Life, Post-Mormon

Hipster Mormons make me angry. RAWR.

2012-02-01T19:34:00.000-08:00

The recent article in the NY Times, “To Be Young, Hip and Mormon” really made me mad, and so I had to start writing to figure out why.I’ve been avoiding the “I’m a Mormon” campaign ads for a while now because theyspark this same RAWR of anger. Reading this article, which opens with BrandonFlowers (the lead singer for The Killers) talking about how he is a Mormon,makes me absolutely furious. Like snappy crab, slamming doors, giving strangersdirty looks furious. Part of me checkmyself—is this my holier-than-thou anger toward the hypocrisy of jack Mormonskicking in? But why would I care?

I think it’s deeper. I think I’m angry because I worked sofucking hard to be perfect—I sacrificed and hated myself and handed years of mylife to that church, all the while feeling like I was a rotten sinner who hadtheir own personal silk-lined handbasket to hell. And when I decided to be trueto myself and left the church, my world fell apart. Any post- or ex-mormonknows the costs, and they are devastating and hard to describe without soundingexaggerated. But there are costs. Then I see these ads, and here specificallyis a dude who’s admitted to drinking and smoking and he’s all, “I’m a Mormon,”like it’s some wicked cool thing to be now, and it’s totes acceptable to notwear garmies and pay 10% tithing and all those other silly things, and I get soangry I could punch something.

But am I just feeling sorry for myself? Like, “Oh, poor me,it’s been so hard to leave the church, wohn wohn wohn….” ß That is my imitationof Charlie Brown’s mom, btw.

Even more frightening is this little part of me that says,“Well, maybe if you would’ve stayed in the church YOU could’ve been one ofthese hipster reformist Mormons.” And that is the worst thought ever, becauseit makes everything I’ve gone through feel like a waste of time, or worse, amistake.

So then I sip my coffee and think a little.

And I conclude that no, I didn’t leave because I wanted tohave a hipster lifestyle. I left because the whole thing is built on a lie. Buteven more, I left because if you really read the doctrine, if you really payattention to what the leadership is saying and cut through the corporatebullshit, the Mormon church is a controlling, harmful, fear-mongering,anti-diversity institution, no matter what their current PR ads say. And THISis the key – it is the utter lack of the church’s ability to follow through onits promises (whether they be blessings or acceptance or happiness or peace,all in return for obedience) that broke my faith.

Maybe someday I’ll stop wanting to grab people in thosevideos and shake them, but for now my anger is still sparking hot enough thatit leaves me nauseated. Maybe someday I’ll have the courage to embrace peoplewho find a way to live with the duplicity—to be Mormon and trying to reform thechurch instead of wanting to just run away (after using a flamethrower on it sono one else gets hurt, either). It’s just not that someday yet.

More in four!

2011-09-05T23:19:00.000-07:00

In September of 2007, I moved myself to Portland. Four years later, almost to the day, I'm coordinating the move of my entire office to a new location in Portland. I think this captures the incredible ramp-up of intensity and awesomeness that has happened since my life crashed and I started rebuilding it. (See: beginning of this blog.)

Speaking of crashes, my computer crashed and I'm now typing this on a sexy new MacBook Air! (A purchase which made my credit card balance not-so-sexy.)

Anyway, I was just over at my favorite version of therapy, a.k.a. Postmormon.org, and I read an entry by a 27-year-old female who'd just left the church. In what I hope she takes as friendly (not know-it-all) advice, I typed up the following and am pasting it here as a reminder to myself. Yes, I read my own blog. I'm that kind of narcissist. :0)

[Psst If you're ever curious, my handle on postmormon.org is pell_mell.]

I noticed that you are close to my age (I'm a 29 year old female) and I've totally been in your shoes and still am sometimes. I live in a house of 4 people who are between 26 and 33 and we joke that I'm the resident teenager. It can be extremely frustrating that the church delayed my emotional/social/sexual maturity for so long! Most of the time I try to focus on the fact that it's more exciting for me to do things that are "normal" for other people (i.e. drinking coffee, swearing, wearing "immodest" clothing, being sexually active in a committed relationship, etc.). It took me a while to sort out the legitimate mistakes from regular human behavior, but once I did, I realized that there will almost always be an element of glee associated with my everyday life because I feel like I'm getting away with something. I think only postmos understand this feeling!

The darker undertone is, of course, that we have to "come out" to our families. Some of my closest friends are part of the LGBTQ community and their stories are VERY similar to anyone leaving mormonism. Just as coming out of the other closet, leaving our TBM closet is extremely hard to do and different for everyone. Most of my family has reacted better than I expected. Some of them quit talking to me, and although I grieve our relationship, I also realize that (a) it is not my fault, and (b) continuing to associate with people who can't accept me for who I am (especially when I'm happier and more authentic, for God's sake!) is not something I want to maintain anyway. Easier said than done. The good news is that there are plenty of other authentic, friendly people in the world who can become just as valuable as family.

Also, you can "come out" in degrees. I was on the phone with my grandma the other day and mentioned going to a bed and breakfast with my boyfriend. There was an awkward moment of, "Oops, just told Grams that I'm not a virgin" but then I just kept on talking as though everything was normal. She didn't say anything. I find that if I act comfortable with my choices, the TBMs around me have to either just accept it and play along (which they usually do) or make snotty remarks and look like jerks. :)

And of course, I always want to present my life as "perfect" so that they can't pull out their "Oh, bad things are happening to you because you're wicked." Lucky for me, things have been *awesome* since I left the church, so I think I've actually caused some serious cognitive dissonance for some of my TBM friends and family. :) Then again, I'm working my ass off to frame everything in a positive light and life free from "shoulds." I think what I love the most about being a postmo is that I can come on this board and hear real stories about real struggles, instead of trumped up "I'm so blessed!" fakery. UGH.

So, long story short: You're certainly not alone. Things will work out. Glad you're on the dark side, because it is waaaay more fun over here."

Honestly, if I could go back and write this to myself in 2007, I would. Still, I wouldn't change a moment of this wild ride. Cheers to whatever the next four years bring on!

Adulthood Without A Car: Pros and Cons and Ranting

2011-06-30T11:50:00.001-07:00

This entry is mainly to assuage my anxiety about selling my car to my little sister next week and living my life with only a bike, public transportation, and my own two feet.

Let's start with CONS:
(1) I hate (and by hate I mean loathe with the passion of a thousand fiery suns) taking the bus. [See footnote 1.] But the MAX train isn't so bad...
(2) Our new office won't have a locker room, so I'll need to shower at home and then do hair-disaster management at work. Or find a gym. Hmm.
(3) No more last-minute runs to the grocery store or the coast. I'll need to start planning (eeks!) and leaving earlier for things.

Well, that was depressing. Let's move on!

PROS:
(1) I've been biking every day for 3+ years now, so what's the big deal?
(2) Biking will keep me fit (see: Perky ass. Sculpted calves. Shallow? Sure. But damn!)
(3) Saving the environment. Cuz I'm a dirty hippie.
(4) Here's the biggest reason: Saving money! And with money, I can buy a NEW car (i.e. one that isn't moldy, slightly smelly, has a leaky trunk, has a noisy interior and a broken speaker, and tends to bust my keys when I try to unlock it in icy weather)

Savings calculation:
insurance = $350/year (yes my car is hella cheap, and my driving record rocks)
registration & plates = $43/year
gas, at $3.50/gallon, 10-gallon tank, 1 fill/month = $420 per year (this is when I'm biking a lot anyway)
maintenance (oil changes, usually one $350-ish breakdown/year, etc.) = $550/year
$8/day parking downtown (b/c I get lazy a couple times per month) = $250/year

Grand total: $1613/year

And this is the absolute bare minimum. Technically, I could have a few grand saved up in a couple years to put a down payment on a new car, and then I can start paying all this again! Har har. In the meantime, I'm just going to round it up and tell myself "Two grand a year. Two grand a year." as I bike around. Phew. Who knows, maybe this is the start of a beautiful lifestyle?

Footnote 1: I hate the way buses are always late or early; I hate sitting by strangers; I hate the way buses (and often strangers) smell; I hate the way I always feel mildly carsick on a bus. I hate how slow they go and how they make a million little stops. Hell, I even hate them when I'm on my bike and they're cutting me off and hogging up the bike lane and passing too closely. I get the value of public transportation, but I *hate* buses.

Thursday's Child Has Far To Go

2011-06-17T21:19:00.000-07:00

I'm feeling pensive tonight, perhaps because there's been a lot of upheaval lately. My mother is finally leaving my stepfather, for real this time (as opposed to the past 2 unsuccessful divorce attempts...). Anyway, she's bought a house and is moving, and I'll be traveling home to help her paint and get settled in. I'll be leaving my car for my little sister and returning by plane. I'll be changing my driver's license to Oregon (finally) and will be using my bike as my only transportation while I save up for a new car. All of the above makes me nervous and anxious, and I think it's important to sit down and realize how far I've come in the not-too-distant past. In the past five years, I have:

-Left the Mormon church
-Graduated from undergrad
-Graduated from a master's program
-Moved 2 states away from anyone I know
-Managed to get into a *real* relationship
-Gained, lost, and maintained friends
-Accepted my own bisexuality
-Lost my virginity
-Become a bike commuter
-Learned to swim laps
-Learned to bartend (and drink. and smoke. oops...)
-Become a coffee snob
-Got a grown-up job!
-Written the 1st (and 2nd, and 3rd) drafts of a book
-Learned so very much: about plants, auto specs, gender politics, feminism, arts administration, nonprofits, cycling, publishing, editing, digital phone systems, sysadmins, wine, and on and on.

I just remember how overwhelmed I was, only 3 years ago, when I arrived in Portland and opened up a weekly, the Mercury, for the first time. The sheer amount of bands, activities, restaurants, and viewpoints was destabilizing. I spent the first two weeks crying in the bathtub every night. And then I walked away from the only person I knew, moved in with strangers, and slept on the floor for the first two nights because I didn't have a bed. I was, quite literally, a refugee.

In essence, these past few years have been packed with so many experiences and changes that I'm barely recognizable to myself some days. And I'm not done yet, by any means. Just pausing to, well, honor the amount of work I've done. That's all.

kwinky dinks

2011-05-20T12:45:00.000-07:00

Confession: I'm a very jealous person. So, when I was scrolling through Publishers Marketplace doing my regular check for new titles, I was furious to find that someone is publishing a book about mormon missionaries. Sure, it's fiction, so it's a different beast. But still.

Also, I'm a little suspicious of this book because, as far as I can tell, the author is still a practicing mormon. How anyone can write something remotely literary, to say nothing of honest, about a mission while still practicing the faith is beyond me. My curiosity has been piqued. So, I googled him. Turns out we were both published for the first time in the same literary journal at BYU. Both under pseudonyms, because we were both on staff. My story is here. (The title, pretentiously enough, is French for "to part is to die a little.") "At least," quips a little voice in my head, "his piece sucks in comparison."

But then, he's the one with a book deal. [cue mild panic]

I have to admit, I'm quite pleased that re-reading my piece doesn't cause me to cringe in embarrassment. It's pretty decent, if only for a short run. The trick will be to maintain a comparable level of writing--to avoid getting sloppy and using shallow phrases and bland sentences--for an entire book.

At least the sun is shining, so I can drag my manuscript into the hammock with me and work on my tan lines. :P

Modestly Arrogant

2011-05-03T16:03:00.000-07:00

Huh, well, there was a delightful little shitstorm of responses to my previous post. It feels strange having more posts on my "side" than Mormons, Inc., but also incredibly satisfying. The further I get from the church, the more my perception of its power diminishes, and it's a wonderful feeling to realize what a crazy little cult they are. Phew!

Anyway, I found an article about Mormon modesty that articulated (really well, I might add) the reasons why Mormon modesty is actually objectification. Ah, patriarchy. Such a mindf*ck.

In related news, Flavorwire featured an online collection of Lolita covers. I can't decide which is my favorite, but this one was quite clever:

Magic Mormon Underwear

2011-04-30T11:48:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I wish I'd kept a pair around just for show and tell. In the meantime, this is the best description I've come across...

Tackling is part of my job description

2011-04-28T11:13:00.000-07:00

Setting: Rather fancy-schmancy award ceremony in a large theater.
Dress: Red. Satin. Cleavage. Oh, and fancy earrings.
Time: Evening, the drowsy kind, where I've had two glasses of champagne but am running on adrenaline since I'm standing in front of an audience of about 300.

My boss does the opening announcements, letting everyone know that I'm standing below the stage on the left to help guide winners up the stairs.

Boss: "Please keep your acceptance speeches short. If you don't, Mel will full-body tackle you."

[applause and laughter]

Yup, that's my job!

Damnation with cream & sugar

2011-04-20T09:41:00.000-07:00

Dear coffee,

[Specifically, a 12-ounce Americano with one shot of espresso and a heavy plop of soy creamer]

Even if I hadn't already left the church, I'm pretty sure I would risk eternal damnation for you. Hot drink, you are so good in my belly.

Sincerely,

---Moi

My new morning mantra.

2011-03-26T23:56:00.003-07:00

I'm gonna stand on the counter, too.

Done and done, cap'n.

2011-03-14T02:35:00.000-07:00

Damn I am exhausted. I just powered through a weekend of working on my book, and version 2.0, complete with chapter outline, is finished. I'll let it sit for a couple days, then proof the chapter outline, then send it to my agent to see what she thinks.

Whew! Yeah! I'll save the champagne for tomorrow, since I need to get up for work in, oh, five hours. But still. Yeah!

PS It is raining and blowing and super stormy and I love this weather.

Sh*t My Boss Says

2011-03-09T16:38:00.000-08:00

I wish I had enough time to write the entire stories about what happens in my office, because with Whiskey Fridays, crazy authors, and the general inanity of throwing huge events, my job is pretty rad.

So today my boss (who is a skinny Canadian who wears a backpack over his suit) overheard me bitching about the hipsters in the building and said, "What? Are you talking about me again? I'm so hip I came out of the womb tattooed and smoking a cigarette."

Also, he sent me this photo one day because he was dying over the author's sweater:

Apparently this guy's schtick is to wear animal sweaters. Just do a Google image search for "Derrick Jensen" to see what I mean. (Apparently the guy is a great environmentalist writer, but the sweaters...oh geez...)

In slightly related news, I spent Monday morning with my boss as we hosted the very handsome man in the center of this next photo:

Every time another woman came up and looked smitten, my boss and I would just look at each other like, "Really?"

Really.

Oh, and in other news, I'm giving up cussing for Lent. (I need to cut down.) But "Oh my God" doesn't count. I refuse to say gosh, golly, or goodness. Ew.

hunting around for hope

2010-11-28T21:42:00.001-08:00

So after getting my panties in a bunch over visiting my family for Thanksgiving, I got snowed in and stayed in Portland. I actually spent Thanksgiving day out in Hood River with my roommate's sister and her family (husband, 2 kids) in a rather idyllic setting. We hiked around the woods in the snow; we had a big (organic, local, etc.) dinner; we played cards and drank wine. In the morning, the kids came in and woke us up and we read them Christmas stories. They kept sitting on my feet and having me walk around, and we called them "elephantitis." (sp?) It was really cute. The next day my roomie & I went wine tasting at small wineries in the Gorge. I have zero tolerance (see: 24 years of mormonism) so thank god she was driving. I had fun. I think she did. I don't know.

I seem to have been overcome by this weird sense of self-doubt this weekend, and I don't know the root. In some ways, being around such a fun, functional family for the holidays only highlighted the dysfunction of my own relatives. Honestly it makes me even more hesitant to have kids. Even if my dad did begin talking to me, I don't think I'd necessarily want him around my kids, since he can be so hurtful. As for my mom, unless she leaves my stepdad I'm never bringing kids around her. And I'm embarrassed about this and rather self-pitying (who would want to marry me? Seriously?!) and this seeps into my relationships with the people currently around me. I've been cranky with my roommates, and don't know what to think about so many parts of my life. I don't know what the hell I'm doing, other than trying to write this goddamn book that I'm afraid no one will want to read. (Whine whine whine.)

I hate the holidays. I miss Sauerkraut. She always understands my bad moods without trying to fix them or making me feel judged.

The end.

Fake it til you make it.

2010-11-15T22:56:00.000-08:00

So I've been feeling really angry and frustrated lately, but these three things cheered me up.

1) Sometimes it's good to remember things like this:

2) I love this girl's blog. It's probably funny even if you never were a Mormon, but damn if I can't read this at work because I start laughing out loud.

3) I just love the way Shakira seems to have so much FUN when she's dancing in this video. I mean, she smiles, for God's sake! I want to see more women in mainstream media images who are smiling.

The end.

She-ra and stripper heels

2010-11-06T00:02:00.000-07:00

First off, my Halloween costume turned out AWESOME. It took forever, and was, um, a rather grown-up version of my favorite childhood costume. (Duh, Mel. You hand-stitched the damn thing onto a bra.) But I had people asking to take a photo with me at the parties, so that pretty much rocked my Halloween.

Second, my reorganization of my book is going alright. I spread butcher paper along one wall of my room & it's covered in post-its and Sharpie lines/notes in different colors. Now I'm writing the actual chapter outline. Yup, this is my idea of an entertaining Friday night...

Last but not least, this article KILLS me. My favorite excerpt:

Morgan made her own dress, working on it Saturdays during a church sewing circle. She complemented the outfit with a pair of battery-powered flashing heels whose glow was just visible under the hem of her dress.

Aw, poor thing, you're wearing stripper heels. Dying! (And for the record, I bought my own halter-top, sparkly black prom dress and wore five-inch black heels. So there.)

A Celebration of Self-Delusion

2010-10-28T13:23:00.000-07:00

Um, this website is RAD: YouAreNotSoSmart.com I specifically like this post about placebo buttons, and the extra irony is that it was sent to me by a Mormon friend. Please refer to the last few lines:

Placebo buttons are a lot like superstitions, or ancient rituals. You do something in the hopes of an outcome – if you get the outcome, you keep the superstition.

Dancing to bring the rain, sacrificing a goat to get the sun to rise – it turns out these are a lot like pressing the button at the crosswalk over and over again.

Your brain doesn’t like randomness, and so it tries to connect a cause to every effect; when it can’t, you make one up.

[This pic has nothing to do with this post but I like it and it reminded me of something my friend Sauerkraut said. So there.]

Anyway, disclaimer: I'm TOTALLY guilty of using the placebo effect. I push buttons at crosswalks. I take the placebo pills at the end of my birth control pack (although this is arguably more Pavlovian--trying to keep myself trained every day to remember). I even feel better immediately after taking pain meds, even though I logically know they take a while to kick in. I'm often a fan of the placebo effect, because it's a nice way to make myself feel better when I don't have any control. (And "lack of control" pretty much defines life, non?)

I also spent years going to a specific building every Sunday and reading a specific book and getting on my knees at specific times of days and saying specific words, all in the hopes it would make my life run more smoothly. This was my logic: obedience = blessings. And a lot of people really DO feel better doing all of these things. But now that I know it (religion, specifically Mormonism) is a placebo, it doesn't work anymore. Do I begrudge the people who still believe in buttons? Only when they tell me I'm going to suffer for not pushing them. :P

AGENT! And I'm old.

2010-10-08T20:11:00.001-07:00

1) My birthday rocked. I got to see two amazing authors (Margaret Atwood & Ursula Le Guin). My coworkers sang happy birthday to me and gave me a gift card to Powell's (aka the closest thing I have to a church). I did my traditional Rosh Hashana rip-off of tearing up bread and chucking it into the river downtown as a symbolic gesture of casting off my "sins" (I prefer to think of them as bad habits) and setting goals for the new year. My buddy Sauerkraut sent me a f**king TUTU (yes, a Tutu!) and a spankin' new apron for making cupcakes in. I managed to wear them both at my birthday shindig on Saturday night:

Yes, that is me grilling corn in a tutu.

Hmm, and I just got interrupted by Mr. R. calling. He is, in his words, "just a little tipsy." Apparently he bought some Bailey's, which is akin to me buying Trader Joe's red licorice (i.e. I don't, because I will consume an entire package of it for dinner). He began telling me a story that went like this:

"So I had some Baileys, and I had some half and half in the fridge. And they were just sitting there like, 'Hello, Mr. R.' And I asked them how they were, and they said, 'Very good, but we'd be better mixed together in a glass.' And so I mixed them together in a glass. And they were happy. And then they said, 'Mr. R, you know what would make us really happy?' and I said, 'No, what?' and they said, 'Vodka!' and so I put some vodka in the glass, and they were like a happy little alcoholic menage a trois, and then they said, 'You know what would make us extra happy? Being in your belly. That would make us happy, like the giving tree' and I am a giver, and so I sipped the cup. And I killed it. And I felt a little bad, but then I made another one, and frankly it looks scared right now, but if it didn't want to be drunk then it shouldn't look so attractive."

Yup.

Work is still going pretty well. The honeymoon period is wearing off but I really like my coworkers and I feel good about what we do, so that helps when I get struck with the post-birthday blues and start wearing black eyeliner and painting my nails black and sitting on my roof wishing I smoked cigarettes because it just felt like the thing I needed to do. But I don't smoke. So I had a big glass of wine and woke up with my eyes all red and itchy from sleeping in make-up. And then I went Goodwill shopping, and found a pair of wide-leg jeans and a seventies vest, and the leaves are falling, and the air is getting that crispy smell to it, and here's the biggest news of all:

An agent I queried requested my entire manuscript and read it. She likes it. She wants to work with me (SQUEEE!!!) although it pretty much requires re-structuring my entire book and kind of, well, okay, re-writing the damn thing. But she thinks I'm a good writer, thinks I have a good premise, and wants to work with me. So, I (more or less) have an agent. A good one. YEAH!

And thus, on this lovely Friday night (and I'm not being sarcastic for once) I shall be holed up in my attic, scribbling on post-it notes, attempting to lay out an entire book on a big sheet of butcher paper taped to the wall. I might wear my tutu for moral support. I kind of love my ridiculous life, even if it's tinged with icky sometimes, because it's mostly great.

On Dining Alone

2010-09-26T13:17:00.000-07:00

I think I've mentioned this before, but it's taken me a long time to be alright with dining alone.

Ramblin' on...

2010-09-19T00:46:00.000-07:00

I always get intensely nostalgic in the fall. A big part of it is my birthday (next thursday! Woot!), but I think that for some reason or another, this time of year always invites reflection. One would think that a season associated with death, oncoming cold, and less daylight would induce nothing but melancholia, but I always find something inspiring about summer's end.

For example, here's the soundtrack for my life these days:

Something about this song makes me feel as though I'm driving on an open road, autumn leaves swirling in the wind behind my tires as I speed into the future. But before I do, pardon a reflection of the past.

Three years ago, I'd just landed in Portland. I was living with someone who was turning out to be a huge, huge mistake. I'd just taken out several grand in student loans. I'd (thankfully) just landed a job at a law office, but had no idea how I was going to make ends meet. Most of all, I was scared shitless. I'd ditched my religion, sold half of my belongings, and moved to a strange city where I knew NO ONE. Not a soul, other than my soon-to-be-ex. So I began doing the only thing I could think of: I started walking.

Our apartment was downtown, and I began taking jaunts around the city, venturing further and further from home each time. Eventually, I mustered the courage to dump P. and moved in with some random roommates I'd met on craigslist. I spent the first two nights in my new house sleeping on the floor because I didn't even own a bed. And, by literally placing one foot in front of the other, I began building a life. Whenever the overwhelming responsibility and loss and loneliness of my current path hit me, often as I was biking home, my mantra would blend with the whir of my tires: This is how you build a life. One step at a time. This is how you build a life.

Fast forward three years. I have a stellar job (salaried! health insurance! wicked smart coworkers! hobnobbing with authors!). I live in a huge, creaky old house with wooden floors, a walk-in closet, and roommates who are cool enough that I spend weekends laughing on the porch with them. I have dear, dear friends whom I love. (Actually, I have more friends than I've ever had in my life. It's crazy.) I live in a city that I love, with bike lanes, vegan bakeries, indie bookstores, gorgeous scenery, cozy rain, lovely coffee shops, and two spots that have become my new church: Cathedral Park and Powell's Books.

I'm happy? I think I'm happy! *pinch pinch* Yeah, this weird, hopeful feeling is as close to happy as I've ever been. My heart has been trampled. I've lost everything. And I've survived. Hell, I've thrived. This feels really, really good.

Sure, some of my classmates are venture capitalists and making *way* more money than me. Most are married with children, some of them happily (if blogs and facebook can be trusted). Some have way better bodies than I do. I'm sure plenty of them would consider me a sinner, and if I publish this book, worse than a degenerate failure. Sure, I have debt up to my eyeballs. I still fight plenty of demons. My father has stopped speaking to me. My life is far from carefree.

Still, as my 28th year of living approaches, I'm surprisingly excited. As usual, I'll be doing my ritual of throwing bread into the river as a symbol of things I'm giving up (my own ripoff of a Jewish new year tradition) and setting new goals. I think these are the main ones:

1) Get my book agented and sold to a publisher by my next bday.
2) Continue building my life--making myself strong, better (and faster? Ha. Sorry. Couldn't help it.)

Getting to this point has cost me dearly, but I'll be damned if it hasn't been worth it. So, I will continue to take the hard route. I'll continue doing things that scare me. I will continue trying to be honest yet kind, especially with myself. I'll continue putting one foot in front of the other.

Ha--I just realized, it reminds me of what used to be my favorite (yet wrongly attributed) quote from Mormon Jesus: I never said it would be easy. I only said it would be worth it.

:)

The ties that bind...or choke. Whatever.

2010-08-24T20:50:00.000-07:00

Time for my favorite: family emails! This time my dad's sister came to visit. I was a bit apprehensive, but we managed to have a really nice time together. After she left, I received this email:

Melissa – I respect so much your need to make your own way in life and find the path that is best for you, but don’t completely close your heart to the gospel. Someday, perhaps many years from now, you are going to have this unbelievably beautiful and precocious blonde haired, blued eyed little three year old staring up at you and the spirit will whisper. Keep your heart open to those whispers. I do love you and respect all the things you are learning and becoming. I hope I get to see you at Thanksgiving!

My response? "I'm marrying a black man."

Okay, fine, so I actually just didn't respond, but her level of assumption (emphasis on ass) just infuriated me. I love how Mormons can predict the future...especially that of people who leave the church. Misery! Despair! Eventual reconciliation!

In the words of my younger self: Gag barf.

small crush on a stranger

2010-08-16T22:34:00.000-07:00

So I have a ten-second crush on this dude:

In other news, I spent the weekend sending out more lit agent queries. Ah, the neverending publishing process. Speaking of books, I just finished (and would recommend) Brady Udall's novel, The Lonely Polygamist. It's a very good read, along the lines of The Corrections or Middlesex. My favorite part was that he managed to capture the absurdity of a mormon polygamous family in an absolutely deadpan tone. I actually laughed out loud. Cool beans. How's that for a half-assed book review? Did I mention it's very hot in Portland tonight? Ugh. Sweating. Ick. If hell is cold, I shall sin with gusto!

2010-08-01T12:25:00.000-07:00

My apologies for the lack of recent posts. I managed to get a new job w/a small nonprofit that I love (!!!) and moved to a new house all within two weeks. My body has rebelled against the stress and lack of sleep and now I'm in bed with a head cold. *le sigh*

Anyway, here's a short little video of a poem that made my day:

Cheers! Oh, and P.S. the agent interested in my book is coming to town next week and supposedly interested in meeting me. Fingers crossed!!

Catharsis

2010-06-28T00:09:00.000-07:00

I must admit to regretting saying "yes" to running the "Epic Relay" (a team of 12 people in 2 vans runs the entire distance from Portland to Eugene, Oregon) once I found out my entire van would be full of mormons, one of whom returned from his mission the day before. But, it was better than expected. And I learned I can run 12 miles in 24 hours and still be able to walk the next day.

In other news, I sold cupcakes at Last Thursday (the art festival in town on NE Alberta street). People loved the mini ones. I also got shut down by some lady from the health department or something-or-other because I didn't have a temporary restaurant license. When I asked if I could give them away, she said no, unless I "gave them to friends." So I took down my signs, began packing up, and then had a thought and continued to sit there. I stayed for the next two hours, "giving away" my cupcakes to my "friends" (I introduced myself to everyone who bought one) who then "tipped me" for a cupcake. I recouped my expenses and paid myself $2 an hour. Suck it, bitch. (Although my profits would've been much higher had I been able to keep my signs up listing the prices and ingredients. Sigh.)

In other news, awkwardfamilyphotos.com managed to make me laugh until I cried today with this gem:

Nothing like a photo of a baby duct-taped to a window to make life more amusing.

On Biking Naked

2010-06-20T01:13:00.001-07:00

I was recently thinking that perhaps my love affair with Portland was cooling off...perhaps the Regress-sters and this "spring" weather were nixing my honeymoon period. But in true PDX style, just as I began thinking of leaving, she seduced me all over again.

Tonight it was mid-WNBR. (This is the largest bike ride of Pedalpalooza, or a month celebrating cycling with lots of different rides.) This year's ride was estimated to have 10,000 cyclists, and when I showed up it was nothing but a street packed with riders for as far as I could see in both directions.

All of us rode through the streets of Portland, cheering and being cheered by people lining the streets, completely stopping traffic--miles of rogue bicyclists on parade, half protesting oil, half just having a great time riding in what we wanted to wear when we were two-year-olds. Amidst the horde of crazy outfits (and lack thereof) I found a guy riding with a big sound system mounted to the front of his bike. He was blaring early 90s hip hop, so I slowed my pace to match his.

And tonight, for two lovely hours on a crisp-but-finally-dry evening, we took over the streets with our rolling dance party, strobed by thousands of blinking bike lights.

Fine, fine, Portland. I still love you terribly.

Hide & Seek

2010-06-18T00:31:00.000-07:00

I just can't get over this song. I've got major insomnia lately, thanks to my mind freaking out (job, money, relationships. the usual.) and somehow this quiets me down.

There are two things in this world that get me through, besides my friends, and that would be books and music.

I think I shall move to New York at some point. I don't think it's quite yet, (my lease is up in August, so I've been thinking) but I can feel it coming soon. Or Amsterdam. I've got wanderlust in my blood, and summer may or may not cure it. We'll see. I keep feeling like this year has more in store for me...as though it hasn't even begun. But in the meantime, I'm putting in my headphones and staring at the ceiling.

Childhood crushes

2010-06-16T20:09:00.000-07:00

In honor of Sauerkraut's post about her childhood crushes, (imitation is the highest flattery, darling) I'm going to confess to a few of my own. (I'm sure I'm forgetting some, simply because I have a terrible memory for things like this.)

Anyway, drumroll please, here we go!

1) Bow, a.k.a. the boyfriend of She-Ra.

I believe everyone's first crush was a cartoon character of some sort. I think I wanted to be She-Ra more than I necessarily wanted her boyfriend, but it seemed like a package deal, so I was okay with that.

2) The guy on Dr. Quinn, Medicine woman. (Apparently his name is Joe Lando or something)

I remember this was the first TV show that I would make an effort to be home to watch, and I remember being somewhat...um...uncomfortable (but in a nice way) whenever this dude came onscreen. I know.

3)I snuck into my parents' movie collection one night (I wasn't allowed to watch rated-R movies) and found "Her Alibi." I immediately had a massive crush on Tom Selleck's character, partly because he had a cute smile, and partly because he was a writer.

4) Dr. Jones, a.k.a. Indiana Jones

While Han Solo is admittedly attractive, it was Harrison Ford's role as the world-traveling, ass-kicking, yet secretly nerdy college professor that set my girlish heart aflutter. I totally would have written "I love you" on my eyelids if I'd been in his class...and worn short skirts and sat in front...and asked for extra help outside of class...

5) And the biggest of all...my crush on Jeff Goldblum. *sigh* It was Jurassic Park that did it first--the whole uber-nerd-scientist w/out a shirt? Holla.

My crush was further cemented in Independence Day when he was, yet again, the smart dude who was surprisingly badass:

And let's see that handsome mug just one more time...

Sadly, the dude hasn't aged well, so all my lusting has to be circa-1998 and before. As for what my crushes say about me...hmm...give me a dark-haired nerd with glasses who hikes on weekends? :0)

Now, where's the dude who fits this description and had a massive crush on Dharma? Send him my way, please. ;-)

Another I Heart PDX Moment

2010-06-08T19:55:00.000-07:00

Today I was walking home from the swimming pool and heard a kid yelling, "Hey lady! Hey lady with the purse!" (PS When did I become a lady? *le sigh*) I turned to see a little girl in a ground-floor window of an apartment complex across the street. She waved at me. I waved back. She said something unintelligible, so I walked over to the window.

"Could you come over tonight?" she said, suddenly a bit shy. I started to panic, wondering if I needed to call DHS. The apartment was dark and this six-year-old (or thereabouts; I'm not the best judge) was obviously home alone and yelling at strangers from her living room.

"What do you need?" I asked.

"Could you, could you come over tonight for some chicken soup?" she asked.

I almost laughed. "Thank you for the invite, but I'm a vegetarian. I don't eat chicken."

"Well," she huffed, "some customers are really being difficult tonight."

"I'm sorry," I said, "but good luck with your chicken soup business." I began walking away.

"If you know anyone who eats chicken, tell them to come by tonight!" she called after me. "I'm Iris V___ and I'm sellin' soup!"

I told her I would. So now you know. :0)

Mel's sad song of the week.

2010-05-31T02:32:00.000-07:00

Thank god my friend sauerkraut called today, otherwise I wouldn't have spoken to anyone other than the barista at the coffee shop I holed up in all evening. The book editing is going well...that's about as much good news as I can muster.

On that note, here's hoping sleep comes soon and the fucking sun comes out tomorrow. Portland, I love you, but goddammit, I'm sick of being soggy. Cut a brokenhearted girl some slack already. (>.<)

missives from the fortress

2010-05-15T22:18:00.000-07:00

I'm at my father's house in California. I have no key to the house. The alarm is set, so I cannot open a window or an outside door without setting it off. Most of my conversations continue to be carefully censored--no shit, piss, fuck, damn, cunt, God, ass, bitch, or hell has escaped my lips. In a way, I'm grateful my dad is choosing to focus on my vegetarianism as something to passively argue about (protein deficiency! as if.) because it keeps us from the more volatile subjects, such as politics and religion. We touched on politics today, but I played nice. I hate playing nice.

I'm trying to walk that difficult line between being honest and being polite. It's annoying, because they don't censor themselves at all around me. They feel no need to. After all, I'm the one in the wrong. I'm the one who left the church and rejected everything righteous and holy, so the defect obviously lies within me.

Wait, *cue record screech noise* let's repeat that word: LIES.

It's all lies. Their entire, sad little cooped-up paranoid lives are dedicated to a sack of lies, perpetuated through generations, continually recycled and patched together as some kind of holier-than-holy of religions.

I went for a run tonight. I'm holding it together. For once, I know which direction is up. I've found my compass, and it's embedded in my own palm. I'm finally beginning to live the life I want, and no one can touch that. Despite my lingering anxiety over the rest of this "vacation," and my weariness at keeping up my guard so their hurtful remarks will slide off, at least I have the comfort of smug self-satisfaction. (My black sheep life is effing wonderful.) At least I'm finally, wonderfully, finding peace with myself.

Oh, and let's not skip my favorite part of tonight's conversation, as we were discussing how I will never own a gun. (My dad took me shooting this morning--my favorite. Har har.)

Dad: What if you were stalked? What if some guy broke into your house and tried to rape you?
Me: I'd rather be raped than kill someone.
Stepmom: I'd rather die than be raped.

Silence.

And I realized, somewhere along the way, I've gotten to the point where there is nothing anyone can do to me that will stop my determination to live.

Ha. Ha ha-ha ha HA. I win.

Flooded.

2010-05-11T23:03:00.000-07:00

My dreams are blatantly metaphoric these days; I keep dreaming of floods. Last night I kept climbing higher and higher in the scaffolding of unfinished warehouses, trying to escape the crashing waves of tsunami-like flooding.

I'm barely keeping my head above water. There's the usual: my wage-slave job dumping more duties on me, my inability to find a publishing job, my looming student loans, my continual vacillation between wanting to kick my ex in the shins or beg him to date me again, my frustrations and stress (my own damn fault) over agreeing to start a blog and be a reader for another literary journal...this alone is enough to make me dream of drowning. But now my family is joining the melee.

My little brother just left for his mission. I'm torn between being glad he's away from his manipulative, abusive father (my stepfather) and hoping he isn't brainwashed by the effing momo cult. I feel guilty for not trying to help him find a different way out of Idaho, although we parted ways years ago after he pretty much told me he hated my guts. (Yeah, that hurt.)

My sister continues to engage in what I view as self-destruction, i.e. drinking excessively and continuing to live with her trailer-trash boyfriend. I really did try to get her out of state for college, or even out of town, but that effort backfired and cost me hundreds. Now my family keeps enabling her stagnation. (I really hate the learned behavior of dating people because they'll pay for things. It's fucking prostitution!! *rant rant*)

My mother has filed for divorce for the second time, so I'm fielding daily calls and texts from her panicking and wanting to back out. I continue to reassure her that this is for the best. I tell her things will work out. I make her believe the same things I keep telling myself: "you're going to be okay...you can take care of yourself...the hard path is the right path." It's somehow easier to believe these things when they apply to someone else. I know we're both lying awake at night. Shared anxiety is apparently not as therapeutic as shared misery.

Then there's my impending trip to California this weekend to visit my very mormon father, whom I've been avoiding for, let's see, seven years. The only time we've spent together since summer of 2003 was a couple days at a family reunion two years ago, and most of that was spent arguing over religion and politics. In a fit of post-breakup-melancholy, I actually called him (he'd asked me to after I wrote a sad email) and sobbed about how I need a dad. So he bought an airline ticket. So I'm going.

In the past, being around my father and stepmom has been a disaster. I lived with them every summer during college, and I've never been so depressed, bulimic, and antisocial in my life. It was hell. But I kept up the good-mormon-daughter image to the best of my abilities. I managed to be a stranger in the same house. So now, my goal is to be real--to be an adult. To have the cajones not to let my father make me feel bad. My goal is to play referee all weekend--to be honest and tell him that certain topics are off-limits. Knowing him, he'll bring them up again anyway. Knowing him, he'll make remarks about fat people, and homosexuals, and liberals, and Oregonians, and youth, and tattoos, and alcohol, and vegetarians, and tons of other topics that will inadvertently hurt my feelings and make me angry. So why am I going? I'm asking myself the same thing.

Days like this make me seriously resent people with functioning parents. I know everyone gets fucked up by their family in their own special ways (and yes, I'm using my least favorite word intentionally). But goddamn. Grant me a little self-pity for a moment when I say that I'm really, really tired of dealing with mine. I'm tired of getting alternately hurt and ignored by my father, having to constantly reassure my mother (who would need years more reassurance if she ever read this entry), undoing the negative commentary my stepfather pounded (sometimes literally) into my head through childhood, and patiently enduring my stepmom's passive-aggressive games. And despite my frustrations with them, I guiltily wish I could help out my siblings and my mom, despite their seeming intent on fucking up their own lives. *sigh*

And while I'm ranting, I'm fucking lonely. More than anything, I wish I had better relationships with my family members because I want a, well, a family. That's the god-I'm-crying-again truth of it.

Okay. Done for now.

wishing...and hoping...

2010-05-05T15:07:00.000-07:00

So after more than a month of being distracted by freelance editing projects and people with XY chromosomes who are horrid communicators, *ahem*, last night I finally emailed my revamped book proposal to Ms. Schmanzy Lit Agent in LA. Well, she responded this morning (!!) saying she was just thinking about my project and is excited to read over it. Um, yay? :)

on waiting...and catching yourself watching for someone who isn't going to pass by...

2010-04-29T20:38:00.000-07:00

It seems that life is a fundamentally lonely experience.

Oh home, let me go home.

2010-04-25T00:04:00.001-07:00

There's been a theme in my favorite songs the past few months--they're all about finding home.

I had a dream last night. I was at R.'s house, which he had recently bought, and it was on the edge of an ocean. I could see the high-tide lines on the walls, and the tide was coming in, and I told him he shouldn't have bought the house. But he didn't listen to me. I walked around on the wooden-plank floor, listening to the water grow closer. It began lapping at the door. Then it began seeping up through the floors. Suddenly we were wading around in about a foot of dark, cold, violent water. He finally admitted that the house was going to flood, and he began throwing down photo albums from upstairs. One fell into the water, and I kept yelling, "Shit! Shit!"

Then the dream shifted, and I was standing on a dry cement dock, and the ocean was far in the distance.

I have no clue what it all means.

Anyway, I heard this song while I was eating dinner & doing some editing in a pizza place today, and I loved it. I came home, downloaded it, and now it's making me cry.

That's all. Just nostalgic tears--nostalgia for something I haven't had yet, but hope for: home.

completely and utterly off topic

2010-04-22T18:31:00.000-07:00

Okay, so this has NOTHING to do with anything I usually blog about, but it made me laugh. It starts off slow, but by the end I was giggling out loud.

And now back to editing. I had a great visit w/my good buddy, Sauerkraut, but now have to work my ass off playing catch-up. Whine whine. It's good to be busy.

All things go, all things go.

2010-04-14T23:23:00.001-07:00

When I was a Mormon, I was often distraught over my inability to "feel the spirit." I felt defective. So it's rather ironic that, after rejecting my religion, I find myself having such fantastic moments of bliss.

It's hard to put words to these little moments of euphoria...there's usually a mix of endorphins and music when they happen...for example, tonight i went for a late-night run in the warm, light rain after a productive day filled with pretty good news. As I ran, I mulled over how much better I am single (healthier, more productive, etc.) and it was one of those runs where I felt like I could run forever. Most of all, I felt present. I'm learning to inhabit the moment--the here and now--more fully than I ever did as a Mormon, where I was forever distracted, trying to reconcile observation and belief.

But now I'm free to fully inhabit the moment. There's no before, no after: just me and the steady drum of my feet, the rush of blood, and the soft tingles of rain on my skin. Then, home stretching, the perfect orchestra of a song that captures how I'm feeling.

Tonight it's this ("Chicago" by Sufjan Stevens):

And because I no longer have a God to thank, I just want to blast my gratitude into the blogosphere, to put into writing how utterly, stupidly grateful I am for every second of these random moments of happiness. It's as though all the space carved out in me, by disappointments and hurt and loneliness, is suddenly filled with something much larger than myself. I don't know what this is or where it comes from, but it feels a lot like hope, and it leaves me smiling, a whisper of thank you, thank you, thank you weaving between my heartbeats.

Call me cheesy, but these are the moments that keep me alive. Good night, dear void.

The BOM musical? Um, squee. [an f-bomb gets dropped]

2010-04-14T21:20:00.000-07:00

The Book of Mormon as a musical? By the creators of South Park?

Not only is this a great excuse for me to revisit NYC, but if my book gets published around the timeline I'm hoping for, the synchronicity of it makes me want to use the word "squee." But I'll opt for a firm oh fuck yes instead.

self-love is great. (and yes, you can take that in a masturbatory sense.)

2010-04-07T11:20:00.000-07:00

Things I have done at work today:

1) Read publishing blogs by The Intern and The Rejectionist. (Highly, highly recommended.)
2) Drank coffee.
3) Read the daily email from Shelf Awareness.
4) Read the Wall Street Journal while "filing" upstairs.
5) Written this blog entry.

Essentially, this is me counting the ways I love my meaningless, non-career-related, wage-slavery job. Sometimes I really do work, but I'm generally uber-efficient and get everything done in a couple hours, thus leaving me time for the fun stuff.

Speaking of fun, my mormon aunt (my dad's little sister) and her husband and five children were in town this weekend. I went to dinner w/them, then swam at their hotel, & we went to OMSI on Tuesday morning & explored the science exhibits (nerdy fun). My uncle, who used to be my favorite uncle, was standoffish, arrogant, and suspicious, as though I was secretly plotting to corrupt his wife and children when he wasn't looking. (To his credit, this is sort of true.)

To make a long story short, it was nice seeing them in the sense that having the flu makes you appreciate being well. I love my family and all, but the giddy sense of FREEDOM that washed over me as I waved goodbye to their minivan stuffed full of treats, scriptures, and general-mormon-stifled-ness was absolutely thrilling. I would just like to "bear my testimony" (har har) with more conviction than I ever felt about the church, that leaving mormonism was and continues to be one of the best decisions I've ever made.

And hot damn it feels good to be doing what's right for me.

Funerals are Less Depressing than Mormon Wedding Receptions

2010-03-31T16:02:00.000-07:00

Recently I went to a funeral with a friend of mine. (He also got dumped around V-day, so we've been having drinks-and-a-movie "dates." It's an odd friendship, but we both agree that it's nice to have good company on the evenings we're missing our exes the most. But I digress...)

So this funeral was actually a client of his, a 55-year-old man who had committed suicide. It was the most strangely wonderful afternoon. Let me tell you the story.

First off, my friend T. is like barely 5'10" tall, while I'm exactly six feet. For some reason (probably the my-heart-is-cracked-and-thus-unable-to-have-real-romantic-feelings-for-anyone reason) the height difference doesn't bother me. It doesn't bother him, either. So I showed up in a a pinstripe suit coat, little black skirt, black nylons, and black stiletto heels. He wore a tailored black suit with black Converse shoes and sunglasses. Needless to say, we were quite an odd couple. (He made a crack about being with a supermodel, which was rather sweet.)

The funeral was at an Episcopalian church and so it had Catholic aspects (or so he said--I've never been to Mass) but the priest was a woman and there was a famous surfer-music electric guitarist who played. It was oddly incongruous, but strangely comforting music.

At one point, the man's brother got up to speak. First he rambled on about his discomfort with organized religion, which endeared me, and then he held up a tape measure and said that he loved object lessons. He pulled out 55 inches of tape, explaining that every inch represented a year of his brother's life. He pointed to various inches, saying "This is the year he met his wife," "This is the year he moved to Portland," and so on. He gently bent the tape with his fingers at 48 inches, leaving the 7 inches at the end waving slowly back and forth.

"These were the seven years he lived here in Portland," he said, "and I know he met a lot of good people here, and you loved him deeply." His voice began to tremble. "But keep in mind, that was just this little part," he said, beginning to sob openly. "And if you think you hurt," he gasped for a breath, "just imagine how I feel, with all of this." He held the tape up for a moment longer, then dropped it and walked quickly back to his pew, shoulders heaving. I could barely hold back my own tears. Rarely have I seen such a display of raw grief--the angry pain of it.

The guitarist began playing again, a song called "Sleepwalking." I almost gasped; this is one of my favorite songs, although the version I know is a cover by Modest Mouse. And I, cracked open by his emotions and wallowing in my own small losses, was absolutely moved by the moment (my apologies for the cheesiness, there is just no other word). There was no invocation of God. There was no mention of "hope in the afterlife" or God "working things out in the end." And yet, it was immensely cathartic. I left with a feeling of utter carpe diem, in the sense that now, right now, this instant, is all I have. I cannot change my past, and my future is fraught with unforeseen complications. How can I not want to grasp firmly to every second of my stupid life and live for the moment?

And so I vow, yet again, to make a serious effort to be "in the moment." To stop using the word "should" and start asking what makes me happy, what are my strengths, and reminding myself not to be afraid. This is my "one wild and precious life." And I think I might start going to funerals as a reminder of this. (Cue Harold and Maude.)

Oh, and I want surf music at my funeral. You know, before you throw my ashes off the St. Johns bridge. :)

OMG! Well, kinda...

2010-03-26T19:24:00.000-07:00

First off, my apologies for not blogging in forever. I've been busy wallowing over the breakup and feeling lethargic and melancholy and not having anything nice to say.

[Um, we interrupt this broadcast because there's blender noises and hysterical laughter going on upstairs. This does not bode well.]

Anyway, so I've also been bemoaning the fact I hadn't heard anything from the literary agents, and then a couple days ago I got an email from the one in Cali. (!!!) She liked my sample chapter, but wants me to re-do the book proposal. This is odd to me, because I thought book proposals were what you did to get the agent to read your manuscript, but whatever. I'm totally willing to jump through a few hoops, as long as someday I see a version of my book on the shelf at Powell's:

My re-vamping of my book proposal includes a list of the top five competing titles. So far I think they are these:

1. The New York Regional Mormon Singles Halloween Dance by Elna Baker: a charming yet superficial account of a girl (exactly my age, btw) navigating the dating world while trying to keep her legs shut. She kind of bothers me, but I think it's because (a) she keeps talking herself into staying in the church, and (b) she is published. Jealousy!
2. Escape by Carolyn Jessop (about escaping a polygamous FLDS marriage)
3. The Other Side of Heaven, a.k.a. that mormon propoganda that got made into an uber-cheesy movie.
4. Under the Banner of Heaven by John Krakauer, and my favorite on this list, because he exposes some of the cray-cray mentalities of mormons.
5. Burned, which I sort of want to read because it's about a young mormon girl w/an abusive father who leaves the church. But--and here's the kicker--it's written in "freeverse." Um, gag?

Anyway, my main selling point is that an objective, not-faith-promoting account of what it's like to BE a missionary hasn't been written. Until now. ;-) So, wish me luck in my book proposal revamping. Oh, and said agent wants to meet me in August at the Willamette Writer's convention. So, while it's not a book deal, it's still worth a little jump of excitement.

making my xmas list early this year...

2010-03-26T12:16:00.000-07:00

I might need this for Christmas...or a birthday... ;-)

I hate waiting.

2010-03-15T23:54:00.000-07:00

My current excuses over not blogging: I've been (a) wallowing over the breakup (b) being nervous/researching the new blog and (c) being annoyed and discouraged while editing my book. The part about getting published (or trying) they don't mention is the hell of revisions and waiting for answers from Lit Agents. I keep thinking, "Oh, maybe no news is good news. Maybe they're debating about asking me for my manuscript." Ah, hope. It's so nice to you before it gets crushed by reality.

Anyway, I must give a shoutout to a friend's amazing blog that makes being vegan look like the tastiest decision one could ever make. She inspires me to continue trying to avoid dairy and fish. (As opposed to my half-assed vegetarianism of present. Damn cheese!) I mean, just look at this panini:

Um, yes please.

Matchmaker, Matchmaker, find me a match...

2010-03-05T09:56:00.001-08:00

In honor of the fact I've run away from my life (temporarily) and hightailed it to Seattle, here's exciting news from Seattle's weekly, The Stranger: A book matchmaker exists! The wordnerd in me just had a little geekgasm.

Anyway, other highlights:
1) A salesclerk at a store we went to asked my friend Jenbo how her she was doing. She replied, asked how he was, and he replied, "Medium well." I'm going to start using that.

2) During Jenbo's med school interview (the reason she's in seattle, and the reason I get to see her) I went to a coffee shop near the hotel to work on my book. What's the nearest one? Oh, the shop where R. (the newest ex) and I went to his sister's CD launch. Oh, and where were Jenbo and I looking at restaurants for her post-wedding dinner? Tacoma. Literally five blocks from R.'s parents' house. Apparently the Universe doesn't want me forgetting about R. Thanks, Universe.

3) Since we're in Tacoma, I get to go to quite possibly the best cupcake shop ever: Hello Cupcake. (And I believe my opinion counts as a cupcake connoisseur.) They even have a special this month, the Irish Creme Latte. YUM!

on the streets of Portland...(instead of Philadelphia)

2010-02-27T23:26:00.000-08:00

Random fact: I have the same birthday as Bruce Springsteen (and Ani Difranco and Rachael Yamagata) and am still bitter that astrology doesn't ensure musical talent. Sigh.

Anyway, I took myself to a movie tonight. It made me cry, but I was expecting this. Four Seasons Lodge is, after all, about elderly Holocaust survivors gathering together in the Catskills. I'm also PMS-ing like mad, so I was prepared for some serious tears. Old people always make me want to cry. I think it's because I hate the idea of death--I hate that we'll eventually lose everyone we love. It's something I still haven't come to terms with since leaving the mormon church.

Anyway, after that I felt like walking, so I rambled around the streets of downtown Portland for an hour or so. (Keep in mind I'm wearing cowgirl boots, black skinny jeans, and a high-collar sweater under my camel trenchcoat. It was sort of a toasty hipster look.) There were tons of people out; it was wonderful. I eavesdropped on conversations at stoplight crossings. I paused in Powell's books just to browse. I got hit on by an older drunk guy. I got asked for spare change by a white trash couple. I smiled at a homeless lady. I strutted past the entrance to clubs, gloating over being taller than 3/4 of the guys waiting in line, and gloating even more over being much, much warmer than the girls shivering in their skanky outfits. It's just nice to not feel that desperation anymore...that "look at me! look at me!" need which practically oozes out the doors of downtown clubs.

I guess what I'm saying is, I'm finally learning to really enjoy being me, even if being a crazy sock gets rather lonely sometimes. It's worth it. Good night.

Another I love Portland moment....

2010-02-26T00:14:00.000-08:00

Today I picked up a free futon frame, left on the side of the road in the Mississippi area. (Thanks, craigslist!) My buff roomie helped me lift it and balance it on the back of my trusty Corolla, a.k.a. Clark. (Thanks, Kris!) We secured it to my trunk/bike rack with twine...a lot of twine. (Don't ask me why all I had was a big ball of twine.)

So I was driving home, ever so carefully, when a big SUV started honking and flagging me down. I pulled over, thinking, "Oh, no, I just swiped a parked car," or "Crap, my muffler fell off," or something equally horrendous. Nope. Dude just wanted to offer me a "screaming deal" on an entertainment center to go with my new couch.

Portland, you absolutely kill me.

And it was too dark to get a photo, sadly. :P Epic tying job, though. Maybe there's free rope on craigslist...

:)

Brain Snack. (Okay, so maybe "food for thought" works better.)

2010-02-25T15:06:00.000-08:00

Thanks to Bex for sending this great quote my way:

Unfortunately, most of us have little sense of our talents and strengths, much less the ability to build our lives around them. Instead, guided by our parents, by our teachers, by our managers, and by psychology’s fascination with pathology, we become experts in our weaknesses and spend our lives trying to repair these... flaws, while our strengths lie dormant and neglected.

-D. Clifton

On that subject, I realized I haven't included the link to my book in this blog. Perhaps I'll make it a sidebar, but for now, you can read chapters here (http://momonomo.wordpress.com)

I want to be like mommy...

2010-02-25T14:33:00.000-08:00

This probably already made the blogosphere rounds, but it's too funny not to share. My dad forwarded it to me, with the subject line "why you should check your child's homework."

Here's the reply the teacher received the following day:

Dear Mrs. ****,
I wish to clarify that I am not now, nor have I ever been, an exotic dancer.
I work at Home Depot and I told my daughter how hectic it was last week before the blizzard hit. I told her we sold out every single shovel we had, and then I found one more in the back room, and that several people were fighting over who would get it. Her picture doesn't show me dancing around a pole. It's supposed to depict me selling the last snow shovel we had at Home Depot.
From now on I will remember to check her homework more thoroughly before she turns it in.
Sincerely,
Mrs. ****

one more time with feeling...

2010-02-20T20:30:00.000-08:00

Funny, not in that ha-ha sense but in that life-is-an-effing-ridiculous-joke kind of funny that this song, of all songs, should be the one I've got on repeat today.

That said, I'm trying to get back to focusing on the stuff that matters:

1) My book
2) My life

Yes, in that order. Here's to new adventures! Speaking of which, I've been put in a position of power (muah hahaha) with my sort-of-internship thingy, and it's supremely exciting. I'll be networking out the, uh, [insert body part here] with my favorite group of people: writers!

Apparently this is not my week.

2010-02-17T11:32:00.000-08:00

Just as I'd begun to think I was moderately okay about the breakup, I'm overwhelmed with melancholia. Last night I realized I've been hanging on to the small hope that R. and I will work out someday, and the only way to kill it is to tell myself that he will be able to commit with the "right" girl, & that I'm just not her. This is, obviously, incredibly painful to think, but it seems to be cauterizing the part of my heart that is still in love w/him. Sigh. Am I wrong? Perhaps. But I don't want to be waiting around for him and get my heart broken yet again.

So, with this in mind, I'm at work this morning wearing a sweater I slept in, feeling terrible & self-pitying, and waiting for the damn coffee to brew when one of my uber-Jesus-freak coworkers (who recently began reading chapters from my book) starts a conversation about God with me in the mailroom. Oh, and this is also while I'm taping together our piece-of-shit wheeled caddy we use to haul files around with, which is broken for the umpteenth time and really frustrating to fix.

Jesusfreak: I've been reading your chapters, and can I ask you a question?
Me: Sure. (internally swearing at the tape, the broken plastic, and my life in general)
Jesusfreak: So did you give up on God altogether?
Me: (thinking about how I do NOT want to field this question) My feelings are that, if God wants to talk to me, he knows where to find me.
Jesusfreak: Oh. Because I was raised Catholic, and I know it was different, but I had no idea I could talk to God. I was always talking to the priest, and then my aunt was like, "Why don't you talk to god?"
Me: Right. But I've always known I could pray to God directly. I've been talking to God since I was six.
Jesusfreak: Yes, but it sounds like what you were doing was trying to bring people to God through Joseph Smith.
Me: (blank stare, as I think "Really? Did you hear anything I just said?") Actually, it was always about God. I always wanted to help people find God.
Jesusfreak: BLAH BLAH BLAH (talking over me) it wasn't you, it was your approach.
Me: (walking away quickly, because I'm starting to boil) Yeah, I hope it wasn't me.

At which point I ran upstairs, sat on a pile of files, and sobbed audibly for about ten minutes. Apparently this conversation touched a nerve. I think I'm tired of hearing the following:

1) God loves you, and if you just jump through the right hoops, you will know this.
2) It's not you that made God not respond. It's just because you were Mormon.
3) I've found God and if you just do what I do blah blah blah blah

It just makes me want to yell, "Fuck off! I'm perfectly happy as a hopeless atheist who thinks life is pointless! Don't make me try again! God abandoned me, and I can't take another heartbreak!" Oh, look how my current predicament and my relationship with God coincide. Super.

Is this my karmic payback for being a missionary? Because, if so, I'm sorry already.

Worst Valentine's Day Ever.

2010-02-15T11:31:00.000-08:00

First off, my relationship broke on Friday afternoon. We'd been dating over a year. It's not even a clean break, and the ragged edges are going to take forever to heal.

So, I went out dancing w/a friend that night, at some techno party (I know, a rarity in PDX) that was held in a garage/repair shop of some kind. I drank three Jack & Ginger's (whiskey and ginger ale) and danced my ass off with a group that was 3/4 Russian. I got home at 4am.

Saturday: The best part of my weekend--I went to my old roommate's house and played guitar hero (I suck at solos) and then we had a melancholy lunch. I went over to my writing space to hole up and write, forgetting it was their wine & chocolate celebration night. So, I dove into a bottle of wine and managed to make charming, witty conversation. Then I went home, put on a pink prom dress (my roommate was throwing a "pink party" that night) had a couple beers, decided that hot pink lipstick would be GREAT as lady-gaga-esque face paint for my eye (get it? pink eye?), and then biked over to the party.

I knew two people out of thirty, so I sucked down a few more PBRs and had an intense conversation with a lesbian about mormonism and narrative therapy and feeling like one's job is a dead end. Then more beers. Then a kissing booth (I did not kiss anyone). Then a convo with a bunch of people from Salt Lake. Then drunken handstands (thank god I wore spandex shorts under my dress and am NOT tagged on facebook). By 2am, I was swigging a bottle of red wine.

I don't remember leaving the party. I do remember stealing a rose. The next thing I remember is being at R.'s house (the ex) and being simultaneously glad and sad he wasn't home. (Apparently I drunk dialed him. Twice.) I left the rose (he informed me I stuck it under the windshield wiper, which I do not remember) and biked home in the rain.

Sunday: Got up after six hours of sleep. Was still drunk. Went to "worst day of the year" ride in my pink dress & pink leg-warmers & pink arm-warmers & colored-in pink eye--the latter because I discovered that lipstick stains one's face. Oops. Everyone loved my costume. I was busy hating everyone who had their significant others and their friends with them, and had the loneliest bike ride of my life. I rode fast and got back early...had to wait two hours for my volunteer shift to start.

So I sat there in my stupid prom dress, texting everyone I knew, alone and lonely in a crowd of happy strangers in spandex. It was hard not to cry. I called my mom, who was *super* comforting when she started theorizing that R. decided to break up w/me because he met someone else. Thanks, Mom. I'd hoped I was less easily replaced than that.

Finally my volunteer shift started, and they stuck me on soup-stirring duties. The heat kicked in my hangover, and I began feeling as though I was stirring a huge pot of steamy vomit. I excused myself after about an hour and a half, and calmly walked into a "Honey Pot" latrine, and puked my guts out. In a latrine. I wanted to die. Instead, I got on my bike and went home, took some aleve, and slept for four hours.

For V-day dinner, I went to the grocery store and got bread and cheese and chocolate. Then I read a book. All I lacked was a cat.

Worst. Valentine's. Ever. (But at least I looked rad biking in my dress.)

this is the ending and the beginning

2010-02-12T22:15:00.000-08:00

Dear Portland, with your leafy vintage streets and blinky bike lights at night and neverending rain that is like a daily baptism and crazy tattooed idealistic obscure artists and quirky refugee culture,

I need you to carry me through just one more heartbreak. Please.

Sincerely,

Mel

Why, hello, insomnia.

2010-02-11T03:53:00.000-08:00

It's almost four, and I've been lying in bed for an hour, tossing and turning. I think I'm giving myself an ulcer. C'est super.

I read Elna Baker's memoir, The New York Regional Mormon Single's Halloween Dance or whatever the fuck it's called. Bad idea. Brought up all kinds of old in-between anxiety from the "Am I? Am I not?" days. That and I kept wondering, "Was I really this stupid?" It's amusing, but not a good read when one is already feeling ruffled about religious issues. Oops.

A list of things keeping me awake:
1) What am I doing with my life? Sure, I have my book, but what if it doesn't get published? What if it's a miserable failure? Then what?
2) Is my relationship (or current whateverthefuck) going to work? Maybe I'm just not relationship material, because I'll be devastated if it doesn't...and I'm always scared of it working out. Then what?
3) Okay, so maybe that's it. Money. Failure. Love.

And repeat. Back to bed. I took some contraband prescription meds that will hopefully kick in and knock me the fuck out. I need it.

I heart people who dare to stand up to bullies.

2010-02-07T13:09:00.000-08:00

Can't wait to watch this movie!

Cupcake Fail

2010-02-05T13:08:00.000-08:00

So I've had this genius idea brewing for a while--cupcakes delivered by bike!--and decided to test it out on my ride to work this morning. I borrowed some bungee cords from a roommate, carefully mounted my carrying case on my rack, and snapped a photo of my presumably genius idea.

Then I hit a bump in the road. I didn't think much of it, until I turned around to make sure that the case wasn't sliding off or anything, and noticed that Murphy's law had kicked in. Hard.

It's probably for the best that I've gotten very good at laughing at myself. And another item on the plus side: I have a submission for cake wrecks. *Le sigh*

Totally Off-Subject.

2010-02-03T12:19:00.000-08:00

Can I just rant for a minute about how I hate hate hate it when people, especially men, walk in to a room while I'm eating something and say "Caught you!"

I immediately have the urge to throw whatever I'm eating on the ground, burst into tears, and yell, "Oh, god, NO! You've discovered my awful secret! I'm a female, and, *sob* I eat!"

Seriously, though, why is it okay to mock a person for doing something that is necessary to LIVE? Even if I'm gorging myself on a hunk of cheesecake, back off. If you're truly concerned about what/how I'm eating, don't address it by shaming me. I'm sure most of these commentators have no clue what effects these remarks have on women (especially ones who have had or currently struggle with eating disorders) but come on. Be a little more aware.

Okay, I feel slightly better.

Another day. Another paper cut.

2010-02-03T00:51:00.001-08:00

Reading back over my manuscript (editing oneself is really hard, PS) is almost as traumatic as the writing was...perhaps more so, because this time I'm really listening to the story I'm telling--the story of my own faith's pummeling, the story of my heart cracking, splintering, and finally shattering as everything I believed in proved to be useless, even false.

Losing one's faith, so closely tied to one's hope, is a devastating experience--so much so that even I, with all my rantings and processing and writing, am continually surprised by the pain of it. I don't think my book does it justice. Perhaps it can't.

All I know is, tonight I was overcome yet again as the pain of something that happened five years ago (five!) welled up and spilled out in so many tears and silenced sobs. Good god, how long can a heart hurt? And this is not a complaint, as much as it may sound like one. No, it's merely an awestruck observation at the human heart's ability to feel, even when it seems so futile to keep doing so.

Fin.

2010-01-29T16:54:00.000-08:00

It's done! Well, the first draft of my book is written. But there, I can say it: I've written a book. How crazy is that?

I spent half an hour at Kinko's today printing the damn thing out. I was out in Suburban Hell getting a sewing machine repaired (not mine--long story) and decided to pop into FedEx with my flash drive & quickly print. In and out, right? No, because some douchef*ck left a stack of hot-pink paper in the machine, so my entire manuscript came out in NEON, so then I had to get the woman to credit my debit card, at which point the machine started jamming. (Oh, wait, because it was the BLACK AND WHITE machine and Mr. I-Have-The-IQ-of-a-Kleenex effed it up with his color paper.) In the meantime, said douchef*ck is five feet away, organizing his stupid handouts or whatever, and acting completely oblivious to the fact he is an inconsiderate arsewipe. AUGH.

I was so mad that when I went to get in my car and a little white dog was barking in the SUV parked next to me, I just hissed at it to make it go into a frenzy. It did. I felt better.

Anyway, now it's on to editing/rewriting/revising, bugging all my readers for feedback, sending query letters to agents, and crossing my fingers (and toes and eyes and every cross-able appendage) that I get signed...and even more, that I get read.

Oh, and since I haven't mentioned this part in a while, the book is about being a mormon missionary in Belgium. It's not a sensational expose against the church, nor is it a "faith-promoting" narration since, well, my faith got pummeled. I'm hoping to get the same audience as readers of Krakauer's "Under the Banner of Heaven" and all those I-was-a-polygamist-wife memoirs.

Okay, back to editing. Just had to have a moment of excitement. :) I'll also be baking two dozen of these puppies (see photo below) for a Vegan Bake Sale this weekend happening in PDX. All proceeds go to Haiti.

Mmm, hazelnut cupcake goodness, filled with hazelnut mocha mousse and topped with chocolate ganache. Go Hippies for Haiti!

Lost.

2010-01-28T01:19:00.000-08:00

Hi.

I've had this song stuck in my head all day. If you play it while reading this, I'm sure my ramblings will make infinitely more sense:

I'm finishing the last chapter of my book this week. It's like eating the last bite of the best chocolate cake you've ever eaten...or maybe the worst. I think what I mean is that I'm procrastinating for reasons I'm unsure of. So far all the feedback has been good, which is heartening and terrifying. I'm really hoping they're not just being nice. I can't take the heartbreak of people just being nice.

So, back to the song, I've been doing a lot of thinking lately. I've had a lot more free time than usual [see: relationship limbo] and in addition to having some fun hanging out with friends (I even watched a movie w/my roommates! woohoo!) I've spent a lot of time jogging/biking/swimming...which means lots of meditation-in-motion time. I'm getting the hang of sticking my face underwater without plugging my nose, which is nice (yeah yeah at 27. Laugh it up, fuzzball).

MY POINT: Sometimes we lose ourselves without realizing it. Sometimes finding ourselves isn't the most pleasant activity. I'm furious about it, and yet strangely pleased. Hot and cold at the same time. Huh.

yet another reason to love my slingshot organizer

2010-01-25T13:12:00.000-08:00

I love my planner, partially because it helps me keep my life [somewhat] organized, and partly because it is full of random goodies such as D.I.Y. book touring, a section on how to deal with the police, a couple pages about "better sex," and historical tidbits every day. Today: Happy Birthday to Virginia Woolf!

on the brink...

2010-01-24T22:15:00.000-08:00

Sober tonight. (But leaving the drunk post, just because it's amusing and utterly captures the essence of intoxicated mel.)

Do you ever have those moments where you feel as though everything is about to change, whether you want it to or not? I've a pretty strong inkling that this year involves some monumental changes, both for me and those closest to me. Sure, I've had watershed moments before (2007 was certainly one--I lost my virginity, graduated from college, left my religion, moved hundreds of miles, and blew through a 7-month, ridiculously intense relationship) but this year feels...different. This year has plenty of changes I can already see, and god knows what the unforseen ones will be. (I love that last joke.) In a way, I feel that this year is the one the past several have been leading up to.

One chapter left. And then, publishing domination. ;0) Part of me is kidding, but part of me is really hoping this thing absolutely explodes. I'm probably not ready for the ride, but who ever is? If there's one spot of wisdom I've had knocked into me over the past 27 years, it is this: Life is not what you're expecting. Et voila.

Today's theme song: The Weepies' "The World Spins Madly On" (Annoyingly, the video cuts off the ending. Just go download it--totally worth it.)

dysfunctionally drunk

2010-01-23T20:29:00.000-08:00

So, I have been drinking tonight, the first time since my significant whatother put us on relationship probation of some kind. I am quite intoxicated. But, I am still practical. Here's how practical I am: after getting rather shitfaced at a local bar (god bless you, bye and bye, and my friend natalie, and a little decadent thing called a "portland coffee" that has nondairy cream) anyway, I'm getting ADD here, but I shall prevail. Where was I? Oh, yes, I'm still practical, BECAUSE (drumroll please) I stumbled down to the Alberta St. grocery and bought a planner! Yes, a planner! So I can be all planned out in 2010. Because I've been making plans, and I need to keep them straight. Here's a linky picture thingy, I hope:

Yes, but mine is a light green shade, so it is infinitely cooler. Yes yes. tap. tap. tap. I think I may take myself to a movie tonight. I've begun dating myself, since no one else seems too interesdted at hte present moment. I'm too lazy to go back and fix those. I have this wonderful flow going with my typing at the present moment. I' sure I'll come back and delete this post, but in the meantime, do I care? NOPE. This is the wonderful thing about alcohol. I don't care if it's addictive and ruins families and is a horrible form of therapy. Because sometimes, dammit, it is so incredibly pleasant to just not care.

Yes, yes.

postsecret

2010-01-18T21:39:00.000-08:00

1. Some days I feel like such a fool.

2. I'm beginning to think love is just the universe's way of fucking with us. Really, what's the point?

3. I'm often amazed at my ability to keep going, even after the desire to keep going has been wrung out of me like so much water. (I'm dry, I'm dry, I'm so goddamn dry today.)

At times like this, the only thing left to do is write. Please excuse my indulgence in self-pity here...I'm trying to avoid bitterness, but it's all I can taste. I'm sure tomorrow will be different. The only constant is change.

blah blah blah blah.

PS I <3 PDX

2010-01-11T23:09:00.001-08:00

Today I was carrying the mail back to my office from the post office, and a grizzled (most likely homeless) old man said to me, "Those boots are really working for you!" How could I not smile?

I effing love this city.

Resolved!

2010-01-11T22:54:00.000-08:00

Although I believe that the Jews had the new year right (i.e. in the fall) I'm always excited for a new calendar year, if only because it means that the holiday season is over. Big cheer for surviving xmas: WOOO-HOOOO!!

Okay, with that out of the way, it's time to get down to business. New Year's tentative to-do list for 2010:

1) Train for a triathlon. In my usual bipolar ADHD fashion, this will consist of continuing to bike to work every day, running a couple times a week, and most exciting: swimming! Mr. R. helped me work on my form at the community pool on saturday, and despite feeling like a splashing, sputtering, half-drowned retard (sorry, retards) I really enjoyed myself. (Sauerkraut, I have a new appreciation for your swimming prowess. And, whenever we live in the same city again, I'll totally be your pool buddy.)

2) Learn Spanish. This has been my goal for years, but I've signed up for a once-a-week class with Mr. R., so I'm committed. Hablamos!

3) Finish book and shop for a publisher. I should be done with the first draft at the end of this month (!!!) and am trying not to get my hopes too high. I keep having daydreams about paying off my student loans with the advance, being interviewed on Oprah and NPR, and signing books in New York. dream dream...

4) Continue my tenuous grasp on finding happiness. This is hard to check off, but it is akin to remembering I'm playing on Team Mel. In essence, I'm working on continuing to cope with my stress and anxiety in ways other than bulimia and self-destructive behaviors. Some days are more successful than others...some nights I end up slightly drunk and crafting, but it's better than binging and purging, no? Other nights I listen to sad music and cry my little eyes out and write pages in my journal. Some nights I just don't sleep. But, overall, things are looking up. I'm broke as fuck, don't like my job, continue to fight relationship insecurities (see: feeling like everyone gets sick of me sooner or later), and often having panic attacks about not achieving enough or making enough money etc. etc., but it's not rock bottom. Been there, done that. Hopefully am done doing that and being there.

Happy New Decade!

Postsecret

2010-01-05T20:06:00.001-08:00

1. Today is one of those days where being intelligent isn't worth the price of being aware.

2. I need a change, and I'm having trouble figuring out what it is.

3. Sometimes being crazy is charming. Other times I wish I could dump myself. This is what scares me--how can anyone want to be with me (friend or lover--any type of relationship) when there are days I don't want to be with myself?

I'm less depressed than this all sounds. It's a combination of PMS and rain and anxiety. Whee.

A soft underbelly, of sorts.

2009-12-23T23:39:00.000-08:00

I am sometimes afraid. I don’t enjoy admitting this, but it’s true. My fears are not phobias—-spiders, snakes, dark, heights, and small places won’t send me into hysterics. (I usually confront fear with mockery.) But some nights my niggling, insomniac doubts keep my mind pacing until they wear a deep rut. Tonight I am alone in my bed, in a town full of my blood relatives: the “dear octopus” of people who know me better than anyone else does—the only group of people who can make me second-guess my decision to tell my mission story. I love them, and I’m afraid they will not understand me. Hell, it’s already begun, and dear god does it hurt.

What is the price of honesty? What am I willing to risk by having my book published? I was recently accused of being angry, and yes, I am. Furious, really. I can still work myself into a blind rage about discovering that everything I had built my life upon—all of it! Everything I tried so hard to be and do and think and love and believe!—was false. Laughably, ridiculously, horrifically false. It’s embarrassing to find oneself so fooled.

Often fooled, really. I thought my stepfather would love me. I thought I had a Heavenly Father who loved me. I thought that by being a good person, one could magically have their life turn out. I keep thinking that somehow, if I’m just “good enough,” then I will stop hurting. Ha.

What is the price of love? What is the price of truth? Is the price of my family’s acceptance worth the stifling of my own truths—ones that could, hopefully, help someone else feel less alone in their post-mormon anguish and isolation? I think I’m often vitriolic in this blog merely to hide the fact that so much of the journey away from Mormonism is pain—copious, unbelievable amounts of pain. Because I have rejected my family’s faith, much of my own life is unacceptable to them. There is a gulf between us: I have gone to The Other Side. I am not an “us” anymore. Deep down, beneath my practiced sarcasm and wit and black humor, I’m mourning the loss of my family. When it catches me, it wrecks me, and I end up weeping until I’m hoarse and embarrassed and telling myself to stop being so goddamned self-pitying. But somewhere, between the crying and the anger, is just me. I cannot help who I am without stopping my heart.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

My choices have been, and continue to be “worth it.” But this doesn’t negate the fact that it’s often painful. I guess that’s all I’m trying to say tonight. I don’t know where this path is leading, and some nights this frightens me.

inappropriate :)

2009-12-18T18:32:00.000-08:00

Okay, so not everything has to be doom and gloom. I love Miss Piggy, and I love this song. The combination of the two is rather amazing. (warning: f-bombs will be dropped)

Miss Piggy happens to be the origin of one of my favorite quotes: Never eat more than you can lift.

teeth sinking into heart

2009-12-17T22:04:00.000-08:00

[If you want the true thrust of this post, play Rachael Yamagata's "Elephants" or Joni Mitchell's remastered version of "Both Sides Now" while reading it, since I'm listening to both tonight. Life should have a soundtrack.]

I've been lying awake for two hours now, and just took a second dose of benadryl and slathered on another layer of anti-itch cream. Despite all my efforts to suppress them, my emotions find uncanny modes of expression--for the second time in my life I'm covered in hives. As annoying as this is, I cannot help but be impressed at this episode's intrepidity. Tracking the separate outbreaks is an odd thrill--always starting at the scalp, swelling one ear then the other, splotching the undersides of my breasts, welting the curve of my spine, making angry-looking lines along my waistband, and even turning my palms blush-red today at work.

Do I know what's causing them? Yes. Do I know how to deal with my emotions any differently? Not really. (Other than bulimia, which I'm not indulging in. Cheers for me, dammit.) I've punched my boxing bag, I've run, I've cried, I've talked to friends, I've written and written and written and the murkiness has barely dissipated. *itch itch itch*

It's as though every time I feel I have the slightest grasp on my life, something rips it from my fingers. I keep making jokes, telling people around me I'm fine, putting on a brave face. And yet, some days each of us ends up sobbing on the floor, god or no god. (Or covered in hives and sobbing.)

Portland has absorbed an inordinate amount of my tears. Funny I should say I love this city when I've been so broken here. Perhaps it's not the city I love, but the way I keep being forced to discover my own strength.

And I'll keep making it up as I go. I'm reinventing my own religion; I'm rewriting my own story; I'm propping up optimism with hope; I'm stoking my curiosity; I'm dancing like nobody's watching because I simply don't know how to live any other way. I keep pretending I have a poker face, when in reality all my cards are down. It seems they always will be.

L'objects secret

2009-12-13T20:36:00.000-08:00

1. Object permanence is a skill I sometimes wish I hadn't developed.

2. It's hard for me to trust anyone who hasn't contemplated suicide at least once.

3. The older I get, the better I become at saving myself. Thank Mel.

I feel grinchy, oh so grinchy...

2009-11-24T16:02:00.000-08:00

I want to skip Christmas this year. Thanksgiving is fine. New Year's, hell, why not? But Christmas? I've always hated the consumerism of it--the glitzy, phony, "feel good by buying people crap they don't need" aspect. Ugh. Now I don't even believe in the Baby Jesus, so what's the point?

In addition, there's no room at the inn for me. Or, more specifically, no inns I want to stay at in my hometown, despite my profusion of relatives in southeastern Idaho. My paternal grandmother is slowly losing her mind (and likely pissed at me for not calling on her birthday...although it's debatable whether she'd recall it even if I had). My maternal grandparents have been odd about me staying at their house, no doubt thanks to my control-freak aunt who acts like I'm invading her territory. (She's married, has her own children and a grandchild, and yet lives a neighborhood away and is jealously possessive of my grandmother's attention.) Then there's my house...the impending divorce; my stepfather's joblessness and general asshole-ness; my brother's joblessness, school-lessness, and general lack of ambition; and my mother's anxious depression. Gee, that sounds fun. And there's my 19-year-old sister, who managed to escape, but is dating a 35-year-old with two kids and ex-wife drama. We have agreed to disagree about her dating choices.

So, Motel 6 for Christmas, here I come.

I'm fighting the urge to compile a book of black-humored sob stories about being forced to spend time with one's dysfunctional family for Christmas. I'd buy it. It's cliche, but misery loves company. >.<

That's me in the corner...that's me in the spotlight

2009-06-08T00:15:00.000-07:00

So I just finished reading William Lobdell's book Losing My Religion, which was pretty damn good. It didn't quite live up to the blurbs, but kudos to the publishers for getting such great promotional material. :)

Anyway, the best parts were 1) Hearing about another person's process of losing faith and 2) Lobdell's hesitancy to join the atheist camp because he is uncomfortable with their self-righteousness. He compares it to just another religion, and I'd have to agree. I still call myself an agnostic, just because I think it's arrogance to conclude that I know the captial-T truth for everyone else. That's just proclaiming myself another prophet, and good Lord have we had enough of those, eh?

Most of all, it just reinforced my love for books and telling stories. Humans are such narrative creatures--it simply amazes me. We make plans, we wax nostalgic, we share and share and share our experiences through words, music, video, and art. It's incredible to me. My favorite way of getting inside someone else's head (and taking a nice break from my own) is still to read their story. So, reminder to myself to KEEP WORKING ON MY BOOK.

Too tired for anything more profound than that. >.<

Palm Reading

2009-05-14T23:35:00.000-07:00

I'm supposed to be working on my 10-page graduate thesis, due Monday, and prepping for my oral review on Wednesday...but I had to write about my palm reading.

R. has always wanted to get his palm read, so when we saw a sign on the boardwalk in Seaside last weekend, we went in. The reader had a table with a crystal ball (R.'s only requirement) and posters of fairies on the wall--one for each sign of the zodiac. The reader was probably in her early thirties, Hispanic, and not intimidated by our skepticism, which I found impressive, considering that R.'s first sentence was "This is something I need to do before I die." He went first.

I figured I was tainting it by staying in the room, but I was eaten by curiosity, so I pretended to study a poster about chakras while she read his palm. According to her, R. will live to be quite old, has good health, likes to take care of people--sometimes at the expense of his own health--and then it really got good.

Palm Reader: You will only love once, and be married once. I don't see any divorces. (to me) So you are the one!
Us: (awkward laughter)

Keep in mind there's no rings on any fingers here, so I considered that a risky statement on her part. She then proceeded to tell him how he will have four children, and that two of his chakras are "missing," specifically the orange and dark blue. (I thought a person could only have blocked chakras, but said nothing.) He will also write a best-selling fiction novel, and it will be published within a year. Then she said that his parents weren't supposed to be together, and he was always uncomfortable growing up. (Note: His parents sound like an amazing couple, and he has an impressively close family life--so much that I get embarrassed about my own's Jerry-Springer-ness.)

Then it was my turn. Drumroll, please.

Palm Reader: (holding my palm) Hmm...yes, mmm-hmm. Are you ready for a shock?
Me: Sure.
Palm Reader: You will also have four children, but only three pregnancies.
Me: Oh, really? (waiting for dramatic twist where R. cheats on me, the baby momma dies in childbirth, and I adopt the child because I am a saint)
Palm Reader: Yes. I see twins.
Me: That's not funny.

She proceeded to tell me that I will also only be married once, although according to the creases in my pinky, there is someone trying to sabotage that relationship because they think THEY are the one for me. (I confess, P. crossed my mind. But I don't trust my pinky wrinkles.) Also, I will move to New York, become a journalist, and discover a cure for something, which will make me well-known and help a lot of people. My chakras are fine (whew!), I will live to be in my eighties, and I'm "very close with my father." (Big oops on her part. We haven't spoken in almost a year.)

The real clincher came as we were leaving, when she informed R. that he could repair his chakras by eating dark orange and blue fruits and veggies. He replied that this was a shame, because he doesn't like orange fruit. She replied that he could drink orange gatorade, because it has, and I quote, "Fruit elements."

This is when I dragged R. out the door before I could yell "Bullshit!" Ah, palm readers. Better luck next time.

just thinking

2009-05-11T16:50:00.000-07:00

I stumbled across a blog today by another former mormon (and a rather famous one) at dooce.com. She shared my distaste for BYU, and the feeling that she never belonged there. Her feeling was that she wanted to be normal--like other teens.

Normal. Hmm. *cursor blinks* I never even considered being able to be "like other teens." Hell, I didn't want to be. I've always known I'm far from "normal" (see "white sock theory"). The interesting part is that I usually get along best with people who are an odd mixture of pride and self-loathing. Not that you have to be a narcissistic masochist to be my friend...but generally the people I connect with are incredibly self-aware, often distrusting, performer types who are incredibly hard on themselves...and often other people. (PS My mom thinks I left mormonism because I'm "too hard on myself." Whatever she has to tell herself, I guess...)

The only downside of these friendships is that I'm always worried, on some level, that I am not enough--that I don't live up to their standards. Then again, I would never hold anyone else to my standards for myself. That's just rude. ;0)

But I continue to hope they'll all continue to forgive me...and that I can continue to forgive myself.

Pen name?

2009-05-04T16:05:00.000-07:00

Whenever I'm in a bar (or any situation) where I don't want someone to know my name, I use the name Kelly . (Mostly because it sounds like my own name, so I'll respond to it.) Some people have suggested writing my memoir under a pen name so that I don't get death threats or disowned. I probably won't.

Anyway, at work I often come across names that top any fabrication I can come up with. My list-in-progress:

Barryl Chest
April Flowers
J. Feuchtwanger (The only pronunciation I can think of is something along the lines of "fuck-twang-er")
R. Clinkenbeard
Mac D. McCool
Dick Mountjoy
Thongy B.
Z. Manfull

These are all legit, legal names. Finding a new one always makes my day.

Simple.

2009-05-03T00:41:00.001-07:00

Confession: I'm a little (okay, a lot) hooked on the HBO show Six Feet Under. It's a show about this fucked-up, fantastic family that lives in a funeral home. Every show opens with a death. The damn show makes me cry on a regular basis, and normally I detest television.

I just finished the season finale of season four (one more to go) and the last scene is David (the gay, responsible, uptight son) standing on his porch, watching the rain, and talking to his father. His father, I should mention, is dead (he died in the first episode) and serves as a way for the characters to essentially have conversations with themselves. (Kudos to the writers for thinking up that one.)

Anyway, David has been dealing with some PTSD-like symptoms after being carjacked and traumatized (and almost killed) a few months ago. He gets out of bed and walks to his porch, where this conversation takes place:

Dad: You're not even grateful, are you.

David: Grateful? For the worst fucking experience of my life?

Dad: You hold onto your pain like it means something, like it's worth something. Well let me tell you, it's not worth shit. Let it go. (sighs and looks to sky) Infinite possibilities and all he can do is whine.

Son: Well what am I supposed to do?

Dad: What do you think? You can do anything, you lucky bastard. You're alive. What's a little pain compared to that?

Son: It can't be so simple.

Dad: What if it is?

And really, what if it is?

Clown Car

2009-04-30T11:31:00.000-07:00

I'm in a good mood today, so here's something funny and borderline offensive to mormons. My favorite! :)

fish and fear

2009-04-25T00:11:00.000-07:00

Item 1:

Sauerkraut, I found a new place we must eat at the next time you're in town. It's called "No Fish, Go Fish!" and is a little food cart I've seen and heard about a ton. Today I finally tried it, and this is what I got:
(No, that is not my hand--I stole this off flickr bc I didn't have my camera with me.) It is a fish-shaped, grilled cheese sandwich. It's SO yummy! They also have spinach and feta (your favorite! Lol.) and a tomato/mozzorella one that is sort of like pizza. The outside is made with cornmeal. You would love it.

Item 2:
On a more serious note, I had a small epiphany tonight. Normally I would keep it to my personal journal, but I think it's relevant in the mormon-no-more sense. It is simple, but pretty significant for me: I'm becoming less fearful.

The further I get from mormonism, the more I realize how much I've lived my life in fear. My life has always been underlined by the feeling punishment/failure/something is hovering over me. Given, I know this is directly linked to my abusive stepfather, but in a bigger sense I think I've always been waiting on a fickle, vindictive, judgmental God to rain down punishment for my (many) mistakes. As a mormon, the fact I was always screwing up meant that I was just a moving target for punishment. And I've spent almost my entire life (since my baptism, really, since instead of being "washed clean" the mormon baptism is more of a "now-you're-accountable-for-everything" guilt-inducing ritual. Typical.) Anyway, as I was saying, I've been waiting for friends, family, coworkers, teachers, bosses, EVERYONE to realize what a colossal fuck-up I am and expose me for the fraud that I am.

But I'm not. And I'm finally, really believing I'm not. (Is this self-forgiveness?) And it feels as though I'm realizing some amount of control over my life, or, at the very least, I'm realizing that I'm going to be okay. No hammer is going to drop. Even if the sky falls tomorrow, I know how to pick myself up and put things back together. In the words of Aretha Franklin, I will survive. Hell, I already have.

I know, it sounds cheesy...but I think this is a valid process most recovering mormons have to go through, despite my shit-tastic job of explaining it. Suffice it to say, it's nice realizing that whatever I choose to do with my life, those choices are valid and perfectly fine and I don't need an outside source of validation all the time. Not having God is strangely comforting. (Moral relativism is great! Lol.) But seriously, I can be a vegan or a steak-lover, I can be fat or thin, I can be good to myself or a self-destructive addict, I can be married with kids or single and swinging, I can wear Versace glasses with paint-stained Pumas, I can not call my family, I can say "no" and people will still like me, I can call in sick and spend the day doing whatever the hell I want, I can ride my bike home at 2 a.m. while slightly drunk, and I can change my mind. I get to make up my life, every day. Such a simple realization...and yet so indescribably liberating.

Okay, done rambling.

insomniac storytime

2009-04-15T23:56:00.000-07:00

I can't sleep.

Postsecret: I think I'm a bit evil. I watch stupid suburban couples board my MAX (public transit) with suitcases, and then see how long it takes them to realize they're on the wrong line. I should probably say something. I never do.

Today's couple featured a bleached-blond, mid-thirties woman with a chanel purse, forgettable style, and a sparkling diamond ring. She kept staring at me while I pretended to look out the windows. I haven't been eyed like that in a while--that odd mix of curiosity/intimidation I seem to incite in some people. I was at least five inches taller than both of them, and wearing all black, my messenger bag, a scruffy ponytail, and one pant leg rolled. My ghetto-gloved hands held my bike back from swinging into her husband (see photo below for how bikes hang). At that moment, I realized I don't look mormon anymore. I smiled. She looked nervous, and almost tipped off her heels as the train came to a stop. Her husband's dark hair was already going gray. I wondered how soon he'll start dying it. She picked lint off his shirt as he blathered on his cell phone about property values. They made it two stops past the last point where they could get on the right line without having to backtrack. (The record is four.)

"Honey, does this go to the airport?" he said, pausing from his cell convo.
"Um, I don't know," she said, glancing around.
At this point, a scruffy looking fellow-cyclist jumped in and told them to get off and take the train back two stations, and then board the red line. They barely made it off before the doors shut on their jumble of suitcases and shouts of last-minute advice from MAX passengers. I almost felt sorry for them. But not really.

Anyway, it's probably time to put on my headphones, stick a slow song on repeat, and see if I can lull my brain to sleep.

Sauerkraut: I miss you, buddy. A lot. I miss our to-do lists. I miss going to walgreens four times in one day trying to get our damn photos to work. I miss our random dance parties in your car to reeeally bad pop songs. I miss having fun getting dressed up, and hating the club, and then getting excited about post-dancing sweats and pizza. I miss spending money I don't have on shit I don't need (like costumes, or jewelry I lose within a month). I miss having a buddy whose idea of a great afternoon is running stupid errands with me. I miss having someone who would also not tell the suburban couple that they were lost, and then make fun of their style for the next fifteen minutes. I miss having my cuticles be blue for days because I helped you un-rubber-band tie-dye projects in the bathtub. I miss throwing water balloons at your mom and having Jeff try to throw me in the fish pond. Jeffy: I miss your constant bitching. I miss taking care of your drunk ass. I miss your awful house that stinks. I miss our morning-after breakfasts, where we're all cranky and scaring small children and wearing lord knows what. I miss having you guys tell me what an utter, ridiculous, effed-up mess I am, and knowing you wouldn't have me any other way. I guess I'm homesick for my partners in crime.

(I wish I could pay for you both to move to portland, just to try it, because I really think you would love this city full of fugitives and refugees. It's quirky and grouchy and artsy and belligerent and funny and queer and self-obsessed and beautiful and absolutely one of the best things that's ever almost-not-happened to me.)

Man slice

2009-04-14T22:19:00.000-07:00

Apparently this blog is being taken over by carb stories, so here's a combo of bread and my mission. Double whammy!

For the first chunk of my life, bread had always been, well, just bread. You know--the part of the sandwich that just holds the good stuff together and keeps your hands clean. And then I had French bread. Real French bread. I've never been the same.

On the mission, we had one day a week called "Preparation Day" or "P-day" for short. We still had to get up at 6:30 a.m. and study as individuals and companionships, but the rest of the day (until after dinner, or about 6 p.m.) was blissfully ours. We usually did laundry, grocery shopped, wrote e-mails to the family, and sometimes did a little souvenir shopping. While living in Waterloo, I instituted "brunch" at the local bakery, Le Pain Quotidienne (translation: the daily bread) whose website still sends my salivary glands into a frenzy. (Especially the "Bombe au chocolate" or, literally, chocolate bomb.)

This place was PMS heaven. You could buy a basket of different types of bread (including slices of 5-grain and walnut breads, a mini-baguette, a hazelnut flute, etc.) then sit at the communal tables and smear yourself silly with butter, honey, jams, and my favorites: chocolate spreads. They had dark, milk, hazelnut (like Nutella), and white chocolate spreads. Does life get any better than bread and chocolate? I think not.

In Belgium and France, even the local grocery stores had good bread. My French-Tahitian companion and I would go through a loaf every couple days (good thing we were walking so damn much). To this day, every time I cut into a loaf of homemade bread I hear Sister M.'s voice asking "Une tranche de fille? Ou une tranche d'homme?" (Translation: A little girl slice? Or a slice for a man?)

I always cut a fat slice d'homme. Yum.

Nothing says black sheep...

2009-04-08T23:33:00.001-07:00

Nothing says black sheep like disowning your family for all eternity.

Background: I was riding with K., N., and L. down to a book launch in the capital, and we were discussing mormonism. (You know I tend to tell stories about my mission, and love answering questions.) Sometimes I have trouble nailing down why I often feel such anger towards the church, and I had a small realization as we were talking.

When I left the church, I was essentially telling my family that I didn't want to be with them in the afterlife. To put it briefly, mormons believe that temple "ordinances"( or ceremonies, such as the temple experience that I described) actually link, or "seal," families together for all eternity. When I left the church, I was breaking those promises, and thus severing my ties to my family. It was pretty much like I said, "Screw you guys; being with you forever is not something I'm interested in," or, closer to the truth, "Being with you forever isn't worth being mormon."

The truth is, I love my family. As much as they drive me absolutely nucking futs sometimes, I harbor a deep and abiding affection for them. If I believed in an afterlife, I'd want to be with them, drama and all. But week after week they sit in church and are taught that the only way this is possible is for me to come back to church.

When I was breaking the news to my mom (that I had left the church) I once told her that she could either have a mormon daughter or a dead one. Obviously she didn't choose the latter. Not that I would have killed myself; I'd already decided that living was more important to me. But I can't help but feel angry that the church has affected (and continues to affect) my personal relationships so deeply.

On a lighter note, I found some more great decor for my bag, including a very cute (and apt) black sheep iron-on. Voila.

Bread porn?

2009-04-08T21:46:00.000-07:00

This is quite possibly the best demonstration of making bread I've ever seen.

Ever.

That is all.

The Poo-On-You Letter.

2009-04-07T12:13:00.000-07:00

So, I did it: I finally wrote a letter to my [evil] stepfather telling him how I really feel. Why? Well, after my mom filed for divorce, I got a handwritten, two-page letter from him in the mail. This is the first correspondence we've had since he sent me a brief paragraph of a letter while I was on my mission. We haven't had a real conversation since I was in junior high. All I have to do now is stamp & mail it. Here goes...

M____,

I received your letter. I even read it. I’m not sure I will send this response, because it’s been a very long time since I washed my hands of any relationship with you. I’m not sure what your intention was in writing, then again, I’ve never understood your intentions.

I don’t understand how “trying to be a good father” and “teach me gospel principles” involved continual belittling of who I was and what I did. (Your constant criticism of my size helped me become so self-hating that I developed bulimia at fifteen, and continued well into my twenties). I don’t understand how, if you were trying so hard, my overall memory of being around you was fear—to the point that I had nightmares for years, even years after I moved out (and hence the lock on my bedroom door). I don’t understand how, if I had all the good qualities you allude to in the letter, I often deserved a knuckling so hard in the head that I had bruises for days. I don’t understand how you justified telling me, repeatedly, that my own father obviously didn’t love me, and I needed to work harder if I wanted to be “a member of this family,” as though I were some bastard child who had to earn my spot. I don’t understand how a seven-year-old deserved a bare-backed whipping with a belt (To this day, I don’t know what I was being punished for.) I don’t understand how being a good father involved pelting me with slaps until I was backed into the corner, sobbing, while you yelled and continued to hit me. I don’t understand how being a loving father included pushing my mom around, screaming at her, squeezing her arm until it bruised, and calling her a bitch. I don’t understand how making me feel as though I was a horrible, evil person was your idea of making me into a successful, happy human being. I have tried for years, but I will never understand how you could treat me, and continue to treat the rest of the family, in such a traumatic manner and still live with yourself.

At one point in your letter, you seemed to ask for forgiveness, but it was overshadowed by you forgiving me. What on earth do you have to forgive me for? Sure, I wasn’t a perfect daughter, but I never disrespected you more than you warranted a lack of respect. I treated you with more kindness and deference than you ever warranted. The “harsh words” between us were motivated by your treatment of me and my family members. I could never watch the way you treat my mother, [siblings' names], and remain silent about it. I will continue to be vocal when you are behaving despicably. I have faith it will continue, despite your latest show of goodwill. That’s one thing I can always rely on—your kindness is ephemeral and self-serving to the end.

Am I still angry at you? Sometimes. My anger is justified and legitimate, and I am still learning to deal with it. Do I forgive you? No. Do I think I should? No. Is this lack of forgiveness a burden on me? No. I realize that no one has a perfect life, and that we are often deeply hurt by the people we love (or attempt to love). The simple fact that you are capable of kindness, and yet refuse, time and time again, to show any measure of true charity toward me or those I love is enough for me to refuse forgiveness. I think you are one of the most manipulative, narcissistic, cruel people I have ever met. That opinion is only reinforced when you do things to “show” other people how righteous you are, like some Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde act. You’re not fooling me, nor do I believe you’re fooling very many other people. My friends see through you. So does my father’s side of my family. So does most of Mom’s side of the family. So does most of our ward. But you can continue to tell yourself otherwise. I understand that delusion is part of your problem. I lived with you, day in and day out, for years; I know who you are, much better than you know who I am. And you should know that one letter does not make up for years of what was inherently and deeply abusive behavior on your part.

While this is a harsh letter, it is nothing short of the truth, and it contains the things I’ve wanted to say for years. I’ve wanted to tell you how deeply you hurt me as a child and young woman—how close you came to breaking me. But I also want to tell you that you ultimately failed. I am not broken. I am stronger. I know how to rely on my own sense of self-worth, even when it is attacked by someone who is supposed to be a trustworthy, loving authority figure. I know how to trust my intuition and my feelings. I know how to cry, and how to pick myself up and move on, even through intense pain. I deeply appreciate my current life and my relationships, because none of them resemble the hell I inhabited while being your stepdaughter. Your letter to me contains empty words. And I don’t care what your reaction is to my response. I stopped caring about your opinion a long time ago, because I realize that you are ultimately hurtful, self-centered, and wrong. I’m sorry for the fact that we could have been friends, and had a great relationship, but you refuse to be someone with whom I can have any kind of contact. I now understand that this is your loss.

So I don’t wish you well, but I have no need to wish you ill; you’ve already done a great job of ruining your relationships with almost everyone. As for me, you may as well be dead. Don’t bother writing any more letters; they’ll just be thrown into the recycling bin unopened. Your chance for amends has long since passed.

Sincerely,

Me

L'aubergine

2009-04-03T20:20:00.000-07:00

While a missionary in Belgium, I continued my policy of trying one new thing every day. Because the White Bible forbade ninety-nine percent of all fun activities, my adventures were usually limited to trying new food. We usually ate lunch wherever we could find cheap sandwiches, and I insisted on trying a new place whenever possible, or at least ordering something new.

It was another rainy day, where it felt like the clouds were spitting on us and the gray sidewalks blended into the buildings, which blended into the sky. I'd been in Charleroi for about four months, and been transferred to the south part of the city. My companion and I had bussed out to Gilly, a neighborhood in Charleroi, and had an hour or so before our next appointment.

The shop was almost unnoticeable--I can't even recall seeing a sign with its name out front. But somehow we knew there was food, and soon were inside the austere interior examining a menu of French phrases. The middle-aged man behind the counter, with the bad teeth and unkemptness we'd become accustomed to, eyed us warily. I never got used to their stares, and tried discreetly shifting my scarf so it would cover my tag. I hated that thing. An American would have greeted us. He didn't.

"So what do you want?" I asked Sister A.
"I'm not really hungry," she replied. Her appetite had diminished lately; her fatigue was almost contagious, and settled like bruises into the creases beneath her eyes. President H.'s wife treated her like a hypochondriac.
"Well, you can at least have a few bites of mine, no?" I said.
She nodded.
We continued to eye the foreign phrases scribbled on a dry-erase board. The minimal, plastic interior was a stark contrast to the cobblestone and concrete neighborhood we'd been wandering through.
"What is an aubergine?" I asked the man, in French of course.
He looked at me as though I'd asked what salt tastes like.
"It's a vegetable," he replied in his rough Belgian French, making vague motions with his hands. "Like a zucchini."
The aubergine sandwich on the board also listed a tomato sauce and cheese, and was toasted. My fingertips were cold, and a hot sandwich with some sort of vegetable sounded great. I smiled.
"I'll have the aubergine sandwich," I said.
He looked surprised. "Aubergine?"
I nodded, pleased to have impressed him with my adventurous order.
Sister A. and I flipped through our English-to-French dictionary as he made my sandwich. It listed l'aubergine as an aubergine. Real helpful.
"Stupid British dictionaries," I muttered.
I dug out a two-euro coin and handed it to the man in exchange for my sandwich. It didn't feel warm, but I didn't protest, and we left the store, the door clanking shut behind us.

I unwrapped one end as we walked. "Aw, man, he didn't toast it," I complained, and took a bite.
Sister A. began to laugh when she saw my face. "What is it? What is l'aubergine?"
I chewed, swallowed, and replied, "I'm not sure."
We opened the sandwich up. Between two halves of buttered baguette were cold, thin slices of a pale-colored vegetable.
"Eggplant," said Sister A., beginning to laugh. "It's eggplant."

Birdshit

2009-03-26T00:35:00.001-07:00

I came up with a theory, in my undergrad life, that the chances of dating (and marrying) are as negligible and influence-able as those of getting shit on by a bird. For example, you can stand under trees your whole life and never get so much as a drip, and then you're walking down the street one day and whammo. Birdshit.

On my way to get coffee this morning--the first morning heading back to work after a romantic weekend getaway with R.--who should I run into but P. the ex? Yeah. It's been, oh, at least six or seven months since I last saw him, despite his random texts informing me about his life (which I haven't responded to for months). We talked for a few minutes. Well, he blathered on in his usual blame-the-world egocentric-bullshit kind of way; I suppressed giggles as I casually mentioned in the same breath that I hadn't slept much...and that I'm seeing someone.

What does this have to do with me leaving mormonism? I'm not sure. I know that many people would argue that me leaving the church was due to chance; perhaps if I'd had different experiences in life (like different fathers, for example) then I'd have stayed. Or, I'm 99 percent positive that plenty of my BYU peers chalk up my apostasy to not "catching a man" while in Provo.

Who am I to argue with chance? What if I had been proposed to by that nice young returned missionary who was tall, spoke Spanish, and took me on a date where we read poetry and baked cookies? Instead, he's on Facebook with his Latina wife. Instead, I am in Portland, swearing like a sailor, involved in a fantastically carnal relationship, and drunk as a skunk on a Wednesday night on Martini & Rossi champagne.

What if, what if, what if. Honestly, I'm glad he never proposed. I'm glad I left P., who did propose. With all of this on my mind, I was at work this morning, sorting the mail, chatting with Jasmine, and I happened to look down at my shoe. Sometime, between my house and the car and the coffeeshop and the car and work, a bird had shit on my foot.

It made me smile.

A belated St. Patty's...

2009-03-21T00:12:00.001-07:00

Yet another reason why Sauerkraut and I are friends: what are we doing on a random Friday night? Oh, we're baking cupcakes. Please keep in mind we live almost 1,000 miles apart, and hadn't mentioned any plans about baking. I'd completely forgotten about her class. And yet, we both blog about the same sugary goodness.

This batch is not very pretty, but possibly my best chocolate ones to date. They are the Chocolate Stout Cupcakes with a Crumb Topping, and I made them with Guinness beer, which is possibly not vegan but if I go get the bottle to check I'll get an ADD attack and this will never get posted. Et voila.

I look forward to the day when we have scratch-and-taste internet. (Like scratch-and-sniff.) Then you could taste the crumby, chocolatey goodness that is these cupcakes. Or you could visit when I bake them, and keep me from eating six (okay, maybe five) for dinner.

And maybe I sampled a little of the Guinness too...perhaps with some ice cream in it...teehee. Yet another perk of my postmormon life: alcohol! ;)

Divorce.

2009-03-20T02:36:00.000-07:00

My mother is divorcing my stepdad.

Yes, mormons can get divorces. My parents split years ago, although an interesting quirk is that my mother stayed "sealed" (read: married by the mormon temple ritual) to my father until she remarried. After all, a good mormon's ticket into heaven is being sealed. No sealing, no highest degree of glory. (Nevermind that you may hate each other--what matters is staying together for the sealing! Okay, stepping off soapbox...)

Anyway, back to my first thought: my mother's divorce from my evil stepfather. Technically, this should be a reason for skipping and whistling; after all, the dude has been a complete asshole since my mom married him when I was six. For example, one of his favorite ways to discipline me was punching me in the head hard enough that I'd see stars, and the spot where he'd gotten me would swell and leave a bruise for days. (Why the head? You can't see bruises under thick hair.) When I was really bad, he used his belt. (My favorite bit is that I can't actually recall what I did to merit all these punishments.) Hell, while I'm on the poor-abused-me kick, I'll mention that according to my stepdad I was always "big," a bad influence on my younger siblings, and not really "a member of the family." (After all, I'd insisted on going by my own last name, instead of his, when I entered junior high. He was furious, despite the fact he'd never legally adopted me.) Once I hit puberty, I put a lock on my door and slept with a large piece of wood under my bed, often waking in a panic from nightmares that he was attacking me (which continued into college, and come back every time I go home). In high school I began staying at friends' houses for days at a time, and let my boyfriend sleep over because, with someone else there, I felt safe.

So why am I not doing cartwheels that my mom is finally getting away from this bastard? I'm not sure. I know I'm worried about my mother's safety. I know I'm feeling guilty that I'm two states away, instead of embroiled in the fiasco, trying to deflect his anger from my mom onto me (as though I can "handle" it better or something). I know that serving papers is just the beginning, and I'm not anxious for the fight that will probably follow. I don't trust him, and it makes me incredibly nervous.

And I also know that, deep down, I'm wishing that instead of divorcing him, she'd killed the fucker. How's that for a postsecret?

Jesus jammies!

2009-03-19T12:28:00.001-07:00

If you've ever wondered what Mormons' "special" underwear looks like, I got this excellent forward from dear Sauerkraut the other day. I laughed pretty hard. :0)

As someone who has actually worn them, I can confirm that these are the real deal. They're meant to be worn at all times (except when showering. Duh.) and a woman's bra must be worn on the outside. Highly annoying. They come in all kinds of fabric, including silk, cotton, mesh, and some new spandex-y stuff. I've heard that originally they were one-piece and went to the ankles and wrists (but I do not claim this as truth--would have to check my sources, and am currently too lazy). However, I can confirm that they were one-piece outfits until like the 1970s (my grandparents used to wear them).

My post-mormon underwear choices are much, much more fun.

Cover Girl

2009-03-18T02:21:00.001-07:00

So, as part of my book marketing class, I designed a cover concept for my book. Please excuse the fact that I didn't have InDesign, or photoshop, or even good lighting when I slapped this together. Normally I'd get rid of the yellow lighting, and I'd make the tag look like actual missionary font on a real tag. But, you get the idea.

And if anyone steals my book idea or title idea, I will hunt you down and cut you. Your mother will cry when she sees what I've done to you.

Cheers!

Birth Control

2009-03-07T22:16:00.000-08:00

I'm stuck home on a Saturday night doing homework. But this made me laugh:

In the words of dear Sauerkraut: That is all.

Doin' it, doin' it, and doin' it well...

2009-03-05T00:16:00.001-08:00

Although it terrifies me, I'm leaving the writers' closet. I sent out an e-mail today announcing the publication of my short story in my university's lit mag, and am feeling a bit giddy about all the good feedback. This self-promotion stuff feels awkward, but hopefully it'll help me get this damn novel published someday. And then...let the hate mail begin! Bwah hahaha.

[In other, unrelated news, darling R. not only got me potted daffodils (I dislike cut flowers--they just die) but he wrote me the absolute sweetest email I've ever received in my life. It terrifies me, but I'm going to keep taking this chance, and keep believing (against my head's commentary) that he likes me back. :P Ah, relationships...]

Oh, so here's the piece that's getting published: (And I'll try to be better about updating this damn blog w/salient pieces from my book.)

Endure to the End

Oddly, I have only three sensory memories from the nearly two years I spent in Belgium as a Mormon missionary. Two are of the summer heat. The first involved riding the un-air-conditioned train between Waterloo and Brussels as rivulets of sweat slide down my cleavage, leaving me feeling teased. Asexual as missionaries were supposed to be, I couldn’t help but long for fingertips on my skin. The second sensation was of eating watermelons. We bought the heavy, ripened fruits—imported from Kazakhstan—at the market in the Muslim quarter of town. Once home in our apartment, we sliced into the red flesh and split it open, laughing and licking the salty sweetness of the juice dripping down our sun-baked arms.

This we is not the royal we. Except for the bathroom, I was literally never without another female missionary, or “companion,” for the entire eighteen months. It was part of the mission rules, all spelled out in a small white booklet, which missionaries referred to as the White Bible. After returning home, I went to the grocery store with my mom and almost had a panic attack when I realized she’d walked out of sight, leaving me alone in the aisle. Missions make you weird for a while afterwards.

The third memory is actually a succession of memories, but they all blend into one long sensation: failure. Missions, to my surprise, were heavily goal-oriented. By goals I mean numbers—number of people “contacted” (talked to about the church), number of lessons taught, number of people asked to be baptized, number of “investigators” (people we were teaching) who came to church, and so on. In our daily planners, we kept track of daily, weekly, and six-week goals. These were heavily influenced by the “ideal” numbers set out by our Mission President (the man appointed to oversee the geographical area of missionaries). He emphasized that our goals were personal and not “imposed” on us. In the competitive, perfectionist environment where statistics were everything, this was a semantic distinction only. Not once, during my entire eighteen months, did our weekly numbers match the President’s numbers.

I began to dread returning to our apartment each night after a day of more doors knocked on, opened, and shut; more stunted, awkward conversations with strangers; more teaching rendezvous where people flaked out; more Belgians moving away from us when we sat next to them on the train or bus. Each evening was a guilty session of penciling the day’s inadequacy into our planners, making phone calls, and hoping tomorrow would salvage our stats. Thankfully, each morning I woke up forgetful—my crushing worries about insufficient numbers tempered by exhausted, mind-wiping sleep.

But then the alarm would go off.

The White Bible dictated that missionaries must be out of bed at six-thirty sharp every morning and then exercise for thirty minutes. (Apparently missionaries back in the US, given cars to use, were getting tubby. The rest of us, scattered throughout the globe, spent most of our day either on bikes or on foot, canvassing cities until 9:00 p.m. every night, literally walking through the soles of our shoes.)

At 6:30 a.m. in Belgium it is still dark. Summer or winter, it doesn’t matter. It’s usually raining, too, sometimes for weeks at a time, each day blending into a long, gray haze of hours where the sun never rises or sets but just casts a cement-like hue on everything for a few hours.

I am not a morning person. However, God or the Force or Murphy’s Law always paired me up with companions who were. (Missionaries are switched around between cities and companions rather frequently. I had only two cities, a rarity, and seven different companions, which is pretty average.) With the exception of a cranky Russian-Congolese companion who ate Nutella in spoonfuls straight from the jar and told stories about her past in the mafia, they were all athletic. So, every morning except Sundays, I would drag my bleary-eyed self out of bed, wiggle my feet into pre-tied sneakers, and force my body into a jog. I quickly learned that one cannot run and sleep at the same time. This is, I think, unfortunate.

In Charleroi, a dirty, industrial city in the south, we circled our urban neighborhood of narrow streets. In Waterloo, a rural, wealthy suburb of Brussels with monuments to Napoleon, we ran on the track at a nearby park. Often the ground was muddy, or frozen over, or even frozen and covered with snow, and still we ran. As my mind yawned and stretched and remembered where I was, my sleepy, mild grouchiness was supplanted by the overarching sensation of my entire mission—I was failing.

I almost stumbled whenever it hit me, pummeling into my ego with the deep and thorough knowledge that I was not doing enough.

Mission rules required that, every week, each missionary contacted around two hundred people, and that each companionship (or set of two missionaries) taught at least twenty-one lessons and asked two or more people to commit to being baptized. With the reality that some of these potential baptism-ees would back out, a missionary should have been baptizing around two to five people a month. These numbers were all reported by telephone through a hierarchy of elders (male missionaries), who gave them to the Mission President, who then reported to the presidency of the entire LDS church. These numbers were compiled, analyzed, and then scrutinized in monthly mission-wide meetings. Although individual numbers were supposedly confidential, everyone knew who was doing the best.

Every Sunday evening, you call in your numbers. Sometimes you give yourself little pep talks before, saying things like, “The numbers don’t really matter; you know how hard you really worked,” or, “It was just a bad week. Things will get better.” But the numbers don’t lie. You’re failing.

Week after week, you sit through church trying to hide your disappointments with smiles. Whenever members come up and ask if any of your “investigators” are coming to church that day, you smile hard enough crush your molars and reply, “They said they would, so we’re still hoping!” This optimism is forced, but you try. God, do you try.

Eventually, the rejections are so overwhelming that you just wish to stop thinking. You daydream about letting your brain nap in the apartment while your body cheerfully bothers strangers and runs to catch the bus. Knocking on strangers’ doors never comes naturally; it’s always an invasion of privacy. You are invasive. If you think too much about it you become mortified, tongue-tied—you stop sleeping at night. Sometimes you feel greasy, like a used-car salesman. This is when the doubts come in.

If mormonism is the truth, why don’t more people respond? If we are all God’s children, and he wants us to live with Him again after death, and this mormonism is the only way, why doesn’t God do something more? Why doesn’t it feel like He cares?

“Free will,” says the Mission President. “God cannot force people to choose the right.”

So you try to force yourself. If God is perfect, and people are not responding, then obviously you’re screwing things up somehow. It can’t be God. Ninety-eight percent of the people you talk to blow you off. The numbers plod along, continually abysmal.

And every morning, pushing your legs to keep pace, you remember. A day full of rejections stretches before you, and you try to muster up the hope that today, somehow, someone will be receptive. You pray to God that someone will listen. You wonder if God has stopped listening, then glance at your companion jogging beside you, hoping that your lack of faith doesn’t show. It’s obviously this lack of faith causing the failures. You try not to panic. No one intentionally loses faith in God, especially not after spending twenty-odd years constructing it.

And so you continue, round and round that track, running in the dark.

Purple potatoes!

2009-03-02T21:13:00.001-08:00

Welcome to my new craving: roasted purple potato slices! Aren't they pretty?

I saw purple potatoes on sale and thought, why not? When I cut them open, it was like finding art. So cool. Then I slathered them in olive oil and salt and stuck them in the oven at like 350 or something until they smelled delicious. (Forty minutes?) Then I ate them. Yup.

Tango

2009-02-26T23:19:00.000-08:00

I've always been intrigued by tango--the sultriness, the staccato push-and-pull, the unabashed desire...it's a damn sexy dance.

My boyfriend, R, said he'd like to take tango lessons sometime. It makes me nervous. Actually, it makes me terrified. A list of my fears:
-I will suck.
-He will realize dancing with a tall, athletic girl is not as fun as dancing with a small, thin one.
-My knees will ache after fifteen minutes in heels.

Essentially, it just taps into my overarching fear of not being good enough. You see, I'm falling for this boy. I'm falling for the way he smiles, for the way he geeks out about things he's passionate about, for the way he listens to me, for his support of feminism and human rights, for the way he tells me I'm beautiful, for the way he says he likes me for my "brains," for the way (overshare alert) he's mind-blowing in bed. He cooks. He dances. He sings. He tickles me. He is even worse at shit-talking than I am. He rivals my silliness. He snuggles. He's tall. I could go on. I'll spare you.

Not to say that I'm completely undeserving. On good days, I believe I'm pretty badass myself. But there is still this constant, nagging fear of not being enough. And I find myself doing things like avoiding using the stickers he gave me, because it'll will be too painful to pull them off if/when he dumps me. God, what a pessimist I can be.

In the meantime, I continue telling him I like him, blurting the other L-word, being mortified about it, building and tearing down my defenses almost daily. I hold back, then I overshare. I edit my emails. And we continue that awkward, risky dance. Tango, I guess.

P.S. Currently I'm listening to the Gotan Project's tango. Yummy.

UPDATE: I used the stickers.

I miss my glove. :(

2009-02-17T23:34:00.000-08:00

I'm so sad.

Click here to see why.

(And yes, I was a bit intoxicated when I wrote this. It'd been a long day!)

UPDATE: I found it! My glove was under the passenger seat of my car. I feel kind of stupid, but mostly happy. :P

Cupcake Goddess

2009-02-15T02:47:00.000-08:00

Plan A for my life is to write, especially my damn mission memoir.
Plan B is to open a store, perhaps a vegan cupcake store, with goodies like this:

These, my friends, would be hazelnut cupcakes with espresso mouse filling and a chocolate ganache topping, sprinkled with toasted hazelnuts. Recipe thanks to this fantastic title:

Mmm. Cupcakes.

25 Random Things About Me

2009-02-12T00:19:00.001-08:00

Copied directly from my facebook page:

1. As a child, my favorite activity was building forts & treehouses and reading books in them. I liked the coziness.

2. At one point I owned four disco balls. I’m down to two.

3. Sometimes when I’m home alone I have little “Mel parties.” A typical one consists of cranking music and dancing around with reckless abandon. I’ve actually been sore the next day from more than a few of these.

4. The whole “intuitive eating” is nothing new to me. I crave things. Sometimes I eat the same food for months and then can’t stand it for a couple years. Quesadillas, for instance, sound awful this month. Currently I’m on a red licorice kick.

5. If I could have any superpower, I want to sleep for half an hour and wake up feeling as though I just got nine hours. Forget invisibility or flight—I want more life!

6. I once punched a girl in the face, but it’s unbelievably hard for me to stay mad at someone.

7. My earliest memory is of swimming. I know it’s real because a) I can remember what it felt like wearing water-wings, and b) my mom verifies the details of the pool, and I’ve never seen a photo of it.

8. If I could have one kind of surgery, I would get cheek dimples. (Although I don’t think this even exists.)

9. I have venus dimples.

10. My great-great-great-great grandfather was a mormon polygamist. I’m descended (on the paternal side) from his fourth wife. He’s buried the side of I-15, just north of the Idaho-Utah border (I always honk & wave when I drive by).

11. I was originally a psychology major, then considered international relations, anthropology, art history, and was one semester away from graduating with a journalism degree before switching to English.

12. The worst thing I’ve had to eat is a tie between pig-tail soup and warm cereal milk.

13. I never had a celebrity crush until I watched The Emperor’s New Groove and fell hard for Kronk (sp?). The man bakes, is endlessly zen, could carry all six feet of me around, and sings his own theme songs. *swoon*

14. When hurt physically, I black out. (Once I chipped my tooth on the floor.) I’ve learned to lie down quickly before I completely pass out.

15. I’ve never broken a bone, although I have sliced open my shin on a hurdle (and have an excellent scar) and done a front-flip over my bicycle handlebars.

16. Someday my good friend Sauerkraut and I will own a store. It might involve a vegan cupcake bakery. It might be a random boutique/gift store. Stay tuned.

17. Sometimes I daydream about running away to Monterey, California and becoming an organic farmer and potter. I’d sell my strawberries and cereal bowls every Tuesday at the farmer’s market, and I’d learn to surf.

18. If I could be in any musical, I would want to be Dolly in Hello Dolly. My grandpa still sings that song to me when I come home for holidays.

19. Nothing changes my mood more quickly and effectively than music.

20. I say “hiccup” when I hiccup. It’s genetic. (Seriously. My mom does it.)

21. My favorite college course as an undergrad was “American Literature in the 1960s.” If I could build a time-travel machine, I’d go back to the 60s. I’d listen to Martin Luther King’s speech after marching for civil rights, rock out at Woodstock, hang out with beat poets, and wear paisley, miniskirts, and tall boots every day.

22. My favorite parties are themed parties, mainly because I love playing dress-up. (Yes, I’m still a third-grader.)

23. I’d rather clean the bathroom than the kitchen.

24. I went on a French-speaking Mormon mission to Belgium, which was actually the impetus to becoming agnostic. Awkward!

25. The first time I fell in love with art was when I walked into a modern art museum and saw a huge, orange-and-yellow Rothko hanging on the wall. It was mesmerizing.

Getting my panties in a bunch: McDonalds ad campaign for espresso

2009-01-28T19:16:00.000-08:00

Several times a day I exit the building where I work and see the McDonalds directly across the street. Have I gone in? No. Have I thought about it? Yes.

[Disclaimer: I have a genetic (see: father) and nurtured distaste for McDonalds. Even though I grew up thinking Happy Meals were the bomb, once I stopped getting excited about mini-Barbies with my food, I stopped going there. I think the food, its nutritional value (or lack thereof), and the golden arches’ takeover of the world is pretty disgusting. But that’s another—and actually smaller—soapbox.]

Today I realized, technically, that I probably fit the target audience for McDonalds’ new espresso campaign. I'm quite broke (see: grad school tuition), I don't particularly enjoy the pretension of Starbucks, and I enjoy lattes. I'd get jittery off a double-shot with soy every morning if I could afford it. The answer? McDonalds! Right? Unfortunately for Mickey D’s, they got it completely wrong. Even without my aforementioned boycott of McDonalds, their ad campaign alone was enough to keep me from even trying the lattes on the day they were giving them out for free.

Example 1: “Hoity without the toity”
Wow. This is a linguistic disaster. This phrase, when broken up, makes absolutely no sense. Even if it could (and yes, I get what they’re aiming for), what does it mean when McDonalds is hoity, but not toity? I looked up the etymology in Merriam Webster, who said hoity-toity is a “rhyming compound” that comes from the English dialect hoit, “to play the fool.” McDonalds is hoity, huh? Well, that’s awkward, now isn’t it.

Example 2: “Four bucks is dumb”
The only people swayed by this billboard (a prominent one stands in Seattle) will be those who are actually threatened by the insult “dumb” (especially coming from a McDonalds ad) and those who think insults such as “stupid” are funny. Sure, Starbucks may be overpriced, but I believe that’s part of what made them so successful (see: coffee cup as status symbol). This is like Old Navy slinging insults at Gucci customers. Real effective, I’m sure.

Example 3: the TV ads, where people are relieved to turn off the jazz and stop reading books now that they can get their lattes from McDonalds. Whew!
This implies that the hordes of people in Starbucks every day are there because, sigh, there's just no other option. So, they put up with the jazz and acoustic, the muted color schemes, the books and newspapers—such pretentious appeals to intellectualism—just to get their lattes. People sit in these godawful coffee shops, pretending to read the NY Times or discuss something smartypants while sipping their extra-hot, nonfat, sugar-free, double-shot, soy vanilla lattes, all the while wishing they could just drive through McDonalds and get a damn whole-milk, watered-down latte with beans grown in who-cares-where. Maybe a sausage McMuffin, too. Yeah, that’s it!

You know, perhaps what I find most offensive (beyond merely ineffective) about McDonalds latest advertising is the way it taps into the political arguments about elitism. Specifically, it's as if McDonalds ripped a page from the Palin campaign manual. “Come in to McDonalds, where we’re just Average Joes about our coffee!” The whole thing smacks of anti-intellectualism, as if secretly people just pretend to like jazz or read books or use big words. But really, deep down, we all just want to be average. We all should just want to be average, right?

Last time I checked, telling me to dumb myself down just makes me furious enough to write nasty blogs on the internet and decide that the next time I’m with people going to McDonalds for a breakfast sandwich at 4 a.m., I’d rather eat something from a gas station. Middle finger, McDonalds. A hoity AND toity middle finger to you.

Paint me on velvet, darling

2009-01-17T20:57:00.000-08:00

Well, R. and I finally went to the Velveteeria, where I've been meaning to go since I moved to Portland! Excuse the blurry phone shot: it was taken in a hurry.

Yes, that is Jesus over a semi truck, done on black velvet. Beautiful. They also had nudes, Star Wars, glittery Mr. T., and an entire room dedicated to black-light velvet paintings.

It changed my life. Well, at least it added another life goal: Commission nude painting of myself, and have it done on black velvet. Yes. Awesome.

Sometimes I get lonely.

2008-12-06T10:21:00.003-08:00

Your absence has gone through me
like thread through a needle.
Everything I do is stitched with its color.

(I can't remember who wrote this and am currently too lazy to google it.)

Worst line ever.

2008-12-02T10:26:00.000-08:00

So here's my favorite line from the book I just finished editing:

Dressed in a pair of white pants, her large, shapely breasts were contained only by a bright, yellow tank top.

ENFP = "the visionary," "the champion idealist"

2008-11-25T14:26:00.006-08:00

The oddest part is, the extroverted part of my personality was almost killed off during my late childhood and early teens...but it's back! :)

some traits:
outgoing, social, disorganized, easily talked into doing silly things, spontaneous, wild and crazy, acts without thinking, good at getting people to have fun, pleasure seeking, irresponsible, physically affectionate, risk taker, thrill seeker, likely to have or want a tattoo, adventurous, unprepared, attention seeking, hyperactive, irrational, loves crowds, rule breaker, prone to losing things, seductive, easily distracted, open, revealing, comfortable in unfamiliar situations, attracted to strange things, non punctual, likes to stand out, likes to try new things, fun seeker, unconventional, energetic, impulsive, empathetic, dangerous, loving, attachment prone, prone to fantasy

the best site I've found:
http://www.personalitypage.com/ENFP.html

Being single is a sin?

2008-11-21T00:32:00.000-08:00

So I realized the other day that I, at age 25, have officially reached "old maid" status with all the mormons I know. It was pretty funny to go home for Thanksgiving. Two of my younger cousins are already married, with the newest wifey telling my third younger cousin that he "needs to get married." (Um, he got home from the mish less than 6 MONTHS ago!)

It's a really good thing she had the sense not to say this with me around, or else she would have gotten the following response:

followed by a drop-kick to her snarky, rapidly-expanding butt.

Honestly! WTF?!? Everyone goes through the "what am I doing with my life" feeling around this time (my TBM and nevermo friends alike) but the most satisfying thing is to look around and realize marriage is NOT our only option/goal in life! I went to six young, TBM wedding receptions this summer, and every one of them had a shocked look of "oh god what have I done" within six weeks afterwards. Let's face it, in 99% of mormon marriages, these people's lives are officially OVER. "Endure to the end" becomes their mantra as they slave away under church callings and the ridiculous expectations of raising the "perfect" family.

Ugh ugh ugh.

Despite what the morg teaches, being an individual person is not a crime, nor does it mean you're incomplete, broken, deficient, etc. etc. Loneliness is normal, not a sin.