NOW EVEN SOFTER

I was looking at a package of those "Grandma's" cookies today. On the top left corner of the package in yellow print it said, "NOW EVEN SOFTER!" It made me wonder: softer? Is there a noticeable increase in softness? Is that even something you'd want? I mean, come on, what kind of preservatives had to have been injected into those cookies to make them soft like that? Formaldehyde, probably. That's the thing with those cookies--when eating them there is no way you can trick yourself into thinking there are any health benefits to be gained. Every time I eat them I feel like I'm voluntarily clogging my arteries, welcoming early-onset Alzheimer's and encouraging all cancers. But they're EVEN SOFTER. Gross. Is that a good selling point? I wonder how many people that little phrase has cajoled into buying them. Myrna goes to the store. Stands transfixed in the cookie/snack aisle. Oreo's? Grasshoppers? Milano's? Products of the Keebler elves? Her eyes pass over the shelves of packaged cookies, scanning, searching, rejecting and taking note. She pauses at a box of individually packaged Grandma's cookies--"no," she thinks, "best to go with the Fig Newtons." She is about to move on, already reaching towards the fruit-and-cake delights, fingers just beginning to close on the yellow plastic when--suddenly (!) she sees those fateful words, "NOW EVEN SOFTER!" A pause! A gasp! Unable to resist, she seizes the box of Grandma's SOFTER cookies. Her heart is won. The battle is over. She walks away, fatigued, and pushes her shopping cart (with a sticky back left wheel) towards the bright lights of checkout counter #4 (Express Lane--about 10 items or less).
I mean really--was it that good of a marketing idea? NOW EVEN SOFTER--it makes me want to gag EVEN more.

Side note: fast food makes me depressed. Well, when it's of the burgers-and-fries variety. If I eat a burger at McDonald's, it's sure to make me feel hopeless and a little put-upon.

Hygiene Anxiety

I was washing my feet today in a public restroom. This means that I had my feet in the sink, one foot at a time. Before entering the bathroom I made the customarily furtive glances around the hallway. Clear. Just a couple of girl gymnasts in biker shorts and spandex tank tops—but they were walking away, in the opposite direction. The bathroom (a two stall, two sink affair) was empty. I turned on the water, both taps—cold and hot to get the right temperature. One foot up and in. I washed quickly, using generous dollops from the soup dispenser and cleansing my feet with speed, but thoroughly. While washing these appendages, various thoughts ran through my head—generally running along the lines of possible excuses I could make for my behavior, should anyone enter. Got a cut on my foot. Stepped in something understandably unpleasant. Or perhaps I’d just try to jerk my foot out of the sink quickly enough that no one would suspect. I wondered what would happen if someone came in, caught me, and disbelieved my excuse of lacerations to my big toe (the lack of bleeding could easily merit this). Would they call security? Would they laugh? Be disgusted? Demand my forced removal from the building? Washing your feet in a public restroom is not the time for deep reflection. It makes me nervous, to be honest. But at home, that’s a different story. That sounds like a good idea to me. A foot in the sink, philosophy in my mind.

I used to be apprehensive about touching up my make-up in a public restroom. But I’m pretty sure that that ended with high school—thank heaven. The foot thing, though, that’s a different matter entirely.

It Pumps the Blood

Right now I'm thinking about fragility--or perhaps just the state of being delicate. And I'm thinking about hearts and relationships. That may sound cheesy, but it is true (moan and roll your eyes if you must). Do you ever get to be "good" at relationships? Relationships seem to require vulnerability (formerly a four-letter-word in my mind--I'm working my way out of that one). Because if vulnerability is lacking, so too is authenticity, it seems. Sometimes I feel like I'm standing on a sheet of glass, covered in sand and the sand moves and makes me slide around and I'm always trying to keep my upright stance. But I'm wondering if I try too hard, if I'll just break through and land on my back with a shatter. Sometimes I feel older than Methuselah and as hard as quarry stone.

Hearts break all the time. They are sometimes so easily broken and yet so hard to fix. Sometimes it's the other way around, but not often. We break each other's hearts and we break our own hearts. I can look at specific experiences and specific times when I was breaking my heart. And now I can't believe I did it, that I put myself through it. I think we break other people's hearts on a regular basis. And it's generally not intentional. It's the words we don't say, the looks we give, the ways we act and live without thinking about how it might effect someone else. We do it with impatience and a lack of kindness.

What does "broken" mean anyway? In my mind I think of something that used to work, but doesn't anymore. It used to have a function and a purpose, until now. I think of something that used to look differently or act differently. I think of something with obsolete pieces or pieces that are missing altogether. I think of something being clumsily mended with masking tape. I think of something that is tossed out--no long wanted or needed. I think of something that was whole once and wants to be whole again.

So, what does this say about "broken hearts"?

The Brave Little Toaster

My head is full full full. I seem to have a hundred thoughts in every moment, and each seems important. I keep trying to think of what I need to do, what I should do, who I should be, who I want to be, who I actually am. I'm thinking about school and relationships and people and books and the oil in my car. I'm thinking about too much and not enough. I'm thinking about beauy and ugliness. I'm thinking about music that opens and words and assumptions that close. I'm thinking about laughing when you shouldn't and hurting so ice-clearly and not understanding completely why. I'm thinking about the things we do because we're scared and the things we do even though we're scared. I'm thinking about toothpaste and Christmas. I'm thinking about a cedar chest full of things. I'm thinking about today and the days before and a future too far ahead to even really guess about. And I wish I could lay these thoughts out neatly, face up on my palm. I'd like to show you a graph and give you a brochure and ask if there are any questions and then we could systematically go through them and check them off our lists and nodd in agreement. But instead my head is full full full and you're out buying cucumbers, anyway.

No Thanks, I Have My Own Soundtrack

I feel my Savior’s love
In all the world around me
His Spirit warms my soul
Through ev’rything I see

He knows I will follow him,
Give all my life to him.
I feel my Savior’s love,
The love he freely gives me.

I feel my Savior’s love;
Its gentleness enfolds me,
And when I kneel to pray,
My heart is filled with peace.

I feel my Savior’s love
And know that he will bless me.
I offer him my heart;
My shepherd he will be.

The radio in my car inexplicably died recently. I listen to a lot of music, so I miss it in that sense. But I've also realized that I almost always have a song playing in my head. No matter what I do, some lyrics and melody are piping through my mind, like a default record player, my being conscious acting as the needle. This bothers me because it can make it harder for me to clear my head. When I listen to less music, my mind is usually clearer. At any rate, I was driving to Provo yesterday, radioless. So, of course I made my own music. I decided to sing every Primary song I could remember. I worked my way through the classics, “I Love to See the Temple,” “Book of Mormon Stories” (sans hand motions), “A Child’s Prayer,” etc. and moved into Christmas songs (“Nativity Story,” “Picture a Christmas,” “When Joseph Went to Bethlehem,” etc) and dabbled in some others, “I Wonder When He Comes Again,” “I’ll Walk With You,” etc. There were a lot of songs and would have been more if the trip had been longer. I made a few attempts at the song where you basically list off all the books of the Old Testament. I don’t think I’ve ever had that one memorized. For some reason I could not remember the melody or most of the words to one of my favorite Primary songs. All I could remember were small snatches and the idea of pledging one’s life to Jesus Christ. It was an odd sensation—the same experience as when you have a word on the tip of your tongue, but can’t get it past your lips.

This morning I realized what song it was: “I Feel My Savior’s Love.” I love this song and most especially the lines, “He knows I will follow him / Give all my life to him.”

It’s not hard to feel disillusioned and pessimistic. Just about everything can disappoint you or end up not being what you thought it was. It’s not difficult to feel lost and kind of hopeless. Sometimes it’s difficult to not feel those things. The more I learn, the more I realize that the one thing that never disappoints is God. Strange as it may sound, I never really thought of myself as a “religious person” until recently. That phrase just didn’t seem to fit. I’m not sure what I associated with it. Perhaps monkhood and asceticism or something. But I am religious—very much so. My faith in God defines who I am and what I do. It is the bones in my skeleton that holds up my life and gives it form. My faith is the heart that pumps blood and nutrients to all of me. It is absolutely necessary.

Baby Joey

My brother, Dan, sent me this picture of Cassie and Joseph. I will see Joey in person in a month. He was born yesterday morning, at 9:32. I'm finding that more and more, my family are my favorite people. I would rather be in their company than other people's.

This is a baby year for my family. My nephew, Sam, is about two months old (Julie and David's son). Now we have Baby Joseph, and in September, a little boy or girl will be born to my sister-in-law, Britney and my brother, Greg. Baby years are good years. Hooray!

Joseph

Joseph is going to be born tomorrow. At 7:00a.m. A Caesarian birth--hence why I can make such a statement instead of a mere prediction. I am excited to meet him. My guess is that he will have brown hair and brown eyes. But maybe he'll surprise all of us and be born a redhead. Daniel promised that he'd send pictures as soon as he could. I guess I shouldn't have said his name would be Joseph. I mean--that's what has been decided, and Dan said that's what his name would be, unless he's born looking inarguably like a Fred. I sincerely hope not. I'm not fond of the name Fred, and it reminds me of "Breakfast at Tiffany's" in a sad sort of way.

Old House

I’m trying to remember summertime as a kid, which makes me think of my house in Wilsonville. Someone else lives there now and I find it kind of hard to believe, or picture really. That house was built for my family when we still lived in California. We lived in it completely. I miss it, though I’m not sure why, exactly. That house holds good and bad memories, but I remember being kind of ashamed of it at times. It was a little older, a little more run-down—or that’s what I used to think anyhow.

I moved bedrooms in that house. From being a year old to being twelve or thirteen (twelve, I think) I lived in the bedroom between my brother Greg’s old room and the back corner bedroom. When I was really young the walls were painted white and had a pink bear cart-wheeling along the border of the ceiling. When I got a little older, I redecorated and disliked it from the day it was done. The top half of the wall was a dusty blue and the bottom half was a light mauve and separating the two colors was a strip of wallpaper (one of those border things) with flowers on it. I had long curtains at the window that were held back with sashes. I thought it would have a princess feel. I hated it. So, in my twelfth year I moved to the front corner bedroom. I painted it light blue and stamped light yellow stars and moons along the top of the walls, in a border. The whole room was decorated in stars and moons. I liked this better. That room had a window seat. The window seat was indented into the wall, like a rectangle of plaster was just taken out and pushed back. It was a great place to sit and read or think or whatever—even though it wasn’t padded, so you got uncomfortable pretty quickly.

I miss the yard of that house. We had a garden and grapes and a raspberry bush and various fruit trees at various times (cherry, apple, pear, peach, plum, apricot, and the ever-abundantly producing fig). In the summer it was sometimes my job to water the fruit trees. This meant putting the hose on each tree (each tree had a small well dug around it) for ten minutes (fifteen?). Since we had anywhere from 4-8 trees, this could take a while. When I was a little older I would set the oven timer and watch “Regis and Kelly” as I waited. When I was younger I’d keep my mom’s wrist watch with me and sit in a chair in the midst of the trees and read.