We are the Panda-Champions

I like you all, so I'm going to share with you one of my favorite things I've cooked in a while as a sort of early-Halloween gift. Heather and I made this rather unusual (but festive!) chili on the fly and it came out super good. So good, in fact, that it won the ward Halloween party chili cook-off. I'm pretty proud of us. Here's an approximate recipe written after-the-fact—I did my best, but you should definitely feel free to adapt it to your own culinary whimsy :) Happy Halloween!

Halloween Harvest Chili 

3-4 sweet potatoes, diced

Olive oil

Sea salt

Pepper

2 cloves garlic, minced

2 small onions, chopped

1.5 Tbsp rosemary

1/4 tsp cayenne pepper

2 chicken breasts, cooked and diced

4 cans Great Northern beans

3 cans chicken broth
2 cups milk, divided

1 1/2 tsp chicken flavored bouillon

1 rounded tsp garam masala

1/2 tsp thyme

1/2 tsp basil

2 Tbsp masa flour (or regular flour)

1 hot yellow pepper (or any hot pepper you like)

1 cup raw pumpkin seeds (without shells!)

1.5 cups dried cranberries, coarsely chopped
1/3 cup(ish) of brie, cut into pieces (About 1/2 small wedge. Do what feels right.)

Pre-heat oven to 400°. Line two baking sheets in aluminum foil. In a medium mixing bowl, combine 4 Tbsp olive oil, 1.5 tsp salt, and 1/2 tsp pepper. Add sweet potatoes, toss to coat. Spread evenly on baking sheets. Bake about 8 inches below upper heating element for approximately 20-30 minutes. (I was checking them about every 5 minutes. Take them out when they're sufficiently roasted and "screaming.") Set aside.

While the sweet potatoes are cooking, combine 2 Tbsp olive oil, garlic, onions, rosemary, and cayenne pepper in a large pot. Cook on low heat until onions are translucent. Add chicken, beans, broth, one cup of milk, masala powder, thyme, basil, and whatever other herbs/spices tickle your fancy. Bring to a boil. In a small bowl, mix remaining cup of milk and flour. Add to soup while stirring constantly. 

Cut off the stem of the pepper and cut the pepper in half lengthwise. Remove seeds and white membrane. Flatten each half of the pepper and place skin-side up on an aluminum-foil lined baking sheet (I transferred all the sweet potatoes to one baking sheet, and then re-used the empty one). Broil 4-6 inches below the upper heating element for 8-10 minutes, or until the skins are dark. Remove from oven and wrap foil tightly around them. Take care, as foil will be extremely hot. Let peppers "sweat" in the foil for at least 15 minutes—this makes it easier to remove the skins. (I sped up the process by sticking them in the freezer.) When they're done, peel off the skin. Chop finely and add to pot.  

In small mixing bowl, combine 2 Tbsp olive oil and 1/2 tsp sea salt. Add pumpkin seeds, toss to coat. Place on aluminum foil lined baking sheet. Roast under broiler, about 5 minutes. Add to pot. 

Add sweet potatoes, cranberries, and brie. Stir to help melt brie. Add salt and pepper to taste. (It will definitely need salt ... we added it so sporadically that I have no clue how much it was. So add slowly and taste liberally!)

Serve warm with (homemade) bread!



Also, it looks pretty cute when you serve it in a pumpkin. If you can cut the pumpkin to fit a bowl in it, bigger win for you because you don't have to clean it out all the way :)

In Which I Dodge a Bullet

[If you can't handle a little scandal, 

this is the part where you need to stop reading. 

Consider yourself warned.
For those of you continuing on with us,
this story has a purpose,
so listen closely.]

Some time early last April, a friend (I won't implicate her by name in our shenanigans) and I took a trip to our favorite hot springs. It was an especially emotional night, the kind of night marked by the insatiable need to drive a long ways away and share a full moon with the full moon. We listened to great songs like "Goodbye Earl" by the Dixie Chicks, read essays out loud from Shauna Niequist's collection Bittersweet, and tried to drink Martinelli's (we didn't have a bottle opener, and it's hard with wet hands). We may have even shed some therapeutic tears. It started out as a really good night. 

I should explain the arrangement of these hot springs. There are two, just hanging out in the middle of a cattle pasture, each surrounded by a fence, maybe to keep the cows out, maybe to make it easier to find each of the hot springs. I'm not really sure. At any rate, the spring closest to the parking lot was occupied by a big group of people having a bonfire. We weren't really in the mood to intrude on their rowdy party, so we traipsed through the mud to the next spring which was about a five-minutes' walk across the pasture, and only slightly smaller and cooler than the first. From there, we could still see the bonfire and make out the people around it, but they were far enough away that we didn't particularly worry about them. After all, what would they want with us and our inferior spring?

As I was saying, we were having a good time. There's nothing like a good, warm dip in the middle of a frosty April night to free yourself of frustrations. We were enjoying the freedom and the beautiful night——there was a huge, full moon above the mountains, so bright we didn't even need our flashlights. In fact, we probably would have been more comfortable, swimming at distances as we were from each other, with a little more cloud cover. All the while, I was keeping watch of the other party, hoping they'd wrap things up pretty soon so we'd be able to go enjoy the bigger, warmer pool.

At some point, however, something happened: I was trying to bust our Martinelli's open on a rock when my friend suddenly said, "Oh my gosh, who is that?" Leaning on the outside of the fence, fully back-lit by the full moon, was the silhouette of a rather burly young man. He wasn't moving, wasn't talking ... just standing there, looking at us. We, of course, were up to our chins in the water since the air was cold, but we were instantly terrified. When we talked about it later, we both admitted that our first instinct was, "This is a demon from another world." He was that creepy, just standing there, not moving, not reacting. 

Call me stupid, but aside from the short-lived fear that this might be some apparition from hell, I didn't think much of my own safety. Instead, I got defensive. I grabbed a towel and started talking to him. I should say talking at him, because he didn't respond. After several minutes of yelling at him for being a creepy pervert who needed to get lost, he finally turned and started walking away. It was only then that I noticed two more guys on the north side of the spring (their view was definitely obscured by the rocks, so don't be scandalized. I really don't think anyone saw anything). Not one of them said a word; they just started slowly walking away until they were about 100 yards from the spring, at which point they started laughing and ran back to their lame bonfire. 

Needless to say, we were not pleased with the Creeper Peepers. We made ourselves decent, collected our possessions, and made a run for it. A pair of flip-flops was sacrificed in the deep mud of our return path (no way were we going near that bonfire group) and we quickly jumped into the car and headed back towards Provo. For the entire drive, we were filled with the pervading unease of those who have narrowly missed a potentially awful experience. My friend was, perhaps, more shaken up about what could have happened; I was mostly preoccupied with a sense of disgust at their behavior. I was angry that these jerks, who couldn't have known what was actually up (so nakie), had intended to harass us, and ended up being total creeps. Ultimately, neither of us were hurt by the experience, although we're certainly more cautious when we chunky dunk nowadays. 

This story is definitely one of my more interesting memories of the year, and I sure enjoy telling it. However, the reason I'm telling you this story is not for the sake of the story itself, but because of its metaphorical value and because I feel the same right now as I did driving away from those hot springs: a little shaken up, sure, but not hurt. Just glad that nothing really happened and that no harm was done to anyone I care about. But most of all, thoroughly disgusted that some people are so selfish, so deceitful, and so malicious in their treatment of others. It's sick. People like that are the reason people like me have trust issues. You'd think you'd be able to avoid them; you'd think you'd be able to just go into your own little private place and be happy and unbothered. Unfortunately, that's not always the case. You can't always just avoid things all on your own. 

There's this great part in Pride and Prejudice where Lizzie has just received the news of Lydia running away with Mr. Wickham. You know the scene. She's crying, wringing her hands, talking to Mr. Darcy, and mourning the terrible trouble that her sister has gotten into by running away with the most despicable womanizer among the whole of her acquaintance. When she's finally able to compose herself, she says:

"I might have prevented all this 

by being open with my sisters." 

How poignant is that? She and Jane had been worrying so much about saving Wickham's (and Darcy's) reputation and giving Wickham the benefit of the doubt that they let someone they loved get sucked into a living nightmare. To be fair, by the end of it, it seems Wickham's drawn the short stick in that relationship because Lydia is cray. But most of us are going to meet our own Mr. Wickhams in our lives, and a good portion of the time, our friends are going to be too polite and too kind to give us the head's up. We're going to go off thinking everything is fine, when the reality is that everything sucks and we just haven't realized it yet. Alas, we won't have Mr. Darcys to save the day when we've sunk ourselves that far into the muck. We're just going to be stuck being abused and abandoned by the dirtbags that don't actually care about us. The way I see it, we're all in trouble unless we do something to stop it. So consider this post a warning, my sweet, darling friends—a warning and a pledge. 

First, a warning that there are wolves in very convincing sheep's clothing. If things seem like they could be too good to be true, there's a very good chance that they're false. Keep your eyes open.

And second, a pledge——that I will never hold my tongue when I've seen the fangs of the wolf beneath that that fluffy, white, harmless-looking pelt. No one deserves an unexpected bite, especially when someone nearby saw it coming from a mile away.

It might sound like I'm condoning gossip, and maybe I am, but for me it comes down to the question of whether I'm going to be polite to people, kind to them, or do right by them. And while what I have to say about certain people may not be polite or kind, I hope that I only do it in trying to do right by you, in trying to protect you from the wolves and Wickhams out there.

It's true, we don't want to be poisonous back-biters who give people undeserved reputations. But frankly, I'd rather give someone a bad reputation (especially if they do deserve it) than watch them wreak emotional havoc on someone I care about. Personally, I praise the heavens above that I had a decent group of friends who took the time to do this for me today, unpleasant though it was to hear. 

Let's do each other a solid, ladies. Let's do right by each other. Please?

Goodbye London, Hello 'Merica ... two weeks late

So, I haven't blogged in nearly a month--not for real. I've got a couple drafts lying around that just never got posted, and you can't always post these things when you're not in the moment anymore ... Which is why I need to get this obviously necessary post off my chest before it just gets embarrassingly late.

Thirteen days ago, I left London. (Okay, it's already embarrassingly late.)

I got up at five in the morning on Monday, August 6th. I had intended to sleep in until at least six or seven, since I didn't have much of anything left to do at the flat, but the cat, Moppet, had woken me up to let him out and I just couldn't get back to sleep thanks to my bizarro travel-excitement-slash-anxiety (which had been building for days, especially once Averyl left on Friday because that was just depressing). With the abundance of time, I turned on Olympic Breakfast on BBC and took my own sweet time doing all the moving-out things. Finally, it was nearly eight, so I got my suitcase, my ridiculously heavy carry-on (I had to put all of my books in it because they were too heavy to go in my suitcase. Boo.), and my enormous backpack, and headed for the bus stop.

I caught the 121 for the last time somewhere around 8:02 in the morning and took the 20 minute ride to Oakwood Station, where I got on the Piccadilly Line. Oakwood is the second-to-last stop on the northernmost end of the line (the last stop is called Cockfosters ... ) and I was bound for Heathrow Terminal 5—the very last stop on the southernmost end. I was on there for somewhere around an hour and a half. It wasn't the fastest way there, but it was the way that involved the least amount of suitcase dragging, so I think it was worth it. Plus, getting on so early in the route meant that all the luggage areas were free, and I would be able to sit right next to it. (Remember what I said earlier about travel anxiety? You have no idea how much time I spent thinking about this garbage.) (I also just want to point out that when I arrived at the Tube stop for Heathrow Terminal 5, I had accurately estimated a 2 hour trip within sixty seconds. That's pretty impressive. Just sayin'.)

I didn't know this, having only flown in to Heathrow and not ever out of Heathrow, but their baggage check and security lines are slick. I was through both of them in less than ten minutes. Another (un)fortunate side-effect of my travel anxiety is that, instead of falling to pieces, I get horrifically efficient and almost machine-like in my manner. I mean, it's good ... but it's not so great when you give yourself a comfortable time cushion, and then that time cushion gets ridiculously huge because you're being such a travel-boss, the airport's being awesome at doing what they do, and then your plane gets delayed. So I sat in the airport for over an hour.

A little bit about the airport, for those of you who care... it's quite posh. All Dolce & Gabbana and a miniature Harrod's and Bulgari and Coach and Gucci and Dior and Prada and Tiffany & Co. and whatnot. What was most ridiculous to me was that there were actually people buying things. You don't go to an airport to shop! Everything in airports is like twice as expensive as it is outside the airport! And who even wants to have extra crap to carry?? It was absurd.

But let's get moving because there's a lot more story to tell and so far, I'm still in London.

My plane was supposed to depart at 12:15 for Toronto. It didn't quite make that, and we ended up being at least a half an hour late, if not more, due to some minor doohickey requiring engineer sign-off. We also got the great news that there was a strike going on with the caterers in Toronto which meant that the plane had to carry the food for its outgoing and return trips. Apparently, this didn't change much of anything except that the trays were smaller. Whatever. The flight to London was much more magical than the flight out of London ... I guess they're more concerned with impressing new visitors on the way in than after they've finished with the country. All that being said, they did have The Avengers on demand, and what with my brand-spankin'-new Tom Hiddleston obsession, I was on that like white on rice.

I think I was also going a little nutty at this point from all the travel anxiety; I knew I had a speedy connection to make in Toronto, and every minute that ticked by on the ground at Heathrow was another minute I'd be spending running through the Toronto airport like a chicken with my head cut off.

Once we were off the ground, things started getting better. The weird thing about an eight-hour flight is that it feels like it's never going to end, but when it's over, it doesn't feel like it's been eight hours at all. Especially when you're flying east-to-west because you're pretty much going backwards in time. Of course, the on-demand movies and TV really help. In addition to The Avengers, I watched Salmon Fishing in the Yemen and a few episodes of Modern Family. Aaaaannnndddd I ate a lot of food :)

Anyways, we arrived in Toronto I think around 4:00ish in the afternoon [8:00 p.m. London time]. The airport was weird--the terminal we arrived in was really empty and deserted looking, but then it just got more and more crowded as we went along. I was racing through, bumping into people left and right. Then the line for immigration was ridiculous. Freaking Canada. Fortunately, I didn't have to wait at all in the connections line and basically got straight to the counter, although I was a complete nervous wreck by this point.

Then came the waiting for the baggage. What a nightmare. My need to arrive at airports early is really an issue because I think there's some evil magic that happens that means they put my bags on the plane first ... and then they have to come off last. I swear, my bag is always one of the last ones to come down onto the stupid conveyor belt. It's obnoxious. I finally got it, ran past a pack of elders, and then went upstairs to check my bag for my next flight.

Unfortunately, the travel gods were not smiling upon me, and I was too late to check in at the kiosk. So then I had to talk to a real person (always the worst) ... and they told me I was going to miss my flight to Chicago. Well, that wasn't awesome, but I figured it would be okay. Then I heard these words:

"We're not going to be able to get you into St. Louis tonight."

I literally started crying that instant. Because at this point, I've been awake and busy and anxious and travelling for approximately 15-16 hours, which is about the amount of time I typically spend awake before going to bed, except that I knew I had two more planes and two hours in the car minimum standing between me and my bed.

Oh, and let's not forget the fact that I'd been waiting for this day since before I even left the States. You don't just tell a girl who's been waiting to come back home since before she even left three months ago, and tell her that she's going to have to sleep in an airport and wait until the next day to go home. You just don't. And if you do, she's going to cry in public and humiliate herself. The only good thing about crying in public is that people really want to make you stop, which means that the wonderful employee at the desk got the manager's approval to re-route me to Kansas City that night at no extra charge.

I got a hold of my family, let them know I was due to arrive in KC at 11:45 p.m. [5:45 a.m. London time] and went through customs and security. The customs agent was not pleased to welcome me back to America. I didn't really care. I waited in the Toronto airport for a couple of hours before I finally found myself with a seat on an over-booked plane (it was overbooked before they booked me on it, so I don't feel totally bad for taking someone's spot). The flight was slightly delayed, but hey, I was going to sleep in my own bed and not in an airport and that was good enough for me. I got to sit on my favorite kind of airplane seat (aisle AND window at the front of the plane with no pesky people stealing your armrests--every good thing you can have in an airplane seat, in my opinion) and the steward gave me the whole can of Diet Coke (caffeine SO needed at this point, obviously). It was great. 

The Chicago airport is my favorite. Best bathrooms of all time. If you've been there, you understand; if you haven't, the toilets automatically dispense plastic sanitary covers onto the seats, which is aaaaaamazing. (It's  all about the little luxuries of life, y'all. Appreciate them, dang it.) Of course, the travel gods were still holding me in contempt and my plane was yet again delayed, but not by too very much. Just enough to annoy me.

The flight from Chicago to Kansas City was alright. Apparently I used up all of my good-seat points on the previous flight, because I ended up in a middle seat with people on either side of me. I almost couldn't remember the experience because I was so tired that I fell asleep before they even did the safety thing. I don't think we'd even left the gate yet. When I woke up just a few minutes before we landed, my knee was touching that of the guy next to me ... nothing like a little unintentional intimacy with a stranger to alarm you back into full consciousness.

We landed in Kansas City just a few minutes after midnight, and since my mom and Alyssa hadn't arrived yet, I headed down to baggage claim to get my bag. As per usual, it was ridiculously slow in making it off the plane, but it got there safe and sound and intact, which is more than some people get.

The drive from Kansas City to Jefferson City is approximately three hours. At 2:20 a.m. [8:20 a.m. London time], we stopped in a McDonald's parking lot to take a nap. It was only supposed to be twenty minutes or so, but we all just passed out and slept for a full hour. When we woke up, we went through the drive-thru. I had a McGriddle. Definitely an ideal first-meal-back-in-'Merica. I have exactly zero regrets on that front. It was delicious. Once that was all done, we kept driving and made it back to the house around 4:30-5ish a.m.—which is nearly 11 a.m. London time.

So, if you were keeping count, I got up at 5 a.m. Monday morning and didn't make it to my bed until 11 a.m. Tuesday morning, on my London clock. That is a lot of hours. 30 hours, to be exactish. Especially since Tube, plane, airport, and car sleep don't count at all in situations such as these. Luckily enough, I didn't have any weird sleeping habits in getting over jet lag. I got right on a normal sleeping schedule. Sure, it took a few days for my mood to catch up with me, but that's still pretty good, I think. Now, I'm home. For the next few days anyways. On the 23rd, it's back to Provolone . . .



I definitely didn't intend for this to become a long story of my trip home, but I guess it's all I really have to say. I'm sure you all expected something a little more ... London-y. A little more conclusive, explanatory, descriptive. But to be honest, I don't think you're ever going to see anything like that. Not for a long while anyways.

You see, there's this problem about experiences like these in that you can tell little stories of little things that happened here and there ... but I'm never going to be able to put into words any kind of succinct statement of what those three months were. With all the words in the world, I don't think I'd ever be able to make anyone fully understand what they were like. It's incredibly frustrating for someone like me who likes to tell the long story and give the full explanation (Exhibit A: The previous twenty-two paragraphs of travel vomit that I deposited on you. (Twenty-two?! I am out of control. And I'm amazed if you made it all the way down here. Good job you! I will totally give you a gold star sticker if you want one because you're a freakin' trooper!)). It's so hard to know that I will never be able to have someone else understand exactly what my experience in London was; it's an incredibly lonely feeling.

But then again, I guess life's all like that. We're all just doing things and experiencing things and nobody really understands everything exactly the way that anyone else does because they can't experience it exactly the same way.

It being Sunday, I find it very appropriate to take a moment and just say how glad I am that Christ understands us perfectly. I'm so glad that He knows exactly what we've been through, exactly the way we feel, and exactly what we need to be able to move forward. It makes life so much easier, so much less lonely, to know that He is there, to know that no matter how much it seems like no one understands ... He does.

That's all I've got for you today :)

A Rather Short Long Story

It was as I was standing on a stool in the kitchen 
with a purple polka dotted towel tied precariously around my waist 
after having taken my first adult-sponge bath, 
leaning over the wet microwave on the counter 
and a sink full of dirty dishes and white carnations 
with the cabinet door jamming into my shoulder, 
and staring as water transferred from the enormous bowl under the boiler 
to the measuring cup I was holding, 
elbows resting awkwardly on the wet microwave, 
through a siphon I'd crafted from blue and pink bendy straws, 
that I found myself wondering, 
How was your Saturday night?

Love-don

This past Wednesday night, I made a most astonishing discovery. It came upon me as we were walking from The Globe after a particularly risqué performance of Shakespeare’s The Taming of the Shrew. Loathe though I am to admit it, I prefer the Heath Ledger/Julia Stiles interpretation, most especially, now, for the lack of blinding white full-moon-light (if you catch my drift …) involved. At any rate, I think 10 Things I Hate About You injected a fair portion of romance that the original play lacks, and this lack of romance, in combination with the aforementioned moonlight, left me feeling somewhat less than amorous.

You can imagine my surprise, then, when I discovered that London is quite, well … romantic. (Or, as Averyl would put it, “ro-tic,” since there was actually no “man” involved.) We had walked out of the theater and were crossing Millennium Bridge (the one the Death Eaters destroy in Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, which is how I recognized it) when this enormous and potentially summer-changing discovery occurred. 

Death-Eater-ized Millennium Bridge

Real Millennium Bridge

I should point out that Averyl and I had had a conversation a few hours earlier about how sometimes you want to jump off a bridge, just for the thrill of it, but looking at the Thames quashes that desire almost instantaneously. It’s a foul, filthy, brown river with outrageous quantities of rubbish floating in it. I mean, it is really disgusting. The kind of thing that would make you want to bathe in bleach if you ever accidentally touched it. Visually, it has no redemptive qualities, in my opinion.

Anyways, as I was saying, we were walking over the Thames on Millennium Bridge. It was pretty late, as the play had started at 7:30, so obviously it was dark outside which meant that you couldn’t tell that the river was brown anymore. Instead, all you could see were the reflections of lights on the water, just sparkling all twinkly-like. Each of the bridges were lit up and looking ever so lovely, and the absolute treat of it all was looking at St. Paul’s Cathedral sitting right at the end of the bridge. The way it’s lit up at night is like seeing life in high-definition—by which I mean that when you look at St. Paul’s at night, you feel like you’re seeing more of it, crisper details. Maybe it’s just the fact that my eyes have been afflicted by allergies and my contacts seem to get dirty fairly easily and quickly, so it’s entirely possible that my vision is usually diminished. But that cathedral… Wow. It was a remarkable sight.

Millennium Bridge at night

I suppose this whole thing is a little pathetic. After nearly two months of living here, you would think that I’d have discovered the city’s romantic side. I know that, more often than not, I’m the kind of girl that enjoys romance in movies and books and all, but not in real life because I just can’t get into it without feeling Kraft Mac’n’Cheese “The Cheesiest” … but even still. You’d think you’d be able to drop an English major who lives on a steady entertainment diet of Masterpiece and 19th century novels, and expect her to immediately realize the romantic potential of one of the world’s greatest cities.

But not so! During the daytime, I’ve got a pessimist’s eye for tourists (because, as a 3-month resident, I’m allowed to hate them a little bit) and pigeons (sorry Natalie J!) and litter and expense … and frankly I’m getting more than a little tired of having Fifty Shades of Grey coming out of my nose every time I've spent a few hours in the city. (I’m also obviously more than a little judgmental of seeing so many women reading Fifty Shades of Grey on the tube. Shouldn’t they be a little more embarrassed to be reading that filth in public?)

As for my perceptions of the city come nightfall, if I’m ever out alone past dark (which happens very, very rarely), I basically feel like I’m walking through a death trap that’s riddled with people who want to mug, rape, murder, or take me and sell me into an eastern European human trafficking ring. Don’t worry—I’ve imagined the entire spectrum of horrors that could potentially befall me on my five minute walk from the train station to my front door.

Anyways, I’m getting away from my point (as always), so I suppose I’d best get to it: friends, it is a curious coincidence that in the very same week that I discover the truly romantic potential in this enormous city, I should also fall in love.

Yes, it’s true: I have somehow, magically, mysteriously, and beautifully fallen in love …


... with buses.

Oh, boohoo. Don’t pretend to be disappointed and get your pants (that's British English for "underwears") in a twist. Just calm down and let me tell you about buses and why I’m hopelessly in love with them.

London’s double-decker buses are iconic—of this you are almost certainly aware. They’re as “London” as Big Ben and probably the most frequent way of establishing modern London as the setting in a movie. When you get to London, you can’t help but smile the first time you lay eyes on that flashy cherry paint … and sometimes you can’t help it even after you’ve seen hundreds of them. (Not gonna lie, I’m significantly more likely to smile if it comes with a Magic Mike advert. I won’t ever see that movie, but I can guiltlessly enjoy the fruits of the advertising campaign.) They’re just cheery, and since much of London is a generally grayish-brown sort of color, that pop of red is lovely. Plus, red is my favorite color. I’m naturally predisposed to love setting my eyes on them.

I’ve ridden on plenty of buses recently, but during my first month here, I tried to avoid them since they are much slower than the tube, and besides that, expensive, especially considering how long it takes to get anywhere. Because of all this, it wasn’t until a few weeks ago that I first got the chance to ride in the front seats on the second deck of the bus. Riding in any of the other seats, even on that second deck, pretty much feels like riding on any lame old bus anywhere. It’s not a big deal at all. The front seats, however, are like a theme park ride. A really slow and lurchy theme park ride, but certainly more exciting than anything else. You’re right up against the glass and you get an awesome view of where you’re going. It’s so much fun to just watch the people down on the street, and the number of times you think you’re going to hit something (or someone) is so high that you almost feel dangerous. Hark back to Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, and recall the scene where Harry’s on the Knight Bus, and it squeezes between two double-deckers—you have no idea how accurate of a portrayal that is. Buses are reckless and exciting and I just love them.

Another reason I love buses is that they’re a great way to explore the city without having to walk a million miles. Several weeks ago, I walked twelve and a half miles around London with a hefty backpack and lousy shoes, so I feel qualified to tell you that if you want to really get a good view of London, get a picture of what it looks like and feels like and moves like, you need to spend some time on a bus. Yes, get off every now and then to see the museums and get lunch. (I don’t recommend eating on the bus, both because of the non-optional exchange of hand-sweat from touching the handrails, and because it’s kind of gross to be on public transit and smelling someone else’s lunch, especially if it’s hot and a badly ventilated bus.) By all means, get a closer look. But buses let you see so many interesting things! And they don’t make your feet hurt for days afterwards.

A couple of days ago, I went out searching for this new style of bus that they’ve just developed. I think there’s only one or two in service, and they’re only running on one route right now, but they’re beautiful things. They bring back the old Routemaster style—the kind that lets you hop on the back whenever the bus is stopped, which is something you really come to appreciate after the tenth time you’ve missed a bus by ten seconds and have to wait for another 12 minutes for the next one to come.

Check that back end out. Dat a bootylicious bus right thurr.
...Since I'm being so PC, go watch Beauty and the Beat.

Anyways, I wasn’t bored enough to wait for it to come along the route, so I just got on one of the other buses and took it all the way to the end (though I did catch a few glimpses of this spectre-of-the-transport-gods). I had intended to get off and go to a park to read and work, but then it was raining when I got off so I figured, heck I can read as well on a bus as on a park, so why not get back on? And that’s what I did. I just rode buses around London for a few hours, and it was fabulous. I got to sit in the front seats, and it was a lovely day though I didn't get very much reading done because I was enjoying the ride so much.

I should point out that buses are great for leisurely experiences. They’re absolutely wonderful if you don’t really care where you’re going or when you get anywhere. They are, however, a nightmare if you want to get anywhere at any specific time. Today, for example, we missed our train and so we had to take a bus to another tube stop. (Then I had to take the Underground to an Overground station, take the Overground to get on another Underground line to get to the stop I needed. Talk about your transportation mess.) I was probably on that bus for over half an hour. It was delightfully sweltering outside today which was a grand break from the typical chilly wetness, but the heat is not so delightful when you’re trapped in a metal box with twenty other people. Especially when that box is a single-decker without any of the lovely front seats. If I could have sat in some of those, it would have been much more bearable. Instead, it was a bumpy, lurching oven of body stink that periodically stopped for no reason or person at all. I was not overjoyed because I hate being late, I hate making other people wait for me. It’s a pain in the neck on its own without the added misery of an unpleasant journey.

Perhaps at this point you're thinking me a fool for loving the buses so much. And yet, such is love, is it not? I mean, sometimes you’re just into something that’s great for leisure and entertainment and fun, but not so great for when you’re actually trying to go anywhere with any sort of haste or accomplish anything according to any kind of schedule.

Consider me a hopeless victim of the Transport for London game. I’m a lost cause, for the next thirty-nine days, at least.

Happiness

So, as you might have noticed, this blog has a tendency to favor topics within the realm of the ridiculous, the irritating, the strange, and the completely emotionally haywire. And while it is a lot of fun and/or a lot cathartic to blog this way, sometimes I think it's important to break from that and talk about the good stuff. You may or may not have noticed that for the past year (or more?) I've had some incredible quotes about happiness posted on the right side of my blog. If you haven't read them before, I'd highly recommend it. They are really great, and I put them on there because they do comfort me, and they are reminders to me of the happiness that we can truly have in our lives.

I've been thinking a lot lately about the phrase, "And they lived happily ever after." In fact, I think something to that extent was posted above our front door this past year, so we saw it every time we left the house. Being a total romantic, I love this phrase, and yet I've come to realize that it's often misinterpreted. In fact, I think I was guilty of misinterpreting it for a long time. You see, we watch these movies where the prince finds his princess and they ride off into the sunset, and that's the last we ever hear of them, as if that's all you need to be happy, just to find that one perfect person. So we get ourselves in the mess of searching for our own "happily ever afters." 

Let's switch gears for a minute. I'm going to tell you about one of my favorite scriptures. It's in 2 Nephi 5, and Nephi's talking about how his elder brothers have been making life difficult, so he and everyone willing to follow him have broken off from them. This is basically right when we start having the distinction between the Nephites and Lamanites. They go off by themselves and start their new community, and they're keeping the commandments of the Lord, and they're farming and raising livestock. They're reading the scriptures. They're making weapons to use to protect themselves from the Lamanites. They're learning how to build buildings, and how to work with wood and rocks and metals, and presumably making all kinds of cool things. They're building a temple so that they can worship God. They start to organize the Church by ordaining priests and teachers among the people. And then Nephi puts in this gem——my very favorite verse in this chapter, verse 27: 

"And it came to pass that we lived after the manner of happiness." 

Sound familiar? Except without the slightly deceptive "ever after" part? The way I see it, looking only for our own "happily ever after"s is taking things out of context. As the old lady at the end of Ever After would say, "The point ... is that they lived." 

I think we should take it just a little bit further——the point, really, is that,
They lived happily; they lived after the manner of happiness.

If you've been reading my blog for the past couple of weeks, if you've chatted with me on Facebook, or Skyped with me, or talked to someone who has (and they've been honest with you), you probably know that life has been incredibly difficult for me since I got to London. I have been miserable. I have been desperate to go home. I have swilled who knows how many Pringles of Patheticness. (No, I'm not going to tell you how many.) I have spent days just sitting on a couch trying to pretend I'm not in London. I have procrastinated anything resembling productivity. I have cried Niagra Fallses of tears on a regular basis. In short, it has been anything but a walk in Hyde Park.

But thankfully (blessedly) I turned a corner, and finally realized that I have two choices: 

I can be happy, or I can be miserable. 

That's always the choice though, isn't it? Every day, we are bombarded with choices, and while some of them don't really have any bearing on eternity, just about every other choice can be boiled down to happiness or misery. When we get to the other side, we're going to receive our rewards "according to [our] works, whether they were good or whether they were bad, to reap eternal happiness or eternal misery" (Alma 3:26). We have a choice to be happy or miserable, both now and "ever after." 

So what are we going to do? 

Are we going to be miserable forever? 

Or are we going to live happily, fit our lives and our choices according to the manner of happiness, and endure to the ever after?

Personally, I like the sound of that second option a lot better. Don't you? 

Well, I have both a ton more to say, and nothing left to say, so I think I'll just leave you with a quote from a man whose life was anything but easy. It's one that always inspires me to try more fully to choose to live after the manner of happiness, and I hope you enjoy it as much as I do:

"Happiness is the object and design of our existence; and will be the end thereof, if we pursue the path that leads to it; and this path is virtue, uprightness, holiness, and keeping all the commandments of God."
- Joseph Smith

P.S. Don't miss out on the Bonus Material——things that didn't make the main-post cut, but which I think are still worth sharing.

↓

Hungry

Okay, I've hit another low point. Not emotionally, but food-ally. 

I have been ravenous like 24/7 for the past week. My host family keeps saying, "Oh yeah eat whatever you like whenever you like! It's not a problem! Make yourself at home!"

No, you don't understand. I am like an out-of-control wood chipper right now.
I CANNOT BE SATISFIED!

(Wow. Attractive, Kayla. Real attractive ...)

But honestly, it's like the worst thing right now because, for all the "make yourself at home"-ing, I can't actually bring myself to seek nourishment in their kitchen. I think it's just part of the still feeling like an intruder, and even though I'm a paying intruder, it still feels weird to just go in and take other people's food. At least, not when they're awake and they can hear me in there. Blame it on society, but I have a weird sensitivity to people knowing how much I eat, whether it's a large or small quantity. I think it might be a girl thing. Also, I don't want to accidentally justify the Fattie American Stereotype by my behavior. 

And I honestly don't think they understand how much I could put away right now. Or they wouldn't be saying these things to me. 

The other thing about being an American in a British home is that I'm used to looking at a huge kitchen with tons of storage space and huge Costco containers of food to fill that storage space. This is not the way in the UK. Everything is small: small flat, small kitchen, small cabinets, small fridge, small containers. The only thing that appears to be bigger is the carrots. (Seriously, they're behemoth carrots that have like the same diameter as my forearm. Not wrist. Forearm. I'm talking like right before my elbow. They're seriously monstrous.) But really, I'm used to either having my own stock of food in my apartment where I'm the only one who eats it and therefore who cares how much I eat because no one else is paying attention, OR I'm at home with my family and we're all trying to hide the fact that the good snacks are open, and then there are at least four other people to blame when it's all gone, and besides my whole family gets just as hungry as I do, so no one actually feels like a fatty. We're all in the same boat, ya know? Anyways, this whole small-food container thing is kind of a problem because if you even take a handful, it's like everyone knows. Supe-totes-embarr. 

Another UK food thing: it's not normal (ahem, American) food. That's not to say that it's gross, or that my host family has been feeding me nasty things. They haven't; it's been lovely food. But there are all these weird things that I never saw back home: strange cheeses with cranberries embedded in them, enormous unsalted oyster crackers, weird salamis and pepperoni-like meats.  And the things that are imported American brands are ... different. Campbell's soup comes in a powdered form and is completely salt-less. Soda comes in weirdly shaped bottles. Lays potato chips are sold under the "Walkers" brand, and they're not chips, they're "crisps," and the flavor I know as Original is here called "Ready Salted." (There seems to be a general lack of saltiness overall that I just can't seem to account for. I mean, this is an island. It's surrounded by salt water. Can't you fit a little into your diet? Sheesh!) At some point, I'm going to have to see if the English McDonald's is up to snuff. I only pray they salt the fries (chips?), because if they In-N-Out me, I'm going to be cheesed. 

I feel like I'm in a real Hunger Games. As in, I'm hungry and my body's playing games with me. Mean games like "I'M GOING TO GROWL AT YOU UNTIL THE REST OF FOREVER" and "LET'S MAKE YOU THINK OF EVERY DELICIOUS FOOD ITEM EVER AND TEASE YOU MERCILESSLY!" and "I WILL NOT STOP UNTIL YOU CRY OF HUNGER AND MAYBE EVEN THEN I STILL WON'T STOP BECAUSE I'M MEAN AND I HATE YOU FOR NOT ESTABLISHING A CONVEYOR BELT BETWEEN YOUR MOUTH AND THE PLACE WHERE THE FOOD COMES FROM!"

All this being said, it's not as if I've just been sitting here languishing all day. I've been trying to combat my hunger, really. I've been ignoring it, more or less, all day long. I've been looking at foodie blogs (also referred to as "food porn") periodically throughout the day and just salivating like a rabid dog. Maybe that's been making it worse though. 

I dunno. 

All I know is that this is ridiculous, and stupid self-conscious me is definitely going to be seeking some midnight snackage just as soon as everyone else is in bed.

Travelling Alone

When you're travelling alone for long periods of time, it's best not to think about the things you miss. At least, not at the beginning when they will be able to haunt you for months. Maybe wait until the last couple of weeks (or days, depending on your fortitude) before you let your brain start thinking of these things. Distract yourself, and for goodness' sake, make sure you have lots of Nutella all the time. You know, for when you crack a little bit. Nutella's like plaster; works just the same, I swear it.

When you're stuck sleeping on a couch, it's best not to think about how much you miss your bed.
When your flat iron just doesn't seem to want to work with your power converter, try not to think about how much you miss American electrical plugs.
When you come home, are locked out, and spend the next four hours walking aimlessly around some of London's nicer boroughs, try not to think about how much nicer it would be to just wait at a friend's house for your roommate to come home.
Or how nice it would be to have a key in the first place.
When you're walking across the street and you can't brain which direction traffic is supposed to be flowing, try not to think about how much you miss the level of certainty with which you jaywalked.
When you're starving, try not to think about how much you miss having a full-sized kitchen where you had all the ingredients to make cookies.
Try not to think about how much you miss not feeling like an intruder in someone else's home.
Try not to think about how much you miss having real friends to do things with.

I need to stop posting things like this. I'm not having a terrible time, I swear. I'm just generally stressed right now and so hungry that I don't hardly know what to do with myself. And can I tell you how many livestock I would kill for a Café Rio sweet pork salad right now? Like twelve. I'm not desperate enough to start killing people, but I would shoot twelve cows right now for one of those bad boys. Plus they can later become my McDoubles. Omnomnomnomnom.

Change: Part II

Read previous post, "Change: Part I."


I didn't get excited about London until approximately the time that my plane from Chicago was passing over Nova Scotia, about to start the Atlantic crossing. I know, because there was a moving map in the seat back video screen that showed our progress. Until that point, I was pathetic. I cried on the way to St. Louis, and after that breach of my carefully crafted Not-Thinking-About-It Blinders, I went into shut-down mode and subscribed to the silence and apathy of the completely defeated. I felt like I was trapped in the downward spiral of doom. But you know all this because you read my previous post.

Let me, instead, tell you what coming to London is like. 

The whole getting-into-the-plane-and-settled was is like living in a movie. You know they speak with British accents, but then when it's happening, it sounds so cloyingly British that you almost don't believe it. She has to be faking, right? And there's really refined classical music playing on the intercom. Should there be a doily on your armrest? Maybe. You're not really sure, and you suddenly feel under-dressed.

You start keeping tabs on the people around you, noting the things they do and the way they act. They'll all have nicknames by the end of the flight: seated next to you are the PDAsians, who seem to be fighting the urge to somehow yoga themselves together in one ball. Then there's North-African Kanye, his mom, and Liver-Spot  Ears (later known as The Guy Who Opened the Window at 3 A.M. U.S. Central Time and Ruined Your Ability to Sleep and Compute Time Measurement). Directly behind you is the Guy Who Periodically Jostles Your Seat. You can't tell if he's really being a jerk, or if he has a kicking child in his lap. A couple of rows in front of you is the goldmine who gets a new nickname almost hourly: Safari Guy, Delicate, Loaded Geek, and Bug-Eyes (so called because of his hyper-utilitarian sleeping mask). Then there's the staff: Angry Kurt Hummel on Estrogen, and Frenchie.

You're in the aisle, which is nice, but also means that any unstable walkers may use your head to catch their balance. They may not notice their mistake. You eat dinner during the movie, and though it's after nine o'clock in the timezone you're coming from, you eat everything, especially the marbled cheesecake. Afterwards, you kind of wish you drank coffee or tea just so you could use the cute cup on the tray.

Anxiety hits for a few moments as your plane flies over Ireland, without any explanation, and suddenly goes away. Your plane hits the ground within the hour, whatever hour that is. You follow the mass exodus through the airport and up to the area marked "UK Border." When it's your turn to face the immigration officer, you hear the word "study" slip out of your mouth, and immediately begin to fear that you're going to get grilled; she asks you what you're studying, you blurt something short about art, literature, and culture. She jokes about you liking poetry and sends you on your way. You feel slightly odd about spending your first moments "officially" in the country being made fun of.

Certain things stand out to you upon your arrival to England. The familiar upside-down red triangle signs with the unfamiliar "Give Way" posted on them. How you rarely see the word "Exit," but instead see the words "Way Out." Elevators called "Lifts," and Restrooms called "Toilets." Instead of going to Baggage Claim, you go to "Baggage Reclaim"—you can't decide which of these terminologies makes more sense. The "Toilets" look like port-a-potty stalls and, coincidentally, also happen to smell like port-a-potty stalls.

The next couple of hours go by in a blur. You have moments of feeling completely in control and other moments where you feel like you're drowning. You feel confused because it's really Wednesday night, but your brain feels like it's still Tuesday. (You blame Liver-Spot Ears for opening that window and exposing you to sunlight in the middle of the night.) Weirder yet, your body feels like it's floating in water, which you find both alarming and oddly appropriate. You discover stress-induced pimples that weren't there when you got on the plane in Chicago; you wonder what it must have been like for the crew to watch those develop over the course of the flight.

You buy things. A curry chicken bake, which is basically Japanese curry wrapped in pastry. Some basic groceries. A cell phone. You discover the transition to the chip-n-pin credit cards, and that there are sometimes fees for paying in cash. This is not going to help those zits. There are so many things that are out of your control, and although your brain is exhausted, your body is even worse off. Your legs were shaking when you got off the plane; now you've traipsed across the London suburbs for a few hours—hardly helpful.

You want to transition to London time as quickly as possible, so you decide you're going to try to stay awake until the earliest legitimate bedtime before collapsing. Your resistance crumbles a small bit and you give in to a short nap. You're dismayed to find that you can't use your favorite TV shows to keep yourself awake: country restrictions, whose idea were those?

You find yourself completely alone in the flat. (You have to suppress the urge to call it an "apartment.") You pull up your metaphorical blinders so you can't see your anxiety and the tsunami of culture shock headed your way. You write a weird blog post in the second-person and wonder what made that happen; it's the kind of strange change in writing style that you're unsure about.

Which, oddly enough, is kind of like your whole life right now: a series of strange little changes, each one bringing its own measure of malaise, slowly compounding in your head. Even the successes seem to be seasoned with this strange uncertainty, but maybe that's just the way travelling is when you've only been in the country for ten or so hours.

Change now isn't something you have to anticipate as much as it is something you have to navigate. Navigating is easier than anticipating, at least for the mind, so despite how unsure you feel about all of this, you feel better about it all now that you're here.

But you should go to bed now. And you really should stop writing blog posts when you're mentally and physically exhausted.

Change: Part I

For your information, this post was written on May 2-3, 2012. Why is it being posted on May 10th? Read, and then I'll explain after the post-proper is finished. :)


***

Change seems to be a popular topic recently. It feels like everyone I talk to is going into a new phase of life—scary, exciting, or both—myself absolutely included. Can I just finally admit that I'm scared out of my mind? That every day I think about some reason or another that I shouldn't be going to London? Or something that would just be better, or easier, if I wasn't going to London?

It's funny, because I've always been proud of the way I can take risks and adapt to change. Downright boastful, in fact. I can't name the number of times I've talked about how much I love leaving old places behind and finding new ones, getting to know new people. This time it's different though. I guess I forget how scary it is. Or maybe it's the fact that this time, I really chose this for myself (instead of having the AF and my parents foist it upon me) and that I'm going to be incredibly alone over there. Whatever it is, I've been questioning this decision for months now, and if I'm being totally honest, my excitement level has been hovering around zero with very few upward spikes for literally weeks now. It's actually probably more like months.

Can I be real right now and tell you that if there was a magic button I could press that would let me erase all of this crazy London idea, I would totally do it?

That's completely insane though, isn't it? Because who wouldn't want to spend the summer in London?

Well, right now, me, because I'm scared. I'm scared because going over there is going to be a huge change, the kind of change I don't want to handle. Going there is going to be a change, coming back is going to be a change, and $#!% is going to get real after I get back. London is like the freaking gateway to all that crap and it just seems like everything would have been easier if I could have just coasted into it. Instead, I decided to start it all with some cliff jumping. Why did I do this to myself? I feel like I've completely lost control of my life: like I'm a sheep getting herded, or like I'm stuck in a crowd that's moving and bottle-necking, and there's no way I can do anything to stop moving with them. Whether I want to go that way or not, I have no choice. It's a terrible, terrible feeling.

All this talk of change and facing change and dealing with change hasn't just been cropping up in the real world, in the lives of real people. It jumped up in my reading of Elizabeth Gaskill's North and South (HIGHLY recommended, though I'm sure most of you will never read it) last night. There's some really insightful passages that I'd like to share with you right now.

In the book, the lead character Margaret moves away from the town she's lived in all her life. After several years, she returns to this place she once called "home" and finds that things have changed, as things are wont to do. It's distressing for her, and so she talks to her godfather about it. What he tells her is this: "It is the first changes among familiar things that make such a mystery of time to the young, afterwards we lose the sense of the mysterious. I take changes in all I see as a matter of course. The instability of all human things is familiar to me, to you it is new and oppressive."

Even though I'm far from being a stranger to change, I think there's still a part of me that resists thinking of it as a "matter of course"—when I'm in the kind of state I'm in (emotionally unstable, tired, lonely, scared: take your pick), change and instability can still feel "new and oppressive." It's frustrating, really. But let's keep going because Elizabeth Gaskill goes on to say something profound and spiritual and profoundly spiritual about change when Margaret is finding all this change to be so oppressive:

A sense of change, of individual nothingness, of perplexity and disappointment, over-powered Margaret. Nothing had been the same; and this slight, all-pervading instability, had given her greater pain than if all had been too entirely changed for her to recognize it. 

"I begin to understand now what heaven must be--and, oh! the grandeur and repose of the words--'The same yesterday, today, and forever.' Everlasting! 'From everlasting to everlasting, Thou art God.' That sky above me looks as though it could not change, and yet it will. I am so tired--so tired of being whirled on through all these phases of my life, in which nothing abides by me, no creature, no place; it is like the circle in which the victims of earthly passion eddy continually."

I guess it just hasn't occurred to me lately how much life is all about change—we are constantly walking on unstable ground. We have so little control over our lives, and everything could change in a moment. The rug of mortality could be pulled out from under our feet in a second; worse yet, someone else's rug could get pulled and then we'd have to deal with how that changes our lives. Other people, the natural world, our own selves are in a state of constant, rapid change, whether for good or ill. If you're like me (and, to some extent, I'm sure all of you are), change is overwhelming and exhausting. I hate dealing with it when it happens to me, I hate doing it when I have to initiate it (remember this post?). But it's because of how much I don't like change in the majority of situations that I can appreciate how absolutely divine it is to think of life "from everlasting to everlasting"; of people who are "the same yesterday, today, and forever"—because we're trying to become like God, we want to be the same everlastingly. Sure, it'll take progress (that's code for: "positive change") to get to that place... but what a place it'll be, don't you think? I mean, wow. Wow. Can you imagine how peaceful that will be? I can't wait to have that kind of peace—eternal, forever, not-going-anywhere, can't-be-disturbed-by-anything peace. Won't it be nice?

In all reality, thinking about this doesn't make me feel a lick better about the whole going to London thing. I guess it helps me accept change as part of the growth process, and got my mind on a better plane of thought (a.k.a. straight up distracts me) which I really needed. Yes, I'm still freaking out. But I'm going to be fine. This is what life is: it's change, it's learning, and it's something over which I have no control. The things I'm missing out on in Provo, the things that have already happened because I left Provo, the things that are going to happen when I get back to Provo ... well, I can't control them any more than I can herd cats. That's not to say that I won't try, but thinking about herding cats will definitely let me laugh about my complete lack of control.

And laughter's the best of medicines, right? :)

***

Here we are, at the end of the post. As you might have noticed, I was (well, for me right now it's "am") in a kinda rough place. This whole trip still doesn't feel real. Well, it probably feels pretty real by now because by the time any of you will be reading this, I will be in London (Unless I die and this auto-posts anyways. (Oh my gosh. That better not happen. That would not be funny (Knock on wood.))).


(Also, it's really weird to be writing this in the futur antérieur (What do we even call that in English? The future perfect? Idk.) because right now I'm still in that weird place and I'm like, reflecting on what it'll be like to be over the hump I'm currently on the uphill slope of, you know? This is probably getting really confusing for you ... I'll stop)


ANYWAYS, what I'm getting at is that I'm the kind of person that just needs to talk and write and stew over things until I can make sense of them by myself. (You may or may not have realized this about me.) So, post-posting this post is just my way of letting myself handle my situation and my feelings without getting anyone worrying about me or (worse) sending me encouraging texts or comments... (because for whatever reason, I can't stand the thought of that right now). It's nothing personal; this was just something I needed to handle my way. Love you all dearly :) -K

Responding to "The Shovel"

If you're not reading Zach Oates' blog Every Day Is Easter In My Closet, you're missing out on a good laugh. I highly recommend clicking on that link and giving your abs a little tickle. Come on, it won't hurt ya! Now, I don't actually know Zach at all, so maybe it's a little weird to respond to his most recent blog post, but I can't help myself. If any of you are suckers (suckers that I love, of course!), and haven't checked him out yet, I'll give you a short blip from the post so you can get your bearings on what I'm talking about here:

"The Shovel" is the easiest most subliminal breakup tool ... It is simple really, you just dig yourself so deep into disenchantment in her eyes, that the she can't help but call the relationship dead.

Hark, is that my journal speaking? Seriously, though, just a couple of relationships ago, my list of purported pet peeves reached sky-high limits. I don't think the poor guy ever expressed positive emotion towards anything without me shooting it straight out of the air. For example: If he liked dogs, I hated them. If he wanted to spend the rest of his life in the Mountain West, I hated the mountains and wanted to die on a beach. If he liked celebrating holidays, I was the Grinch Who Stole Christmas, New Year's, Thanksgiving, President's Day, Halloween, Valentine's, St. Patty's, Arbor Day, and National Butterscotch Pudding Day to boot. If he wanted to go dancing, the very thought of it gave me a headache and I'd rather just watch a movie. If he tried to make things romantic, I became a instant comedian. If he expressed distaste for something, I was its biggest fan.

Really, I honestly don't know how we managed to last as long as we did, because whenever I was around him I turned into the lamest person and the biggest buzz-kill of all time.

During one of his combative moments, Zach realized that "the entire conversation was to get her to not want to date me." (Or, as in my case, the entire relationship was to get him to not want to date me.) While it's comforting to know that I'm not the only person that does this—pulls out The Shovel and digs their own relationship grave, that is—it kind of makes me sad. Why do we do these things to ourselves? 

For some, it might be the very reason Zach suggests: "if SHE got to TELL ME that SHE wanted to stop dating, than I could cower away from my feelings about being unsure and insecure, she could feel empowered for doing the dumping and I...aye, I would be the victim."

For me, I think the problem most often stems from not wanting to hurt anyone's feelings. I just don't want to have to be the one to say, "You are not someone I want to have as a permanent fixture in my life for reasons. Let's not see each other anymore." I mean, ouch! Because when someone doesn't want to date you, you know that their reasons aren't going to be flattering. And I'm not good at just avoiding the question of "Why?" I'd so much rather have that other person make their own decision about me and have the satisfaction of cutting things off themselves: I would rather be dumped than have to dump somebody. And maybe some of it is just the things Zach is describing; maybe it is my own insecurities that make me want to head for the door.

The real trouble with The Shovel, though, is that I think this is more hurtful than just taking the initiative and breaking things off when you know they're not right. It's like giving someone a plastic spoon to amputate their leg with:

JUST GET YOUR AXE AND HACK IT FOR THEM, OKAY? 

Wow, that got really graphically violent really fast. But what I'm saying is that it's so much better to just get it over with quickly than to try to give them tiny little hints that you're not exactly perfectly simpatico, ya know? Because that's what the shovel really is: trying to gently clue the other person in on the fact that things aren't going to work out.

Really, it's just a backhanded, mitigated dumping—and how dirty, awful, and mean does that sound?

Thankfully, I've realized the error of my ways. Unfortunately, regularly performing mitigated dumpings isn't the easiest of habits to break.

I'm still trying to figure out a lot of things.
How to let people down easy
How to realize when I'm backing out because I'm scared versus when it's because it's really not right
How to keep from "Shoveling" people and relationships
How to break hearts cleanly and carefully, because pain is inevitable, but I can do my best to help it heal faster

Thankfully, I've got time.

Blurg: the People of Your Dreams

I have decided to call the following a "blurg"—that's short for blurb-blog, a.k.a. this is going to be shorter than a pygmy leprechaun. Here goes...

Has someone you don't know well ever figured prominently in one of your dreams? This doesn't usually happen to me; my dreams are pretty normal (for the most part) and usually involve the people I spend the most time with, which typically means that I know them pretty well before I dream about them.

Well, this week it did happen and I had the most bizarre sensation after I woke up: I felt closer to this person. And not in a way that went away after a few hours. I still feel close to this person, I still feel like I understand them better, I still feel like they're someone I can depend on. It's the weirdest thing, because I don't remember anything about the dream at all, just the fact that they were in it. I'm only slightly worried that this will make me act weird around this person... who wants to be the person that gets known for acting-like-they-know-you-better-than-they-do? (I've only experienced this kind of person a few times, and I think they're weird. I don't want to be one.) But at the same time, it's almost like pretending that you don't know someone that you actually do know, you know? Anyways, this was supposed to be short. I quit.

Lousy Compliments and a Defense of Singledom

I really hope that what I'm about to say isn't offensive, especially to my married amigos, whose marital situation makes them the most likely party to be offended by what I'm about to say. But none of you are particularly thin-skinned, and I don't think what I'm going to say is going to be offensive at all ... I'm just throwing this out there: if you get offended, it's not my fault—I'm only speaking truth.

Today at church I was talking with one of the ladies in my parents' ward and she said to me, "Wow! You look so grown up!"

It felt like getting slapped in the face with a wet fish, having your cheeks pinched, and then getting handed a bubble wand and asked if you're lost from mommy and daddy.

I mean, I know she meant well. I'm completely aware of this, and honestly I really like her. But every bit of me wanted to just say, "Excuse me? I am older than your married daughter and your daughters-in-law. So I'm sorry that my singleness has me stuck at the kiddie table in your eyes, but that whole growing up thing? Yeah. Did that. I'm there. So, yes, I do indeed look 'grown up,' because I am, and you shouldn't think that saying that to me is a compliment, because it's not."

Am I making a mountain out of a molehill? No. I would be if I had actually said these things to her and made a scene, but I didn't, so I consider myself in the clear here. I'm just really irritated. I suppose I should take a step back and thank my lucky stars that I didn't get the same treatment as another young man my mom heard about. He was twenty-eight at the time of this particular event and he got called as the youth speaker in his ward while the twenty-three-ish married couple got the Real Speaker slots. I would have thrown a fit. Not because I want to give the twenty-minute talk, but because being single does not make me any less mature or less qualified to do anything I want to do than people who are married.

In fact, I'd like to note the fact that I'm significantly more mature than a lot of the married people I know. Especially some of the teen/freshman brides, good grief. Getting married at a young age is not a sign of maturity, particularly (I'm speaking generally here, so don't get your bristles up) in females. It just isn't. I don't know why people think that a relationship is an indicator of maturity. Older adults seem to understand this when we're in middle and high school—that leaping into relationships bears no indication of maturity at all, and is, in fact, more likely to indicate immaturity—but by the time you're half-past twenty-one, they seem to forget what was once more obvious than an inch-wide mole looming just south of someone's right eye.

The implication that I only look grown up is beyond irritating. Like, if I just look so grown up, but I'm obviously not actually grown up, why don't you hand me that tupperware of Fruit Loops, eh? Give me that blankie, and then let's head to the bathroom and you can change my diaper. Really, folks? That's nauseating. The more I write about it, the more irritated I get. Makes me want to punch something, like maybe a real baby. Then when I have to defend myself and they tell me I'm too old for such behavior, I can be like, "What? I thought I only looked grown up. My bad. From inside, I can't tell the difference between me and that baby. We're like the same."

Maybe I am being a baby and immature for writing this all. But I'm really annoyed. And many of you won't understand because you are married, and therefore don't get treated like an infant because of your marital status. Or maybe you do... I have no idea on how older adults infantilize young married adults, if they do so at all, because (as every #%*& person in my life is quick to point out) I'm Single as a Pringle, a Dollar Bill, a slice of American cheese, and so on and so forth. I'm not freaking married and I'm not really in a hurry to change that. I'm enjoying my life the way it is, and frankly, I've dated quite the number of people this year, and you know what? Didn't really fancy a one of them for long, if at all. If not liking them is my fault, well then tie me to the radiator and grape me right in the mouth for decades and decades (click HERE for a link to the video I'm referencing if you haven't seen it, so you don't think I'm a pervert) because I'm completely unrepentant in that department.

But seriously, I love my life. In a week and two days, I'm moving to London where I'll be living for three months. That would be significantly harder to do if I were married, and I'm excited to have this amazing experience and opportunity. I'm happy with who I am. I enjoy the freedom of being the only one I have to watch out for. And frankly, while I don't hate the idea of marriage, I still hate the label of being someone's "girlfriend" and how everyone and their dog gets emotionally invested in your relationship so that you feel pressure not just to make this one person happy, but their parents, siblings, grandparents, aunts and uncles, former roommates, AND that guy from their freshman year calculus class. I'm sorry, but that kind of pressure kills me. I know, because I've tried. Not tried and given up: tried repeatedly, and found that I don't want relationships (whether they've started or not) with any of the people who have tried to date me thus far.

Don't anyone dare call that immaturity—it's just a different brand of maturity. It's the kind that says, "I'm not ready for this, and so I'm not going to thrust myself into a relationship or make myself unhappy just to fold to societal pressures. I'm brave enough to say no to the things I don't want." I mean, they teach us how to say no to drugs because they aren't good for us. So, my apologies for recognizing that some things aren't good for me, that other things are better for me, and for having the gumption to stand my ground and do myself (and all parties involved) a solid by remaining unwed. My apologies for not being a big enough jerk that I bring someone else down by getting myself into something I'm not ready for. I'd twenty times rather be where I am, living the life I am living, than be where some people I know have landed themselves, even some of those who purport to be happy. My apologies for saying, "No."

That's not to say that it'll always be no. I hope to high heavens that it's not always no. Someday, it'll be yes. But it'll be on my (/the Lord's) timetable. It'll be when I'm ready. It'll be when Mr. Right (on Time) saunters into my life. And so far, none of those things have happened.

So you'll excuse me for taking offense at the claim that I "look so grown up." I'm a lot more grown up than you think, and remaining unmarried is just one evidence of that.

Making Life Hard

Oh, the things we do to make our own lives difficult.

You know what I'm talking about: eating food that's not good for you, procrastinating studying and paper writing, staying up late for no reason at all, getting hopes up over things that can't happen ... You know, taking your head and wedging it between a rock and a hard place, then buttering your face so it slides down even further into the crack and stays there.

Why do we do these things to ourselves? We glut ourselves on these things that give such fleeting satisfaction, and typically do more damage to us and our lives than they improve them. I mean, I'm sitting here with grandma's ugliest Alaskan sweaters on my teeth, I think I've burned the tastebuds off my tongue from sheer acidity, and my jaw is cramping from chewing. But will that stop me from putting more handfuls of Skittles in my mouth? As yet, the answer is a resounding NO. I'm not even enjoying them; in fact, they're contributing significantly to my non-enjoyment of this particular moment.

Maybe the punishment isn't strong enough, you say. Perhaps the stakes are not sufficiently high to produce the resilience necessary to combat the tempting flavors happening in my mouth. But I can tell you that, all too often, the stakes are high enough and the punishment is horrifying enough that it should produce proactive and preventative behaviors. I should be able to say, "No. Get away from my mouth. You're messing me up right now."

But not so much.

For your sake, I hope you are not like me. I hope that you have the kind of fortitude that keeps you from procrastinating all your studying, paper writing, and packing so that you can enjoy the last three days and nights of this period of your life. I hope that you can force yourself to go to bed when staying up late takes so much and gives so little to you. I hope that, when you're alone with a tempting bag of Skittles Blenders, you can reach down inside of you and access that well of strength that will make you put them out of your reach. And for heaven's sake, I hope that when fantasy knocks on your door in rather shoddy disguise and asks to stay for two and a half weeks, you have the gumption to demand an inspection of intentions.

I hope that you have the power to resist the things that make life so beautifully difficult. I hope you can look past the appeal on the surface——the having fun, the tasty sugar, the writing silly and metaphorical and cryptic and self-centered and patronizing blog posts in the wee hours of the morning, the illusion of happiness——and keep your life in control.

I hope you can tell the difference between what is just going to make life difficult... and what is worth it.

Because I sure as heck can't.

Graduate?

[Just ignore the fact that I haven't blogged in two months. Because I have been blogging ... it's just been boring posts on my field study blog. That's all. Blech!] 

After finding out two days ago that I'm going to be able to graduate next April, I can't get my eyes off the future. That's the terrible thing about being me: I'm going to be spending three of the next four months in England, but I'm already thinking way past that. Partially because the whole Field Studies system is kind of a pain in the tushie and making this whole thing turn into a lot more work than it should be, and partially because I'm fur-eaking out about the finances of it all. Yes, it's all going to be fine, but I want it to be as cheap as possible, and that's proving difficult (thanks to The Man, a.k.a. BYU, a.N.k.a. dear old uncle Brigham, but more like the registration office/field studies stupid set up). Anyways, I'm digressing from the actual point which is that I'm going to graduate and then I'm going to go to graduate school. 

I've been shopping programs all day and let me tell you, it's quite a lot of fun. There are so many places I could go, so many different things I could focus on, so many different things I can do with the degrees I'm going to get. Muahahahahaha. Rhetoric? Composition? Lifewriting? Early Modern Texts? Provo? Virginia? Florida? England? Brussels? Masters? Master of Fine Arts? BA-to-PhD program? So many options!!! (And how legit would I be if I got my doctorate by 25? Answer: amazingly legit. That's what.)

I know this isn't an exciting blog post for all y'all, but I've got a relatively dull life, and everything else I could possibly talk about is either depressing, judgmental, overly personal, or not worth the effort of writing it up. Plus I've already written a monster blog post today for my field study blog, so I'm kind of burned out with words right now. Hopefully I'll get back into the habit before I head off across the pond... but I'll probably be busy and even more burned out there than I am here because I'll be writing like a bajillion hours a day. Whatever. I guess what I'm trying to say is that I'm sorry this is boring... but whatever. This is me not really caring because REAL LIFE IS SO MUCH MORE FUN TO THINK ABOUT! :)

Oh La La London ... &ct.

In the wake of destruction caused by my approaching field study in the grandmotherland, my poor blog here has been neglected. Blame it on the fact that I'm blogging thrice-plus a week for my field study prep class—I feel like I'm on here all the time, and so it can't possibly have been that long since I last blogged. Anyways, you can check out the fun link over there to see how my project and whatnot is progressing. Right now it's pretty boring because I have to be constantly reflecting on readings and whatnot, but I hope that it'll get more interesting once I actually, you know, leave the country.

Moving right along ... I've nothing really wonderfully interesting to tell anyone about or talk about right now, so I'll give you a couple of blurbs about what's been happening to me since school started:

• Three consecutive class periods delivering 15-20 minute presentations in English 620. That being said, graduate classes are AWESOME, and so much more interesting than regular classes. Also, easier. 
• A Saturday in Park City for the Sundance Film Festival. Awesome to keep the tradition going, but all in all that was probably one of the worst days of the semester. A quick summary of the awfulness: bad weather, frozen feet, a hour long nauseous bus ride, and then a 3-hours-in-horrific-terrifying-dangerous-weather-whilst-being-simultaneously-super-nauseous-and-in-pain-à-la-the-flu-car-ride followed by four hours being miserable alone in bed, and topping the night off with offering up pineapple-and-Canadian-bacon oblations at the altar of the porcelain god. 
• A super rad 3-day weekend in Vegas spent enjoying a time at the Hoover Dam (so many dam jokes...) and on the strip (love me some Bellagio fountains ... seriously though, they're inspiring), and bouldering in Red Rock Canyon with new dinner groupies that I absolutely adore. Also, having a full-on picnic in a Wendy's, defying gravity, being an awesome Kinect volleyball player, calling Colorado home, and it was just awesome, okay? Here's some photos I stole from Caitlin because I accidentally left my camera at home: 

Hoover Dam :)

At the top :)

I'm somewhere in this photo.

Wonderful, wonderful fountains.

But enough about how much my life is such the best all the time. :)

I was lucky enough to stumble upon (and not StumbleUpon) a pretty awesome website this weekend. It's called ThoughtCatalog.com. It's kind of like a group blog/non-fiction-journalism-musing-awesome-ness that I really love. I highly recommend the following post: You Should Date an Illiterate Girl

Didn't tempt you? Here's an excerpt: 

Don’t date a girl who reads because girls who read are the storytellers. You with the Joyce, you with the Nabokov, you with the Woolf. You there in the library, on the platform of the metro, you in the corner of the café, you in the window of your room. You, who make my life so expletives difficult. The girl who reads has spun out the account of her life and it is bursting with meaning. She insists that her narratives are rich, her supporting cast colorful, and her typeface bold. You, the girl who reads, make me want to be everything that I am not. But I am weak and I will fail you, because you have dreamed, properly, of someone who is better than I am. You will not accept the life that I told of at the beginning of this piece. You will accept nothing less than passion, and perfection, and a life worthy of being storied.

Seriously. Go read it. It's stupendous. And I'm sorry about the expletives. But it's really so, so, so good.