"Blah, Blah, Blah... Girl Power, Feminism, Whatevah"

First of all, let me just say that I really, really, really loved every comment I got about my last blog post. Whether you posted something on Blogger's comments, on Facebook, sent emails, or even shared your thoughts through old-fashioned face-to-face conversation, I really appreciated everyone.

I know my opinion isn't the only one, nor the right fit for everyone, but I love engaging in discussion and want to elaborate on my opinions. However -- and that's a big however -- before I do that, I wanted to lay the groundwork for what I think it means to be a feminist.

I know I joked about the "F-word," but I really do think feminism has gotten too much bad press. For starters, many people think it is an attack on the family, which I absolutely do not believe. I had so much respect and love for my own mom growing up and I know it was because she was an intelligent, empowered, successful, educated woman. Not in spite of it.

But I don't think all intelligent, empowered, successful, educated women fit into one mold. I think the majority of women would agree that all women should be able to do whatever they want to do -- whether that is to stay at home to raise a beautiful family, or become the president of the United States.

Despite this common agreement, there are still so many awesome women who preface their gender opinions with "I'm not a feminist, but..."

I can't speak for everyone, but I assume people feel the need for this preface because feminists have a reputation for being angry, frustrated, cold, and generally unhappy people. Not exactly the first person you would invite to a dinner party.

It is for this reason, I really hope you have had the chance to watch the cinematic masterpiece of "Spice World."

If you didn't watch it between the years of 1997 and 2000, you will probably never ever see it. In the year 3000, when people are finally digging up all those time capsules, they will find the "Spice World" VHS and probably watch it then, but you really can't watch it in 2013.

Even I, a die-hard fan of the Spice Girls who memorized every song down to the zig-a-zig-ah,  recorded many impromptu music videos on the family JVC, and even performed as a Posh Spice lookalike in a Wasatch Elementary talent show, cannot watch "Spice World" from start to finish anymore.

It's not because they just so happen to run across extra terrestrials:

Or because they deliver this baby without the help of anyone except what looks like a school nurse:

Or even that their plush, double-decker tour bus jumps Tower Bridge:

Where they really lost me is when they are balancing atop said bus in THESE shoes:

So, yeah. Unless you watched "Spice World" at a sleepover, on a sugar high, in the 90s, don't bother. I'm just here to say you did miss out on some serious Girl Power messages like this one:

Seriously powerful stuff.

Some Spice Girls critics (I know what you're thinking; "How could anyone be critical of the Spice girls?!") have said that the Girl Power movement was just to put mothers at ease when their pre-teen girls were obsessed with a girl-band who seemed to be promoting the if-I'm-wearing-boots-I-don't-need-pants movement. But I don't think we should be quite so harsh to Girl Power.

Girl Power was all about the camaraderie between girls, and dare I say, women. It was about feeling strong and being who you want to be. Even though the Spice Girls were not the ideal role models, at least they got the ball rolling. I mean, if four British girls can stand on stilts on top of a moving bus, (Posh was driving, of course, otherwise it would be five) what can't girls do?

But the best part about Girl Power is that it didn't take itself too seriously, unlike its ultra-serious older sister: Feminism. Now, I am the first person to say that women should be taken more seriously, and take themselves more seriously. But Feminism as a whole needs to lighten up a bit. By taking a little advice from Girl Power, Feminism can be more approachable, gain a larger following, and make more changes in this world.

I know my logic has been tangential at best, but this is my plea to start using the "F word" more. If you think women are smart, capable, strong, beautiful, and divine, call yourself a feminist. If you think women have just as important a role in this world as anyone else, call yourself a feminist. If you are proud to be a woman, call yourself a feminist.

Feminism.

The "F" word.

Sometimes I think hearing this "F" word is more shocking to members of a Sunday school class than if you were to shout the other one from the pulpit. Even if you drop it casually in the middle of your comment in Relief Society, heads turn around like dominoes to take a look-see at the blasphemer.

Pretty soon the situation morphs into the mob logic from Monty Python and the Holy Grail:



Okay, it's probably not that bad. Certainly it's not as bad as 30 years ago. Like when one of my mom's law school professors asked her how she dared take the opportunity to go to law school from a man who is trying to put bread on the table. As if her aspirations to make a difference in her family, not to mention the world, were completely obsolete.

But even though many people have allowed their views on women to evolve, there are still many who balk at feminism.

If you know me at all you likely know where I stand on this spectrum. And if you're friends with me on Facebook you have probably seen that even a smack of misogyny will get more than an earful from me. In fact, even typing the word misogyny has my adrenaline pumping.

But I'm not the kind of feminist that comes to mind for so many people in the church.

For instance, I don't hate men. I usually really like men. There's one in particular who I'm absolutely crazy about. In fact, men today have got to be some of the best men that have ever lived. Seriously. They certainly smell the best -- at the very least.

You also don't need to worry about hiding your bras from me, lest they spontaneously combust. Bras are pretty all right in my book. Without them, I couldn't have pretended that I had boobs in middle school. And nearly half of high school. So yeah; pretty grateful to those things.

I'm also not an angry tyrant who is always looking for a soapbox so she can yell at people about Roe v. Wade and lock women out of their kitchens. As someone who is adopted and very easily could have been aborted, I think the pinnacle of womanhood is someone who takes responsibilities for their actions -- especially when it involves a human life. I will forever be grateful for the sacrifices it took to bring me, an inconvenient baby, into this world.

And I really like to cook. I don't think there is anything demeaning about going into the kitchen with odds and ends that are merely edible and coming out with something that is beautiful to nearly all of your senses. Oh yes. Food talks to me.

However, just because things right now are good, doesn't mean they are perfect. I believe we live in a fallen world with attitudes toward gender that are far from Godlike. Even though we have come remarkably far as a society and as a Church, I still think we have far to go before we achieve Zion status.

So many men in the Church are so respectful of women. Kind, gentle, chivalrous, even to the point of reverence. And without being ungrateful to these men, I would just like to say that so much of it isn't doing my gender any favors. Being put on a pedestal means you can't keep climbing. It means you stop pushing yourself to grow and be better. Since eternal progression is such a central tenet of our religion, I don't see how women can really have arrived at our final destination.

Which is why I -- as a mere mortal and someone of no special authority to speak for the Church or anyone else -- believe women should be ordained to the priesthood.

There. I said it.

Now before you go raising your eyebrows and thinking I'm one of those people who likes to just spew false doctrine, let me tell you that my opinions on this matter have been the result of countless prayers, visits to the temple, scripture readings, and even burnings in the bosom.  All of which are tender experiences I feel urged to share -- but in later posts, lest this one become a novel.

I will share one thought, however, that started shaping my opinions on this matter. The following quote is an excerpt of an interview President Hinckley did with David Ransom in 1997:

DR: At present women are not allowed to be priests in your Church. Why is that?


Gordon B. Hinckley: That’s right, because the Lord has put it that way. ...
DR: Is it possible that the rules [for the priesthood] could change in the future as the rules are on Blacks?

Gordon B. Hinckley: He could change them yes. If He were to change them that’s the only way it would happen.

DR: So you’d have to get a revelation?

Gordon B. Hinckley: Yes. But there’s no agitation for that. 

I believe that God takes our prayers very seriously and wants to answer them. Because of this, I think God is waiting until the people in His Church are ready for new revelation. This isn't a belief I feel I need to impose on everyone around me.

However, it would make me feel pretty awesome if you would treat my opinion like it came from an educated, faithful, and mostly-rational person. I promise I will try to do the same. Let's just come together in the belief that "He denieth none that come unto him, black and white, bond and free, male and female; and he remembereth the heathen; and all are alike unto God" and leave it at that.

Party like the Oscars

If anyone knows anything about me, it's that I like to party.

And by party, I mean eat fancy food, wear fancy clothes, be with cool people, eat more fancy food, spill fancy food on your fancy clothes, and wrap it all up by midnight.

I know. I'm pretty hardcore.

So when my invitation to the Oscars went missing (somehow I think it is related to sequestration...) I thought we had to bring the Oscars to Provo. After all, the only thing better than beautiful celebrities in all their fineries is a bunch of Mormons in old prom dresses chowing down after a long day of fasting.

The best thing about living in my dad's basement -- besides the free rent and reliable heat -- is a TV with plenty of seating. In our last house we had our TV in what we called "The Dark Room," because it had no windows. But it was also small enough that when we put our couch facing the TV there was not enough room to play the Kinect. And since you know I've got to get my Dance Central on, that just wasn't an option.

Poor Jason realizing we didn't have enough room  by breaking the light fixture. With his head. On our second night in the house.

So, we did the only other sensible thing and we positioned our couch so it faced a blank wall. While that left us room to shake our groove thang, it meant we had to do all of our TV watching from pillows on the ground. Even though this set an awesome, ethnic mood, we had a max capacity of about 4 people for TV-watching unless you weren't afraid of non-spousal-spooning.

But to get back to our Oscars party... my dad's basement not only has enough room for classic family room fixtures like an air hockey table, darts, and something that involves basketballs, but also plenty of people to enjoy the Oscars without bursting their personal boundary bubbles. There's even room for defunct exercise equipment! Yay!

We took advantage of all this space and invited some of our favorite people to watch the festivities with us in their black-tie-finest. To make sure they didn't feel out of place in their haberdashery we laid out the red carpet and set the celeb mood.

 

 

Seriously. I dare US Weekly to pick a worst dressed from these people. They are all pretty stunning.

Apart from sparkling conversation, my favorite part of any party is the food. Initially I wanted to take this opportunity to make only food that is fancy and really hard to pronounce, but since no one likes to eat that kind of food except me, I stuck with more traditional appetizers and just tried to fancy pants them up.

I made buffalo chicken strips with blue cheese dressings and celery shavings, fried chicken and waffles, smoked BBQ pork sliders on brioche buns, garlic parmesan popcorn, pear and pecan gorgonzola salad, brie and peach crostinis, chocolate peanut butter cake balls, and white chocolate marionberry cake balls. We also had delicious homemade oreo cookies, brownies, and a full mocktail spread brought by delightful guests.

Since the Oscars can be kind of boring, especially when you are on the media slow track and waiting for movies to come to the dollar theater, we had bingo sheets to keep people interested. Congrats to Hanna for winning the illustrious $10 iTunes gift card for getting the first bingo!

Jason always stresses out when I tell him about the parties I'm planning because he knows that there will be at least one or two freak-outs in the ensuing days when I clean the house from top to bottom in the middle of the night. Or I will spend hours cutting and taping logos to make a backdrop. Or dipping and breading endless chicken pieces. Or jumbling words for bingo.

But he has now realized that he can't fight it any longer. I only have two speeds: turbo or hibernation.



So thank you everyone who made this Oscars party unforgettable.

9 Years Later

Hey mom,

A great day for hair in the Thomas household

Wow. It has been a long time since we last talked. Nine years, right? Only nine years… It feels like an eternity to me. Does it feel that long to you? I’m sure you’re busy, but I like to think you have days that feel like they’ll never end because you just need to talk to me. You know that feeling you get behind your belly button that yanks down hard and lets you know you need something more? Maybe you don’t, but I know I do.

Things are going pretty great here. Work is still work, but at least it pays well and I have an end in sight. Oh yeah, I forgot to tell you! I will be going to BYU Law this fall. The same law school you went to so many years ago. Pretty soon my picture will be posted in the same hallway yours is.

Too bad no one will know that Alexandra Sandvik was raised by the curly-haired blonde who graduated in ’80. I remember you told me that you were recognized as a Featherstone descendant at a family reunion once just by your unique nose. No one will ever recognize me as your daughter by any physical trait you gave me, but maybe I will be recognized in different ways.

Like remember how we both like the same books? The whole time you were with me I don’t think I ever read a book that you didn’t read too. And since I devoured the entire juvenile fiction section at the Provo library, that was quite a feat for you.

You would read ones from the Scholastic Book Club like Maniac Magee and Whatever Happened to Janie. Then I would read your grown up book club books with you like Angela’s Ashes and the Color Purple. A lot of times those books scared me but I never told you that. I can’t wait to tell you about some of the new books I’ve read.  

I’ve also inherited something from you that I didn’t anticipate. Remember all those vacations we would take with early morning hikes and long drives? How I would complain the whole way? Well, it turns out I love nature’s bounty just as much as you now. 

Once the outdoors couldn’t offer me anything better than a sturdy tree to climb and a body of water to swim in. I’ve since turned to oohing and ahhing over things like sedimentary rock formations and dark clouds rumbling over mountain tops. But I have to admit I'm not as interested in bugs. I'll keep my animals furry and slobbery.

For a long time I was afraid to talk about you. Afraid to use the past-tense. So I would just avoid ever mentioning you; pretending you didn’t ever exist because that was easier than accepting the fact that you were once my best friend and are now inexplicably gone.

But what I didn’t realize is that I was killing you all over again. By refusing to accept the pain of the memories I had of you I was throwing away the only piece of you I had left.

I promise I won’t do that anymore, mom. I want to revive your memory so that I can feel you right by my side again. I might not get to introduce you to Jason – or do you know him already? I don’t know how things work up there – but I can make sure he knows you as well as anyone can through stories. And when the time comes to having kids I want to make sure their grandma is more than a name and a face.

So until we can all sit at a big table around a fabulous meal, I’ll try to keep in touch!

Love you mom.

All My Dreams Came True

As I'm sure many of you know, Jason and I have taken the very adult step of moving into my dad's basement. Every time people ask me where we are living now I feel like I am obligated to add a sheepish grin when I say we live two bedrooms down from the room that I once draped in purple and filled with beanie babies.

But the truth is, the move has been awesome. We have a house that stays the same temperature all year, a magical dishwasher, and a fatty couch that never disappoints. And all this without our dear bank account losing a cent. It has been great.

There has, however, been a downside. Throughout the years, our basement has become a receptacle for things we are too lazy/sentimental/frugal/lazy to throw away. In fact, the half of our basement that isn't finished looks like the Room of Requirement when it turns into a place for hiding things. Except there are fewer horcruxes. And sherry bottles.

So I've taken it upon myself to slowly tackle sections of the house to get rid of things like a 30 year old printer, baby-sized ski boots from before the age of plastic, and even an extra trampoline set. My cleaning sprees have gotten so furious, in fact, that I threw out my beloved American Girl Doll, Samantha -- whom they no longer make. Even though I deeply regret getting rid of Samantha (Jason even went down to D.I. the next day to see if they still had it) I don't regret all the extra space it gives us to store and access things we actually need. Imagine that!

During one of my projects today, I stumbled across a huge box that was filled with my old stuffed animals. Some of them, at least. And while I was throwing them all in the D.I. bag -- even the beanie babies with their tags intact -- I stumbled across this gem:

Adorable, right? Not only is he a perfect mix of a bear and a puppy, but he is also taking style tips from Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman. Waiting for his significant other by a piano, no doubt.

But if you think he is nothing more, you are sorely mistaken. Just take a look at this!

Growing up, I thought this was the sneakiest hiding place in the world. I thought it was so good that if the Nazis were to come after me, I would probably try to hide in the back of this bear-dog. It was so good, in fact, that I wouldn't even be able to find the things that I put in there. Dogbear just had a way of looking so inconspicuous I would never think to look in him.

This sneaky quality of his made it zero surprise to me when I saw that something had stayed in his zipped up bowels all these years.

Inside I found the long-lost key to a diary, which is also long-lost. But even though the key and the diary were never reunited, I am pretty sure I savagely ripped all the pages out of the diary's spine in order to read what was in those locked pages. I may never have learned how to pick a lock (not even one as complex as a diary from Pebbles in My Pocket) but I still knew how to get a job done.

But the best part of the discovery was this crumpled up paper. Was it a treasure map to more beanie babies? A dirty secret that I tried to get off my chest? A darling note written to my loved ones?

Nope.

In very terrible cursive, the paper reads:

"I like a positive but sensitive buff guy but he still has to be hot and a good kisser"

That's it. No particular person I was writing to, no reason for writing it, not even a period at the end of the sentence.

At first I was embarrassed that I would think this was the most important thing I could leave for all of my posterity. After all, dogbear was the best time capsule any one could ask for. But then I realized that I got everything I wanted. I bet dogbear-note-writing-me would have given current-me a big ol' high-five and even a good-game-smack-o-the-bum for landing a "positive but sensitive buff guy" who is still "hot and a good kisser."

So, dogbear-note-writing-me, this blog post goes out to you. Thank you for shaping my taste of the opposite gender at such an early age, and making sure my tastes survived the test of time.

No Spare Parts

It all started around 11am when I started to get sharp pains in my stomach, which for the majority of my life has been a signal to shove food down my mouth. So I self-medicated by eating all the food that was around me. 

Big mistake. 

I should have known that my instinctual medication wouldn't have been the best treatment. I'm not a dog that magically knows to eat grass after it eats an entire container of rotten cottage cheese (not that I did eat, or have ever eaten, an entire container of rotten cottage cheese).

So by this time, the pains had progressed from aggressive hunger pains into pains that felt like someone was using my intestines to make origami.  

When Jason got to my office I was balled up on the lawn, in a dress, and not caring about the poor children that were passing me to go into the dentist's office next door. Hopefully my mournful moans made them feel better about their fillings. 

My origami intestinal pain had now turned into a pain that made me feel like Hercules when Hades zaps his power. Except Hades, for me, was the massive slices of pizza that I had eaten for lunch to make me all better.

I was trying to figure out where to put my arms and my legs so that my muscles wouldn't have to hold them up, meanwhile telling Jason that I didn't need to go to the doctor. All I needed was a hot compress. I wasn't going to shell out a copay just to have someone in a white coat tell me I had really bad gas. 

Luckily, though, my dear husband spiritually guilted me into going to the ER by giving me a sweet blessing that said we should do all we could to get rid of my pain. I figured "all we could" meant a little more than curl up on the ground and watch Netflix. 

Once at the ER, it was barely lickety split before they found out that it was my quiet little appendix that was making all this hubbub in my body. However, lickety split had about 3 hours of intermittent waiting dispersed but I was enjoying the daydreams induced by dilaudid too much to care. 

I was definitely coherent enough to know that an appendectomy ranks barely above a hangnail when it comes to things that most people go to the ER for, but there was definitely a little part of me that wasn't really excited to hear that my little appendix would be leaving me so soon. After all, I had only had the guy for 22.9 years, you would think that the manufacturer would have a better warranty than that. 

Especially after I saw this little cutie on the old interweb:

Doesn't he look like something you would want to hold on to forever? Something that you might even be able to add to your constantly appreciating beanie babies investment? Granted, there were definitely some less savory pictures that I found, i.e. the bacteria filling that makes your appendix turn citis-y, but I was still feeling a little preemptory nostalgia for my appendix.

As I was preparing to get rid of my appendix (this mainly consisted of keeping my hospital gown somewhat in the closed position while multiple doctors were telling me that I couldn't wear my toe-rings into the OR) I realized that I have about reached the end of my spare parts. 

Way back in the winter of '98 I got rid of both of my tonsils and my adnoids; then in '08 I nixed all four wisdom teeth. Now, I'm typing this without any help from my appendix and I'm not sure how I feel about it. Like a kid who got his training wheels taken off too soon. 

To commemorate this loss of appendix, I composed this crappy haiku. I wish I could say that pain meds make me suddenly poetic, but I think they just make my face swollen. 

My dear appendix,

I hardly knew you were there

Til you screwed me o'er. 

Completely untouched image of me on pain meds

Protecting Yourself From Sadness

8 years ago today my mom died. And 8 years ago I started feeling sorry for myself.

Even though I don't necessarily think it is natural for my personality, I kind of started seeing myself as some sort of victim. In class when we would be reading some book where a kid's parent dies, I always thought everyone was looking at me, or in church when we would talk about eternal families, I was sure that the teacher was sending side-long glances at me as if to silently tell me, "You know this lesson is for you, right?"

I've never liked being a victim; in fact, I don't even really like it when people hold the door open for me. I like to do things myself, I don't like to feel pitied and I don't like to feel like I am being looked down on. But for some reason, ever since I became this little half-orphan, I kind of expected it.

When I was going to Prom the first time I remembered thinking that people probably felt sorry for me that I didn't have a doting mother to help me find a dress or do my hair or take a thousand pictures that I would pretend to be embarrassed about but secretly adore.

Or when I went away to a different country for 4 months and I didn't have anyone to tell me how much they missed me and wanted me back home, I started to feel sorry for myself. Started telling myself that even though everyone didn't know my situation, they would pity me if they did.

And then I started being proud of my unfortunate self. "Look at me, I'm adopted and I planned my own wedding without a mom." "Yeah, I'm the only one in my family with brown eyes, but I still got into college." "Aren't you impressed that I didn't breastfeed and yet I'm still a fully-functioning adult?"


As embarrassed as I am to say this, it really wasn't until tonight that I realized what a complete idiot I've been.

A year ago I read the book Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close. Buy it. You'll love it. And I did love it. But I think I had so much on my mind a year ago that I couldn't really give the book my full attention, although I did remember the quote that says, "you cannot protect yourself from sadness, without protecting yourself from happiness."

If you haven't seen the movie/read the book, I'll give you a little teaser and just tell you it's about a kid who lost his dad on 9/11 and goes all over New York looking for clues from him and during the process, he meets all different people and learns about so many different lives.

Tonight, as we were watching the movie, I finally realized why my mom died. It's not so that I could prove to myself and everyone around me that I could grow up without a mom, it's not so that my dad can hit golfballs alone in the garage, it's not so that my little sister could grow up largely ignored and my older sister could have three beautiful children without a mom to brag about them for her.

It's just because that's life.

Life is good and bad! Being sad didn't make me unique, in fact it's the opposite--feeling sadness is the deepest connection we have with each other. There are happy times and there are sad times because without the sad we can't have the happy. Just like on a swing, you can't have your very best time at the peak of your swing without being at the very bottom. The good and the bad is what makes us human! It's what we all share with each other! The fact that we can let people both in our lives and out of it is the absolute best part of life!

I left the dinky old dollar theater absolutely in love with all of humanity and feeling so in tune with the human experience. Even though I didn't lose anyone in 9/11, I still feel a huge loss and deeply connected to those people. Just like my heart breaks when I see homeless people coughing at a bus stop, or an old person alone at a restaurant.

I love being sad because I love being happy! Each day is a miracle and each person in this world is miraculous!

The main criticism that Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close the movie got was that it was overly sentimental and a melodrama. As is this post.