Perserverance

Who has two normal-colored thumbs and a graveyard of dead plants? This girl.

I'm a wanna-be plant lady. That means that in my life I've tried to grow a lot of things, killed a lot of the things I was trying to grow, and have some things I've managed to keep alive for a while now. I'm by no means an expert, but I have learned some things. Mostly about life, some about plants.

I don't know if this is normal human behavior, but I relate to my houseplants. When I met my red-veined fittonia in Walmart, I felt a thrill and whispered (you guys knew I was weird, right? Because I'm weird . . . ) "Oh, you are beautiful! I'm going to take you home." I found one of my orchids in the clearance section at Smiths. As I examined her wilting leaves and her blossoms that were about to fall I promised that I would take care of her. Granted, I was pregnant at the time, so take that as you will. The point is, I love my plants and see them as the living things they are.

Remember how I told you how I've killed some plants? I've definitely made mistakes. I've forgotten to water, left my basil outside for an aphid snack, and made the mistake of assuming that my first orchid had died because the stems shriveled. As a general rule, it's easier for me to grow houseplants. They're inside where I see them regularly, and they're protected from the elements. However, I tried growing vegetables inside and they didn't get quite enough sun. I got three green beans and a small pepper as a result. Every plant is different. Every circumstance is different. I had to move my pothos from the bathroom because it was too moist. Then I had to move my fittonia into the bathroom because she needed more moisture. I've discovered that even the best gardeners experience weeds, bugs, and diseased plants. What sets them apart from the poor gardeners is that when complications arise, they know how to handle them--or they find out how. Even if their plants die, they find out why, try to fix it, and try again.

Plants need sun and water, right? So, the more the better, yeah? Eh, no. Most people actually overwater their houseplants. "Too much of a good thing" can really apply when dealing with plants. My poor aloe vera has been through the wringer. When I got it, it was a little sunburned. It didn't get enough sun in the bathroom I put it in. (Pinterest got me convinced I needed a plant in my bathroom. I think I tried putting all my plants in the bathroom at one point or another.) I over-corrected and put it on the windowsill to get more sun and it froze on a particularly cold night. I rotted the roots off by watering too much. My kids pinch it because its leaves are so squishy--wait, that's not a good thing. I may have lost my train of argument. You get the idea. The important thing is that you have to pay attention and make little changes until you get it right. Richoteing from one extreme to the other isn't usually the best way to make your corrections. (Also, you should pick hardy plants if you're the "school of hard knocks" kind of gardener.)

We talk a lot about people and their green thumbs. Maybe some people are born with an affinity for plants, but I would venture a guess that keeping things alive is a skill that like so many others, requires practice. You have to know your plants' needs and tendencies and act accordingly. You also have to know yourself and your tendencies. My husband and I have been trying to plan our yard. It's been a long process because 1. I'm more afraid of committing to change than I was to marry my husband, 2. We have more ideas than money, and 3. When we research what we think we want, we've discovered that the plants aren't well suited for our climate, yard, or family. That's okay; we'll keep looking. In the end, what we want is a yard that will look nice but won't require insane amounts of upkeep and water. To plant a tree we thought we wanted because it looked nice but had to worry over because it didn't fit our space and needs would deny us our ultimate goals.

This is my avocado tree. I sprouted it from a seed last summer. Unfortunately, I didn't let it get enough sun and it was awfully leggy. When I discovered my mistake, I put it outside for an afternoon to get it more sun. Instead of having a vacation in the sun, he experienced trauma when my kids put a tricycle tire around him and broke him. I didn't have a lot of hope, but I did my best to nurse him back to health. I put him in a cast and splint, and wouldn't you know it, he recovered.

I don't know if you can see the little knobby bit midway between the soil level and the clip holding the stem to the brace, but that's the place that used to be weak and damaged. Just like a broken bone, the tree healed itself, leaving that spot stronger than it had been before.

After removing the supports, the stem was fine on its own. It even withstood a helicopter crash.

That's when I stepped in with my well-meaning but harmful meddling. *Cringe.*

Because he was so leggy, this little guy had one really big leaf and some teeny tiny leaves. I decided to pinch things back in order to promote growth. This is an actual strategy that has worked when I've done it properly. But this was my first time, and I didn't know what I was doing. I pinched too much and killed the stem.

"But," you say, "Why tell us all this about your avocado tree if its life was so brutish and short?"

Because that was just one stem.

I often mistake lack of blooms for death. I mentioned my first orchid earlier, but when the shoots started to shrivel, I assumed I had killed it. Plants, like people, have periods of latency in which they are alive, but not visibly growing because they are resting, developing stronger roots, and preparing for the next time they blossom. I dumped a whole orchid because I deemed it worthless based upon its appearance. It still saddens me to think on it.

Meanwhile, you're wondering about my avocado tree. As I watched, in the aftermath of my pruning, the stem blackened and shriveled. I cursed myself. What was I thinking? This was the comeback kid. Everyone loves the story of an underdog, and I had killed it. I was so remorseful that I couldn't bring myself to toss him. I kept him on my shelf as a reminder of what a horrible person I was and watered him periodically because I was in denial.

Then, one day, a tiny leaf appeared at the base of the stem. I thought this stem might pull through. It didn't, but the tree had sent up another shoot. Forking from just below the surface, a new stem had split from the original. Healthy and green, my avocado is healthier than before. Despite all the terrible things that have happened, he continues to reach for the light and keep growing.

The internet tells me I'm basically a houseplant, but with more complicated emotions. Whether you're a houseplant or a gardener, take care of yourself: Look to the light and never give up.


 

Phoning It in

Improving my life was as easy as watching Netflix.

BAHAHAHA . . . yeah, right.

I took a break from Facebook in the month between my birthday and Christmas. I had already taken a ten day break and gotten back into my old habits of endlessly scrolling. That was when I realized that I required a serious detox; I was facing the holidays, the last few weeks of the semester, and the possible onset of seasonal depression. I quit cold turkey and loved it. I was better able to focus, I was more productive, I "had more time," and felt better overall.

The thing about social media is that it occupies my time, my brain, my eyes, and my hands. So if I'm scrolling, that is pretty much all I'm doing. This became apparent when I found myself looking to occupy myself while nursing. Phone in hand, but "unable" to access Facebook, I searched my apps and arrived in YouTube. I know that ideally I would have filled this gap in my behavior by reading a book, but trading up is better than staying where you are.

My stint on YouTube taught me the importance of knowing what I want from my media. Was I hoping to learn something? Feel something? Even if I was just looking to be entertained, making the conscious decision and searching for something that I was interested in was a more direct and efficient way of being entertained than Facebook scrolling. I found some vloggers I really enjoyed and learned a bit more about psychology, home, and financial planning. I tried to find videos that made me excited to do and be more. And, because I could passively watch, I could do other things at the same time.

I didn't give up my phone. It's actually possible that I used my phone even more. But I also used it more mindfully than I had been using it. Yeah, I watched a ton of Netflix. Like, I binged this ridiculous cop show that stars Josh Groban in less than a week. But I also got back in the habit of running every day. I gave back into my love of true crime via podcast, but I also got my dishes done, read my scriptures, and did some laundry. I don't want to tell you that giving up Facebook made me into Wonder Woman, but as I look back on winters past, I've done much better thus far. I still have days when I lose my patience and yell at my kids, have a messy house, or think I've submitted an assignment when I haven't. The difference is that I haven't spiralled out of control and continued to berate myself for all the ways I'm failing while compounding the problem by wasting more time and comparing myself against Facebook's Greatest Hits.

This wasn't a scientific study. I didn't isolate variables, so there's no way for me to know if this was a correlative or a causative relation. However, in Charles Duhigg's The Power of Habit: Why We Do What We Do in Life and Business, Duhigg describes something he calls keystone habits. Keystone habits are changes in routine that when implemented, are catalysts toward greater transformations than many other possible habits. Exercise and getting up earlier are keystone habits. I feel like for me, giving up Facebook was one of these keystone habits.  

As I approached the designated end to this experiment, I debated coming back. I'm afraid of a relapse. However, I cling to the concept that social media links me with friends and family that I am not ambitious enough to keep in touch with by more traditional means. So, I'm back, but I'm aware. I've set up some rules for myself so that I maintain control. I only log into Facebook on a computer, not on my phone. Rather than being an everyday occurrence, I'll pop in once a week ("Facebook Fridays!" *Gagging* How do I live with myself?) for half an hour. Limiting my time makes it more likely that as I'm logged in, I'll have specific people I'll want to check in on.

I heard an analogy in church once. Technology is a tool. We wouldn't grab a hammer and just start hitting things with it. We wouldn't find ourselves holding a hammer and think, "Hmm . . . I wonder what I could fix with this?" Rather, when we were working on a project that required a hammer, we'd fetch the hammer. My Facebook habits were me wandering aimlessly with a hammer, hitting random things and hoping I'd get something out of the experience. Surprise, surprise: I didn't. Ironically, I got much more out of intentionally binging Netflix. So, I guess what I'm saying here is: whatever you do, do it with purpose.  

The end.

Please Help Me Fine-Tune My Poem

Today's thought(s) came in the form of a poem. I've dabbled in poetry in the past, but it is still an elusive beast that I struggle with. I enjoy it, but as my dad sometimes says (and he may be quoting somebody, but I'm paraphrasing), poetry can be a lot of pretentious nonsense.

So, here's my pretense. To me it isn't nonsense, though, so if you have thoughts or constructive criticisms for better conveying my sentiments, I would welcome them. As well as any suggestions for a title.

"Go to sleep."

"Go to sleep," I said
"so that your body can rest and grow big
and tall and be healthy
and strong."

"Oh!"

And her eyes light up. Eyes reflecting
the joys of life, back
and forth so many times that I'm awed
to stand at the center and find that the source of all this happiness
is right here before me.

"Oh!" she says,
"I sleep, I wake up, and I be big and strong
and big like you, mama?
I sleep!"

And I laugh because science says that even now, at this peak
of growth, she only adds four inches a year, which works out to be .01 (repeating forever) inches a day.
A change which would still be imperceptible to either of our eyes.

But I pause at the door

Because last night, I kissed a baby girl, tucked her in, and told her to
"Go to sleep."

This morning, that same girl leapt from her bed, spoke in full sentences,
and awakened me.

No more sleep.

One Day More

It's four in the morning.

I hate mornings. I'm not exactly up by choice, but seeing as I can't really sleep right now, the next logical thing to do is to eat a bowl of Rice Krispies and write an entry for a blog I haven't updated in months. That's my sleep-deprived, pregnant, nesting brain at its best for you. I'm scheduled to be induced in less than twenty-four hours, and I've decided that, along with cleaning out my fridge, scrubbing my bathroom, and dusting the far reaches of my house that nobody--least of all, our impending child--cares about, I should also write a blog.

Blergh.

I'm scheduled to have a baby in less than twenty-four hours.

It's this late in the game that I'm wondering if I've suffered from birth trauma. And I wonder if I've occasionally been having minor panic attacks. At this point, I've analyzed ALL of my weirdo behaviors and begun to question if maybe those times when I couldn't decipher whether I was hungry, thirsty, needed more oxygen, needed to go to the bathroom, was sick and going to puke, or whether I was just running out of space in my body were symptoms of something more than a normal pregnancy. Not that my first experience giving birth was extra horrible, or anything. I just think birth is a traumatic thing, and for some reason, I'm now realizing that it affected me in a somewhat rough manner, whether or not there's a diagnosis for me.

Of course, there comes a time when we have to set aside blame and accept that we've got to move on, regardless of excuses and diagnoses, however silly or legitimate they may be. When all is said and done, I'm still having a baby. Soon. And while I can rationalize my fears, look for ways to cope with them, try and ignore them, and pretend to put them off, I'm going to have to deal with them.

You know that for all my preparation, I haven't packed a bag yet? I've washed my shower curtain and the rugs in my house, but I haven't packed a bag or put the baby's car seat in the car. You know why?

Yeah, I don't, either.

But I've theorized. (It's four in the morning. Not even close to my first "four-in-the-morning" of this pregnancy. Of course I've theorized!)

This sounds silly. Read this at four in the morning . . . and it will still seem silly. Read this at four in the morning the day before you're about to have a baby. Then, and only then, will it begin to possibly, maybe make sense to you: If I pack the bags and put the seat in the car, I will be "ready" to have this baby. I'm not anywhere near "ready" to have this baby; therefore, I can neither pack the bags, nor place the seat in the car. It is this convoluted logic that has prompted me to construct one of the most comprehensive "TO DO:" lists of my life. I've crossed so many things off that list--"Change quilt on the bed" and "Trim toenails"--and still I can't pack a bag. I've added and crossed some items off the list: "Wash screen door window" and "Get bangs trimmed," and yet, the car seat sits in the back room until tomorrow.

I don't need a lecture on how babies come when they come, and these things should have been done a month ago, and what would happen if I went into labor before now? (The answer: I'd muddle my way through, it might get tense, but in the end, we'd survive--much like childbirth.) I don't even need someone to come to my house and do it for me. What I need is to accept that THIS IS HAPPENING. I'm not ever going to be truly ready. Some things will probably go well. Some things probably won't. But they'll go, they'll be done, and these details will be dwarfed by a much larger accomplishment and a new challenge.

I know I've done this before. Well-meaning individuals tell me this like it should quell my fears. They fail to account for the fact that at this point in my pregnancy, logic does not compute. I mean, I put it together in my head and then try and convert it from knowledge to peace of mind, and I get nothing. I know that I've done it before. That's part of what baffles me. With my first, I walked in calm enough the nurses said, "Honey, you're not in labor," then checked me and said "Oh! You're at an eight!" That doesn't change the fact that the closer I've gotten, the more vividly I've recalled the details and lay paralyzed by the fear of reliving them.

I've gotten through a day at a time. It's just that this next day is going to be a doozy.

Prayer helps, I think, for me. I mean, this has provided me with a classic example of exactly how the Bible Dictionary defines prayer: "The act by which the will of the Father and the will of the child are brought into correspondence with each other. . . . Blessings require some work or effort on our part before we can obtain them."

Yep. I haven't completely lost my anxieties. But I haven't died of hyperventilation yet, either. (Please, especially if you suffer from anxiety, panic attacks, etc., don't see this as flippant. I know it's a bit unrefined; I'm still working it out. Just understand that this is my way of dealing with my own experiences . . . somewhat . . . flippantly. *Sigh.* Sorry.)

But honestly, as days pass, I sense myself becoming more and more okay with things. All things. I add fewer things to my list. (Which could be that I'm accepting my house and all its faults, or that I've started to run out of things to do. Or maybe, a happy marriage of both.) I think I feel less need to distract myself from my impending doom. I did finally pull the car seat out of storage today, and I piled together all the things that Melody will need when she goes to grandma's. I still sort of see my life, like my one month calendar, ending with June, but I catch glimpses of the possibility of July. I'm not quite to the "It's the end of the world as we know it, and I feel fine," position, but I have at least been willing to concede the "as we know it."

So, tomorrow/Friday--which my scrambled brain has informed me is, indeed tomorrow, so my clarification is redundant (sorry, for some reason I thought they were different? Gotta get some sleep!)--I will pack my bags. I will put the car seat in the car, and I will have this baby. Not because I'm "ready" ("You see the quotations I'm making with my little claw hands?") and finally finished my "To Do:" list, but because I'm "ready" and I think I'm gonna make it through this, and really, what other option do I have? Then the world will continue on, and I still probably won't be able to sleep. Ain't life a kick in the head?

Write a blog post: Check!

Allow Time to Digest

A couple of days ago, something happened that stirred up a lot of people. You may be tired of hearing about that thing. This post is not a response to that thing, but rather a response to the responses to that thing. And a few other things.

First off, this thing that happened deeply upset a lot of people. That's why I was disappointed by the lack of patience, love, and attempts at understanding that I witnessed from both sides. Even some of those who were seemingly attempting to respond with love still came across as a bit cold and hurtful. I read many comment threads in which those who were grappling with this new information were further battered, rather than comforted.

We all believe certain things to be true, but there are some things (and certain times) that we don't need to share, regardless of their truth. It may be a fact that my dear friend is overweight. There is no time that I feel justified in pointing that truth out to her. It would not be kind. It would not build our friendship. It would not be helpful. Very often, these truths that we feel inclined to share at inopportune times are well-known by those with whom we are sharing. "Reminding them" does nothing but scrape an open wound they are attempting to heal.

When an issue like this becomes front and center, we feel a need to do something. Say something. Respond in some way. But hasty responses can do a lot of harm that we may never be aware of. I admire the friend who, upon learning this news, was somewhat hurt and confused, but responded, "I need some time to digest this." This is a matter that may require a bit of time to resolve. Some of us may never be 100% okay with it. I don't think that means that we still can't have strong testimonies. One of the more rankling comments I repeatedly hear is something to the effect of, "If you believe the prophet speaks with God to give us revelation then you shouldn't have any doubts." I respectfully disagree. I have a very strong testimony that the prophet, Thomas S. Monson, speaks for the Lord. That does not mean I have never felt anxious, concerned, confused, or sad about anything--even commandments or policies. It feels a little uncomfortable at times. I would say it even hurts. But I also believe that those times I am hurting are stretching me, molding me, and making me stronger. Eventually. In the meantime though, I feel a bit weak, vulnerable, and I need a little bit of extra love and understanding. The last thing I need is for people to freak out because I'm unsteady.

I sat in a church lesson awhile ago that made me squirm. The lesson was based on Rosemary M. Wixom's talk, "Returning to Faith." I loved this talk. The teacher didn't though, and admitted it up front. It made this teacher uneasy to listen to a story of a young mother who had questions about the gospel. And this concern/panic began before the young mother had even left the church--it was off and running at the first mention of doubt. And throughout the young mother's story of questioning, learning, growing, and returning to the church, this well-meaning teacher continued to interject expressions of alarm. It made me incredibly uncomfortable to see what had been for me a calming, reassuring lesson in persisting in spite of doubts turned on its head.

I saw this same discomfort with others' uncertainty present in the faith-filled responses of many. I am very glad that there are so many strong members who have not struggled with this issue. If you are one of them, I commend you. I also ask though, that you be patient with the rest of us. This is a sensitive issue that can merit some deep concerns. They will likely not be resolved in immediate response to something seen on social media, or shared by friends. It is great that you have answers as to why this thing is right and good, but those are your answers. You can feel free to share them if it feels right, but be prepared to realize that they may not assuage the anxiety of those in the midst of questioning. They will need to find their own answers in their own time. As much as we may wish to fix the problems of others and heal their hurts, we can't always do so. Occasionally, we may only offer hugs and prayers as others undergo their trials of faith. They, in time, can be prepared to do the same for us when we encounter our own uncertainties.

I think it's worth noting that not everyone who asks why is on their way to leaving the church. For those who are, it is not something that will come easily. Many who leave have struggled to stay for a long time. The gospel has become an integral part of them, and separating themselves from something that has been so dear to them for so long causes a great deal of pain. I think that whether our doubts lead us to apostasy or not, we all need a gentle environment in which to question.

Remember those things we believe but don't need to share? I keep hearing a lot of people saying, "I see this as a weeding-out of members." *Cringe.* I don't doubt that this issue will try many. It may even be a reason for departure from the church for many. I'm not going to bring that opinion to a public forum where struggling members may read it. 

You know the thing about weeding? I have zealously weeded strange plants from my flower beds only to discover months later that these "weeds" were some of the most beautiful flowers. I just wasn't familiar enough with them to properly distinguish them from weeds. We also learn from the parable of the wheat and the tares that if we attempt to weed in areas where wheat and tares have grown together, pulling the tares can result in the loss of some wheat. For that reason, tares were allowed to grow up with the wheat, and were sorted after harvest.

This is not my garden. These wheat, tares, flowers, and weeds are real people--our friends, our family, and those in our neighborhoods. Their souls are what's at stake here, not just a few missed flowers. That is why I trust the care of this garden to an all-wise gardener. As Hugh B. Brown's brilliant talk (which was made into a lovely Mormon Message) states in its title, "God Is the Gardener." This entire issue is one that I don't completely understand. My only peace comes from knowing that God is the one who is doing the weeding and pruning. Let's leave that to Him, please.

As we engage in tricky discussions, let's do our best to make our love and understanding increase relative to the sensitivity of the issues. While we may speak out in favor of our beliefs or correct factual inaccuracies, we should engage in such discussions with the utmost care. Regardless of whether we fully accept changes yet or not we all need love at this challenging time. Allow time for the Spirit to work in others so that they may receive their own answers and support them. Realize that, despite your wishes, you may not have their answer, and that's okay. Above all, remember that we are all children of God, and our words can deeply affect each other. 

"Be thou humble; and the Lord thy God shall lead thee by the hand, and give thee answer to thy prayers.

I know thy heart, and have heard thy prayers concerning thy brethren. Be not partial towards them in love above many others, but let thy love be for them as for thyself; and let thy love abound unto all men, and unto all who love my name."

(D&C 112:10-11)

From a Frugal Freshman

I just finished watching (at the time I began writing) the Democratic Debate. It contained the tell-tale signs of modern political debate: The unsubstantiatable boasting of a pre-school "My dad could beat up your dad" fight, the pomposity and disdain of an undergraduate philosophy class discussion on epistemology, the persistent one-upmanship in promising akin to my sisters vying for favorite aunt status, and the self-absorbed rambling described in Brian Regan's "Dinner Party" routine. That aside, one of the issues the candidates--especially Bernie Sanders--would like to use to appeal to younger (college-age) voters (and their parents), is that of affordable college tuition. Now, regardless of how you feel about the government financing the educational pursuits of Americans through their bachelors degrees, university tuition can be pricey. So, I thought I would share my experience of paying for college and some of the strategies that helped me graduate debt-free. This is meant as more of a way to help out current/future college students, but if it crosses the line into "I'm wonderful. Me, ME, ME!" then please just close your browser and pretend like that didn't just happen.

I recently took a campus tour of a college that I once had an interest in attending. (It wasn't out of my own interest that I went; I was accompanying my sister.) As we were riding in the amazing golf cart-limousine, our tour guide told us about how the university cared about its students, and that's why they offered jobs and other aids: "They want to get you out of here with as little debt as possible." Then he proceeded, in the very next breath, to explain, "That building houses the Jamba Juice--if that's important to you." And I thought, "HA!"

Because frequenting the Jamba Juice is not an effective way to limit your student debt.

But really, I hear a lot about how to spend less in college. And some of it is sound, but rarely do I hear the things that helped me most. So, here it is (after way more introduction than it deserves), my gift to you.

Your college preparation mentality should ideally begin way before you take that college tour. If you are serious about attending college someday, you should be planning that way with your grades, the way you spend your free time, and the way you spend your money from the beginning of your awkward little Freshman year. Parents, talk to your kids. Kids: talk to your parents. Who is responsible for footing the bill? Every family will be different, but with mine, my parents let me know that it would be my responsibility to be the number one contributor to my college fund. This affected my decisions. I knew I needed to study for scholarships and save for supplemental income. Whatever the terms of the agreement, both parties need to plan accordingly. If jobs and savings accounts are needed, get them started.

You don't necessarily need to be the school, work, then study late into the night with no hope of a social life kind of student when you're planning for college. I mean, I may not have had a social life, but I also had quite a bit of free time and I don't want you to get the idea that I was always studying, because I wasn't. However, when the opportunity to babysit arose, I took it--a while after some of my cohorts had to stop sitting because of their burgeoning social schedules. It can help to be willing to stoop a little lower to earn a few more bucks.

Equally important will be your expenditures. Do you really need it? As a penny-pinching maniac in a small town, I found little opportunity to spend my hard-earned money. My parents were providing me with the necessities of life, so large proportions of my earnings could be committed to my bank account. That was a wonderful time of my life.


Look for scholarships. They will save you mucho dinero. I didn't personally go for government aid, but if that's something that appeals to you, go for it. There are people and corporations that are interested in funding your ascension to becoming a contributing member of society--take advantage of that.

Quick note on scholarships offered by universities:
Some universities will offer scholarships with dollar amounts. Others offer "Full," "Half," or some fraction of the tuition-type scholarships. Some scholarships apply a full four years, but others apply only for one year and must be reapplied for later. Read the fine print. If you choose a school with a four year-dollar amount scholarship from what used to be a cheaper school, you could end up paying more than you would if you had attended a larger university on full tuition. I received the highest available scholarship as an incoming Freshman. Three years later, tuition hikes rendered my dollar-amount scholarship impotent. What once paid nearly all my tuition now paid just under half. I'm telling you: If you are offered "Full" and "Essentially full, but we spell it out in a dollar amount," take the first.

Plan to get a job. Part-time? Full-time? Selling alarm systems in the summer? Only you can say. If you've got scholarships, savings, or other supplemental income, you will probably be able to get by with part-time. At least for a while. I actually lived primarily off my savings and worked summers in my hometown at a grocery store for the first two and a half years of college. I felt a lot better once I found a part-time job, though--I was starting to run somewhat low on funds. Your ability to get a job will depend on your class schedule and course of study. Some rigorous majors may limit your ability to work many hours, and afternoon labs can complicate things, as well. Luckily, there are many campus jobs available for students. With jobs for early morning/late night cleaners, paper graders/teachers' aides, tutors, and groundskeepers, universities can be a good place of work for busy students. Food for thought: occasionally places that hire also look for volunteers. If you have time for a job but can't find one, consider volunteering. It will fill a gap in both your schedule and your resume, and could eventually lead to a job.

Once you've gotten into the "I'm going to college, and this is how I'm funding it" mindset, the school you select will have a HUGE impact on your money spent. Everyone looks for different things from their collegiate experience, but be honest with yourself. It may sound cool to have a highly ranked football team at your college, but if you aren't being recruited and wouldn't realistically attend any games then you may want to look for the aspects of the college that actually affect you personally. If you don't care about any of the myriad student services available, it will only frustrate you more to have your student fees go to funding them. For me, a small public university that was close enough to home that I could return as frequently as needed (yet far enough that moving out was practical and justified) was a good fit. By acknowledging what I actually wanted from my university experience I was able to avoid paying more for facilities that are admittedly awesome, but that I didn't need. Also, shop around and ask questions. As we toured the larger campus, I found myself making mental notes to tell my sister later: "They talked about [this resource] as though it was a big deal, but it's pretty standard on college campuses. Same with [another thing the university was proud of]: I had that at my alma mater, and it's considerably smaller." The community college may be a good starting off point--especially if you're unsure of a major. Don't cut out any options before giving them a fair chance.

You're looking for a place to live. The university tour guides told you that the social aspect of the dorms is unrivaled. I'm not social. I chose not to live on campus. I still found a social life. If I can do it, you can do it. Again, we all look for different benefits, but for me, living off campus and being able to prepare my own food instead of having to buy a meal plan was a better option--in large part because it was cheaper. You know what else is cheaper? Sharing. I mean, most of us would like our own space, but when you're willing to share a bathroom? Rent goes down. You live in the same room as someone else? Even cheaper.

I had my own room my first year out in what I thought was a pretty decent place for a decent price. Through the year I found a friend and discovered I could get cheaper rent by rooming with her in a complex a block over. The next year I once again hopped to a cheaper place in the neighborhood. Admittedly, I moved a lot during my four years of college, but each move saved me a bit more. By looking around, especially after you've grown familiar with an area and its housing situation, you may be able to find a better deal. Just as you should be willing to consider less-traditional options for your schooling, take inventory of all your living choices. It may be cheaper to live with a family member, in a large complex, a house full of students, or a spot just a block further from campus. Don't lock yourself into one spot or idea if you are truly searching for a good deal.

On your own, you can put into practice those money-saving habits you developed while still at home. I had a professor laugh because I hauled a peanut butter sandwich and an apple to his class every day for lunch one semester, but it was WAY cheaper than other convenient, pre-packaged options. Exercise control. Try not to eat out or buy unnecessary snack foods too often. Buy a few store brands. Limit your consumption of meat. Don't coupon.

This may seem counter-intuitive. In my experience, though (and I may be behind the curve on this one), in order to save money couponing, you must have more time, patience, and access to Sunday editions of the newspaper than most college students possess. Casual couponing only fooled me into thinking I was saving money--when I was using coupons to buy items that I didn't normally buy. I use a lot of store brands, and rarely do coupons lower the price of brand name items to the point that their prices are lower than those of store brands. By all means, use coupons for things you normally buy, or if you're looking to splurge on a treat, but remember to coupon with care!

With clothing and other "status" purchases, bear in mind that the college atmosphere is a bit different than you experienced in high school. On the average college campus, you will see everything from business suits to hoodies and pajamas. This knowledge makes it a lot easier to save money on clothes if you need to, because, honestly, there could be a girl who wears a cat tail pinned to the back of her jeans in your 1010 English class: At the university level, confidence is king and judgement sits in the backseat next to Rebecca Black. When I shopped (which was rarely), I found great deals at thrift stores and on clearance racks. Nobody cared.

Your needs may vary depending on your schedule and your location. If you attend a larger university, you may not need a car because public transportation or even free shuttle services for students will take you most places you need to go. If you choose to live off campus at a smaller college or university, a car could be a big help. My parents were kind enough to let me use a '96 Geo Prizm while I was at school. My sisters now mock this car. :( It wasn't fancy, but it only full-out died on me once. Maybe twice. I was very grateful to have it.

This next tidbit may not be for you. Especially because times change, technology changes, and I entered the university world a whole six years ago. I began and ended my time at school without ever having purchased a laptop. Admittedly, I married into one my Senior year, but until then, I was able to save a bit by using campus computers and occasionally relying on the kindness of roommates. Having a laptop is certainly convenient, but every campus will have computers available for use. Because I was usually able to get my computer-related homework done on campus before the library closed at midnight, I found I was able to squeak by without a laptop. Again, consider your circumstances and priorities.

I think I'm wrapping this up, here, but one more biggie before I do: Partying and Spring Break.

Now, you may have seen shirts declaring something along the lines of "I like to party. And by 'party,' I mean, read books." (If anyone wants to buy me one for Christmas [or, if you're honestly looking for ideas, this one that I can wear to family reunions and ward parties], that'd be awesome--because as you can tell after reading this post, I'm too cheap to buy snarky t-shirts for myself. But I digress!) If you can't tell, this was pretty much me in college. I mean, I went out and did things, but as far as attending crazy loud parties and dancing at bars--that's not my scene. And you know, I saved money not having to buy alcohol. If you do like to drink and party, just be aware that booze can cost you. Also, be aware that if you are partying within hearing range of my house too far past midnight, I will call the cops on you. That is all.

Except . . . that even if you don't go crazy on the weekends, you may still have the opportunity to spend money on social engagements. If you're a guy--or a break-with-tradition feminist--you may have dates to pay for. (Incidentally, this could be a despicable, but effective way to save money if you're a single woman!) You don't have to be tackily cheap to keep them from breaking the bank. Occasionally, through no fault of your own, you may find yourself in a restaurant. Drinking water is healthier and cheaper than getting a soft drink. Matinee showings are cheaper than later night movies. You know, these sorts of secrets abound on the internet. Find them and use them.

Your roommates may plan an awesome road trip to California for Spring Break. And you may decide, that at this time, your savings being what they are, you won't be going with them. It happens. And the world doesn't even end.

Basically, what I'm saying is, swear off of fun for four years and you'll be able to pay for college.



HA, NOT! Guys, I had an awesome time at college. If you don't believe me, feel free to Facebook-stalk my photos from 2009 to 2013 (Just kidding. Privacy settings, people!). I took some awesome (and fantastically well-planned and frugal) trips to the Grand Canyon, Vegas, and Salt Lake City, to name a convenient list of three. I'm not saying you can't do anything fun. I'm saying 1. Fun doesn't have to cost money. 2. Think about what you want from your college experience and don't pay for a lot of extras you don't want. 3. Prioritize. On occasion, you can spend a little more. It's when you start spending more on EVERYTHING that you'll run into problems. 4. You can graduate from college without having gone into debt. It is possible. Maybe this will help somebody. Maybe it won't. But you know what's awesome about my blog? It's free. Also, it's like a presidential debate: all about me, Me, ME!

How I Know I'm Not a Disney Princess

In this world of confusion and disagreement, I would like to present you with something upon which we can all agree: I am not a Disney princess. Hopefully this won't shock too many of you, but I'm not. Just in case you still doubt me in my statement of fact, I have compiled a list of some of the ways I know I'm not a Disney princess. This could have been an infinite list. (By this I simply mean that there are a lot of ways in which I differ from Disney princesses. Logistically, it couldn't actually be an infinite list because someday--before I run out of reasons--I will die. This is an event that would probably be hastened if I were to devote my future to maintaining an infinite [and pointless] list.)

When I was very young--say, under the age of four--I wanted to be a Disney princess, and even sometimes thought that I was. As a result, I did things like stop to count to make sure that the Seven Dwarfs were still following me. There was also an incident in which I told my grandma to hurry to the door because someone was there. After my grandma, who had been in the middle of applying lotion to her feet, hobbled to the door (on the sides of her feet in order to avoid getting lotion on her carpet) to find the porch vacant, she asked who was there. My answer? "It was Princess Aurora, but she's gone now." I no longer believe myself to be a Disney princess, but just in case any of you were wondering, here is proof that I am not.

Reason Number One That I Am Not a Disney Princess:
A Disney princess would never lie to her grandmother about Princess Aurora being at the door.

2. My sixteenth birthday passed without incidence. No spinning wheel. No betrothal. Not even a date. I remember reading the story of Sleeping Beauty to my little brothers and sisters at the aforementioned age of sixteen and being somewhat disgusted by the expectation that anyone, royal or no, would be expected to be married at 16. I was also perturbed by Aurora/Briar Rose/Sleeping Beauty's clear complexion at what should have been the height of hormonal eruptions--at least, according to my own experience--which brings us to my next point.

3. Disney princesses don't have acne. I mean, while others in the world are waiting for more ethnically diverse princesses, I'm here waiting for a princess of any color or nationality who possesses the age-appropriate facial blemishes typical of teen years/early adulthood. (Sorry teenagers, somebody has got to tell you the truth: those spots aren't going to magically disappear on your eighteenth birthday. Maybe not even your twenty-first. Disney--and everyone else--lies. My apologies, but this is the cold, hard reality that you will soon be facing.) The best representation I've gotten so far is this guy from Tangled who sings, "I have scars and lumps and bruises--and something here that oozes. And let's not even mention my complexion!" (He also has a goiter and an extra toe.) Don't worry, though, he finds his love connection in the end, so it's fine.

4. I'm not exactly chipper and perky. Sometimes I even yell. Not the "This is the best day ever!" or "Leave him alone (I'm defending justice)!" kind of yell, but the "Stupid! Adult acne! I HATE . . . ! (Grumble, Grumble)!" kind of yell. When I was in the "I wanna be a princess" phase of my life, my mother told me that princesses don't shriek while their hair is being brushed. Try as I might to softly whisper "Ow!" as my hair was pulled, I remained unsuccessful in my attempts at royal behavior. That might have been when my application for princess status was originally declined.

5. I don't rescue and allow mice to clean my house or make me dresses while they sing. (Nor do I rescue and allow mice to clean my house or make me dresses while they don't sing. Animal servitude: just another thing for PETA to get worked up about.) In fact, I go out of my way to kill and remove mice that enter my house. And by that I mean, I have my charming husband do it because I don't like to be within singing distance of the little critters. (Some of you will remember my last year's run-in with a mouse in my house.)  It's always nice to make new friends?! Not if they have furry-scurry feet and the potential to carry hantavirus, it's not!

6. I guess the most compelling argument that I'm not a Disney princess is that I'm a real person. I'm not animated and living in a fictional world where the best options one has for friendship include chipmunks and an enchanted tea set. I suppose, though, if we consider Pocahontas (who I was quite convinced was named Hocahontas with an "H," for some reason. Probably the same reason I thought that "Ballyball" was a sport: an early affinity for alliteration.) to be a Disney princess, she was a real person. She just wasn't the same real person as she was animated to be. Maybe I could be a Disney princess; Disney would just have to take a lot of liberty and exercise a lot of artistic license in telling my story.

Now that I consider it, not all Disney princesses befriend rodents. At least a few have been known to throw temper tantrums. And with the additions of Merida and Elsa, not even all of the princesses had beaus by their sixteenth birthdays--or even the end of their respective films. When I'm downright honest, I'm not familiar enough with any of the Disney princesses to say that there isn't one who wouldn't lie to her grandmother about Sleeping Beauty's presence at the door. Apparently the only thing standing between myself and Disney-fied Princessitude is a few blemishes. And really, what is artistic license for, if not the removal of pimples?

It would seem, that as in so many instances of examining the "facts," I am just as lost and confused as I was when I began. Is there nothing in this world of which we can be sure? We--the possibly royal "we," not the Gollum "we"--are not amused with this prospect. After all, Descartes postulated that we can't be certain of anything--except the whole "I think, therefore I am" bit. But I don't think his theories--or those of any other philosophers, for that matter--included quotes to the effect of "I think, therefore I am NOT a Disney princess." Could Descartes be a . . . Oh, don't be ridiculous!

What sort of skeptic's attitude is that, anyway? Of course there are absolute truths in this world of which we can be certain! For example, I am absolutely SURE that, at least in my head, Pocahontas' name is spelled with a "P," there is a sport called volleyball, and that in spite of these things, I still like alliteration. And you know, if I AM a Disney princess, I am the uniquely unorthodox underdog of the upper class.
 

My Child Screams; I'm Trying Not To.

Time for me to come clean.

There was a time when love was blind
And the world was a song
And the song was exciting
There was a time
Then it all went wrong . . .

Wait . . . that's not my confession--that's the introduction to "I Dreamed a Dream" from Les Miserables. Not quite the same, but sort of. What I meant to say was:

There was a time when kids would scream
and it meant they were spoiled
and their parents were slacking
There was a time
Then my thoughts were foiled!

Because really, I used to be one of those young people with no parenting experience who would hear the wailings of toddlers and small children and think, "My goodness! Can't you make them stop?" And worse, beyond thinking that, I honestly believed it. I truly thought that about 80% of the time parents could make their children stop screaming by sheer force of excellent parenting.

It is with humble heart (and a screaming toddler) that I approach the internet to say I'm sorry. And wrong. And tired of failing to understand what's wrong. Because everything. Warrants. A scream.

Now, please don't gloat. (You're doing it anyway! I can feel your smugness over the network connection, now stop it!) We all learn different things at different times, and I was just slower on this one, all right? Besides, think back to when it was you, be the bigger person, and find it in your soul to pity me. Recall the first--no matter how early or late in your child's life--time you realized that your "precious sweetums" (No, of course I don't call my kid that, but if YOU do, that's lovely!) was not actually a full-blooded angel. Not because angels don't have blood, but because your child was not behaving in an angelic manner. It's a disappointing moment, but you know, it happens.

The time will come when the adorable larva that once rolled on your floor will take his or her first steps, and you will think it is sweet--until those steps lead them up to the kitchen table at every opportunity of unsupervision. Soft gurgles and laughs will turn to high-pitched shrieks of anger and a mischievous cackle that you just don't trust. And as these--and other just as horrifying--things happen, you will ask yourself what it is you're doing wrong or what more you could do to stop these uncivilized behaviors. I hope at this point you will come to the same conclusion that I have: you can do nothing. I am only half kidding.

Sure, you can do the normal parent stuff--the stuff you're probably already doing--but when it comes down to it, just realize that most of this is happening not because you're a bad parent. It's simply happening because you're raising a precocious 15 month old who thinks the terrible twos sound like great fun. Of course, I can really only speak from my own experience, so maybe your child really is spoiled (please read this with a good-natured tone and smile injected), but I think when your child's personality outgrows his or her language development, you're bound to experience some frustration.

Shall I add insult to injury? The other day we were watching Super Why!--which we sometimes do when the day is long and the sounds of despair are many--and we caught an episode in which the Super Readers' friend, Wolfie (Wolfy? Wolfee? I'm sticking with Wolfie.), kept growling because he was upset. The moral of that story was "Use your words!" Which is great, except, guess what? Sporadic vocabulary of maybe three words--none of which is "words." So, that's awesome.

At least we're to the point now where I can tell she understands some of my words. That's a start, right? I was extremely excited the day I told Melody "No!" and she understood. Little did I realize how much more frustrating it is to be heard, understood, and ignored than it is to simply not be understood. With limited communication skills and even less patience, what's a mom to do?

Hang in there, I guess. Enjoy the screams from bed that mean "I'm awake and ready to come out!" Bask in the screams from the other side of the bathroom door that mean "MOM! What are you doing in there, and why can't I come in?" Revel in the screams that mean "That thing you're doing looks fun! Let me do it with you. And climb on you. And throw books in your face. And stick my finger up your nose, and . . . Mom, why aren't we doing that fun thing anymore, mom . . . ?" and all the other cryptic screams that set your teeth to gritting.

But better than that, enjoy (wholly and sincerely) the moments when she does heed your commands. When she throws her arms around you and hugs you so tightly that you wish your day would stop and all afternoon could just be little arms, a head on your shoulder, and happy smiles. Meditate upon watching her set out her play dishes, fold her arms, and "pray" before "eating." Savor seeing her lay down on the floor next to her daddy and snuggle her head into the crook of his elbow. Pay attention to the sweet moments of joy and let them blur the memory of tantrums. In doing so, you may become aware of just how much more frequently the cute and well-behaved make an appearance than the out-of-control and bratty. To quote Pollyanna (who was not actually quoting Abraham Lincoln), "When you look for the bad in mankind expecting to find it, you surely will." Now, take that, invert it, and don't be too hard on yourself: you're raising quite an enjoyable child.

Peace Like a River

Oh, this world we're living in.

It seems like each day, there's something new to be riled up about. I am occasionally blinded by confusion over happenings in the country (Candidates, ugh!), my family (Having to accept the choices of others can stink), and even the church, occasionally (Heartburn over the situation with the BSA). Instead of seeing “Trees of green, red roses, too . . . ,” in this wonderful world, I can get caught up in the trials I witness and the issues I can't understand. In these times, I call upon my faith and one of my favorite paraphrases of scripture: “Peace like a river.”

The concept of having peace like a river shows up many places in scripture and has been turned into some lovely songs. I love the imagery that comes each time the scriptures mention rivers. As Lehi reminds us in 1 Nephi 2:9, they are continually flowing. We can count on the river to be constantly moving—always forward, regardless of the obstacles that may be encountered.

I have loved the peace like a river metaphor for awhile now, but time and thought deepen my love and understanding of the phrase. When I originally took note, I think I imagined the beauty and calm of a river segment somewhat like this one. It didn't take me long before I realized that rivers don't always look so placid. Sometimes they look like this, this, or even this. (At this point, you're probably very glad that I've shown you all these pictures of rivers, since you may not have known what I was talking about in the beginning. Be advised that I am now talking about the river in all its incarnations. Except this one.)

Not all of these rivers seemed calm to me. And yet . . . I was oddly okay with the phrase “Peace like a river” applying to each of them. Examining all, I found that rivers, regardless of their state of flowing, bring me peace.

But how? And does the analogy apply in less than tranquil cases? I submit to you that yes, it does. I believe it is possible to experience peace in situations that would seemingly leave us battered and breathless against the endless stones and torrents.

The Guide to the Scriptures gives the following insight/definition to the word peace: “In the scriptures, peace can mean either freedom from conflict and turmoil or the inner calm and comfort born of the Spirit that God gives to his faithful Saints.”

God can take us out of the conflict, but he often takes the conflict out of us.

D&C 121:33 prompts some thought: 

How long can rolling waters remain impure? What power shall stay the heavens? As well might man stretch forth his puny arm to stop the Missouri river in its decreed course, or to turn it up stream, as to hinder the Almighty from pouring down knowledge from heaven upon the heads of the Latter-day Saints.

Paul echoes these assurances; “And the peace of God, which passeth all understanding, shall keep your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus (Philippians 4:7).”

The flow of the water isn't always slow and easy, but it's at the most turbulent moments that the river can be most powerful—if we can only endure to partake of the clarity of mind available to us. As the scripture in Philippians suggests, we may not understand how, but the peace of God can trump all understanding—or lack thereof, and keep us focused on the Savior. And, as we learn from Nephi, if we live according to the commandments, “then [will] thy peace [be] as a river, and thy righteousness as the waves of the sea (1 Nephi 20:18).” We, like the river, can become an unstoppable force for good.

Henry B. Eyring said it this way:

If we have faith in Jesus Christ, the hardest as well as the easiest times in life can be a blessing. In all conditions, we can choose the right with the guidance of the Spirit. We have the gospel of Jesus Christ to shape and guide our lives if we choose it. And with prophets revealing to us our place in the plan of salvation, we can live with perfect hope and a feeling of peace. We never need to feel that we are alone or unloved in the Lord’s service because we never are. We can feel the love of God. The Savior has promised angels on our left and our right to bear us up. And He always keeps His word. ("Mountains to Climb," April 2012, Emphasis added.)

I conclude with some lyrics from one of my favorite songs and a few more thoughts.

So, hold on thy way,

For I shall be with thee.

And my angels shall encircle thee.

Doubt not what thou knowest,

Fear not man, for he

Cannot hurt thee. . . .

My kindness shall not depart from thee.

("My Kindness Shall Not Depart From Thee," Words and Music by Rob Gardner)

Yes, I sometimes experience frustrations, and life can be filled with turmoil. But without my faith in the Lord, Jesus Christ, and His atonement, I would be forever hopeless, depressed, and anxious. If my testimony were in the feeling I get when I go to church, the organization of it, people who attend, or even the character of the leadership of the church, I would have left long ago. It is not; however, so I have not, and I will not. Whatever else may happen in my life, I continue to have faith in God and cannot deny the truthfulness of the gospel nor the critical way in which I need Jesus Christ's atonement. So, amid the rocks and rapids of the world, church, and family, I will continue downstream with the peace that comes from doing what I know I need to do.

(BONUS: I love this talk by Elder Neal A. Maxwell, but didn't use it. Please enjoy it--the parts that are relevant to this topic, and those that aren't, but are still great!)

Dove, Doors, and WHO AM I, REALLY?

Complete the following quote from the popular musical, West Side Story:

"I feel ______!" 

A. Pretty

B. Average

C. Pretty average

###

You've probably seen at least one of Dove's Real Beauty Campaign videos: The one in which a rather typical looking woman is transformed (by means of multiple stylists, cosmetic products, and some Photoshop magic) into the sort of model we would normally see in advertising, or this depiction of women describing their own looks versus the much more positively described perceptions of others. I just saw their new segment involving a couple of signs (“Beautiful” and “Average”) labeling doors, and women choosing which door they enter. As would be expected, many women did not identify as “Beautiful,” and as such, chose to walk through the door marked “Average.” This simple act was foisted as a tragedy. I disagree.

While I agree that women should love themselves, I actually don't see feeling beautiful as a requirement to loving one's self. I certainly don't believe them to be synonymous. There is also the curious observation that my healthy perceptions of my own beauty are often indicative of the way I feel about myself overall, though not necessarily the other way around.

I'm not disputing the claim that we are all beautiful; I whole-heartedly support this idea. But in a world of such beautiful individuals, I believe the average (if we could model such objective concepts mathematically) to still be . . . beautiful. I find it perfectly acceptable that I identify with the status quo in a world where the standard level of loveliness is so high.

Besides, if there were multiple entry options, which door would each of us choose? Given my wide range of talents, abilities, and strengths (I've deactivated my sarcasm, so take me seriously!) I would not simplify my “me-ness” to be my outer shell—beautiful as it may be. Is that okay? Well, I'm okay with it, and around here, I make the rules. What I truly think and feel about myself when I'm alone is far more significant than an arbitrary door chosen when others were looking. A more telling choice than a publicly declared “Average” or “Beautiful” may be a privately determined “Beautiful,” “Compassionate,” “Creative,” “Intelligent,” (etc.) “All of the Above,” or “None of the Above.” Or, we could get right down to the heart of what we want to know—“Love myself,” or “What's there to love?”

This gets a bit deeper and grittier than the previously selected euphemisms, but if our goal is truly to find struggling women and help them feel good about themselves, why pretend? Let's do be real: If we want to make a change, there are more lasting and substantial ways to boost girls' and women's self-esteem levels (or, you know, anyone's—regardless of age or gender). Must all of our lifting be based on [feelings about] appearances? Let's sink our foundation deeper than that.

So we feel that our looks are average, or perhaps we think we're beautiful: Let us all walk through that door with confidence. I'm okay with whatever I may see when I look in the mirror because I know I am more than can be seen. With my average looks, my wit that exceeds expectations, and my satisfactory-level intelligence and kindness (among many other positive traits), I think I comprise a rather enjoyable package. I love me, and would invite you to do the same for yourself—regardless of the doors you may be walking through.

Confessions of a Cold-Hearted Curmudgeon

I've been away for a long while. I'd like to say that it's because I've been doing wonderful things, my house is clean, and I just haven't had time to write. Mostly I'd like to say that because it sounds a lot better than “I've been struggling to keep up with my own life . . . and, I've been watching a bit of Doctor Who on the side . . .” Because, ladies and gentlemen, I HAVE been watching a bit of Doctor Who. This is proof of my frailty as a mortal being.

You may not know this, but I am an ornery little cuss. Heart-warming videos with “Get the tissues, you're going to cry!” or “Look at all these laughing babies. Bet you can't watch the whole video without cracking a smile!!!!!” in the description become a personal challenge for me. “Oh? You think you're going to make me feel something? Doubtful.” I am so contrary that I have avoided books, movies, and etc. that have come highly recommended (“You will love this!”) because my pride can't handle the only two outcomes that ever occur: 1. They're right, I do love it; there goes my independence. Or, 2. HA! They were wrong! What a waste of my time. (This makes for a hollow victory, because really, I prefer being right while enjoying my media intake.)

This need to be right and in control of my emotions has led me to two things I always swore I would never do. (BTW, this seems an appropriate time to tell you that sometimes, I intentionally use the word "never"—just to stick it to Justin Bieber. “Never say never”? Psh. I do what I want.) Anyway, those two things? That I would never watch Doctor Who, and that I would never mourn the loss of a famous individual. You already know that the first never has been rescinded, so it's time I tell you about the second.

I have lived my life harshly scorning the hyped-up media coverage surrounding the deaths of celebrities. Insensitively, I rolled my eyes when fervent fans flooded the internet with expressions of sadness: “She (or he) touched my life. I am so sad,” “Watching all of their films in remembrance!” and of course, many eloquently stated “OMG. CaN't even beleeve this”-es, or something to that effect.

And I asked myself why they were all carrying on as though they had lost a dear friend or family member. I coldly accused the masses of having deluded themselves into thinking they had a relationship with this individual, made the base assessment that these people were—in effect—mourning the loss of an imaginary friend, and carried on with my own self-absorbed endeavors. But that was before today.

Today marks the passing of Leonard Nimoy. And while I'm not going to tell you that I've cried or that my life has changed dramatically due to his creative genius, I will tell you that I feel his departure with a sort of pensive melancholy that was previously unknown to me in this context. Also, it is entirely possible that Alex and I will be watching a bit of TOS this evening in remembrance of our favorite science officer. While we may not be full-out mourning, I can admit that Mr. Nimoy will be missed. How appropriate that he would be the one forcing my admittance of my own humanity.

So, whether you were a close friend, family member, or a distant admirer of the man, the Vulcan, and the actor, I am sorry for your loss. Your choice in feelings seems quite logical. 

 

Abandoning Perfectionism for the Hope of Perfection

I've never really liked New Year's Resolutions. You'll get a better taste of why by the end of this post, but suffice it to say that I have to approach my goal setting in a little different way than is traditionally presented because I hate that so many resolutions are made, broken, and abandoned by the beginning of February. I've been thinking about some of the goals that people make, and I've decided that I like the whole “I'm giving up _______,” thing. You know, like, some people give up sugar, soda, or carbs. Except, I've decided that I'm going to be giving up my expectations for perfection and the guilt/disappointment I experience when my [perfect] goals aren't met.

It's a hard line to walk—the one at the juncture of “I love myself just the way I am,” and “I strive to be better every day.” I've spent my whole life pinballing between my pursuit of perfection (accompanied by a side of heavy self-criticism, a dose of depression, and a dash of guilt) and my couch of apathy (which, oddly enough, seems to come with the very same side-effects.) And, as I find myself ricocheting from one end of the continuum to the other, I keep praying that I will be suddenly sucked into a gravity well that will keep me in the, of course, perfect balance of accepting myself and being my best.

It hasn't happened yet.

But I hope every day that, like the graph of y(x)=e^-x∙cos(2πx), as I approach infinity, my amplitude will continue to approach zero as I attempt to better myself. Unfortunately, just like the complex equation given above, I find that I can only continue to approach my “zero” (which in this case is perfection)--I can't actually reach it. Bummer.

This is a frustration that has affected every aspect of my life for . . . pretty much always. Ask my mom about doing my hair when I was little (Me: “My ponytail is bumpy, mom! I want it to be smooth!” Mom: “Malinda, it looks fine. Nobody can even tell!” Me: “But I can feel it, and it's bumpy!”). My wanting everything to be perfect stuck with me for awhile and was something everyone around me paid for, not just myself.

However, I recently (just before cutting my hair) made peace with the idea that it's okay for some hairdos to be a little messy. I stopped plastering my fly-aways to my head with hairspray and was finally able to do some cute inside-out ponytails and buns—which I had never been able to do before because I ran the risk of ruining my perfect ponies.

Another long-standing habit I kicked? Plucking my eyebrows. This was a big deal. In about ninth grade I decided I was done with bushy eyebrows and started compulsively plucking. This was . . . not a good idea. I went through years of trying to fix what I had done those many years ago, convinced that the only way to fix things was to keep pulling my eyebrows off my face. It was awkward. My grandpa commented on their unevenness, my mom told me I needed to stop, and even after I was in college, a guy in choir commented on my “unique” eyebrows. Anyway, after years of wondering what to do with one eyebrow that grows up and another that grows down, I decided to leave them alone.

Actually, I gave myself an overly simplistic Economics lesson first. It went something like this: “Self, there's a quantity and a price for beauty here. The price can be money and time, and the quantity can be determined by the question “Just how beautiful am I aiming to be?” If I'm honest with myself, there is an amount of time and money spent on my beautification process which I find to be worthwhile. Once I exceed a certain time or price, though, I find that reaching the “Supermodel” side of the x-axis is not actually that important to me. When I find the place on the graph where I'm willing to pay the price for the results I'm getting, it doesn't make sense for me to try to do more.”

This is exactly what happened with my eyebrows, and actually, I've found that the more natural look compliments the shape of my face better than any other I've had. I have applied this same concept to the amount of make-up I wear (I've stopped trying to cover my pimples—I was actually just making things look worse there, too), the style vs. price of my clothes, and (don't tell anyone!) the frequency with which I shave my legs. By letting a few things slip out of my “beauty routine,” I have found that I can still look and feel just as good—or better—without spending quite as much time and energy on things that weren't as important to me as I once thought. As my dad said the other day “Getting beautiful? Well, I thought you were beautiful before, so you apparently wasted all that time!”

I have tried to apply this same concept to my approach to housecleaning. I am still working to accept that some days I just won't get around to laundry and dishes, but I have tried to minimize the frustration I experience when some things just don't have a place, and others aren't in their given place. I am trying to make my housecleaning mantra: “Is my home clean enough that my family and I can feel the Spirit? [If yes,] Then what else matters?”

There are things about my house that matter. I am not going to become a hoarder and endanger anyone's health, but if our dishes are clean enough to eat off of, why do I need to worry about my floors meeting that standard? If my family is safe and we can enjoy our time at home, perhaps the hours I could spend scrubbing every surface to perfection could be better employed teaching my children how to love and care for each other—or keeping myself mentally and spiritually aligned so that I myself can add to an atmosphere of peace and comfort.

Of course, it's easier for me to write about these changes than it is for me to actually enact them. I slide back (frequently). And it's simpler to tackle the things that people see than it is for me to handle the inner, personal habits that few know about. I feel safer discussing confessions like “I don't want to lose weight, but I want to live healthily!” and “I don't just want to look good—I want to be good,” than I do admitting “I have a real problem trading my criticality for charity,” or “Sometimes I feel like a nasty person. Then I consider how blessed I've been and I feel even worse about being the way that I am.” These are the issues I would rather sweep behind my fridge and ignore than have to deal with. But they are oh, so more important than messy corners.

In conclusion, setting goals is hard for me. What begins as a gimmick that most people forget by February transforms into a thorough evaluation of my whole life and a long process from which I emerge blue, battered, and somehow bearing deep symbolism that may or may not be helpful as I proceed with my life. But I end with the same tone with which I began. To quote Elder Neal A. Maxwell,

Just as doubt, despair, and desensitization go together, so do faith, hope, charity, and patience. The latter qualities must be carefully and constantly nurtured, however, whereas doubt and despair, like dandelions, need little encouragement in order to sprout and spread. Alas, despair comes so naturally to the natural man!

Patience . . . permits us to deal more evenly with the unevenness of life’s experiences.
("Hope Through the Atonement of Jesus Christ," October 1998)

I know I have my limits. I just hope that *MATH ALERT*  like the graph from the beginning of this entry, my limit as x approaches infinity will be zero. Or, (for those of you who understandably panicked at the previous sentence) that as time goes by, I will continue to make fewer and fewer mistakes.

For this next year, my plan is to do the best that I can to improve myself while also better coping with unhelpful guilt and disappointment that will come as I try and fail to change. For me, this plan will include daily prayer and scripture study, trading out time and effort spent on activities that hold less value to me in order to spend more time doing what I love, and journaling regularly to assess my progress. 

In short, I think that this year my goal will be that rather than shame myself, I will instead use my goals to make me happier. It seems that one of the best ways to approach my resolutions would be with gratitude that I can even change at all. As Josh Groban sings in “Thankful,” there is indeed So much to be thankful for.

Happy New Year from the Streets!

 

Cat-astrophe: The Sequel

In which we adopt a ghost cat.

In the past week, I've apologized to my husband many times for adopting a cat. I've apologized for taking him by surprise. I've apologized because it wasn't a kitten. I've apologized because it was so loud. I've apologized because we had to keep it inside for a bit, that it somehow found its way into our vents, and that it showed up on our bed last night when we had locked it in the basement. Well, I am now done apologizing for our cat. Mostly because I think it has made its permanent escape.

Guys, I don't even know what to say anymore. Somehow I adopted either a feline ghost or Harry Houdini's kitty incarnate. How do these things happen?

WELL, let's rewind and see. *Whirring of a VHS tape* (if you don't know what that is, I've included a link to a historical site that can explain it) and, roll film:

Me: “Blah, blah, blah . . . pick up a cat . . . ?”

Alex: “WHAT?”

And later . . .

Me: “We should probably keep it in the house until it gets used to us. Just in the back room/basement area. It will be fine. What could happen?”

I now cut to an excerpt from Willa Cat-her's diary.

Day 6: IT'S A TRAP! Having fully explored my limited spaces, I approach madness. I don't think they can hear my cries. If only I could get closer, perhaps then they would listen.

The long winding tunnels have brought me closer to the humans. I hear them, and know that they must hear me, but they still ignore me. I have formulated a plan that will get me out of here. This will be my last entry, as tonight while they are sleeping, I will make my escape. I think for good measure I will stop by and jump on them on my way out. Vengeance is mine . . .

So, as you can see, our cat was no ordinary cat. We fed it, gave it water, brushed it, and pondered the best way to get it to stay with us when we let it outside. We had plans to start feeding it on the back porch today and transition it to the great outdoors. Unfortunately, once we became aware that the scheming demon had somehow found her way into and out of our duct work, we knew we would have to change our plans . However, we didn't want to put her out at night, so we went to bed hoping that she would be okay until the morning. My last comment was, “I think she'll come out when we go to bed and turn off the lights. I mean, there won't be any sound or light to attract her anymore. She'll come out.”

And she did—just not the way she went in.

We had been asleep maybe an hour when we were awakened by the loud mewing that doesn't usually come from our closet. I was ready to chalk it up to a crazy dream I was having when Alex jumped up saying “SHE'S ON OUR BED!”

He was mad. And as he chased the cat, she ran into to Melody's room and woke her up, which just made things worse. And thus it was that once Alex got his hands on the cat, she went unceremoniously out the front door along along with all the psychology with which we had planned to gain her trust. It was, as this entire cat and mouse business has been, quite unfortunate.

This morning, in a final effort to win our kitty's affections—if she's not already back with her previous family—we put her towel, food, and water out on our back porch. We keep checking for her, but I think she's long gone. If that's the case, I don't think we'll play this game again until it's kitten season. That leaves us lots of time to think about what we've done.

The moral of this story is:

Don't spontaneously adopt a full grown cat as a means of getting rid of mice. You will only be astonished at just how easily cats (and therefore mice) can find their way around the inside of your house.

Darn cat.

Rice and Mice: A Cat-astrophe

Love can drive people to do some pretty crazy things. So can fear of mice. The first is why I got married and had a baby; the second is the reason I got a cat.

Yeah, that's right: a cat.

At the risk of offending—something I'm getting pretty good at doing—the cat people among you, I have always been a full-blooded dog person. (When faced with the question of dog or cat. Wider options allowing, I'm more of a fish person, actually.) I won't say I swerve to hit cats or go out of my way to kick them, but I just don't care for their attitudes. Also, their sixth sense that allows them to find and bother people who don't like cats has always riled me. But, desperate times call for desperate measures.

We came home Sunday night and opened our kitchen cupboard looking for some dinner. What we found was a mouse stealing our rice. We'd known we had a mouse in our wall, but this made it all very real. I flipped. Alex kept telling me to calm down, but all I could think of were its little feet scurrying around and spreading diseases through my cupboard. I sat in the farthest room from the mouse's last known position and refused to believe that there was a mouse in my house. (There's nothing cute about mouses in houses, by the way. Dr. Seuss, I WOULD NOT WOULD NOT do anything with a mouse!)

After that, I got mad. How dare that mouse eat our food and live in our house? If only we had caught it before it discovered sustenance! Was it that my house wasn't clean enough? I would have cleaned my house better if it would have kept away rodents. And then I just got sad because I knew I could have kept my house cleaner (although, admittedly, this probably would have happened regardless of how clean things were). And as I sat and thought about all of the grossness I would now have to scrub away due to our furry little friend with the scurrying feet, I have to admit—I sort of shut down.

Once I had cycled through the first four stages of loss and grief, I was finally able to accept that we had a mouse in the house. It took at least a few hours of refusing to go into the kitchen for fear that . . . well, okay, I don't know exactly what I was afraid of, but I think it involved rodents infected with the Hantavirus jumping out of my cupboard and attacking me. Looking back now, I can see that was ridiculous, but it was real to me at the time. I also think it was made worse by the fact that Alex told me we were dealing with a black rat at least eight inches long not counting the tail.

This was an interesting experiment in psychology, because when I saw that mouse in our cupboard it was just that—a mouse. And it was brown. But after hearing that it was a large black rat, I started to think back and “remember” just how wrong I was. Yes, of course. It WAS black. And now that I think of it, it did resemble the rat from Lady and the Tramp (which, by the way, just caused me a bit of anxiety after looking at pictures of said rat). How did I not see it before?

Well, we (and by we, I mean Alex) set up a trap and caught the pest by the next morning. And when Alex showed me the little brown mouse, I panicked because WE DIDN'T GET HIM!

Alex assured me that we had. But we didn't! The one we saw was bigger and black; it was a rat! Wasn't it?

Nope. It wasn't. To quote Alex, “I only told you that because you were being . . . lame. I wanted to justify your fear.” Or feed it. Pfft. I had totally reprogrammed my memory to see what I thought I saw. Which totally happens a lot. See here for more on that.

Most of the time, I'm fine with pests. Spiders? I don't like them, but I can deal. Normal sized non-venomous snakes? I'd be a bit freaked out if one randomly found itself in my kitchen cabinet, but I feel like I would feel okay with removing it. Probably with my bare hands. But mice? Not okay. I think, as I've mentioned once or twice, it's their diseases and their scurrying little feet. Because they can scurry right up your leg and infect you with Hanta before you can say Jack Robinson. Gross.

Anyway, in between listening to just how disgusting I found rodents, my mom suggested some ways we could take care of this problem: Seal up our house, trap them, and get something that would eat them. I thought maybe we'd set a snake loose in our attic—or better yet—invest in a Basilisk, but after weighing the pros (no mice) and cons (finding one, explaining it to our guests—and in the case of the basilisk, possible petrification) of both these animals, my mom said she was actually meaning a cat. Hmm . . . a cat. It could work.

So, the very next day I was all over the local Facebook yard sale pages (like a mouse all over rice—too soon, too soon!) in order to find a cat. Then, I called Alex to ask if he could pick it up on his way home from work. He was a *little* surprised since it had only come up once, and we had interpreted the brief discussion completely differently. I came away thinking we had decided to get a cat, but he came away totally unsuspecting. And, now we have a cat. I like to think of it as payback for the whole rat incident.

We've been thinking about what to name it since it doesn't answer to its previous “name,” Oreo. I suggested that we name our cat Stevens (Hehe, Cat Stevens . . . never mind), but we actually think it's a girl. Which is why I just decided we could name her Willa Cat-her instead. But don't tell Alex, he is, once again, totally unsuspecting.

I guess that scores two points for cats: 1. They catch and eat mice. 2. You can name them anything--even things you wouldn't name your children--and they don't know any better.