Understanding identity & feminity

Recently, I found the April issue of the New Era (the magazine written and printed by the Church for teenagers)in the student newspaper office. It was a special edition, all about "Dating for Beginners," and it was full of some really amusing things (the whole issue can be found here).

There was a lot that I felt was good advice; overall this was a great introduction for young people to dating. I remember having a lot of questions when I was younger that the magazine addressed.

Another section addressed to the young women. The Young Women's Presidency gave dating advice, most of which were good things like "Be Physically Fit," and "Improve your social skills."

But one bullet of advice really bothered me. It read, "Behave like a daughter of God. Do not be forward, loud, brash, or suggestive. You may have seen this kind of behavior in movies, but it is not fitting for a young woman who understands her identity as a daughter of God."

Hmmm, I thought. I am definitely all those things.

Forward? Check.

I've definitely asked guys on dates. I've told others that they needed to take me on a date.

Loud? Check.

Ironically, I was loudly reading excerpts from the New Era in my hand just moments before. I seem to be missing the volume-control built in to most humans.

Brash? Check.

I'll admit it — I'm irreverent. I try not to be rude, but the truth is, life is too funny and absurd and ridiculous to be polite and soft-spoken all the time.

And suggestive? Check.

Not sexually suggestive, silly. Is that really all you can think about?

But, I suggest things all the time. Just today I suggested that the trash be taken out, because something smelled like rotting, snot-covered, fetid pig vomit.

Not to get graphic or anything.

Also, I would suggest that maybe it would be better to encourage young women to be genuine and unique. To love who they are, even if that is brash and loud. To be willing to take responsibility for their life and get what they want—even if it means being forward, or being intimidating and not getting asked out.

I suggest that it is great to be brash and loud. Being forward and going for what I want doesn't mean that I misunderstand my role as a woman — it just means that I'm not afraid to make things happen. My strong personality is what makes me powerful, and I'm not afraid to be so. I know that I was created loud and forward for a reason, in the same way so many are timid or shy. They are just different ways to do the same thing; to share my beliefs, to be bold, to be forward in what I feel passionate about.

So, go ahead girls: get loud. Be brash. Go forward. Make suggestions. Because you're powerful, and it is this boldness that will enable you to make a positive change in the world.

On metamorphosis and maturation

In my second grade class, we got this butterfly kit, a kind of introduction to the microcosm and melodrama of metamorphosis.

It included these little plastic tubs with holes punched in the tops, with caterpillars crawling around in this delightfully disgusting golden goo that was supposed to be their food. The class watched them get fat, inching around, eating, pooping on their food, eating some more.

Eventually, the caterpillar would inch its hefty little body to the underside of the lid. There, it managed to attach its tail end to the ceiling of its little house and spin itself a bright green, pristine chrysalis. Then, we took the lids off and attached them to the top of this tube-shaped net, the tiny delicate house swinging when moved.

The class waited a week or so later, and finally, monarch butterflies emerged, orange and flashy and regal. Their eyes were big, bodies thin and delicate; they were beautiful, and so wholly different from the short stubby things they had been when I had last seen them.

Metamorphosis is an apt symbol of growing up, of maturation. It's about as literal of a representation as one can get: a caterpillar grows fat, too heavy for adolescence, and encases and transforms itself into something completely new and different, as a mature member of its species.

The process of metamorphosis for cicadas, however, is quite different.

Female cicadas lay eggs in small cracks and crevices in tree branches. When they hatch, the tiny creatures drop to the the ground and burrow into it. There, the pupae grow and mature, living off of who-knows-what.

Finally, when it is warm enough, they emerge simultaneously from the soil, ready to molt to an adult, driven by some insane and inexplicable instinct. Then, a cicada attaches itself to the bark of a tree and emerges from its exoskeleton as a wet, green, sickly-looking thing with over-sized eyes. Slowly, it will dry out and become the brown hordes that will buzz incessantly for the next four weeks or so.

We had three huge mulberry trees in the front yard of my childhood home, and their bark was often carpeted with the pale yellow, crisp skins left behind by the molting cicadas. Fascinated by them, I would often spend hours plucking them off the bark, crushing them, studying the minute structure of those odd creatures.

The creatures hardly had the same grace and beauty that butterflies are admired for. And that's not even mentioning the noise. But I still couldn't help appreciate their determination, their ability to push forward, their readiness to progress and change.

The human metamorphosis seems to a be a combination of the two species. It is half the desire of the caterpillar, to become something more elegant, beautiful, greater. And it is half the goal of the cicada: to rid itself of a stiff, constricting skin. Our skin has grown too rigid, and we are outgrowing them.

No matter how underdeveloped they may see, we still need room to spread wings that have been slowly growing underneath our hardening skin. The difference? We get to decide what those wings will look like, and what they will help us do.

Short fiction piece

I just finished a piece of short fiction that I don't feel terribly embarrassed to have written.

It is 12 pages. 3,726 words long. And it is pretty depressing. It was a work of will to just get it finished.

But, writing it was liberating. As if the story was this entity, urging me to finish, to tell it, to make it real. It was exciting to finally have a story I was excited about, that I felt was worth telling. The kind that compelled me.

I know it's not anything spectacular, but that's ok. It was one of those things that just needed to be, no matter whether it was a work of literary mastery or not.

To read it, head here.

(Although I warn you, it is not a light read, either in length or content)

Telling my own story.

I saw The Brothers Bloom this past summer, and I absolutely loved it. It's a clever, funny tale about two brothers, Stephen (Mark Ruffalo) and Bloom (Adrien Brody), who are con artists. But they take conning to a level of art; they endeavor to create a con that is an adventure, a beautiful story in which every person involved gets what they want. They end up conning Penelope (Rachel Weisz), a rich heiress who is eccentric and naive. Directed by Rian Johnson, it's really a moving film.

What's more, is it has an absolutely brilliant soundtrack, this wonderful and dynamic mix of clarinets and electric guitars, electric organ, jazzy saxes and yearning cello solos. It's the kind of thing I can listen to over and over again (which I have been doing, almost obsessively), and almost every time I listen, I notice something different. It amazes me in some new way. I can only hope to one day create something that inspiring, delightful, and whimsical.

I loved the theme of the movie, as well: telling your own story.

Penelope, explains it well. She tells Bloom about her childhood, how her parents mistakenly thought she was allergic to everything and kept her inside their huge, sealed-off mansion. When she's around 19, they finally discover that she's not allergic, but then her mother gets sick and Penelope has to stay home to take care of her for a very long time. Bloom asks her if she feels cheated, and Penelope replies:

"The trick to not feeling cheated is learning to cheat. So, I decided this wasn't a story about a miserable girl trapped in a house that smelled like medical supplies, wasting her life on a dying person she sometimes hated. No. This was a story about a girl who could find infinite beauty in anything, any little thing. And even love the person she was trapped with. And I told myself this story until it became true.

"Now, did doing this help me escape a wasted life, or did it blind me, so I wouldn't want to escape it? I don't know. But, either way, I was the one telling my own story, so, no. I don't feel cheated at all."

I love the idea, of telling our own stories. Of taking control. Of acting, rather than being acted upon--even if all that means is getting to decide who we are in less-than-desirable circumstances.

Things are so much what we make them; life, friends, enemies, good times, bad times. They are what they are, because that is what we believe them to be. That is what we make them.

Maybe that's what hope is: holding onto the belief that their is beauty in every person, situation, and thing, if we only look for it.

A Week Home for the Holiday (pt. 2)

III. Monday

Jenny had planned this outing at least a month in advance, a date between her, her recently acquired boyfriend Chris, and me.

I sat in the backseat, slurping on the eggnog shake that I ordered, even though I knew I wouldn’t finish the whole thing by myself. We had eaten dinner at an Italian restaurant, and now Chris was driving with Jenny in the passenger seat; I watched them interact.

It was easy enough to see that Chris adored Jenny. He deferred to her in almost everything, an attribute I’m sure my bossy friend didn’t mind. He seemed aware of her, picking up on the fact that she doesn’t really like PDA, or that she hates having her face touched; the small things that matter, things that I know only because we have been friends for so long.

I considered my position in the car, and laughed inwardly. It was somewhat appropriate. Over the years, as boys had come and go for both Jenny and me, it was consistently the case that when Jenny had a boyfriend, I took backseat.

I dragged on the straw, feeling bored. Chris and Jenny were chatting, bantering within the dynamics already created in their relationship, a dynamic I couldn’t quite match. The spiced sweetness of the cold shake felt too heavy, too thick as my esophagus constricted the liquid downward.

“That was at the same time that you were dating Jamie, right?” Jenny addressed me. I hadn’t been listening; I had no idea what she would be referring to.

“Uuuh, yea, I’m pretty sure,” I replied in a bright voice. Facts satisfactorily verified, she carried on with her story.

IV. Tuesday

At the grocery store, I called my mother. She relayed to me the list of what she’d sent me there to pick up:

“–8 bags of lemons—you know, the ones that come with 3 lemons in a little mesh bag.

–6 bags of oranges, I’m pretty sure these come in a red bag. . . .

–A loaf of bread, whatever looks good will be fine, and

–a gallon of milk. Pretty sure that’s it.”

I snagged the groceries, the citrus fruits weighing down the shopping basket on my right arm. By the time I checked out and make it to the car, my biceps were shaky from holding the burden up.

I piled the groceries onto the corner of the counter at home; Mom stood by the sink and looked as if she had been at this for to long. She was in the midst of the annual season tradition in my family, one that has been so central to my life that I couldn’t imagine a holiday season without it: making cranberry ice.

On the stove sat a large steaming stockpot. I knew what would be in it even before walking over, but I did anyway. I peered inside and breathed in deeply. It smelled tangy and thick. Cranberries winked in the bubbling water; some had already burst open, others were still firm and bright.

My mom ordered me to add sugar to the bowl sitting next to the stove. It held a soupy goop, a runny mush that was a deep burgundy pink, a magenta perhaps. I measured out the sugar, counting to eight aloud to ensure I got the amount correct. I followed Mom’s further directions to add water. Then she got busy, slicing oranges and lemons in half and juicing them with quick, deft movements.

As we worked, Taryn wandered into the kitchen. Two years old, she has an inquisitive, round face, and large eyes that sit under fast, dark eyebrows. She has often reminded me of baby pictures of myself, with the cherub face that still manages to look determined and focused. And in many ways, I am told, she acts like I might have as a young child. We share intense, curious dispositions.

And just then, Taryn was curious to know what Mom was up to.

“Nonni, want see,” she demanded, reaching her arm up to point at the juicer on the counter. My mother obliged her and set her on the counter to observe and assist in the process. Taryn swung her legs, clunking them against the wooden cupboards. The boiled cranberries and juiced citrus produced a heady mix of rich and fresh.

As I watched my mother instructing her granddaughter on the art of juicing, I felt certain she had once spoken to me in the same, affectionate way. I can’t quite conjure up the frame of time, or memory, but she must have once swung me up, seated me on the counter, and let me watch her work.

Somewhere in my memory I am studying her hands; one holds a sieve with boiled cranberries in it, the other works to mash them against the metal mesh. I am a young girl, perhaps four, or maybe an overlay of several ages. But I watch the innards of the cranberries, in consistency somewhere between goopy and syrupy. It creates a ghastly drip into a large metal bowl, looking like so much vivid blood. After a while, I am given a turn. I mash with inefficient vigor. When the cranberries in the sieve are sufficiently turned to a pulp, I turn the spoon around and scrape the velvet-rich cranberry pulp from rounded underside of the sieve and into the bowl.

In the present with her granddaughter, my mother poured the juice into the bowl. Taryn let out an awed, “Ooooh!” These were the last few ingredients.

Soon, the liquids would be mixed together and then separated into Tupperware containers and old cottage cheese tubs saved especially for this purpose. They would be sent to the freezer to sit, then retrieved again, hardened, to be added to lemon-lime soda. And on some future night, the family would gather and eat, talk, visit, laugh, and drink this treat--carrying on in the same vein of tradition it was made.

CNF Piece: A Week Home for the Holiday (pt.1)

I. Saturday

My mother hugged me warmly, despite my ten-hour road trip from college to Las Vegas that had left me tired andgrimy. As she made to release me from her embrace, I tightened mine.

She smelled clean, like laundry detergent tinged with a faint chemical trace of cleaner, possibly Simple Green or Windex. She was comfortable, familiar in the way the skin on her upper arms felt slightly dry when my hand brushed them, and how she tucked her chin over my shoulder.

I released her; leaving one arm around my shoulders, she said in a calm, even tone, “I’m so excited to see you.”

“Oh, yea, and don’t you seem so excited,” I said.

“What were you looking for, something more like this?” She clapped her hands together and then threw them up with a dramatic shriek and a wide-eyed, manic expression of faux-delight. She let out a genuine laugh then at the sheer silliness of it—such an overwrought contrast to her perpetual poise and reserve.

“Now that’s what I’m talking about,” I said in a mischievous tone. We both know she is not the type of mother that insists on hugs and kisses. She doesn’t fly at me with barrages of questions or smother with attention.

No, she is the kind of mother who waited, instead, with a reassuring smile, a quick hug, a simple but constant welcome home.



II. Sunday

Siblings, brothers-in-law, an aunt and uncle, cousins, nieces and nephews poured in for the first family gathering of the week that I would be home for the Thanksgiving holiday. The fare of the dinner looked like something from a poolside barbecue, almost comically incongruous to the holiday season: pulled pork sandwiches, my mom’s famous potato salad, and fresh spring salad loaded with grape tomatoes and avocadoes.

I loaded up what I would eat, skipping the pulled pork. I laughed inwardly; Janelle had apologized earlier for bringing a main dish that was so meat-centric. “I still always forget you’re a vegetarian now.” It was amusing to me, but oddly relieving that no one had over-accommodated me.

We ate, and as the food on our plates disappeared, the talk grew loud and the children ran screaming and exuberant up and down the length of the house.

Eventually, we gathered in the family room, sleepily filling in pulled-up dining chairs, the couch, the love seat. I shared a wide lumpy armchair upholstered with an earthy-colored, nubby cloth with my close friend of five years. Jenny has become as much a fixture at family gatherings as any of us.

The room quieted as Ashley began to speak, thoughts on gratitude that she had prepared. Her voice was clear and high, a voice that mine resembles. We are blood; she is the fifth child, preceding my position as the sixth, and four years my senior. She has been married for over three years, and her husband Robert sat next to her now, gripping her hand.

She spoke of experiences that the rest of us only half-knew: hospital stays, radiation and chemotherapy treatments, intensive care units, weakened immune system and bone marrow transplants. She spoke of what the months watching, waiting, serving, holding out faith for a leukemic husband had done to her soul, and what it had done for it. Sometimes wavering, she spoke of prayers proffered in despair, others in hope, of hearts aching, but also hearts healing. Her voice coagulated on those words that rose from a place that is an opening to both pain and peace.

“A grateful heart is the beginning of greatness,” she said.

Jenny placed her hand on my arm. I looked around the room at my family. My niece Taryn sat on the floor where she had busied herself pulling tissues from the box. I noticed Dad scoot his chair closer to Mom, then extend his arm across her shoulders, saw the way she settled into that elbow crook that she must know so well.

I had all the beginnings of greatness right there.

This is the first installment of a creative non-fiction piece I wrote (and still finishing) that is a memory from each day I was home for the Thanksgiving holidays. The rest will follow.

And the meek shall appreciate what they inherit.

This is a column I wrote for the Scroll, published on Sept. 22, 2009.

We all have things we’ve inherited from our family.

It might be red hair, an artistic eye or habits. It could even be horrible eyesight or a propensity for using long words.

I’ve inherited a lot from my family, which consists of my amazing parents and seven of us kids — and we are all really close, maybe unusually close.

A friend once told me, “Your family is like a cult,” a statement that I could only refute with the fact that we don’t drink Kool-Aid of any kind.

But I’ll just leave it with saying that my family gets along really well and spends a lot of time together. As a result of this, we’ve ended up picking up each others’ senses of humor, mannerisms and ideas. While we are all very different, all of us still fit quite comfortably within the same Squires mold.

The similarities extend beyond my immediate family and into my extended relatives. There are two amazing ladies in particular from whom I have inherited much: my grandmothers. They are both ladies who have been through a lot in their lives, enduring with faith.

My maternal grandmother, Grandma Bev, is a lady full of whimsy and fun. I remember the magical hours of entertainment she would spin with her animated recitations of Shel Silverstein poems. (Oh, that peanut butter-loving king. Will he never learn?)

And let’s not forget the ever-popular Candy Bar Game.

I always looked forward to going to Grandma Bev’s, knowing I was sure to get pretty well spoiled.

One of my favorite things, however, was to sing along with Grandma Bev while she played the ukulele. Eventually she taught me how to play it a bit, a little two-chord version of “La Cucuracha.”

While I never mastered the ukulele when I was younger, in high school I decided I would get more serious about it. After all, if ukulele skills can’t get you somewhere in this world, I’m not sure what can.

I went to the local music store and picked up a ukulele. I still remembered a few chords and soon taught myself and became quite proficient.

When I saw Grandma Bev next, I showed her my recently acquired uke knowledge. I was surprised by how touched she was that I had stuck with something she had taught me, to see the influence that she had had on me.

When Gandma Bev’s arthritis developed to the point that it became uncomfortable to play the ukulele, I inherited her beautiful, handmade-in-Hawaii ukulele. And while I adore it, I treasure more the memories, knowledge and love for music she shared with me. Every time I play my ukulele, I think of Grandma Bev.

The other amazing lady is my Grandma Jean. With my grandpa, she spent four years serving two consecutive missions in Africa. She is dynamic, a cheerful little powerhouse, always full of energy, advice and a kind word.

And while that kind word might sometimes be telling you that eating almonds helps with acne, or that you have a little smudge right there on your face, you still knew that it only meant she cared enough to notice.

In addition to the hairline along my neck (which veers crazily to the right), I inherited the middle name of Jean from my grandmother.

I was reminded of this while reading my scriptures one day; I came across this verse in Helaman 5:6:

“Behold, I have given unto you the names of our first parents who came out of the land of Jerusalem; and this I have done that when you remember your names ye may remember them; and when ye remember them ye may remember their works; and when ye remember their works ye may know how that it is said, and also written, that they were good.”

I know we might not all be named after someone, but we all have last names to remind us of those we inherited them from, of those who went before.

My some number of greats-grandpa John Fell Squires, for example, was one of the children who comprised the first generation to be raised in the Salt Lake valley. His father was, in fact, the barber to Brigham Young. My last name stands for all those steps taken to Zion, the sacrifices my forefathers made for their faith and the many hairs of a Prophet cut.

In addition to what we’ve inherited from our families, we have a rich heritage as a Church and as a school.

We carry the name of Latter-day Saint, the title of BYU-Idaho students. Let’s remember those who came before us, whether they crossed the plains or pioneered the changes that have made this university what it is today. Let’s remember the good that they did and try to live up to the standards they set.

After all, if it wasn’t for what we’ve inherited from them, we wouldn’t be the people we are today.

The Upside of Journalism

I really enjoy writing for the school newspaper. True, it is a lot of work, and sucks a lot of my time, but I love the practice I am getting with writing. It is a whole different style, and the journalism side of things is definitely honing my focus with writing. My articles are getting more cohesive, and I am proud of them. While sometimes it drives me crazy when I hit a wall and just cannot seem to pull the aricle together, I eventually get over that hump. And then it is that much more satisfying to hold the beautiful finished product in my hand!

One thing that I really love is that writing articles gives me an excuse to meet a lot of different people. The last article I published was about the handmade movement (if you don't know what that is, check out http://www.etsy.com/ and http://www.buyhandmade.org/). I went to a swap meet some students in the business department hosted and got to go around and meet a lot of crafters and artists who were selling their goods there. It was great to have an excuse to talk to them more, and to bring up questions you wouldn't in regular conversation.

Today, as well, I needed quotes for the article I am writing, which is on how students can be more eco-friendly. I went around to three different apartments in my complex, and stayed and hung out and chatted for a bit after I asked my questions and everything. It was a great excuse to just invite myself in and hang out for a little. Maybe I should do that more often just because?

I also went in to the Language & Letters Office today to be Academically Advised. As it turns out, I probably have four whole semesters of school left, taking about 13.5 credits a semester. I was kind of hoping that only 3 would suffice, but to pull that off I'm pretty sure I would have to take 18 credits a semester, which I am not so much all about? Also, this way I can probably take a couple classes just for fun.

I am also going to have to settle on a minor soon, but, oy vay! What a pain. At this point I think it is between Spanish, Music, and doing two Clusters (something tha BYU-I has; it is like half a minor, 12-15 credits, and you take two in place of a minor), maybe in Library Science and Journalism?
What do you think? I could use any advice you want to give.

Well, I love you all! If you haven't already, check out the silent auction for Robert Ashworth that is going on over at Karalee's Blog.

Much love!

The Necessity of Hope

It has been a while since I posted, so it feels like I have a lot to talk about and catch up on.

More than anything, while these past few weeks have held much conflict for me, they have also come with something so much greater: Resolve.

Robert's regular checkup found leukemic cells in his blood. He is back in the hospital, and has just finished off a first round of chemo. He will also have to undergo another bone marrow transplant.

I also have been letting myself get afraid. Drawing away, letting myself get scared. Afraid of being vulnerable.

Honestly, I feel that I've given in to despair often lately. My personal journal is filled with phrases like, "This is all so confusing," "I don't know how to do this," or "I can't believe it; I just feel so angry." Still, after I wind on down that path for a while, I always end up coming back to the Savior, and to His love. Almost every entry ends with a reference to Him and His atonement.
Too often, I lose sight of the opportunity that each day is. I think about the prospect of the next day, week, month, year, and wonder how I can do it all. Wonder how it is that I can continue to go on, to exist in a world that is so full of pain and despair. What could really make living in such a crazy world worth all the heartache?

And then I remember the answer: Christ, our Savior. It is His Atonement, His sacrifice that makes sense of all the senseless pain and tragedy of the world. He lifts those who reaches to Him, makes it possible for them to heal, to become pure. He descended below all these things, all these hurts so that He could lift me above them

Hope is more than just a feeling; it is a conscious choice. It is the choice between having faith, believing, and keeping our hope alive, or giving in to grief and despair. Being hopeful means habitually choosing hope over fear or doubt, every time the choice presents itself.

I have received the resolution I needed. I have felt a confirmation, letting me know that all things are working together for good. I know Ashley and Robert’s journey will be hard and painful, but I also know it will be worth making. I know that because of the Atonement, and their faith, something good and beautiful will come out of it, something better than could have come by an easier way.

I also know that all things in my life are working together for my good. I see the way to courage and love opening up before me. I feel that I am being blessed with the resolve to embark on the journey. I am ready!

I choose to have the Hope needed to know that what lies ahead is perfect.
The best is yet to come.

Let it Shine

Oh, Christmastime.

To be honest, I have felt Christmas coming on since a Wednesday in early October. I was driving to Institute, when I realized that my A/C was turned off, and yet my car was not an unpleasant temperartue. I rolled down my window, and cool air rushed past me and ruffled what little hair I have. The air smelled smokey and was--could I believe it?--chilly! Driving in the dusk, with the scent of some log burning and cool air on my face--it just felt like fall. Which, in Las Vegas, happens to descend upon us right around Thanksgiving, and sticks around through Christmas and probably even New Year's.


So, maybe it's just that it seems to have gotten cool a little earlier this year, but I am quite ready for the holidays. I have gifts for all my sisters (although some of them still require some effort, since I am making them). I have even bought myself a little somethin' somethin' (oooh Buckle, how cute all your clothes are).

As Christmas has started to take up my mental space, I have found myself imagining how I want my Christmases to look someday. You know, when I have some strapping, handsome man to call my husband and maybe a gaggle of delightful children and some cute house somewhere. (I actually do this with everything--it is one of my favorite daydreaming activities. I already have the theme [peacock feathers], colors [peacock colors/teal and ivory], dress [I plan to sew it myself, ivory, satin, gatherd at my natural waist, with a faux-lapel in an accent color], and cake [actually i just know it will have ganouche on it] of my wedding all planned out). I have considered what traditions I love (opening one gift on Christmas Eve), which ones I wouldn't mind leaving behind (that this gift was ALWAYS pajamas of some sort). What my family will have for dinner on Christmas Eve (scrumptious potatoes will definitely be on the menu), and what treats I will stuff into stockings (homemade candies, while above my skill level currently, would be delightful).

And of course, I have pictured my dream tree. Fresh of course, tall (but not too tall; seven and a half feet would do), all piney smelling. It's branches would be full; it would have a skimpy spot, but we would just turn that side to the wall. Dotted with hundreds and hundreds of fat, round bulbs (as pictured above), carefully wound around branches. Sweets strewn about it: candy canes, caramels and truffles and chocolates dressed up in fancy wrapping, cookies on strings, gingerbread men and women (having edible things on my tree is something I feel very strongly about, mmm'kay?). And most of all: colours. Lots, and LOTS of COLORS. The brightest, most beautiful colors, and lots of sparkle. I want my tree to glitter. I want it to be brimming over with life. I want everything on it to be either handmade, a gift, or both. I want my Christmas tree to be as lively, sparkly, colorful, fun, and joyful as the season is.

I want to look at it and be reminded that that is how my life should be lived, loved, felt, every day. With vivacity, with boldness. I want to look at it, and remember that I, too, shine bright. To remember how it is possible that anything is able to shine in a world so full of dimness, sorrow, lost and broken things. To remember that it all things beautiful, lovely, joyous, and light are gifts from my Savior. That though Him, even the ugliest, saddest, foulest things can be made beautiful, clean, and joyful. That even if I had a million gorgeous Christmas trees, there would not ever be enough room beneath them to fit all the blessings He gives me.


So, while it is the Season of Giving, I'll try to make some room in my heart, too, for all the Gratitude I need to fit there.

Merry Christmas.

So, hello again!
I have some things to share.
Firstly, I got my hair cut! I actually got it cut a while back, probably 3.5 weeks ago. It is rather short! And somewhat faux-hawkish.
I think it looks quite fabulous, even though i will probably need to get it cut again soon. All the upkeep of short hair! Also, I think I will go shorter in the back--it is starting to look a bit mullet-ish these days. Still rocking it though.

Secondly! I made my Halloween costume. I was Tinkerbell, and I must say it turned out really cute! I made everything but my dress--which I borrowed from Tess. She got it at Forever 21, I'm pretty sure.

For my hair, I stuck in bits of irridescent cellophane and ivy leaves using elastics and bobby pins. I also sprayed it with glitter (yay!).

My wings I made, using 6 wire coat hangers and irridescent cellophane. I used a hot glue gun to glue the cellophane onto the hangers, and then used the gun and yarn to put all 4 of the wings together. They were awesome but kind of big--it was somewhat difficult to get around in them!

My belt is made of braided cellophane and leaves.

The dress was a little short (scandal!), so I devised this under-slip thing to modest-ify it. I cut up an old skirt I had around that I don't wear, so that only the under layer was still there (I didn't want to ruin a cute slip, and also it already had some cute green tulle sewn to the bottom of it). A lot of white was still showing and it looked odd, so I stapled some strips of cellophane to it and walla! Perfected!


I was also going to sew some cool slippers/shoes to wear, but I only finished one---it took a long time to make! Also, pulling yarn through was hard on the my li'l fingertips. Still, the one show was cool so I'm including a pic. My plan is to finish the other and then maybe I or someone I know can sport my awesome costume next year.

These puppies was constructed with stiff felt for the soles, cut in a foot-esque shape with a pointed toe, and with softer felt for the tops. I sewed it using yarn and a yarn needle.

Majorly! Awesome news! Jinny set a date to get baptised!! It will be on November 29th, three weeks from this Saturday. I am so excited for her. It's been so cool to see the joy the gospel is bringing to her, and it brings me joy seeing how happy she is.

Referral(ly): check out Threadbangers.com! It is a totally cool DIY site that I found while surfing the web for ideas on how to spiff up my dorm room when I head back to school. It has video episodes on how to do TONS of diy stuff, especially fashion and modifying clothing. I'm pretty much in love with it!

I have more to say, but I'll find time later this week.
Much love!
elyssa J.

a wonderful weekend.

It really was a great weekend, filled with some of my favorite things.

There was my Dad's homemade salsa, and breakfast burritos to enjoy it on.

I listened to the living prophet speak in General Conference.

I got to hang out with my amazing family.

We were spiritually uplifted together.

We laughed together.

Watched Dirty Jobs together.

I have an interview with the woman who (helped) cater Ashley's wedding reception.

I am rested, rejuvenated, and ready to go!

So, watch out, world!

The Ultimate Dare

This past weekend was so amazing. I drove down to California and spent the weekend with Tess. I love that girl! She is a true friend, even if it is impossible for us to share a bed (apparently I kick/touch/take over when I'm sleeping...excessively).

In any case, I got lots of sun and tons of beach time. We even rode seadoos; Tess was wowed by my amazing seadoo-ing skills (and with good reason ;] ). We even chatted up a good number of fellas, rode a roller coaster. Serenaded random people on the beach (on the uke of course), and have an all-around good time. I love hanging out with Tess because she makes it hard to take the world (or myself) too seriously.

Her mission over the weekend was to get me to do/say silly, random, outrageous things--and I did. Half because it was her birthday and i couldn't begrudge her a birthday-dare or two, and half because it really was fun.

For instance, we were shopping and we walked past the Abercrombie and Fitch store. I stopped in my tracks, staring at this huge, blown up picture of a man's naked torso, with pants pulled dangerously low. We of course giggled at it--it was completely absurd. We both agreed that those pants were just scary-low. Too-much-information-low. Seriously scandalous. And then: the dare came. Go into the shop, and closely and conspicuously inspect the photo. In a squint-your-eyes, bend-closer-to-see, put-hand-to-face-in-thoughtful-gesture-type manner. And of course, I did, and got several odd looks from patrons and employees alike.
I was sure at the time that I was making some awesome statement, but the exact intended message of that action escapes me at the moment.

Another example: Monday night we went out to P.F. Chang's, just the two of us, for dinner, and made up this whole elaborate scheme to get the entire restaurant to sing her hapy birthday. It didn't work too well; it ended up just being two waiters and my lungs at full power that sang to her. It was still sufficiently humiliating, and thus a success, nonetheless. I'm sure we convinced several of the tables around use that we were pretty intoxicated--despite the fact that all we'd had was water (and of course, neither of us drinks). Alas, our strange, crazy, obnoxious behavior does not even have that explanation (excuse?) !


In any case, I love being aroud Tess, because she's one of those friends who insists on me always being honest, being myself. It's like this unspoken challenge, the ultimate dare: "Be true to you!" Around her, I am reminded that what others think of me and how they perceive me really isn't a big deal, and that I actually can't even control that. Even if everyone on the planet thought I was crazy, or homicidal, or lazy/untrustworthy/etc., it wouldn't matter; I would still be OK. It's none of my business what people think of me.
And Tess reminds me of this, reminds me of my business. It is my job is to just live my life in such a way that brings me joy, and allows me to think well of myself and feel good about who I am. And really, if I do that, who can fault me for it?

80's Night!

After FHE we had a movie night. I think we are going to make a tradition of it (although we might move it to another night). Last week we watched Hook and dressed as pirates--it was awesome! I wish I had pics of Tess and I as pirates, but alas, I do not.

Still, I have pitchas of this week! It was 80's night, and we watched Footloose (which is actually a pretty heinous movie--but entertaining). I was so amused at all the scandalized reactions at the locker room scene (there are a few nakey man-buttocks in it).

From left to right: Erin, Alisa (both roomies), Tess, and me! Aren't my feathered bangs just fabuloso?

Erin and me. I don't know what I am doing with my hand... haha.

Tess and I are about as fly as it gets.

We totally should have been eighties chicks. We would have ROCKED that decade!

Ok sooo some peeps I don't quite know in this one...the most important one to point out though is DUDE IN THE YELLOW SWEATER who would be Drew. Party!And another of him. Because I can? And also because I want you guys to see that he really is cute. And just FYI, the yellow sweater and glasses are also for 80's night.

LOVE YOU ALL!

Elyssa Jean