The End

I put this off by watching Bones with Pepper for like three hours. However, I told myself I would end the blog tonight, and that's what I'm going to do.

When the blog began, I was a college student with no idea how her life would go. I had no idea that over the next five and a half years, I would not only graduate from college, I would also find a professional writing job, serve in two Relief Society presidencies, move out of my parents' home, receive my Latter-day Saint temple endowment, serve as a temple worker, travel to Disneyland (twice), take a road trip to Illinois, go to New York City (three times), go to Arizona (twice), visit San Diego, buy a new car, and have my appendix removed.

Throughout all this, there were times when my life was scary and uncertain, and my belief was the only thing to fall back on. My religion has not been incidental but crucial to everything I've done. I've done my best to convey what it's like to live the ordinary life of a person of my background, and I hope you've enjoyed the experience.

Now it's goodbye. Once I figure out what I'm doing next, I promise to come back and add it to this post.

Finite.

Running Away From Your Problems Redux

So one time, I was thinking about going on a mission.

I knew a couple of people who were very dear to me but were really struggling. There wasn't much I could do to help, but both Older Sister and Best Friend Boy were on missions, and I could see how through their missions, they were able to help others with similar struggles. I'd never wanted to serve a mission, but I was suddenly overcome with a desire to go so that I could help people.

I wanted to finish school before looking into going on a mission (because I was pretty sure that if I quit school, I would never find it in me to go back). So I had a few years to think about whether to go. I did mention it in passing in a letter to Best Friend Boy, who responded some weeks later by saying that I should pray about it to see if that's what Heavenly Father wanted for me.

I was really annoyed by this. I was planning to pray about it, just not yet. It was a few years away!

However, being so annoyed, I decided I would pray right then and there, just so that I could write back to Best Friend Boy and let him know that I had. I was the only one home, so I knelt right down in the living room, and—

It was one of the most unmistakable prayers I've prayed in my life. I asked if I should go on a mission after graduation. I felt sickish and headache-ish. Well, what about right now? Still sickish and headache-ish.

Lovely. I asked a couple other questions, and I immediately felt pushed in a direction that didn't entirely make sense to me but that felt right. So be it.

A couple of years passed, and I found myself deeply entrenched in the path that had felt right. Only everything was going terribly. I was so frustrated and wondered if I'd interpreted what I'd felt correctly. Maybe I just wanted to walk down this path so badly that I'd manufactured feelings of confirmation. Madam President seemed to think so. Shortly before we were called to the Relief Society presidency, her serious boyfriend broke up with her. She hadn't been able to get over how badly she wanted to get back together with him until getting a blessing from a General Authority that she knew. The blessing laid out a different path for her life than she'd hoped. Then, ta-da, she got a job and got married and everything worked for her, and she was happy! She gave me the General Authority's number and recommended that I get a blessing from him, too. I knew she was hoping that my blessing, too, would tell me that I'd been wrong about the direction that my life was going to go and that I should do something else. I sat on the number for a year and then I decided to find out for myself.

The blessing was lovely, but it was also frustrating. It basically said that I could do what I want. It cast no aspersions on the path I'd been walking, which meant I was free to keep walking it if I so chose. Before the blessing, the General Authority also told me that I wouldn't get an answer before making a decision but that I should choose and then start moving forward with the choice. Then I'd get my answer.

Once again, lovely, but how to choose? I went straight from his home to a semi-solo trip where I pondered my options. I wrote a list of pros and cons and I studied and I thought.

In the end, I decided that whatever had (or hadn't) happened since then, there was a reason why I stayed, and it would be better not to throw that away. Once again, I choose to stay, and I'm glad I did. The following year was incredible. So many of the things that frustrated me righted themselves. Things were really looking up. In fact, the reason I felt I should stay seemed to be finally coming to fruition.

In December of that incredible year, I was stepping into the shower when I suddenly had a thought: "If you wanted to go on a mission, this thing will wait for you."

A third time: lovely. But I was honest: I didn't want to go on a mission now. Things were finally going well for me. Once again, I chose to stay.

I never felt like it was a mistake to stay. The thought was fleeting, anyway—not persistent the way important thoughts tend to be. However, over the next six months, my life got wild. So many things went wrong, and my reason for staying eluded me yet again. My eyes turned toward a mission once more, but it didn't feel right. I told my bishop as much shortly before he extended the calling of Relief Society president to me.

Everything was hunky-dory for a few months. Then came an Interpersonal Crisis that was literally one of my worst nightmares.

The great thing about the Interpersonal Crisis was that it eliminated one of the things I would have felt I was missing out on by going on a mission. Ah-ha! Almost immediately I began to wonder if now, at last, this was the time to go. Almost everything else in my life was going wrong, too, so it seemed like it was all screaming that I had nothing to lose by leaving. I thought about it, then talked to my bishop, then set a date to make a decision.

The date rolled around, and...found me recovering from appendicitis. Whoops. Obviously not a good time to make life-changing decisions, so I forewent it, but even after I recovered, I didn't know what I was feeling. At work, at home, in the temple, in San Diego—no real answer seemed forthcoming.

My stake conference came around, and with it forced interaction with the person with whom I was having an Interpersonal Crisis. Some time had passed, so—well, I don't know what I was thinking except that I knew this person was a good person and didn't believe they would double down on the way they'd treated me. But they did double down on it. I felt like I'd been slapped, and I left the building in a daze. All of a sudden, it became clear that if more of this treatment was in store each time I saw this person, I couldn't stay here. I remembered about what the General Authority said about making a decision and getting confirmation after moving forward. So be it. Every time I'd chosen not to go on a mission, things hadn't really worked out. What is it they say: that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results? Time to do something different. I rushed to speak with my bishop the next day.

My bishop, a wise man whom I very much look up to, thought I would make a great missionary. We agreed to officially start the mission papers. However, he also said: "Don't go on a mission to run away from your problems."

Easier said than done. No matter the other reasons, the sole thing that allowed me to feel free to pursue a mission was how terribly my life was going. Those problems would be a catalyst regardless of anything else. I worked to resolve them as much as I could to make the decision-making process clearer, but they refused to resolve.

Meanwhile, as I filled out my mission papers, I felt terrible. I felt a sick feeling similar to the one I felt the first time I prayed about it. I didn't like talking or thinking about the mission even as I prepared in earnest. I knew in my heart that this wasn't right, but I was so tired of choosing to stay yet being so unsuccessful.

Things came to a head, and blessedly I was able to take a step back and say, "What am I doing? This doesn't make sense." I was just a few steps away from completing my mission papers, but I decided not to do so. The sick feeling went away. I knew I'd made the right decision. I wish I could say that things got better, but they're still pretty up in the air. I'm hoping for a couple of miracles, but in the meantime, I at least feel stronger and more able to deal with some things.

And that's how I almost ran away from all my problems.

Something Wonderful

I've been something of a sad sap lately. Despite my best intentions, this blog has recently been like 50% faith-affirming statements. Which isn't a bad thing. It's just, you know, not what people come here for. At least, that's what I presume when I review the numbers for the most-read posts, which ain't the faith-affirming ones.

I'm not sure what happened today, but somehow, the fear and dread that has kept me company for months on end seems to be dispelled. I feel that the end of my present gamut of trials is near, perhaps already over. Not that I'll never have problems again—though that would be nice. Also there are still several things about which I am concerned and that are still outstanding (including the Interpersonal Crisis), but I feel that a resolution is coming. I haven't given up, and perhaps my tenacity and faith are about to be rewarded. We shall see!

Grace

A few months ago, La Petite turned to me and said something like, "It seems like for you, the last couple of years have been nothing but bad things. I wouldn't blame you if you just felt like giving up."

And Best Friend Boy said, "Something good has to happen to you soon."

But God said, "Haha no." Repeatedly.

I just went to a campout for my stake. At that campout, it seemed like almost every speaker's sermon was for me. One of those speakers was a well-known LDS teacher named Brad Wilcox spoke. He mentioned that my generation may be the most anguished generation to date. Then he talked at length about grace.

He said that grace is a divine power, and it's how God engages with us. He said it's not what we call tender mercies, and it's not when we receive an answer to a prayer (unless, I suppose, we're praying for grace). It is, however, a product of Christ's Atonement.

Then he said a few things that struck me. He said, "Strength too easily won is not strength."

He said, "Change without challenge is not change."

He said, "Time is the medium for the power of the Atonement."

Somehow, right then, I got a tiny flash of what God is up to. Have I not asked for the power of Christ's Atonement in my life? Have I not asked for the circumstances to change? Perhaps the only way is fraught with difficulty and takes time.

Are You Ron Weasley?

Tomorrow is Harry's birthday, and I already have a Harry Potter-related post lined up. But as I was thinking of what to write today, another Harry Potter topic came to mind. So you're getting twice the Harry Potter for the same price! (Which is free. It's all free. But...you know.)

A year ago, someone told me that as they were re-reading the Harry Potter books, they found they were disliking Ron more and more. This person starting listing all the actions and traits of Ronald Bilius Weasley that they disliked. As I listened, I was amused and amazed. Because goldarn it if the actions weren't things that this same person had done and if the traits weren't ones that this same person shared.

I think that people can't appreciate Ron if they don't believe in redemption. Ron reminds us of all the thoughtless things we've done to people or that they've done to us, so it's easy to just say he's a jerk and be done with it. To see Ron clearly, you have to measure him not by what he failed to do for Harry (and Hermione) but by what he did do for Harry (and Hermione). He would do anything for them, and he pretty darned well did. It's not just lip service when during the Tri-Wizard Tournament, Ron is the "thing Harry would miss most."

"But Ron screwed up!" Yeah. Ron screwed up. So what? Are you really going to say that a lifetime of loyalty and love and friendship means nothing because of a few bumps? Please note that every time Ron screws up, he admits his mistakes and tries harder and does better. Ron gets the second chances we all wish we could have, and he doesn't take them for granted. We should all want to be more like Ron.

Of course, you can't be Ron if the people in your life aren't Harrys and Hermiones. In a word: forgiving. Most people are, though. Most people don't want to throw cherished relationships away with both hands, and they're more likely to greet you as a prodigal than they are to cast you aside.

If you feel like a Ron right now—if you hurt someone and regret it and want a second (pr third or fourth or fifth) chance, try to get one. Tell the person that you hurt that you're a Ron. I mean, don't tell literally them that. (Unless the person is me. I'll understand what you mean.) But tell them that you did something stupid and you're sorry and you want to try again. You'll have to humble yourself first. Do it anyway.

And always remember:

"Dumbledore knew what he was doing when he gave me the Deluminator, didn’t he? He—well," Ron’s ears turned bright red and he became engrossed in a tuft of grass at his feet, which he prodded with his toe, "he must’ve known I’d run out on you."

"No," Harry corrected him. "He must’ve known you’d always want to come back."

Ever Onward

We're celebrating Pioneer Day (aka the Twenty-Fourth of July) a little early around here. The Hometown annual carnival was yesterday and today because weekend. We enjoyed the works: the fried bread, the fishing pond, and the erstwhile photo booth.

We also went to the Mormon Tabernacle Choir's Pioneer Day concert. The stars were Matthew Morrison and Laura Michelle Kelly, both of whom I saw in Finding Neverland on Broadway. Also, since the concert focused on the works of Rodgers and Hammerstein, Oscar Hammerstein's grandson was there to narrate. I was skeptical of his presence at first, but he was actually really, really good at narrating.

The concert kicked off with more traditional Pioneer Day fare, including one of my favorite hymns, "Come Come Ye Saints." A couple of lines hit me hard tonight: "Why should we mourn or think our lot is hard? 'Tis not so; all is right."

I'm guilty of thinking my lot is hard. Which, honestly, it kinda is. Remember how I was rereading The Work and the Glory? I think one of the purposes of a story like that is to lead you down the path of, "Oh my gosh, the pioneers had it so rough! I could never do that!"

I'll level with you, though—except for the parts involving snow and frostbite (which many a pioneer didn't have to deal with), coming West sounds like something I totally could have done. I'd be tired, yes, and uncertain, and I'd probably experience some fear and anxiety over not knowing exactly what was in store for me. But it would be a delight to be given a task so cut-and-dry: Take this wagon. Go West until you reach the Salt Lake Valley. No matter how tedious that would get or how hot the sun would beat or how much my feet would hurt, it sounds so much easier than what I'm facing now.

If I were a wagon-toting pioneer, I wouldn't have to try to figure out my career. I wouldn't have to figure out where God wants me. I wouldn't have to strain under the struggle of trying to make time for family, friends, work, church callings, and me time. I possibly wouldn't have to worry about boys in any form at all; I would be too busy staying alive to care about confusing men who say one thing but do other things that don't match their words at all. I'd keep my eye on the western horizon and keep moving toward it, and with that sure direction I wouldn't feel so rudderless and discouraged.

But pioneerdom didn't happen for me. Either I wouldn't have been as good at pioneering as I think I would be or God had something else in mind. Sometimes that's hard to swallow. But as Matthew Morrison and Laura Michelle Kelly and Oscar Hammerstein III pointed out during the concert, difficult things usually aren't as difficult as they appear to be, and even if they are, they can be persevered through.

The Time Of Our Lives

Context: This post is about the third day (and second day in the city) of my third New York City trip.

Lots of people assume that I love Fraggle Rock for nostalgia purposes. In reality, I actually barely saw any episodes when I was a kid. I started getting into it through YouTube clips when I was seventeen.

You might remember that my junior year of high school was a tough time for me. I was held afloat by a combination of many things, one of which was my religion, one of which was my friends (especially Best Friend Boy), and one of which was Fraggle Rock. When you are completely and utterly depressed, why wouldn't you want to spend a lot of time in a place where cute fuzzy creatures dance and sing to banish their worries and cares? When you feel like most of your troubles come from not being able to connect with other people, how would it not be helpful to study a world where a different interpersonal conflict is studied in nearly every episode? Ya feel me?

Once I was properly introduced to the show, I glommed on to the precious Fraggles hard. They delighted me. That delight helped me feel better, and sometimes during hard things in later years, I would still turn to an episode that reflected my feelings or my situation.

Life after high school was always a bit precarious for me. I faced a lot of things I didn't feel prepared to face. But I was proud of myself for pulling through it without drifting back into clinical depression. I figured out what I needed to stay on top, and I sought it out as required.

Last year, though...I had a lot of difficult things happen really quickly. Some of them I couldn't talk about to protect other people. Some of them I didn't want to talk about because I was afraid of burdening other people. And some of them I knew no one would understand. So I just clammed up and kind of did the opposite of what I needed to do to take care of myself. I guess I figured that after being so vigilant for so long, and having gone through way worse stuff than what I was going through then, I was pretty invincible.

Ha.

Within a few months, I was...I don't know if I want to say clinically depressed again. I know clinical depression, and this wasn't really like that. I'd say it's more like situational depression, which the Internet tells me is a kind of depression people experience after a major life change. It involves a lot of the feelings of clinical depression, except it apparently doesn't usually leave you completely unable to cope for long periods of time like clinical depression does. When I was clinically depressed as a teen, I couldn't make myself do my homework most days or sometimes even brush my hair. But this time, I didn't feel that kind of listlessness or apathy; I did everything I normally did and more. I was productive yet felt terrible.

I got things back under control again, and all was mostly fine for a few months. However, around Christmas, the terrible feelings came back, and as I was hit by more big life changes (interpersonal crises, major surgery, and more) and other things completely outside of my control, they settled in to stay. I was not okay with that, so I surged forward to fix it. And whaddaya know—there's been improvement, and I now feel completely, absolutely fine for days at a time. But when I don't...

It's not a desirable situation.

But hey, you know what seemed like it might help? A delightful jaunt through an exhibit devoted entirely to Muppets, particularly Fraggles. It was the old medicine, the old relief, come back again in a newer and more potent form.

What I'm trying to say is that when Little Brother and I grabbed pastries from Starbuck's and headed for the subway to ride uptown to the Museum of the Moving Image to Astoria, Queens, I had very high hopes for the Jim Henson exhibit.

I'm happy to report that I was very much not disappointed!

Astoria turned out to be a quiet, cute neighborhood where people lived in actual houses. Tiny houses, but houses all the same. There were even yards! We walked around while we waited for the museum to open. I could tell that Little Brother was already enjoying himself much more than he was the day before. Score. Eventually we joined the other nerds at the museum (I was wearing my Wembley Fraggle shirt, obviously), and first thing we went to the Jim Henson exhibit.

Boy oh boy! That thing was pure joy. Pure. Joy. It was interactive, with video and audio and hand puppets to film a short clip with and a Sesame Street Anything Muppet to dress up. There were fascinating notes and bits of scripts and doodles and posters. And the puppets! I could tell you about them, but I'd rather just show you.

This was the first display (well, first after a cute little intro video). Kermit was sitting all lonely in this case opposite another case with a bunch of other puppets. It was like he was being shunned at a party.

Remember when we saw Carroll Spinney live? He had Oscar with him, but not Big Bird. Now we've seen them both!

My favorite!

Nigel, the original host of The Muppet Show.

Statler and Waldorf. It's funny that the museum is in Astoria since Waldorf's wife's name is Astoria.

The Swedish chef (with fake hands added since the puppeteers use their own hands).

Koozbanians! The Koozbanian pups are SO CUTE!!!

Zoot.

The sign that Gonzo pops out of at the beginning of the show!

And that's just a sampling of what this trove of wonders had to offer! This may surprise you, but we weren't even the biggest nerds at this museum. Most of the people were older folks or parents who didn't seem to know much about Jim Henson but who were trying to entertain their little kids. However, there was a group of college-aged guys who lingered for, like, ten minutes at every display case and spouted facts, figures, and trivia.

We definitely were the biggest Fraggle Rock nerds, though. Not even those guys lingered at the Fraggle Rock displays as long as we did. We examined every inch of those three puppets.

Cantus Fraggle, the wise wandering musician. Cantus is one of the two Fraggle Rock characters played by Jim Henson. The puppet of his other character, Convincing John, was totally creepy-looking, but I didn't get a photo of him.

The one, the only, Gobo Fraggle as he appears from Season 2 on! He looks so lifelike.

Uncle Travelling Matt!

We were fascinating by the hole in the back of Cantus's robes for his tail and by the instruments tucked into the folds. We were excited by the Doozer stick's in Gobo's vest pocket and by the details of his guitar. We examined Uncle Travelling Matt's baloobius and debated whether it was the same throughout the show or whether they used a different baloobius during Scared Silly. We also discovered that all of the Fraggle hair is made from ostrich feathers, even the tiny bits that we thought was fluff!

This talks about the many themes of Fraggle Rock. Notice that "hats" was added at the bottom in handwriting. There literally is an episode of Fraggle Rock entirely about a hat.

Doozers!

Cotterpin Doozer!

A piece of puppetry equipment from The Dark Crystal. STEVE WHITMIRE'S piece of puppetry equipment from The Dark Crystal.

From the opening day of MuppetVision 3D, one of Disney's funnest attractions!

After we'd toured the exhibit very thoroughly, we checked out the rest of the museum. There was an exhibit about YouTube as an artform and about special effects and costumes and merchandising and all kinds of film-related stuff. Little Brother used an interactive stop-motion display to capture a masterpiece involving a rainbow and two Shakespeares rising out of a troubled sea.

Once we'd seen everything else, though, Little Brother said, "Should we go through that exhibit again? Just to say goodbye?"

So we did! (And, yes, said a very reluctant goodbye to the Fraggle cuties.)

On our way out, we raided the gift shop. We scored some expensive chocolates, a magnet, a pin, a children's book, and a key chain.

Wembley is hard to draw right, but he looks pretty good here! Little Brother also bought the a chocolate bar with a Boober wrapper. We opted out of the Red on because it had coffee. :/

Ecstatic, we went in search of a lunch just as perfect as the Jim Henson exhibition. We ended up at Joe Asian & Sushi, where we threw down an amount of money equal to what I'd just blown at the MOMI gift shop. Worth it, though!

These crab wontons were SO GOOD!

Also this miso soup.

The sushi was yummy, too, but we overestimated how hungry we were and only ate about 2/3 of it.

After dropping our treasures back at Older Sister's place, we lazily made our way downtown to Wall Street and the 9/11 Memorial. Too lazily, as it turned out. We'd spend so much time in Astoria that we were waaaaaay behind schedule, so we spent an abbreviated amount of time at the museum and memorial. We had to go, though, since it was non-negotiable for Little Brother. (You can read more about my impressions of the museum here.) I was glad that we did; the solemnity was just right after the giddiness of the morning.

Then we met up with Older Sister. I'd basically told her, "When we're hanging out with you, we'll do whatever you want." And what did she want to do? She wanted to walk across the Brooklyn Bridge and take pictures. So that's what we did. Older Sister's phone has a special photography mode that makes every picture look like it's been Photoshopped 1,000 times. Which meant that the photos turned out really, really well.

When we had enough pictures to satisfy Older Sister, we went into Dumbo (the Brooklyn neighborhood, not the elephant) and had a delightful dinner at Shake Shack! I had my very favorite chicken sandwich with herb mayonnaise (not pictured) and a delectable chocolate concrete.

After that, we were all very tired. We took the subway back to Older Sister's apartment, where I fell asleep feeling lighthearted, perfectly content after a nearly perfect day.

The First Day Is Always the Worst Day

I needed a vacation.

I hadn't gone on a real vacation since Disneyland eighteen months ago. I've gone out of town, sure, but always for reasons fraught with family obligation. I've taken days off work, but always for illness or holiday or church reasons or special events. I never get a chance to recharge or relax, and my ability to hold myself together has worn thin.

In January, I was investigating a possible trip back to Europe; I'd been tentatively planning to go in spring of 2018 for a while. So I didn't vacation at all in 2017, and I saved...and I saved...and I saved. I had plenty of money to go on a trip! My plan was book and pay for the trip in January...go in the spring...and buy a new car in the summer. I couldn't find anyone to go with, but I wasn't giving up; there was still time.

I ended up buying a new car in January instead, and I was hesitant to dip any more into my savings for an expensive trip. I felt like Heavenly Father was saying, "DON'T GO TO EUROPE THIS SPRING" because nothing was coming together. So I didn't book anything, though I was still toying with the idea of going later in the year. Then my appendix had to come out, and I had to pay the people who took it out, and it quickly became apparent that this year was just not going to be my year.

Little Sister and her husband went back to NYC around the same time I bought my new car, and she could only gush about the awesome Jim Henson exhibit that I'd wanted to see in New York City three years before. So when I was weighing the idea of going on vacation, I decided: what the heck? Why not go back to New York City so that I could finally see the dang exhibit, eat whatever I wanted, and spend time with Older Sister? The idea appealed to me, particularly because Older Sister would be working, so I could do whatever amused me. The subway system is easy to use; I could get around with no trouble and generally have a good time. And I could stay with Older Sister, which would be very inexpensive.

So (after several weeks of hemming and hawing), I finally committed to Older Sister to come and visit. However, after I'd done so, my mother cornered me and said that I should take Little Brother with me.

That kind of killed the point of the vacation, especially since Mom wanted me to take him to the Statue of Liberty and to Trinity Church and to her favorite restaurants and generally do a bunch of things that I had no intention of doing. So I laid it out straight for Little Brother: this was my trip, and while he could come, he would more or less have to do whatever I wanted.

He said okay, and the plans commenced.

Now, before you think I'm a mean older sister, let it be known that I made sure to include Little Brother in the plans. I made room for the things that were non-negotiable for him: going to the Times Square Disney store, going to the 9/11 Memorial, getting dim sum in Chinatown, a museum called the Museum of Jewish Heritage. He also wanted to go to the Jim Henson exhibit as much as I did.

The flight was booked and the musical tickets were purchased, and in what seemed like no time at all, the day of the trip had arrived and Little Brother and I were waiting at the airport late, late at night.

A few things to know about Little Brother:

• He loves Disney and knows the most about it. Of anyone. On earth. Probably.
• He loves theming.
• He loves beautiful things.
• He loves our Jewish heritage and taught himself to make delicious challah bread. Unlike me, he looks like a full-blooded Jew.
• He loves most of the things I love, except for Harry Potter, and his appreciation for Jim Henson has turned him into an accomplished amateur puppeteer.
• He secretly kind of wants to be YouTube famous.
• He has about a million original stories, musicals, and TV shows hiding inside his brain. They come out if you listen to him talk long enough.
• After our sibling date where I introduced him to sushi, sushi became his most-favorite food.

While we were waiting, he showed me a bunch of his Snaps from Snapchat, something I've never used. It would appear that Little Brother mostly uses it to send droll pictures to his friends.

As usual, we were red eyeing it out to New York. The flight was uneventful, but...odd. First of all, when we were loading onto the plane, a man with an accent I couldn't identify asked me (I think) to check one of his items in my name. He said (I think) that he and his wife and his two kids had too many items to check even though the flight had just announced complimentary checking since there was plenty of room.

They were a cute family, but they were strangers, so I refused. I felt bad, but it's basic airline safety not to accept things from people you don't know! Luckily, we saw later that the flight had checked their extra items with no fuss.

The other odd things about the flight were as follows: 1) The plane was abnormally loud. Little Brother was sitting next to me, but I could barely hear him all night. 2) The flight attendants were weirdly sneaky. I was half-asleep the whole flight, so I barely remember, but I seem to remember that they...didn't really talk? They just communicated with a series of gestures mostly, so that they didn't wake up passengers, I guess. But it was really hard for me to see said gestures since I was trying to sleep and wore no glasses or contacts! 3) The girl sitting next to us promptly fell asleep about as soon as the plane took off and barely moved all night. I even climbed over her to reach the restroom, yet she didn't stir. (Note: I went to the restroom barefoot. That was a mistake. The floor was gross.) Then, just moments before we landed, she woke up like clockwork. ???!

Neither Little Brother nor I slept well. I don't know about Little Brother, but I'd gotten up pretty early the morning of the day we'd left, and I was miserable and exhausted. I do know that at one point I accidentally squirted hand sanitizer in his eye, and he screamed at me. But it was a controlled scream. No one heard it but me. Not even the sleeping girl; she didn't move an inch.

I was adamant that we book our flight to JFK so that we could utilize the air train. Once we'd disembarked and gathered our luggage, we took the train, no problem, to Jamaica Station. Then we took the E Train to Times Square, walked a very long time through the subway to get to a connecting station, and took a 1 Train uptown.

Finally, we made it to the Upper West Side, where Older Sister lives in a beautiful 100-year-old building with 11 roommates. Yup, count 'em—11.

A few things to know about Older Sister:

• She's crazy ambitious. She took a double courseload and finished her six-semester graduate school program in three semesters, something that had never been done before.
• She's always wanted to live in New York City.
• She's always claimed to hate "Asian" food, saying it all tastes the same and is gross.
• She works for a non-profit that teaches underprivileged kids to dance.
• She, too, looks like she could be full-blooded Jewish. When she first moved to the city, she did some babysitting for a Jewish family and would sometimes be mistaken for a relative. On Saturdays, she wears her Sunday clothes to the Manhattan temple for a shift as a temple worker, and on the streets she's often mistaken for a Jew from a more conservative sect.
• She, too, secretly wants to be famous, but not YouTube famous.
• She loves the finer things in life and has never cared much for discomfort.

So even though I knew that she was living in a crowded apartment with no space to herself, it still amazed me. It's a testament to how much she loves New York City, because she's always been the kind of person who's always wanted to live somewhere that was nice and cutely decorated and very much her own.

Not that the apartment wasn't not nice, it just barely had room to exist at all. The whole thing, square-foot-wise, surely didn't exceed the amount of space I share with my two roommates. And her bedroom, which sleeps two people, is about the same size as my bedroom minus the closet. My bedroom is okay, but on the small side, for a single person; for two people, it would be pretty cramped!

The roommate had kindly stayed elsewhere so that Older Sister could have us in her room with her. I got the top bunk of the bunk bed. Little Brother got a cot-type bed on the floor. We could hang out in the apartment, but we couldn't wear shoes while we did so. We could shower in one of two bathrooms (except if it was after 11:00 p.m., in which case we had to shower in a tiny little bathroom—more on that later). Before she left for work, Older Sister presented us with a brassy-looking set of keys. One for the apartment building; one for the apartment. We were cautioned to be very careful not to break the lock, which had apparently happened before.

We crashed for an hour or so. Then...the city.

I gave Little Brother a first day similar to my first day on my first trip. First, the Disney store, which was everything Little Brother had dreamed of. Then lunch at Junior's. I'd heard that the food was better if you ordered something Jewish-style.

Sadly, it was still kind of meh. However, it pleased Little Brother to order a brisket sandwich with a latke and applesauce.

After, we took a subway downtown. At this point, we discovered that while the subway was easy to use (seriously—this was the first trip where I was the subway navigator, and there were hardly any bumps), our smartphones didn't seem to operate properly on the streets. (Over-saturation of people sucking up data?) It took us approximately six million years to find the Museum of Jewish Heritage.

The museum was not what we were expecting. The lady at the front desk asked us how we'd heard of it, and I breezily said, "We were just looking for a good Jewish museum!" But whether it was a good Jewish museum is...up for debate. There was some good stuff, but it wasn't very well-presented, and they kind of brushed over the Holocaust, mostly focusing on Jewish culture before it and how said culture recovered after. There were some cool artifacts, but I didn't learn very many new things. The most interesting tidbit was the fact that in some countries during Hitler's regime, Jews who didn't have "Jewish" names were required to take on the name or middle name of Israel or Sara.

Following the museum, we crashed. I was incredibly exhausted: dead on my feet and barely aware. I had no idea how I was going to stay up to watch Anastasia that night. But after lazing in Older Sister's apartment for a bit, I summoned the energy to arise, dress, and lead Little Brother to Tonn Ramen.

Older Sister, she who hates all Asian food, picked Tonn Ramen for dinner. She'd tried it and actually liked it! However, she ended up staying at work late and then babysitting afterward, so she didn't join us for our first taste of restaurant ramen.

Tonn Ramen is one of the more eccentric places I've been in New York City! Little Brother described the restaurant as "in a garage." It was below street level, tiny, and crowded. Everything about it seemed to be designed to make diners as uncomfortable as possible so that they would order, eat, and leave. The whole front of the restaurant was open, so we could feel the breeze from the street. The bar stools were difficult to keep a seat on, and I could never quite get myself into a position where I didn't feel I was about to fall off. The waiters whisked from place to place, quickly collecting orders which were then assembled in a matter or minutes. Not that anyone was rude or made us feel unwanted—but there was a slight feeling of, "Oh, we're very busy, so you should be glad we could squeeze you in!" Coupled with the fact that the restaurant was open during limited hours, the general air was one of exclusivity.

In any case, we quickly ate our ramen and paid. Mine is pictured below. It was tasty, although it was still ramen.

The vegetables and spices woke me up a bit. By the time we got to the Broadhurst Theatre, I was feeling much more excited about taking Little Brother to his first Broadway musical!

However. While Anastasia was delightful, it was rough. They completely rewrote the plot and dialogue, losing a lot of what made the animated movie so good. There also was a nice opportunity for them to tie up one character's philosophical qualms (his father was one of the guards who shot the royal family to death, so he is committed to making sure Anastasia is actually dead; his turn of heart would have been more realistic had it been revealed that his father actually helped Anastasia escape), but they passed that over for some unconvincing mumbo-jumbo. Overall, the movie, with its magic and demons and sold souls, actually seemed a lot more realistic than this historically accurate version. The special effects were dope, though, and the performers did do a good job with what they had.

We briefly stage-doored so that Little Brother could get a quick video of Christy Altomare for his friends. Then we took the subway home, utterly exhausted. (Confession: I'd fallen asleep for several seconds during the show.) As I showered (in the big shower) and hauled myself up the bunk bed ladder, I was wondering if this trip was a good idea or if I would regret it.

The Genesis of Awkward Mormon Girl

The first time I asked a guy out, he made an anonymous (or so he thought) post on the Internet complaining about how awkward I was. At the time, the word did not have the connotations of vague charm that it does today. It was completely derogatory.

At first, I was in denial: "I'm not awkward!" Eventually, I admitted it: "I am kind of awkward!" But that didn't take away the pain and embarrassment I felt when I initially saw that post. For years I lived in dread of people thinking I was awkward in a non-charming way. When I started this blog, I claimed the label and made it my own so no one could ever hurt me with it again. Since I already publicly call myself awkward, it's effectively been stripped of its usefulness as an insult.

You might think that the guy who made that anonymous post is a real jerkwad. Well, his behavior was real jerkwad behavior, but he is actually not a real jerkwad. I later found out that he was afraid of being alone forever, so he would do things to hurt other people, subconsciously ensuring that he would be alone forever. Yet he was otherwise a lovely person, and we're wonderful friends now that the days of jerkwad behavior are in the past.

People act oddly when fear takes control. Sometimes they go to ridiculous lengths to prove themselves. Sometimes they go overboard trying to ensure their fear never comes to pass, and sometimes they panic and do the exact thing that will expose them to what they're afraid of. (Anakin Skywalker anyone? All of these apply to Anakin.)

Once a friend and I were talking about a time when they treated me in a less-than-desirable fashion. The person admitted that they'd tried to keep me at arm's length because they were worried that if they gave me a chance to vocalize my feelings, I would choose to end the friendship. To recap: they feared losing my friendship, so they treated me poorly to keep me distant enough that I wouldn't be able to tell them I wanted to end the friendship. Upon hearing this, I was astounded.

AWKWARD MORMON GIRL: Uhhhh...

FRIEND (anguished) I know.

Anyway, kids, let's stop making decisions based on fear. Let's not live our lives in such a way that all is structured around avoiding pain. Or in other words: DON'T BE ANAKIN SKYWALKER!

Gut-Spilling Syndrome (the Anti-Blogging Blog Post)

When something really hurts me, I don't like to share it. When something is really important to me, I don't like to talk about it. Such tendencies are difficult when you run a blog.

The source of my blog material is my life. If I don't share, I have no blog. I've had to get used to sharing some of my thoughts and feelings, although some things are always off the table (you'll never hear my actual political views unless you ask). The problem is, though, once you get used to sharing, it's tempting to treat the entire Internet like your diary. I call this Gut-Spilling Syndrome, and it's an issue.

Case in point: relationships. I've seen some blogger peeps spill intimate deets about their interpersonal relationships all over the web. If the other person in the relationship assents, then there's not really anything ethically wrong with that. But. The relationship really isn't just between you and this other person anymore. It's kind of between you, the person, and anyone who reads about it. And make no mistake—these relationship interlopers will give you their opinions whether you want them or not.

Several years ago, I saw one blogger couple share some pretty tender stuff about their marriage. Their blog audience took that as an opportunity to tell the couple about the flaws they perceived in the relationship. I read through the comments: very nosy, very over-reaching to the point of being horrifying. I thought people were trying too hard to armchair diagnose these people they'd never even met. Later, the couple decided to separate, and in their blog, they parroted language similar to the the comments folks had made years earlier.

Were the commenters clairvoyants who highlighted issues the couple refused to acknowledge before? Or did their words get inside the couple's heads, sowing doubt and raising questions about the solidity of their marriage? Either is possible, but no matter what actually happened, the bloggers spilled their guts to strangers and...pardon my language...prostituted their relationship repeatedly to milk content for the blog.

Don't get me wrong: I think there's a place for going authentic and personal in this medium. I just don't think it's appropriate or useful to treat a blog as a sort of diary and commenters as therapists, though. I just don't.

A Farewell to My Adventure Buddy

Anyone who knows me knows that I loooooove my Honda, Bernard. He is a beautiful white 1998 Honda EX. I named him after Bernard from The Rescuers and The Rescuers Down Under.

After the winter of 2015-2016, Bernard's issues trickled away. However, in 2017, they ramped up again. While my mechanic's service has been...less than satisfactory in recent times, a large part of things was that Bernard is just getting old. He turned 20 in May.

Anyway, during December and January, he was in and out of the shop. Every cold morning that he wouldn't start or didn't drive well was a sore blow to me. I had to get to work. Taking the bus was freezing, added one to two hours to my commute time each day, and required planning so that I could get up suuuper early and leave work a bit early, too. Taking one of my parents' cars was only possible on the days that their spare car would start (said spare car doesn't do well in the cold).

It was frustrating. I was not happy. And one January morning when my parents were kind enough to take Bernard to the mechanic for me, they called me to tell me that he needed $900 worth of repairs to fix his radiator and keep him from overheating.

Now, Bernard's not worth very much these days. We stopped insuring him shortly before this. So hearing that he needed repairs that far exceeded his own value made my radiator break down. In a matter of speaking. I was certainly overheating from irritation and a bit of anger. This was the fifth or sixth time I'd brought Bernard to the mechanic in the space of not very many weeks, and I was tired of pouring money into my beloved but dying car.

In a moment of impulsiveness, I burst out, "Then tell them not to go ahead with the repairs, because I will be buying a new car!"

I will tell you more about the car-buying process later, but for now, I will merely say that I miraculously managed to obtain a new car that same week. It's the quickest turn-around I've ever had on a big life decision.

Once I had a new car, the next natural step was to get rid of Bernard, right? Well...I really didn't want to! I had plans to donate him to a high school shop program (since his resell value wasn't enough to try to find a buyer, although in November I'd bought him new snow tires, which I had removed since they were worth more than the entire car). But the shop teacher was rather busy/flaky—I was pretty busy/flaky besides being reluctant—so it took four months to finally part with my sweet, sweet Bernard. He's only been gone a couple of weeks, and I miss him dearly.

Goodbye, my beautiful Bernard. We had many good times together. I'll never, ever forget you!

Easter Weekend

Context: This post is about a trip to San Diego.

This year, General Conference and Easter fell on the same weekend. I was reluctant to go to San Diego partly because of this. My parents said we would listen to the radio during part of the drive but that we might not listen during all of it for various reasons. I did not like this. My life was not going very well, and I was desperate for words that might assist me.

I agonized over the decision. Then I agonized over my decision-making agony, because I am usually very decisive, and it troubles me when my decision powers abandon me. Finally, I agreed to go. But. I made a plan, which was that I bought two portable phone chargers. My phone tends to eat up a lot of battery, especially when I'm streaming. Each charger was supposed to last a few hours, so even if my phone was particularly voracious, I hoped to get four hours' of power to listen to General Conference. I also bought a backup pair of ordinary headphones for my chargeable, wireless Bluetooth headphones. Just in case.

Saturday involved a lot of driving. We were in a hurry as we drove through Utah, Nevada, and into California. We only stopped a few times, which was tedious, but to my delight, my parents did end up playing most of General Conference over the radio.

It was an excellent conference. We had the opportunity to sustain the new prophet, President Nelson, through a solemn assembly. There were also a lot of really, really good talks.

It was hard for me to tear myself away for even a moment. During bathroom breaks at the gas stations, I kept my headphones in and the audio streaming while I waited in line.

Did I get what I needed? Yes. I'd say that at least sixty percent of the talks throughout the four general sessions related somehow to my Interpersonal Crisis. There were so many talks about kindness, forgiveness, and love; about treating people the way the Savior wants you to treat them; and about giving others the benefit of the doubt even when they have wronged you. I felt chastised, but I also felt peace and understanding. I felt that renewal of Easter.

During the Sunday morning session (which we watched in our hotel room while eating breakfast), my mom remarked that a lot of the talks seemed to be about her situation with her brother! We were listening to the exact same thing and getting rather different takes on it. I think part of that is just due to human nature, but I also think that it's partly due to the way that the word of God works. Different scriptures, even when interpreted in a doctrinally correct manner, may resonate differently with one person than with another. Same thing with talks. They individualize themselves to us. The first time I heard Sister Wendy Watson Nelson (who is a superior human being, IMO) speak, she said that years ago, when she was struggling to know if she should marry her fiancé, every talk in a session of General Conference was about marriage, and what she heard led her to break off the engagement. Later, when she went back to reread the talks, none of them really seemed to be related to marriage at all! But her ex-fiancé ended up leaving the woman he did marry for another man, so it worked out well for Sister Nelson.

Besides listening to General Conference, our Easter weekend celebration was a little unconventional. On Saturday night, we arrived at our hotel around dinnertime. My parents went to visit my uncle while my brothers and I rested and refreshed. A few hours later, my parents returned with delicious Shake Shack food. Then bedtime.

Sunday morning, as I mentioned, we watched General Conference on my dad's laptop. My mom had brought little Easter packages for us—cellophane bags with jellybeans and chocolate. She even sort of hid them around the hotel room for us to find.

After the morning session and our sort-off Easter egg hunt, we piled into the rental and headed for Old San Diego. It was a visual riot! Many of the shops and restaurants were built in a Mexican style and selling Frida Kahlo merchandise and southwestern cusine. Everything looked so bright and happy and appealing.

We found an LDS visitors' center (for the Mormon Battalion), but it was closed. It looked kind of like an old Catholic mission. Across the street from the visitors' center was a synagogue! Even though my brothers and I are one-eighth Jewish, none of us had ever been in a synagogue. We ventured inside to respectfully look around. (I thought this was an especially apt activity for Easter weekend/Passover.)

Apparently, this is the first synagogue in San Diego.

We also found some other cool historical buildings.

Speaking of which, you might notice the leafy green foliage in some of the pictures. It turns out that San Diego is kind of like a jungle. Our hotel was nestled in a bunch of palm trees and other foliage. It reminded me a decent amount of Animal Kingdom at Disney World. 

Lunch was at at our hotel bistro. I had a delicious chicken pot pie and half of Baby Brother's grilled cheese sandwich. Dad hugged us all goodbye and went to the airport, and then Mom hustled us kids to go visit her brother.

Even though seeing our uncle was the main reason for the trip, I don't have a lot to say about it. I don't feel like I can say much. It's hard to explain how he's living from day to day and how depressing his place of residence is without violating his privacy. I'll just say that being there was physically and emotionally taxing for all of us (including him, I reckon).

After that, we were on our own. Mom asked us what we wanted to do with the rest of our day.

Our reply was unanimous: "Go back to Old Town San Diego!" So we went back to Old Town San Diego, where we passed a pleasant evening learning about the Mormon Battalion (the visitors' center was open since General Conference had ended). We enjoyed the interactive exhibits, including a small courtyard where Baby Brother and I panned for gold. Afterward, we went to a collection of shops that Little Brother wanted to browse. The shops were closed, but the Mexican restaurant nearby smelled so good that Little Brother persuaded those of us who dislike southwestern food (Baby Brother and I) to try it.

At home, we never eat out on Sundays, but when we travel and have no place to prepare food, we do. So we wound up having Easter dinner in a pleasant courtyard at Casa Guadalajara with chips and salsa in front of us and mariachi music around us.

Baby Brother: (texting our siblings) Literally everybody and their mariachi band is at this restaurant.

I liked the food way more than I thought I would. I enjoyed seafood chimichangas with grilled vegetables, and Mom even let us get some dessert to take back to the hotel.

Happy and content (and full of churros and ice cream), we got into bed and slipped away. I was technically still in recovery from my appendectomy, and the soft hotel beds were a huge blessing. I got much better sleep in San Diego than I was getting at home.

In Which We Run Away to San Diego Rather Abruptly

My mom has five brothers. One of those brothers made a series of poor decisions that made him unpleasant and even unsafe to be around. When I was small, she cut off all contact with him.

A justified decision, to be sure. But maybe not a merciful one. Later, she regretted it. So the last time we went to Disneyland as a family, we swung by San Diego to pay him a visit. Since then, he and my mom have been in regular contact.

Now he has a degenerative disease (I'm the worst with diseases; I don't remember which one). In March, we thought he was going to die. Mom resolved that she would go visit him. It was decided that she and Dad would take the trip over Easter weekend, and I would stay with my brothers.

But wait! If they were going to spend the money to go, then Mom wanted to go for several days, but my dad had a project on a deadline. His schedule didn't allow that. Unfortunately uncle's facility is in a pretty sketch part of town, and neither of my parents wanted my mom to go alone. Plus she would be gone during my brothers' spring vacation, so my brothers would be sitting home bored while everyone else was at work.

Every possible combination of days and travelers was proposed, but nothing seemed to work. Finally, it was decided that my mom and dad would drive out to San Diego the Friday before Easter (Passover). They would take my brothers with them, and they would take me, too.

Yes, me. It was an extremely last-minute vacation (and it arguably wasn't a vacation). But I had to go. My dad was going to fly home on Easter Sunday so that he could get back to work, and driving is not my mom's forte. I was coming so that we could switch off driving the rental car on the way back to Utah.

Which is how I found myself bundled in the back of a rental car (again), hurtling towards Las Vegas and, beyond it, San Diego.

Angry Sonnets

I was angry, so I wrote angry sonnets. But. One is about real life. One is from the viewpoint of a fictional character. One is about a restaurant. Which is which?! I'll never tell.

Note: I must be out of practice with sonnets, because it took me literally weeks to write these, and they're still a bit rough. Also, for some reason, I decided not to use any punctuation except in the couplets at the end. It kind of makes you slow down on the last two lines, creating a ritardando effect. Yay pretentiousness!

I wish that I could tell you how I feel
You wish that I would simply disappear
Well, seeing you does not come as a thrill
I wish I could be anywhere but here
You wish you'd cut me off much long before
I wish that you'd been honest all along
I never wanted to become a chore
How could I know that everything was wrong?
I wish that I could hate you but I don't
Nor have I had the blessing to forget
I wish that you'd forgive me but you won't
Though hard hearts lead to nothing but regret
A piece of unsolicited advice:
Is this really what you want? Please think twice.

A stupid person causes loved ones pain
A stupid person wounds a friend offhand
They might do hurtful things and not explain
Because they think their friend will understand
They let things sit in silence far too much
They think the words are better left unsaid
They damage every friendship that they touch
And somehow think they might come out ahead
I guess that I'm a stupid person then
I never thought of how you might be hurt
I guess I simply didn't comprehend
I guess I kinda treated you like dirt
You were the best out of all of my friends;
Hard to believe this is how it all ends.

Of all the things I've lost I never thought
I'd ever have to count you in that group
So now that means there's one last thing I've got
And one less way my spirits can recoup
I can't begin to tell you how I feel
I feel as though my heart is on the ground
I've stayed together by an act of will
Though inwardly my sorrow's tightly wound
I thought that nothing could tear us apart
Just goes to show how little that I know
I don't know why you feel you must restart
I don't know why you feel you have to go
Do you not realize? And do you not care?
Do you not notice? Why aren't you aware?

The Unavoidable

If you haven't seen Avengers: Infinity War yet, you should probably skip this post. 'Cause that's what it's all about.

Okay, so, do you remember the scene where Doctor Strange is meditating on Titan? And Tony is like "What the heck, you wizard you?"

And Doctor Strange is all, "Oh, I totally saw every possible outcome of our woefully unprepared mishmash of superheroes attacking Thanos when he gets back. There were more than 14 million possible outcomes."

And Tony's all, "Right on. In how many of them did we defeat him?"

And Doctor Strange is all, "Just in one."

Having seen the future, Doctor Strange knows what to do to achieve the best outcome. Surely the Avengers use that knowledge to devise their attack plan. They figure out a way to play to everyone's strengths, to hit Thanos where it hurts and bring him down.

And what happens? Do they win?

Nope. They don't. They come close to winning, but they snatch defeat from the jaws of victory. Thanos gets all six infinity stones. Then he proceeds to wipe out half the population with a snap of his fingers, including half of the awesome superheroes we just spent movies and movies getting invested in!

What the actual heck, Marvel?!

In the last few minutes of the movie, Doctor Strange disintegrates. (I'm using no poetic license here, but you probably know that, because if you haven't seen the movie, you shouldn't be reading this post.)

Tony, watching him disintegrate, is kind of all, "HOW DID THIS GO SO BADLY WRONG?" I mean, he doesn't say that, but obviously he's thinking it.

Yet as he turns into dust, Doctor Strange makes a comment that kind of makes it sound like this was the desired outcome. Out of the fourteen-million-plus outcomes, this is the only one that will lead to Thanos's defeat. It's a long con, a necessary sacrifice to achieve victory in the end.

There have been a few times in my life where literally the worst thing I could possibly imagine happened to me. 'Twas an absolute nightmare. A horror. Inconceivably painful.

During one of those times, I wrote this in my journal:

Well, in any case, [nightmarish, horrible, inconceivably painful thing] is obviously a step towards the future. Apparently it cannot be skipped, avoided, or prevented.

Because heaven knows I tried to skip, avoid, or prevent it.

This wasn't vain optimism; I ended up being right. Looking back, I can say it was a step towards a future with better, happier things that could only be achieved by first going through the horrors. As it has been every other time I've had to endure something like that.

So I guess what I'm trying to say is that I'm not afraid of the future. I don't have Doctor Strange's wizardly powers, but I do know from previous experience that when I pray and inquire of the Lord and come away feeling like things will change and be okay, they do change and are okay.

I know that everything will be okay. I'm not afraid of the outcome of the long con. I'm a little afraid of the things that happen along the way, because like I said, they tend to be nightmarish (i.e. half of the Avengers disintegrating). But if experiencing those things is the only way to nail your one in 14 million chance of defeating Thanos, they're arguably worth it.