Wrinkles

Did you ever have the feeling that you've been 30 your whole life? Or, perhaps, 32? Maybe it's because I'm the oldest child in my family, but I feel like I've been turning 32 for a long time. I know that there are some people who have a hard time getting older. They worry about their looks, health and mind. Maybe I will feel differently 20 years from now, but today I say, "Bring. it. on."

This is not to say that I am blessed with especially good looks, health or mind. As a matter of fact, I had several humiliating experiences this year in regards to...um....the above. And I should probably clarify that they were potentially humiliating experiences. You see, I believe...

(and have ever since the 3rd grade when a certain boy, who shall remain unnamed, called me names and spit on me, to which I turned my back and went straight to the principle with out thinking twice and got him to sit in detention AND apologize to me, even if it was begrudgingly. Did I feel bad? Did I cry? No siree Bob. I tattled. Take that Frankie.)

...you can really save face with how you react to the humiliation. You can smile and forget it (in which case, most everyone else forgets it too) or you can carry it deep in your heart until your heart breaks and you become a nuisance. Everyone feels like they're walking on egg shells around you. Bahh. BAHH, I say.

So back to getting older, I remember when I was seven or eight admiring my piano teacher's hands. She was middle aged, which to me at the time meant 32. She was Asian and beautiful and lived in this cool studio apartment in San Fransisco. Her grand piano almost took up the entire living space. Her bathroom was nasty though, I don't think she ever cleaned the grout in her tile. But her hands were lovely. I admired the short trimmed nails and scars on her hands. She often had bandages wrapped around her fingers. I asked her one time where she got those scars and she said she got them from her job as a cook.

I must have been a weird kid because I always wanted hands that had character, wisdom or showed how much I worked. (I know my mom and dad are rolling their eyes...I meant cool work, not cleaning your room work.)

Even now, I really don't mind the wrinkles creeping up around my eyes. I even have a scar on my right hand. Not from working though. No, it was from banging it on a heater on my way to band practice in 6th grade. I remember looking down my clarinet to the blood dripping off my hand and being quite startled. I had no idea it was that bad. I was running to band practice and was late and didn't have time to really look at it until we were waiting for the trumpets to tune up. But, it adds character nonetheless.

The more I think about it, the more I realize I like imperfections. Flaws that speak of some thing's true character. We had an old house in Tacoma with character. And we loved it. I don't think we will ever buy a new house. Or new car for that matter.

I don't understand why Hollywood keeps pushing all these impossibly perfect faces with impossibly flawed characters. Shouldn't we really admire people who are the other way around?

And before you call me a hypocrite, I would have married my husband even if he wasn't impossibly good looking. It just happened that way, ok? It's actually something I struggle with because I have known my whole life that I'm not a great beauty. I've always thought of myself as "cute with a nice personality" or "cute and interesting" or "cute and weird," but never beautiful. Which was always OK with me because I wasn't interested in marrying a beautiful person.

But I did, and now we have these beautiful children and I'm surround by all this beauty that just sort of compounds the fact that I'm not....as...beautiful. Which is still ok with me. But I just sometimes feel like the odd man out.

Back once again to the wrinkles. I value all the experiences I've had in my almost 32 years. I think they've made me I better person. I like the fact that people assume I know stuff because I look older. I like the fact that I don't feel as lost when I'm following new directions or that I'm not as gullible and naive.

I feel like I know what Elder Wirthlin's mom meant when she said, "Come what may and love it." Or Gratanio, in The Merchant of Venice, when he says, "With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come." Am I tempting fate? Maybe. If you believe in that sort of thing.

You see those wrinkles? They're laugh lines, crying lines, wisdom lines, sleepless-night-baby-nursing lines and I wouldn't trade them for the world.

It's 3 am....

...Do you know where your mother is?

So, before all the freaking out on Wall Street, before all the hoopla about bad mortgages, I decided to take on a paper route in order to pay off some of our bills. I do this every once in a while. I know...there are so many better paying, less tiring jobs that I could do part-time and still be a full-time mom. I can't explain why I choose this type of torture. But every time the money issue pops up, I automatically think, "Paper route."

Perhaps it's because I don't have to worry about competition, politics, or even what I wear. You just go a do and don't even have to talk to anybody.

The first couple of days are horrible. It takes a while to get used to the route and for your circadian rhythms to adjust. My mantra the first week was (brace yourselves):

Crap!
with a capital C
and that rhymes with P
and that stands for poop.

nice, huh?

I seriously think all those crooked brokers should do a paper route as punishment. Not only is it hard, menial labor, they would be forced to see how furious everyone is with them, right there in the headlines, every morning.

Getting up at an ungodly hour isn't all bad, though.
I'm forced to go to bed earlier. I actually net about the same amount of sleep as before.
It gives me time to think about a lot of things. Also, I get to listen to BBC and NPR, for a couple of hours, and I'm one of the first ones to read the headlines-- I am feeling so informed!
I'm gathering material for a book. There are so many quirky people who do paper routes. I think you have to be. I'm including myself. Also, I sometimes see some pretty interesting things on the route that early in the morning. I like to just let my imagination go wild.

Picture this:

A homely, middle-aged, never-did-much-with-his-life guy named Jim, has been doing a paper route for 15 years. In the afternoon he is a janitor at a local high school. In the evening he gorges himself with Cap'n Crunch and watches the news alone. One day, he pulls up to one of the more affluent homes, the home of a Mr. Caldwell, and he mentally notes that it his 5784th delivery to this man, his most consistent customer. Although he has never met him, Jim likes Mr. Caldwell. Mr. Caldwell tips well and leaves a good fruit cake for him at Christmas. This morning, as he is near the circular driveway, he hears gun shots and then sees a sliver car race away from the driveway on the side of the house. He doesn't own a cell phone and despite is instinct to turn around a drive away very fast, he doesn't. Tentatively, he pulls up to the circular drive way. His head lights fall upon a man lying face down at the bottom of the steps. He sits in his car for a few minutes debating what he should do. Then he sees the man lift his right hand ever so slightly. "He's alive!" Jim assesses, and carefully opens the door.

Jim takes a few steps closer to the unfortunate man. He has never been an actually witness to a crime. Information starts to trickle into his brain from years of watching the news. Phrases like, "Crime scene," "likely suspect," "finger prints," and "life sentence." Jim's instinct to run kicks in again and he turns back to his car.

"It's none of my business," he rationalizes. " 'sides, I couldn't help him anyhow." He thinks about going straight to the police station, but then worries about the questions he'll be asked. Instead he decides the best thing to do would be to phone the police, anonymously as soon as he gets home.

He takes a step and then his ears burn with a very feeble, muffled cry for help.

"Please...."

Jim turns around and looks at the man, still lying face down. He can't leave him now. He walks over, bends down, and gently turns the man on his side. Jim immediately regrets this, as now his hands and jacket are stained with blood. He wonders if this is Mr. Caldwell and assumes it is.

"Please..." he hears again, although more distinctly now.

Jim, figuring his jacket is already stained, gently puts his left arm under the man's head.

'Take.....this...." the man attempts to say.

Jim looks down at the man's right hand, clenched in a fist. He gently opens it.

Nothing.

"The....ring..."

Jim hesitates. Wouldn't this be very incriminating? Besides, it is an old, odd looking ring. A wide band of gold with one plain, brown pebble in the center of the band.

"Please....don't tell....anyone."

With that, the man's head dropped back on Jim's arm and his arms went limp. Jim sighed and gently laid the man's head back down on the ground.

He sat still for a long while, pondering. Should he call the police? The man asked him not to tell anyone. Should he just leave and pretend he didn't see anything? But he had, there was a silver car. Finally, he lifts the right hand of the unfortunate man and quickly slips off the ring from, his middle finger. His reasoning is this: Perhaps the poor man's ghost was waiting for him to take it and wouldn't be at peace until he did. No matter how timid he was, he could not refuse this dying man's last wish.

He didn't exactly feel like a stranger. After all, he had delivered the news paper to him for the last 15 years. He put the ring in his pants pocket, not wanting to even look at it.

Thinking about the silver car, and it's murderous occupants, Jim ran back to his old Mercury Mystique. Slowly he backed out of the driveway and carefully drove the rest of the way home. The last thing he needed was to be pulled over by the cops for speeding. He decided he wouldn't tell anyone. Shaking, he entered his sparsely furnished apartment, leaving 150 undelivered papers in his car.


Aaannnd....if only I could just sit and write all day. But, hark, the children, dishes, laundry, math facts, history, and all that calleth. Perhaps I'll try and finish one of these books someday. Then maybe I could give up the paper route.

Tisk tisk...

Poor, poor neglected blog. I'm sorry that I haven't been posting here. I have lots of things floating around in my brain, just begging to be released. I really need more time to be able to compose them in a way that is some what coherent. BUT here are a few tid bits that just can't wait:

Have you written your novel yet? I want to tell you that I look a books in a whole new light, after trying to write one myself. It's amazing how much more stands out to me and how much more I appreciate the thoughtful ways an author composes their work. I think everyone has at least ONE story to tell. What's stopping you from telling yours?

Who cares if it isn't a Pulitzer. Just the experience of trying to write will help you appreciate the things you read.

So, when you get going on yours, please be sure to let me know. I am excited to get back to A6's adventures.

Also, what is UP with the Democratic party? I'm just not sure I can stomach the next 5 months.

BUT I want everyone to vote. We can not throw our hands up in the air and turn our backs on democracy just because the candidates are not perfect.

Also, I had a really weird dream last night that we were taking care of someone's horses inside our house. (Our small duplex, that is) And I was worried about who would take care of them while we were in Korea.

Huh?

Actually, I think my sub-conscience is trying to tell me our house is too small and I need a vacation. Preferably to some place exotic with no horses.

It's in his kiss...

Growing up, I held this kiss as the standard for what a kiss should be. Just as the book says, this was the kiss that blew all other perfect kisses away. Notice the sunset glowing in the background, the way he tenderly holds her face, her perfect hair and sparkling crown, the gentle earnest, and of course, the horse. It's so romantic that they are on horses, because that's gotta be easy, right?- Kissing whilst on horseback? Nevertheless, I have dreamed many a dream about Wesley and myself as Buttercup. I'm sure I wasn't the only one, right?

Flash forward 14 years. I'm 31. I've been married almost 11 years. I have four children.

I can tell you that the most convincing kiss is not the one on horse back in the sunset. Let me set the scene for you:

7pm. Man enters house. Looks at bare table. Steps over toys and books. Crosses over sprawled children to wife sitting on chair with child on lap. Man looks over messy hair, bags under eyes, boogers on shirt, slight double chin, hole in jeans, pimple on nose, and incredibly dirty feet. Man reaches down and firmly kisses wife.

That, my friends is the kiss of true love. I'd gladly give up all my first kisses for it.

Any Questions? Didn't think so.


*This post has been entered in Scribbit's Write Away contest for August.

To be good, or not to be good...

So much of me wants to be a good, righteous person. I want to read uplifting literature. I want to be a good visiting teacher. I love listening to conference. I love to read the scriptures. I want to feel the spirit when I pray. I want to improve my talents and help others. I want to teach my children to be kind, honest, true, chaste, benevolent, etc.

BUT...

there is a small part of me that wants to watch meaningless TV shows and let my brain go numb. It's the same part that wants to let her hair down and rock out to some obscure garage band and stay up way too late playing Super Mario Brothers just so I can get to the last level. The same very small part that makes me neglect my family and hygiene to finish all the Twilight books in a week.

I can't help comparing myself to other people. When I see someone like (insert any relief society general president here) I think to myself, "I'm sure she would never give her children top ramen for dinner so that she could spend an hour on the computer reading other people's blogs. I'm just not in the same league."

And the question is, Do I want to be?

I suppose that this is what is meant by "putting off the natural man." Why is it hard to put it off? What is it about conforming our own will to someone else's that makes us want to dig our heels in and kick and scream? That is the test of this life, is it not? But why does it feel so good to do what we want to do and throw caution to the wind?

We are all in different places. I guess the key is to be moving forward.

I can see now that I am an old lady and mother of four why it is so important to discipline myself and bridle my passions. I have been much happier when I put other's needs above my own and when I put my Father's will first. I'm not saying it's easy. Surely the Lord knew what he was talking about when he said, "line upon line."

I don't watch as much TV as I use too. It's been along time since I played Mario, Tetris or Minesweeper. I will probably spend a day in solitude when Breaking Dawn comes out in August, but I have been good about reading my other books in moderation.

I suppose I have an over-active conscience. But I, like Hamlet conclude that, "conscience doth make cowards of us all." In other words, I'm thankful for my conscience (read: parents who taught me right from wrong and Holy Spirit who helps me more than I probably realize), so that when I come to those crossroads in life I am compelled to do what is right and I am afraid to do what is wrong. First, because I was afraid of the consequences. Later, because I was afraid to hurt someone I loved.

Nobody wakes up a perfect person. We are not going to be perfect people in this life. Let us therefore pick ourselves up and move forward. To learn from the past. To try again.

To be good.

It hurts

Disappointment is so disappointing.

Some people would rather not hope, for fear of being disappointed.
Some people would give up their faith, because of disappointment's looming shadow.
Some will say it's not possible, not probable, not likely to happen,
no chance, no way.

Disappointment hurts. But other than that, what is there to fear?

Loss of face? Loss of dignity? What?

I will have faith and hope and risk the looming shadow because in the end,
those without these

will be disappointed.