Bali soup

I spent my birthday last year in Bali and it was nothing short of incredible. I could go on and on. The food was lovely, but not really my thing. I'm more of a cheeseburger girl. By the end of the trip, I was ready to be done with the rabbit food and get back to some meat. On the last night, we all ate together at a tiny little restaurant called The Melting Wok. The menu was limited and all pretty rabbit food like, so I just ordered what our guide recommended, not really expecting much. That soup turned out to be hands down one of the best things I have ever put in my mouth. I begged the owner for the recipe, but she was unwilling to run the risk that I would move to Bali and open up a restaurant of my own with which she simply could not compete. Or something.

Anyhow, I was faced with the daunting task of replicating the recipe myself. Having never done much experimenting in kitchen, I was intimidated. But I have done it! I could not be more excited about it! I searched for similar recipes and found this one. It was a good starting point, but still required a few trial runs with changes and tweaks to get it right. If I ever get to go back to Bail, I'll go back to the Melting Wok and compare, but for now, I am so happy with this recipe.

3 cups fresh spinach leaves

1/2 pound snow peas, trimmed and cut in half crosswise

1 (5 3/4-ounce) package pad thai noodles (wide rice stick noodles)

1 tablespoon canola oil

1/4 cup thinly sliced shallots

2 teaspoons red curry paste

1 1/2 teaspoons curry powder

1/2 teaspoon ground turmeric

1/2 teaspoon ground coriander

2 garlic cloves, minced

Enough chicken bouillon for 6 cups of broth (but not that much water!)

2 tablespoons fresh lemongrass *

2-4 tablespoons sambal (depending on how spicy you like it)

2 (13.5-ounce) cans coconut milk

2 1/2 cups shredded cooked chicken breast (about 1 pound)

1/2 cup chopped green onions

2 tablespoons sugar

2 tablespoons fish sauce

1/2 cup chopped fresh cilantro

A splash or two of lime juice

Bring a large pot of water to a boil. Add the snow peas and the spinach for 30 seconds, then remove with a slotted spoon. Add rice noodles and boil for 2-3 minutes. Drain, but reserve 4 cups of water, add bouillon and set aside. Back in the pot, heat oil and add shallots, curry paste, curry powder, turmeric, coriander, and garlic. Sautee for 1 minute. Add chicken broth, lemongrass, and sambal. Bring to a boil, then add coconut milk. Return to a boil, then reduce heat and simmer for 5 minutes. Add chicken, green onions, sugar, and fish sauce (unless, like me, your husband hates fish sauce and you're not allowed to have it in the house) and cook for 2 minutes. Return peas, spinach, and noodles to the pot and add cilantro and lime juice. Add some more sambal. And then some more. Hmmm maybe just a bit more. Don't be a wuss.

I hope you love this soup as much as I do (which is a lot). My husband says this is now his favorite thing that I make. But if you have suggestions, I'm open to them, so let me know!

how I fell in love with my bullet journal

Something that I learned (or maybe relearned) about myself this year is that I'm insanely motivated by check marks. In fact, keeping a to-do list proved to be one of the most helpful tools for overcoming my baby blues. But until now that to-do list has been scrawled on scrap paper or kept on an app that somehow takes the fun out of crossing things off. I decided I wanted a planner that would help me be my most productive self and one that was beautiful.

Problems:
1. In a bound planner, if I miss a few days for vacation or sickness, those are wasted pages. If you need extra pages for something, too bad.
2. A binder is so bulky and...un-chic. Or you can buy a chic one for $$$ and then special pages to fit it for $$$.
3. I searched for ages trying to find the perfect layout, But nothing was perfect. I wanted perfect. I even tried to design my own to print.
4. Printing your own planner pages is super expensive.
5. When you buy a planner, you are committed for that year. No take-backs. I just wasn't ready for that kind of commitment.

Solution:
Bullet Journal

In a bullet journal, you write in as much or as little as you want. You choose if you want monthly spreads, weekly spreads, daily spreads, or all three. And, you can change your mind about any of that at any time! In a bullet journal you can add in notes and quotes, lists and doodles, you can tape in photos or tickets or whatever you like. In a bullet journal, you never waste space or run out of space--until your journal is full, of course.

I started by watching this video about a bare-bones bullet journal. It was immediately apparent that this system would solve many of the aforementioned problems with a journal. But if you google image search 'bullet journal', you'll see that a bullet journal can be so much more. It can be beautiful. My personal favorite is Boho Berry, and I took a lot of inspiration from her designs. But that's the best thing about a bullet journal- it is yours and yours alone. It is a planner designed for you by you to perfectly meet your needs. And since mine is beautiful, I enjoy using it and productivity is even more fun! I have been experimenting with different layouts in some blank pages of an older journal, but for 2016 I have a band new one that I am so excited about! When I get back from my Christmas vacation I will share my weekly and daily layouts, but here are some teaser pics for now.

Thanks to Boho Berry for the mandala tutorial!

Beyonce at the Super Bowl

I feel the need, as I often do, to soften my opinions with a few nice disclaimers before I begin: Beyonce is an incredibly talented and beautiful woman, and I'm sure she has a lot of other wonderful characteristics that I could point out if I knew her better.

But I strongly disapprove of her Super Bowl performance. And it has saddened me to see how many women raved about it. I wish they could see what I see.

Today I came across this article on Facebook entitled "A Dance of Power, Not Sex". Just in case you don't want to read it, it talks about the lack of male influence in Beyonce's show, both on the level of the dancers as well as on the level of production. Which is a great point......I guess? Score one for Beyonce that she didn't have half naked men grinding up against her in her show. But the article also claims that this is what normal people saw from that show, and that anyone who noticed the super skimpy clothing and provocative movements only noticed that because they had a dirty mind to begin with. I find that insulting. So the only reason I am an advocate for modesty and have such concern for the young women of America is because I have a dirty mind? I think not.

Do you think the young girls of America saw power and female independence? I doubt it. Or even if they did, I think they could hardly escape another message, that is far too frequent already: that showing more skin goes hand in hand with being more popular and even more successful. And I don't think they saw that because they are bad people, I think they saw that because society has trained them to see that.

Then there's the issue of objectifying women. The article above claims that those of us with dirty minds saw too much sexiness because we objectify women. Immodesty inevitably leads to objectifying women. Don't believe me? Check out this article from cracked.com that lists several ways that dressing sexy degrades women, one of which is that even women objectify women. The "Defiant Dance" article even talked about examples of women objectifying Beyonce, although the article missed the point that this was a bad thing. It quoted women's reaction to the half-time show along the lines of "I want her figure". This kills me. I wish so terribly that America had more truly strong and independent female role models that could inspire us to greater goals than merely having a body different from the one we already have. We have far too many "role models" that do that to us already.

And, maybe more importantly, the world needs more strong women like my mom, who are willing to speak out against the inappropriate whenever it rears its ugly head.

Dr. Phil's "slut shaming": my two cents

I watched Dr. Phil at the gym today, which was a mistake. It just got me all riled up with opinions and feelings and things, but no way to tell the guests on his show what I thought of their arguments. It made it worse that today's topic is something that I feel so strongly about. So here are my two cents about Dr. Phil's show about "slut shaming".

Let me be clear from the beginning that being mean to people is never OK. One of my favorite Bible stories is of Jesus forgiving the adulteress, and he never once called her a slut. That being said....

Dr. Phil asked his guest "slut shamer" a couple of questions, the answer to which seemed so obvious that the slut shamer was left speechless. For example, "Doesn't she have the right to decide how she's going to dress?" The poor guy couldn't say yes, because that would be admitting that he's wrong, but he couldn't say no or they'd burn him at the stake then and there.

Well, since Dr. Phil and his mostly female audience can't burn me, so I'll say it. No. She absolutely doesn't have that right. If I decide I'm sick of clothes and I go to the grocery store naked as a jay bird, I'd get arrested for "indecent exposure". So can I wear my most revealing lingerie to the grocery store? No. So I only have the right to wear whatever I want, so long as society accepts it.

Then Dr. Phil asked the slut shamer "So who gets to decide what she can and can't wear? You?" Faced with the same double edged sword dilemma as the previous question, he again stumbled for something to say. But me, I'll say it. Yes, he absolutely does have the right to tell her what is OK and what is not OK to wear.

 Well, who decided that being naked in the grocery store was indecent? The cop arresting me? No, society. Society decided that that's not OK. Society doesn't give me the right to run around naked. But if society makes the rules, then the slut shamer has as much right to dictate what is appropriate or not as the scantily clad woman on the show does, because they are both members of society. In fact, I'd go so far as to say he has a responsibility to take a stand for modesty (thought maybe in a nicer way). If members of society who don't approve of sluttiness keep their mouths shut to escape being labeled as judgmental or closed minded or oppressive, then they will end up living in a society where it is OK to go to the grocery store in sexy lingerie. Heck, it's already OK and even expected to wear it to Halloween parties.

One of the guests had the argument that since men sleeping around is often applauded, women shouldn't be punished for the same activity by being called sluts or whores. Well......OK.......I see where you're coming from. And I agree that it's not strictly fair, and again I'm against being mean. but if you're searching for gender equality, then adopting men's weaknesses is a stupid way of doing it, and whining that they get to make poor decisions without consequences so you should be able to too is  a childish way of doing it. And if men are hormone driven and endlessly promiscuous as you say, then dressing up like sex dolls and advertising that you can be exactly what they want you to be--well I don't think that accomplishes your purposes either.

Of course, you can't have a show on sluttiness without someone who, by the standards of the slut shamer, is a slut, right? Well, let's just say she looked the part. Part of her intro was a montage of photos of her, apparently that she'd posted to the internet, that were so provocative and revealing that they had to be blurred to save the blushing and modest face of daytime television (*cough*). And then she proceeded to get all butt-hurt that the slut shamer called her a slut. Where do I even start?

For one thing, if I go around always wearing black with black makeup and metal spikes adorning all my things and go to vampire clubs, I can't get my panties in a bunch if someone calls me goth. If I insist on always having Channel and Gucci and Prada and Armani things, I can't go crying to mommy that someone called me rich at school.

For another thing, by getting offended because people regularly call you a slut, you are admitting that being a slut is a bad thing, or it wouldn't be an insult. But you keep on acting like a slut. So either clean up your act or stop complaining that people see you for what you publish yourself to be.

Then, right before my workout was done and I had to leave, a seeming voice of reason came. A lady who, like me, didn't want to persecute people who exhibit slutty behavior (also known as sluts), but was an advocate for modesty. I was able to hear one great, wonderful, faith-in-humanity-restoring point from her. What about young girls? What are slutty women teaching them? That in order to be attractive to men you have to wear lingerie to the grocery store? That the only really redeeming or attractive quality a woman can have is her body? That you're only attractive if you can be sexier and more provocative than the next girl? And, let's add the poor young boys. How are they supposed to grow up respecting women if all the girls they know are posting provocative pictures of themselves, like that's all their good for? How is anyone supposed to grow up to have functional and healthy relationships?

So, dear women of the world, dress modestly. Dress like you respect yourself and care about the well being of future generations. Stop dressing like showing more skin is the only way to get people to like you.. It just makes you look desperate anyway.

dear chick-fil-a

Dear Chick-fil-A,

I noticed that you seem to be under heavy fire and criticism on the internet and I wanted to extend my deepest sympathies to you. It would seem that you have been labeled a "bigot" because of "documented support of anti-gay groups". As a result, you have lost the friendship of the Jim Henson Company and no doubt much business from the "more open minded" that will no longer patronize such a closed-minded business.

I thought you might like to know that there are some people on your side, and I thought maybe someone out there might like to know why I'm on your side. I feel I have good reasons, neither of which is that I am opposed to gay marriage. (I am against gay marriage, that just doesn't factor into my arguments).

1. The Jim Henson Company will no longer allow you to include Muppet toys in your kid's meals because you are a "bigot". A bigot is "a person who is utterly intolerant of any differeing creed belief, or opinion", according to dictionary.com. So, as far as I can tell, The Jim Henson Company is the one acting like a bigot. If you had refused to sell their toys because they are pro-gay marriage, then you 'd have been a bigot. But, seeing as how you accepted the fact that not everyone sees the world the way you do and still got along with them just fine shows that you are the bigger person (or in this case, corporation). Obviously, I disagree with the Jim Henson Company's views. But I'm not going to run out and burn my Muppets from Space DVD. I love that movie!

2. One of the most nonsensical criticisms I have found against you is the following image.

Obviously the creator intended to show how ridiculous you are for having a different opinion from all the other restaurant owners. I have two objections. Firstly, what in the world does your political stance on gay marriage have to do with fried chicken? It's not like every Chick-fil-A meal comes with anti-gay marriage propaganda, and I'm quite sure your restaurant doesn't ask you about your opinion before serving you food. Secondly, who bothers to dig up a restaurant owners opinions about stuff before consenting to eat there? I surely don't. And even for those who do, if you refuse to do business with anyone who doesn't agree with everything you think or believe, that makes YOU the bigot.

And so Chick-fil-A, I wish you the best. I pray there are enough open minded people out there to believe that a difference of opinion or belief doesn't mean we have to cut all ties or go on the offensive.

Love, Ashlee

one nation under God

This has been on my mind for while, ever since my brother and I had a conversation about atheists trying to ban or remove crosses from military sites or other sites of sacrifice or loss. The whole concept confuses me. If I came to your house after a loved one died and tried to erect a cross in your front yard, then your protest would be understandable. I fully support your right to not believe in God, and you shouldn't have to act like you do. But the other side of that coin is that you can't run around yelling at other people who do believe in God and act accordingly that they are cramping your style.

But there is a bigger picture here that I don't expect any atheist understand or agree with, but I think it implies a great responsibility for the rest of us.

America is Christian. There, I said it. And I don't mean as a sum of its parts, that the majority of citizens are Christian. I mean America is Christian, just like the Bible is.

We recently celebrated the 4th of July, the "birthday of America", our independence day. We celebrate on this day because it was the day that our founding father's signed the Declaration of Independence, even though our fight for independence hadn't even begun.

This is the first paragraph of that first, American document.

When in the Course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another, and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature's God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation.

See? Nature's God? It was an appeal to our God-given rights that created our great nation in the first place. And it is to that God that we owe thanks that our great nation survived the War of Independence. Consider the last verse of our National Anthem, that struck me as we sang it on Sunday.

Oh! thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand
Between their loved home and the war's desolation!
Blest with victory and peace, may the heav'n rescued land
Praise the Power that hath made and preserved us a nation.
Then conquer we must, when our cause it is just,
And this be our motto: "In God is our trust."
And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!

I'm sure I don't need to enumerate other evidences such as the pledge of allegiance as referenced by my post title or the reminder on our money "In God we Trust". But I will quote a verse from the Book of Mormon that underlines my point. Ether 3:2 says,

"And he had sworn in his wrath unto the brother of Jared, that whoso should possess this land of promise, from that time henceforth and forever, should serve him, the true and only God, or they should be swept off when the fullness of his wrath should come upon them."

I guess what I'm saying is that if atheists succeed in robbing us of one of the most important aspects of our nation, or if we casually forget what America is, what makes it great, we are in for big trouble. Again, I'm not trying to force Christianity on anyone, but if you don't like the fact that America is Christian and are hell-bent on changing that, maybe you should consider Europe. It's nice there.

havasupai

I'd been looking forward to this vacation for years, ever since my sister Cassity went in 2008 and raved about it. It seemed right up my alley-hiking, camping, stunning waterfalls-what's not to love? So when Christian couldn't get enough work off to accompany me I was sad, but decided to go anyway.

My older Ryan said he'd pick me up at 4 am, but as is all too typical with my family, he didn't show until 4:45. So I jumped into his "monstrosity of a vehicle" and we began the 9 hour drive.

On my way into a McDonald's in Vegas to relieve myself, a wrinkly, gangly black man was sitting by the entrance and I braced myself for when he would surely ask me for money. Instead, he asked me, "D'you buy that van that way?" "No," I replied, "my brother made it that way. He's crazy." He laughed.

Around 3 in the afternoon we finally reached the trailhead. While Ryan finished packing things that were strewn about his van, I walked to the office to see if I could get anymore information (we couldn't see where the trail started from our parking spot). The office was padlocked and vacant, but I did find these unhelpful and downright confusing signs.

So we were forbidden to hike at night and there was no day hiking. Hmmm. Well, we'd driven 9 hours and weren't about to head back, so a nice couple in the parking lot pointed us to the trailhead and we began our descent into the Grand Canyon.

At first it looked really cool, hiking down in like that. I'd never seen the Grand Canyon before, and now I was really experiencing it. Unfortunately, after only a mile or two of the total eight for us to hike that day, the heat exhaustion set in. I had a headache, I was sweating faster than I could drink, and I felt like throwing up. Ryan took good care of me, making me rest in the shade and sharing his water that was colder than mine, but it put a serious damper on how excited I was to continue. The trail seemed to stretch on forever, with no sign of hope or life or water-nothing but dry and deadly desert.

Eventually we made it to the villiage and started seeing signs "Campground -->" We followed sign after sign and found no campground and it began to seem like some sort of cruel joke. When we finally arrived at the fabled campground it was dark and it took us a while to find our friends and family waiting for us. It was only eight miles (much shorter than my beloved Timp hike) and it was all downhill, but I was exhausted and my calves HURT. And I'll admit it, we were grumpy.

The next day my calves were like bricks, but I told them I was the boss, and I told them to walk. We visited a few different waterfalls that day that were pretty neat, and I'd say the falls match any of the marvelous ones I saw in Croatia.

The water was deliciously cold, a fact that was enhanced by how dang hot it was. It seemed you stepped out of the water for a moment and you were dry, another moment and you were soaked again- this time in sweat.

That night I was rudely awoken by a cockroach crawling on my face and should have known then that nothing good could come of a day that started off that way. We set off for Cassity's favorite falls, and I'll admit the first part of the hike was nifty. Not long after leaving the campground we came to the top of the biggest waterfall of all, and had to climb in and out of the rock walls, clinging for dear life to the chains along the way, on the near vertical descent to the bottom of the falls.

For someone who is afraid of heights, it was a little nerve racking, but fun all the same. If only we had stopped there.

The trail from then to Cassity's favorite falls was in and out of the water, and even though I'd taped my emerging blisters, it didn't take long for my wet Chaco's to start to be a nuisance. Plus, my infamously bad knees were fed up with what I had been putting them through, and they would not be ignored any longer. After many ups and downs and false turns, I was very much ready to be done and swim and then head home. Still, it was intriguing in a way to hike through the random jungle there in the middle of the desert; it was eerie and out of place.

After a small eternity- or at least that's how it seemed to my knees and everything below- we reached Beaver Falls, but the trail that Cassity remembered had been wiped out by a flood, and we couldn't figure out a way down to the swimming hole. Ryan was eager to swim and opted for climbing down the cliff face, an option way to dangerous and scary for me. The others opted for a different, more accessible swimming spot, but I didn't feel good about leaving Ryan alone, so I followed the directions of some others already swimming on an easier way to get in. After a while it became clear that I was searching in vain, there was no easy way down. I was lost, frightened, in pain, frustrated and alone. When I finally found the spot where Ryan had climbed down, it was still too scary and I sat down and sobbed. Loud enough for the swimmers to hear me over the waterfall. They climbed up and helped me down the cliff as I sobbed in terror; I knew I would fall and die right there. We swam for a while in the mediocre swimming pool, but it just wasn't that great. We wasted time looking for an easier escape route, but eventually had to leave the way we came, with people dragging me along through tears of terror.

After the fact, Ryan admitted that it was foolish to attempt such a climb without safety gear. Needless to say that I was not exactly in the mood for the hike back to camp.

Ryan and I were still super achy from the hike in, and he needed to get back to work as soon as possible, so we decided to take the helicopter out instead of hike. I was pleased that my knees and blisters would be spared any more strain, and that heat exhaustion wouldn't be an issue again, but mostly I was excited about how much that would expedite my return to my husband.

Tuesday morning, my legs below the knees were swollen and I hobbled along like a granny. The hike from the campground to the village was probably only about a mile, but the whole time I just kept telling myself it was only a mile, and then a helicopter ride. I could do that. Very few times in my life have been as painfully disappointing as when we learned that the helicopter wouldn't fly again for two days; we would have to hike out after all.

We waited for some cloud cover and headed out. I clenched my teeth and hobbled along out of pure necessity, not knowing how I was going to manage this. Eventually it started to rain, and as the first sign at the office said, it was monsoon season and there was a danger of a flash flood. We found high ground and nervously waited it out. then the sun came out and it made progressing on our hike a foolish endeavor, so we waited it out in the shade. I didn't like stopping because it was hard to get my legs going again, but we had no choice. The last mile was the hardest- the steepest parts and the seemingly endless switchbacks as you exit the canyon. I only made it of pure necessity, of a desire to leave that horrible deathtrap and to see Christian as soon as possible. So make it I did, but just barely.

Ryan drove pretty much all through the night, so I got home early on the 4th, and was able to spend the whole day eating, watching Deep Space Nine, and resting my still swollen legs. They are mostly all better now, but I probably won't be returning to Havasupai- in fact I scoffed at the friendly sign on the way out inviting me to "Come again!".

dear world (but mostly women),

I have a few things that I need to tell you, because they have been weighing on my mind a lot of late. I know I've said it before, but I don't feel like I'm getting through to you. 


The things that you care about make me so sad. Standing in line in the grocery store, all the magazines are about the same things. Lose ten pounds, bikini body by June, miracle diet discovery, latest fashion trends, summer's hottest hairstyles, and 99 sex moves to wow him. Always the same. Do you realize how vain you have become? I'm OK with keeping the magazines with tasty recipes, but why can't there be more magazines about how to strengthen your marriage, 10 secrets to being cheerful, most needed volunteers this season, fiscal responsibility and budget planning, and more magazines about heallth (which is not synonymous with weight loss)?

But it's not just the magazines, it's TV, the internet, the radio, all more of the same. All day, everyday, everywhere. It makes me sad. It makes me sad to see so many of you, especially women, focusing your energies on things that, not only don't really matter, but also are generally unattainable. It can only lead to a life lacking in fulfillment at best, and self loathing at worst. 


At least Tina Fey knows what I'm talking about. 


Now every girl is expected to have Caucasian blue eyes, full Spanish lips, a classic button nose, hairless Asian skin with a California tan, a Jamaican dance hall ass, long Swedish legs, small Japanese feet, the abs of a lesbian gym owner, the hips of a nine-year-old boy, the arms of Michelle Obama, and doll tits. The person closest to actually achieving this look is Kim Kardashian, who, as we know, was made by Russian scientists to sabotage our athletes.”

I wish girls everywhere could see what Tina Fey and I see. It's ridiculous. It's silly. And, if it weren't so terribly heart wrenching and depressing, it would be comical.

So put down your copy of Vanity Fair and stop comparing yourself to airbrushed and anorexic women. Close Polyvore and stop fantasizing about keeping up with every fashion trend that you can't afford. Go eat a cheeseburger (once in a while) and stop hating yourself for not eating kale and protein shakes all the time. Go work out for how it makes you feel instead of how it might help you look more like Kim Kardashian. And then.....get over yourself and go live life!

the big day

I'd been practicing for months. Coaxing my hair into any sort of curl was a painstaking and physically and emotionally draining process, but my fancy dress demanded to be topped by fancy hair, so I did my best. And when the big day arrived, I was confident in my ability to achieve a certain level of success. I just had to wake up at 4:30 to do so. So I set my alarm and went to bed, only to awaken every couple of hours. I kept trying to tell my body to take advantage of what little sleep time it had, since the following day would be demanding, but to no avail. Until suddenly it was 7:00 and my mom was knocking on my hotel room door. And I was still in bed. Whoops. I can't really explain how it happened. Maybe it was the sleeping pill finally kicking in. Maybe it was the white noise of that blasted heater. All I knew was that I now had only 20 minutes to get ready. On my wedding day. So I did. For the most part, I was a pretty good sport about it, and I was on time to the temple at 7:30.

The session and the sealing were both beautiful and wonderful experiences. Pictures went well, with only a few, minor hiccups. The luncheon was fun and tasty, and I was so grateful for everyone who came all the way to Manti to be with us on our special day. But then the madness set in.

We were a little late getting back from Manti, but I wasn't too worried, since my woefully straight hair would require very little touch up before the reception. But first Christian and I had to pick up the flowers to decorate the reception hall. Seven dozen vendela roses that I carefully coordinated and that I was really excited about-Gone. Just gone. The Flower Patch said that someone had already picked them up, which was crazy talk, no one had. I tried to keep it together and remind myself that it wasn't directly the fault of the girl trying to help me, but I was upset, and I think justifiably so. She took me back to their fridge and let me have my choice of their pitifully small selection. Crestfallen, I settled for some red roses that would not match my wedding colors, but at least they wouldn't clash too much.

So Christian and I were late to our own reception. There were already guests there when we arrived, still in our luncheon clothes, with the chair covers and sashes and the red roses in tow. Wonderfully nice people put the covers on and put the roses in vases on the tables for me while I got into my dress. I thought for sure that things would go smoothly now. Not so.

The shoes that I was supposed to wear with my wedding dress were no where to be found, and Christian's tux was locked in a car to which we could not find the keys. So I spent most of the reception barefoot, and Christian spent the first twenty minutes in a white dress shirt with no tie. We were so occupied with these things that we forgot to give my side of the family the matching ties that Christian's mom so graciously bought for everyone, and we forgot to put out the sign in book that Christian had spent a lot of time and money on making himself. The caterer was understaffed and other people had to pitch in. When the time came to clean up, some of the people in charge were MIA. But I was done. Christian and I were off to Park City, deciding that they could burn down the reception hall for all we cared.

And at the end of the day, everything was great. I was married to my love. I was part of an eternal family. I had gained so many family members that I loved. I was blessed with friends to pitch in and fill in the gaps left by...less reliable people. It was one crazy roller coaster getting there, and my reception might not have been exactly what I had hoped, but the end result was the same, and that's all that really matters.

why I don't believe in anger

When you read the title of this post, you probably interpreted the word 'believe' in the sense that "I don't believe in anger the same way I don't believe in premarital sex," meaning that I am opposed to it, that I avoid it. But what I really meant was something more like, "I don't believe in anger the same way I don't believe in fairies," meaning I think it is a myth, something imaginary. So yes, when you say you are angry, I believe you are making it up. Now that all of you are "angry" with me for questioning your emotions, let me explain.

Out of all the things they tried to teach me in elementary school, most have gone to my subconscious, a vast pile of things I know but don't remember learning. A few lessons stand out, though, and one of them is that anger doesn't exist. Perhaps I remember it so well because it was an object lesson, or perhaps because over the course of my life, I have repeatedly noticed evidence to back it up. The object was a Hershey's kiss. The premise was that the thin, shiny wrapper was the anger that only served to mask another emotion. The underlying emotion, represented by the chocolate, was the bulk of the real problem. One could not properly deal with the issue (chocolate) without removing the anger (the wrapper) and seeing the problem for what it really was.

Anger can be a mask for a multitude of unpleasant emotions. Frustration (disappointed expectations), hurt feelings, sadness. In my personal case, anger is often (OK, almost always) a mask for hunger. But then I think to myself, "I'm not really angry with this person. I'm just hungry." This allows me to not be angry. Do I always succeed at being pleasant to be around when I'm hungry? No. But sometimes I do. It's possible, because I recognize the real problem. Imagine, however, that I didn't know, that I went around being angry and not realizing how hungry I was. I would be a very unpleasant person, upset about various real or perceived offenses that really didn't matter. I would endeavor to force my bad mood on those around me and damage the relationship I had with those people. And I would not be fixing anything, because I'm not dealing with the real issue.

It sounds silly with hunger, but imagine someone I loved hurt my feelings. I feel negative emotions because I love that person and desire their good opinion, I desire a good, strong, loving relationship with them. But admitting this is hard. Being vulnerable is hard. And dealing with those kind of hurt feelings can be hard. The easy way is to throw on the shiny wrapper of self-righteous anger. It gives us a false sense of superiority and of control, so in a way it makes us feel better. But what does anger do? It belittles the other person in order to feed the false superiority, it builds walls between the two people in self-defense. In effect, it worsens the very problem that it is masking. You cared enough about the relationship to feel hurt in the first place, and to "fix" the problem, you are damaging it even more.

I believe this is why the JST removes the "without cause" from Matthew 5:22 "whosoever is angry with his brother without a cause is in danger of the judgement" I believe this scripture constitutes a commandment to deal with real emotions and real issues instead of choosing anger. I believe that we are not given commandments over which we have no agency, and as such, I believe that we can choose which emotions to allow and which to cast out. I believe we choose how to deal with those emotions, and that anger is an ineffective and destructive way of doing that. And that's why I don't believe in anger.

why I don't vote

My sister will be turning 18 soon (yikes!) and received a letter from an elected official trying to solidify her vote. It prompted her to ask who I was going to vote for in the upcoming elections. She didn't understand why I wasn't going to vote, and I struggled to explain how I feel about it. But then I found an example that I'd like to share with you.

I consider myself to be a peacemaker. Not because I'm a saint, just because conflict makes me uncomfortable, and I'd rather we all just be friends. As such, I am rather adept at seeing both sides of any given argument; even when an issue seems to be completely black and white, I can sometimes just sense that there's another side, I just haven't found it yet.

For example, Kony 2012. Surely there could only be one stance on this one, right? What sane person could argue against bringing such a deplorable human being to justice? However, you'll notice that I did not repost any emotional videos rallying support for that cause. I just felt like...something was off. Maybe I just didn't think that posting that video would change anything. Maybe I prefer to be blissfully ignorant of vast miseries that I cannot cure. Or maybe I just have a sixth sense for different but valid points of view. Anyway, yesterday Christian showed me this, which states rather convincingly the other side of the argument. I thought it was interesting and informative. http://thedailywh.at/2012/03/07/on-kony-2012-2/

And it seemed like such a great cause, a no-brainer! If such a worthy cause could have definite cons, what of a politician? I can form opinions on actions but I have trouble forming opinions on people. Any president we have is going to do things that I disagree with and other things that I support. In regards to most of the issues, I don't consider myself well-enough educated on the issues to for my opinion to really matter, and if I were well-enough informed, I would see the good in both candidates. Sure, I'd like to vote for the candidate who promises to lower gas prices, but for now I will leave the voting to those more qualified and who have a better understanding of the big picture.

best Christmas Ever

I was fairly certain my week in Washington would contain a proposal, and I knew I would be staying in a giant Italian villa, so I was excited. But I had no idea just how awesome it would be.
As soon as I had walked in the door, Christian's nieces and nephew came to meet and greet me, including hugs. It was just the first taste of how welcoming his family would be. In fact, they started to feel just like family to me in only a couple of days, even before Christian asked me (officially) to be a part of it. Then they eagerly led me on a whirlwind tour of the house, though it still took me a while to learn how to get to my bedroom. Christian's sister offered to tape little fishies on the wall leading to my room so that I wouldn't get lost. It was such a beautiful house.


And who wouldn't want to stay in a house with someone like this cooking for you?


But, like I said, what I was most excited for was the proposal. Christian had mentioned that there was a beautiful park where he wanted to take me for a walk. So when we were walking in this incredible, snowy, enchanted park, I thought it just might be time.


I wasn't too worried when it didn't happen. I just figured that all his hints about my shiny little Christmas present meant that he would pop the question on Christmas day, and decided to be patient just a few more days.

On Christmas Eve, I was in the middle of crochet/knitting lessons with his oldest nieces when Christian asked me if I wanted to go for a ride. I almost said no because I was in the middle of something, but decided to go. His Dad loaded us into the bucket of his tractor and carried us across the field to an incline with a gap in the trees that was perfectly positioned to watch the sunset.


As we sat there watching the beautiful sunset and listening to Christmas music, my suspicions were once again aroused. At one point Christian pulled his phone out of his pocket and I was sure it was going to be a ring instead. But then Bruce started to back up the tractor and we headed back toward the house. "It's OK, I told myself. Tomorrow." But we didn't head toward the house. We headed instead toward a grove of trees on the edge of their property, and Bruce dropped us off for a walk. I thought maybe he just thought we'd enjoy it or maybe he had business to do with his tractor and needed us out. Then, as we turned a corner on the path, this is what I saw.


Candles and hot chocolate and fancy German Christmas cookies. I asked Christian what were in the cookies, to which he slyly answered that it was a "secret recipe". Turned out the secret recipe contained traces of tree nuts, to which I am allergic. For a moment, I think Christian thought he had poisoned me and thereby botched the whole thing. But it was only a trace so I was OK, and Christian literally threw my cookie away, just to be safe.

See that red box with the green ribbon? This is what was inside.


When we went inside, his sister asked if I would be her sister as she hugged me. I said yes, but really I felt like I already was. We then feasted on a fancy prime rib dinner and enjoyed a wonderful pageant put on by the little ones.



Christmas morning was equally delightful, with more presents than I had ever seen under one tree, gleeful children, and being showered with unexpected gifts from my new family.


In short, it was a Christmas filled with everything that makes Christmas wonderful to me. Family (especially children), delicious food and goodies, remembering the Savior, and presents. I got the best Christmas gift of all this year, and it was definitely the best Christmas ever.

P.S. Our date is April 7th, in the Manti, UT temple!

beauty

There is a saying that beauty is in the eye of the beholder. I think I had to hear that saying a few (billion) times to really understand what it means, that everyone has a different standard or definition of beauty, a different idea of what qualifies as beautiful. The world is busy contradicting this bit of tried wisdom by convincing you that there is only one beauty ideal and that every woman should strive and sweat and starve and spend in order to approach this ideal. Unfortunately, the ideal presented in the media is not only unrealistic (plastic surgery, make-up artists, air brushing), it's unhealthy. Those "beautiful" models you see in the media, the ones who are 6'2" and 120 lbs.-- are underweight.

Generally, health and beauty go hand in hand. Shiny hair, soft skin, and white teeth, for example. It's natural selection. So why have we let the media separate them? And what sense does it make to put beauty before health in our list of priorities? I fully support America's getting in shape. I support exercise and healthy eating habits. I support losing weight when needed. But I DO NOT support the media inflicting body image issues and self-hatred on women and girls by lying to them about what the perfect body looks like.

Now, I want to be beautiful as much as the next girl, but, according to this adage, I cannot be beautiful to everyone. So who do I want to be beautiful for? Do I want to be beautiful to all the shameless gawkers at the gym? Do I want to be beautiful to the men that spend their time drooling over Victoria Secret catalogs? Do I want to be beautiful to someone who buys into the media's lies and thinks that all women should look the same? No, of course not.

I once heard a DJ commenting on how one new movie made so much more than another new movie. "Of course more people wanted to see [movie A]. Why would you want to see a cute brunette in [movie B] when you can see a hot blonde in [movie A]?" Personally, I am proud of not being beautiful to him.

First and foremost, I want to be beautiful to me. I want to look in the mirror and feel good about the way I look. I want to feel good about my strong, healthy body and everything I can accomplish with it. Secondly, I want to be beautiful to people who see more in me that a pretty face. If someone thinks you are not good for anything but to be looked at, to be seen and not heard, to be an object--why in heaven's name should you care what they think about the way you look?

Take back your health. Take back your positive body image. Take back your confidence. Take back everything that you can do and be that has nothing to do with your dress size. Take back everything that the media's lies have stolen. And help the women in your life do the same. For help doing this, check out my new favorite website, http://www.beautyredefined.net/

a blanket apology

As I have already boasted many times, I have the best job in the world. However, I have recently become aware of an occupational hazard that, I'm afraid, is affecting the people around me. For that, I would like to apologize.

In order to effectively communicate with my Spanish 106 students, I find it necessary to adapt my speech in several ways. For example, I have to talk a little bit slower than natural, I incorporate charades at every opportunity, and I frequently repeat myself. Last week I was talking to a co-worker who speaks Spanish better than I do and I used the word correr, which means to run. I felt more than a little bit silly when I realized that I was unnecessarily running in place in the middle of the hall. On a later occasion, I found myself speaking rather slow Spanish to my supervisor who, once again, speaks better Spanish than I do.

So, if on any occasion you have felt that I was insulting your intelligence by talking down to you, by insinuating that you needed help to understand the simplest of words, I'm terribly sorry. Force of habit. If you would be so kind as to point it out to me, I would be more than happy to put my hands in my pockets and speak more quickly and with more intellectual words.

Now I'm scared to see what happens to my communication skills if/when I become a stay-at-home mother of small children...

things I don't understand: part 1

I consider myself to be a relatively smart person, and people frequently tell me that I'm right about that. In spite of my....shall we say thoroughly adequate intellect, there are many things in this world that I don't understand.
For example, the current Cinnamon Toast Crunch commercial. It has no human actors, it just portrays two cartoonized cereal pieces. The first one licks the other and is then eaten entirely by the other. So, what? The cereal is so delicious that it eats itself? Moreover, the commercial announcer starts off by saying, "Hey, ladies!" Like men don't watch TV or like Cinnamon Toast Crunch? Or maybe because cannibalistic cereal somehow appeals more to women? I'm skeptical.
Or the billboard by Carl"s Jr. "Alcohol does to a teen's brain what weather does to billboards." But you are an adult and your brain is therefore invincible (not to mention your liver) so feel free to become inebriated whenever you like. If a substance can destroy your brain at any stage in your mortal development, wouldn't you rather just avoid it altogether?
Or the facebook poke. I mean, consider the possible messages a poke could convey. it could be one step more annoying than "I'm not touching you!" It could be an effective self defense maneuver of poking someone in the eye. It could be the infuriating "iron finger" my dad thrusts into my ribs when things get too quiet and he really wants a purple nurple. A poke could be something that one does to ascertain whether or not someone is dead. So when you facebook poke me, are you virtually checking my pulse?
Or those people who don't hold hands, they just interlock pinkies. Really? At EFY when hand holding was scandalous but your undying love required some form of PDA, maybe the interlocking pinkies made sense. You are a university student now.
Or how they decided to tear up all of Provo for construction right when school started and Provo's population skyrocketed.
Or BYU girls who still think leggings are pants.
I don't know. Maybe I'm not as smart as I thought.

stories to tell

A new group of friends that I've acquired has inspired me to acquire a new skill: storytelling. They all have such great stories to tell and do it with flare.
I have had an awesome life, and I feel like I have great stories to share. There was that summer that I was repeatedly asked out by a schizophrenic, once by a married man, and proposed to by a monolingual Mongolian. There was the time I was mistaken for a Slovenian prostitute or the time I accidentally stumbled upon a nude beach with no turning back. There was the time I committed a felony on the way to the temple and was kissed on the cheek by an apostle once I got there. There was the guy in his briefs trying to help get something out of my eye, or the time I choked on the sacrament water (not even the bread, the water), or the time I walked into a drug bust in Brazil or an illegal gun sale in Latvia, or the time I had a gun cocked and pointed at my face, or the time I was threatened with a knife and didn't notice, or the time I was briefly tortured on a carnival ride for the sick pleasure of those watching, or the time an Italian bribed me to do "the nasty" with him on his gondola, or the time I almost ran into a moose on a four wheeler, or that time I was sure the garbage men were going to kidnap me when I was lost at night in down town Sao Paulo, or the time I thought I was going to get arrested in Croatia, or the time I laughed at the movie Charly and was afraid of being attacked with torches and pitchforks, or the time I chased a fainting goat around with my umbrella, or the time I ate a guinea pig (in Provo), or the time I made snow angels on the roof in my wet swim suit in the middle of the night.
Holy cow, I love my life, such great memories. Now I just need to practice the flare. And the sound effects...

just for the record

Dear Provo-ites that crossed my path tonight,
I am sorry about tonight and feel the need to explain myself. I don't like you thinking ill of me, especially when that is based on a false assumption.
True, it is partially my fault. I should have known better. My body never reacts well to running out of doors, but I had so much energy and the stupid gym closes at 9:00 on Saturdays. True, I probably shouldn't have been pushing myself when I was already under the weather. True, I should have seen the signs; I could have prevented this whole thing. I was blind and foolish.
Two miles into it, I was rejoicing at how great I felt, especially at the lack of knee pain, even though I was running on concrete, which is never a good idea for me. I maybe shouldn't have gotten cocky, but it surely didn't last long.
So, as I stumbled the last mile home, zig-zagging slightly from the dizziness and clutching my head in pain, just barely peeking through the cracks between fingers and moaning slightly, it was from a migraine, not because I was drunk. Just for the record.

best. job. ever.

Having slept in dirty hostels or on the floor for the past several months, I have adapted and now find it rather difficult to sleep in real beds. They're just too comfortable, and somehow I can't waste such luxury on unconsciousness so I toss and turn all night. Fortunately the couch in my new apartment gets me to sleep; in fact it might do too good of a job since it renders homework rather difficult. For several nights in a row, I haven't even tried the bed, which has become nothing more than a storage area.
But before I discovered this about my new couch, I had a rough couple of days of exhaustion. Add to that the postnasal drip inherited from my roommate, a couple of headaches from my heavy hair that I was too lazy to straighten, and a literature class worse than death, and I wasn't exactly excited about life. 
Luckily for me, I have the best job in the world, a job that cures headaches better than Tylenol, cheers me up more than ice cream, and gets me more excited about life than really attractive young men. OK, maybe that last part was  little bit of an exaggeration, but I sure do love my job. Invariably, I leave having completely forgotten all my woes.
I love my job so much that I petitioned to make it my calling as well. The gospel teaching chair readily gave me the calling of Sunday School teacher when I asked, saying I was an answer to prayer since he didn't know who to call and was on a deadline. But I was prepared to beg and bribe. And it would have been worth it. I can't wait to teach tomorrow!

my pilgrimage

Every year as summer progresses a little voice starts to haunt my consciousness. "Ashlee," it seems to whisper, "come and hike me." Timpanogos looms over me day and night, I can never hide from it, I can never escape its call. It almost feels like I have to go pay homage to the nature I was taught to love as a child but find little time for as an adult. I well remember being trapped in the MTC, in the shadow of my mountain, during prime hiking season. I apologized to the mountain every time I saw it. Still, not understanding my situation, the mountain continued to call me. On Friday night I finally answered that call for this year.
Most people like to do a sunrise hike. I am not most people. Call me crazy, but I much prefer to be asleep between the hours of 2 and 6 am. So we went with the obviously superior alternative, a sunset hike. It was magnificent. We had the mountain essentially all to ourselves, and the sunset was a peculiar blood-red color that I have never seen before. Then, while it was still fairly light, the lights in the valley started to come on, and it looked to be like someone had sprinkled gold glitter over the valley floor. I highly recommend the sunset option.
In all my past experience with Timp, the hike down the mountain always seems to diminish the sense of accomplishment that I feel upon reaching the summit. Coming down goes so much faster that I have trouble believing how strenuous the path up seemed to be at the time. Not so with the sunset hike. Our journey back to Minerva (my minivan) was in the dark, making the dicey parts all the more dangerous and the snowy parts seem all the more slippery. Even the smallest rock cast a long and treacherous looking shadow in the harsh light of our flashlights, and every shadow from every bush and boulder looked fit to hide the most dangerous creatures of the night. In the darkness, when we lost the trail, it was more difficult to find again. And, in the darkness, it was difficult to measure our progress, so the path seemed to continue on endlessly. Yes, the hike down proved our accomplishment to be great indeed.
A giant thanks to Andrea and Sarah for accompanying me and allowing me to answer the nagging of the mountain and for helping me accomplish my goal of watching the sunset from one of my favorite places on earth. Although I was, surprisingly, not very sore the next day, I think that my next pilgrimage will wait until next year when again the mountain calls to me.