A conversation with Lance.

 "Who made you so dorky?"

 "Um . . . God."

We make our own aliens.

"On the eve of the twentieth century, H.G. Wells had imagined a 'War of the Worlds'—a Martian invasion that devastated the earth. In the hundred years that followed, men proved that it was quite possible to wreak comparable havoc without the need for alien intervention. All they had to do was to identify this or that group of their fellow men as the aliens, and then kill them."
—Niall Ferguson

The best comeback ever.

"If a man has reported to you that a certain person speaks ill of you, do not make any defense to what has been told you, but reply, 'The man did not know the rest of my faults, else he would not have mentioned these only.'"
—Epictetus, the Greek philosopher

Boom. Roasted.

That's quite the image . . .

In 2009, the journalist Matt Taibbi described the financial institution Goldman Sachs as "a great vampire squid wrapped around the face of humanity, relentlessly jamming its blood funnel into anything that smells like money."

Wow. How's that for an image?

I love baby food and I don't care who knows it.

That strange moment when I'm shuffling through blogs and come across this photo:

And I think to myself, "I have a box of these things in my cupboard, and I am not a baby. And I don't have a baby. I eat them myself. On campus. In front of my fellow college students, completely unashamed. I enjoy it very much. I think they're delicious."

I'm not sure if this is a problem. And I'm not sure I care if it is.

Old spice is my new spice.

Over Thanksgiving break, I found man deodorant amongst my sister's belongings.
"Why do you have this?" I asked her.
She said that it was hers, and no, it did not belong to one of her dinky hormonal teenage boy admirers, and no, it was not given to her as some kind of strange symbol of love. Then she told me man deodorant works better than woman deodorant.
"Plus it smells good," she said. "Try it. All of my friends on my volleyball team use man deodorant, too."
I smelled it. It did smell good. I put it on. It did work good.
So yesterday at Smith's, I bought myself a stick of Old Spice deodorant in the Fiji scent, which, according to the sticker, smells like "palm trees, sunshine, and freedom."
I'd say that's a pretty accurate description.
But today is my first day of wearing it and I don't know how I feel about it. I keep being attracted to my own scent, which is weird. But it works like a dream. There's no denying that.
I guess it's a sacrifice I'm willing to make. I'll smell like a man so I won't sweat like one.

Lost luggage.

I stood there, baggage claim number 4 in the Salt Lake City International Airport, staring. Staring at the silver mechanical carousel and the bags that circled it. I watched large bags and small bags, bulgy bags and oblong bags pass by me. But none of them were my bag.
"It'll come," my mom said.
But it never did. Eventually all of the bags had been claimed and the carousel was empty and shiny. I walked around and stopped and stared at the belt where I had seen the other bags come out. I hoped that mine would pop up and shoot out onto the carousel and all would be well. But it never did. I watched the belt come to a stop and I knew then that the moment had come upon me.
I was a victim of lost luggage.
My bag was out there, alone in that dark world of planes and rubber belts and men who wear yellow vests and hold orange lights. My bag was out there. And I had no idea where "there" was.
It's a strange feeling, losing your luggage. It's almost the same as not getting picked for a team. Or opening an empty mailbox.
It's a sad thing.
I asked myself, why? Why did I have to pack my favorite orange dress, my new leather boots, my expensive eye shadow, and my hair straightener all in the same bag? Why would I make myself that vulnerable?
And why did I care so much?
The woman in the office told me she was sorry. She tried to wrap my loss in promises of a $30 credit toward my next flight and assurances of a 99% recovery rate. I let these promises and hopes wrap around me and I tried to believe them with all of my heart. But one voice wouldn't stop asking, "But what if it's lost forever?"
My sister told me maybe I didn't want them to find it, maybe I wanted my luggage to be lost. She'd heard tales of enormous shopping sprees and new wardrobes. For a moment, "new wardrobe" hung in the air and I let its scent give me hope. Then I realized I didn't want the new, I wanted the old.
I drove home and felt light.
I missed a call. The number was a Washington area code, unfamiliar. In a moment of unprecedented bravery, I called them back, but there was no answer. My mind was racing. I sent a text to the number, "Do you have my luggage by chance?" I asked.
But there was no answer.
I began to imagine my life without my luggage. How could I ever get a new retainer? Did orthodontists keep teeth molds from past patients on record?
I wondered.
I feared.
I hoped.
I tried to carry on normally.
After all, it was just luggage. What if I had returned to Salt Lake City without my limb? Or without my eyes? Or without my mother? What if had I lost those things?
I was grateful.
But forgetful.
I had forgotten to include my luggage in my prayers.
I tried again.
"Please God, help them find my luggage."
And there was silence.
Two days later, 5:40 P.M., I received a call.
"Cara Gillespie?"
"Yes?"
"We have your bag."

This is how I feel.

This is exactly how I feel when people ask me about my plans after graduation. Holden Caulfield understands.

"A lot of people, especially this one psychoanalyst guy they have here, keeps asking me if I'm going to apply myself when I go back to school next September. It's such a stupid question, in my opinion. I mean, how do you know what you're going to do till you do it? The answer is, you don't. I think I am, but how do I know? I swear it's a stupid question."

          —The Catcher in the Rye

I love this and I hate this.

I recently stumbled across this article and it really struck a chord with me. As much as I wish it wasn't true, a lot of life is struggling. The higher the reward, the greater the struggle. You can't expect to get something simply because you decide you want it. It takes work. It takes sacrifice. We truly do know our joy only by contrast.

The Grateful 12

1. Warm November days
2. My pink plaid pajama pants
3. My fuzzy brown blanket
4. Sweet potato fries
5. My laptop
6. Puppies
7. Walnuts
8. Roommates
9. Elder Jeffrey R. Holland
10. America
11. Long talks with mother
12. BYU

The internet gives me anxiety.

Living in a house that is approximately 100 years old has recently led me to develop a concern for carbon monoxide poisoning. In an effort to gain a more thorough understanding of the matter, I googled it. And this is what I found:

     Depending on the degree and length of exposure, carbon monoxide poisoning can cause:

1. Permanent brain damage.
2. Damage to your heart, possibly leading to life-threatening cardiac complications years after the poisoning.
3. Death.

Great.

The Events of Halloween

Yesterday was Halloween. I dressed up as a gypsy for the billionth time. My costume was basically just my wardrobe mismatched and my hair done in crazy braids with a scarf tied in it. Creative, I know. I really like to dress up. And by really, I mean I actually kind of hate dressing up. It makes me nervous, don't ask me why. In elementary school, I was always the kid who didn't participate in Pajama Day or Crazy Hair Day. Even when the teacher would offer extra credit for dressing up, I couldn't bring myself to do it. School spirit weeks were slow and agonizing. So much dressing up. So much stress.

But Halloween has always been my exception. It is the one dressing up day that I will participate in. Well, that and the Sabbath. (I feel like there is something wrong in grouping Halloween with the Sabbath.) The only downside to dressing as a gypsy is people always ask me to tell them their fortune, and it's usually people I don't know very well. This question tends to stun me into silence because suddenly, I am caught between a rock and hard place. There really is no good option here because no matter what I say, it will come out creepy. And people tend to take this whole fortune telling business pretty seriously. Even if they know you just pulled some fortune out of your booty, they still think that maybe, on some deep, subconscious level, you know and I just can't handle that kind of psychological liability. Especially considering that the first fortunes that come to my mind are along the lines of "You will soon be involved in a struggle for your very life" or "What you think is safe will be no longer" or "The future is bleak. Bleak indeed." These are all things no normal human being wants to hear, which is why I usually just laugh off these fortune requests. It's for the best.

Anyway, so last night I trumped out into the streets of Provo with my friends, costume and all. I even put a fake tattoo on the back of my shoulder to make me appear more legitimate.

Our first stop of the night was our ward Halloween party, which consisted of frosting cookies, drinking root beer, dancing about, and watching people eat donuts off of strings. Par-tay. The high point of all this was when two boys accidentally kissed during the donut eating competition. It was pretty traumatizing for both of them.

Later, we went to a cemetery with some friends and read scary stories. First, we read one about "The Scuttler." (I know, the name alone.) Then we read a few other stories and told a few real stories, when all of the sudden we noticed this darkly dressed figure coming towards us down the cemetery path with a knife. The lights were dim and he had a dragging limp. Needless to say, I was freaking out. I kept trying to stay calm by telling myself that it was just a random homeless man and he wouldn't actually do anything. But he just kept getting closer. So in a moment of superb bravery, I fled. I guess when it comes to fight or flight, I'm a flight. As I ran away, I continued glancing over my shoulder, watching the walker's progress. Just as the walker got close enough to the boys who, in an act of what I thought was pure selflessness had remained behind, he stopped. And pulled off his wig. And lo and behold, it was our friend. I was relieved and outraged all at the same time. It was the best Halloween prank I've ever experienced.

But the crowning jewel of all the night was the Halloween Dance. Just kidding, it was horrible. The DJ was dumb and made me want to punch him and all of his silly scantily-clad back-up dancers. The speakers were so bad that all you could hear from the music was the bump of the bass. They made the vocals sound like the singer was underwater. Yet there were still 3,000 people there, mushing and smashing against each other, sweat and costume make-up all combining into one, giant cesspit. The whole thing just struck me as incredibly ridiculous, the most ridiculous part being that I was there, even though I thought it was ridiculous. It was gross. Why is this considered fun? Why do we all gather and smash against each other so we can shake our hips to words like "do the stanky leg" and "we'll keep dancing 'till we die"? We're going to die here? On this dance floor? Um, no thank you. I choose life.

In the past, I probably would have thought this dance was cool. I would have been energized by the rush of people and music and invigorated by the lyrics that encourage you to live it all up tonight because tonight is the only night that matters. But now I see through that. And all of it is so empty. There is more to life than being the sexiest "shawty" on the dance floor. And every human being is more dignified than to sink to the level of grinding; it is vulgar and strips people of their dignity. Throw in hideous costumes that are three patches of colored fabric away from pure nakedness, and you have the perfect recipe for dignity extermination.

That's why last night I decided I don't want to go to dances like that one anymore. It's not worth it. I guess you could say I'm an old fuddy-duddy. Fine. I'll take it. I'd rather be an old fuddy-duddy than pretend that I'm happy being herded like livestock by a DJ, all in the name of the glorified "party" mentality. We all want attention. We all want to be loved. We all want to be a part of something greater than ourselves. But dances like that are not a healthy way to get it.

Well, that was my Halloween. Through all of that, the best part was just being with my friends. Because I was with my friends, even that horrid dance wasn't a completely irredeemable experience.

Real friends make fun, not activities. Word.

I don't even think that makes sense. What I'm trying to say is good friends make things fun. Real fun.

Ok. The end. This gypsy is out.

1,001 Rules for My Unborn Son

I stumbled across this site today and I think it's really clever. Here are a few good quotes I found there:

575. There are plenty of tricks to staying young. One is matching pajamas.

“Being powerful is like being a lady. If you have to tell people you are, you aren’t.

Margaret Thatcher (1925-2013)

562. Never show a fool unfinished work.

“God could not be everywhere, and therefore he made mothers.

Rudyard Kipling

546. Don’t blame the refs.

“Yesterday’s home runs don’t win today’s games.

Babe Ruth

It's always necessary.

The night before I lost everything was like any other night.

Anna and I kept each other awake very late.     We laughed.      Young sis-

ters in a bed under the roof of their childhood home.           Wind on the 

window.

How could anything less deserve to be destroyed?

I thought we would be awake all night.     Awake for the rest of our lives.

The spaces between our words grew.

It became difficult to tell when we were talking and when we were 

silent.

The hairs of our arms touched.

It was late, and we were tired.

We assumed there would be other nights.

Anna’s breathing started to slow, but I still wanted to talk. 

She rolled onto her side.

I said, I want to tell you something.

She said, You can tell me tomorrow.

I had never told her how much I loved her.

She was my sister.

We slept in the same bed.

There was never a right time to say it.

It was always necessary.

The books in my father’s shed were sighing.

The sheets were rising and falling around me with Anna’s breathing.

I thought about waking her.

But it was unnecessary.

There would be other nights.

And how can you say I love you to someone you love?

I rolled onto my side and fell asleep next to her.

Here is the point of everything I have been trying to tell you, Oskar.

It’s always necessary.

I love you,

Grandma

-excerpt from the novel Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close by Jonathan Safran Foer

Sarah Kay is a favorite.

This is Sarah Kay performing her poem "The Type." I think this is a beautiful way of describing womanhood through relationships.

Ode to Fall

I love the way summer ripens into fall. The colder air flirts with the trees, and the leaves blush, the color flooding their faces in warm hues. I love the way the air feels, the crisp feeling, like the skin of an apple as I bite through its surface and feel the juice run down my lips. There is a sense of finale, of nature going through one last set of beautiful acrobatics before sinking back in hibernation, deep into the roots and trunks of things until spring comes. I love how round the pumpkins are and the way they roll, lopsided, as I push them in the dirt and pick them up by their scratchy stems and wrap my arms around them. The smell of cider rushes my senses; it reminds me of the way cinnamon dances on my tongue. We lace up our boots and tie our scarves and the soft wrapping of jackets and sweatshirts and winter coats begins. But the best of fall is the mornings. The mornings when the sun glows, but my breath still forms into little clouds that kiss my face. My skin shivers, but in an excited way. And the leaves, illuminated from the morning sun, fall to the sidewalk and dance around me as I breath in the stillness and I hear them whispering, "This is fall."

A good book.

"What really knocks me out is a book that, when you're all done reading it, you wish the author that wrote it was a terrific friend of yours and you could call him up on the phone whenever you felt like it.
That doesn't happen much, though."

-Holden Caulfield, The Catcher in the Rye

Thoughts for Sunday

“We should savor even the seemingly ordinary times, for life cannot be made up of all kettledrums and crashing cymbals. There must be some flutes and violins. Living cannot be all crescendo; there must be some counterpoint. Clearly, without patience, we will learn less in life. We will see less. We will feel less. We will hear less. Ironically, rush and more usually mean less. The pressures of now, time and time again, go against the grain of the gospel with its eternalism.”

“The patient person assumes that what others have to say is worth listening to. A patient person is not so chronically eager to put forth his own idea. In true humility, we do some waiting upon others. We value them for what they say and what they have to contribute. Patience and humility are special friends.”

“Patience is, therefore, clearly not fatalistic, shoulder-shrugging resignation; it is accepting a divine rhythm to life; it is obedience prolonged. Patience stoutly resists pulling up the daisies to see how the roots are doing!”

-Neal A. Maxwell

This is in England. Remember when I went there and stood on this hill and felt this sun and took this picture?
Yeah. Me too.

That awkward moment when...

...you google image search the name of a literary critic while studying for an American Literature test and you are met with this:

Creeeeepy. I definitely won't have to try very hard to remember this face.

Also, resemblance?

I say yes.

My heart.

This line from the hymn "Come, Thou Fount of Every Blessing" really resonates with me:

"Here's my heart, oh take and seal it. Seal it for thy courts above."

I wish it were that simple. I wish God could just catch my heart when it's having a good moment, when it's feeling full of love and faith, and put it in a special box that will keep it that way forever.
That would make life so much easier.

The saddest Disney song ever.

This is possibly one of the saddest Disney songs of all time. If my future children are ever mean or neglectful towards their toys, I will play this song and watch the guilt overwhelm them. And they will never disrespect their toys again.

That one time when I lived in the UK...

Remember that one time when I slept in here...

and hiked all along here...

and had class in here?

And then woke up the next day and did it all over again?

Yeah, me too.

That was pretty great.

Absolutely, yes.

After Marion Bartoli won the 2013 Wimbledon Championships singles title, she was immediately met with an onslaught of vicious tweets and comments, all complaining that she was too ugly to win Wimbledon. Thousands of people (both men and women included) were outraged that Marion Bartoli had won Wimbledon without fitting the tall, blonde, thin, supermodel mold that her opponent fit so well. When asked how she felt about these remarks, Bartoli responded:

"It doesn’t matter, honestly. I am not blonde, yes. That is a fact. Have I dreamt about having a model contract? No. I’m sorry. But have I dreamed about winning Wimbledon? 

Absolutely, yes."

Good metaphor, man.

"I've got no money in my hands or my coat or my pocket.

Won't get to space 'cos I haven't got a rocket.

But I've got air in my lungs,

eyes in my sockets,

and a heart that beats 

like a tap that leaks

in the night when you haven't got a plumber who can stop it.

Jack in the box without a key to lock it.

Wellm this boat may sink but I'm not gonna rock it,

'cos the sea doesn't know my name.

Yeah the boat may sink but I'm not gonna rock it,

'cos the sea doesn't know my name.

Well, if you can't get what you love,

you learn to love the things you've got.

If you can't be what you want,

you learn to be the things you're not.

If you can't get what you need,

you learn to need the things that stop you dreaming.

All the things that stop you dreaming."

–from "Things That Stop You Dreaming" by Passenger

Texts that made me LOL.

In the past week, I have experienced several hilarious text conversations. Because my phone is lame and is constantly telling me that I need to delete my messages in order to receive more, I am documenting those conversations on here so I can always remember them and so my phone will stop whining at me.
So here they are:

Conversation #1: Co-Worker Collin

Collin: [gross picture of a bleeding, sliced eye]

Me: Ewwwww. Why must you send me these gruesome pictures?

Collin: It's from one of my textbooks haha

Me: You poor unfortunate soul.

Collin: In pain, in need. I'm not a very busy woman, though.

Me: Haha oh but you are, Collin. You truly are.

Collin: Did you get that I was doing little mermaid?

Me: Haha yes of course I did, Collin! How dare you question my Disney song repertoire.


Conversation #2: Childhood–Present BFF Ashley

Me: Earth to servant, this is queen. Wilk plan is a go.

Ashley: On my way! My carriage should be arriving there soon.

Me: If by your carriage you mean your wooden cart pulled by cows.


Conversation #3: Rambunctious Ryan

Ryan: Pizza is going to be at 7:45. By the way.

Me: Sounds goody good good good.

Ryan: Goog

Ryan: ...

Ryan: Good

Me: Goooog! Haha. Is that how you say "good" in your native troll language?

Ryan: No, it is actually how I say I'm going to burn your house down tonight...with you tied up in the attic, next to an equally doomed sloth with a Cara t-shirt on (in honor of human Wednesday). Ours is an odd language.

Me: Hahahaha! Oh dear me. May God have mercy on my soul.


Conversation #4: Mirthful Mother

Mom: Home safe?

Me: Haha yes. That was a little delayed.
(She sent the message about two hours after I had already arrived back to my house.)

Mom: Your response or my inquiry?

Me: Haha your inquiry of course.

Mom: Oh haha to you.

Me: Let me laugh mother, let me laugh.

Mom: I am just thinking that I am so funny, so child you let your mother laugh or at least just think that I am funny.

Me: I do think that you're funny! That's the whole reason I was saying haha so much.


Conversation #5: Fretting Father

Dad: Do you understand that it is dangerous to stay logged into Facebook even when you're not using it?

Me: Yes, I always log out when I'm done using it.

Dad: I just read a story about a college boy that gained control of the camera on several teenage girls' computers and took pictures of them nude. He tried to use the pictures to blackmail them. Google "hack Facebook accounts" to see how easy and dangerous it can be. The only way you can be safe is when you're not connected to the internet at all, so limit your exposure!

Dad: And do you close your laptop when you're not using it?

Me: Well that's super creepy. Yes, I always close my laptop and put it away in its case.

Dad: I thought so. Good job.


Well, now I'm off to delete these from my phone. I've noticed that I use "haha" a lot while I'm texting. Hopefully that's not annoying to people, but it probably is because I even started to annoy myself just reading how many times I wrote it in those texts. I guess I just want people to know when they make me laugh. Maybe I should just use a dollar sign or something to signify that I am laughing instead of saying "haha" all the time. That'd be funny.
The money is with the funny.
Haha.

An adventure is...

“An adventure is only an inconvenience rightly considered. An inconvenience is only an adventure wrongly considered.” 

—G.K. Chesterton, “On Running After One’s Hat”

Eat. Pray. Love.

About a month ago I finished reading Eat, Pray, Love. I actually really liked it, even though I had my suspicions after watching the movie. Although I don't think I will be embarking on an international, year-long adventure of self-discovery any time soon, there were others things from the book that I want to apply to my life. 

Here are a few of my favorite quotes:

“Of course you were,” Felipe said. “You were young and stupid then. Only the young and stupid are confident about sex and romance. Do you think any of us know what we’re doing? Do you think there’s any way humans can love each other without complication? You should see how it happens in Bali, darling. All these Western men come here after they’ve made a mess of their lives back home, and they decide they’ve had it with Western women, and then go marry some tiny, sweet, obedient little Balinese teenage girl. I know what they’re thinking. They think this pretty girl will make them happy, make their lives easy. But whenever I see it happen, I always want to say the same thing. Good luck. Because you still have a woman in front of you, my friend. And you are still a man. It’s still two human beings trying to get along, so it’s going to become complicated. And love is always complicated. But still humans must try to love each other, darling. We must get our hearts broken sometimes. This is a good sign, having a broken heart. It means we have tried for something.”

“I keep remembering one of my Guru’s teaching about happiness. She says that people universally tend to think that happiness is a stroke of luck, something that will maybe descend upon you like a fine weather if you’re fortunate enough. But that’s not how happiness works. Happiness is the consequence of personal effort. You fight for it, strive for it, insist upon it, and sometimes even travel around the world looking for it. You have to participate relentlessly in the manifestations of your own blessings. And once you have achieved a state of happiness, you must never become lax about maintaining it, you must make a mighty effort to keep swimming upward into that happiness forever, to stay afloat on top of it. If you don’t, you will leak away your innate contentment. It’s easy enough to pray when you’re in distress but continuing to pray even when your crisis has passed is like a sealing process, helping your soul hold tight to its good attainments.”

“Even in my own life, I can see exactly where my episodes of unhappiness have brought suffering or distress or (at the very least) inconvenience to those around me. The search for contentment is, therefore, not merely a self-preserving and self-benefiting act, but also a generous gift to the world. Clearing out all your misery gets you out of the way. You cease being an obstacle, not only to yourself but to anyone else. Only then are you free to serve and enjoy other people.”

The dentist is not my friend.

First off, I realize that I totally failed at writing episodes from my study abroad experience on here. It was a nice thought. Truly, it was. But realistically, it's not going to happen anytime soon. I am a busy bee. And also sometimes a lazy bee. But, perhaps, one day when I have mountains of time that I have no idea what to do with, I will return to this project and give it the justice it deserves. And when that time comes I will probably be elderly and decrepit and won't even remember what my name is, let alone the amazing things I experienced in Europe.
Alas.
Such is life.
So now, rather than expend this energy and time to record my glorious time in Europe, I am going to write about my recent experience at the dentist's office. Judge me. I don't care. It was horrible. And I need to get these negative emotions out of me somehow.

I used to have faith in the dentist. In my younger years, it was this faith that lead me to wander back into the caverns of his office as a believer, following and blindly trusting the smiling woman who wore blue pants and dangled face masks from her neck. She was an adult, she was a professional, and she was being nice to me. What wasn’t to trust? 

She led me to the chair and I sat down, happily. She leaned it back slowly and tied a humiliating blue napkin bib around my neck. Then, in conjunction with her superior, the dentist himself, she commenced the torture sequence. And I was glad for it.  As long as they gave me a free toothbrush and a puny package of floss at the end, all of this torture was fine by me. 

I was such a child then.

But I am no longer a child. And for this reason, my experience yesterday at the dentist’s office was different. When the smiling blue pants woman leaned back my chair, rather than submissively accept what was happening to me, this time, my brain began to question things. 

“What are you letting her do to us? You don’t even know this woman.”

“Quiet,” I told my brain. “It’ll be fine. She’s a professional.”

But as she slapped the enormously heavy mat over my chest and vital organs, and stuck the x-ray  machine right next to my mouth, I began to think my brain had a point. 

“There’s a reason this giant bib is so heavy it’s practically crushing our lungs,” my brain whispered. “It has to be thick enough to protect our vital organs from the poisonous radiation.”

With horror, I realized my brain was right. And then I realized something else.

“But what about you, brain?” I asked. “You aren’t protected?”

“Exactly.” 

Despite its position of being practically in direct fire of the radiation machine, my single most important organ, my brain, was left protected only by my meager skull. 

Something about this seemed wrong. If getting fancy teeth x-rays meant taking a free tumor home in addition to the toothbrush and floss, then I was out. No, thank you. That’s what I say to free tumors.

Yet, I did nothing. I just sat there, helplessly and mindlessly staring ahead as the smiling woman crammed a peculiar and pink plastic contraption into my mouth. After she felt satisfied with its position, she commenced to run back and forth from the computer to my mouth, snapping x-ray after x-ray.

After what seemed like years, she finished taking the tenth x-ray.

“All done!” she said, withdrawing the pink thing from my mouth, my drool stretching and clinging to it like a child being left at daycare. 

“Where are you from?” she asked casually as she wiped drool off of my face. “You have an accent, are you from Denmark?”

For a moment, I just stared at her. I was stunned to silence. 

“No,” I managed to squeeze out.

She couldn’t possibly be serious. Yet she was.

“Well, what country are you from then?” 

So it had come to this.

“Um . . . America?”

“Oh.”

She then tried to soften her invalid assumption by telling me the way I spoke made me seem exotic and exciting, but all I gathered from the exchange was that I must have some sort of speech impediment. 

Later, the dentist came in and informed me that I had two cavities. He described them to me in unnecessary detail, pointing to various screens displaying the fancy x-rays that had been taken earlier. When he finished, he turned and faced me.

“If you want, we can just get it done and take care of them now?” he said, his bloodshot eyes staring into my soul like I was a specimen he couldn’t wait to dissect.

“O.K.,” I said.

My brain was flabbergasted. “Have you lost your mind?” it screamed.

But it was too late. The first domino of the torture sequence had been tipped.

First, they flashed me a large number representing how much this torture was going to cost me. Then they made me sign a paper saying that yes, I will pay them this exorbitant amount of money, in full, or else. 

After I signed the paper, without warning, they laid me back, strapped a mask to my face, and told me to breath in deeply to allow the laughing gas to rush through my lungs. The gas began to take effect, and, right at the moment when all of my troubles began to slip away, a new woman shoved another clipboard in my face.

“Read it and sign,” she said.

 I read over it quickly, skipping words and phrases here and there. There is a possibility of allergic reaction. There is a possibility of seizure. There is a possibility of permanent facial nerve damage.

And with a joyful flourish, I signed the paper, promising that whatever happened, it wouldn’t be the dentist’s fault. What a joke. What a very hilarious joke.

But despite the fact that I had just surrendered my life into the dentist’s hands, I wasn’t bothered at all. Laughing gas is quite the quality concoction. It put all of my troubles and worries to sleep and I began to feel a sleepy happiness filling up my chest. Uncontrollable laughter started bubbling out of me, but, with the dentist’s hands crammed down my esophagus, it came to an abrupt and painful halt. I stopped laughing and started choking. The dentist noticed this.

“Breathe through your nose,” he said, grabbling another torture mechanism from his table. “Deep breath through your nose.” 

Panicking, I did what he said before I realized this was just part of his evil plan to get me so plastered by laughing gas that I would forget I was even choking in the first place. 

I felt like shouting, “I am a human being!” but I couldn’t. 

The dentist was shoving a grinding machine down my throat and the only sound I could hear was the grind of my precious teeth and the only feeling I felt was ouch.

Forty-three agonizing minutes later, it was finished.

When they finally raised the chair up and took off the laughing gas mask and the bib, I was so happy I didn’t even care when they failed to give me a free toothbrush. 

I got up from the chair, stumbled out to the receptionist’s desk, and paid her a small fortune for the torture I had just experienced. She smiled and pushed a receipt toward me.

“Sign here,” she said.

 I signed and headed down the stairs and out to my car, my mouth crying all the way. 

“Never again,” my brain said, through the fog of the remaining laughing gas and the throbbing complaints of my mouth. “Never again. Next time, you let me make the decisions.”

I'm back in America and I still don't know how I feel about it.

About 4 weeks ago I got on a plane and flew across the Atlantic Ocean, headed for Los Angeles. I was going back to America. After spending almost 2 months travelling through England, Scotland, and Wales, it felt more like I was leaving my home than going back to it. That whole day I had been trying really hard not to cry. Travelling is stressful enough without having to wipe tears from your eyes as you drag your luggage onto the Underground, pass your black backpack embroidered with the BYU International Studies insignia through security, and tell the customs officer just exactly what you had been doing in the UK for those two glorious months.
"That must have been a wonderful experience," he said, smiling as he looked over my passport one last time.
As I buckled my seat belt and listened to the stewardess give instructions, I couldn't help but feel the difference between this flight across the Atlantic and the first one. I had boarded that first plane across the Atlantic with the idea that when I came back, I would not be the same. Something profound would surely happen to me during these two months. And I was right. It did happen. But it hadn't changed me in the ways that I expected.
You see, I had imagined becoming a new person. Before I left, I heard from previous students of the program that it would be a life-changing experience. "You'll discover so much about yourself," one student told us during our prep class, as she clutched the journal she had carried with her throughout all her travels.
As I sat in that cramped airplane seat staring at the back of the seat in front of me, I began to realize that this trip hadn't completely replaced who I was, rather it had simply stripped away some of the clay to reveal more of the figure of self that I had knew was there all along. Rather than being completely new, I was simply more sure of the things I had almost known before. The last lines of Robert Frost's poem "Into My Own" drifted through my mind as the rev of the airplane engines began to fill the cabin: "They would not find me changed from him they knew—/Only more sure of all I thought was true."

                                                         Into My Own
                                                       by Robert Frost

ONE of my wishes is that those dark trees,
So old and firm they scarcely show the breeze,
Were not, as ’twere, the merest mask of gloom,
But stretched away unto the edge of doom.
I should not be withheld but that some day	5
Into their vastness I should steal away,
Fearless of ever finding open land,
Or highway where the slow wheel pours the sand.
I do not see why I should e’er turn back,
Or those should not set forth upon my track	10
To overtake me, who should miss me here
And long to know if still I held them dear.
They would not find me changed from him they knew—
Only more sure of all I thought was true.

The first day that I woke up in America I wanted to cry. I felt overwhelmed with this churning excitement of what I had experienced mixed with a foreboding sadness, a stubborn emotion that kept lurking in the back of my mind, reminding me that all of that was over now. At first this sadness was just a party-pooper, but gradually he began to take over the whole party altogether, and once that happened, it wasn't really a party at all.
Later that day, I went with my friend to get pedicures, and lunch at Kneaders. As we sped along the American freeway, everything seemed so big and brown.
"So we've been talking too much about me," she said, glancing over at me in the passenger seat. "Let's talk about what we really need to talk about: Tell me about your trip."
I smiled and let out a halfhearted laugh but before I could open my mouth to tell her anything, I started crying. I looked out the window, trying to get it to stop before she noticed, but it was too late.
"I'm sorry," I said. "This must be really awkward for you."
She laughed. "It was that good, huh?" she said in response.
It really was. But it was all over now.
Luckily, I didn't burst into tears every time somebody asked me how my trip was. I probably would've been deemed as emotionally unstable and crazy, which I am, but generally it's nice to be seen as sane in the public eye. However, I did have a hard time answering the question that nearly everyone asked me: What was your favorite part? This question paralyzed me. I felt like I was being shoved up against a wall and forced to choose a favorite child, not that I have children, but you get the idea.
How could I single out a single moment from the entire experience and choose that as the poster child for what I did? Just one couldn't do it justice. But I had to answer with something. Usually I would end up saying something like "Stonehenge" or "the hostel on the coast of Tintagel," but I'm here to tell you that neither of those is true. The truth is there is no favorite because the whole experience was my favorite.
So my goal this summer is to use this blog to record experiences from my trip. I'm not going to be able to remember or write everything that happened, but I want to at least capture what I can. Then, maybe, just like the individual strokes of a painting, other people will be able to take them in up close and then step back and understand the whole. Even if it's just a hazy glimpse of what it really was.
Here goes nothing.

Robert & The Carrolls

Last Saturday night, I had my first experience with the Velour. I really like it. It's one of those places that is so full of ugly things and clashing colors that it actually works. There was a ceramic horse that looked as if it had been ripped off a carousel hanging from the ceiling and a painting of Elvis illuminated by candles plastered on the wall. Sound hideous? Well it was. But in a good way.
Tickets were $7 and they only took cash. When I went up to the counter to pay for my ticket, the music was so loud that the cashier had to point to a paper that was taped to the counter that had $7 written on it in Sharpie. As I was paying for my ticket, I could see behind the counter into a little nook of a back room that was dimly lit. There was a man who looked like a mixture between a gypsy and a hipster bent over some papers and behind him, a winding staircase that led up to who knows where.
 It was magical. I love old places like that.
There were two bands playing that night, but the first one wasn't that good. I can't even remember their name. But the second band was fantastic. This is them:

I've been listening to their music ever since the concert. The only downside is that they only have 10 songs.

The will to walk.

I started reading The Screwtape Letters by C.S. Lewis. I've always wanted to read it because I'd heard really good things about it, but it was just one of those books that I never got around to. Well, I finally got around to it. I checked it out from the library and I am so glad that I did. It's really good. Reading it has made me more aware to how incredibly subtle the adversary can be. Sometimes I like to think that he only dwells in the black territory, where what is wrong is indisputably obvious. But that's not true at all. I think where he does his best work is in the gray territory, where the line between what is wrong and right can be blurred and refracted without us even realizing it.
The thing I like the most about this book is how much more it has helped me to understand about the nature of God. I don't know if it's the fact that the whole book is written in the form of letters, or because it's from the perspective of the adversary, or if it's simply because C.S. Lewis is a genius, but there is something about this book that makes God feel so much closer.

Here is a passage from it that I really liked:

"He will set them off with communications of His presence which, though faint, seem great to them, with emotional sweetness, and easy conquest over temptation. But He never allows this state of affairs to last long. Sooner or later He withdraws, if not in fact, at least from their conscious experience, all those supports and incentives. He leaves the creature to stand up on its own legs–to carry out from the will alone duties which have lost all relish. It is during such trough periods, much more than during the peak periods, that it is growing into the sort of creature He wants it to be. Hence the prayers offered in the state of dryness are those which please Him best. We can drag our patients along by continual temptations, because we design them only for the table, and the more their will is interfered with the better. He cannot 'tempt' to virtue as we do to vice. He wants them to learn to walk and must therefore take away His hand; and if only the will to walk is really there He is pleased even with their stumbles. Do not be deceived, Wormwood. Our cause is never more in danger than when a human, no longer desiring, but still intending, to do our Enemy's will, looks round upon a universe from which every trace of Him seems to have vanished, and asks why he has been forsaken, and still obeys."

Deep stuff.
Well, I better go do my homework now.

The fat, fat eagle.

Since it's winter break and I no longer have any purpose in life, I was helping my little brother Lance with his homework. It was pretty simple. It took us all of seven minutes to finish it. The main thing he had to do was read this absolutely ridiculous story not once, but twice. I couldn't stop laughing the whole time he read it. My laughing is the main reason that it took us a whopping seven minutes to finish his homework. Let me just say, they have definitely spiced up the curriculum since I was in elementary school.
Here's the story:

The Fat Eagle

An eagle liked to eat. He ate cake and ham and corn. He ate and ate, and he got fatter and fatter. He said, "I am so fat that I can not fly." He sat in a tree and the other eagles made fun of him. They said, "Look at that fat, fat eagle. Ho, ho."

The fat, fat eagle was sitting in a tree when a tiger came hunting for eagles. The tiger went after a little eagle that was sitting under the tree. The other eagles yelled, but the little eagle did not hear them.

The fat, fat eagle looked down and said, "I must save the little eagle." So he jumped from the tree. He came down like a fat rock on the tiger. And the tiger ran far away. 

Now the other eagles do not make fun of the fat, fat eagle. They give him cake and ham and corn. 

This is the end.

Is that not ridiculous? I think the part that got me most was how the author felt the need to consistently introduce the eagle as the "fat, fat" eagle. Clearly one "fat" was not sufficient. And what is the life lesson this story is teaching, anyway? All I got was it's ok to be fat as long as you use your fat for good.