Stupid and Superfluous

I am by no means an eco-fanatic. I would not willingly cut off my left arm so a polar bear could eat it (and I'm not even left-handed!), I would never spend half my day laundering cloth diapers, and I still eat meat even though beef production is the number one cause of green house gas emmissions in America. (That is because of all the nasty fast food people eat here - sick!)

But even I am more conservation friednly than the marjority of people I meet. I don't even do it in an attempt to protect the earth from its detrimental human-pox. Yes my friends, we are like a cancer, slowly killing off the very organism on which we depend for survival. (Now go back and read that out loud in a very creepy-serial-killer voice . . . fun eh?)

I just don't see the point in wasting so much. Seriously, we are so trash-happy we can hardly wait to throw anything away, even if it is still reusable. May I mention plastic baggies? Okay, some baggies need to be thrown away, this is true, like if they have gaping holes or the plastic is starting to wear down and releasing toxic chemicals into the products they store. But they can be used more than once! If you put a cookie in a plastic baggy so you will have a delicious pick-me-up for the much anticipated lunch break at work, then don't throw the baggy away once you have devoured the soul-satisfying goodness of a little flour and some chocolate chips. Take the baggy home, rinse it out with hot water, place it upside-down on the counter or a drying rack, and then use it the next day for your lunch-time cookie. Was that really so hard to do? And you just saved yourself 6 baggies if you do that for one week. And that is a little more cash in your grocery budget.

Or tinfoil, we throw away so much tinfoil! My husband loves baked potatoes, which means I use a lot of tinfoil to make sure the peels stay nice and soft for my red-headed dear. Instead of disposing of the precious metal after just once use, I reuse it multiple times. I unwrap the potatoes, stack the tinfoil on the counter, then once it has cooled I smooth it out and place it all back in the drawer - ready to use the next time I need to bake some apples of the earth. (That is the literal translation of potatoes from French - cool eh?) Now, obviously, if I used tinfoil to bake ribs, I am not going to gently rub and rub until it is sparkling clean, dry it with a blow-dryer and then reuse it again - only whale lovers and wild-turkey preservers do that sort of thing. But everyone can certainly reuse potato tinfoil. And if you say "Ew, I can't reuse that, it has germs on it." Think about it - you are placing that tinfoil back into a 400 degree oven - no germ is going to survive that kind of heat.

And plastic utensils - do you need a new plastic utensil every lunch? Either take it home, wash the darn thing, and bring it back with you, or buy one of those really cute bamboo utensil sets. They come in different colored pouches with fun bows for fasteners! Who doesn't need a little cute silverware in their life? It certainly brightened my lunch time rendevouses (not sure how to make that word plural.)

This one people have no excuse for. If you don't use reusbale grocery bags, or recycle the plastic ones you do use - then I am sorry but you are just lazy. You can find reusable grocery bags almost anywhere now - even the check-out lane at the grocery store. Could it get any easier for you? Just buy it, stick your groceries in it, unload your groceries into your cupboards from it, and then leave it in the coat closet so you will remember to grab it next time you need to shop. How hard can it be? And if you are opposed to using reusbale grocery bags for some odd and selfish reason - then at least recycle your plasic ones. Every grocery store has plastic bag recycling bins nowdays. Except for maybe Carter's - just cause that sounds like a way they would be uncool. Sorry Enterprise residents - it is reusbale bags for you.

These and a million other little, easy things would mean less waste. Turn off the lights when you aren't in that room, don't start your car twenty minutes before you need to use it, don't let the water run while you brush, stick a reusable water-bottle in the dishwasher instead of buying a new plastic one every day.

These are simple and easy solutions my friend, I'm not even asking you to stop buying aerosol hairspray (which you really should do), just stop throwing away things that can be reused! It is stupid and superfluous!

Don't be a lazy bum. REUSE or RECYCLE!!! Otherwise I will call you at 1 a.m. and make noises like a dying polar bear.

You know I would do it too.

Religion is Not a Hobby

I was reading an interview with Emma Thompson and Maggie Gylenhall the other day.

Interviewer: "Maggie, I hear that religion is very important to you."
Maggie Gylenhall: "Yes, I am half Jewish and half Christian. I think of my daughter as half Jewish and half Catholic. My husband's Catholic and he takes it pretty seriously... that doesn't mean he goes to church."

Now at first I was very confused when reading this article. I thought "How can someone be half Jewish and half Christian? I've heard of Jews for Christ, but never someone who half believes Jesus is the Christ and someone who is half still waiting for him." This seemed like a very confusing belief-system to me, but then I realized, "She isn't talking about religion. She's not religious at all! She's talking about a strange hobby she has that she thinks is religion."

Unfortunately, that is how most people view religion nowadays. Religion for many people is no longer a dedication to God, an acting out of your devotion and love for him. To some, religion means "This is who/what I think God is and what he does" instead of "This is what I know to be true with my whole being, and this is how I strive to live according to my belief."

It is not so much what God does in order to prove himself to you, it is what you do in order to prove yourself to God. God isn't pacing up and down his celestial courts trying to decide on his identity and then attempting to make it appeal to us down below. God's character and being are eternal - they never change, and he has already proven them to us. With just one look outside your window Heavenly Father has provided you with more than enough to know who He is. There are orange, red, yellow, and plum colored leaves scattered along the sidewalk. There are white crystals floating down and darkening the trees' bark. The sky is a rich dusty grey and the temperature induces snuggling with a loved one. I believe that one of the reasons our Heavenly Father created this Earth with such splendor is because he wants us to know his character. And he has certainly done a remarkable job. God is charity, God is beauty, God is magnificent, God is present in every good and righteous thing within our realm of existence. Nothing of beauty or truth exists without God's touch in it. He is in all places and in all things.

The world no longer sees this, though. They see God as something you can take out whenever it is desirable, and then conveniently put back in a pretty box when you are finished with him. The new trend is trying to make your religion match your lifestyle, instead of trying to make your lifestyle match your religion. I remember a high school teacher who told me she chose her church because they believed that homosexuality was okay. I can easily understand her point of view. Homosexuality is a hot topic right now and a lot of people are getting riled up about it. But the fact is, God is eternal, and so are his statutes. The Book of Romans clearly states that homosexual practices are sinful. And as much as I dearly love my gay and lesbian friends, and want them to be happy, I do not have the power or authority to change this. What God says goes, whether we like it or not. His ways do not change with the times, with whatever trend may be in fashion.

This is one reason I wear garments and dress modestly. God values the human body as something sacred. It is where our eternal spirits dwell. It should not be flaunted about as a vehicle for sexual satisfaction. The world would have me believe that my body is mine, and, therefore, I can do whatever I want with it. Whether it be piercings from head to toe, tattooing entire limbs, or showing it off to everyone I see. But God tells me that my body was created in His image, that it is extremely sacred, and should be respected and reserved for good, wholesome, righteous purposes.

So when someone tells me they believe in God and are therefore Christian I roll my eyes a bit. Even the word "Christian" has been adulterated over time. Christian used to mean that a person has taken Christ's name upon them. That they have become a disciple and willingly bear Christ's burden. This means they do Christ's work - ministering to the sick and poor, supporting the orphans and widows, or bringing cookies to someone who is in need of a friend. All these acts are what God expects of his children.

Believing in God does not make someone a Christian - even Satan can do that. It takes more than just belief - it takes faith. Faith in His love for all men, faith in His atoning sacrifice, and faith in His ability to use you as a vessel for good. Faith that whatever sacrifice you make, whether it be sharing your lunch or standing up for eternal truths in the midst of opposition, it is worth it, because it is His work you are doing.

Religion is not a hobby. It is every moment of every day adding up to create a life that was lived for Him.

Now I ask you - is religion a hobby to you? Do you look at your membership in your church like a membership to a club? Do you go when expected, do what you are supposed to, and then leave your dedication behind once you walk out the door, only to be picked up again next Sunday? Do you say "This is fun and fits well, I will do this because it is what works best for me."

I certainly hope not. I hope that you and I walk out the doors ready to act upon what we've learned. Inspired to go forth doing Christ's will and serving those around us as He would if He were in our position. This is what will make our religion more than a hobby. Christ doesn't need us to do his work for Him. We need Christ to let us participate in his work so that we may come to know Him, to be more like Him, and to feel more of His love. It is challenging, but with prayer, diligence, and some help from above, we can all become true disciples of Christ.

Christ died for us; it is time we live for Him.

Life as a Stay At Home Slave of Love

I'm not quite sure how I feel about the title "Stay At Home Mom." In my mind it does not fully capture the duties of a woman who dedicates her life to taking care of her family. It is true that I am a mother, and it is also true that I spend a little more than half of my time at home. But that title rubs me the same way a steel-wool sponge rubs a teflon pan - scratches away at my non-stick surface.

The phrase "Stay At Home Mom" sounds like you're saying "I stay at home, doing homey things, and, oh yeah, p.s., I'm a mom too. But don't worry cause that's more of an after-thought." Yeah Right! More like once you become a parent that is every thought you have. Even when you leave the baby at home so you can go out with friends for some "me time" you still feel a little fish-line and a hook caught right behind your belly-button that is always tugging you back to the offspring. You ignore this persistent navel inconvenience to the best of your ability, but no matter what, it is always there, gently reeling you in. There is no escape from feelings of motherhood. The umbilical chord may be cut, but that baby left a little piece of radar lodged somewhere that goes haywire every forty-five seconds. It's like being on baby-arrest.

Friend A says, "I loved that part in the movie when Potato Head is a tortilla." You laugh and say "Me too!" but then you accidentally think, "I hope my child eats those carrots I left for her." After reprimanding yourself for not focusing on your "non-mother" outing you find your mind drifting towards dirty diapers after a brief period of thirty-seconds.

Why? Why does this always happen? It's horrible, I beat myself up every time!

It happens because first and foremost, I am a mom. M.O.M. Stands for "Voluntary Slave of a Four-Month-Old." (I couldn't think of a clever acronym before my master woke up from her nap.)

It is sad, but true, her every wish is my command. She's hungry; out come the pureed carrots, she's wet; off comes the stinky diaper, she's tired; I come running to rock and sing, she wants to play; I am ready to be slobbered on, have my hair pulled, and talk like a chipmunk on steroids for an hour. Sometimes I feel like the genie from Aladdin; imprisoned in the role of pleasing. Except two problems, I don't have magical powers, and I don't get those cool gold bracelets for my service.

I am a constantly moving, always talking, always holding, always loving machine that feels like a murderer whenever I place my crying baby down for a nap. I am not a "Stay At Home Mom", I am a force of love that is ready to combat every infection, dry every tear, squeeze out every giggle, comfort every tummy-ache, drive to every appointment, change every diaper, and play peek-a-boo until my hands go numb. I am a mom that gave up the next forty years of freedom, to sit at a restaurant with a hamburger in front of me and unintentionally ponder the effects of rice cereal and green beans on a gentle digestive system.

I am an organism of eternal love revolving around a skinny baby with blue eyes, undecided hair, little toes and a smile that weakens all well-intentioned defenses.

So next time someone calls me a "Stay At Home Mom" I am going to say, "Actually, I prefer the title Enthusiastically Devoted Lover of Baby Josephine. . . the staying home part is just where we like to hang out."

Family and Holidays

Families are quite an interesting organism. No other relationships on this Earth provide for the same kind of experiences that family does. Whether it is the family you are born into, the family to choose for yourself, the family you are adopted into, the family you are married into, or the family that lives next door.

The thing is, we all have a very strong preference for the way things are done in the family we grew up in (except for those few uncanny habits that we bury and never mention to the children.) Holidays are the perfect proof of this. It is very hard to enjoy an in-law holiday, because the way they cut the turkey, make the apple pies, and dress for dinner all seem so strange. You think to yourself, "This is not how Thanksgiving should be! Where is the yelling? What happened to playing football? What happened to sledding? And why isn't there any butter in these mashed potatoes?" Thanksgiving becomes an eerie reminder of the normalcy of some family clans and the eccentricism (new word) of others. You begin to realize that just as no two snowflakes are alike, no two families even come close to resembling one another.

After our first Thanksgiving together Jordan and I were driving home when my mom called. She told me all about the Thanksgiving my entire family, but me, had just had together. They played football in the yard, when everyone was so stuffed with Turkey it was more like a herd of senior citizens falling on top of each other than a sport. They had a turkey coloring contest, they turned on some swing and forced my grandparents to perform for them all, and Aunt Jenny made her famous jello. I of coarse burst into tears. It had been a long day of trying to remember everyone's name, sharing my precious knock-off jello with the largest family to exist since Abraham's, picking at strange mashed potatoes, and pretending like I knew what people were talking about when really I might as well have been discussing foreign policy with Chinese officials in Hebrew for all I knew.

Jordan asked me what was wrong, all I could explain was, "They all played football without me." He was baffled, because the sport I complain the most about is football. And I blame every degradation known to American society on that ridiculous sport. From worshiping less-than-worthy players, eating greasy food, getting fan-rage, and watching a bunch of half-dressed bimbos running around with pom-poms. Why do we support this waste of pass-time? Well, that is another post. The point wasn't that it was football, the point was that it was my family, who I missed tremendously, and no matter what idiotic game they were playing, I wanted to be a part of it.

I think the best moment of that Thanksgiving in 2008 was when I bravely sat down and willingly addressed my brother-in-law who kills rabbits. (In his defense, they are jack-rabbits, and they are quite nasty creatures. I think my primary reason for not killing them is that I don't want to be within a ten-foot radius of their hideously scraggly ears. They are like the demonic mutants of fluffy bunnies.) I asked him if he was having fun (it was his first Thanksgiving with Jordan's family too) and he frankly responded, "No. I don't like sitting around talking to people." I busted up laughing, it sounded exactly like something my own brother would say, and it made me miss home a little less. I then said, "What does your family do on Thanksgiving?" He replied, "We go out and shoot stuff." Well, I just dropped the conversation right there. I had a strange vision of Trevor picking up the stuffed turkey and wringing its neck. KIDDING! Trevor - you know you are awesome.

I really didn't mind sitting around and talking to people. Talking is one of my favorite activities. I write a blog for heaven's sake! That is like sitting down and recording what you talk about in your mind and then desperately hoping someone else reads it to make you feel a little less crazy. The problem was I was trying to talk to people I had only seen a few times before in my life, and there seemed to be a never ending supply of them, and I have crowd anxiety.

Well, I am glad to say that after three years of marriage, and living close to Jordan's family. I now know who people are (except last reunion I got Alice's and Marilee's children confused), I can remember most of their names, and I know what they are talking about when they say things like "Frog Eye Salad" and "F.H.E." I enjoy family get-togethers now and I have the gas receipts from this summer to prove it.

The only problem with this year's Thanksgiving, is the tables are being turned. We are starting all over again. Jordan has to come and spend the holiday with my family. (Keep him in your prayers.) May I remind you, Jordan has had very little exposure to the Downing/VanDusartz tribe. (I call us a tribe because we can get a little wild at times.) The first time he met my grandpa my grandpa yelled at him and threatened to kick his - well, you know. Jordan does not enjoy snow, especially not playing football in it. And he is being forced to perform twice in this year's Thanksgiving Extravaganza Talent Show - when he does not particularly enjoy public appearances. (Better yet, fast for him next Sunday.)

My poor husband will quietly sit listening to a group of almost-strangers talk about things he never heard of before, stumble over the Catholic prayer for meals, get tackled by my grandfather during football in bad weather, be badgered by my brother-in-law for not drinking alcohol, and ask himself "Why are there pretzels in this jello?"

But this is what family is; strange traditions no one except those raised in them quite understand. And one of the joys of being married is getting to pop on into another family, think they are all crazy, and then find yourself enjoying the show. The truth is, every family is crazy in its own way, some more than others, but all have a bit of insanity floating around, whether it is a deranged uncle or tofurkey - all are guilty of oddities.

So if you are struggling with in-laws this year, sit back and say, "I am ready to be amused by your infinite quirks." It is the safest, and most enjoyable mentality to have. Because even if you think your in-laws are the crazy ones, just wait until your spouse has to meet your family, and I am sure they will offer you another perspective.

P.S. I dedicate this blog post to Ivica, who not only was not born and raised in the Church, is from outside of Utah, but is also joining the Barlow clan with the perspective of a Croatian - God speed my friend.

I love mine and Jordan's family, and am grateful to be included in the lunacies of both.

Strut Your Laugh Lines

I was at the gym today, faithfully plodding away on the elliptical. (I have decided to forgo the sufferfest spinning classes until I'm done with various doctor's appointments.) The ellipticals at the gym have little TVs on all of them. So those who want to ignore the fact that they are exercising can lose themselves in the wonderful entertainment options of today (a little sarcasm there).

Well, I felt like torturing myself a bit so I began searching for the food channel, where they have shows like "Watch me travel the world and eat all this delicious food while you sit on the couch with stale Cheetos," and "Easy recipes anyone can make . . . as long as they went to culinary school." And my favorite, "Make this incredible meal that takes two hours to prepare, will cost forty dollars in ingredients, and then forget about it in the oven and turn it into a WWII memorial! Your grandfather will be proud."

As I was flipping, I was surprised by how many infomercials (it was 11 a.m.) there were about anti-aging creams, face lifts, lipo, and miracle products that will make your fifty-year old boobs look like they belong on a seventh-grader. (Please! Don't do it!)

On one station there was a 50+ woman (I'm sure she keeps her actual age locked away in the dark recesses of her mind), showing pictures of her Halloween party. I guess she was a celebrity. Who she was, I have no idea, but this chick was old. I quote, "I wanted to go as the Queen of Hearts, so I began looking around and found some okay costumes. But then I had the brilliant idea to check a lingerie site for something a little sexier, and look what I found!" A picture of her dressed in a grotesque, ridiculous and pornographic red and black costume then appeared. All I know is if she had shown up at my party I would have guessed "Lady of the Night" and definitely NOT the Queen of Hearts. I was repulsed. It then showed what she put her grandchild in . . . I don't want to go there - sad.

This got me to thinking about our lovely society. We are so obsessed with staying fit, looking young, being sexy, and seducing everyone within a ten-mile radius. It is almost horrific. When did age become such a horrible thing and youth become so desirable? In my opinion, old age means a good mentor, someone who has stood where you now stand and probably has fairly reliable directions. And youth is like a flashing sign that reads, "Warning! About to do something incredibly stupid!"

Anti-aging creams should be banned from the market. They should be thrust out entirely. They remove all those wonderful wrinkles, fine lines, laugh lines, and every other elderly blemish. The old are decorated with these symbols of years for a reason - because they show something. A wrinkled forehead means that woman stayed up all night cradling a sick child and praying fervently for a miracle. A creased eyebrow means that man worked late for six months so his children could take music lessons. The laugh lines and crow feet mean that woman spent every night laughing with her family over dinner.

These aren't blemishes! They are evidences of a life well lived. They mean this person had something to worry about, something to be excited about, something to cry over, something to be radiant for. They mean the bearer has felt love and cared deeply for those around them.

When I was in the seventh grade, my mother and I were driving to school. I pulled down the little mirror and looked at my face. I distinctly remember proclaiming in anguish, "Mom! I'm only thirteen and I already have laugh lines." After rolling her eyes, my mother said something very profound; "Well, you should be grateful that at the young age of thirteen you have had so much to laugh about." Of course, at the time I thought she was absolutely naive about life and was frustrated that she didn't understand me. (Ugh, I shudder at that version of myself.) But today I think she was struck with a moment of genius.

Stop trying to erase the grays, smooth out the wrinkles, and pump your skin with chemicals that will make you look ten years younger. Be proud of your age, be proud of your aged verifications. Why pretend to be something other than what you are? Why hide the proof of the experiences you have had, the full life you have lived, and all you have had to care about over the years?

Say, "Yes my hair was gray by thirty, but that is because I spent hours slaving away at calculus with my ambitious teenager." "Yes I have laugh lines, but that is because my son is a comical genius." Yes my boobs sag, but that is because I selflessly nursed three children, often at 2 a.m. - which explains the puffy eyes too." "Yes I am sixty-seven, and I bet I know a lot more than that twenty-one-year-old bimbo in scandalously short shorts!"

Don't let all those young, booty-shaking hooligans get you down. Step up and strut your laugh lines with gusto!

(I think I am going to go draw some wrinkles on right now... too bad my eyeliner is purple.)

Give Yourself a Pat

I think that we as women, especially LDS women, have a disgusting tendency to beat up on ourselves. We are constantly comparing ourselves to others, which is a destructive and very bad habit. We look at so-and-so and we say to ourselves, “She is so good at sewing. I wish I could sew like her.” We look at so-and-so number two and say, “She is so pretty, I wish I was as skinny as she is.” We look at so-and-so number three and say, “She is so smart, I wish I was that smart.” Pretty soon we have a list of fifty-seven different so-and-sos we are comparing ourselves to. We are taking the best element of each of these women and then expecting all of them in us.

Our one little person can’t be a sewing master like one, a model like two, and a genius like three. It simply isn’t possible. You would have to stop eating, sleeping and enjoying yourself all together if you were to develop all of these talents to the same degree as all of these women have. Did you ever notice that number one is very good at sewing, but she can’t even bake a frozen lasagna? Or that two is so stylish and skinny, but has horrible grammar? Maybe three is a genius, but also a social handicap (disclaimer: not all geniuses are social handicaps - just most of them.)These women aren’t perfect. They have specific areas they excel in, but many of them are limited beyond this sphere.

Did you ever stop and think that one of these fifty-seven women could look at you and say, “I wish I was as funny as she is” or “I wish I could dance like her.” Well, guess what, they do! They do the exact same thing. They are picking out the very best qualities in your character, throwing all the flaws aside, and then making a false ideal for themselves. This may be a pleasant boost for your self-esteem, but it probably doesn’t help theirs.  

The truth is we are all talented and incredible in different ways. “But I don’t have any talent”, you say in a pity-party tone. WRONG! You do, so stop whining. It might not be something people usually consider a talent, but it is still very valuable and makes you you. Maybe you are good at listening, maybe you are good at remembering those in need, maybe you are good at helping others feel better. Sadly, these wonderful character traits are often overlooked by our "be the best" and "get ahead" society. But let me ask you this – would you rather be friends with someone that has these qualities, or with someone who knows how to make a kick-butt triple chocolate cheesecake, and doesn’t know how to share?

Go search out your individual particles of perfection, recognize your good qualities and be proud of them. So what if you are bad at math? You have perfect pitch!

And stop comparing yourself to others! Instead, acknowledge the abilities your friends and family have. And if it is something you want to improve in, then ask them to help you. I doubt anyone will say, “Sorry, but I have to be better than you at this, so I can’t give you any advice.” Even if they are thinking that, they won’t say it, because that would be mean and they want to pretend to be nice. Most likely they will be glad to have someone to share their favorite past time with.

Stop trying to be perfect, cause honestly – you will never get there.

“But isn’t the goal eternal perfection?” you may ask.

Yes, but you are missing one very important point, the word is ETERNAL! That means you are never going to be perfect, or even close it, until eternity. And even then, it isn’t you that makes you perfect. You fall way too short of that bar. It is Christ that makes you perfect. His more than perfectness makes it possible for you to become that way, because he has so generously taken all your imperfections on himself for your benefit. And I’m not talking too big of a waistline or horrible cooking skills here. I don’t think Christ really cares about these imperfections too much. I’m talking about flaws such as greed, pessimism, criticism, or impatience. These are the icky things innate to human nature that hold us back. Not our inability to do the splits.

Focus on rooting out these character weeds rather than shedding those last five pounds. Happy people are those who have learned to love – not those who wear a size two.

Whether you believe it or not, the fact is, you are a daughter of God. You are a little bundle of unlimited potential. The creator of the entire universe loves you with infinite capacity, because he sees you for who you really are. (Something you are extremely incapable of doing.)

So go ahead; give yourself a pat on the back. Even if you don’t think you deserve it. God does, and to be honest, his opinion is the only one that really matters.

No Cake Walk

Small talk is an inevitable part of American society, and one of the first questions commonly presented by a new companion for this lovely past time is "So what do you do?" Most people realize this means "What is your job?"

To be honest, I somewhat dread this question. I can always see the snicker in their mind when I respond with, "I'm a writer." People raise their eyebrows and say "Oh, well, that's fun." They never say it, but I know what they are thinking behind those pleasant, crinkled eyes, "You mean you sit at home all day eating bonbons and writing a blog that no one reads."

Well, I have news for them! I don't eat bonbons, because I like bridgemix better, and people read my blog, at least I know my mom does. So back off successful and beautiful accountant lady! I always boost my injured writing spirits with imagining the day when I will be a New York Times bestseller, eating brie cheese in my London flat. While they are still sitting in their cubicle cage because someone else got the promotion." This prepared and well rehearsed day dream is what makes it possible for me to smile bright and say "Yeah, I love it."

I don’t know why everyone assumes that if you do something even a little artsy it suddenly becomes a hobby more than a job. They think that creative jobs never require brainpower or that you jump out of bed every morning so excited to go dance, sing, write, or paint. In an ideal world this would be the case, but sometimes, you just want to veg out in front of a computer screen punching numbers instead of dealing with your psycho colleagues that eat only tofu.

 People always say, “Well, if I could have, I would have been a studio art major. But I wanted something where I could find a good job, so I picked mechanical engineering.” I like to respond with, “Well, if I could have, I would have been a neurosciences major, but I wanted something where I could pass my classes, so I did literature instead.”

Except people still say, “Oh literature, that must be fun. I love to read.” It always makes me want to rip Twilight out of their hands and whack them on the head with Tolstoy shouting, “Yeah? Well read this in less than two weeks, and then write a ten page analytical response using only three obscure sentences for textual support. Oh, and make sure you have at least seventeen different reliable sources in your bib.” See if you think it is so fun now!

Don’t get me wrong. I love literature, but sometimes it is unadulterated agony. Having to read Hamlet in one night and then think of something brilliant to say for tomorrow’s graded discussion is next to impossible. All I come up with is “Everyone in this play has major emotional problems, they need family counseling. And I am pretty sure Shakespeare was suicidal.”

 Of course I can’t really say this, because my professor mentioned that she sees a lot of her own family members in the characters (her neighbors need to lock their doors) and she named her son William Shakespeare Christiansen (there is no hope for that child.)

Instead I say something like, “I was so moved by Ophelia’s drowning scene. I think it represents a step towards spiritual death for the characters because it enhances Hamlet’s sense of hopeless desperation.” Sometimes they look at you like a deep individual, sometimes they look at you like you are a total crack-pot. But you don’t want to give that impression because marijuana is a no-no here at the Lord’s University, and then they might report you to the Honor Code office.

All in all, no matter how fun it is, it is still hard! Every major is hard. Except for maybe Home and Family Living – I still have my doubts about that one. Seriously, baking cookies? I do that in my free time. Who knows, maybe they bake Russian cookies.

So have some respect for the writer. It’s not like words just pop out of nowhere, and my head grammar is absolutely atrocious. I work hard on my blog. And it is no cake-walk to type and eat bridgemix simultaneously – don’t want to get chocolate on the keyboard.

Grateful

Today I was thinking about all the things I am grateful for, and it just so happens, my list of blessings is never ending.

I think what I am most grateful for is the abundance of love I recieve every day.

I went for a walk around the mall today. Jo and I had an hour in between the time we went to get flu shots and when we had to pick Jordan up from work. The mall is just across the street and I thought it would be fun to snoop around. (P.S. - the mall is not a good place to bargain shop.) The first thing I realized while there was that I am very unfashionable. But it doesn't matter much since Jordan doesn't care about that, and neither do I. I didn't even realize that until today, when I looked at the manicans and thought, "What are they wearing?" Then I turned around and realized everyone else in the mall was wearing the same thing. I actually busted up laughing. Everyone looked so ridiculous, and then I thought, "They all probably think I look ridiculous." So I guess society and I have a mutual understanding - we both look ridiculous to each other, and to be honest, that is quite alright with me. Don't misunderstand, I am no hard-core anti-society advocate. I like to look nice, I want people to think I look nice, but I prefer the simple and sophisticated wardrobe. So much easier that way.

I did find something that caught my eye, though. A ginormous, glorious, softly lit, white-frosted Christmas tree with pinecones tucked into the branches. This was pure holiday beauty, my friends. I thought about our small, somewhat beat-up Christmas tree we use every year. And I checked the price tag. Well, obviously it was too expensive for us. So I let out a little sigh and thought, "someday."

Then I felt incredibly ridiculous. My best Christmases have been under that hand-me-down tree. The first year we had it, we didn't have any ornaments to hang on it. So I just hung up some decorated gingerbread cookies instead. They were very cute, but I had a hard time resisting. Every time I walked by I would have to take a bite out of one. Jordan would just come home, look at the tree, roll his eyes and say something like "Kayleen, stop eating the Christmas tree."

To use a favorite aphorism, "If you can buy it, it can't make you happy." It would be nice to have such a beautiful tree, but what really makes me happy at Christmas time is having someone to help me decorate the tree. And I have a wonderful husband to fuss over the lights and bake cookies with me. Even better, this year we have a wonderful Josephine to dress up in red hats and white stockings and take to see Santa. That is what I am looking forward to most this year - a Christmas with people I love.

And that is what I am grateful for every day. Being surrounded by people I love, and who love me back. Jordan is the husband of my dreams, and Jo is the daughter I could have never even anticipated. She is quite a collection of miracles. I am so blessed to have this incredbile blessing in my life. It does get hard to be away from my parents, sisters, and brother all the time. But it makes me all the more grateful for the times I do have with them, and I have just come to be grateful for cell phones.

In the end, it is love that makes me happy each day. Love from and for my little family is the foundation of my life, it is why I wake up every morning, and why I go to bed every night saying "Thank you Heavenly Father, for such a wonderful life."

Another favorite aphorism - "Without love we are like birds with broken wings." Well, I can most gratefully say my wings are fully intact, and I have a wingspan that could take me to the moon and back. Thanks to the love from my husband, my mom, my dad, my sisters, my brother, my grandma, my in-laws, and my friends.

I am grateful for love. What else could there be if this wasn't our foundation?
Well, thankfully, I have never had the opportunity to find out.

P.S. Jordan is playing the piano while I write this - ah, what satisfaction to my soul.

Books

I have been reading the 7th Harry Potter book recently (gearing up for the new movie.) I brought it to the gym with me this morning so I could read it while on the elliptical. I reached the part where Fred dies and Percy throws himself over his body (sorry if that was a spoiler) and I started crying. Yes, crying. You can imagine my embarrassment. Who starts crying while they are working out? (Well, unless they're in a spinning class.) Fortunately, I was sweating so bad it was probably impossible to discern the tears on my face. And my face gets rather blotchy when I am out of breath so I'm sure people did not notice my red eyes either.

This outburst of literary emotion got me thinking about my love for books. When living at home, it would drive my brother insane when I would cry while reading. Even worse was when I would bust out laughing. My obsession for books is something he has never understood. (He also doesn't understand my addiction to tap dancing in the grocery store.) But I say, why not get into it? Why just sit there and remain emotionally removed from what you are reading? That's like surrounding yourself with a bunch of people you couldn't care less about. Who wants to go to a party with a bunch of boring people you hope you never run into again? No thanks.

Reading is like getting to meet new people. And this way, if they are boring you aren't forced to sit there and make small talk while waiting for you phone to ring so you can pretend your grandma just died and leave. If the characters are boring, or unbelievable - which is much worse- then you can just close the book and pretend they don't exist! If they are well written though, then you have just encountered not only the work of a great author, but the complexity of a great character. And there is something to be learned, my friend - it may take a few reads, but some characters are oh so worth it. (I just finished reading A Tale of Two Cities for the third time and I have never had such a crush on Sydney Carton before - talk about a romantic tragic hero.)

I think I love books so much because I love people. I find them very interesting (well, not all of them, some characters out there are really quite two-dimensional. If this is you, well, I am sorry. Hopefully you don't bore yourself to death.) I think that is one of the reasons I married Jordan. I knew I had found someone that would be able to keep my attention past the third date. He is so very complex. I never could have married anyone I would have figured out in less than 20 years. And I am happy to say I may never fully understand that intriguing brain hidden behind all that red hair. His mind is absolutely riveting.

Sorry for the somewhat romantic but also somewhat creepy digression. As I was saying, I love people. I have an awful habit of people-watching. (It is rather awkward when I am caught.) I considered psychology as a major, but it sort of ruined people for me. I like to believe there are not always explanations for why people do the things they do, that sometimes we just act out irrationally, and we are far too fascinating of creatures to be explained by science. P.S. - Freud was nutty as squirrel poo.

Not only do you get to meet new characters, you get to learn about different experiences. Every book you read is a pathway into someone else's life, into a different time period, a different culture, a different race or gender, and, if done well, a different world. I have no experience with being a slave. For one, I am white. Another, I was born in the 1980s - long after abolition. But, I read a Toni Morrison book, and holy ants on a log. She didn't just write about the back-breaking work, the selling off of family members, or the white male dominance over the defenseless slave woman. She went so much further than that. She wrote about what slavery does to the human mind and spirit, how it slowly eats away at a persons very essence. She depicted it as a cavity for the soul, something that decays their eternal identity. No wonder she won the Pulitzer!

Toni Morrison was a great writer because she understood something about the individual human - not because she had a great education (which she didn't) or because she had a fancy way of writing (which she doesn't.) P.S. if you haven't read her, you must before you die. Just understand that your stomach will be tied up in knots and you will probably have to get a massage after you finish. May I suggest Beloved?

Books are the only thing Jordan and I have had a real disagreement over. We were fighting about how much money I should be allowed to spend on new books each month. He said that I should just go to the library, where they are free. The stories are exactly the same anyway. Well, this was a very rational argument from a monetary perspective. But to my literary soul it was atrocious! I can't go to the library! That's like dating someone who is already married. They just don't belong to you. You don't have that claim on them that makes them yours. It may be a wonderful love affair, but eventually you have to give them back. There is no solidity to the passion. When I have to return a book I have completely fallen for to the library it is like going through a messy break-up. I just can't handle that kind of emotional stress every month!

To be honest, I am working on some literature of my own. Although, I do not think I have that innate knack for it. One very wise professor once told me that when writing, your book can't be about you, it can't be fulfilling your own personal agenda or following the plans you laid out for it. He said that books are all about the characters; they form themselves. Books should take the author somewhere even they did not even expect to go. That is how you write a masterpiece. Well, I don't know if this is true or not. But I know I have read books where I can tell the author is forcing the plot to fit their desires. And it is repulsive every time.

Another professor told me that you should never try to write what you don't know. This is a sure way to produce something dishonest. He said you must always write from the very core of yourself. I also believe this is true. If the subject matter is not a part of you, then how do you know if what you say is true?

I imagine there must be a fine balance between these two points. A no-man's-land that creates the classics. I believe it takes a very powerful mind to locate this corner of the intellect and write a masterpiece. Ah, if only I possessed such a gift.

Oh well, I remain grateful to all those humanity geniuses who have accomplished this wonderful and delicate skill. I raise my literary glass to Dostoevsky, Louisa May Alcott, Steinbeck, Bronte (all three), Betty Smith, and J.K. Rowling - who created a world believable enough to take over the real one. I applaud your excellence and value the lessons I have learned from your pages.

And most of all, I thank my mother, who taught me to love reading. And grounded me from it from time to time, in order to make that noble occupation all the more desirable.

P.S. Dear brother, if you have read this, I hope you can still bear to call me kin. : )

Grover and Old Spice

Thanks Lanette for posting this on your blog. We wanted to re-share it. You have to be familiar with the now-famous Old Spice commercial to really "get" this. So if you haven't seen it, look it up first.