Compassion and Socialism

About a year ago I was in a law school class discussing intellectual property rights. The professor posed an ethical question about licensing for patented pharmaceuticals. Should there be compulsory licensing to provide more convenient drugs when very sick people have to take a combination of several pills? My economical, Republican, property-rights-centric response was that if people are sick, they should be grateful for having any drugs at all instead of complaining that they have to take 4 pills instead of 1 because Bristol-Myers-Squibb has a patent. My professor's response was "Miss Woodhouse, maybe you should consider compassion." Ouch. True. Touche. Point for Professor Thomas.

So then a couple weeks ago, I was thinking about health care reform as I fell asleep. No surprise, I'm anti-public option. So naturally, I was anti-health reform. I don't think Congress does a very good job, and I think administrative agencies do an even worse job, and the courts are pretty messed up too. So, I cringe at the word "reform." But I was laying there thinking about being unemployed. A lot of my classmates will be graduating in May without jobs, without an income, and without health care. A lot of them have kids. These people have worked hard to get degrees and are very smart, but they have no money. They don't mean to be a drain on the system, but eventually options run out. I remembered Professor Thomas' comment about compassion and thought, maybe we do need reform. Maybe I shouldn't be so concerned about socialism after all.

THEN I read this article. And I saw this chart from 2007:


And I thought, whoa! In a Republican administration the top 1% of earners are paying 40% of the income taxes. We're practically socialists already! It's not that I think charity and giving to those in need is a bad thing. I think it is not only a good thing, but an essential personal choice. What concerns me is the four months I spent working in a federal government agency and all of the waste that I saw there. When those tax dollars are going to support facebook browsing, yapping on the phone, and other time-wasting activities, I feel my concern is justified. The problem is, I don't have a solution. Can a government really be effective in balancing the need for compassion while combatting the evils and inefficiencies of socialism? Comments? Thoughts?

A Lump of Coal and Lot's Wife

Dear Readers: Yes, all four of you. This is my first crack at poetry since junior high, so bear with me.

A sometimes mischevious Idaho farm boy
Feeling his stocking one Great Depression winter
A lump of coal?
Surely, it must be.
Oh, to have been better in the weeks leading up to Christmas!

Lot's wife
Longing
Not just for Sodom and Gomorrah and their sins
For home
For friends
For family
For familiarity
Longing

A job? Where? Move?
But I'm happy
When? A year? The irony of knowing change is coming

A journal entry two and a half years ago
Six months before my last big move
"Once again I feel like I have to give up everything that is constant and happy in my life and start all over again."
The past two and a half years have been better than anything prior

Lot's wife looked back
Longingly
"Perrenially dissatisfied with present circumstances"
"Only dismal views of the future"
Salt

The farm boy
Maybe an orange
Maybe not a lump of coal
Anticipation

New city, new job
Maybe like the girl scout song
"Make new friends, but keep the old
One is silver and the other's gold"
Maybe silver and gold

Christmas morning
The farm boy opens his stocking
Not coal
Not an orange
A special toy
A great surprise
A spinning top!

Maybe the next city will be good too
Maybe the next Christmas will bring a surprise
Not like Lot's wife
Instead like Joshua
"Be strong and of good courage; be not afraid, neither be thou dismayed: for the Lord thy God is with thee withersoever thou goest."

References: Talk by Elder Jeffery R. Holland on Remember Lot's Wife, see Ensign, January 2010; Joshua 1:9

Active Liking

The internet has revolutionized our language. Text used to be a noun, and you used to chat with someone rather than chatting them. My mom is sometimes perplexed at all the code names my siblings use. My nine-year-old brother calls the pet store the quilt store to try to trick her into driving him to look at bearded dragons and parakeets. My college-aged sister went through a phase where all of her roommates' crushes had code names.

Sister: Jacob called Annelle.
Mom: Wait, I thought Annelle liked Edward.
Sister: Well she does. We just call Edward Jacob so no one will know who we are talking about.

And now all of the sudden Facebook has distorted "liking" from some sort of passive feeling verb to an action verb.

Missy: Am I allowed to like my own quote?
Thought in my head: Of course you can like your own quote, but if you "like" your own quote then you may look narcissistic. Of course, I have few problems with narcissism as long as one acknowledges he or she is being narcissistic.

See it used to be that you could like something without the whole world knowing. But now you don't really like something until you click that "Like" button on Facebook and tell the whole world about it. To like something is no longer to have a subjective feeling in favor of something, but rather to click a button on the internet.

Not only does the internet have the capacity to significantly alter the meaning of our language, but it dehumanizes us by distorting the things that make us most human. Never before was it necessary to tell someone you liked something in order to validate that feeling. Telling someone was telling someone and liking was liking. But now meaning has been distorted to the point that liking something means telling someone about it. And not just someone, everyone on Facebook!

The author of this blog is seriously considering yet another Facebook sebatical, but currently favors remaining on Facebook in order to facilitate a higher number of social invitations. It's called FOMO (Fear of Missing Out).

A little privacy please...

So, how 'bout that Tiger Woods scandal? Not that the media has ever been a group to act decently, but this is all a bit much. I'm not defending Tiger Woods, or what he did, or anyone else who cheats on their spouse, but really, isn't there a vote on health care going on or something?

Because I don't want to be a hypocrite, I will refrain from evaluating the Tiger Woods situation further. But let me just say, the President of the United States having sexual relations with a young intern and lying under oath is one thing, but a pro-golfer's affair is none of my business. I'm not voting for him and I'm never going to talk to him, so let's just let these people live their lives and work things out without 280 million Americans and the rest of the world giving their opinion.

The Time of My Life

This time of year always seems to lead me to reminisce and remember past years. This morning as I was folding laundry I remembered being 19. The summer after my freshman year of college, I moved out of the dorms and lived with three 25-year-olds. One of my roommates was incredibly concerned that she wasn't married yet. She had some quote about "career women" and she was sure that she did not want to become a "career woman." For all her worrying, I remember she got married within a year or so after our summer of conversations about the woes of being single at the age of 25.

Well, as my nine-year-old brother loves to remind me, I will soon be a quarter-of-a-century old. And, from the looks of things, I'm very likely to still be unmarried when I turn 25. And, from the looks of things, it is even more likely that I will be a "career woman" for some unknown period of time after my 25th birthday- you know suits, office, heels, that whole thing. It's not quite what I expected for myself. I think my 19-year-old self sat there listening to my roommate thinking, "I probably won't have to worry about all this. I'll probably be planning a wedding by the time I'm in her shoes."

I was right, and I was wrong. I'm not planning a wedding, but I don't have to worry either. Because while I wasn't expecting the suits and the heels and the office on the 30-somethingth floor overlooking the East River and Central Park, I also wasn't expecting seeing myself (talking in front of people) on C-SPAN, chilling in Justice Alito's chambers before hearing arguments at the Supreme Court, taking a three day tour of New England with my college friend, visiting 15+ states in 12 months, listening to Handel's Messiah in the National Cathedral, hearing the Chaplain of the U.S. Senate talk about Thanksgiving with only a hundred other people, and seeing A Christmas Carol at Ford's Theatre.

How could I have ever expected the perfect bliss of waking up each morning to the sunrise and views of planes taking off from Reagan International Airport, of a morning run to the Air Force Memorial to see the sunrise over the Capitol, of Five Guys and crocheting with two of my favorite girls on a Saturday night, of sitting on a park bench with my family watching my brother play chess by the bay, of missing my turn while driving because my best friend and I were half-laughing/half-crying to Taylor Swift crooning "cause I had the best day, with you, today?" How can I worry when each year is better, happier, and lovlier than the last? When the increasing challenges and stress are accompanied by ever-increasing confidence and strenth? When moments of bliss and wholeness are more frequent and more clear? The reminiscing only makes me wonder why I ever worried and wonder what the next year will bring.

Dreaded Dentist

Today I went to the dentist. I hate going to the dentist. It's not so much that I hate the dentist himself, I hate what the dental hygeniest always does to my mouth and to my face. All of the stretching and pulling and shoving her hands into my little mouth. Any Mary Kay consultant surely would not approve of such an abuse of my skin and delicate facial muscles.

The most feared dental hygeniest was Duquessa. Fortunately, we have changed dentists and I no longer have to surrender myself to her aggressive techniques with the electric tooth polisher. Despite routinely being told I have great teeth, witnessing the hygeniest's shock when she finds out I never had braces, and rarely having cavities, I still despise the dentist. But I survived today.

My dentist has his office at the hospital. As I drove away, passing the Emergency Room sign, I realized I hate hospitals in general. In elementary school I made my parents take me to the emergency room. I swore I was having a heart attack and was dying. We parked; I puked in the bushes while my parents went in and started talking to Peter Barth's mom, who was on duty in the emergency room that night. Amazingly enough, after puking I felt great (almost) and we went home where I slept on the floor next to a bucket and a plastic baggie with ice chips.

Other times we've actually waited in the emergency room. All night. I got lost in Huntington Memorial Hospital once looking for some food because we had been stuck in the emergency room for hours. It's pretty eerie wandering around a hospital by yourself at night and then getting locked out. Thank goodness I stay pretty healthy, and that going to the doctor is still a step above going to the DMV (and hopefully it will stay that way, but I'm doubtful). Thanks to my private insurance company being stingy with dental visits, I'm officially free from check-ups for six months. Until then...

States Test

Last night, I flew across the United States of America. Today I found a tablet of paper at my mom's desk in our house that has a map of the continental United States on it. The map doesn't have the state names, just the drawing. I gave myself a test. 46/48. Not bad for being 10 years out of eighth grade. Poor Iowa and Missouri, I got them mixed up.

Corporate Fashion

There's a girl in my corporations class who wears big round glasses that cover half of her cheeks. Based on the way she pulls back her hair and comments in class, I'm guessing these weren't the only glasses she could afford. Being from California, I can understand wanting to look slutty, trendy, unkempt, etc., but Californians don't ever seem to make an effort to look stodgy. Loosen up a bit people: wear a bright color, untuck that button-up shirt, try a sweatshirt and jeans, or hey, even wear sweats! It's Georgetown, not Harvard.

Addendum...

26) TARGET! How could I forget Target????!!!!????
27) Crest Pro-Health Toothpaste
28) Advil
29) The Safeway on Franconia

Some of the greatest inventions...

I'm Thankful For...

This list does not include the traditional family, church, democracy, etc. things that I am thankful for. Instead, it is a beginning to a list of things I am thankful for that are simpler pleasures that make each day better.

1) Harris Teeter chocolate chip muffins
2) Bright California oranges on sale at HT (a little piece of home)
3) Prof. Thomas cancelling class for Oktoberfest each year
4) Prof. Thomas never scheduling make-up classes
5) Lamp light shining through fall leaves after dark
6) "I wanna show alla my haters love..." Thank you, Chamillionaire
7) Michael and Michelle, the friendly front desk people in our building
8) Fog
9) Annapolis, MD
10) Christmas music
11) Twinkly lights
12) The Mt. Vernon Trail
13) Pleasure reading
14) My fuzzy pink blanket
15) Deer Park water bottles
16) Park swings
17) The Jefferson Memorial
18) The yellow line of the metro
19) Waking up to the sunrise every morning
20) Hot chocolate with peppermint ice cream (particularly with Callie and Anj)
21) Peppermint Joe-Joe's (another shout-out to Callie and Anj)
22) Talking
23) Cell phones
24) Airplanes
25) The internet

Put Your Faithful Foot Forward

The August before I started seventh grade, my family sold our house on Valverde and moved into an apartment. It was in that apartment I memorized the words to every Winnie the Pooh movie as 2-year-old Kati watched them constantly in our close quarters. In our small shared room with bunk beds arranged in an L-shape to prevent anyone's head from getting crushed should the bunk beds fall in an earthquake, I told Missy that KIIS 102.7 was a "bad" (aka evil) radio station. Sure not every song was perfectly devoid of swearing, but Missy was mainly just a cooler 2nd grader than I was 7th grader. While Missy and I didn't agree on which music to play on our alarm clock radio, we shared a sense of fear--fear that Dad's promise of being in a house before Christmas would not be fulfilled. But it was, we moved into our house on December 12th, if I remember correctly. Just in time for Christmas.

In seventh grade faith was all about patience, and patience was all about waiting. Faith was not a principle of action; rather, it was a principle of inaction. Only in recent years, perhaps even recent months, has faith become a forward-moving rather than a stationary principle. This morning I woke up with a feeling of dread. Last night our management company insisted on extra, unwritten, unagreed-to terms in our lease. The fear of not having a home at Christmas returned.

At the same time, opportunities are sprouting in my life that I have waited for and hoped for--sometimes faithfully and more often doubtfully--for years. These opportunities provide a stage for reflection, and reflection affirms that nothing has ever gone terribly wrong in my life. For all the fear, and for all the struggle, I've never had a difficult experience that did not provide me with an opportunity to learn and grow. I have never had to be patient for a promise or event that was not sweeter for the wait. And the waiting was sweeter when I had faith.

Faith is doing your best to accomplish the tasks of the day rather than becoming consumed by the uncertainty of the future. Faith is believing in solutions and working toward them. Faith is seeing challenges as opportunities, trusting that Heavenly Father will add His infinite wisdom to the intellect, agency, and resources He has already given us, to help us find solutions. Faith is the act of picking up the phone, the scriptures, or the instruction manual to find answers. It is the act of dropping to your knees, dropping your fear, and dropping your pride to receive what He is ready to give. When I act in trust and confidence, knowing that nothing can go terribly wrong when Heavenly Father is on my side, the dread flees and faith flourishes.

Success: Book (in Progress) Review

I came down with the flu on Wednesday. Staying in bed for two days straight allowed me to catch up on some recreational reading... and blog about it. My current book is Outliers by Malcolm Gladwell. I'm only halfway through, but I have some thoughts about Gladwell's theories of success.

In Outliers, Gladwell postulates that people are successful because of the opportunities they are given rather than their own hard work or intelligence or desire to suceed. He cites Bill Gates and other titans of the computer/software/internet industry and their particular fortune to have been born around the year 1955 and have access to computers (to practice their programming skills) in a time when computer access was virtually non-existent. He cites Joe Flom, of law firm Skadden, Arps, Slate, Meagher, and Flom, and other successful Manhattan Jewish attorneys born in the 1930's for the opportunity of discrimination against Jewish lawyers, which allowed them to get an edge in emerging areas of corporate law. And he cites the fortune of Canadian hockey players born in January, children born to involved parents, and oil and steel tycoons born in the 1830's. Gladwell is right, probably every person we hail as truly successful was given opportunities beyond their control that, when seized, led to their fame, fortune, and success.

Because that's what success is, right? Success must mean excessive amounts of wealth and widespread recognition within one's chosen profession. Right? The American dream is becoming a Rockerfeller or a Carnegie? And the only way to do that is by having opportunities you can't control? Success must mean a Harvard undergrad, a Yale law degree, and a clerkship on the Second or Ninth Circuits followed by one on the Supreme Court? Or success must mean winning the national science fair at age 10, going to MIT, graduating from Harvard medical school, inventing the cure for cancer, and winning the Nobel prize (all by age 40, of course)?

Gladwell is wrong--not in his observations, they seem to be on point--but in his definition of success. He disparages the value we, as Americans, place on hard work and intelligence when evaluating success. Yet, none of his success stories were stupid and/or lazy. They were all committed, 110%. But Gladwell argues that commitment, hard work, and intelligence are not enough to suceed. He's wrong because he thinks success means having your name up in lights and driving a fancy car to your fancy house. He thinks that success must mean being an outlier. He's missing the bigger picture, the real American dream.

Success means progress. Being better than you were yesterday, a year ago, five years ago. Success means setting a goal and achieving it. Now for the smart aleck who is going to go to Webster's dictionary and tell me that definition 2b says "also : the attainment of wealth, favor, or eminence" consider whether we all need to shift our focus a little bit. I know too many people who think they are unsuccessful because they study law at Georgetown instead of Harvard (I mean, really people, why stop at Harvard, we all know you haven't really achieved success unless you are at Yale), or who think that they are unsuccessful because they are a staff assistant on the Hill instead of the legislative director, or who aren't making as much money as they want to be, or who aren't getting the grades they want, or the car they want, or the living situation they want, or the pant size they want, or the boyfriend/girlfriend/spouse they want.

I propose two suggestions. On one level, my response is: "Go get it!" If you want something, and really want it, then go get it. You can do it. You can make a goal and achieve it. And don't let Malcolm Gladwell tell you that some fortuitous opportunity is required to achieve your goal. Make opportunities where none exist. You will see results. Maybe you won't be #1 in your class or make millions, but I bet if you really wanted those things, at the expense of everything else near and dear to you, you could achieve those things. You could be at the top.

But you don't really want that. Because to you, that's not success. Because some part of success necessarily includes happiness. And happiness is derived from a variety of sources. Trust me, I was the kid who accepted nothing less than an A+ in junior high once I found out that was the best possible (see post on the five paragraph essay). And I worked my butt off, and I had the highest grades of anyone in my junior high. And achieving that goal made me happy, but now there is more to life. Real success includes some combination of success in family, friends, extracurricular learning, and living life. It may include being successful in living your religion, which brings me to my second point.

You can make goals, and you can try to achieve them, and sometimes you will fail. Not everyone can make a million dollars, look like Brangelina, have a perfectly happy family, and be number one at work. If that is your view of success, you are not only likely to fail, you are destined to fail, because under that definition, success in one area comes at the expense of success in another area.

However, you and I are children of God. And if success means following God's will for us, then faithful hard work never goes unrewarded. The rewards may be delayed for a time, and we will undoubtedly suffer disappointments as we quest for success, but striving to understand God's will for us helps us achieve balance, which is the most difficult of all tasks. It is much easier to binge on success in one area and starve yourself of success in another area than it is to be successful at balancing all the areas of your life. Successful balance (which often comes without fame or fortune) brings the greatest happiness and satisfaction. And while opportunity to learn about balance and God's will may come at different times for different people, a loving and just God never denies those opportunities to His children. Thank goodness Malcolm Gladwell and his definition of success do not rule the universe.

Book Review

What do you get when a Jewish author writes a book about Koreans who worship the spirits of their ancestors and sing Christian songs to keep them going day to day? I Am the Clay by Chaim Potok. I Am the Clay is a departure from much of Potok's other work that focuses on Orthodox Jews living in New York. Instead, this book follows an old man, an old woman, and a young injured boy along their journey as refugees in the Korean War. Potok uses profound religious symbols as he juxtaposes foreign Christianity with Korean ancestral worship in a story of self-discovery and love.

From fleeing their village with shells exploding close by, to "a patch of uninhabited darkness amid the surrounding fires" the old man carries the spirit of his father in a wooden box. The old woman makes food offerings to the spirits throughout the journey though food is scarce, and the old man believes the young boy has special powers as the threesome is blessed with fish, a pair of gloves, and the surprise of finding their home unscathed.

At the same time, in worshipping her mother, the old woman remembers a song taught by "the pale man with the upside-down eyes": "Have thine own way Lord have thine own way, thou art the potter, I am the clay." She has long forgotten what the English words mean, but repeatedly sings the song to herself for comfort when the trek seems unbearable. Another repeated symbol of Christianity is the big cross which brings medicine for the injured boy, removes shrapnel from his chest, and provides work for the boy after he returns to the village with the old couple. The symbols of Christianity provide spiritual and physical strength that the old woman and the boy need to continue their journey.

Interestingly, the old man perhaps grows the most as he learns the meaning of love. As he sees the compassion the old woman has for the young boy, he finds "himself gazing at something within him that he had never before seen. All knew of the unseen world beyond the everyday realm of appearances; but he had never thought there might be such a world inside himself: unexplored and cavernous." At the end of the novel, as the old man sees the love the young boy has for the woman, "he felt deep within himself a slow and tortuous turning and then an opening of doors to deeper and deeper recesses inside himself, caves leading to caves, and his heart raced and he wondered if this was what was meant by the word love, which he had heard spoken from time to time, this baffling sensation of tremling warmth and closeness he now felt."

Potok beautifully explores the growth that sprouts from trial, the healing that walks hand-in-hand with suffering, and the love that rises from the rubble of war.

Is that a U boat?: A tribute to my favorite veteran

On March 10, 2009 I woke up, turned on my phone, and listened to my messages. I had landed at Reagan airport at 9pm the night before, returning from a weekend trip to Los Angeles. I don't remember exactly what I did after putting the phone down. There was a mix of shock and sadness, relief and stress--my favorite veteran had died in the early morning hours.

Reid Pierce Nelson served in Europe and Africa during World War II. He told me stories about the war--about the time he was a screamin' and a hollerin' to get his superior to brake, but the supervisor's truck flipped over the cable he had stretched across the road to free a vehicle from some mud; about the time he got lost in a sandstorm in Africa when he was trying to get back to his tent after using the bathroom; about war never being a good thing.

Reid Pierce Nelson was the first in his family to earn a master's degree, maybe even the first to go to college. My mom took us to Idaho once to see the rolling green hills where he went to school in Moscow, to see the white building where he and my grandma lived when they were first married, to see the little town where Uncle Jimmy and Aunt Mo were born. My mom taught us to be like Papa and get as much education as possible.

Reid Pierce Nelson worked for Arco, as a chemist on the coast of California. One day we sat on a bench outside the surrey shop in Morro Bay looking at the Rock and the water. He was excited I was working for ExxonMobil, excited one of his grandchildren wanted to talk to him about oil, excited to be spending time with the people he loved. Later that evening we probably played Spider Rummy. I sat there soaking it in, knowing that one morning I would get the call I got on March 10, 2009.

When I was younger Papa fell off the slide with me, pulled me and Doug in a blue cart through the trailer park in Pismo Beach, walked us through the alley from the house on Yukon Ave. to the 7-Eleven on the corner for slurpees. After he retired and through his seventies, he worked at Beverley's, the local fabric store, to stay busy. When he had his first stroke, he started using a cane. Partial paralysis left him unable to drive, but fiercely independent, he would still walk to the grocery store several blocks away. He survived cancer, chronic leukemia, pneumonia, strokes, heart attacks, falls, you name it. Papa was the ultimate come-back kid. So much so that doctors declared him dead in August 2008, and a few hours and many tears later I got a call with news he had started breathing on his own.

In those difficult months between August and March, Papa bounced between home and nursing home, his spirit wishing to do things his body would no longer permit. He used to call me regularly to read me the jokes from Reader's Digest. When he was in the nursing home I would call him to read him the jokes. In honor of Papa, and in honor of Veteran's Day, here is one of his personal classics.

Two Italians are standing on the coast looking out on the Atlantic. One says to the other: Is that a U boat? And the other replies: No that's not a my boat.

I love you Papa.

Lies and Love

I love a good chick flick. Your typical boy meets girl, girl falls in love with guy, girl finds out guy was lying to her, girl gets offended and won't speak to guy, girl forgives guy, girl and guy get married or begin serious relationship.

This is essentially the plot of most of my favorite chick flicks: 1) You've Got Mail- check- "Joe, just call me Joe? Like one of those 22-year-old cocktail waitresses. Hi, I'm Cindy...", 2) 27 Dresses- check- "You said your name was Kevin.", 3) She's the Man- check- ok, so in this one the girl does the lying, but She is the Man. I'm still trying to decide if Dan in Real Life (my second favorite movie, after You've Got Mail) fits the pattern. It's a little different. The girl lies to her boyfriend, the brother lies to the boyfriend, and then girl dumps boyfriend and marries brother (boyfriend's brother, not girl's brother). Close enough for an independent film that's not quite a chick flick.

This realization got me thinking. Is there something wrong with the message of all these love stories? Should society really advocate trusting someone who lies to you? After some serious reflection (pondering on the metro), I think this pattern is pretty true to life. When we meet people, any people, not just dating people, we try to be our best selves. We generally try not to fart, burp, say mean things, eat too much, yell at other drivers, jaywalk, etc. because we aren't quite sure how the other person will react and we want to be liked. Then time goes on, and we get more comfortable. More of the good and the bad and the indifferent of our personalities comes out; in essence, more of us comes out. Few of us wake up thinking, "I want to be truly diabolical today, but I'm going to contain myself because I want X to fall in love with me." In fact, I think most of us wake up and say, "I'm going to give it another shot today because I'm trying to be good."

Another reason we conceal ourselves is to avoid being misinterpreted. Weird, huh? We act less like our true selves because we don't want people to think we are something we aren't. Joe Fox didn't want Kathleen Kelly to know he was the Joe Fox because he really just wanted to be known as a guy who took his very young aunt and brother to storytime. Joe knew that Kathleen would never talk to him at all if she knew who he was and what he did for a living, but he still wanted a chance to be a normal person. Kevin/Malcolm Doyle didn't want to be known as the guy who writes the weddings column in the New York Journal. He was just an average guy helping a girl who got knocked out at a wedding. This all makes sense. We are more than our professions or our last names. While those things are important to who we are, each individual is made up of little quirks and oddities that make us interesting, fun, and attractive. Sometimes stereotypes overshadow who we really are and what we really care about.

Also, getting to know a person takes time. Because we stereotype and because we all want other people to be a certain way, we sometimes exaggerate good qualities, pretend someone is something they aren't, or create fictional people in our head. When we find out the real person isn't the fiction we created, can we really be upset that the person wasn't who we thought they were? Not really.

I don't advocate lying in relationships or ever, but rationing information is bound to happen. This isn't always a bad thing, and movies aren't so far from the truth.

Disclaimer: This post is motivated entirely 100% by thoughts about chick flicks. I have a strict policy against posting anything personal about dating. More than anything, this topic was on my mind because I haven't seen a good chick flick in over a month and a half and have been thinking about which one to watch and when. :)

The Case of the Attacker Grape

I love mysteries. After my obsession with the Babysitter's Club books ended, I turned to Sherlock Holmes. Then in seventh grade, Emily Baines did a book report on "And Then There Were None" by Agatha Christie. My passion for mysteries reached new heights. (I'm a snob though. I only read mysteries written by British authors with titles like "Sir" and "Dame." None of this Dan Brown, Mary Higgins Clark stuff.)

This mystery is somewhat slimy and gross. Last night as I was walking into Harris Teeter (the local "high end" grocery store--it's a step below Whole Foods); rocking out to a mix of Boys Like Girls, Coldplay, and Foo Fighters; wearing capri-length yoga pants and running shoes. Not more than four inches of calf exposed to the elements. I walked through the first set of sliding doors and passed what I now remember to be a suspicious looking man.

And then splat, something wet and slimy hit my four inches of exposed right calf.

I looked back like a dog chasing its tail. A leaf? Nope, this object had more depth than a leaf. I looked more closely. A chewed up grape? Really? Ewww... Being a high-end grocery store, Harris Teeter leaves napkins out in front of the deli. Fortunately. How in the world???

If you step on a grape and keep moving forward, it doesn't end up on your calf. Grapes don't fall from the sky. How did the attacker grape get me? I suspect the grape attacker. That suspicious man standing, waiting in between the sliding doors. Good aim, grape attacker.

Chamillionaire

How does one properly pronounce the rapper/hip-hop artist, Chamillionaire's name?

Is it ka-millionaire? As in chameleon.

Or is it cha-millionaire? As in march and champ.

Or is it sha-millionaire? As in champagne?

Pronounciation is not the only think I ponder on the metro. I think other deep thoughts, like wondering why the Maryland license plate has the state website on it (www.maryland.com). First of all, isn't that somewhat obvious? Secondly, does the state of Maryland endorse people whipping out their Blackberrys and iPhones to look up the state website when they see a Maryland vehicle passing? Is there anything about the license plate that would actually make a person want to look up the website?

Parting thought... If you owned the store "Out of Left Field" in the Pentagon City mall and wanted to sell Washington RedSkins paraphenalia, would you post a score board at the door of your store that said W-02, L-05? I didn't think so.

The Run Around

Today, I voted. I went to two polling places. Three months ago I moved 1.4 miles to a new apartment. I changed my address with the U.S. Postal Service and thought I was squared away with the government. Apparently not.

The post office is quite talented at forwarding my junk mail to my new address. In 2008 when I moved the Outdoor Life subscription I never requested or paid for followed me from apartment to apartment without me ever telling Outdoor Life I had moved. On the other hand, when I moved in 2009 the post office wouldn't even forward my "IMPORTANT TAX INFORMATION ENCLOSED" envelope to my new apartment. If the USPS can communicate my new address to Outdoor Life, why can't they tell another government agency my new address as well? Or just forward my mail like my taxes pay them to do so I will know that the tax office needs my new address.

After a few calls to the Arlington County Tax Assessment Office informing them of my new address (apparently there are different divisions in the tax office that also don't communicate), I think I have that one figured out. But USPS also lost my voter registration card. I looked for it in my new mailbox; I looked for it in my old mailbox. No voter registration card.

So I went to my new polling place. They wouldn't let me vote. I went to my old polling place. I told the nice old man volunteer about my plight. His response, "And can you believe they want to run health care?"

Exactly polling place man. I'm with you. If the they take over health care, I hope the USPS has the decency to lose my portion of the bill.

O Holy Night!

Confession: Yesterday marked the first day of November and I started listening to Christmas music (I actually started listening a couple weeks ago). I may have sat in my car after getting home from church listening to the Mormon Tabernacle Choir sing O Holy Night 3-4 times. It is a long song. Sorry, Al Gore. I kept the car running.

The lyrics are amazing. Here are some of my favorites:

"Long lay the world in sin and error pining, 'til He appeared and the soul felt its worth."

I think that pretty much says it all, but a few lines later we heard:

"Fall on your knees!"

Last weekend I was in Sharon, VT at the Joseph Smith birthplace memorial. The Spirit of God was so powerful in that place that I felt compelled to fall on my knees and worship God, thanking Him for the indescribable gift of His Son, for His perfect plan of happiness, and for preparing Joseph Smith to be the prophet of the Restoration of the true gospel of Jesus Christ. Perhaps somewhat sadly, social norms prevented me from literally falling on my knees and worshipping; there were other people around. But my heart was full of gratitude and awe for God, our Heavenly Father and His Son, Jesus Christ.

"Truly He taught us to love one another; His law is love and His gospel is peace. Chains shall he break, for the slave is our brother; and in His name all oppression shall cease."

Not only is the slave our brother, without the Atonement of Jesus Christ we would all be slaves to sin. The Atonement liberates each of us from the bondage of sin. Christ paid the price for me, for you, for each individual person you know to be free from the slavery of sin.

"Let all within us praise His holy name: Christ is the Lord! O praise His name forever! His power and glory evermore proclaim."

Merry Christmas everyone!

People you don't want to see...

1) Your career counselor who sits on a stability ball all day... when you are walking into the same gym class that uses stability balls

2) Your friends from the track team... when you are jogging 12-minute miles

3) Your cousin whose name you can't remember... when ever

4) Anyone... when you are at the store buying tampons or pads

5) Friends and family who know you in real life... when you are on a secret spy mission

Breaking the Mold

Thirteen years old, in the eighth grade, and eager to please adults. My internal clock woke me up before 5 a.m. every first day of school; body and mind ached mid-way through Christmas break to return to classes; and my journal entries largely consisted of statements like, “I got a 101% on my math quiz, but I missed three extra credit points. I will do better next time.” I remember crying the day I got a B+ on my French quiz and Madame Cerri told me matter-of-factly that I needed to deal with it—that I wouldn’t always be perfect.

Every day I walked to Mr. Moran’s English classroom at the end of the building in the classroom closest to Crown Ave. It was California. Classrooms were outside and I could watch people walking by our classroom through the window. The leaves never changed color, and it never snowed, but occasionally it would rain. I loved the rainy days—hearing the rain beat on the overhang, seeing sheets of water pouring off of the roof, dodging earthworms on the sidewalk, and deciding which teacher’s room to spend lunch in.

A year earlier Mr. Russo asked me if I thought he was pious and made me look it up when I didn’t know what it meant. After consulting the dictionary, my answer was “no.” The same year Mr. Russo taught me about piety, Ms. Leidenthal told everyone my voice was cute. My voice didn’t sound particularly cute to me, but then I heard a message I had left for my mom on our answering machine and it sounded different than when I hear myself talk.

In Mr. Moran’s class we read To Kill a Mockingbird and Inherit the Wind. We learned how to write. We really learned how to write. We learned the five paragraph essay. I love the five paragraph essay. I loved it then and I love it now. I think that the five paragraph essay is the perfect model of clarity. During my senior year of college I gave a talk in church, and a girl from my ward approached me after to tell me she loved that I used a five paragraph essay format in my talk. The single most valuable thing I learned in my junior high and high school educational experience was the five paragraph essay; thanks, Mr. Moran.

In the midst of this love of conformity, I was defiant. I loved rules and obeying them only to a point, only when the rules seemed logical or reasonable or I respected the person teaching me the rules. Our school had a “Senior Lawn” and a “Senior Patio.” The summer before learning about the five paragraph essay, I was taking algebra—for fun—and our classroom bordered the senior lawn. I walked across the senior lawn to get to my classroom. I stood on the lawn during our breaks from our daily four hours of class. Some soon-to-be-seniors on the cross country team (I think one was named Tatiana, I can still see her face) saw me one day, and I think I even made a face at them. On the first day of eighth grade copies of my yearbook picture were posted all over the wall by the senior patio with the words “Kick Me” written on the posters.

I cried during home room with Mrs. Page. My friend, Caia, abandoned whatever teenager fight we were having that day and went with me to the pay phone so I could call my parents. I’m sure my mom made some calls to Mr. Bachman, the school principal, but this time, my dad called too. Mr. Bachman talked to the senior girls involved. They said I had taunted them. He didn’t do anything. My parents decided I would go to public school the next year.

The rest of eighth grade passed with only minor disruption. Mrs. Ensor, my history teacher, arrived at school one day after being in the bank while it was robbed for the seventh time. She was shaking. Now that bank is a Citibank, and the only one in the area that has bulletproof windows. Katie Kimble won the school science fair when her mom was our science teacher and her dad was the judge. I played my flute in Mrs. Abernathy’s “orchestra” and hated it. I settled for nothing less than an A+, except in P.E. where I kissed-up to Mr. Fernandez in order to get an A. I continued to follow the rules and resent them when they were illogical. And over time, I loosened up. Other things started to matter. The five paragraph essay found its proper place, and occasionally, I break the mold.

Living in a Senior Citizen Center

My apartment building is a cross between a retirement home and the opening scene of Disney's cartoon version of 101 Dalmations. You know the scene where Pongo starts barking so Roger will take him to the park and you see all the dogs with owners to match (like the artist with the long shaggy hair whose dog has those long furry shaggy ears) before Pongo and Roger meet Perdita and Anita (wow, their names even rhyme)? This all makes for some interesting scenes in the lobby and at the park in front of our building.

Indicators that I live in a retirement home:
1) Every Monday morning there are Krispy Kreme donuts in the lobby and a group of old people sitting in the chairs having their breakfast. Sometimes when I ride the elevator with an old person I overhear the greeting, "you're late!" so this is obviously an integral part of their week.

2) Every month each apartment gets a calendar of events. There is something for every day of the month. Thursdays are book swap days; Mondays are, of course, donut days; and sometimes there are even pet contests. I think if you dress your dog up for Halloween and take him to the leasing office you get a treat (and I think your dog does too). No other apartment complex I have lived in has a monthly event calendar for the residents, but I think my grandfather's nursing home did.

3) I frequently ride the elevator with one elderly woman. She is under 5 feet tall, but she sure is a fireball. Recently we had a cold spell and this woman spent our entire elevator ride telling me how it was time for management to turn on the "damn" heat. I didn't tell her that I was still using my air conditioning. Now that they've turned on the heat and temperatures are back in the 70's outside, it's "hot as hell" in our apartment. Thanks, old lady.

Indicators I am living a scene from 101 Dalmations:
1) The management office plans events for not just the human residents, but yes, also the dogs that live in the building.

2) There are doggie treats right next to the bowl of mints by the elevator.

3) I have seen more types of dogs in the past two and a half months than ever before in my life. Short dogs, tall dogs (yes dogs can be quite tall). Skinny dogs, fat dogs. White dogs, black dogs, and everything in between. Poodles and pit bulls. Chihauhaus and collies. I feel like I'm rewriting P.D. Eastman's Go Dog Go!

Ultra-Pasteurized Milk

Growing up I learned two things about grocery shopping: 1) always get the best price per ounce of anything you are buying, especially cereal (my dad's rule mostly); and 2) always get the "best date" (the latest expiration date) for your purchases (my mom's rule mostly). One time when I was in college and on vacation with my family I put these grocery shopping skills to use. It was a Saturday evening, and we needed milk for our cereal the next morning (we don't shop on Sunday because of our religious beliefs, so it was critical to get milk on Saturday night). My mom dropped me off at the door of the grocery store and instructed me to HURRY.

Once in the store I skimmed the milk quickly, found the 2%, and looked for the best date. I found some milk that didn't expire for a good three months and figured that exemplary satisfaction of grocery shopping rule number 2 in this case trumped the higher cost of the milk. I mean, really, super-milk that doesn't expire for three months has got to be worth the extra cost. Plus, it was Mom who dropped me off at the store instead of Dad, so Mom's rule wins. And personally, I don't like milk very much--I only use it for cereal, milkshakes, and occasional baking. My milk usually goes bad in my fridge before it is half gone, so getting the best date on milk actually saves money in the long-run.

I got back in the car and shared the joy of finding "the best date" with my mom. Fast-forward to Sunday morning when my dad is eating his cereal (probably Honey Smacks purchased on sale). It turns out this super-milk was chalky and dry. My dad took a second look at the milk and discovered it was lactose-free. We are a strictly lactose-rich milk family. Automatic fail. Don't even think about trying to buy milk for this family again.

When I moved to D.C. two years ago I discovered Harris Teeter (a grocery store). The expiration dates on Harris Teeter milk are always about a month away. If I buy my milk anywhere else, I inevitably throw a substantial portion away, but not Harris Teeter milk. I almost couldn't believe it when I read that first expiration date: "Really, you don't expire for a month? Are you sure you have lactose? I don't buy lactose-free milk anymore, you know?" But it's true! Harris Teeter milk isn't lactose-free, it's ultra-pasteurized. After two years of enjoying milk-on-my-cereal-and-with-my-ice-cream-only bliss, I started to wonder.

What is ultra-pasteurized milk anyway? I have lived in six cities in different parts of the world and shopped at countless grocery stores, and I only find ultra-pasteurized milk at Harris Teeter. Could any liquid even closely resembling natural milk from a cow possibly stay fresh for a month? It looks like milk, it tastes like milk, but what is it really? I don't want to know anymore. Thanks to ultra-pasteurized milk I can live life without ever opening a smelly carton of milk or ruining a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios (or Cocoa Krispies) with sour milk. Thank you Harris Teeter. Thank you ultra-pasteurized milk.