parts of the piece. Mormonism isn't like a lot of other religions like Judaism or Catholicism where people without much if any religious stake can culturally claim it as their own. So who is a Mormon? Does it only apply to TBMs (for all you TBMs out there, that's internet-speak for True-Believing Mormons)? Is belief all that is required, and if so, can people who have been excommunicated but still believe the Church is true still claim to be Mormon? Do you have to be a member, and if so, what about people like me? Are we Mormons? People like me are in the statistics the Church publishes, but I don't know if we are what most active Mormons have in mind when they talk about Mormons. What about people, like some gay people, who would be active except for one key tenet of the Church? Do they count?

That is one reason I am afraid of having to really talk to a missionary. Another is the fear of wasting their time. Maybe the biggest, reason, however is having to look into the eyes of someone who is probably younger than me and having to re-confront the person I was and the journey I've gone through. It was hard enough the first time.

It Has Started Already this October

2011-09-24T23:43:00.002-06:00

I'm just going to say it: I don't get live-Tweeting General Conference.

Even in the best of times I struggle to understand the point of Twitter, even though I've used it for years, ever since I got my first account for the Board. I check it for pithy sayings or to follow happenings such as the protests in Iran a couple of years ago. When people use Twitter to do things like describe the football game that is in progress, however, I shake my head in bewilderment. Anyone who cares is (dun dun duuuuuun) watching the game. If you want a community with which to discuss your frustrations or excitement about said game and its developments, watch the game with someone. News is one thing, and I bid you, share away. Games, concerts, or your mundane goings-on, however? Stop mucking up my feed.

General Conference live-Tweeting is like that. I don't need to know what the Tabernacle Choir is singing for the opening hymn. I don't need to know which GA is on deck to give a talk. I don't care who is giving any of the prayers. I especially don't care about your tweets announcing that all of the lame Twitter-users like you have made Conference into a trending topic. All I get out of it is one kick after another to a somewhat tender underbelly every time I absentmindedly check Twitter the first weekends of October and April.

Do us all a favor and pay attention to Conference as it is happening, and discuss it among yourselves afterward. Leave Twitter out of it.

My Brain Told Me

2011-09-23T21:04:00.003-06:00

Today, at my new rock band-y job I was talking to a seven-year-old during free time. He was telling me all about the theory of how the moon was formed when an asteroid hit the earth and broke a chunk off, and I've gotta say, he sounded a lot like a report I heard on NPR a few weeks ago explaining the same theory. Then I asked him how he got so interested in space.

Seven-year-old boy: "Well, it all started when I was three. When I was three I didn't know anything existed outside of this planet. Then, all of a sudden, my brain told me there was more and I knew there was space so I got interested in space and now I know all about how the asteroid hit the earth and their atoms got all mixed up so you couldn't tell the difference anymore."

Another time I complimented him on a coloring job he was doing.

Seven-year-old boy: "Yes, I feel that it is quality work."

Guys. This is so. much. better.

California Dreaming

2011-09-19T21:52:00.002-06:00

Once upon a time, my cousin and friend Holly said that she was jealous of her sister, mom, and nephew, who had gone to Disneyland three times in three weeks. Two seconds later, because I was staring down a dead week between being hired at a part-time job but needing to be cleared to work with the kids, were off on an impromptu visit to her parents' house in Redlands. It was just what the doctor ordered.

The weather was gorgeous and the company could not have been better. Disneyland was just icing on the cake.

And I came home to discover that the rock band I'm supposed to be teaching is awesome awesome awesome. Not a bad way to spend a week.

Also, be warned: if Holly doesn't tell you about Mister going stinky and then going swimming, you're going to hear it from me.

Go Find Your Spine and Ride it Out of Here

2011-09-19T21:36:00.002-06:00

Since I stopped working at Copper Hills, I have failed spectacularly at not talking about it all the time, but the truth is that I think about bringing it up at least twice as often as I actually do. I want to forget everything about that terrible little place but so many things bring it to the forefront of my thoughts. The girls I worked with there loved things like top 40 music stations and tweaking their hair in the mirror and the McDonald's dollar menu. My supervisor at the job I started today unfortunately looks strikingly similar to the one girl who I felt bad for leaving. I guess that's the way life goes sometimes.

Today I had to remind myself that the kids at my new job are not bad kids. That they won't attack each other if I am off my game for one second and that I'm probably not in any danger with them. That they haven't hurt anybody, not really, and that nobody is on self-harm or suicide precaution. My muscles tensed up in spite of my best intentions and I had to stop myself from rolling my eyes at my coworkers' legitimate complaints about one kid after he'd gone home for the day.

Tonight was one of those rare nights where the one thing I wanted was to be held, and I came home to a depressingly empty apartment.

I hate that an afternoon with great kids made me feel this way. I will get over this. I will.

(Warning for language.)

Upbringing and Interviewing

2011-09-09T21:05:00.003-06:00

Tonight, something a little different. Here are four values I'm glad I had instilled in me while being raised LDS:

Living within my means
Moderation in all things
Do unto others as you would have them do unto you
Sobriety

A sincere thank you to Mom, Dad, and Mormonism.

--------------------

Let me tell you, I'm getting to be an expert at job interviews and undergoing background checks. I have my responses down pat and I fill out paperwork, get fingerprinted, and take photocopies of my documents at lightning speed. In fact, I'd say I was a well-oiled machine if I was a little better at drug tests. Don't get me wrong, I'm an ace at passing them, but man, my bladder is the shiest bladder in the whole world.

Due to my expertise, I can state unequivocally that the worst thing in the world is an interview in which it is quickly made very clear that you won't be getting the job. The interviewer does this through an awkward question or comment ("You seem to have had a lot of jobs. Why do you think it is that you move around so very frequently?" "Why do you want this job? Your resume does not reflect that you enjoy this type of work.") that leaves you with nothing to do but stare down at your grey interview pumps and imagine saying, "Well, I'll stop wasting your time. Good day, sir!" But let's be real, you don't have nearly enough gumption for that noise.

Also, I hope that background checks do not report how many other background checks you have had recently, because if they do I'm going to look all kinds of suspicious. In the past few months, I've had one each for Peace Corps, House of Hope, Copper Hills, and Youth City - Ottinger Hall. Clearly, lucky part time job number two has no idea what they are getting in to.

I Hope I Forget this Ever Happened.

2011-09-06T23:01:00.004-06:00

Writing this entry has been just as hard as writing the into-to-Copper-Hills entry was. That is not to say that I regret what I did last Tuesday, because I don't. I have never felt so relieved in my life. Never. However, summing up the seven-week experience that was working at Copper Hills strikes me as impossible. That's probably why I have checked in here so infrequently since it all started.

To stop beating around the bush, I quit my job on Tuesday.

Unemployment does not suit me, I've decided. My little being is prone to depression, as if you didn't know, and even in my current functional state, it is harder to find motivation to do simple things like leave the house without concrete, nonoptional engagements. It's also hard to have a definite contingency plan for something like an open-ended period of worklessness, and Lord knows there is nothing that makes me happier than a lack of plans A, B, and C.

Still, quitting was the right thing to do. (Have I convinced you yet? Want to finish convincing me?) I don't know how to explain why that was without a ton of what sounds in my brain like equivocation, so in the interest of being honest...

I just couldn't cut it.

I make no excuses for this. I learned some very important lessons. I learned a lot about teenagers and sexual abuse and the sexual offense cycle. I learned more about how dark the world can be. (Will I ever stop learning that lesson? Please, God, let it bottom out.) I learned some restraints and deescalation techniques. I learned how to put together hour-long groups on a multitude of topics with more efficiency each time.

But I also learned that my empathy and compassion have distinct boundaries. (I survived the subsequent identity crisis.) I learned that I do believe in unsavable, unredeemable people. I learned that there is still enough of the unhealthy in me to get triggered the hell out of. I learned that that my reaction to a very certain type of anxiety is to lose a little more than 30 pounds in seven weeks and that watching someone hit someone else will always make me want to cry.

I don't want to re-develop unhealthy coping skills. I don't want to be the kind of person who loses her temper and yells at other people after refusing to yell for so long. I don't want to inwardly cringe at the memories a hundred different innocuous things bring. I don't want to lose my love and hope in other people.

I refuse to lose hope.

So, in response to circumstances that suddenly seem inconsequential, I quit without giving notice. And the single most selfish and irresponsible action of my life was the right thing to do.

For Big Mistakes

2011-08-13T19:27:00.003-06:00

The next time I think to myself, "I just cannot relate to these girls at all!" at work, I'm going to remember the time today when I found my very first implement of self-harm buried in a box I was unpacking. It was right next to the box I made my first year of camp, which was filled with hundreds of those little packets of silica gel that come in shoe boxes.

I don't know why I kept those things for over a decade, but they are gone now.

Finding All My Previous Motives Growing Increasingly Unclear

2011-08-13T14:49:00.003-06:00

I've been having a lot of very vivid dreams lately, and one of last night's featured me rocking a little chillin to sleep while singing this song

which is exactly something I used to do all the time.

You guys, something about this new job makes me want to be a mom and go to law school, not necessarily in that order. These are both dreams I had growing up but that got more or less discarded sometime while I was at BYU.

If I tell you I'm sliding back toward political moderate-hood, punch me in the face. Then give me a hug.

A 2004 Terms Parable

2011-08-07T18:15:00.008-06:00

Once upon a time, when I was in seminary, the teacher used to ask for volunteers to give spiritual thoughts at the beginning of class. Because it was a magnet school made up of kids from all over the valley, the morning seminary class was very small as most kids opted for the more convenient lunch class. This meant that we all got lots of chances to give spiritual thoughts and eventually I got bored with my own repetitive thoughts. So I started to write what I called "parables" which were compiled into what we called the Book of Cari.

I'm moving this weekend-ish, and as I was going through some stuff, I found this parable. It clearly came from my history class when I was a junior, when the teacher assigned us hundreds of "terms" at a time, which we had to put onto note cards and define. This one is more than a little sacrilegious, and I'm not sure where I was going on the moral. Forgiveness, maybe, or some good old fashioned beam-in-your eye stuff. What is clear is that I'd like to go back to the junior who wrote this and tell her just do her own terms.

And now behold it came to pass that on a certain day one friend did cry unto all of her other friends, saying,
Behold the day of the terms swiftly cometh and there is a great work to do. Lo, let us take and divide these ten score terms among us and let each do one score. For behold, sayeth the friend, one score is clearly nine score fewer than ten score.
But behold, sayeth the friend, woe unto them that finish not their terms, for I in my wrath shall swoop down upon you and gouge out thine eyes with naught but a rusty spoon. Therefore complete thine terms. For this commandment I give unto you, that thou shalt do thy terms. Thou shalt not be late.
For behold, my way is easy, sayeth the friend, and my yoke is light.
And behold, when the days were delivered that they day of the terms was nigh the friend did open AOL and did see that there were terms gone out of the account. And there was much weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth.
Now behold this friend did labor many hours to complete the terms of that sluggard. And another friend did assist that friend to complete the terms that did belong to the sluggard. And behold, the certain friend and the other friend did sleep that night whereas they could not had the terms been undone.
Behold, the sun did rise. Lo, the certain friend was at school and did whine and did gnash teeth and do all manner of things. And behold, when the certain friend saw the sluggard, she rebuked her, saying,
Why did ye not that which I required of you?
And she did begin to lay into the sluggard when the other friend did approach. And behold, the other friend did say unto the certain friend,
Why rebukest thou her? Let this pass, for in a season you too shall be guilty. What fault findest thou with her?
And the certain friend did heed the words of she that spoke wisely.

Please Remember Peace is How We Make It

2011-08-03T22:40:00.001-06:00

Ever since the recent roadtrip to Canada with the fam, I've been sort of obsessed with this song:

It doesn't hurt that the late night guy at the local oldies station loves this song at a time when the local NPR station is busy playing jazz, which is also the time when I'm making the hour-long drive home from work.

This song was written by my favorite Beatle (okay, probably tied-for-favorite Beatle), George Harrison, but it forces me to make an apology.

Dearest Ringo,

I'm so sorry for all the times I made fun of your singing. I'm sorry for the alternate words for the line "We all live in a yellow submarine" ("Ringo should not be allowed to sing") as a teenager. Even you have to agree that that was the worst Beatles song ever, so I was only half mocking you. Promise. I always did maintain that you are the greatest rock drummer ever, and I have considered seeing your All-Star Band multiple times, so hopefully this won't come between us. Also, the song that came out of your angst and fury at the other Beatles was... charming. Way to keep it upbeat, man.

Yours, Cari

Got to pay your dues if you wanna sing the blues, and you know it don't come easy.

--------------------

I've been putting this entry off since I made my first appearance on the floor at my now-job, which was just about two weeks ago. So much has happened in that time. There have been two nights where I came close to quitting on the spot. I've led probably 15 groups single-handedly. I've responded to a couple of codes and filled in on a unit other than my own, where I made it less than an hour before a resident shoved me. I was once the only staff on a unit where a fight broke out, and after doing my best to break up said fight and ensuring that other staff were handling the problem, I responded by retreating to a locked room where I cried. I then pulled it together and worked the rest of the shift. My shift manager got hurt in a restraint on another unit and so for the past week I've been working with a revolving door of staff, which means that still-new me knows what's going on on the unit better than my only coworker. Since Canada, I've lost over 15 pounds due to barely eating due to stress. Canada was about a month ago.

Only last night did I, during a shift, think to myself, I can do this.

I don't know what I expected, but it wasn't this. Maybe I was riding too high on my success at House of Hope, because that was what it was, success. I was excellent at my job there. Maybe I forgot that there was once a time when that job, or, really, both of those jobs, scared and confounded me, too. Maybe I over-valued how easily I always got along with teenagers at Girls Camp, how they revered me and were excited for my involvement and feedback. Maybe I haven't fully excised ye olde messiah complex and was too arrogant. Maybe during training what stuck out were the stills I already had and I failed to focus on what I didn't already know. Maybe I was intimidated by the new atmosphere and did not jump in quickly enough.

Maybe I'm just a whanny.

If any of these things happened, it is my fault and not the residents'. They are the way that they are. If I was taken surprise by that, it is nobody's fault but my own.

Not that I think it is a personal failing if this job is not for somebody. Even now that I am beginning (beginning) to feel competent enough to handle this job five days out of seven, I know I don't want to do this forever. This high a level of residential treatment for teenagers is not my life calling. I will stick this out for the time being, I will, but will I do it for longer than a year? Will I do it for that long? Who knows.

A coworker of mine and I are going to share an apartment starting in a couple of days, and on Saturday we had lunch to hammer out some details. We also compared notes. Apparently most of our new hire class hasn't done as many groups as I have, or any at all, but many of them have also already been physically attacked by residents. We compared notes about how we feel so far. That's common among all of us new hires. We see each other going in and coming out, and always there is some conversation about how it is going. There's this guy who used to do something that made him very wealthy until he hit a wall five years ago. He took up yoga and now teaches yoga and took this up, too, to try to positively influence lives this way. He helped me take out my linens and trash last night, and on the way, he told me, "Last week, I was like, 'F___ this. I don't need this.' This week, I feel like I can do it." This is something else that seems to be common among us.

I don't plan on changing any lives personally. I don't plan on never getting punched myself. I don't plan on seeing dramatic changes in anybody or even necessarily especially liking anybody. What I do plan on doing is plodding along, doing a job that is hard to do but that needs to be done so that these kids can have a chance at all. Almost all of our kids have been thrown out of other treatment centers and there aren't many options for them at all. This is especially true on the unit where I work, which is for female sexual offenders. Apparently there are only about five treatment centers that take female sexual offenders in the country. Kids here do improve. They do make positive changes in their lives. People with my job are essential so that the center can run. This is why I will do what I do for as long as I can do it. Then I will have done it, and I will know that I have done all I can do to help people who were hard to help, harder to help than I ever expected anyone to be.

I also have learned that I run really good groups, intuitively. I even made a slam poetry group fly. A staff I worked with yesterday told me that I seem like I've been there much longer than I really have. The days are starting to get easier than the yesterdays were, very slowly. I also have lots of chances to practice affirmations. I can do hard things. I am a good person. I will not be intimidated. I will not let them control me in ways that helped them get here because I can choose not to. I am smart and I am learning. I will make it through this minute.

And my reaction to getting shoved? Immediately shouting, "You will not push me." That made me proud.

Spider Webs with Sweet Daisies

2011-07-27T16:18:00.003-06:00

If you haven't been watching this guy's videos already, you should start.

A Month Late and a Barrel Full of Angst Short

2011-07-24T23:43:00.002-06:00

Want to know the best way to mark a June 25? By not even realizing that June 25 happened already until a few days later when you're all emotionally nestled in the prairies of southern Alberta.

Happy late June 25, me. I'm proud of you.

Evolving Beliefs, on Prayer

2011-07-24T00:06:00.003-06:00

I refuse to write about my new job on a weekend, so I'm writing this instead.

The roundabout story of this entry started as I drove home from signing a lease at the apartment that will be mine (and a roommate's) on August 5. The drive takes about an hour which means that there is lots of time for all kinds of random iPod music. One of today's choice selections was this little ditty

which reminded me of that one concert senior year when, due to the worst audition of my life, I was second chair and, seconds ahead of time, in the middle of a concert, my section leader asked me to play the bass clarinet solo in "Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy." That reminded me of the time junior year when a girl from another school who I had beaten in honor band seating told me that she had been robbed in a phrase that became perhaps the most quoted line of that year of high school in my group of friends. I got onto my old, defunct MySpace blog to find the exact phrase ("I don't mean to sound conceited, but I just know I'm the best.") and here's what I found. Apparently this is prime Cari angst, circa June 21, 2009.

A couple days ago I was sitting in the front room cutting up a watermelon and watching a romantic comedy. One of the roommates walked in and said, "What's wrong?" I asked what she meant and she said, "You're watching a romantic comedy." She was joking, but hey, it means that one of them has at least picked up on the likes and dislikes.

"Iran," I said, knowing full well that she wouldn't know what I was talking about. "I always get way too engaged in these things. I need a distraction." A stupid, pointless distraction. I'd stayed up all night to watch Khamenei's speech, and I paid for it that day, but I still couldn't stop thinking about everything. I was out with family that entire day, but whenever I could I stole a bit of time for news reports, because I knew the protests that day were going to get bloody.

"What's going on?" she asked, so I gave her the Reader's Digest version. "Oh," she said. I wasn't expecting any more enthusiasm.

She started to leave, and I said, "Don't forget to pray for them."

And then I thought, What? Where did that come from? But it has popped up several more times without my realizing it. I used the phrase in a Twitter update, for example.

I started thinking about why that was, why whenever I think of anything sad the word "prayer" falls out of my mouth even though I haven't really prayed in... months. Why I say I'm praying for people I'm not praying for, why I tell people to pray for other people when why the hell do I care if anyone prays for anything? I was thinking that maybe I just don't know what else to say. It's been my go-to phrase for over two decades. And "you're in my thoughts?" Seriously? What good does that do anyone? It wouldn't make me feel any better in a hard time to know that guess what? Someone's thinking about you, and it's bringing them down. Cause your grief isn't bad enough for just you to carry.

Of course, if you'd asked me about prayer even when I was religious, if I'd have been honest, I would have told you that I was confused about prayer even then. The LDS Bible Dictionary says that "prayer is the act by which the will of the Father and the will of the child are brought into correspondence with each other. The object of prayer is not to change the will of God, but to secure for ourselves and for others blessings that God is already willing to grant, but that are made conditional on our asking for them." It always did seem weird to me that we believed in great and even miraculous blessings occuring through prayer, though I couldn't for the life of me figure out what made person A in our congregation more worthy of said miraculous blessing than nonreligious or differently religious person B with the same needs, just because person A had 300 people praying for them. It didn't seem very benevlolent God-ly. ("Oh! Because you already know and love me and you probably say the same 8 or 9 phrases in your prayers every single day, I'll do you a favor!") It always seemed to me that the people who needed the most divine intervention might have the fewest people praying for them. And besides, why did we believe in group prayers and fasts anyway? Why did a group of people praying for something make it any more significant than one? Prayer confuses me.

That's all beside the point, though. What is the point is this: when I started thinking about it, the reason I kept talking about prayer is because it was all that was standing between me and feeling completely helpless. I don't think that anyone in our country should try to intervene, so out goes the possibility of actually doing anything. It used to be that I could pray for people's safety, you know, and feel like I was doing something. It was a neat little 30 second act of service. Congratulations, you captured my attention, so I'll do what I can to get you some blessings, like, you know, your life. Possibly liberty, if you're really lucky.

And now, there's absolutely nothing to be done. All I can do is watch and wait from around the globe, hoping that the best of humanity will triumph. And putting my hope in humanity rather than divinity is a subject for a whole different time.

I feel more honest and more human, which is beautiful, and I am trying to make that enough against the helplessness. It's just one more thing on the way to figuring out life without religion.

Man, am I glad that I'm not there anymore. I'll say it again: anyone who says that leaving the church is easy is delusional.

Prayer really is one concept I struggled with throughout my religious days. I got faith pretty well, I think, and I tried to explain it to friends who had questions, including one memorable night as we skated circles around an ice rink when we were in our early teens. ("But how can you believe in something when there's no proof?" "That's why you have faith!" "But wouldn't God give you proof?" "That's not the point!") Repentance was A-OK by me. Ordinances made sense enough. I never really had any issues with the hairier parts of Mormon history. Even the parts of prayer where someone thanked God for their blessings or spilled their guts to a caring paternal being struck me as beautiful. The asking part of prayer, however, always sort of confounded me.

Now, two years after the fact, I can look back and semi-objectively say that at least some of the discomfort I expressed in that entry stemmed from my personal, irrational, neurotic need to constantly be fixing everything that wasn't me. Part of my peace was accepting that I am not superhuman. I am now healthily removed from everyone else's tragedies enough to feel confident in their responsibility and ability and hope in some way that is not connected to the supernatural. Also, the idea that a belief in God is not necessary for hope in this way is immensely comforting to me.

I can also realize that perhaps what is meant by the Bible Dictionary's definition of prayer is that it's human's will that is shaped by prayer more than God's. Perhaps it means that there are some blessings that God will give us, contingent upon our asking for them, but otherwise prayer is there to humble us and bring us closer to the divine and help us realize what it is we should be asking for. Maybe group prayer is meant to help us realize the needs of those we love and make us more useful in meeting those needs.

...Not that I've prayed at all since 2009. But I like to think that this means I'm growing up.

Breather.

2011-07-13T20:37:00.003-06:00

July has been out of control, y'all. There was Canada, Las Vegas, last days at work, and first days at work. And some other stuff I'll not talk about. So far I've been through three of seven days of classroom-type training, and then there will be three days of shadowing. The main thing I've learned? This job is not a joke, in so many ways. Today I witnessed my first client restraint as I walked past it in the hall. Apparently this is a center filled with kids who have failed at other centers. Not in a didn't-stay-out-of-trouble-after way. In a were-unmanageable-and-were-kicked-out way.

Still, I'm looking forward to getting on the floor. I'm definitely looking forward to locking in a place to live and moving out of Provo. Mostly, though, I'm looking forward to sleep. The sleep that's coming in about five minutes.

They're Pretty Similar Words, I Guess

2011-07-09T00:41:00.002-06:00

So far, the thing I'm going to miss most are these kinds of stories:

Wednesday morning, we went on a field trip to a duck pond, where we fed the ducks bread and I explained that baby ducks follow the mama duck in one long, single file line. I asked the kids to demonstrate this skill, and pretty soon we had a line of kids, flapping their makeshift wings, all muttering, "Quack quack quack." By the time we got back to our group room, this had devolved into four two-year-olds aimlessly wandering about the room still flapping merrily, but joyfully proclaiming, "Duck duck duck!"

Prayer

2011-07-06T18:25:00.002-06:00

Today was my last day in TEC. I'm attempting to forget that I'm never going to do it again and I'm pushing my emotions aside accordingly. Want to know how that's going? Right before lunch I pulled a little boy aside and asked him to sing that song about the rabbit and the little old man and the shoot-me-dead jazz, and in the middle of the song my voice cracked with emotion. Several times. The song is eight lines long.

There have been so many lasts at that job, each one bittersweet. I'll never load up that stupid 15-seater van with all those car seats for a field trip again. I'll never again listen to that perennial nap time favorite, Josh Groban's Christmas album. I'll never heard so many toddlers away from a sand table, and I'll never again believe that fruit snacks are a viable category of foodstuffs. I'll never again explain to so many kids that worms are living things and just because I brought them to see and touch doesn't mean we get to squish them on purpose. I'll never again play on that playground or go through the routine that is dressing up so many little bodies in wintertime gear. I'll never pack another backpack with diapers for that many different kids or go down such a long assembly line of little bodies needing sunscreen. I'll never maintain another whiteboard with goals like "7 block tower," "animal names," "smooth transitions," "5 body parts," or "pincer grasp." I'll never again see Miss Laurel and Mr. Dallin at the Provo Library. I'll never again play dumb when 14 moms wonder why their kids are making strange faces or delightedly demonstrating how far they can jump with both feet.

I'll never again be a two-year-old's best friend.

I've been a lot of two-year-olds' best friend. I can remember so many little faces, and I can remember the changes that overcame them in the three or four months that I knew them. I'll never, ever forget them. They have changed me.

This afternoon some of the older girls announced that they had found a dead squirrel (well, they said it was a squirrel, but I think it was a chinchilla) behind one of the dorms. Their moms knew about it and no one had disturbed it, but the maintenance guy hadn't gotten around to disposing of its little body. They asked if we could have a funeral for it, and that's what we did. Back on the playground, the oldest girl wrote a little headstone for it in pink sidewalk chalk. "Squirrel," it said, in a seven-year-old's spelling. "Might have died from falling down some stairs and breaking its neck." Its simple epitaph was read, and then we adjourned to the gravesite, so to speak. We gathered around its body, and the oldest girl explained that we should offer prayers over it. In her sweet prayer, the little girl asked Heavenly Father to please not let the squirrel get hurt again and to please give it a good life in heaven. Everyone took a turn, and I prompted some of the little ones when they got stuck. I didn't offer a prayer because of my religious proclivities, but then the three older girls asked me to pray, and so I did. I asked Heavenly Father to please help the squirrel to be happy and to not hurt anymore, and I thanked Him for letting us get to know the squirrel a little bit and for giving us a chance to join together. "Amen," said solemn little children all around me, little hearts grieving for a rather insignificant animal that none of them knew existed hours beforehand. "Everyone deserves a funeral," the oldest girl told me.

Everyone deserves a funeral, and, in a way, this is mine, but I'm still here to pray for the other attendants. Dear God, please help them to be happy and don't let them get hurt anymore. Help them to grow and to be less aware of things like funerals. Help them to someday understand what has happened to them and to forgive those that have hurt them. Help them avoid those troubles themselves. Help them remember that someone loves them. Thank you for giving me a glimpse into their lives and thank you for all they taught me. Please help them to be happy. Amen.

The True North Strong and Free

2011-07-01T21:57:00.002-06:00

Everybody should have a small town somewhere with a museum where their relatives are all over the walls. Their great-great-grandfather should have started a really important industry in the small town's past and current economy, their great-grandfather and grandfather and great uncle should be featured in the town's sports hall of fame, their great aunt's piano should be featured in their religious exhibits, their family names should be splattered all over the town's wall of pioneers, and various other relatives and family names should be sprinkled throughout. There is no kind of belonging quite like that.

Today for Canada Day, many of the children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and great-great-grandchildren of Rulon and Phoebe Dahl gathered in Raymond for the town's Canada Day celebrations. We started with the annual Raymond Canada Day parade, which was a delightful typical small town parade, though my dad says it has grown a lot since his early remembrances of it. I especially enjoyed the small jazz groups riding on floats and the marching bagpipe group.

Afterward, we headed to the Raymond Stampede, a rodeo that started in 1902. My dad, mom, brother, sister-in-law, and sisters went to the Stampede for a little while yesterday, but I had never been to a rodeo before then. The best parts, by far, were singing the Canadian national anthem with that huge group and the opening event today. Three kids would hold onto a rope around a pony's neck as it was released from a gate, and then they'd attempt to hold it still while one of them mounted it. Imagine a pony dragging a little kid on a line. Best thing ever.

Tomorrow, we're going to Waterton, the national park where, when I was five, I petted a wild deer and, when he was 18-ish, my dad was arrested for throwing water balloons at an undercovered mounted policeman. I freaking love Canada.

Shelby Says to Title This "Blog Entry, Eh?"

2011-06-29T21:52:00.005-06:00

Greetings from Cardston, Alberta, Canada. I'm so happy to be here. I started the journey on Sunday, when I flew from Salt Lake to Las Vegas. Monday morning, we started a road trip that was meant to be a recreation of the trip my dad, older siblings, and I took 18 years ago when my great grandma turned 90. This afternoon we crossed the border. It has been a great adventure.

I hope I never get used to the sound of water crashing over waterfalls, to lakes of ice in July, to deer poking their heads out of the forest, to cave bottoms thirty feet down, to purple flowers sprouting straight from volcanic rock.

And tomorrow, to some of my real roots: Raymond. I can't wait.

The Animal Song

2011-06-25T23:06:00.003-06:00

On Thursday, I accepted a job offer at a residential treatment center for adolescents in West Jordan. It's an actual full-time job working with a population I can see myself working with longer term. Also, it's not in Utah County. Let me repeat that: IT'S NOT IN UTAH COUNTY.

Because I'm going to be gone for my family reunion in Canada all of the next week, this means that, all of a sudden, I have five days left at my current job, including tomorrow. This means that the emotion that used to be reserved for a kid's last few days is now hitting me nonstop.

Like when a four-year-old boy sat on my lap and said, "Miss Cari, I will sing you a beautiful song," and proceeded to sing a touching song whose lyrics go thusly:

There was a crocodile
An orangutan
And an eagle flying
And a silver fox
A bunny, a beaver
A crazy elephant
Na na na na, na na na na na
Na na na na, na na na na na.

I encored him and he performed a stirring rendition of "Once There Was a Snowman."

And I teared up.

Some Father's Day Videos

2011-06-19T18:54:00.003-06:00

After All This, I'm Still Pasty

2011-06-17T16:16:00.005-06:00

About a week ago, Peace Corps sent everybody who has been nominated to do youth community building an email to tell us that their budget has been cut and that many of us won't be sent out at all. Those of us who do will have to wait until the January through March timeslot. Did we want to wait for the possibility to be sent out at the beginning of next year, the email asked, or pull our applications now?

Out of all the grand life plans I've made for 2011, Peace Corps is the last one standing. Marriage, grad school, and various jobs all bit the dust. I won't pretend that it hasn't left me feeling a little defeated. I'm still at this current job, where I'm underpaid and some days I still feel like I might fizzle and be completely burnt out for good. I'm still in Provo, for crying out loud, after repeatedly promising myself since the beginning of my sophomore year of college that each year would be my last in this accursed valley. And, you know, for whatever reason, it's recently become a lot harder to be a single person in a married person's world, not that I want to be married.

So I decided to pull out some actual coping skills. I spent a lot of time in nature this week and I've been on dates with some really interesting people. I saw a play, went to the zoo, and will go to an exciting film festival tomorrow. I cleaned my house and broke out ye olde paper journal. And I stopped feeling sorry for myself.

Also, after my trip to Canada at the end of this month, I'm buying myself a rat as a consolation prize.

Conversation at the Zoo, in the Primate House

2011-06-16T19:39:00.000-06:00

"When you were a kid, did you want a pony or a monkey?"

"Oh, monkey."

"Yeah, see, it's cause you're gay. It's actually a pretty good indicator."

"That... actually makes total sense. (Pause.) What do you think it's like to be a monkey in there?"

"Sad."

Celebrity Crushes Challenge

2011-06-09T23:02:00.014-06:00

Some time ago the wonderful Caleb and Kelsae challenged each other to name their top five celebrity crushes of both genders on their blogs. The challenge grew from there to be completed by others, including the equally wonderful Ho lly. (Actually, the only person who has completed the challenge is Holly, so get on it, Caleb and Kelsae!) Caleb personally extended the challenge to me, so here you have it. Let it be known that none of the people are listed in any particular order, because that would pain my tender soul too much.

The Gentlemen

Michael Cera

If this choice surprises you, you clearly don't know me very well. I don't care that Michael Cera is typecast because I adore the characters he plays. Something tells me he is just the same as those characters. I could marry George Michael or Paulie Bleeker or Nick Twisp.

Viggo Mortensen

For an older dude, you can't deny his looks. He's also crazy talented and super careful about his roles. Also, in his interviews... Oh that's right, he barely does interviews, because he's too busy doing other things, like being an amazing photographer and generally not caring what we think of him.

Hugh Laurie

I always knew he was talented. I just didn't know how talented until I watched an episode of House and an episode of A Bit of Fry and Laurie back to back.

Sufjan Stevens

He writes exactly the type of songs I love to listen to and is one of my favorite artists. Also, have you looked at him? I sure have.

Robert Downey, Jr.

Insanely talented, ridiculously funny dry humor, super good looking. Also, when it comes to obstacles to overcome, cocaine and heroin are pretty big ones, and dude is doing better than ever. That is so awesome.

The Ladies

Emma Stone

I saw her in Easy A (I know, I know, not my kind of movie, don't judge me!) and it was all over. She seems like the kind of person I would love to hang out with, and my goodness she is gorgeous.

Andrea Gibson

When I grow up, I want to be her. Maybe with the angst toned down a little here and there, but her. Someday I want to write just one thing half as beautifully as she writes everything. I would also so have her babies, if such a thing were in any way possible.

Nataly Dawn

Okay, so she isn't quite a celebrity, but her little two-person indie group Pomplamoose has millions of hits on each of their Youtube videos, so we're going to call her one on this list. I used this movie because it is the first one I ever saw of her and I just think she is breathtaking, despite her tendency toward being a little deer-in-the-headlights. You should watch the rest of her videos. For real.

Scarlett Johansson

I saw her in movie previews and thought she was beyond beautiful, but when I finally saw her in a film, which happened to be Lost in Translation, I couldn't believe how talented and endearing and vulnerable she was. Also, let me say it again: beyond beautiful.

Rosario Dawson

I believe her and root for her, no matter who she is playing. Also, she worked it as Mimi in RENT, which you better believe I cared about. And she is so beautiful it hurts.

Revenge for the Turkey that Scared the Crap Out of the Kids at Thanksgiving Point

2011-06-06T22:21:00.005-06:00

Today my vegetarian and recently flu-infested self went grocery shopping because we have to start eating again sometime. We went through the whole store and all we could find that were not completely repulsive to us were Gatorade, dill pickles, and turkey dogs.

So Gatorade, dill pickles, and turkey dogs we bought.

The roommates can have the leftovers when my appetite and guilt return.

Recent-ish Thoughts on Teh Gay

2011-06-01T23:39:00.002-06:00

Here I go again, getting all ranty. Someday I will grow up. Today is not that day.

You know, I work very, very hard at walking a fine line between pushing boundaries and being socially acceptable, or at least socially considerate. I really want to be an advocate for the misunderstood while not alienating the majority. And you know what? I'm darn good at it. I somehow managed to be a hardline Mormon in an arts school, an openly mentally ill person at BYU, and an admitted post-Mormon and queer person post-BYU, all while having very meaningful relationships with pretty much anyone and gleaning praise for my lack of bitterness.

And yet today I walked into work in a button-down and tie (I can tie my own tie, y'all!) with my hair ever so slightly slicked back, working a much more masculine or butch look than is my typical. This was my way of working through some recent LGBT perceptions angst. While it might not have been the most mature reaction of my life, the kids thought my black sheep tie was awesome (thank you for the birthday tie, Lexi and Ilya!).

Side note: only one kid that I'm aware of has been truly confused about my gender, thanks to my haircut. She is two and she would vacillate between announcing I was a boy and announcing I was a girl. Today I heard constant cries behind my back, most of which sounded like, "But Miss Cari isn't a man!" Ties are super confusing, you guys. Also, cute poem by Andrea Gibson.

Anyway, my recent angst related to people's reactions to LGBT-osity reminded me of stuff that came up in Tennessee and Wisconsin during this legislative session that I wasn't going to comment on but now I am.

First, Tennessee's so-called "Don't Say Gay" bill. Tennessee already had a "family oriented" curriculum that had no mention of homosexuality in it, so this bill wasn't really necessary, except that teh gay makes some folks super duper angsty and they just have to express that. Even if the cost is sending the message to thousands of queer Tennessee kids and teenagers that they are so dirty and screwed up that their condition has been downgraded from ignored to verboten. Even if the cost is that Tennessee teachers can no longer be consulted as a resource by scared, confused queer kids or their friends, leaving one less resource available to kids who are different for reasons beyond their choice and who are often rejected by their parents and peers. Forget the fact that these kids are at a much higher risk for suicide than their peers. Just remove this chunk of the support system, because we all know that families and churches are awesome for queer kids a perfect 100% of the time.

Second, Wisconsin's crazy governor taking on the state's gay registry, which allows Wisconsin's same sex couples to make their wishes known regarding stuff like hospital visitations and end of life decisions. (AP article here.) Basically, Wisconsin has a constitutional amendment banning gay marriage, so this registry was instituted to give same sex couples some really basic rights. Some folks, including the governor, apparently now believe that the registry "mimics marriage" and is therefore unconstitutional. Okay, WTF. You guys won the fight. There is no gay marriage in Wisconsin. That's the point. Preventing loving same sex couples from visiting their dying love ones or deciding when to pull the plug would not defend marriage. It would only strip rights of people who you believe are less than yourselves.

Then there's the fact that Senator McAdams' bill that was proposed at the Utah legislature this year to protect LGBT individuals from jobs or housing discrimination did not even make it to the floor, thanks to the rules committee, headed up by Orem Republican Margaret Dayton. Forget the studies that report widespread discrimination against LGBT individuals in Utah. Forget that the Church supported the first law of this kind in Utah. Forget that this means that you can't argue religion on this one anymore, not in Utah. Just refuse to even let it go to the floor.

See, I'd buy the argument that LGBT folks have the same rights as everyone else and don't need any "special provisions" if this kind of stuff wasn't so obvious and so prevalent. Truth is, I live in a place where I could legally be fired or evicted for my sexual orientation, and I am not under the delusion that it couldn't happen to me.

Pride could not come at a better time this weekend. I am looking forward to blowing off some steam.

So Much Love.

2011-05-28T01:51:00.003-06:00

Kelsae got me a couple of really awesome books of poetry for my birthday. One of them is exclusively, you guessed it, Andrea Gibson. One of her poems in its entirety reads:

There are stars in your dark side
brighter than the sun.

Promise me, if you ever catch your breath
you will throw it back out to sea immediately.

Sigh. I'm not sure what it is about her, exactly, but I would give one of my arms to write like her. If I ever actually make a top-five, she and her non-heteronormative behind are on it.

Darn Bells

2011-05-23T23:04:00.003-06:00

Those who are patient enough to listen to me talk about psychological theories know that I'm not behaviorism's biggest fan. It just always seems so oversimplified, even in its most complex incarnations. This makes it hard for me to agree with one of the movement's key founders, Pavlov. If you've forgotten who Pavlov is, go here. (Even if you haven't forgotten, follow the link. Trust me.)

Still, tonight I was supposed to go on a date with someone I've already been on a few dates with. Good makeouts were a given part the evening. Just saying. Well, one thing or another happened, and the date ended up being a no-go. One thing or another happened again, and I ended up hanging out with a good male friend of mine. Hopefully my brain going, "MAKE OUTS MAKE OUTS MAKE OUTS," was not obvious enough that he perceived it. However, he's probably reading this, so if it did, sorry! Behaviorism made me do it.

This round to you, Pavlov.

Also, because I promised someone:

Quandary

2011-05-17T20:39:00.005-06:00

It seems like it's the style around these parts for young women to drop their maiden names, keep their middle names, and adopt their husband's surname, post-marriage. So Palmyra Chastity Pratt just forgets the Pratt and becomes Palmyra Chastity Merrill. That sort of thing. I often silently judge people who do this, probably because of my incredibly feminist disposition that leads me to believe that dear Palmyra was far more impacted by the Pratt part than the Chastity part, and I'm trying not to be so judge-y about it. I recognize how lame of me it is. Something tells me that Palmyra would judge the were-purple-now-are-blue chunks in my hair though, so I'll call it even for the time being.

Anyway, goes without saying that if I ever get married and if I decide to take my partner's last name I won't be giving up my surname in favor of my middle name. But when your first name is a verb, your middle initial is an article, and your last name is a noun, these are the things you ponder. "Cari A. Dahl" is harmless enough, but what if the person I marry is blessed with the surname "Incurabledisease"? "Handgrenade"? "Nondisclosedfiveouncebottleofliquidpastairportsecurity"?

The last person I dated was from the family Gunn. When he put two and two together for me on that one, you better believe that there was a brief thought about ending that relationship then and there.

Despite all of this, anyone from the families Bigstick or Tune should step to the front of the line.

Is There a World You Long to See?

2011-05-16T23:56:00.000-06:00

I grew up on Les Miserables. On long car trips when I was young, our standard ABBA and Beatles albums were interspersed with my mother attempting to fast forward exactly as long as it took those pesky Thenardiers to stop being so vulgar. (One time she pressed play just in time for us all to hear Madame Thenardier sing her final word of the song, which is, "Ass!")

When I was 11 or so someone gave me the complete original Broadway recording as a birthday gift, and it was the best birthday gift ever. When I was in middle school, a touring group performed Les Mis at what was then the Aladdin, and it was the best performance ever. I listened to the musical so many times that I can still sing it beginning to end, verbatim.

Then, when I was a freshman at LVA, Les Mis was the spring show. All of a sudden, the entire school knew the musical. Just like that, I dropped it like a hot potato and I haven't picked it back up since.

Guess who rediscovered it this week and who can't stop listening to it, despite it being almost cliche and very old fashioned?

Thank You For the Info. Yes, Yes. We'll Ponder That For a While.

2011-05-15T01:44:00.002-06:00

Look what's going to happen on Shelby's 21st birthday! If you aren't in heaven by my birthday, you're just out of luck.

Creampuffs, anyone?

Today I Wept...

2011-05-11T00:45:00.002-06:00

... as I watched a documentary about all of the nuclear devices the United States and the USSR blew up during the nuclear arms race.

I have to stop watching documentaries.

So One of Your Loved Ones is Leaving the Mormon Church

2011-05-10T23:27:00.006-06:00

For some reason, I feel the need to announce that this isn't meant to be yet another Unit-of-time in Review post. I was simply musing about this recently because last May was, as the best friend says, a cluster____. There was retiring from the Board, the interminable bout of flu with scary high temperatures, an epic birthday fight that resulted in a few-block walk at 11:00 PM, and, of course, the event that inspired this blog post. But we'll talk about that in a little bit.

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Like I said above, I retired from the 100 Hour Board in May 2010. (Crazy. But not crazy.) Writers traditionally write a little goodbye message to the readers when they retire, and most sign that message with all of their pseudonyms. It's a little salute to the readers that also ends some of the mystery about who everybody is. In addition to writing as the Black Sheep, I also answered maybe 10 questions as Friendly Neighborhood Agnostic. FNA's answering career started here and officially ended here and never got very edgy in between. Basically, I invented the pseudonym as a way of appropriately contributing to Mormon-ish answers while avoiding hypocrisy. I also used it to demonstrate that I identified with certain questioners, but like I said, I answered maybe 10 questions that way. Still, I knew that FNA had caught a lot of attention because, well, someone was identifying themselves as an agnostic on a BYU publication, even if it was an obscure BYU publication. I had also deluded myself into thinking that I had kept the secret so perfectly that absolutely no one from my life suspected my areligious leanings. Anyway, when I decided to retire, I agonized about whether or not to sign the answer as both the Black Sheep and Friendly Neighborhood Agnostic.

Eventually I decided that I would. I crossed my fingers that the news wouldn't make its way back to my family just yet and shot off an email to the friends who I knew read the Board, outing myself privately, deciding it was the polite if whanny thing to do.

Soon afterward (the next day?) some of those friends came over to my house for a pre-arranged game date. Other than that gathering, things mostly went splendidly well with my family and other friends as the news trickled out, and that frankly floored me. That night, however, things did not go well. I'm sure that these friends did not mean for me to feel this way, I'm sure they meant for the opposite to happen, but I felt emotionally violated in a way that was very difficult to deal with and that left me feeling abandoned. I was reflecting on this experience this week at the weekly post-Mormon gathering (it isn't nearly as sketchy as I just made it sound) I go to these days as I listened to people I was chatting with relate their experiences. Turns out that my bad experience is more common than I thought. I've also often thought about still-active Mormons' comments that I helped them understand where inactive/post-Mormons were coming from after they read my Board answers or blog entries. All of that mashed together is where this entry is coming from.

This is one mostly-un-bitter post-Mormon's advice on what to do when someone you love tells you that they are not going to be Mormon anymore.

1. If you don't really know them but you're collateral damage in their outing themselves to a mutual good friend, you don't get to have an opinion. I'm sure you mean well, but you don't know them well enough to know where they are coming from, so, and I say this with love, shut up.

2. Remember:

that they aren't doing this to hurt you. They aren't doing this to you at all.
that they know how important the Church is to you. They understand how potentially devastating this news is to you. That's why they haven't told you yet.
that leaving the Church is a very difficult and complex process. Everything your loved one used to believe is in question and that is very hard to go through. It is not harder for you to watch than it is for them to go through, probably.
that not everybody leaves the church because they sinned, they were offended, or they never had a testimony in the first place.

3. Per #2, you do not have the right to make someone feel incredibly uncomfortable for the sake of attempting to save their sorry behind. Bad ideas include scripture passages, prayers, and testimonies. This isn't because your loved one is evil now and he or she hates the fact that you have any of those things. It's because those things disarm them because the only way to disagree is to be really impolite. Please don't back someone into a corner like that. It isn't fair.

4. Some ideas of excellent things to do are:

remember that they must really love you, because telling you the truth about this was very, very hard and it would have been easier to not tell at all.
tell them you love them, too. They've probably freaked themselves out so much that they think you are never going to talk to them again.
listen before you talk.
remember that they are the same person as they were the whole time, and this event alone does not mean that you should disregard everything you know about their being a moral/studious/deliberate/whatever person.

5. You most assuredly can:

ask questions if you want to. They're planning on it. Just make sure that you're both comfortable for the whole conversation.
express that this makes you feel sad.
respectfully express most any emotion you want.
tell them that you want them to come back in a respectful, brief, non-"in the name of Jesus Christ" way. (Example from my life: "I just know that I've been the happiest when I have been really living the gospel, and I just want you to be the happiest you can be because I care about you." This did not make me feel offended in the least. Quite the contrary.)

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I imagine that this will be the last LDS-centric entry for a while, and I'm making a personal goal to not bring up the event from last May ever again, except when especially prudent, like during some post-Mo gatherings. Just for the record.

Fact:

2011-05-08T23:58:00.002-06:00

Tonight while playing Pop 5 I guessed "New Kids on the Block" from the single clue "Neighborhood" and the category "Band." Represent.

Not that I have any particular love for New Kids on the Block, because I don't. So, don't represent.

Brighter Beams the Azure Sky

2011-05-08T11:48:00.003-06:00

When I was little, I understood that I was supposed to be grateful to have my mother. And, I mean, I was. I loved my mom very much. Still, I understood, somehow, that not everybody had it as good as I had it, and I should appreciate it.

In middle school, I began to understand why this was so. Many of my classmates had mothers who were inattentive, uninterested, and belittling. In about the eight grade I became aware that one of my best friends had been physically and sexually abused by her mother who only recently had lost custody of her children. When you are a young teenager, it is hard to appreciate your parents, but I knew that while my mom might have been far more demanding and involved than most of my friends' moms, she wanted what was best for me and would never have intentionally hurt me. Despite the rants that populate some of my angsty young teenage journals, I really loved my mom.

Once I was in college, my mom became one of my most precious lifelines. This is a common experience, it seems. Children who sometimes struggled to peacefully coexist with their parents as teenagers suddenly become close to their parents when they no longer live in the same house and the child has to learn how to depend on him- or herself. A month after moving to college I broke up with a boy I had dated for almost a year and was devastated, and ever since then my mom has been one of my key supports and confidants.

Still, I did not really know what it was to really appreciate my mother until I worked with the kids in my present job. It isn't just that the moms are drug addicts or that they have been involved with men who have abused their children or that they have absolutely no means of their own for providing for their children and that my mom was and did none of these things. The things that make me most appreciative and grateful for my mom are much more subtle than that, and they are things that may not be the fault of the moms at work, but it doesn't make those traits any more desirable. It is the way they regard their children, the way that they seem to completely lack empathy, the way that the littlest thing is cause for a huge mommy meltdown, complete with yelling and swearing. It is the way their sixteen-month-old cries and they respond with a dispassionate, "Stop it." It is their pitted, rotting teeth at two years. It is their delayed speech and ability to hold their own bottle at three or four months. It is their repeated flippant comments during family visits that we won't even let them "discipline" their children. It is the near disbelief when I've taught their child to complete a task that you could teach a labrador to do. It is also that I now know how emotionally and physically exhausting it can be to take on a parenting role, even though I am not a 24/7 parent to anybody.

I have no idea how I got so lucky to have my mother, who channeled all of her considerable knowledge and talent into raising her children. She wanted the very best for all of us, and she did her very best to meet all of our needs, whether those needs were physical, emotional, social, or spiritual. She taught us to value and serve everybody, which is the value I most prize in myself. She encouraged us and pushed us when we needed it. She has devoted all of her energy to us for over three decades. She helped us navigate social rules and helped us develop empathy, which seems like such a miracle to me. Indeed, in an environment where a secure attachment seems like a miracle, I sometimes struggle to remember the normalcy my mom managed to achieve in our lives. My mom let us know that we were loved. More importantly, she proved it by her actions.

Mom, thank you. Thank you so much. I wouldn't be even trying to be the person that I'm trying to be if it weren't for you. And, like I told you on the phone, I do truly think about this nearly every day. Happy Mother's Day.

Get Higher, Baby

2011-05-06T23:04:00.002-06:00

This is possibly my favorite thing ever.

Also, I'm re-in love with this song.

Full Circle

2011-05-03T21:03:00.003-06:00

Once upon a time, I got 85% done applying to Peace Corps. I was 90% sure that was what I wanted to do.

Then, DISASTER. Television special. Frantic relatives. Genuine concerns. Plans all but scrapped. At the same time there came to be certain circumstances at work that hastened my upcoming burnout.

Enter frenetic job searching, almost racing off to Seattle for a job interview, and general what-comes-next panic.

Oh, and the grad school application I sent off on a whim which turned into a realization that it was exactly the program I wanted to get into. Followed by my visiting its city and falling in love with it, head over heels. Followed by my acceptance and absolute jubilation. Followed by the crushing realization that I could in no way afford it because of my future do-gooder profession.

Then there was an interview for a job I really wanted that I never heard back about despite feeling like I nailed the interview and would have been perfect. Then there was self doubt.

Then there was further burnout and a realization of where all those non-future-social-workers were coming from, emotionally. Then a private identity crisis.

There was the latest half-baked scheme, thinking I could land this job, do it for a couple of years and amass some kind of savings, and then head off to grad school where I would hopefully have regained my former passion (which, for the record, I'm sure will happen). Today, there was the interview in which it became very, very clear that that wasn't going to happen.

So, where does that all leave me?

Waiting to hear back from Peace Corps, one last time.

Camp Cheers 2011. I Didn't See it Coming, Either

2011-05-01T23:22:00.004-06:00

I've written about my obsession with Girls' Camp and especially with camp cheers before. Well, this weekend I drove to Flagstaff to hear my wonderful Nick's senior flute recital, which means that I spent about 17 hours driving in the space of two days. Eventually you run out of musicals, podcasts, and dumb games to play with yourself, and you think to yourself, Self, Lindsay is a YCL and they told her to come up with some cheers and she's just going to recycle some ones you've written over the past decade-and-change, but why not give her some new material.

So that's just what we did.

These are nowhere near my best (all the best ones come when Shelby and I work together), but I think my lyrics to "Friday" paint a much better picture than the original, which is just further testament to how badly the original sucks, because I spent about ten minutes on mine. Maybe.

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Shower Line Space - "Poker Face," Lady Gaga

Here at Camp Stimson if you even want a shot

Of showering in water that is even close to hot (starts on pick-up beat)

You gotta get up early, gotta rise before the sun (ditto)

To compete with all those others who often sleep past one

Oh, oh oh oh oh

Oh oh oh oh oh oh

Why do we try?

There aren't any guys

Oh, oh oh oh oh

Oh oh oh oh oh oh

Why do we try?

There aren't any guys

Can't steal my, can't steal my

No, you can't steal my shower space

Hair is greasy and I'm prissy

Can't steal my, can't steal my

No, you can't steal my shower space

Hair is greasy and I'm prissy

Sha-sha-sha-shower space

Sha-shower line space

Sha-sha-sha-shower space

Sha-shower line space.

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Hike Day - "Friday," Rebecca Black

Early AM, waking up in the morning

Gotta get warm, gotta go outside

Gotta pack my lunch, gotta have stuff to munch

Seein' everything, the time is goin'

Tickin' on and on, everybody's rushin'

Gotta get down to the flag spot

Gotta find my year, I see my friends

Rushin' in the front group

Laggin' (pantin'? whinin'?) in the back group

Gotta make my mind up

Which group will I take?

It's hike day, hike day

Gotta survive through hike day

Everybody's looking forward to the evenin', evenin'

Hike day, hike day

Survivin' through hike day

Everybody's looking forward to the evenin

Respirin', respirin', gasp! (alternately: vomitin', vomitin', retch!)

Respirin', respirin', gasp!

Gulp, gulp, gulp, gulp (alternately: death, death, death, death)

Looking forward to the evenin'.

All My Eggs Were in a Basket of Red Flags

2011-04-28T22:04:00.004-06:00

Two-year-old, as we drove past the Provo Tabernacle on our field trip: (awed gasp) Look! A castle!

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Three-year-old, sitting in a deep hole we dug: This is my nest.

Me: Oh, are you a bird?

Three-year-old: (pause) I'm a turtle.

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Saturday morning I'll take off on my first unaccompanied road trip to a place I've never been before. Wish me luck.

Too Many Prayers Caught in the Grills of Eighteen Wheelers

2011-04-26T20:43:00.006-06:00

Warning for a couple of strong swears. Also for totally heart-wrenching poetry, courtesy of Andrea Gibson.

They Put the T in LGBT

2011-04-24T23:51:00.003-06:00

Way back in December 2009, I wrote an answer to this Board question, which I happened to find today at work while I was bored and waiting for visitors to come.

We're coming up on a year and a half since I wrote that answer. Back in the day I still knew next to nothing about our trans friends. I was pleasantly surprised at whatever instincts helped me write an answer back then that was as close to the answer that I would write now, which will hopefully be close to the answer I will write in another year and a half. I mean, I even managed to mention that being trans has nothing to do with being gay (or straight, or any sexual orientation). I didn't know that I knew that, even though it is so obvious.

Thank you to all the out trans people who I have come into contact with who have been willing to open up and explain what being trans means and what struggles trans people face.

Purple Hair and Ramblings

2011-04-24T16:13:00.004-06:00

During the past ten days or so, mental illness reared its ugly head. It was a not-so-friendly reminder that this thing is probably going to follow me around and make periodic appearances forever. That's a best case scenario.

If you know any mentally ill people (and you do), be nice to them. I wouldn't wish it on anybody.

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My family came this week to help Shelby move back to Vegas for the summer. Another semester's end spent trying to convince Shelby to stay here for the summer; another failure. Sigh. What will I do without her for four months?

Still, good times were had by all, and it was sad to say goodbye this morning.

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With the help and encouragement of Claire, I dyed purple streaks into my hair this week. Actually, it would be more correct to say, CLAIRE IS AWESOME AND BOUGHT ME PURPLE HAIR DYE AND THEN DYED MY HAIR FOR ME THIS WEEK. I'm totally getting away with it at work. The best reaction has been from a two-year-old boy who doesn't say much who simply pointed at me and cocked his head to one side, looking quizzical. I salute you, two-year-old boy. And I definitely, definitely salute Claire.

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Recently, I've been thinking a lot, too much, about relationships and, more specifically, how much effort is too much effort. Obviously everybody's relationships and marriages take a lot of work, but is the fact that a relationship can work enough rationale for it to be made to work? I don't mean relationships that are truly laborious and void of joy, just relationships that seem have more than their share of kinks. I guess what I'm saying is that I know that everybody says, "Relationships take work," but I don't know what that means. How much work? How much joy should be derived from relationships before you're sure they are worth the work?

What if you're really young still? Is the priority to find someone it can work with more quickly, or to take more time to find someone it works with better? Is there anyone it works with better? Why settle down at all?

I'm sure all of that sounds very juvenile, but there it is anyway.

Habeas Corpus

2011-04-18T13:55:00.002-06:00

Child: Miss Becca, you going to jail! Miss Cawi, you going too!

Me: What did I do? I demand to know the charges. I want to speak to my attorney!

Child: You can't have your 'toh-ney. It's at home, at gwama's.

Above My Pay Grade

2011-04-17T16:17:00.008-06:00

This past week was spring break for the local kiddos, so I had lots of chances to interact with our kids who are usually in school during our daily programming. We were trying to keep this week's programming as developmentally appropriate and relevant as possible, so we took two field trips this week, one for this week's middle kids and one for the oldest kids. I accompanied the oldest kids on their field trip and figured that we'd get an earlier start to free up more time for activities. Unfortunately, Miss Cari the Genius forgot that the museum we were visiting doesn't open until 10, so we ended up in a parking lot facing a busy-ish street, eating our mid-morning snack significantly earlier than planned.

There we were, eating our fruit snacks and cereal bars, kiddos being super silly, when a man drove past on a pink scooter. Immediately, one of the kids yelled, "Ew, gay people!"

Now, let's be real, the scooter man even got my attention, because, after all, this is Provo and you just don't see stuff like that every day in this incredibly heteronormative environment. There was no way I was going to pass up this moment for these kids who probably weren't aware of any positive gay influences on their lives.

But how to do it? These moments are hard. I am not trained as a teacher, a child psychologist, or anything really, other than a person who knows an awful lot about young child development and general parenting techniques. Added to that is the fact that no matter how much time I spend parenting these kids, I am not their parent. Many of their parents and other parent-like family members have connections to the church, very conservative social values, and very conservative politics. All of that deserves respect. My mind went through all of the things I would have liked to say and checked off all of the things that their parents might have found offensive. I had limited time to make an impact, but what could I say?

And then I had it. Hateful language is always wrong. So we started there. We talked about how teasing hurts everyone's feelings, about how everyone is different, and about how no one deserves to have language like that directed at them. I fielded some questions about homosexuality and behaviors that don't fit into a heteronormative mindset. I attempted to redirect their sentiments of disgust, which were there, alive and strong, without getting preachy or overstepping my bounds.

Another time, a couple of weeks ago, I was reading books with a group of older boys who were still too young to attend school. I was trying to describe Valentine's Day because when I asked them about it most of them were clueless, even though we just had Valentine's Day a few weeks ago. I explained that most of the time, kids just got candy on Valentine's Day, but when you got older, it becomes a day for people to celebrate their romantic feelings. Someday, I said, they would celebrate it with their girlfriends...

And then I stopped myself. I try to always think of the experiences of my gay or transgender or even straight friends who felt defeated even as small children because all of the adults in their lives were unaccepting of their desires to express themselves outside of a gender binary or who knew there was something wrong with them because of their crushes on people of their same sex. I don't want to be part of that problem for some little kid. For this reason I calm down moms when their little boys like pink or dress in dresses, and I tell girls to cool it when they insist that their female playmates do too much ball kicking and not enough china arranging. For the sake of every little boy in the room, for the sake of not reinforcing the idea that every one of them will grow up to be masculine, heterosexual copies of each other, I kept going.

Someday, I said, they would celebrate it with their girlfriends... or boyfriends, or spouses, or domestic partners... And they lost interest, which, I mean, come on, they're little kids. And that's fine with me. I'm just doing my best to not do something really wrong.

But really, I have no idea if I am doing this right.

Affirmation

2011-04-13T22:55:00.003-06:00

I posit the following:

Who gets crazy busy during the leadup to finals week who isn't taking any finals?

(I do! I do!)

Who will make it to Saturday or die trying?

(I will! I will!)

Two Confessions

2011-04-13T22:31:00.003-06:00

Yesterday, I told my supervisor that I am burned out and told her that it might be appropriate to start putting out feelers for my replacement.

There's no going back this time. I need to attach an end date to this thing, for everybody's sake.

The place where I work is still a great, great organization. (Though, of course, no comments I make about it reflect official that-organization policy, yada yada yada, disclaimer from the employee handbook.) I have really enjoyed my time working there, and I have learned so much while working there that I don't know how I would ever index it all. You know how every entry I've written recently is all, "Blah blah blah look at my progress blah blah blah!"? Well, a big part of that is this job. Something about it, way back when I started working there and was doing front desk stuff, pulled me out of some pretty hardcore doldrums and I didn't go back until work started to fall apart.

Admitting that I am burned out is very hard to do.

Ordinary people get burned out working these jobs. I have, let's say, 2.432 times the empathy of an ordinary person. I suppose I thought that empathy, etc. equaled competence at these sorts of jobs? Now that I think about it, that was probably part of the problem.

I have to remind myself that my burnout has nothing to do with the kids, at least as a group and mostly as individuals. There are many, many reasons that I am burned out, but not a one of them is that I'm just so tired of boogery two-year-olds. I maintain that boogery two-year-olds are the best things on the effing planet. Well, except un-boogery two-year-olds, but to tell the truth, I barely notice boogers anymore. (Don't worry, I still notice, say, vomit.)

Still, it is hard to see all of the reasons for my burnout and watch my coworkers recover and bounce back and go about their merry ways. True, I've been around longer than anyone else who works directly with the kiddos, and I've bounced back and recovered many times before. Still, I don't want to admit that I don't have another one in me. I've watched myself slide from boundless enthusiasm to apathy, and these kids don't need more apathy any more than I need the stress and self doubt.

I need an end date. I need a concrete plan. I will have one soon.

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Within the past few weeks, I have very suddenly and abruptly become aware of some local areligious or gay-folks' organizations and I am suddenly all connected. What a huge sense of relief! Here I was, feeling all comfortable, like I'd finally found a community, and I had, but this is so much better. Nobody should feel alone and in these groups it is impossible to feel alone. Hearing others' stories makes me feel so grateful and hopeful and lucky. And overwhelmed.

Nobody's biggest problems are simple. And the minute we stop pretending that the solutions are simple, the happier we will all be.

Entry in two acts

2011-04-11T23:33:00.003-06:00

Remember the "Keh-dee? Mohn-kees?" kid? He was a big, big favorite of mine. His mom graduated on Friday and they left after all of the Friday afternoon programming was done. I tried to say goodbye multiple times but it just wasn't working. It was obvious that he was confused by all the goodbye hugs from everyone, the toys he got from the children's program coordinator as a parting gift, and the fact that his mom had packed up all their possessions. He was withdrawn and a little surly, and who can blame him? I would have been feeling sad and confused and worried, and I am a little more than 11 times his age.

During Friday afternoon family lab, though, he calmed down and got a little more comfortable. I carried him around on my shoulders for a little and fashioned him a smiley-faced balloon out of a latex glove. He giggled at my dumb faces and demanded part of his mom's soda. After it was over, I gave his mom a hug as I wished her good luck, then I crouched down and poked him playfully in the chest.

"Hey you," I said, "buh-bye."

"Bye," he said.

I couldn't decide what to say. Boundaries are important, even with kids. Finally, I decided to bend the rules and use a phrase he knows. "Te amo."

"Te amo," he replied, smiling.

And I left the room to cry. Good luck, little one and little one's mom.

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Today I had a job interview I am excited about. Woo! More to come, possibly.

Then I did the medical paperwork for Peace Corps, finally. I survived shots, blood draws, and a routine procedure I had blown up way too far in my head. All I have to do now is get my TB test checked and then wait for labs. And then I'm done. There is nothing else to do.

Did you hear that? I have completely finished the Peace Corps paperwork. Finally. This is legit. The Peace Corps paperwork is over and done. A day I thought I would never see, several different times.

And now, post-deciding-against-BU (did I mention that here?** I guess not), we just have to wait and see.

**In case you didn't hear, I decided not to do the BU thing. It was too much debt for a future social worker, or at least for this future social worker. I was super bummed for most of a day, and then I was pulled out of it, by myself and by a delightful new social group. Then I was a little bummed for a while. Still healthy!

Culture-osity

2011-04-08T00:03:00.004-06:00

Tonight Kelsae and I went to see a play in Salt Lake that is currently debuting. The play is called Borderlands. I heard the title and the theme on NPR a week or so ago and was sold.

Basically, the play is about four distinct characters and their attitudes regarding Mormonism. The characters are all connected through a used car lot in Provo. The premise might sound a little strained, but trust me.

I laughed. I cried. You know, the basics. I related to each of the characters and it helped me process some emotional stuff that still surrounds the issue.

I loved loved loved it. The play's run has been extended due to immense popularity, so you should see it if you can.

And I promise to not talk about Mormonism for a while. One post, bare minimum.

Plea

2011-04-02T21:20:00.000-06:00

Dear Boston University,

I was honored to receive an email on March 18 telling me that I had been accepted to your MSW program. You told me to expect a packet in the mail within two weeks with further details. I've now been patiently waiting for that information, especially information of the monetary persuasion, for two weeks and a day. Call me a stickler but that's a lot of crestfallen trips to the mailbox.

Please get it here soon or my head might explode.

Love,

Cari

Quincentennipost! With Reflections!, or, as a friend calls it, A Cluster____ of Secrets

2011-03-31T23:42:00.003-06:00

Today is the day that this blog turns the big 5-0-0. It all started when Holly and Caleb introduced me and some other then-freshmen in the family to Blogspot way back in 2006. I started my first blog and used it to chronicle all the whining in my head when I broke up with a certain person I dated in high school. That blog still exists, but no, you may not read it. I started this one with an entry about how my roommates freshman year tricked me into coming out of the literal closet I had barricaded myself in. It would take me three and a half years to actually publicly come out of the closet and own up to other big secrets on this blog. While there have been at least three private blogs that have been at use at various times during the life of this blog (none of them currently), the purpose of this blog has always been to help me push my limits and open up a little bit more.

Because, I swear, teenage me, especially young teenage me, was a depressed, closeted, closed-off, hyper-religious little person who was perfectionistic to the stars. I used to pray and pray and pray for things that no healthy person should pray for for lengths of time that no one should spend on their knees. I self mutilated and wrote hundreds of pages of journal entries about the pointlessness of life through the eyes of a goddamn thirteen-year-old kid. I was so terrified that someone would know that I didn't much care what dudes looked like naked but I sure cared about the ladies. My circle of mentally ill friends would tell me all the details of their insanities but had to pry things out of me. I was so afraid of moral weakness and of being perceived as anything less than perfect that I was told multiple during middle school that I needed to be my friends' friend and not their effing mother. Even in that community and every other seemingly accepting community I have ever been a part of, I felt alone much of the time, probably because I was so afraid of opening up. To open up about your problems is to acknowledge that you have problems. My ultimate goal was to have no problems.

Who am I kidding? I was still that person when I started this blog. Which is the point of this entry.

No one thing is to blame for what was going wrong in my life for so long. However, that means (and this is the important part) that I am not the only thing to blame. To blame only my flawed perceptions, my coexisting I-am-superwoman and I-am-bat-poop points of view, or any of my other myriad personality flaws is as backward an approach as blaming only my relationship with, say, my parents would be.

I've talked about my mental illness throughout this blog. You can go back and find entries that happened around the time when I took some pills and landed myself in the ER two and a half years ago. I've talked about perfectionism. I've talked about my relationship with the LGBT community and this is where I came out as bisexual. I have achieved the goal of becoming more open and I have finally found a community for myself where I feel both effectual and heard. It was hard earned.

The one thing I haven't talked much about really is the LDS church, or, really, distancing myself from the LDS church. Cue daunting music. Active Mormons, you are invited to leave this entry now if it is going to make you upset. I'm not going to get super inflammatory. I used to think that I wouldn't talk about this in public, not this, because I know and love so many people so much who obviously love the LDS church more than... well, anything, really, except their families in most cases, and I respect that like crazy. But you know, leaving the LDS church, doubting the LDS church, having to tell the people in my life that I was leaving and doubting the LDS church -- these are all legitimate parts of my experience that were very difficult for me to go through, and I think I deserve to talk about it if I want to and you deserve to read it if you want to. Also, I found this page recently and wished like crazy that I had found it months ago when I was caught up in all of my inner conflict about not attending church and feeling like I should tell people about it. My experience as a writer for BYU's 100 Hour Board made me really interested in creating little communities, even virtual ones, for people who need them, and hey, this is no exception. Deciding to distance yourself from the LDS church is hard, and people, even apostate people like me, shouldn't have to feel alone while they make those decisions. So, on the off-chance that anyone who reads this or who finds this blog is going through this, this is my gift to you. I've been there. It's awful. It will change your life. It is worth it.

Which isn't a popular position to take in these parts. But it is really how I feel.

Leaving the church is so highly stigmatized in this community and in Mormon culture at large. You can't help but have 2 Nephi 9:28-29 play on repeat through your head as you ponder your decision. You can't help but picture all of those ancestors, especially if you're in a family like mine, with ancestors who were some of the first to cross the plains and others who were in the Willie and Martin Handcart Companies and others who were early Saints who left prestigious positions in Scandinavia and a grandmother who traveled from Australia to Canada so she could be closer to the temple when she was very young. You can't help but remember those lessons and General Conference talks where you were told that people only leave the church if they sinned or were offended, and you can't help but imagine the implications to others' perceptions of you as a result of this. You can't seem to escape people who imply that you never tried to figure out if it was true, people who remind you that just because leaving is so easy for you it isn't easy for those you love so they are entitled to make you crazy uncomfortable because they love you, and people who go ahead and make you crazy uncomfortable using questionable tactics to try to pick up your lost sheep butt and haul it back to the fold. You can't forget about your family, who may mourn your loss at every temple-centric event for the rest of your life, not just for now but for eternity. Distancing yourself from the church means examining every belief you hold and questioning it. It is a long, arduous process. It is not easy. It is not only undergone by sinful, offended people. It is not easy. It is not an excuse for loved ones to become poopheads in the name of salvation. It is not easy.

A common theme in the site I linked to above is the anxiety people in those videos felt regarding oft-repeated tidbit in Sunday School lessons that people who leave the church (or people who never had the church at all) may think that they are happy but they can't really ever have a fullness of joy. I'm with them on this one: that just isn't true. I have never, ever been happier. You can argue that I'm young or that I'm deluded or that I don't really know what a fullness of joy is having never really achieved it or that it isn't only the church's fault that I used to be so miserable. Whatever. I don't much care. What I know is this: I am so, so happy now. People with different life experiences than me, many who had the temple marriage and the kids and the whole nine yards, have left the church and been truly happy. (I'm not advocating, I'm just saying.) Also, I have never been less deluded. This is psychiatric fact. And again, I'm not saying that my misery was only caused by the church, but distancing myself from the church and church culture has helped me achieve more happiness than living the letter or the spirit did. All I'm saying is that leaving the church does not make you miserable or lonely. Distancing myself from the church was a big part of my journey toward self-discovery and self-acceptance, and assuming that the people in your life are not complete douche-canoes, you will not be lonely. I lost a couple of people, but honestly, I'm probably well rid of them. This isn't because they are religious; this is because they are jerks. Also, can we agree that thinking that God gave one tiny religion's people a fullness of joy while withholding true happiness from the billions of proles (who may be upstanding, exceedingly moral people) is kind of a conceited point of view? Can we stop saying this in lessons? I don't really think that we need to promise people that on top of losing their eternal families, their exaltation, and their good standing in their community they are going to be miserable too, though they might think they are happy.

Necessary aside about how I'm not saying that the church is not right for anybody. If it works for you, I am so happy of you and I will support you in all of your church-related activities.

Like I said, I have never been happier. I am not going to get too much into my personal reasons for leaving the church, but I am so much happier outside of LDS culture, whether that is Provo-, BYU-, or local ward-centric. I am so much happier looking for and finding my motivations in the present or near future instead of in the eternities. I am so much happier feeling freer to really love everyone, not in a distanced love-the-sinner type way, which I felt limited to before. I am so much happier believing that both people's failures and their triumphs are their doing. I am so much happier worrying about my integrity and my love for others rather than some of the things I used to worry about that may have sometimes crowded those things out, whether or not that is really the point of the gospel blah blah blah.

I am so much happier. I'm sorry if you are not, but I am so much happier. And that sort of sums this whole blog up.

Songs that also sum this whole blog up:

Where Everybody Knows Your Name

2011-03-27T20:04:00.001-06:00

Well, it's been a week since I got back from my week in Boston and DC, so I should probably finally write something about it. Because it was the most fun I've had in a long, long time.

My first impression of Boston, crowded around the luggage carousel, was twofold. One, holy cow there are a lot of Asians, and holy cow I've lived in Provo too long. Two, boo to you, urban individualists who think you are so unique (there were at least three girls wearing almost exactly the same outfit, by which I mean loose-fitting shirts with broad horizontal black and white stripes, black leggings, and brown suede boots). Truly an auspicious beginning.

Right after that, however, I managed to find the right shuttle to take me to the right train station to catch the right train to transfer to another train to go to the right station to meet Philip. I did it all even though one of the trains was under construction and I had to take a weird shuttle and then find the next station which was hard because some of Boston's train stations don't look like they house public transportation at all. No kidding, there's this one where you step out of the doors and onto the street and look back to see a building that looks like it's been around since the Constitution.

Philip was, of course, far too much fun to be around, and his roommates are more than delightful. One of them recently graduated with a degree in psychology and now spends his days attaching electrodes to schizophrenic patients for tests. Another is working on a PhD in chemistry, I think. For some meals, Philip and I cooked at his place. I made funeral potatoes the first night I was there that lasted for almost the entire week which we paired with rice and quinoa and chicken that we broiled once I taught the entire apartment how to use a broiler. There are perks to housing a formerly Mormon girl.

We also ate out. A lot. Philip explained from the get go that his strategy for showing me around was to eat our way through Boston. My personal favorite was the pho in Chinatown, though a close second goes out to the Italianish, seafoodish place we ate at in the North End. It was a tiny restaurant with maybe, maybe 20 seats in the whole place, where you were seated more or less cafeteria style. Philip and I cozied up next to a couple of different couples and enjoyed the amazing homemade noodles, to which they added octopus ink for color. We had frozen yogurt in a little place called JP Licks near Harvard which was divine and I bought chocolate for my coworkers at a very fashionable place on Newbury Street. Also fun was the Wagamama in Faneuil Hall, where my friend Alex, who is stationed in Rhode Island with the Coast Guard, came to meet us for lunch. (Also in Faneuil Hall was this store called Christmas in Boston which was out of control. If there was a version of "What Not to Wear" for Christmas trees, it would be constantly visiting Christmas in Boston. In fact, it may never leave. I almost bought my parents multiple ornaments, including glistening Buddhas and menorahs, sexy scantily-clad shrimp reclining in cocktail glasses, and a computer whose screen said, "Yule got mail!")

We saw and walked through a few of the schools in the area. There was Boston University, Harvard, Berklee, Boston College, Boston Conservatory, Tufts, and some others that I'm sure I'm forgetting. Philip had to take practice breaks from our fun because his senior recital is coming up, so I spent a few hours every day in Boston University's library reading about whatever tickled my fancy. Also, eat your heart out BYU. BU's display case on the main floor held grundles of Oscars, Emmys, and I don't remember what else.

The day after Philip and I got to DC, I got an email from BU telling me I'd been accepted to their MSW program. Why oh why didn't they tell me sooner? Though, now if I go there, I know my way around their library blindfolded.

On Thursday, we left Philip's apartment at five in the morning, took a couple of trains, and caught a Chinatown bus to Manhattan. From there, we walked a couple of blocks, caught another Chinatown bus, and went to DC. The whole thing took about 12 hours and we dozed through most of it. We took some time out of napping to watch Miss Congeniality, which Philip had never seen, and I took some time out of napping to watch the east coast go by. It wasn't a bad way to travel for someone who really enjoyed the view, especially for the price ($35 each).

Uncle Jim came to pick us up from Chinatown and we went home with him and had dinner once Aunt Rooshie got there. Philip has wanted to meet Aunt Ruthann since he saw her picture in Grandma's basement in May 2008. That's me, making dreams come true.

On Friday, Ruth, Jim, and I headed to the American history museum because it was closed for renovations when Jennifer and I were there right before Jennae's wedding. We sort of breezed through, taking stock of the exhibits, before heading to the cafe in the art museum, which was amazing as always. Then Aunt Rooshie had to go to work so Jim and I spent the rest of the day in the American history museum. (Favorite new fact: after the final battle in the Revolutionary War, the British troops were marching away between a line of American troops on one side and French troops on the other. The British troops refused to acknowledge the American troops, and would only face the French troops. The French recognized the insult and played "Yankee Doodle.") Afterward, we took a quick jaunt to a museum that housed Asian art, where I saw some of the oldest, most impresses pieces of art I've ever seen. The next day, Ruth, Jim, Colleen, and Colleen's sons went to Mount Vernon. I was surprisingly touched and teared up more than once. The next book I read is going to be a George Washington biography. We also walked through the Kennedy Center just because I'd never been there. The next day, Roosh had a brunch, so I got a chance to hang out with Ruth, Jim, Colleen, Colleen's kids, Dave, and Dave's wife Charlotte. It was such good fun. Afterward we went with Colleen and her kids to a nearby park, and soon afterward it was time to board my plane and go back to real life.

While I was staying with Jim and Ruthann, we watched not one but three versions of The Producers, which was delightful. Jim and I also watched some of those old cautionary cartoons and the videos they used to show schoolchildren in the 60s. Turns out that some of those were filmed in Jim's school district just before he got there.

I cannot explain the love I have for Philip, Roosh, and Jim. Thanks for putting me up and, more importantly, for the unwavering love and support and for being who you are. Each of you are reasons I feel comfortable in my own skin and why I hope I'll be in Boston in the fall.

Ups and Downs

2011-03-12T09:04:00.003-07:00

I need this vacation like whoa. At work, my patience is more than a little frayed. Between the five-year-old who continues to attempt to murder us, the fact that the children's program dramatically ballooned this week, lice scare 2.0, the two-year-old who continues to scream the whole way through programming unless we push him around in a stroller nonstop and who puked on me twice this week, and, you know, yada yada, I very, very much need to feel myself miss work.

Part of me is scared that I won't feel that. That would crush me, I think.

1 Hour, 28 Minutes Until Liftoff

2011-03-12T08:33:00.002-07:00

This one is coming at you from the Denver airport during my two hour layover. My arrival and departure gates are exactly three gates apart. This means that I will again not become lost in this airport. The first time I was here I was coming to visit my best friend who was in town visiting her grandparents. I think I was still in middle school. Her parents were so worried that I would get lost in this airport's bowels that they not only directed me to follow the signs to baggage claim and they not only wrote out detailed instructions from my gate, but they also sent me step by step pictures with little arrows drawn on them that said things like, "Make a sharp left here." It was very thoughtful but it continues to make me nervous that someday I'll have a layover in Denver and become hopelessly lost and something will happen Home Alone-style.

Today started at 3 AM when I got up after sleeping for only a couple of hours. I've been so hopelessly busy that last night was the first chance I got to do laundry and pack, which I did after working a 10+ hour day. I slept on the floor because at the time it seemed easier than moving the suitcase. 3:35 brought my shuttle, which was driven by a man who plastered the inside of the passenger door with a picture of two little kids saying, "Thank you for tipping my grandpa." I was the first of four stops and five passengers. Three of those people was heading to Hawaii, which was remarkably good timing on their part. In response, the driver thrice told the story of the woman he drove yesterday who had planned to visit her daughter who owns a pet store on a beach somewhere but was now going to help in the cleanup. He was drinking Dr. Pepper and had lots of suggestions of what I should do once I get to Boston, though he thought it was unwise that I was going somewhere cold when mostly everyone else was headed for the tropics.

I took the shuttle because Shelby wanted to keep the car this week and, understandably, didn't want to leave her house to drive me to the airport at 5 AM. I gave her the stink eye long distance when my alarm went off, but I still like her.

From here, I board a flight to Boston. Philip spent at least yesterday in Manhattan for something or other, so my first act as a tourist in Boston is going to be attempting to find the right airport shuttle to get me to the right subway line to transfer me to the other right subway line to get me to the right station to meet Philip. Wish me luck. I'm definitely a west coast kid, and despite a couple of trips apiece to New York City and Washington, DC, subways are definitely lodged securely in the realm of novelty.

I'll spend four days in Boston with Philip, and then on Thursday we're going to take two Chinatown buses to get to Washington, DC. We change buses in Manhattan. Philip assures me that the Chinatown buses are "an adventure," and the trip will take us about nine or ten hours.

Once in DC, I'll spend three days with the ineffable Aunt Ruthie and Uncle Jim. There will be Smithsonian visiting, Mount Vernon discovering, and cousin chatting. Also, eating. Eating and eating and eating. Once I set foot in DC all pescetarian bets are off the table and I'm going to do my best to roll with the punches. The last time I visited Roosh and Jim for a couple of days, I forgot what it was like to feel hungry. Or anything other than very full. It's delightful and strange and a little exhausting, but mostly delightful. Then I fly home on Sunday, and I'll get back to Salt Lake at about 10:30 PM, just in time to do all of my Peace Corps medical stuff on Monday.

I might die. But I am so beyond excited that it hurts.

See, the Life I've Had Can Make a Good Man Bad

2011-03-03T23:05:00.001-07:00

Dear Child,

I hope that someday you can feel safe.

I hope that someday you'll look back on the people who tried to help and realize that they cared very much about you. Maybe you'll infer this because no matter how many blocks and books and Barbie dolls and pairs of scissors you threw at their heads, they never once hit you back, nevermind the fat lip you gave one of them once. Or the way they went in late to work to scrub the dry erase marker off the walls (and doors, and cubbies, and blinds) so that you could have clean walls to match the fresh day, even though they won't get paid for those hours because they're going to go over this week already. Or the way they kept coming into work every day, no matter how tired and frustrated they were. Or they way that they held you and tried their best to comfort you after you hurt yourself at the playground even though they weren't really sure when your feelings would get the best of you and you'd hit them across the face again. Or the fact that these people were being paid beans in the first place. I hope that the fact that people cared about you makes you feel empowered and reassured. And grateful, but only because thankfulness can be immensely healing.

I hope that you know that when they felt frustrated, it wasn't really because of you, but because they couldn't do what you so desperately needed them to do, whatever that was.

I hope that someday you learn to regulate your emotions.

I hope that you don't blame your mom, who loves you and who, at this moment, is doing her best.

I hope that I can maintain enough perspective to be as patient as you deserve. I hope that I can grow up enough to stop wishing you away when it gets tough. I hope that I don't quit in frustration, because, honestly, you are giving me a run for my money, devotion-, skills-, patience-, and sanity-wise. I hope that we can learn to respect and sincerely like one another. I hope I can find ways to engage your bright mind instead of just your big boy muscles.

I hope I can be mature enough to ask for help when I need it.

I hope the people in your life do right by you.

I hope that it gets better.

Love,
Miss Cari

"The TRUTH About Fitness"

2011-03-01T22:26:00.002-07:00

Okay, I didn't want to talk about this until I was pretty sure it was going to stick, and we've now reached that point.

I've spent nine whole days in the pursuit of fitness. I know, I'm sort of shocked, too.

I've always found the gym to be incredibly intimidating, but for some reason this time around it just isn't. I've already made some pretty cool improvements to the distance I can run and swim and the time it takes me to go for set distances. My resting heart rate has fallen a little bit. I completely owned a 120-pound girl in a Speedo and was completely owned by a 70-year-old man one lane over at the same time while swimming once. I got a way bigger kick out of that than was strictly necessary. I'm also learning all kinds of things I wouldn't otherwise learn, like that Charlie Sheen has really lost it this time.

Also, it took me 22 years to learn that if you feel like you're going to die, you're working too hard. I'm a smart one.

For Here Am I, Sitting in a Tin Can

2011-02-20T22:56:00.004-07:00

There's a little boy at work who is almost two years old. His parents speak more Spanish at home than English, which you can deduce just from the way he says my name. "Keh-dee? Keh-dee?" he says, following me around all day. Quite often these little queries are interspersed with, "Mohn-kees?," which he says incessantly as he nods his head enthusiastically. This, loosely translated from two-year-old Spanglish, means, "Can we please sing 'Three Little Monkeys' again, cause if we don't I think I might die."

In case you can't tell, I'm completely in love. Even if all I hear all day long is, "Keh-dee? Keh-dee? Mohn-kees? Keh-dee?" And if lately he's started getting distracted halfway through "Three Little Monkeys," only to start adamantly yelling, "KACK KACK KACK!" (It's a subtle hint that what he really wants to sing was "Three Little Ducks.")

His favorite thing about me is the key ring that often dangles on a lanyard from my belt loop. "Keys?" he'll say, handling each one. "Keys? Keh-dee's? Keys? Open?"

Side note: today this little boy came into family visits with his mom to see his grandmother, and he had a couple of plastic keys on a keychain dangling from his pocket. His mom pointed it out to me and reported that he'd put them there, then announced, "Keys. Keh-dee." This one of my very favorite things to happen since I started working with the kiddos.

My favorite thing about him is the look he'll get on his face once in a blue moon when I use a Spanish word unexpectedly. This look on his face says, "Hey! You know how to talk! Good for you!" This look makes me feel patronized. This look makes me wonder if I often make toddlers feel patronized.

This little fella is just starting to discover that favorite word of two-year-olds. This week I asked him to do something he didn't want to do, and he threw it out. "No," he said. I insisted, and it devolved into the little guy's first TEC temper tantrum. There was punching of walls, there were tears, there was thrashing. I stuck him in a chair and used my stock phrase ("I'll talk to you when you are all done."), and he wiped each eye once, and just like that, no sniffles, no fuss, he was done. "Are you done?" I asked, stunned, and he nodded earnestly. It was the most impressive thing I have ever seen. He should teach a lesson on that to the five-year-olds.

It's one of those relationships that makes me feel slightly guilty because he almost always pays more attention to me when I'm around than he pays to his mother. But it's also one of those relationships that helps me to continue loving my job.

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I must be sane right now because for eight days in a row I hung out with at least one friend per day. Compared to the summer of '09, when I was barely making it out of my house once a week period, that's pretty awesome. Take that, mental illness.

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Confession: I applied for one more job even though I swore not to. I couldn't help it! But it was this job, and getting to help shake up some rich-ish kids while doing a few weeks of service overseas sounded kind of awesome.

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I heard this on the radio today. It's today's episode of This American Life. Fast forward to act I.

Two Links

2011-02-14T22:19:00.003-07:00

I've been meaning to share this since I know that not everyone who reads this blog is a Facebook user. Behold, The Julie Project. Warning: this site is not for the faint of heart, but it is worth all the time you spend looking through it. It is about a drug addicted, impoverished, HIV positive mother and her life over a period of 17 years.

And now, a lighter link... Uh, I didn't actually have anything planned... Uh, epic fail here... Oh, what's that? You haven't read about the Alot on Hyperbole and a Half? Or you have already read it but you like repeat laughs? Sounds great!

Playing Catch Up with a Tablespoon of Angst, Wherein There Exist a Couple Swears

2011-02-14T20:44:00.010-07:00

Since the last time we talked about the Peace Corps, I had to ground myself for a few days because I had buried myself under far too much paperwork in a fit of MUST FIGURE OUT WHERE LIFE IS GOING. I decided to table it all until I had decided whether or not to pursue Peace Corps further.

So I called my recruiter. And since I know people have found my blog searching for Peace Corps, let me just say that if you haven't yet, you should call your recruiter. If that doesn't work, maybe you should just call Erin in the Dallas office. Peace Corps, I don't know what you're paying her, but it isn't enough.

I feel good enough about Peace Corps now that I'm going to finish the medical paperwork. I also finished my grad school application. That's all I'm allowing myself to do for the moment. When I know what has happened with those, I'll start looking for a job, if needs be, because as much as I love my job, I can feel the clock ticking, ticking down before I need to do something else. We're closing in on a whole year of almost full time work with under threes, and I'm starting to feel like I've done it for long enough.

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Speaking of work, guess who I ran into on Friday night after hanging out with a couple friends for while at my place? None other than Miss Jessica! Kelsae's younger brother's band was performing at this place in Mapleton that I swear was called the Party Barn (couldn't make that up, y'all), but due to the state of things at the time I could totally have it wrong. Anyway, Kelsae and I left my place and got delightfully lost looking for this thing, and then we get there just in time and drag chairs up so we can see, and Jessica my coworker in the children's program at work comes up, and just earlier this week Jessica told me that she was a resident in Hinckley Hall two floors above my floor when I was an RA and she described some drama between our floors that I had no idea existed at the time that the entire band on stage turned out to be peripherally involved in. It was like my entire life that has happened in Provo, everything from RAing to work to my new social scene, was all jumbled up in that moment of the swaying crowd, weird folksy concert venue in the middle of nowhere, and open-mouthed, sweatbanded drummer.

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Despite my newfound self-assurance in my still evolving belief system, I can't shake the feeling that, no matter what I do, I'm never going to be good enough for my church-going friends and family unless I'm active in the church. I'm not sure where exactly I'm getting this, but I can't shake the feeling in any case. I could serve in the Peace Corps, I could become a clinical social worker working with nothing but impoverished populations, I could volunteer my butt off until the Rapture, I could invent a vaccine that saves baby kittens, but I wouldn't be good enough. And despite the aforementioned self-assurance, this bothers me.

I don't want to be another they-aren't-active-but-they're-a-really-good-person.

I think this is in my head. But I'm not sure.

Also, I'm self-aware enough to realize that maybe I just think that I'm not good enough, still. These realizations are how you earn a goddamn 92 on the GAF, y'all.

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This section is brought to you by some recent happenings in a friend's personal life and my rereading AJ Jacobs' My Life as an Experiment, particularly the chapters on radical honesty and George Washington's code of civility. (If you haven't read AJ Jacobs, start now. His books are all fantastic. I particularly enjoyed The Year of Living Biblically.)

I think manners and civility are valuable because they demonstrate the humility that comes with realizing that what others want is as important as what you want because you are capable of imagining that their morals are as worthwhile as yours. I don't mean to suggest that we need to be overly flowery or that we can't say what is on our minds, but... Well, how's this for some radical honesty:

All of us are kind of asses inside of our own heads sometimes, and there is no reason to turn that internal assery external more often than is necessary. It's selfish and it doesn't do any good to anybody. The fact that people don't want us to do it isn't depriving our petulant selves of any rights. It's just making us more aware of each other's feelings, which can never be a bad thing.

What This Agnostic Believes

2011-02-06T23:36:00.003-07:00

I've said it before and I'll say it again: if anyone tells you that leaving the church is easy, they're either lying or ignorant. Being an active Mormon influences every facet of one's life. Actions, beliefs, values, and judgments are all highly affected. At the very least, distancing oneself from the church requires one to reevaluate, or, sometimes, evaluate for the first time, every facet of their worldview. This process is difficult, especially in this environment, where it seems as though you are either LDS and you are sure of everything or you are some other category than active LDS and you are sure of nothing. I can't count the number of times someone has asked me what I believe in now or the number of times I haven't been able to provide a satisfactory answer. I still can't tell you what I believe spiritually or eternally, but I can tell you some things I absolutely believe to be true.

1. I believe that logic is good and it is part of what makes us human, but more of what makes us human is our capacity to feel such human emotions as sympathy and remorse.

2. I believe that people are basically good, and they have the ability to surprise. No matter how dark it has gotten throughout history and no matter the price, it seems that there is always someone who is willing to do the right thing.

3. I believe in agency, but I also believe in the power of conditioning, society, and biology. I believe that is impossible to ever completely overcome any of these forces, but I do believe that we can and do make important and life-changing choices within their frameworks.

4. I believe that complete belief in science requires as much faith as belief in religion, and

5. I believe that science does not and maybe cannot explain everything, and I believe that scientists are often wrong, just like everybody else.

6. I believe that time and causality do not have to be linear.

7. I believe that the amount that we can know is startlingly limited.

8. I believe that extremism and absolutes are almost always very harmful.

9. I believe in many, many shades of gray rather than in back and white.

10. I believe in the reality of mental illness.

11. I believe that alcoholism and drug addiction are diseases, and I believe that society is addressing these diseases in an unproductive, harmful way.

12. I believe that some people simply are gay, bi/pans, or trans. I believe that this is a beautiful, unchangeable part of who they are.

13. I believe no one's point of view can be dismissed, and I believe that if you take the time to walk in the shoes of the person with whom you agree the least, you will have some degree of change of heart.

14. I believe that the most prominent thing that makes life worth living and provides any hope for us is our ability to feel empathy.

15. I believe that children are capable of understanding much more than almost anyone gives them credit for.

16. I believe that children are both resilient and fragile to an extent that almost no one gives them credit for.

17. I believe that all emotions are valid, but some, such as anger or hatred, should not be the basis for action.

18. I believe in the ability of people to have no belief in a specific higher power while still being really excellent people with excellent morals. I believe that high morals do not have to be based in a belief in a higher power.

19. I believe that the rigidity of gender norms is limiting and harmful. I believe in superior stay-at-home dads and strong businesspeople who happen to be female. I believe in getting boys dolls and girls trucks if that is what they ask for. I believe in letting boys dress up in tutus and explaining to girls that it's okay. I believe both in going dutch if she wants and letting the boy open the door if he wants and not getting offended.

20. I believe that if you are absolutely sure of yourself, you are wrong.

I also believe that this is a crazy cute commercial:

tl; dnr

2011-02-01T22:37:00.006-07:00

In 2005 and early 2006, I was applying to college. I was getting accepted to some pretty kickass schools and getting some pretty kickass scholarships, considering. We're talking top-50 schools. I didn't shoot any higher to avoid pretentiousness and ridiculous application fees. I applied to UNR because everyone else was doing it, and I was making good on my promise of ten years to never, ever apply to BYU. I had a plan. I had been accepted to a school in New Orleans with a good music therapy program, and I planned to go there and audition for the program after a couple of semesters.

This was all in the wake of Hurricane Katrina, however, and every passing, "We're really doing just fine, we promise, our 2006 freshmen will be back on campus, we swear!" email and letter made me feel less rather than more secure. Needless to say, I did not matriculate.

This sent me into a tailspin. I'd had a Plan. I'd had a Goal. I'd had a little Life planned out. One hurricane and some broken levees later, and I had nothing. There aren't very many music therapy programs around the country, and music therapy programs are typically rich in competition and in required credits. Did I want to do music therapy anyway, now that I was without a Plan? I was bored with band, insecure on piano, and unskilled on guitar, to say nothing of voice. All of those would be necessary as a music therapy major. Did I even want to do it anymore? No, I did not!

So, I went into an application frenzy. I filled out every group college application I could find, whether I was interested in any of the schools or not. I grasped around in the dark, trying to find a new Plan that held my interest for more than a few hours. Finally, I decided that, due to price and my lack of a solid preference in major, I would just attend UNR with my friends and go from there.

Then, somehow, I got the idea into my head of applying to BYU. Maybe it was because every LDS person I knew was doing it. Maybe it was because I had heard how insanely cheap it was for being a good school. Maybe it had something to do with the incessant ooohs and aaaaahs from Relief Society sisters who insisted that we announce any college acceptance or scholarship news who could not contain their enthusiasm for an acceptance to any BYU school but who could not muster much of anything in response to my three-quarters tuition scholarship to top-50 school X. However it happened, I announced one evening that I wanted to apply to BYU, less than two weeks before the deadline.

Applying to BYU meant arranging interviews with my bishop and stake president on very short notice. My stake president interviewed me between Sunday meetings in a crowded cultural hall. I'm sure that it helped that, no matter what people will assume about me now due to my current religious persuasion, I was my stake's Patron Saint of Girls' Camp. Long story short(er), I jumped through a whole bunch of hoops, on a whim.

Acceptance letters came. I did the math. Thanks to the full tuition scholarship BYU offered me, BYU came out cheaper than my in-state school, regardless of everything UNR and the state was willing to offer me. And, of course, BYU is a private university that is ranked much higher than anything in Nevada. I talked myself into believing that I would not stick out that much, that the culture would not be that weird, that I believed the same things that they did so it would be just fine. So, just like that, after ten years of swearing that, despite my very strong religious feelings, there was no way I was going to do it, I enrolled at BYU.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how I got here. It was obviously not the best fit and it taught me that money should not be as important as I was making it when deciding where to go to school.

But that's what I do when I lose my Plan. I grasp for straws and I try one million different things, alternately becoming obsessed with each one. I'm doing the same thing right now in the wake of the Peace Corps debacle. In very short succession, there have been no fewer than five brilliant plans.

And you know what? I don't want another BYU decision. Requisitely and obviously, BYU was not all bad. It was a really good education for almost no money, relatively. I met truly amazing people and got to know some I already knew better. But there was also a lot of unnecessary, anticipated hurt. And an identity crisis. There is no reason to get obsessed and make a good decision when you can slow down and make a better decision. One with, say, less crippling student debt. Or less unplanned, lonely moves for the sake of money. Or less, you know, rape.

So, I hereby swear to stop wistfully browsing employment websites, sending off resumes to increasingly remote corners of the country, and logging onto the BU website until I have either spoken to my Peace Corps recruiter or officially decided to junk Peace Corps plans for good. Because I've buried myself under a pathetic mountain of paperwork, and I have visions of reference letters and blood panel forms dancing in my head, and I don't know that any of it is going to matter a month or two down the road. More importantly, I don't want any of it to matter a month or two down the road that wouldn't have mattered if it weren't for my signature reaction to these situations.

The one thing that isn't on my list of things I want to do right now before it is too late before I've lost my chance to do great things? Get married. An epiphany from a person in a state of general upheaval.

Some Kid Quotes

2011-01-30T20:46:00.004-07:00

Three-year-old girl, whose last week just finished up: "Miiiss Cawiiii... You're the meanest dinosaur!"

Me: "Nope, you can walk. That's why God gave you two legs."

Five-year-old boy: "I want God to give me four legs!"

Me: "... You're going to have to work that out with God."

Me, watercoloring it up with the kiddos: "Oh, [five-year-old boy], what are you painting?"

Five-year-old boy, painting a wicked awesome symbol of some kind: "This is God's number, and someday when I go up there to meet him, I'm going to ask Him what it means."

Rally Video, Peace Corps/Seattle, and Work-Related Potpourri

2011-01-25T19:57:00.007-07:00

Hey! Check out the rally! My sign is the one that makes Provo look fabulous. Hanna's sign is the one that says, "I'm with the LDS Church."

Many, many thanks to all those who came with me. Thanks for taking some time out of your day and for sticking your neck out to support the Utah LGBT community.

Also, time out to say UGH GAYLE RUZICKA WHY DO YOU SUCK SO BAD. Sorry, I couldn't help myself.

If you would be willing to write or call your representatives in the Utah legislature but you aren't sure who they are or how to contact them, let me know and I will get you their contact information. Every little bit helps. It would be great to see Senator McAdams' bill pass, and I hope it does, but let's at least ensure that nothing gets repealed.

Also, because I am re-obsessed with this song and it is appropriate right now (and how can you not like a Hasidic reggae musician):

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Okay, so I have had a lot of questions about what's going on with the Peace Corps and Seattle, re: a recent Facebook status. Allow me to explain.

One day not too long ago I was pretty sure I was going to do this Peace Corps thing. Today, I'm having a really hard time visualizing myself in Peace Corps, though it is still a possibility.

It all started with this 20/20 episode. From there I did my own research. In the interest of brevity, I'll just say that between the statistics of bad things that happen to Peace Corps volunteers, the callous response of Peace Corps officials, and many other factors, I got really upset on Saturday night and in a gesture of "Screw you, Peace Corps!" I sent eight resumes to various companies in Salt Lake, Las Vegas, Seattle, northern California, and Washington, DC. Sunday morning, I heard back from the Montessori school near Seattle. I was floored. If the name "Montessori" doesn't ring a few bells, you haven't worked in the childhood development arena for all that long. I started trying to figure out a trip to Seattle, because, frankly, the pay, benefits, and the opportunity, let alone the locale (Provo or Seattle? Let's think), outweighed the sudden-ness of it all. Today we arranged to do the first interview over the phone. Unfortunately, they called me later and told me that their center director decided to postpone hiring someone for the position, though they are keeping my information on file.

I can't help but be disappointed now, though I'm also a little relieved. (No scrambling to get to Seattle for a day and a half within the next couple of weeks.) Sigh. Someday, Seattle, someday.

I've heard back from more than one of my other resumes, though, so we'll see what happens. Worst thing that happens? I keep the awesome-but-working-for-nickels that I have now, surrounded by awesome friends. That's a pretty good spot to be in.

Now I have to finish wrangling with Peace Corps.

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This portion of this entry is entitled "Only in Utah."

Today I was sitting around the table, watercoloring it up with three girls, two boys, and an adult client. One of these boys was brand new. By this I mean that he had only been in group for about 35 minutes. He made some kind of a mistake as he was painting and said, under his breath, "Oh my God."

Gasps around the table. One girl: "Miss Cari, HE SAID A BAD WORD."

You try explaining that one to a group of kids, ages two to five, whose relationships with any religion are tenuous at best. Way to pop The Bubble, four-year-old boy.

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Today I put together our sand and water table and I am so excited to play with it. With the kids, of course. Or not.

I'm just kidding. I'm super stoked to have one of these. We've bemoaned the fact that we did not have one since I started working with the kids last April. Probably other staff were bemoaning this fact long before I was there. They are so good for kids' fine motor skills and as a general sensory activity.

As long as we can keep a couple certain kids from eating the sand, we should be golden.