Memoirs of a Bloomin' Swan

The Greatest Love Of All

2012-04-06T11:06:00.003-07:00

I was as shocked as anyone when I read of Whitney Houston's passing. It always breaks my heart to see a someone who has changed a major aspect of the world we live in-in this case the music industry- fizzle out in such a tragic, wasteful manner. When the news spread of her demise, I was contacted by several people, all of them checking to see how I took the news. I haven't heard anything from Whitney for several years, not since she did that diva-cut-throat duet with Mariah Carey for the Prince of Egypt soundtrack. Why should she mean so much to me? Let me tell you the story of how this soulful chartreuse taught me an important life lesson:

Whitney brought me out of my shell. Well, actually, I never had one. But she was a great facilitator for my spotlight-ophile tendencies. When I was in the fifth grade, my older sisters decided I was going to run for student body Vice President. I don't know why. I don't know whether they wanted to watch me make a fool of myself, or if they were truly interested in my political success, but whatever their motivation was, I did not disappointment them. My campaign was run with the usual shmoozing and propaganda- I passed out buttons with pictures of the muppets, all them endorsing me as a upstanding, powerful leader. One who would be a force for change, and liberate the oppressed on the playground. Down with cafeteria food! More Recess!

When it came down to the wire, and I had to make a case for my election, my sisters thought it would be a brilliant idea to stuff me in a fluffy eyesore of a ball gown, belt out a tune, and promise that upon election, I would never again sing to my voters. The line from from Whitney's song "The Greatest Love of All" where she defiantly announces that "no matter what they take from me, they can't take away my dignity" seemed most appropriate for my exhibition.You better believe I took the stage in that multi layered pepto-bismal monstrousity and belted out that song with everything I had in me. It was filmed and projected on every T.V screen in the school. The canidacy was mine.
The rest of the election is irrelevant to this post; instead of giving a speech, I performed a rap rewritten from Will's Smith' famous Fresh Prince of Bel Aire with all my thug friends me behind as background dancers. I went on win the election and ruled with justice and mercy, making such impactful decisions such as redesigning the school logo and awarding to spirit stick to the best behaved class after assemblies.

No, for this post, the importance of this song is the case in point. This song continued to fill me with warm and fuzzy memories. When I sang it for the school, I did it as a joke; it was many years before I actually listened to the words and understood the message Whitney so expressively shared. Beyond the extreme drama of Whitney's vocal pyrotechnics is a plea for us all to build up the future generation and teach them that they are capable of any and everything. No one has the right to dictate our futures, or has the ability to squelch our full potential.Whitney's untimely death has come at a time of great reflection for me. I have now finished my program at the Vet Tech Institute of Houston. It has been the hardest thing I've ever done. This past year and half has been the loneliest, darkest, most frightening time in my life. But it has also been a time when as I have been stretched to my absolute limit, I came to learn that the cheese-ball mormon anecdote posted in Relief Society rooms across the world applied to me too: I can do hard things.

There is a problem, though. In this song, Whitney sings " I never found anyone who could fill my needs. A lonely place to be, and so I learned to depend on me." This cynical declaration is just dripping with disappointment. Somebody needs to tell good 'ol Whitney that she's got it wrong. Self reliance is a wonderful value, and is necessary for fulfillment, but perhaps the most major life lesson I've learned in my time in Houston is that no man (or woman) is an island. I came out here to prove to myself that I could be an independent adult. Instead, I was socked with a series of events that brought me to my knees and I found myself in a position where I never needed people more. Through others I found the manifestation of the love of Jesus Christ. That is the greatest love of all. I am sorry that Whitney never felt that she had people in her life who cherished her and would do anything for her well-being, because I have. My time in Houston has introduced me to some of the most noble souls I've ever known. Because they loved me, I can love me. I have done what I set out to do, and now I'm looking my future in the face, knowing that I can succeed, simply because the Lord has told me so.

Who's Your Daddy?

2011-11-28T19:13:00.000-08:00

There's a thousand things I could say about my Dad. But in true Danielle-ian fashion, I've decided to honor my dear patriarch, I've decided to write it out in poetic form:

An Ode to My Father

My dad is a peach,

my dad is a king,

We talk about any and ev'rything!

He checks on me at night

even though I'm far away

and sends me stuff

though it isn't my birthday

He knows quite a lot,
and he never forgets;

He's up to date on

Lawrence Welk's greatest hits!

Bus drivers love him;

he knows them all by name.

He's a very proud father of

Five tiny dames.

He loves little Earnie,

my Mom's tiny pup.

and when Morning Moo is gone,

He mixes more up!

When his son left for a mission

he couldn't help but smile;

he pounced on unsuspecting missionaries

in the produce aisle.

He speaks with great flair,

has a stentorian voice.

He loves jazzy show tunes

and really hates noise.

Ebenezer is his hero,

of Oscar he's a fan

but we all know he's a softie;

He's a very gentle sort of man.

He's a friendly neighbor,

takes a strong political stance.

He makes himself memorable

by wearing highwater pants.

He knows Church History

from beginning to end,

but most importantly,

My Dad is my friend.

Happy Birthday, DAID!

San Antonio

2011-09-24T19:53:00.000-07:00

Today, I'm going to borrow a sugary, overly-used, marketed-into-a-bloody-pulp Disneyfied phrase: Dreams do come true.

A few weeks ago, I had to the opportunity to do something I've dreamed about since I was a little girl. I went to Sea World. I'll let that sink in for a moment.

In order to understand why this was so important, let's turn back the clock of time, back to when I was in elementary school. I cannot remember a time when animals were not a passion with me, but once upon a time, my heart wasn't completely focused on sleds and goofy canine heroes. Before there were huskies, before there were flamingoes, my first conscious love was dolphins. When other little girls were showing off their most recently acquired Lisa Frank school gear, I had cheeseball dolphin folders. I drew them on any piece of scratch paper I could get a hold of. In my fourth grade yearbook under the penetrating question of "What do you want to be when you grow up" I said I wanted to be a sexy marine biologist and work at Sea World. I was the only eight-year old in the neighborhood who spent time campaigning for Green Peace and sporting the Save the Whales slogan.

So when I joined the Vet Tech Student Organization (VTSO) during my freshmen year at Vet Tech school, my hopes were high that one of our field trips would be at this wonderland from my girlhood. My wish came true and I found myself headed toward the charming city of San Antonio.

There are many charming treasures to be found in San Antonio. Not the least of which is the original Buck-ees, the largest gas station in the state in of Texas. Now, you may wonder at my delight over such a common place as a gas station, but let me tell you, this place is a palace among rest stops, a holy grail to the weary traveler! Once you enter into this marvelous Cave of Wonders, you are not confronted with the mundane cuisine of cheap gas station food, oh no, instead you are placed with the overwhelming options of a delicatessen, bakery and coffee shop, not to mention the racks of clothing, books, cooking supplies and useless knick-knacks. But the most wondrous part of this excellent pit stop are the BATHROOMS! Someone out there must've recognized the demand for the needs of unheeded bladders along this nation's highway, because it houses not 10, not 15, not even 20 separate stalls; folks, this place boasts no less then 50 toilets! I had a picture taken of myself in the fork of the hallway, just before the labyrinth of potties. God Bless Texas!

After relieving ourselves and gorging on the goodness of Taco Bueno, my room mate Jen, her boyfriend Bear, and I finally arrived at Seaworld. We rode the rides and I found myself at the beginning of a ruthless cycle in which I was doused with profuse amounts of water everytime I believed myself to mostly dry.

No matter, though. Once we were through with the roller coasters, it was time for our first show. Never in my wildest dreams did I expect such a performance. It began with a clown in the audience, entertaining children with a cheesy water fountain routine, but it wasn't long before the dramatic music filled the area and fog shot up around the tank. Two spandex-clad trainers came sailing in on the noses of streamline baluga whales and the water ballerinas formed their patterns. Then some more spandex-clad performers apparated in the rafters and executed acrobatic dives off a high dive. An acrobat dressed as a tropical bird dropped down from the ceiling in hoop and twirled around on nothing but a swatch of material. To add to the pizzaz of this marine spectacle, a flock of macaws would soar across the area at random intervals. The entire time I found my self saying " Where's the dolphins? Where's the dophins?" but when they glided in and started flipping up in the air, I was completely unprepared for the feeling that overwhelmed me. I started to tear up.

The rest of the day was a haze. We ohhed and ahhed over the Shamu show and took one final photograph of this magical place before starting the three hour trip back. On the way home, Bear decided I needed to see the city. We drove past the Alamo and walked along the Riverwalk, which in of itself was worth coming to San Antonio. I am the ultimate tourist and I love perusing street booths with homemade wares, especially jewelry.The treasures of the riverside booths abounded with many delights. I found myself eyeballing vast amounts of pro-Texan paraphenalia, more torquoise jewelry then you could shake a stick at, and most importantly, copies of John Wayne's birth certificate!

These booths were situated next to the picturesque canal and with the sun setting, we found ourselves in the perfect story book landscape. As I sipped my Shirley Temple underneath the twinkling lights of the patio of a mom-and-pop pub, I found myself to be completely at peace with the world. My time in Texas has been filled with many hair-raising experiences, but being in San Antonio helped me to understand why there is so much pride in this state and why so many of the olden day country singers lost their hearts there. It was a beautiful day and I had the chance to realize a dream. Looks like being a Texan has it's benefits after all.

********

(Wo)Man in the Mirror

2011-03-31T13:11:00.000-07:00

This is the story of two men. One is a villain and one is a hero. Both have been hugely instrumental in helping me understand some aspects of myself that I really need to change. It is time that I learned to accept myself for who I am and expect others to do the same.

I came out to Houston to get an education, but I never counted on the lessons I've learned. I knew I was going to be drawing blood, and setting bones and giving shots, but those came easily. I came out here on a whim, hoping that I could make up for the massive mistakes I made in the past; but I don't know if I ever truly believed in myself or my ability to perform how I needed to. I guess I hoped that if I worked really hard, that God would take care of the rest.

As a teenager, I had the usual bouts of angst and inferiority; it didn't help that I was awkward looking, with a fang and stringy blonde hair. It also didn't help that I had a pack of sisters who were frustratingly beautiful, and still continue to be. Friends of my parents would meet my family and would exclaim what a lovely group we were, but I knew I couldn't possibly be included in that compliment; not with my squewompus eyeliner and odds were pretty good that there was some kind of dribble on my boob from a previous meal.

Through the years, I've tried to cultivate the fine art of being a desirable lady. I went on dates and even had a boyfriend or two. Once it even got serious. One night in August I found myself in the arms of a man who told me he wanted to marry me, and despite his family's objections, he was going to do it. Only, when it came to actually saying "I love you", he couldn't bring himself to do it. All he could say was " you know I do, right?" When our relationship crumbled a week later, I knew the reason why. I wasn't worth it.

I've moved on and had several life changing experiences: I've discovered the beautiful deserts of Southern Utah and found fulfilment in rescuing and training huskies to race. I've come to a realization of the life I want for myself and the drive to accept nothing less. At school, I do well. I'm getting good grades and my teachers all know who I am and like me. But I recently had an experience which tested my vision of my self worth.

Part of my program at school includes husbandry, which is the basic care and maintenance of all the animals in our facility. Everyone takes their turn feeding, exercising, and medicating the animals before and after school for a week. It's really stressful, due to the harsh penalties involved if something gets missed or looked over and because it's so time consuming and involves extremely early mornings and entire weekends, tempers tend to fly. My first session was last February, and I made up my mind that I was going to have a good attitude and give it my best effort no matter how challenging it was. Things were okay until the weekend, when I showed up for an early morning Sunday shift to be met by a wrathful team leader who felt that I had not cleaned out under a sink to his satisfaction. Despite the fact that I had swept under it three times and another student vouched for me, he accused me of lying to him and sent me home-for good.

I panicked all day long and when I went over to work on a group project with my friends and they heard the story, they were outraged. They pumped me up with so much indignant anger that I was ready to bypass my kennel manager and go straight to the principal. As it turns out the kennel manger was there when I walked in that morning and I told her my tale. She told me he wasn't allowed to send me home without telling her and that we would need to hold a meeting about it. Later on I found myself in the same room with my team leader, the kennel manager, and the program director. When asked why he took the harsh actions he did, he told the program director-who was also a favorite instructor of mine- that he couldn't find a place for me. I was incapable of the simplest task and was upsetting everyone around me. It was appalling to be cut down like that in front of the program director, and I was afraid she'd believe it was true. I don't know that either she or the kennel manager did, because the program director told him he couldn't send me home because he was frustrated with me, and after he left, my kennel manager told me that she wasn't going to penalize me because he hadn't been fair. She did ask that I make up the Sunday shift that I missed, however, and I was mortified to learn that I would be working once again with the clean sink Nazi. I spent an apprehensive week praying and reflecting on why his remarks should matter to me at all. I came to the conclusion that it wasn't my issue, it was his. I was giving it my best, and my teachers must know it, otherwise I would've done more hard time. My self worth should not be so easily compromised. I have a entire network of people who know that I am where I belong, and one ignorant opinion shouldn't cause me to balk at my dreams. That Sunday I worked my hardest and we completely ignored each other. I was gratified to hear my new team leader say "Thanks for working so hard. You were a big help." HAH!

So school has become something I've become confident about. I can handle it. However, I'm still working on something that will take much longer then a week to work through. Somehow, from the time I was thirteen, I found myself spending time with boys who could only think of me as' just the buddy', or their 'little sister'. I'm good at listening and I've discovered that no matter how they try to hide it, men have feelings just like us and they need someone to vent to as much as we do. I'd become so entrenched in the 'Just Buddy Zone' that I stopped seeing myself as anything else. I no longer believed I was like other girls, worthy of crushing on and hurting over. I began to believe that it was my job to listen and say soothing, comforting things, that dates with me were only only meant to be free therapy.

I have recently met someone who has had an enormous impact on me -for the better. Through our time spent together, I have come to see that my insecurities and shields are irrational and unnecessary. He has helped me to understand that despite the fact that I am domestically challenged and burned his pot stickers when I tried to make dinner for him, I am still worth loving. Our relationship is purely platonic, but I won't pretend he hasn't set a standard by the way he makes me feel. I'm quirky, proud, stubborn and spacey at times, but I have a lot to give and I am capable of making someone happy.

Yesterday I got a badly needed haircut. Guys don't understand this much, but the affect a new look can have on a woman can change her whole psyche. For the first time in months, I feel beautiful.

A wise Michael Jackson once sang:

I'm starting with the man in the mirror

I'm asking if he'll change his ways

and no message could've been any clearer

If you wanna make the world a better place

take a look at yourself and then make the change

Right now, I need to focus on my career. I don't want to stay in Houston; it's an extremely pet friendly city, but I feel that I could do a lot good in Utah if I returned home and brought some of the advances in pet welfare that seem so prevalent out here along with me. No, I do not intend to open a doggie bakery, or pursue a career in doggie orthodontics, (braces for your pooch... because getting them for your children isn't expensive enough) But Utah dogs are worth every bit as much as these Texan hounds, and they deserve the same chance to heal. I have a lot of work ahead of me and I need someone who is going to stand beside me. and guess what? I'm worth it.

*****

I think this picture says
it all.

He's My Dear, My Darling One...

2011-02-16T11:50:00.000-08:00

...His eyes are shpaklin' full of fun. No other, no other can match the likes of him!

It finally happened. I have a dog! But I'm a little surprised at myself; it didn't go the way I planned it at all. Of course I intend to tell the story, but first, introductions. May I present to you all the newest and first member of my pack:

ARTHUR ROMEO SCRAGG MCKINLAY...the first.

I wish I could say it was love at first sight. It should've been. I shouldn't have been so narrow minded and set in my ways. But that is one reason why I came to Houston and Arthur is one of the few reasons that make it worthwhile.

I came down here with Huskies on my brain. Evo had just been adopted and my heart was still a little sore from losing him, especially with the knowledge that for the next year and a half, I wouldn't see any thing that even resembled a sled dog. After orientation at my school, I was told that I was welcome to come to the dog kennels where we keep all our subjects and play with them during off periods. There were about 40 dogs and 20 cats when I first arrived here, and my heart just about exploded when I saw them all in cages, fearful and anxious to get a breath of fresh air and a kind word. Naturally, I wanted to bring them all home, but my apartment has a two pet limit and my room mate had already brought a sickly cat with her.

At first I was drawn to a blonde Shepherd mix, but she seemed to be receiving a lot attention from other students, and I felt that there too many animals down there for one to hog all the limelight. I started going to the other aisle, to see if any of the smaller dogs were being neglected.

At the end of a row in the furthest corner, was a timid little terrier. He looked scruffy and unkempt, but his face had a certain sweetness about it. I pitied him. When I tried to get him out of his cage, he froze in terror. He dodged the leash I tried to put on him, but my volunteer experiences haven't been for nothing, and eventually I managed to rastle him into submission. Until we got out into the hallway. He spent the entire time hunched and cowering near the walls; I had to stop every few feet and coax him toward me. It infuriated me. A dog is never born afraid of people. It's something they have to be taught. This dog must've had a horrific life for him to be experiencing the terror he was. I knew this little guy was never going to be adopted if he didn't learn how to endear himself to people. He needed confidence. I made up my mind that he was going to get walked everyday, along the same route, same time, so that he could learn to depend on me and feel safe. He was one of many that I worked with.

One day, one of my classes cut into my usual schedule and I wasn't able to give him the time he needed. I was passing one of my teachers in the halls, when she called out to me and told me I should bring him to class. At first, I just held him on my lap, hoping he'd put up with it for the next 70 minutes. My teacher told me I could let him down to play. He cautiously started exploring the classroom, flinching each time someone would reach down to pet him. In the middle of class, he found a red rubber ball tucked away in a corner. He carried it around proudly, showing everyone his prize. It made my heart break to realize that he didn't even know what to do with the ball; he knew he was supposed to like it, but he had spent so much of his life trying to survive that he had never learnt to play. A couple of girls in my class noticed that I had been the one to bring him in and started trying to convince me to adopt him. I didn't want to. He was definitely special needs and that was very intimidating.

I could make the commitment to walk a Husky and play with it every day. I could brag to my sisters that someday I was going to find the ugliest, mangiest cur at the pound and bring it home, but when there was a little creature right in front of me who needed my help, I found myself making excuses, like that lame minister who passed up the beaten Israelite in the Good Samaritan parable. (as you can see, I feel pretty guilty about all this... I'm supposed to be champion for the oppressed of the animal kingdom!) I told the girls that I couldn't foster him, I didn't even have a bed to sleep on. On of the girls piped up and told me that she had a barely used full size mattress box set that she was trying to get rid of. The next week , I had a wonderful bed to sleep on, and a group of girls to eat lunch with during breaks. They've been my good friends and sometimes vicious body guards ever since. It would never have happened if it weren't for Arthur.

I began to have a great time at school, but my home situation was horrible. I came home to a room mate who had very little social skills. Out of respect for others involved, I will not include the details of my horrific ordeal with her, but it suffices to say that I needed a friend. Badly. As Thanksgiving rolled around, I found myself not liking the idea of him staying there in the kennels the entire holiday weekend, alone and locked up. I figured it couldn't hurt to foster him over the break. Maybe he'd loosen up and he'd be able to find a family.

Arthur did very well. I had him in belly roll to keep from marking all over my apartment, but other then that he had no destructive tendencies. He was still a little shy, but I was unaware of how much he was warming up to me. Concerning himself, he was always very submissive. He'd never fight back or growl or snap, no matter what procedure someone was trying to perform on him. But one night, when my mentally ill room mate crept into my room at 3:00 in the morning, he let out a resounding snarl that made my hair stand on end! He wouldn't defend himself, but when it came to me, he had a heart of a lion. After a huge feast at my old room mate Alena's home, I invited him on to my bed and got ready to go to sleep. When he snuggled up in between my arms, I realized I had been fighting a losing battle; there were no mountains around to tear up, no snow to plough through. I didn't even own a sled. I didn't need a tough, rugged, spirited dog to go exploring with. Not yet. At this time, with my schedule, I needed the little animal that lived to curl up on my lap and follow at my heels every where I went. I needed Arthur.

I turned in the adoption papers last December, and while I knew he was mine, I haven't been allowed to bring him home permanently until now, the end my first semester. In the mean time I was fostering him, and despite the fact that he had to learn that he would have to share me with John Wayne and David Duchovany, he has become such a fixture in my home that I hate to go to sleep without him.

Just a few reasons why I love him so:

He has the spirit of adventure.

He's very hygienic.

He knows when to relax.

He loves to snuggle with me.

All I know is that when I learned that I couldn't bring Evo with me, I said a prayer every night to Heavenly Father that when the time was right, He would send me the right dog for me. One that needed me as badly as I needed him. He sent me a sweet puppy and a screaming deal: I got Arthur vaccinated, microchipped, neutered, bathed, clipped, cared for and adopted at the low price of FREE. Take that, previous owner.

* * *

For those of you who think I'm off my rocker, understand that it could be worse. I could be dealing with a true Diva!

Lil' Miss Honky-Tonk

2011-01-16T18:50:00.000-08:00

I am a woman of few hobbies. It used to be that when people would ask me what mine were, I'd have to wrack my brain and go through my day, wondering what the devil I did do with my down time. However, I have noticed that there are some things that are universally McKinlay and there has been one past time that has been a part of our lives since the beginning: We gotta dance.

Technically, only one of us is a dancer. My youngest sister was recently accepted at the Columbia School of Arts in Chicago due to her dancing skills. She chose to withdraw and pursue loftier heights, but we are all very aware of her talent. I am no where near her ability, but I think I fall second in line when it comes to loving it. Growing up in Utah, it was almost impossible to avoid learning the basics. As a child, I tried everything under the sun-including belly dancing. I was a klutzy child, and had little to no coordination. However, there was no stopping it when someone would throw on a beloved tape -ABBA, Michael Jackson, The Beach Boys, etc. - the six of us kids would erupt in a crazed dance party, not one of us caring if we looked stupid, but earning extra points if we made each other laugh. Some of my warmest childhood memories took place in the living room of our home.

It began in the home, but it continued on in school. When I was in Junior High, I enrolled in ballroom classes and found that I loved Swing best. When I started college, I met guys who loved dating girls who could dance. I didn't realize how much I'd missed dancing until I went out with a delightful young man who decided on a whim that we needed to perform a West Coast number on a ice skating rink. Later a good friend introduced me to Country Swing, and to my great surprise, I was pretty decent at it. I had had enough training with social dancing that I didn't need to learn the steps; it was a simply a matter of following the physical cues of my partner.

Before I left Utah, country dancing was something I was doing on a regular basis. I became good enough at it that I was asked to come in to the dance center and help teach lessons. I was in the process of learning the lifts and stunts when the time finally came to leave.

I have to admit, one of the things I miss the most about home is going dancing every weekend. That's why this weekend was such a delight for me. I took the Country scene by storm, and judging by the ache in my back, it was a weekend well danced.

Wild West:
On Friday I went with a group of girls from my ward to a popular country dance club just down the street from me. I was a little apprehensivethe first time I went to Wild West; I thought my bumpkin Utah skills would pale in comparison to the rootin' and tootin' I expected from a Texan dance club. I forgot I was in Houston. At first glance, it looks just as you'd expect a country dance club to look, from the huge neon Texas-Budweiser sign gleaming on the wall to the disco mirrored saddles hanging from the ceiling. It feels like you've walked into a saloon with flashing lights. Now imagine my surprise when I looked out on the dance floor only to see a bunch of old people shuffling a two-step in a circle. I was astonished to learn that this was how it was done in Texas. No death-defying flips, no break-neck swinging, just the very simple stepping in time. That does not mean it did not have its' dangers! At one point I found myself being dragged along the floor with a foreign gentleman who was operating my arm like a piece of heavy machinery while taking such long strides that I had to stick my fanny out so far that my bootie-pop was quite unnecessary.

This place is a good club for beginners. It plays more then one genre of music and serves ample amounts of alcohol to get the crowd relaxed. Having to jump over the inenbreated as they tumble to the ground in a drunken stupor without missing a beat is a exciting challenge, and who can help but get the warm fuzzies when swaying to such classy lyrics as " My Baby Likes Me When I'm Stoned" and "The air was so sweet, it made me belch as I walked down the street". That, truly, is music to scratch your back by.

Line dances are not one of my strong points, but I did manage to learn a few of them before I left my home. I imagine in the more Texan areas of Texas, the line dancing is more involved and complex, but here in Houston, they are ultra easy, and don't even require breaking a sweat.

I tried in vain to get a picture of myself on the dance floor, but it was too crowded and other people kept getting in front of the shot. I had to settle for some photos of a line dance:

All in all, I've decided that this place is the kind of place you go if you just want a nibble of the country flavor. It's like an eclair, full of the goodness of a rich pastry, but not overwhelming.

But I say " GIVE ME A THREE DAY BELLYACHE!"

...So when I got a text inviting me to travel up to Austin to a mid-YSA activity at a dance hall out there, you'd better believe I jumped on it. We traveled two and a half ours in the torrential rain, appeasing ourselves with the maddengly dulcet tones of Josh Turner until we finally arrived at this great States' capitol.

The Broken Spoke:

It was everything I dreamed of and more. We stepped into the club and heard the quaint plink-plinking of an old fashioned piano, and knew we were in the right place. We had a little trouble finding our fellow Texan saints, but our search gave us the chance to appreciate the rickety floor boards and the low particle-board ceiling. I felt like I was in a John Wayne Western. Once again, our peers were on the ancient side, but I'll tell you what, I have never seen so many spry old men in my life! The greatest thrill of all came when the manager of the establishment payed me the compliment of pulling me aside and telling me that I was a great swing dancer. We left that night satisfied with our experience and our cups filled. I'd gladly do it again, next time with a bigger group.

I get so few opportunities to glam myself up, that when I go out and do something social, I play it up. That night in Austin I dressed to kill. Although, with my past history, the odds were on myself.

Four dedicated Honky-Tonkers. I asked someone once what exactly Honky-Tonk was, and they said if it had to be explained to me, I'd never understand. That's true. Honky Tonk is like a testimony: you feel it inside, warm and gritty. Like Momma's home made co'mbread.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

And now, to add to our theme of South Western flavor, I give you...

Esperanza, the passionate flamenco- dancing llama. Not only is she equipped with the brightest, glitziest of costumes, but it seems as though her owner has applied liberal amounts of mascara, to bring out her luscious brown eyes.

"Birthday Party of the King"

2010-12-17T10:08:00.000-08:00

Christmas is one of the few times of the year that my family has any real traditions. Even as we have grown and separated, there are some things that will always be an integral part of the holidays. In the forefront of these are our Christmas cartoons. When my siblings and I were all younger, my Dad recorded various Christmas specials on VHS tapes so that we could enjoy them every year. Some of them have lost their place in the pantheon of Christmas necessity, but many of them remain strong in the line up. For instance, just as Christmas could not ever come to a dirty house (my mother's way of motivating us to do our chores), it could also never arrive without the patronage of the fantastic Donald Duck. His Christmas shorts have been a part of our festivities all our lives and we cannot imagine the Holiday season without him. However, I must not get started on Donald, for if I do, I shall be here all night. Perhaps another time. Others with high ranking are Emmet Otter's Jug Band Christmas, Mr. MaGoo's Christmas Carol, and the focus of my blog today, The Stingiest Man in Town. This last cartoon had to have been done decades ago. It was made by a company called Rankin/Bass, and it is quite obviously old, (my guess would be late fifties, early sixties) due to the fact that the animation is raw, shaky, inconsistent and highly stylized. But, even as my knowledge of animation has grown and I have come to be quite an animation snob, I have always made allowances for this particular piece. Not only for the years of memories associated with it, not to mention the memorable soundtrack, but the message inside as well. The Stingiest Man in Town, is of course, a retelling of that classic Christmas story A Christmas Carol. We all now that there is glut of versions of this piece at this time of the year. What makes this version special is that this one is the only one I've found, so far, that bothers to talk about the real reason for the season. We all know that Ebenezer Scrooge learns about true love and joy from being in Bob Cratchit's home, but this version actually takes a moment to educate Scrooge about Jesus Christ.

Not only do I feel that Tom Bosley does a wonderful job performing this song, but I love the way it is portrayed; it is illustrated in narrative stained glass window fashion, reminiscent of the spectacular windows in a cathedral or church. It's a beautiful technique and it gets the point across. So yes, it may be a silly cartoon, but it fills my heart with warmth due to the nostalgia and peace of the season. Isn't that what Christmas is all about?

And now, because I promised that I would continue on with with my photogenic fauna findings, I present a bird that is very much up with the latest styles of the season. This lovely Adele Penguin is proudly sporting the craze of Antarctica, the glamourous Christmas bathrobe. I'll have to see about getting my sister to make one in human size.

All Things Bright And Beautiful

2010-11-27T10:49:00.000-08:00

Imagine my surprise when I logged on to my blog the other day only to discover that my younger sister had made an entry that carried the same theme that has been in my own heart: getting to this point in our lives. I've been thinking about it alot lately; my flight to Houston was spent reliving my past and recounting the steps it took to be where I am today. A year ago this time, I would've told you that I was extremely frustrated with the direction my life was taking. Truthfully, I was convinced there was no direction in my life. I had just spent Thanksgiving in San Francisco, with my younger sister and came back so impressed with her that it made my heart hurt. I knew I wasn't becoming all I could be, and there were some life experiences I needed to have. I promptly went online and researched schools. I liked the idea of going to school in Texas, but there is no doubt in my mind that I've been placed where the Lord wants me to be, doing what he wants me to do. Looking back, I can see that I've been prepared for this road all along.

Before I left, I had people ask me if I had always wanted this; no, not necessarily. There was one point in my life when I wanted something else very badly. As a child, I did have visions of being a beautiful veterinarian who faced extreme danger in rugged landscapes, saving the lives of exotic creatures and having them show their gratitude by living as my personal pets. I was going to be the Dr. Quinn of the animal world. As a girl, I opted to play with stuffed animals instead of the fluffy dolls my younger sister loved. I drove my family crazy because I would stop whatever I was doing, whether it was cleaning my room, or playing at a friends' house and pick up a book and completely tune everything out. My favorite books were Zoo Books, a children's magazine that spotlighted a specific animal and gave all kinds useful trivia about them. I fell in love with dolphins and became a pint sized activist, insisting that we only eat dolphin-safe tuna. (as if there was anything else available at a store in Utah). I have always had a deep love of animation, and ironically enough, that too contributed to my current career choice. The countless hours of watching Ferngully: The Last Rain Forest and Pocahontas filled me with a sense of reverence, not only for my fellow creatures, but plant life as well. I made a goal at the age of eight years old to single handedly save the Amazon rain forest. My parents will tell you that was a passion that has always been present in my life. One of my Dad's favorite stories about me is the day there was a conflict over the T.V. because I was involved in a special on Sea Lions, but my older siblings wanted to watch Punky Brewster.

Yesterday, a gentleman who I can been kinda dating before I left called me up and shared a sweet memory. He and I had gone to elementary school together, so he is always looking for ways to link up our pasts. Apparently he came across an old yearbook page that had all of our responses to a group of questions. He reminded me that when I was in the fourth grade, I had said that I wanted to be a marine biologist and work with dolphins at Sea World.

Then one day, my world shattered. My mother, who was proud that I wanted to be a scientist and work with animals, told me as an incentive to get good grades that I would need to do well on math in order to succeed. It had the opposite effect. I thought anything that meant that I had to deal with math was not a possibility. I let go of my dreams that day. (What a mediocre kid I was!)

When I was fourteen, I grew bored of my friends at the lunch table and went off the library to find something more entertaining, (yeah, I was a live wire, alright. ) as I perused the aisles, I found something that caught my attention. It was a book titled The Work of Walt Disney: Mickey Mouse through Beauty and the Beast. I checked it out and read it through out the day. My conversion was instant. From that moment on, my heart and soul and any children born to me belonged to Walt. I saw how his company has risen from the ashes of cut throat deception and led to a meteoric rise to create the largest and greatest franchise in the world. I drank in the original story board sketches and pictures of the wizards who sketched them. I saw glamorous movie stars posing with stuffed Mickeys and behaving as if he was in their same rank of stardom. I watched how his work evolved 'til there wasn't a child in this world who didn't know who Mickey, Donald and Goofy were. I could go on and on forever about this, and perhaps someday I will, but that is not the point of his installment. The point is, I became truly obsessed with the Disney company and veered off my original path for a while.

When I was in high school, I knew I wanted to be an animator. I took a course that would allow me to take an internship. Originally, I was signed up to work at a company that was developing animation software in CGI, (Computer Generated Imaging. It's all you see today. Not always all that impressive, in my opinion. ) but this company decided they didn't have room for me. My advisor asked me to look into something else. I sighed and said reluctantly that I had always liked animals, so why not try a Vet clinic? She had a much easier time setting me up with a local animal hospital, and it wasn't long before I realized that I was enjoying myself. Dr. DeGering was a wonderful trainer, and he allowed me to actually learn by doing hands-on procedures. Nothing amazing, but I'm convinced I was one of the few members of my graduating class that used needles and drugs not for my own personal use, but for vaccinations and blood draws. I learned how to prep for surgery and dress wounds and experienced for the first time the sobering feeling of watching an animal die in my arms after being euthanized. It was surprising to me how seeing blood and guts didn't faze me, it fascinated me. I loved wearing scrubs and being a healer.

My mother introduced me to a series by James Herriot based on his veterinary work in northern England during the 1930's. I could feel his love as I read his stories, and was so impressed by how he could see the humor in an undoubtedly yucky situation. He was living proof that happiness comes from serving those around you. He was never rich, but he was a fulfilled man.

However, I still worshipped at the Alter of Walter and when I was accepted at BYU, I was certain that attending the college with the best animation program in the world meant that I was on my way. My classes were a lot of fun and I really enjoyed them, but the more I learned, the more I felt like animation was headed in a direction I didn't want to take. CGI had taken over everywhere, and I was and still am a stalwart fan of classic 2D animation. I wanted to do what Walt did, not sit in front of a computer screen all day. As I sat in the lab one day, painstakingly putting together my application for the program, I began to question myself. I ended up walking away from that lab without finishing and feeling a sense of peace in my heart.

The cartoonist in me did not give up easily, and I switched over to Illustration. I decided that I would like to create a comic strip or two, the main one being based on my family, and centered on my brother, who is the only boy among five sisters. What are the odds of that? Especially outside of Utah! I thought I had a hit on my hands and worked toward getting into the illustration program for the next two years. The first time I got the rejection letter, I remember being surprised at how okay I was. I tried a second time, but when the letter came, I didn't even have the courage to open it for about a week. When I finally did, and I got my damning 'no', I felt sick at heart. What did the Lord want me to do?! Surely someone who watched cartoons religiously belonged in the world of other such nerdy people!

Then I recalled overhearing a conversation my aunt had with someone at a family gathering. She was talking about how her son had recently enrolled into a Vet Tech program and loved it. It was like a light bulb lit up over my head. I thought hey, I could do that!

Then something happened that truly changed my life. I decided on a whim to join my sister and her current room mate for a summer working in Alaska. It turned out to be a hard experience; management was corrupt and we as the housekeepers were treated poorly. Eventually I did get the chance to have a day off, and I knew exactly how I wanted to spend it. One of the benefits of my job involved free tours with a local sled dog kennel. My only experience with Huskies before this was seeing Balto, so I really didn't know what to expect. The first thing that struck me was happy these animals were. The musher pulled up in his trailer with the dogs in their separate compartments and I could hear them making that loud, beautiful husky bellow. He let them out one by one and hooked them up to an ATV (you don't use sleds in the summertime.) and explained what each part of the team did. The entire time the dogs kept yapping and leaping into the air like NBA all stars, unbelievably excited that they got to run! We followed the team in our shuttle and arrived at the kennel in time to see them pull in. I cannot describe the excitement I felt! I was truly in the presence of greatness. The musher then explained to us about the Iditarod, and the equipment, training and feeding used for the dogs. He gave us each souvenir of a homemade doggie bootie to take home with us, but I took so much more with me that day. I felt God's love pour over me as I suddenly knew undeniably and irrevocably that this was something I needed to be a part of.

I was so glad to come home from Alaska, but I won't pretend that I didn't take part of it with me. My zeal to get involved with the sled dogs led me on a frantic job hunt at all the local vet clinics. I ended up getting hired at two of them. At the end of the first interview, when my boss asked me if I had any questions, I asked her if she knew of any sled dog kennels or shelters locally. She thought a minute and had her secretary give me information for a Maren Gibsen at Arctic Rescue.

As it turned out, my jobs at both clinics was a dark experience. Both clinics had vets who displayed bad tempers and were constantly upset at me. It's a stressful environment as it is, but to have your boss undermining your intelligence at the same time makes it unbearable. As was inevitable, the strain of traveling from both clinics on bus and balancing school work became too much for me both physically and emotionally and my employment ended with a big BOOM. Feeling lost once again, I opened my heart out into prayer and asked the Lord what he wanted me to do next. I felt the impression to fish out the phone number for Maren Gibsen and call her. She was delighted to have a volunteer and I was delighted to discover that headquarters were two blocks from my apartment. Coincidence? I think not.

So there it is. Like a cheesy Rascal Flatts song, God blessed the broken road that led me straight to ... Houston. But to be honest, I shouldn't be surprised. In a blessing that shall remain unnamed, I was told that I had been born into a family that would prepare me for my life's work. I don't know if working with animals is the Lord's idea of my life's work, but my family has always been ultra supportive. My parents never complained when I'd bring home sick and injured animals from the pet store I worked at, including the memorable One-Eyed Willie, a parakeet with a leg injury so severe she looked like she was perpetually performing ballet. And who could forget Dickie, the bullied mouse with testicles the size of half his body? My mother instilled the idea of respect for all living things when we were young and she refused to kill a spider that was scuttling across the room. She'd tell us stories about the home that spider had to go home to, and how he would tell his wife and kids about seeing us. Knowing more about spiders today, I'm fully aware that any spider coming home to his wife is more likely to be served with a side dish of fries then have his family listen to what his day was like, but it still keeps me from smashing most insects I see. Cockroaches are an exception.

My siblings have been nothing but supportive of me as I've made this decision, and I hope I can make them proud. One of the major driving forces in my life is making my loved ones proud of me. I know I'm happy doing what I'm doing, and now that I've left home, I can see that there is truth in that old hymn James Herriot borrowed for the titles of his books:

All things bright and beautiful

All creatures great and small

All things wise and wonderful

The Lord God made them all.

On a lighter note, because it seems my sister and I are on the same conscious plane (you'd think we're related or something...) I wondered about what would happen if our careers collided. The results are not pretty. I'll start off easy at first, and put a new picture up for every entry, but be prepared it gets pretty gruesome:

DUCKS IN TUX

Here we have our latest in waterfowl evening wear. The brazen colors of the plump bow tie are meant to accent the debonair mallard as he sets out to romance his mate. These cool and sophisticated ducks have not a care in the world as they are herded along the slick floor at the sheep dog trials, because they know that no matter what happens, they are wearing Armani. (What the H?)

I Gotta Get Out More.

2010-11-15T07:42:00.000-08:00

School is great, and my ward is fun, but I have yet to establish a true social life out here. I felt lonely and neglected before I even came out here, and as a result, I've become involved with some habit-forming activities and now I am a addict. Yes, folks, I am here to admit that I, Danielle McKinlay, have a Netflix fixation. It started out innocently enough... I was reading a book that took place in Arizona and it made reference to John Wayne movies. Knowing that he is one of Cinematography's greatest historical icons, I wanted to see if I could understand what the big deal was. I tried to find some Westerns at Hollywood Video, but the slovenly franchise had a grand total of two whole John Wayne movies, one of which takes place in war-torn Vietnam. I have no time for franchises that do not appreciate the classics. So I started up a subscription with Netflix. A whole new world unfolded before me. Soon I was getting a different John Wayne movie every other night. I fell in love with 'The Duke', and became further obsessed with Western culture. After I discovered that I could watch movies instantly on my laptop, there was no going back. Netflix unfolded to me a wealth of cinematic treasures; jewels from my childhood long lost were suddenly available with the click of my fingerpad, as well as exciting new viewing experiences.

Now that I was hooked, the sky was the limit. I was grateful to find a distraction from the hurt I felt when my friends stopped contacting me and spending time with me. One night, when I feeling particularly low, I stumbled across an old memory. A few years back, when I was lot less driven in my career choice, I took an anthropology class, just for fun. (The vast majority of my college experience entailed taking classes that had nothing whatsoever to do with animation; I simply took them 'just for fun'. I'm curious about just about everything, and I wanna know it all!)

Our lesson that day was about rituals and my teacher showed a clip about voodooism from an old, but memorably popular t.v. show. It was the X-Files. The episode intrigued me and I'd often thought about it since. But it was at that moment, when I found it on Netflix, that fate intervened and I found myself adding the first season to my queue. Later on, when I was looking forward to a night of simply relaxing, I gave it a try. At first, I giggled at Mulder and his straight- faced accounts of his experiences with the paranormal. But he and Scully soon won me over, and by the third episode, I was an avid fan!

At this point, I would like to point out that I am not a fan of sci-fi. In the past, I have held it in deep contempt because of all my nerdy high school friends who allowed it to make them socially awkward. But, like I said, there was intrigue. I read Harry Potter and became a fan because of J. K. Rowling's marvelous craftsmanship, not because I'm a fan of the genre. Such is the case with the X-Files. I found myself cheering for the heroes, booing and hissing at the villains, laughing at the clowns and feeling heartbroken at every tragedy. It amazed how incredibly well written it all was. Characters that seemed to have no consequence before were coming back and thickening the plot. And the tension...! I must've been living under a rock when this show was in it's hey-day, because I had no idea that there to be a romance between Scully and Mulder. But the show built it up beautifully- he would occasionally touch the small of her back gently, or she would reach out and touch his hand for split second-AUGH! It became too much! I had to keep watching! They didn't just throw each other against the wall and embark in the overpowering throes of passion in the first five episodes like they would a smutty t.v. show of today. It took years before Mulder finally kissed her, and it never showed anything further then that.

That is not to say that this show was all purity; Little House on the Prairie it ain't. The sceenplay writer used ample amounts of gore and squirmy creepy crawlies to keep the audience thoroughly grossed out. Between yelling my unheeded counseling at my computer screen ("No! Mulder! Don't let her go!...Love her, Mulder! You must love her!... The liver-eating mutant is going to grab her! AUGH!... listen to him, Scully! The Cigarette -Smoking man is lying to you! AUGH!") I'd find myself disgusted at the wounds and offenders of the supernatural. But it was fun, and I was impressed that it could invoke such a strong emotional response from me.

I watched the X-Files faithfully for about three months. But when it hit the end of the ninth season, I found myself not wanting to finish. I had become friends with Scully and Mulder. It was like the Never Ending Story: I went through everything they went through. By day I was online looking at X-File paraphernalia, and by night my dreams were filled with conspiracies that centered around huskies. I was officially a nerd.

Soon, I finally built up the courage to watch the last episode and decided that no matter how disappointing it might be, I would still love them anyway. It turned out to be harder then that; the ending wasn't disappointing per se, it was just wishy-washy, Gone with the Wind-esque. But, in the same way we all have to tell ourselves that Scarlett will in fact get Rhett back and save her marriage, we have to believe that Scully and Mulder will find a way to save the earth from alien colonization. That's just how it has to be. (sigh.)

I'm sure it has become apparent that my feelings toward a t.v. show are not quite healthy. I've never felt this way before... I decided I needed to cool down and watch something a little more low-key. That's when I found All Creatures Great and Small. It was a British sitcom made in the 70's based on the books by James Herriot. I couldn't have been more pleased! James Herriot is undoubtedly one the largest figures of impact in my life. His books brought me where I am today, and the show isn't all that far off. They did an amazing job getting the characterization just right, and because I've read the books and remembered every story, watching an episode is like greeting old friends.

It's a little dull by today's standards; no laugh track or steamy love scenes or gratuitous situations, but that's why I like it. I make it very clear that I don't like watching modern t.v. I don't trust it. If someone tells me I need to see something, I'll give it a try, I just wait 10 years. In the mean time, John Wayne is still coming to my house several times a week, and All Creatures Great and Small continues to entertain me. That is, when I'm not going back through the X-Files.

Welcome to The Jungle

2010-10-30T12:00:00.000-07:00

My first week here in Houston has been one of those great stories of the strength and capacity of the human spirit. I half expect Hallmark to contact me any day begging for the movie rights. It might be called " Midget in Metropolis" or " The Bug that Shared My Bed". Heaven knows I could use the cash.

All joking aside, Houston is lovely. It's surprisingly landscaped for one the nation's biggest cities. There are trees and flowers everywhere, even the medians of the roads. I'm loving the warmth and the sun, and while I feel like skyscrapers and concrete buildings are more of eyesore than any desert landscape could possibly be, the city here seems to be composed of glass, and it reflects the loveliest colors at dusk.

I live in a part of town that seems safe enough and I am surrounded by a plethora of fine dining establishments boasting foods from all nationalities. ( In fact, I passed up an Ethiopian restaurant the other day. I thought they didn't eat in Ethiopia.) I've been told more then once that I needed to try something called Tex Mex. It's Americanized Mexican food in it's purest form, and according to the natives, It's to die for! I'll try it, as long as they don't put anything on it.

However, being in such an urban setting has taught me to appreciate several things that I once took for granted. For instance:

Insect life:

Maybe the arid environment of Utah is not as conducive for the insect world, for while we have our share of creepy crawlies, something about the humid air down here seems to bring out the hostility in the etymological world. My first brush with bugs happened one lovely afternoon, when I sat on a soccer field waiting for Alena as she coached her girl's soccer team. I settled myself under a tree and pulled out a book, just like I used to do at home. But it wasn't long before I noticed a dull stinging sensation on my pinky. I looked down and saw an ant. It was gnawing on me! What cheek! I flicked it off, but I noticed that it left a faint rash. Soon I was assaulted by others. At one point, I even found one trying to burrow underneath my fingernail! It was later explained to me that these were the famed fire ants, and they didn't take kindly to people treading on their territory- which is all the grass in Houston. I happen to be a big fan of lawn lounging, so this came as big blow to me. Soon I came to discover that it wasn't the same here anyway, because the grass isn't green and soft. It's prickly and yellow, and follows you every where. Maybe that'll change in the spring; I hope so. Otherwise it'll be at least a year and half before I get to lay out in the sun on the glorious grass again.

Mosquitoes are the bane of human existence no matter where you go. But in Utah, we actually have seasons, and one of the few things that makes fall acceptable is the fact that these blood-sucking brutes go away for another year. Not here. I examined my legs the other day and discovered I had become a larval blood bank. I was so annoyed, because I had big plans of walking into church on my first Sunday looking absolutely stunning. So stunning in fact that the whole ward would burst into song at the sight of me, and I would have to remind everyone that Church wasn't about me, and they needed to pay attention. Oh, and p.s., I'd be available every day after three. Instead, I spent the three hour block feeling self -conscious about my calves. Boo.

But the worst culprit of all has to be that black hearted scoundrel : the Cockroach. I don't recall ever seeing a live one back home, but I remember all my buddies telling stories that included various levels of violence they extended toward these winged vermin while they were on their missions. I'm a live-and-let-live-kind of girl. Unless an insect molests me, I'll let it scuttle on it's merry way. So when I saw the first one, I thought, I'll tell the office about it tomorrow, but I didn't worry about killing it. Well, word must've got out that I'm a Mormon-Buddhist, because where there once was one, now there was six. The breaking point finally happened when one night I lay on my modest air mattress, and I felt them scuttling into my sleeping bag. It was one of the most miserable nights of my life as I found myself startled out a semi -consciousness half a dozen times by unwelcome creeping all over my body. I am not that kind of girl! You better believe I started killing them after that. I think they must have some kind of broadcasting system, because they don't come out as often anymore. I've also had the exterminator come. I don't tolerate pestilence.

Another adjustment I've had to make is the bus system here. I was told that it wasn't the most efficient out here, but I don't have much of a choice; I don't have a job and therefore can't buy a car. When I looked up bus routes from my apartment to school, it was an hour and a half to get there, with at least one transfer. Initially, I took cabs to get to school; but the sick, sinking feeling I got when I realized I had spent $32 to get to school that day became unbearable. In desperation, I kept checking back on the metro website, to see if there was something, anything else I could so. Last Wednesday, I found a route that would drop me ten minutes away from the school. Yay! So I woke up at 5:30 in the morning and found my stop and caught my bus without any trouble. But when it reached my stop, I realized I was in a strange, dark neighborhood I didn't recognize. I thought if I just walked forward, I'd find some kind of landmark to help me find out where I needed to. It was only ten minutes away, right? Well, my fantastic sense of direction got me horridly, hopelessly lost. For four hours, I scoured the streets of Houston, looking for some kind of sign and praying like I haven't done since I was a child. But this time it wasn't a pet that was lost, it was me, and I was in HUGE trouble. I cannot emphasize enough the size of Houston. Yes, it is a large American city, but unlike most American cities, it is vast, and spread out. Take all the area from Salt Lake to Provo, and you still wouldn't have a city the size of Houston. I took all kinds of risks, hugging the concrete wall of the freeway where pedestrian access was no more, but eventually, I hit a point where it just wasn't even humanly possible to get by on foot. I stopped at a local Best Buy, and had to admit defeat. I knew I was near the school, but I told myself that I would never call for a cab again. However, I didn't have anyone I could call, and I didn't have another alternative. Just when I was ready to break my promise to myself, a police man walked by. He seemed to know I was distressed, and he was right because when he asked if he could help, I burst into a flood of helpless tears. He went in and bought an NBA x-box game and drove me to the school. On the way there, he asked me where I was from and I told him "Utah". He said he'd never been out there, but that he'd heard there wasn't much out there. I was too grateful and tired to correct him, but I thought in my mind " I know one thing that's out in Utah. A bus system" Harrumph!

My teachers were kind and reassured me that even though I had missed two classes and my first test, I was going to be okay. Had they been truly humane, they would've sedated me, because I was as jittery and unstable as a wee bunny that had barely escaped the hunt. I eventually calmed down, however, and when my friend in the admissions department heard what happened, she called me down and went over a map of the city with me, highlighting a route home.

So I took that route home, and found my way back again the next day without any problem, but when I went home the next day- I got on the exact same bus I'd gotten on that morning- for some reason, that particular bus changed the route. Luckily I knew enough of the city by this point that I could get off and find another stop to take me home. I was only merely furious when I got home, as opposed to the shock, fatigue and overwhelming frustration I felt the previous morning. I'm a work in progress.

The hardest part for me, however, has been my lack of socialization. My beloved apartment back home was set up so my best friends lived across the yard. But because everyone is so spread out here, and I don't have a car, I haven't been able to be all that social with my ward. I don't need a ton of friends; I like having a set group of people I hang out with every night, but I don't mind my privacy and having space. However, friends would've definitely come in handy when my power was shut off and I was stumbling around in my dark apartment all alone for the past few days. Having someone I could call would've been nice when I got so lost. And to be perfectly honest, I've got a lot coming at me right now and what I need more then anything is someone who I can I talk to at the end of the day when I'm feeling overwhelmed and ecstatic about what I learned in school.

I guess I just need to give it time. My oldest sister reminded me that I've been here for less then two weeks. The things that I need-a bed, a car, some action- will all come eventually. In the meantime, surviving without them is part of the adventure. And for now, I am privileged to be living in a beautiful city and go to a school where I learn things that makes my wee cup runneth over. I get to be a Texan! and as we all know, Texas is God's gift to the Union.

Past The Point of No Return

2010-10-20T09:43:00.000-07:00

Well, I did it. I still can't believe I left my home and everyone that I love to travel across the country to go to a school where getting sprayed with guts and heaven knows what else is part of the daily agenda. Good thing it's all for a good cause. Truthfully, Houston is a fun place. It's vast and spacious, and that makes it easy to feel overwhelmed, but I decided to take a step back and catch my breath for a second and I can see why it's such a popular city. It helps that my journey here has been quite fortuitous.

Before I left, I had several arguements with my mother about what I could and could not bring. She said I wouldn't need all my stuff, that anything I'd need could be replaced out there. I didn't want to buy new things. I've spent years driving my room mates to the brink of insanity as I accumulated a vast variety of decor, kitchen appliances, clothing, books, and humorous-yet-useless novelties. I can't help it; I've always wanted to have what I-or anyone else- needed for any reason. I like the idea of being the person people come to when they need something, and being prepared for anything. My vast collection of blankets has more then once saved the day at a ward activity. I provided the ambiance at every dance, and fed countless college students with my random kitchen gizmos. Leaving all that behind was extremely annoying, but because I was flying, I could only take so much with me on the plane.

I spent three days squishing all possible articles of clothes into two suitcases and a duffle bag, and throwing toiletries and jewelry in as afterthought. In the end, I didn't pack an eighth of my wardrobe, but my largest suitcase was full to bursting, so I had to settle for that. I had gone to D.I. and bought the largest suitcase I could find, and as I wheeled it around the store, I was satisfied with it's aerodynam-ability. But only after filling it to brim did we realize that the wheels ran sciwampus, and it was amazingly hard to steer. I will never forget the warmth I felt in my heart as my Dad pushed my suitcase from behind all the way through the airport. Bless his heart. He was convinced that my suitcase weighed more then 50 lbs, and when we went up to weigh it, sure enough, I had managed to pack 64 lbs. of my life into that blasted piece of luggage. I thought for sure I was about to get socked with a huge fee, but the kind man at the scale explained to us that if I were to upgrade to first class, it would save me 60 dollars. Instead of paying $110 for my luggage, I payed $50 and flew first class from Salt Lake City to Pheonix. I couldn't believe my luck. My seat was the first one of the plane, right up next the captain's cabin. I had the whole row to myself, so as the steward passed around drinks and snacks, I was the first to be served. As I sat there sipping my sparkling apple juice with my pinky extended, and wishing I had had the presence of mind to wear a smoking jacket and bubble pipe, I grew excited at the prospect of leaving my home for truly the first time. I felt like it was a good omen.

Living the high life on First Class...

After landing in Pheonix, I found my gate quickly and discovered that it was to be a very full flight. The harrassed- looking agent announced that due to amount of passengers on the plane, carry-ons would be limited, and the rest be placed in the back with the baggage. I volunteered my fat duffle. She gratefully thanked me, but in my mind, I felt like I had gotten the better end of the deal. No lugging that thing on the plane.

My flight to Houston wasn't nearly as comfortable, but I didn't care; We flew right into the sunset and it was breathtaking. The clouds were all piled up beside us and it seemed like we sailing on a sea of marshmellow paste. As we descended into the city, I could see that it went on forever and the lights made it fascinating to look at. It occured to me that this place must be beautiful at Christmas time, with all the extra twinkling lights.

My ex-room mate Alena found me without a hitch, and after struggling for a bit my overlarge suitcase, a kind hispanic man came to our rescue. After he left us, Alena remarked that I was already getting attention from the locals, but I personally think he just didn't see the ring on her left hand. She took me back to her apartment and promptly fed me a full on Thanksgiving feast. No joke. As we all know, Canada celebrates their own Thanksgiving a month earlier. Apparently, a Canadian Elder who is serving her area was really disappointed that he was going to miss an elaborate Thanksgiving that was to be prepared before he was suddenly transferred. Being a Canadian herself, Alena felt sympathetic to this Elder's plight and prepared a complete Thanksgiving meal. There were still leftovers in the fridge when I arrived and I dined on turkey, mashed potatoes, corn, and pies.

For those of you who resent me for my sheer dumb luck, understand that it ended there: It took me a few days before I was able to finally sign the lease to my apartment, and despite the fact that I gave my apartment management a few days notice, I came into my new home only to discover that the fridge wasn't hooked up, and the carpets in the process of being cleaned, (which meant that I couldn't move in), and I needed to order electricity and the internet. It isn't furnished, but luckily for me, Alena had the foresight to equip me with a couple of air mattresses. Since then I have learned that they have run out of keys for the fitness room (the only place on the property with Wifi internet), and they've lost my mail key.

But hey, all is well. This is what I asked for, and if I don't allow my self to think too much, I'll be ready to take this town by storm!...If a hurricane doesn't do it first.

A Bicycle Built For Two

2010-09-12T16:57:00.000-07:00

For my French class at my last semester at BYU, I was assigned to attend a lecture about the French way of life. The one I chose to attend featured a seasoned French cyclist who had written a book about how riding a bike was good for the soul. I wish I could remember more of the details, and normally I would, except it just so happened that at the time, I was recovering from a concussion I had procured while dancing with a freshly returned missionary. A lot of things around that time are a blur! Anyway, it turns out that he was a veteran of the Tour De France. He claimed that it is the hardest race in the world. In my mind, I thought. Phhht! No it's not, the Iditarod is! I had an experience this weekend that taught me that we were both right.

Maren always told me that if I wanted to go bikejoring, all I needed to do was ask. In the past, I've tried to make several different appointments to go out with her, but fate proved to be a stumbling block-between schedule conflicts and Kahlua getting killed, it seemed like my training was never meant to be. Finally I gave it one last shot and scheduled with her for this past Friday, and it worked out.

I had to wake up 5:30 am so that we could beat the still overly hot temperatures of the day, but I had barely fallen asleep at 2:30. I didn't feel tired at first, I was up and raring to go! My mom dropped me off at the shop where I waited for Maren to meet me. We drove up to the Squaw Peak trail, where Racer already had the rest of the team. We had brought with us one of new rescues, Timber, so that she could be trained to pull. I thought Maren was going to hook me up to her, because she had more reason to actually obey me, but Maren told me she wanted me to choose one of her dogs. Each and every one of them is a racing machine. It sounded very ominous.

I decided I wanted Zilla, Maren's Australian Shepherd/ Husky mix. I've met her before, and she was sweet. I figured that because she had a shepherd's heart, she would have a merciful soul.

I thought I had dressed warmly enough for the occasion, but once we got out there, the very air in my lungs froze. The trees were beginning to change colors and there was a definite autumnal chill in the air. Maren made me wear a helmet and a pair of over-sized biking gloves. I had no idea why I would need them, but I really came to appreciate them later.

Maren hooked Timber up with Sage, appropriately named for her ability to teach the novice dogs of Maren and Racer's team how to pull. I wondered if maybe I should just sit back and observe them for oh, I don't know, a couple of years? Nevertheless, I put on a brave face as they hooked Zilla up to Maren's specially-made mountain bike and kept those thoughts of 'how do I get myself into these situations?' to myself.

It's a very intimidating thing to put your life in the hands(paws?) of animal, especially if you're not it's owner. All Zilla would have to do is stop suddenly for me to be thrown to my death, and she would never have to worry about lugging my carcass around ever again. In theory, I'm supposed to be the one in charge, the one setting the pace and giving the directions, but anyone who has ever worked with Huskies knows that's not always going to happen.

I gave out the shout " Hike, Hike!" and off we flew. (Musher's don't really yell 'mush'. That's Hollywood stuff). I found a new appreciation for all kinds of things on that trail day: brakes, paved roads, cushy bicycle seats, etc. Zilla and I pounded up that dirt trail up in to the mountain like her heart was going to break. I took back the scoffing I had mentally sent that French bicyclist that day; I felt that because the Tour De France was held in temperate July and wound all over scenic France, and wasn't quite the same distance as the Race to Nome, it couldn't really compare to the Iditarod. But that day, on that trail, I learned that bicyclists must have callused fannies, because mine was very unaccustomed to the jolting and bumping of a rocky dirt road. (and I really don't have much padding back there, you know), I also know that bicyclists must have iron lungs and thighs that constantly burn, because both of mine wore out on the way up. Maren was behind me, and she decided to give me a second dog, Sage, to help me finish. I felt like a complete and total wuss.

The real thrill came on the way back down. Maren took Sage back in order to keep me from zooming off into oblivion, and she told me that this was the easy part. I figured I'd be okay. Zilla was totally compliant with me and was responsive to anything I said. She is the most mellow of the dogs on the team, and I was right, she has an understanding heart. I felt like I had had a grasp on the idea, and was finally in control. But I'll tell you what, as we turned around and went back down the mountain, I think I had the fear of God inside of me. I don't think events that are animal based are placed in the category of extreme sports, but they should be. Anything that involves cooperation between human and animal in order to succeed is a real feat, and I honored mushers all the more that morning. I knew my time had come and that I was about to cross that ol' river Jordan into that giant dog park in the sky, when Maren taught me the command for slow down and how to pump my brakes.

In the end, I arrived back at the trailer shaky, colder then I could remember, my hands numb and my bummy sore. But I felt more alive and more happy then I have in a long time. It was the same feeling I got when I visited that kennel in Alaska. I loved it, and I'm going to see if I can schedule again next week. Only this time I'll bring another pair of gloves. And maybe my bootie pop.

How to Save A Life

2010-09-11T22:42:00.000-07:00

A lot of great things have happened for me recently, and I'll write about them next, but tonight my heart is filled with philosophical bittersweet-ness. I'll explain:

Mormons, like all Christians, love parables and have come up with several of our own modern allegories in order to illustrate the ways and workings of God. (speaking of, perhaps I should get in touch with Sheri Dew and ask if she is interested in putting together a book. hmmm... there might be money to be made here...) One parable in particular tells of a man who is walking along a beach and encounters another man combing the beach for stranded starfish and throwing them back into the ocean. The man asks the other " Why are you wasting your time? You can't possibly save them all. It won't make much of a difference." to which the other man replies to the sceptic "It did for that one."

This story became my life philosophy. I decided that to save a life, if only just once would be satisfying for me. That is, it was before I met Evo.

In order to understand why this puppy means so much to me, we need to move back a couple of months. Last April, my family lost our gorgeous German Shepherd mix, Luke. He had been in our family for almost 10 years, and his death was surprising and mercifully sudden. In fact, he died in my arms( so to speak; he was 120lbs. I basically just held his giant head and sobbed as I told him he could go. ) By miraculous circumstances, we were all there by his side when he went, and we all knew that the Lord had given us a great gift. My siblings and I all loved him, but out of all of us, I think I took his passing the hardest. (all though, my youngest sister Allysann has been reported to say that she will "never love[another dog] again." Very Dawson's Creek). As to be expected, there was a huge hole left in our home without him there, and I found myself mourning in a very embarrassing manner...

My mother, unable to cope with the void Luke left behind, convinced my Dad to allow for another dog in our home. Only this one was to be the size of the fur balls Ally used to collect off Luke's shedding hide. To the elitist hybrid breeders, he is a 'malkie'- a Maltese/ Yorkie mix. He's tiny, no more then 4lbs, which makes him 1/25 of the dog we used to have. My mother named him Ernest, after the play 'The Importance of Being Earnest' . This little guy has an endearing way about him, but he has had great difficulty with house training. One day, my mom and I took him to Petsmart for some supplies. She found a dog trainer there and sat down to consult with her about Ernie's little problem. While I waited, I found that the trainer had her demo dog there, waiting patiently and serenely for her attention because that's what Golden Retrievers do. They're basically perfect. I started to scratch him behind his ears and he just fell limp at my feet. I sat down beside him and started to rub his tummy (something I'm very good at, I might add), and I began to realize how much I missed snuggling up to a furry dog with bulk. Before I knew it, tears began to roll down my cheeks. The startled trainer asked me if I wanted her to take him away, and I told her no. I just sat there, like a boobing idiot, petting that animal and wondering where my own Lukie had gone.

Now for the good part. I had made Evo's acquaintance only shortly before Luke had died. He, like all the dogs I work with, had a sad story. His previous owner dumped him at the Humane Society with some lame excuse and left him there to die. Evo wasn't even put up for adoption. He was set for euthanization the moment he arrived because his owner claimed he was 'an escape artist'. This is a ignorant assessment because:

a) ALL HUSKIES ARE ESCAPE ARTISTS! It is part of their breed! They, more then any other type of dogs take after their vulpine forefathers. They're roamers and they're hunters. They're very prey driven and they are not safe with children, cats, or even sometimes small dogs. A lot of people get Huskies because they think they are beautiful or cool, but they know very little about the breed and as a result, the dogs get dumped, and the lucky ones end up with people like Maren. I shudder to think about all those that aren't lucky. Evo wasn't meant to be. He was scheduled to die when he was only 8 months old. I have some choice words for this loser of a owner, but being a Christian woman, I just can't say it! Seriously though, irresponsible people like this are pimples on the butt of humanity.

b) Evo has been assessed by an expert, and we think he might be part German Shepherd. Because of this, he has some very shepherd- like qualities. We learned that when Kahlua got out and was killed, Evo not only stayed put, but kept the other dog in the yard too. He's highly intelligent, and very protective. This is not the making of un-controlable, wild, dog.

But I digress. Continuing on with the story: The head of the Adoption Services at the Humane Society couldn't bring herself to destroy such a beautiful dog, so she contacted Maren and asked her to take him. We didn't have room for Evo at first, so she kept him for about a month before Maren could pick him up.

In the beginning, he broke my heart. He was very nervous around people, particularly children, and didn't want to be petted. He would bark loudly at any strangers that came into the shop and would run away if anyone approached him. Except me. I'd like to say that I have a special gift with animals, and that they instantly sense my aura of compassion and fun when we meet, but I'll be honest, I think the reason the dogs are never intimidated by me is because I'm 4' 10'' in all my glory and they can take me down anytime they want. And I'm always equipped with a leash and a treat. No matter what home they come from, they recognize these things as sign of good will. This probably dates back to the Pre-existence.

I learned very quickly that I had to watch which routes I took him on, because when I went into a overly crowded area, people inevitably wanted to stop me and pet him, which he was not comfortable with. I began a routine with him, and took him the on the same path everyday, so that he would become more secure with me and his surroundings. He did beautifully. Soon he had our walk memorized and he was as well behaved on a leash as I could ask for. (although, he has recently displayed a tendency for J-walking...) I began to trust him so much that I our walks went from being a half an hour to an hour and a half. I learned that I could take him anywhere, and I wanted to spend as much time with him as possible. I even found a little fenced-park where I could let him off his leash and let him run. Evo would come right back to me the moment I called. He loved it, and he loved me. He was never much of a licker, but he would greet me every day by jumping up on me. He's big enough that his paws would rest on shoulders. I didn't mind it at all. It was like getting a hug, doggie style. He learned that he enjoyed being petted and scratched and came up with a system to let me know when he wanted my attention. I came to love this animal more then any other dog I've worked with at the shelter, past and present. After I would walk him, I would sit with him and cuddle him before I had to leave. He came to expect it, and was all too willing to lay his big furry head in my lap.

Maren was pleased that I was willing to spend so much time with him. She said it was good for him to be socialized and all my work with him was going to help him get adopted. We started taking him to dog shows and demos, and he stopped traffic wherever he went because he was so pretty. She said it was all positive training for him. But what she didn't know is that Evo was doing much more for me then I was for him. My heart still hurts when I go home to a house that doesn't have a loud, hairy beast that's just begging for me to pay attention to him and scratch his bum, but that was momentarily forgotten when I had the chance to focus on another creature who needed me as badly as I needed him. And not just for grieving. These past couple of months have been very difficult for me and I have struggled worse then I have in years. I felt very alone, and socially neglected. It seemed like everybody wanted something from me, but nobody cared that I was hurting. But I'm the kind of person who needs desperately to be needed, and Evo gave me a sense of purpose. People who don't like or understand dogs can't visualize them being self aware, but not only are they capable of feelings, but they are capable of sensing emotions in others. That is why they are so often used in therapy. My mom once said that Luke was her therapy dog. Evo was mine.

I keep using past tense, and the reason for that is because today Evo was adopted. I should be happy about it; it's the whole objective of what I do. Maren was even kind enough to let me meet the people who were taking him and even asked for my input- which she is under no obligation to do. I felt like these people were nice, but twits- the girlfriend in the couple asked me if we 'could train Evo to not kill their cat'. Now, like I said, Evo is a very good dog, and very well mannered, for a Husky. I've seen him by-pass birds, dogs, rodents, bugs, garbage , all kinds of distractions in the dog world. But he's still a dog and cats are his weakness. Anytime he sees one he tries to convince me that it should be on the menu. You can only ask so much from a dog! I felt like asking her if she felt like a lioness could be trained not to kill a weak and sickly antelope.

However, Maren has warned them of the risks and since Evo does have so many shepherding qualities, she thinks it's possible that he can learn to go against his nature. She's the boss. I prayed that she would find the best home for him and this is what she felt inspired to do. At least these people are athletic, active people and judging by their insistence that they adopt him, even at great peril to dear old fluffy, I feel confident that they can love him enough. I just know that when I walk in to the shop on Monday morning to walk the other dogs, I'm going to remember that he's no longer there, and there will be another hole in my heart. For a little while, anyway.

I took him out today one last time and made him sit with me while I took a picture of us on my phone. It's not that great, but in my defense, he was distracted by two stately German Shepherds across the street-which to his enormous credit, he did stay sitting- and I had a hard time fitting both his fat head and mine in the frame. Anyway, the point is, I may not have been the one to take him out of death row, but I dedicated a great deal of time and effort and even some expense to enrich his life so that he would learn what it felt like to be truly loved. But in the end, although I wasn't about to slit my wrists or anything, he gave me a reason for living. Moral of the story: you give a little love and it all comes back to you...

The Dog Days of Summer

2010-08-11T20:12:00.000-07:00

Originally, I had planned to title this installment 'Who Let the Dogs Out?', and at first, it would've been a great title for a funny incident. But due to a recent event, such a title is now hurtful and inappropriate. It has also inspired me to post my involvement with Arctic Rescue this summer while I still can. You see, huskies are by nature, clever escape artists; more then any other breed, they feel the need to roam and explore their environment. It dates back to the days when the Eskimos would set their dogs free during the summer and expect them to fend for themselves. When winter came, the dogs returned home, hoping the sled drivers would feed them. This makes them the wildest of the dog world, and they are every bit as prey driven as any hound.

You'd think age would take the edge off these guys, but no! Let me tell you a little story...

Once upon a time I was opening the back door to Racer's Bike shop, the headquarters for Arctic Rescue. I was expecting to find Evo, my spunky yet obedient puppy waiting for me patiently to attach his leash to harness and lead him off for a fantastic adventure around the streets of Provo. Instead I feel rather then see this flash of white zip past me and out into the shop. At first, I was confused. I didn't know the rescue had taken on a new dog; was this Shazaam, the award-winning show puppy that had his pictures plastered all over the shop as shamelessly as the shirtless hotties that grace the walls of Hollister? I wasn't in any hurry to catch this renegade, until I realized that for some unknown reason, the door to the shop was wide open! I watched in horror as this nameless dog I'd never seen before runs out the door and into the street. I race after her as I watch several cars tap their brakes as she crosses to the other side. They are not so polite to me. I have a harder time navigating across the street to reach her, and in the meantime, she decided she'd take up quilting and stepped into the Bernina Fabric Store. When I finally get inside, I see a flustered mother sweep her small son onto the counter and a bewildered shop owner trying to decide what to do with this new customer. I grab her collar and talk to her gently, like it was routine to have boisterous sled dogs come in and check out fabric. The shop owner asked me if this was my dog, and I replied 'no, she belongs to the shelter across the street.' and, not allowing her the time to get angry or ask any more questions, I lead the fugitive out the door and back across the street. Later that day, I called Maren, the shelter's founder, to let her know that she might be contacted. She wasn't too worried about it. She explained to me that Tasha was 10 years old and almost completely blind. I couldn't believe that a senior that could barely see had given me the slip. It shouldn't have been a surprise... I remember learning from the musher at the kennel I visited in Alaska that when a dog is too old to race, he is put to work teaching the pups how to pull. Tasha, despite her disadvantage, has managed to leave her muddy paw prints on a few good natured joggers. She really was such a sweet girl that nobody got mad her. She's like that old lady that gets away with doing naughty things at the nursing home because she's just so gosh darn funny.

Does this sweet little girl strike you as the mistress of mayhem? Don't be fooled by her demure appearance...

So yeah, this story was a great learning experience for me and I will never again underestimate the power of cooped up canine. The problem is sometimes the story isn't quite so funny...

About two weeks ago, I was once again bombarded with a new rescue. She was a wiry, 25 lb. seppela Siberian with gorgeous blue eyes and a genetic make up that mushers would kill for. (They're crossing them with smaller, speedier dogs for a more aerodynamic team). Barely more then a puppy. At first I couldn't decide how I felt about her. Kahlua was strong enough to take on the burlier, routier boys out back, but she was also strong enough to yank me around, as she wasn't half as disciplined as Evo is. But after I took her for a walk and I sat down on chair in the back yard to watch the dogs play, she ambled up to me and put her paws on my knees. She looked up at me with those pretty blue eyes and I knew I toast.

I realized that she was small enough to meet the weight conditions of my new apartment conditions. Sugar plums began to dance in my head: I could take her with me! She'd be perfect for it! She was small enough to control but strong enough to pull. She would be the most ideal dog to train me to race and rescue huskies. I even called my new apartment complex to see how they felt about it, and they said they'd work with me. She was sweet and spicy all at once, and would do well in the hustle and bustle community I would be moving to.

I made all kind of grand plans:I picked out a new name for her, took an inventory of all the things I would need to buy her(including a dog tag with rhinestones on it- nothing but the best for my girl!) and decided which Vet I was going to take to for her flight certification. It was all going to work out... until last Monday when I got a message on my voice mail form Maren telling me that Kahlua had escaped, could I call her back and tell her what route I'd walk Kahlua on? I tried to call her back, but she didn't answer. I left a message and sent her a text. Our conversation went like this:

D:Any luck?

....

M:She got hit.

D:Where is she?! Should I come over?

M:We have the body.

(This is the part where I exploded into tears)

D:I'm sorry. Is there any thing I can do?

M:No. I'm just really upset.

M:We are still on for the dog show tomorrow in the a.m. Evo will need something to do. He'll be missing his buddy.

And there it was. She was gone, and with her all my plans, and my dream of starting a team in Texas. I know I'll never be able to find another one like her; the fact that her previous owner had dropped her is almost unthinkable. All ethics aside, this dog, with her unique genetics, was worth thousands of dollars . Maren has had a hard letting go of her outrage. Apparently she was let out by a couple of Racer's buddies who expected him to do them a special favor and work on their bikes hours after closing time. I don't know how you can ignore the fact that there were three full grown huskies locked up in that small yard, but they did, and they left the gate wide open. Maren came right before the other two left the yard, and Racer hopped onto his bike and began scouring Provo for the baby. He watched her run straight into traffic.

So now, I just have the one. Evo. As sad as I am that Kahlua is gone, (and trust me, I'm devastated.) I can't imagine what I'd do if it had been my boy instead. Evo and I have been working together for about three months now and we are crazy about each other. He took me on my first bikejoring ride, and we'll continue to train each other until I leave. Which, as it turns out, is much later then I thought. Things did not work out financially as I had hoped, so when Maren offered me a payed internship, I took it. I'll be leaving in the middle of October. In the meantime, I'm going to learn how to race and to rescue. It's ironic because I meant for this to be a short narrative of my work with the sled dogs. But, as is to be expected of a McKinlay, I cannot tell a short story. And there is a lot to say about Evo. I've taken him to dog shows, demos, photoshoots, and bikejoring runs. He's an amazing athlete and a dear friend. So without further ado, here is my beautiful puppy:

An Ode to Red Shoes

2010-07-26T13:08:00.000-07:00

I don't how or why it began, but red shoes have always been the stuff of legend. They seem to always be associated with magic and idea that right will always prevail. Examples can be found in many of our favorite fairy tales: It is the legendary ruby slippers in The Wizard of Oz that not only have the ability to restore Dorothy back to her true home, but forge the major plot line of the story. In the Snow Queen, Gerta tries to to sell her beautiful new red shoes for information about her kidnapped friend, Kay. This leads to a series of events resulting in his recovery, adding to moral of the tale, which emphasis love, friendship, and sacrifice. On a more morbid note, the original Grimm version Snow White and the Seven Dwarves, has the Evil Queen paying penance for her cruelty to the young princess by dancing at her wedding in red hot iron shoes. Luckily, no one knows about this ending to the story due to the more popular animated version. (10 points for you, Walt. Having the Evil Queen get crushed off stage by a massive boulder by her own undoing is much more poetic and easier on the kiddies!) The point is, a pair of scarlet shoes can symbolize a time when fantastic things happened. I've come to learn this for myself.

A couple of years ago, my younger sister and I traveled to the strange and remote world of Alaska. It was a hard adjustment for us both, but I came to love it! It was wild and untouched, still full of the courageous spirit that led to it's settlement in the first place. We were working as housekeepers on a cruise line lodge, but it was anything but luxurious for the employees. Kait hated it. She's not the type of girl who likes frontier living. She didn't enjoy the hour and a half drive to the nearest town, and certainly didn't appreciate the occupational hazard of the occasional stray bear in our maids closets. While I was spending my day off venturing off to the local Sled Dog kennels and immersing myself in Alaskan culture, she hopped on the nearest shuttle and traveled three hours to the Anchorage Mall. It's not all that great, but at least it wasn't a place where taxidermy was the decorator's theme.

I had celebrated my 21st birthday out there, and I felt at first that the only noteworthy thing that was going to happen was that all the Bulgarians up there were going to bombard me with requests to get them alcohol. But then Kait surprised me with a present: a pair of red mary janes. They were simple, and hopefully not too expensive, but I fell in love with them the moment I saw them. They were instantly comfortable, and I wore them all over the mountain, and even had them on when I returned home.

For the past couple of summers, they have been my allies in adventure. I wore them when I went clam digging on the Puget Sound, near Seattle, (and dang near lost them to the tide! But I persevered, by golly!)

when I hiked the Mount Olympic Forest, when I danced around Utah lake, and when I'd take my dogs out for a run. They've showed up in art projects and on temple trips, and their range of travel extends from the ocean of the West Coast the Red Rock Deserts of Southern Utah.

It is now with heavy heart that I am forced to place them in retirement. The soles are worn so much that a hole the size of dime has formed. When I toss them out, I hope that I'll be able to retain all the good memories that came with them. I'm not sure to worry about this too much, because as one last parting gift to me, my shoes have given me something I'll never forget:

this totally gnarly tanline.

Sceptics may read my blog and decide that I have nothing but fluff for brains, since this is now the second time I have written about a pair of shoes that have elicited an emotional response from me. What can I say? I love the simple things in life.

Summertime...And the Living is Easy

2010-06-23T15:09:00.000-07:00

I made a goal when I began blogging last December that I would post at least one entry per month. At first, that wasn't too difficult. I have a tendency to find adventures in the most obscure places. I'm very aware that I'm young and have a lot of livin' to do, so I do my best to be in the thick of things, no matter what the cost. Last month, however, I hit a road block. It felt like nothing worth reporting happened: no injuries, no brushes with death, no earth-shattering existential insights, no new soapbox to rant on. None of the usual material that tends to fill the cyberspace that is my personal online memoir. However, that cannot be said about this month. I have had many grand adventures within the past few weeks and the only excuse I have for not documenting them is that I have no pictures. I feel that it is my duty as a Mormon woman to not only present an insightful, inspiring blog, but also to embellish it with the most aesthetically pleasing layout, worthy of a true domestic goddess. But, domestic I ain't, so I'll just have to narrate.

My brother made the comment a few weeks ago that I 'thought' I was outdoorsy. I don't know where he's coming up with these conclusions; we speak to each other on average about once a month. However, instead of feeling affronted, I am merely going to present my case with an overview of the occurrences of this season:

Bonfire:

A couple of weeks ago, the first counselor in my Bishopric held his annual bonfire for our ward. I've been told that bonfires in Utah are child's play compared to the roaring infernos that teenagers and college students gather around in other areas of the country. Of course they are! The great state of Utah burns to a crisp like a fatty slab of bacon every summer due to irresponsible practices outdoors. Maybe it's that old adage 'better safe then sorry', but we'd rather keep our beautiful playground for further use. However, this doesn't mean Utahns don't have any stamina. It rained almost the entire day, not just sprinkling, misty light rain, but a persistent, demanding deluge of fat rain drops. And yet, Brother O'Connell's ranch style home out in remote Benjamin was alive with activity as the college students of the BYU 43rd ward buzzed around his property, riding horses, playing basketball, shooting rifles and shot guns, and driving four-wheelers. Where was I? In the thick of it, of course!

Four wheeling:

Many a friend and loved one has forbidden me from ever touching an ATV ever again, due to an accident I was in last winter. I smashed into a ditch and was thrown off, tearing several ligaments in my wrist and thumb. I personally don't think it was that big of a deal; yeah, if I hadn't landed on my feet, I could very well be dead, but I did land on my feet, so it's all good. After the cast was put on, I was fine. It was waterproof and I didn't allow it to slow me down. There was, however, a need to face that vehicle again, just to gain faith in myself. I asked a gentleman in my ward who I felt had sufficient experience with recreational vehicles to take me out on it. He did an okay job, but I guess that it had been a while since he'd driven a four-wheeler. I did end up getting knocked off again, only this time, I only bruised my fingers. Maybe next year I can look forward to an incident-free ride.

Shooting:

I don't think I've ever disapproved of guns themselves, just what they represent. As someone who is dedicating their whole life to saving lives and caring for animals, hunting is not exactly something that is on my agenda of things to do. I've had the hunting debate with friends a dozen times and in the end, it's always something that we have to agree to disagree about. It's a hard thing for me to handle, and it takes a lot of maturity on both ends to stay on congenial terms. For this reason, I decided to give recreational shooting a try. Hunters are always saying that animal lovers are hysterical, irrational, uneducated, and unfair, as some of the greatest advocates for environmentalism are the sportsmen. I'm aware of this, but I wanted to understand the thrill that comes with firing a shotgun. Quinn owns a couple of them, so when Brother O' Connell told us we could use his property as a shooting range, I agreed to join him when he got a group together for one of their shooting expeditions.

That was last summer. The boys were fantastic about teaching me about gun safety and how to hold it right so the gun wouldn't bruise me into oblivion when it kicked. And kick it did! I felt like I was going to knocked completely off my feet. Quinn said I did okay, though. Since then, I have gone shooting twice this month, first using a 203 rifle and later firing a .22. I'll admit that I'm not a big fan of shooting the bigger guns. I haven't touched Quinn's 12 gauge since that first time, and don't know if I ever will, but there was something satisfying about shooting with the .22-especially after Quinn set up one of his badly made ceramic cups for a target at about 20-30 feet-I pinged it on my second shot! I don't know that I'll ever get enough practice to ever become proficient with a gun, but by stepping out there with a bunch of experienced marksmen, I hope to win points for animal lovers everywhere. I show them I can be open minded- to a point, they in turn show me respect by not destroying anything living. We keep to our inanimate targets: clay pigeons, stuffed animals, water bottles, balloons, bad ceramics, broken appliances, and paper targets. Oh, and we always clean up afterward.

This was last year, and my first time with a .22 gauge. It's nice because it doesn't kick and it's easier to load. Maybe it's wussy that I don't love the big guns, but I am a little lady, after all.

Motorcycles:

I don't believe there is a girl out there who doesn't at some point fantasize about jumping on the back of a motorcycle with a muscular man and riding off into the sunset. I know I do. There was a gentleman in our ward who drives one and I made a joke about how I needed to figure out how to find a way on to the back of his bike. I guess he found out because one night after we were all playing at night as a ward, he asked me if I wanted to go with him, he just so happened to bring his second helmet. YEAH! We zipped along the streets of Provo, weaving in and out of traffic and beating everyone else home. It was a fun experience, but I hope someday I get the chance to do the same thing in the desert, without a helmet.

Frisbee:

If you had told me a few years ago that I would become a frisbee fanatic, I would have laughed and continued picking dandelions. That's how I used to cope when my ward would play ultimate frisbee in the old days. Last summer my guyfriends organized a game of glow-in-the-dark ultimate frisbee and invited me to play. I shrugged my shoulders and thought, hey I might as well be social. It was such a success that we continued to do that every Tuesday night for the rest of the summer. I was pretty pathetic at first, but Quinn and Jason decided to throw a frisbee around one night, and it turned into frisbee boot camp. They ran drills with me and taught me how to throw it straight. By the end of the night, I was hooked. This summer we began the tradition again and have been so die-hard that we played in the rain and hail. On the field, I do okay; I usually make at least one touchdown a game. But I don't allow myself to slack off! Quinn's latest thing has been frisbee golf, and I go with him because it improves my throwing range. We also go out and toss it around several times a week and a hour before each game. It's an awesome feeling to watch people scramble to guard me because they perceive me as a threat. It's also a great feeling to see Quinn and Jason beam with pride at their protege when I make an impossible catch.

Bikejoring:

I actually have intentions of expanding on this one in a future blog, so I won't say too much it here, just know that Arctic Rescue is still a major part of my life. I only have one more sled dog left, and he is a prince among huskies. It's been fun because we have been training each other, me as his handler, and he as my team. See, bikejoring is a Swedish sport in which you hook up your dog to a bike or scooter and fly over a mountain trail. Any kind of outdoor dog would enjoy this, but it's especially ideal with huskies because it's a fantastic way to train them to pull a sled, especially in the summer. It's also more access able for the terrain of Utah; we truly have it all! You just need your dog, a leash, and a bike and you're good to go. I've done a bit of dabbling with this, and it has been AMAZING!

If this is not enough to prove myself to Lynn, the summer is still young and there are several plans in the works. I have to make it to Zion's before the summer ends, because it may be my last opportunity to do so. There's also been talk of hiking, rafting, and cookouts. At any rate, I intend to live it up!

Happiness is...

2010-04-21T23:36:00.000-07:00

A while back my Mom directed a play called 'You're a Good Man, Charlie Brown.' It's based on the characters created from the cartoon strip 'Peanuts' by Charles M. Shultz. The illustrator in me has always been a fan of his work. There's something amazing about a man that can teach poignant lessons about life through the eyes of a neighbourhood of six-year olds. In the musical, there's a song called Happiness Is... where the children sing about the simple things in life that fulfil them. Recently I've discovered the truth of of this simple song.

About two weeks ago, I learned my future plans were not as secure as I thought. The degree I was working on had it's program changed and I wasn't going to be able to earn it before I left for Texas. Not only that, but I was told that I was no longer eligible for financial aid for the rest of the year. My world was falling apart. It made me sick to think that I was going to leave BYU after six years with nothing but accumulated debt. I went to the art department, financial aid, admissions... no one could help me. Soon it felt like there wasn't anything in my life that wasn't in the hole or out of my reach.

The weather seemed to agree with me. I woke up last week to a drizzly grey morning and thought to my self, well thanks loads, Mother Nature. Looks like you feel like I do. As I was getting ready for the day, I thought dismally about how to best dress so that I could stay strategically dry, when I remembered something. After my latest experience in the horse pastures, I decided I needed to invest in a good pair of galoshes. I found a darling pair online that had horses and horseshoes that I felt were extremely appropriate. They came in a timely fashion, but I was a little sad when they arrived because the sun was shining and I didn't know when I'd get the chance to wear them. When I pulled those sweet little rain boots over my feet, I felt a wonderful, warm sense of happiness wash over me. Who cares if I didn't get a degree from BYU? Who cares if I flunked my math class? Who cares if my laptop is no lying in pieces in it's tomb at the computer repair shop? I had rain boots! I could look cute and stay dry! I ran outside and splashed in every puddle I could find. That day, as I was walking my husky out in the rain, I realized that I had learned a valuable lesson. Happiness is wherever you find it. There is always something to celebrate. Peace filled my heart and I knew that everything was going to be okay. I just needed something to make me stop and think about how truly blessed I am.

As it turns out, everything is okay. I discussed my situation with the Vet Tech Institute of Houston. They will be providing me with funding to clear my debts from both schools, helping me find housing and send my application in earlier, so that I will be able to start my training sooner. They have been wonderful and helpful, and I no longer feel like a major screw-up that has disappointed everyone. Every time I get a phone call from the Institute I feel hopeful and grateful, fully aware that this is the Lord's hand in my life, sending me in a direction that I hadn't anticipated, but I am excited to see what the outcome will be.

So, what ever happiness means to you, whether it's celebrating Beethoven's Birthday, or holding your security blanket, or catching the ever elusive Red Baron, it's in the simple things in life that bring fulfilment. As the line in the song says "Happiness is everything and anything at all". Thanks for that important reminder, Charlie Brown.

All the Pretty Little Horses

2010-03-21T20:34:00.000-07:00

My mother used to sing that lullabye to us. At least she says she did. I have no recollection of it. But I have heard the Charlotte Church version and I have recently rediscovered what every little girl seems to inherently know: Horses are magical.

As a child of the 80's, I was constantly bombarded with pro-horse propaganda in the form of Saturday morning cartoons. From the sugary pastels of My Little Ponies to the egotistical but marvelous steed of Rainbow Bright, Starlight, these cheaply done animated shorts banked off the innate desires of little girls every where. Who among us hasn't, at some point, day dreamed about owning a beautiful stallion with a flowing mane that could carry us off onto a rainbow? One that would let us braid it's mane and tail and embellish it with fluffy pink bows? They truly are creatures of fantasy.

Last semester, I quit my job and had too much time on my hands. I decided I needed to volunteer in order to feel like a useful human being. After looking at a pamphlet issued by the Student Service center at BYU, I found a group called Horses for Healing. Apparently BYU is affiliated with a equine therapy clinic that rehabilitates patients with mental and physical disabilities. I figured it couldn't hurt my career to work with horses, so I signed up. Technically, we're supposed to be working with the patients while on horseback, but my experiences with this group has been primarily taking care of the horses. It has been quite a rush. For while we are taught that lovely maidens who are kind to animals win their love and loyalty instantly, reality has taught me that horses are big, powerful creatures, and they know it. They're very gentle for the most part, but I have seen people get kicked, and it is not an enviable fate.

All in all, I love what I do. I went yesterday to brush the horses and help the pregnant mares prepare for foaling. It was a beautiful day and I'm loving the opportunity not only to work with amazing animals that do so much good, but also spending time with people who feel as I do.

I really was happy to be there, it's just that the sun was in my face. Actually, I was grateful for it; I've done some fairly violating procedures on these animals (the kind you don't discuss over blogs) and having cold hands does not help ensure safety.

I guess I made some friends while I was out there; one of the guys that works out there offered to take pictures of me. Later wanted me to go for a ride. I guess being happy makes me cute.

There were honest to goodness some of the most beautiful animals I'd ever seen.

Anyway, I feel very blessed to be living the dream.

"Houston...we have ignition..."

2010-03-07T16:34:00.000-08:00

This installment is not so much a funny one, but rather one of serious gratitude. Last November my family did something completely uncharacteristic of us and traveled to San Francisco to visit my younger sister for Thanksgiving. She's been living out there for a couple of years to study fashion design at the Art Institute. I've missed her terribly, but I didn't count on how much seeing her again would impact me. Kaitlin is one of my very best friends in the whole wide world, and when I saw how much she had grown, I was so proud of her. She had become someone who was wise and tolerant and resourceful. She showed us all the sights of the city, some of them I thought were beautiful and whimsical, others I thought were overwhelming and frightening. Her world is very different then mine. As I noticed these changes in her, I felt a sense of longing that was like nothing I'd ever known before. I wanted to do what she had done, and be what she had become. I wanted to learn what it was like to leave home and have some new experiences; living in a state where I belong to the dominant religion, I've never had to defend what I believe in. I wanted to see what I could do on my own.

Promptly after I came home, I got on the computer and looked up Vet Tech schools. I made the decision that I wasn't going to attend the one in Salt Lake. I was going to make myself leave. I stumbled across a website for the Vet Tech Institute of Houston. It looked like a nice place, so I applied for information. Within days a representative contacted me. I learned that the program had a retired zoo keeper as head of staff, which meant a direct link to a future job at a zoo. I also learned that the program was a year and a half, as opposed to the usual two or four year programs. They were impressed with the fact that I was almost through with my bachelor's degree and that I had already had some experience with vet clinics and shelters. Something about it felt really good. We began the application process and the way I was treated, I thought I had acceptance in the bag.

A few days ago, I got a call from the school, telling me that all I had left to do was an interview. I wasn't concerned about it; I was told all I needed to do was convince them how commit ed I was. Easy! But when I got the phone call the next day, the head of the department told me that I lacked the points necessary to get automatically accepted, and this interview would determine whether or not I would make the cut. They asked me several different ethical questions and I answered them as honestly as I could. But after my interview, I felt sick to my stomach. This was something I wanted on so badly. I had worked hard and banked everything on getting accepted to Houston. I sat up all night that night worrying about what I was going to do and where I was going to go if this didn't happen. I had received information from other schools, but I hadn't applied to any of them, because I didn't want them. The prospect of going somewhere else made me quite depressed. The next day I got a surprise phone call from the institute. Apparently the head of Human Resources has become a good friend of mine, because when she managed to catch a glimpse of my scores for the interview and saw that I had aced it, she couldn't resist calling me to let me know. I had been accepted! She said that I had done as well as I possibly could've, and that my responses blew them out of the water. She ended by saying that she would be in touch to help me with finding financial aid and housing. I couldn't believe it! I still can't. I have a path to where I want to go. I have a plan. I have the awesome opportunity to see and experience new things and stretch myself to become the person I want to be. I'm so incredibly grateful and excited! I feel like I'll get to go somewhere with my life. I am so grateful to my Heavenly Father for giving me this chance, and I'm going to do everything I can to be worthy of his trust. Look at me go!

'Ain't That Just A Kick In The Head?'

2010-02-24T21:55:00.000-08:00

I was listening to my newly set-up ipod and I discovered that song by Dean Martin on it. It's a cute song, and I love it, but I couldn't help but think to myself 'Wow. That would hurt!' As fate would have it, I was about to find out how much...

You see, on Valentines Day weekend, I told myself that I wasn't going to sit at home alone and hate my life like so many girls do. I was going to go out and do something that made being single fun! I did. I went country swing dancing. It was a great night, and I met several nice guys who came stag too. I was quite pleased with myself when I came home that night.
I was still under this spell when the next Saturday night rolled around. I wanted to relive that fun night and I thought I might meet up with some of the guys I met the week before. So, against all my friends' wishes I went dancing alone again.
This time it wasn't quite so promising. I didn't feel like the mood was as fun and as easy-going as it was last time. But I paid six bucks to get in, so by golly, I was going to get my money's worth! I started asking guys to dance, and I noticed this one guy who was clumped up against the wall with a bunch of his friends. I thought he was cute, and experience has led me to know that a grouping of guys like this meant that they were single and therefore safe. I asked him to dance and he smiled big at me, nervously. He led me out the dance floor and instantly started yanking me around like some kind of doll. He was over six feet and very well built, so I had a hard time putting up resistance. In country dancing, like all social dancing, it's important to stay tense with your partner, because looseness makes it hard for her to follow your lead. But this guy was like a charging rhino. He could tell that he was being a little rough on me, so he kept on apologizing. He told me he hadn't done this for a while. I found out later that 'while' meant two years. Yup. He was a freshly returned missionary. He told me he had just returned from his mission in Chile this past Tuesday. No wonder he was so uptight! Leave it to me to pick out the most scared guy on the dance floor!

I don't remember what happened next, I just know that I was coming out of some sort of spin, when WHAM! Something like an elbow hit me HARD on my face, right above my left eye. My body jammed up, my teeth clenched together hard. I remember seeing black and hearing a vague apology. I shook myself off and told him it was okay. And it should've been. I finished the dance with him and went off to find someone else to dance with. After a while I began to notice that I felt nauseous. I started dancing sluggishly, and couldn't respond in time like I should've. My head started to ache. Finally I gave up and decided to go home. I noticed that I was having a hard time walking and was feeling disoriented. When I came home, my room mate Judy noticed instantly that something was wrong. She had me elevate my feet and gave me a cold glass of water, but I didn't feel better. I went to bed early that night (by early I mean midnight) but not before I got a look at myself in the mirror and noticed that my eyes had dilated.

Needless to say, I didn't get much sleep that night and when my room mates went to church, I told them to go without me. When she came home Judy convinced me to go to the E.R. to have my head checked out. I made several phone calls but no one picked up, and since the hospital is only a block away from my house, I decided it wouldn't kill me to walk there. Well, that was relative. It was freezing outside, but I arrived at the E.R. without a hitch, and they actually got me in very quickly. The doctor was kind, but he didn't think there was much wrong with me. Because it was a head injury, he ordered for a CAT scan, just to be safe. After the scan he sent me back to my room and set me up with an I.V. that would inject anti-nausea anti- pain medicine. I sat there, hooked up to this I.V. for over an hour while I waited for the results of the CAT scan. All I wanted to do was sleep. Finally the doctor came in and told me yes, I had a minor concussion, but he didn't see anything too dangerous at this point. He told me to get some rest and sent me home with a single, piddling sleeping pill.

The pill worked for five hours, but when I woke up, I couldn't get back to sleep. Not only was I restless from the symptoms of the concussion, but my little jaunt to the hospital cost me dearly and I developed a cold. My nose ran like a faucet the entire night long. Obviously when I woke up, I wasn't feeling any better, but I thought I had to at least try to get to my classes. But when I looked in my mirror, I noticed that one of my pupils had dilated. I remembered that being one of the warning signs the doctor told me to look for, and sure enough, when I consulted the hospital, they told me to come back in. So, back out into the snow I went. I saw a different doctor this time. He looked like one of the Beatles with his shaggy hair and goatee. I felt instantly comfortable around him, and he and I were joking around in a matter of minutes. He made fun of me for going country dancing in the first place. I told him how I still felt sick and how I noticed my eyes were different. This doctor told me that the odds of a CAT scan missing something was like 1/1600. But, he was concerned that my neck may have been injured when I got hit, so he said we'd do a more in-depth CAT scan, this time injecting my blood with a solution called contrast, which which would dye my blood a certain color in the scans and make it easier to see the activity of the blood vessels in my brain. This turned out to be quite a trip. I'd never had a CAT scan before two days ago and I was apprehensive that it would be as bad as an MRI. It wasn't. It was quick and painless, like x-rays. However, the second time around, the contrast in my blood had this crazy effect on me. I felt heat rush through my veins, like a hot flash. I also felt like I was wetting myself. The technician warned me that I would feel this way, that it wasn't real, but I was alarmed at what a real sensation it was.

Once again I was sent back to my room to wait for the results. They didn't hook me up to any medication, but they left the contrast needle in me while I waited. This time around it was better because they let me watch T.V. There weren't very many stations, but I did manage to find the Cosby Show. Always a classic.

The doctor finally returned and told me he couldn't find anything wrong either, but he was concerned about my eyes freaking out, so he told me that he wanted me to be monitored through out the night. Have one of my room mates wake me up every couple of hours just to see how my brain is functioning. Then he asked me if I wanted a note for school and how long I felt I would need it. I ended up with a glorious get-out-of-school-free note for three days. Because he wanted me to be able to wake up easily, he didn't want to give me any heavy duty sleeping pills. I asked him if I could take something to ease my cold symptoms so I could sleep at night. Sure, he said. Benedril would be just fine! I headed home once again. I had to get to campus to talk to my teachers and buy medicine, so I gathered up my stuff and went to school. I found the medicine aisle in our little bookshop store, but I didn't see any night time Benedril. I did however, see Nyquil, and I figured it was probably the same stuff. I'd seen people get sloshed while on Nyquil before, but I thought that since I was small, it would just knock me out. The alcohol was supposed to put me to sleep. That night, I had a rip-roaring headache and a nose that wouldn't quit. I decided to take a couple of pills before I went to bed. Now I have had awful, restless nights in the past, but this one was a doozey. You see, when you can't sleep, your thoughts become confusing and frustrating and anxious and you're just sick of thinking. My thoughts stopped resembling thoughts. After a while I began to see literal sentences flash across my brain that looked like this:

>> cODElbjf8r475$^YSawtj i4tu9u49Help!n49r n&w3iv448kraken
<<

It was like I no longer had any grasp on English anymore, my thoughts were coming out like some kind of twisted computer code. And I knew, in a very hazy, slurred sort of way, that I was drunk. Sure enough, when I tried to lift myself up on to my elbows, I couldn't do it. I was too weak and I fell down in a slump. What surprised me is that it didn't feel good at all. Being drunk is supposed to be a relaxing, enjoyable feeling. I just felt dazed and bewildered. And what's more, it defeated the purpose! Yeah, my nose stopped running, but it started up again the moment I got out of bed. Plus I now had to deal the morning-after effects of drunkenness along with my cold and my concussion. It was an enlightening experience and I learned a lot:

No more of that Devil drug for me!
I can see where the term 'pink elephants' came from. Only mine were teal and they were sheep.
Because it made me cry, I've learned that I'm not a mean drunk, or a sweet drunk. I'm a sad drunk.
The morning after is NOT worth it.
I probably couldn't hold my liqueur very well if two gels caps are enough to take me out.

When Judy came to wake me up at 4:00 am, she could see that I'd had a rough night, and since we determined that my motor skills were up to par, relatively, she let me sleep for the rest of the night.

So there you have it. My girl-nite out turned out to be an adventure. I'm a little superstitious of Dean Martin songs now. I still like him, but I think I'm going to listen to songs about lovers in passionate embraces before I listen to anymore that mention head injuries

My First True Love

2010-02-17T19:25:00.000-08:00

I know Valentine's day is over and done with, and I had a great time, despite the fact that I'm single. I feel like I spent that weekend the right way, but that is a story for another day. Before anymore of this month fades away, I wanted to take this opportunity to pay a tribute to an aspect of my life that has always been a part of me. My siblings will tell you that from a very young age, I felt a passion for my fellow living creatures on this planet that has impacted my philosophies and perception of life. So, without further ado, I'd like to give a little shout out to all my fellow creatures, great and small:*

* 10 points to the first sibling that catches that reference

Both the Bible and the Doctrine and Covenants mention the creation of the earth and all who lie on it. More then once, God mentions that he created animals to be for our use. I'm no vegetarian, but nothing makes me angrier or crazier then cruelty. Especially when there are so many instances when animals help us survive and live our daily lives. We live in a time when machines do most of our chores, but look at history: Where would the cowboy be without the horse? Or the farmer? Would the Middle East have ever been explored without camels? Without chimps, rats, and other lab animals, our medical knowlege would be almost non-existant. Every day dolphins, horses, and dogs bring healing to the injured and emotionally scarred. This is just a few instances of why we should go out and hug an animal today:

Picture like this always remind me of those funny Bradley Trevor Grieve books- you know, the black and white kind that have the funny pictures of animals with the witty text. But the nerd in me is touched by this; here is one the greatest and yet most threatened creatures of all time, raising funds for the desolate people in Haiti. This elephant may not be aware of the good deed it is doing, but it obviously loves some human enough to allow it to manipulate it into carrying around a plastic bucket all day. That's more then some people, who are more aware of themselves and the world around them, are willing to do.

Speaking of willingness to sacrifice, there are a thousand stories of animals that put their lives on the line every day. I'll start with the locals:

This just seems to me to be redundant. But I feel kinda strongly about it, because there was a story recently about the police dog in Layton that was recently shot and killed in the line of duty. The policeman who was his handler was devastated, but he also is very aware that if it weren't for his partner, the bullets would've taken his life instead. He gets to go home to family, because of his friend. I was very impressed by the community'response the death of this animal; Layton honored this dog as they would a fallen human officer.

No surprises here. No blog of mine would be complete with out my beloved huskies. I spent a summer in Alaska a few years ago and while I was there, I managed to find a tour of a sled dog kennel. That was when I learned about the Iditarod, the world's largest sled dog race. It is held in honor of the sled dogs that made that fateful run back in 1912, I believe it was. Anyone who has seen Balto is familiar with the story: the developing town of Fairbanks, Alaska was hit with a diptheria epidemic. Medicine was shipped to Nome, but getting the medicine to Fairbanks was almost impossible. (anyone familiar with Alaska knows the terrain is some of the most dangerous in the world). A dog sled team was sent. Those dogs faced all the perils of tempestuous weather, wild animals and every other dramatic obsticle you can imagine. It payed off. The dogs saved the town. It had it's cost, though. After the dogs arrived home, half of them died. That's the thing about sled dogs. If mushers don't stop them, the dogs will run until they die. They love what they do. The invention of snow mobiles has caused a decline in the of dog sleds as a means of transportation, but they definitely have their place in remote locations like Antarctica, where they are used for research and weather stations.

By the way, to all my faithful followers, I've found what I want for my birthday:

Isn't that awesome?!

Here is one close to home. America is currently in the middle of an extremely controversial conflict. What ever side you're on, there is one thing for certain: our soldiers deserve to be honored. Sending our sons and daughters to war is an unbearable concept, but while the death toll for this war is alarmingly high, the casualties on that list are less then then they could be because of the military use of animals. Dogs, with their sensitive sense of smell, are the obvious example. However, there are all kinds of creatures that work for Uncle Sam, including, I've heard, dolphins.

It is a well known fact that in any society, the comparision to an animal is insult. In fact, in some cultures, the proper name of an animal is a foul obscenity if applied to a human being. But I feel that sometimes, the fact that animals lack the characteristic foibles of humanity is what makes a relationship with them so special: sometimes you just need a snuggle buddy.

And last, but certainly not least, I cannot help but put in a plug for my own sweetheart:

WOOKIE POODLES!

Yes, this gorgeous German Shepherd mutt is my dog. He's become quite the presence in my life, and I can't imagine having my home without him. He's been a loyal member of my family for ten years, which means it's become painfully obvious that he's slowing down. But he's always so pleased to see me and he still takes his duty as protector and guardian of my family very seriously. To see him rush at you, or hear him, for the that matter, is enough to make any intruder piddle his panties. However, he has the sweetest heart and has been known to let babies and small children crawl all over him. He's my buddy. Happy V- day, Luke!

You Make Me Feel Like Dancing

2010-02-07T20:52:00.000-08:00

I've always been a big fan of dances. It's been a big part of growing up in my family. Somebody would put on a great CD and we'd all go nuts. Some of my fondest memories are of my siblings and I dropping everything and rocking out to the Beach Boys, ABBA, Michael Jackson and so on. Nobody cared what we looked like; in fact, it was almost a competition to see who could come up with the funniest and craziest dance moves. Most of my siblings would never display this facet of our childhood in puplic, but I've never gotten over the rush of a dance party well danced. I've taken a class in everything under the sun, from ballet to bellydancing. (NO, I will NOT demostrate!) I've done it enough that I can get out on a dance floor and be 100% confident in my abilities-not that's in my nature to be self conscious anyway. I'm not a prima ballerina, but I do know how to move. Recently, my new favorite thing to do is country swing. Swing dancing in general is a flattering dance for short people because guys feel confident throwing you around. I've had some hair-raising expereinces, but all in all, I've had a ball.

This weekend my ward threw a special formal dance, with a black and white dress code and a 30's theme. It was whimsical and fun because half the dance was played with a 30's soundtrack. You know, jazzy, charleston-type stuff. The guy who asked me to this dance was a real sweetheart, a good friend of mine. He didn't know any of the dance steps, but he spent the entire night valiantly trying to learn. In the end, it proved to be a enjoyable alliance because others noticed me instructing him and came over to learn as well. By the end of the night, I was teaching several other couples. And anyone who knows me knows that I thrive of being in the limelight. So Todd, thanks for the dance, pal. You're a real peach.

He decided that he wanted to get a picture of the two us looking 'bad', but I think that just might be beyond both of us.

Mormons may be nerdy, but you can't deny that we love a good dance!

Bang!(s)

2010-01-30T17:31:00.000-08:00

From the time I was in high school, New Year's has been my favorite holiday. My friends and I used to gather around at Jessie's house and watch a movie before switching over to see that giant diamond ball drop in Rockefeller Square. We never kissed each other; instead we all ran outside and a had a massive blood bath snowball fight. Due to my size, I was always harrassed and singled out. I guess I must've seemed like easy pickin's. But I ended up earning quite a name for myself and became quite the terror in the snow, the culmination of my battle skills being shown when I threw a 6'4'' Hungarian over my shoulder in the snow and proceeded to white wash him. HAH!
Once I started going to college, New Years died down for me. Even though I would keep up my tradition of wearing something sparkly and fluffy, and crimping my hair, I found myself with nowhere to go, no one to be with. My friends in college had all gone home for the holidays and were spending a well earned break with their own families. My sisters had their own friends to be with, and my high school friends were all getting married and had their own plans. This year I ended up watching the ball drop alone in my living room. But as that sparkling giant bubble fell down, I felt this strange sense of relief and excitement. I thought 'hey, 2009 was tough... let it rot! This is a new year, a new decade! This is it; this is my go year. 'And I've felt that way ever since. I decided it was time for me to make some changes. Mostly in my social life, but I had also felt the need for some physical TLC as well. So I went and had my hair cut. It started out as a typical trim with more defined layers, but suddenly I got daring and had my hair dresser cut BANGS! It's amazing to me how something so seemingly inconsequencial could have such an impact on my self image. It's like having a super power! I feel like I'm thinner, stronger and prettier. All because of a couple cut folicles in front of my face. But this is just the beginning. My new found self confidence has led me to feel like my instincts were correct: this truly is the GO year.

My Own Year in Review

2009-12-14T15:36:00.000-08:00

About 6 months ago, my younger sister told me that I should start my own blog. I told her my life wasn't interesting enough to write about. But I've found that I've really liked reading the blogs my sisters post; it's a great insight into their lives and a fantastic way to stay in touch. I decided to go through my journals and see if I could find something that would be worthwhile. Turns out that a lot of things happened to me this year that I feel were actually kinda interesting, so among all the different countdowns and reviews of this decade, I decided to include my own review of the most note-worthy events of this past year:

Moab

A good friend of mine has this fantastic lifted red Jeep. He's the ultimate expert on Moab; he can tell you about every hiking, jeeping, biking trail open to the public. ( and some that aren't...) He took me down for the first time last may and I truly fell in love with the desert. I knew I had to go back there and see more, so when he invited me to come jeeping again this past February, I went for it. The weather was a little more chilly, but the sights, as always were worth it.

Here he is, the Master of Moab himself. Evidently, he's not afraid of the camera either.

Gorgeous, isn't it? I just love how peaceful and remote it is out there. It makes me feel like such a cowgirl!

My First Injury

February was jam- packed for me; it would hard to catalogue it all. But one incident cannot be ignored and that was my four wheeling accident. The first councilor in my bishopric is fairly well off and owns an extensive plot of land in the obscure city of Benjamin. He needed a fence built on his property, so he proposed that if the students in our ward would come and help him build it, he would build a bonfire and throw a huge party, with a hired band and fireworks. It was quite the soiree. I arrived early, but the job was done when I got there, so Brother O'Connell told us to entertain ourselves by taking out the fourwheelers. I climbed onto one with three other girls and we sailed off into the hills. At one point, we saw a ditch. Unsure how to navigate over it, the girl who was driving it decided that she needed to gun it in order to make it over. No such luck. We smashed into the ditch, and I, embarrassingly enough, flew off of it. Luckily-kay, no luck here, it was divine intervention, plain and simple- I land squarely on my feet. After recovering from the shock that I was still in one piece, I realized that my thumb felt all tingly. I looked down and it was purple, swollen and had a sickening bump at the base. After being rushed to the hospital, the doctors told me that I had at best, strained some ligaments, at worst, ruptured them. They called it gamekeeper's thumb. ( To my horror, I discovered that it got it's name from when gamekeepers would strain their thumbs ringing the necks of game birds. What a terrible name for an injury of a Vet!) I had my friend Jason take pictures of my thumb so I could document it (there ya go, Dad), but I didn't feel they did it justice. It truly was gross.

I actually did walk out of the hospital laughing, but it was for a good reason: After the doctor looked at my x-rays and diagnosed my hand, the nurses came in to wrap my hand in a splint 'til I could get in to an orthopedic surgeon. I guess the sleeves on my shirt were too tight, because they started stripping me down, right there on the hospital bed. It took a second before I realized that Jason was still in the room and sent him out before I became too obscene. Apparently the nurses thought we were married. We both got a good kick out of that one, and because he and I went right back to the party after ward, half the ward heard him tell the tale of his close call by the end of the night.

Ain't No Mountain High Enough

My closest friends at the beginning of the semester were all guys. I spent every single night in their apartments learning and observing, hoping to store away some kind valuable knowledge that would help me with my quest to understand men better. One lesson I did learn is that when it comes to men, hunger knows no bounds. At this time, there was only one novel franchise of the famous In-N'-Out burger, and it was four hours away in St. George. But this was no matter for my beefily besotted brethren; one night they developed a craving for the legendary burgers,and no other restaurant could appease them. We all hopped in the car and yes, we drove the whole way there, ate our food and drove back. I had never tried it before, so I was expecting this other-worldly dining experience. It turned out that I just disgusted everyone by picking my hamburger apart, and avoiding most of the vegetables. I've always been a picky eater, but nobody, besides my mother, has treated me like it was some kind of felony. You'd have thought I vandalized the Mona Lisa.

They say music calms the savage beast; I'd say In-'N-Out just might have the same effect.

My Illicit Livestock
There's an apartment of girls in my ward that I'm incredibly close to. One night, one of the girls mentioned that she would love to have a pet duckling. All the other girls agreed that would be the ultimate in cuteness and dropped it. However, because this particular young lady, Molly, was graduating, her room mate, Kimber decided to fulfill her wish and buy her a duck. Her apartment was also close with my best friend, Quinn. He knew that I have a knack for knowing where to purchase various critters, so he, Kimber, another room mate, Becky and I all piled into his car and went all the way out to Draper to find ducklings. (This was in April, just after Easter, so we counted ourselves lucky to be able to find them all.) Once we got there and saw those sweet little balls of fluff, we were toast. The sales woman there told us that she wouldn't sell them to us one at a time, so I did the only thing I could: I bought one for myself, as a companion for Molly's duck. Becky ended up buying one for herself and another future room mate, so we wound up with four peeping ducklings trying to jump out the box on the way home. We were responsible pet owners; We bought top of the line bedding and turkey feed for the wee darlings, we just kinda decided to over look the whole 'no pets allowed' rule at our complex. In the end, the ducks were more messy then we anticipated, and it caused strife in more then one apartment. As soon as they were big enough, I dropped them off at the botany pond at BYU. As I drove away from my little babies, I thought (somewhat ridiculously) how it must be in some measure how parents feel when they drop off their kids for college. I came to check on them every day for about a week before they stopped trusting me and letting me hold them. Now they've grown up to be beautiful white ducks. I quite literally have Empty Nest Syndrome.

This one was mine. I named him Sir Ferdinand the Bold. Ferdie for short.

These guys are the ultimate bath toys. Can you see why we had such a hard time controlling ourselves?

The Final Countdown

About sometime in April, Jason and Paul (my jeeping friend) decided to play a little game of Ultimate Frisbee against another group of BYU students. The twist was that we played at night with a glow in the dark frisbee and glowing wristbands. It was so much fun that we decided to make it a weekly event. By the middle of summer we had a group of at least twenty of us meeting at 9:00 on Tuesday nights and carpooling to a park in Springville. One night, when we were all bored, Quinn decided that he wanted to throw a frisbee around. We borrowed Paul's glow in the dark frisbee and he and Jason made up their minds that they were going to teach me how to use it. (at this point I was one of those of girls who squealed when they actually caught the frisbee and threw it straight up in the air, both in fear of the rapidly approaching stampede of men coming at mach 3 in my direction, and a sense of bewilderment from not knowing what to do with the blasted thing.) The boys spent the rest of the night running deals and coaching me on how to catch it. I made them proud. This last summer I made my first touchdown.

Lady in Red
I know there are women out there who dye their hair as regularly as they change their clothes, but this was a bold step for me. I had always wondered what I'd look like as a red head, and I made the mistake of mentioning that in front of the guys. Jason even went so far as to go online and find the right kind of dye for me. I figured that because I'm in college and I'm single, this was the best possible time to take risks and be experimental. Although I'd wanted to try it last August, I finally got the guts and the right dye this past May. Quinn wanted to be the one to do it, so I let him. He learned that he really enjoyed it, and Salon Q was born. He now expects me to come to him for all my hair dying needs. Too bad it'll never happen again, because I learned that I do not like myself as a red head.

Not one of my most flattering pictures. But I hope the younger generation will learn from my mistakes.

My Sister the Model

Something wonderful that happened this past May was when my oldest sister Sharon announced that she was expecting! My other older sister Charlotte had her daughter, Amelia Rose in February, and my family is crazy about her. I will only post one picture of her, since Charlotte's blog is plentiful with pictures of the wee darlin'.

This is my all-time favorite picture of her. Needless to say, we were all pleased to hear that Sharon would be giving her a cousin in 8 months time. However, Sharon's baby, due in the first week of January, has already become quite a star in her own right. Sharon worked for an advertising company up in Salt Lake City and became friends with many of her clients. When one them needed a pregant woman for one of their campaigns, they called Sharon up. She had a sizeable bump, but was still extremely pretty, which meant she was perfect for the job. She went through with it, but she's thoroughly embarrassed about the whole business, and for that reason I won't post any of the magizine ads and commercials that we've spotted her in. I am awfully proud of her, though.

Murder Mayhem

My summer was filled with the usual wonderful adventures: concerts, star gazing, drive in movies, kareoke, eating out, traveling to beautiful Moab once again, etc. But one of the most memorable events of the summer was my neighbor's bachelorette party. Her room mate threw a murder mystery party, which is something I always wanted to do. My role was the bride's mother, a selfish, snobby, manipulative, greedy, shallow aristocrat. As much as I didn't want to be associated with any of these traits, I loved my role! It turned out to be a really fun night.

Because it was an all-girls party, the male roles had be played by women. All though my role called for an indifferent attitude to my husband, Nicole made such a charming husband that I couldn't resist!

and finally,

My Piece De Resistence: SAN FRANCISCO!
My youngest sister, parents and I traveled to San Francisco this past Thanksgiving to visit my other younger sister Kaitlin. She's studying to be a fashion designer a the Art Institute out there. The first 9 months out there were really hard on her, but it looks like she's had some recent luck in finding a WAY nice apartment, awesome room mates, a stable job, and some great friends in her ward. I didn't expect to love San Francisco as much as I did. After seeing the sights, however, I came to the conclusion that while I wouldn't choose to live there, Kait's neighborhood was actually kinda cute and I definately wouldn't mind coming back as a tourist more often. I loved Fisherman's Wharf!

Of course, one of the major appeals of San Francisco is going to be : the Shopping! Ally and I spent several hours at the Port of San Francisco, which was full of cute little booths and stores like this one.

We got to visit the Oakland Temple. The grounds are really cool, but they don't stop in the ground floor. On top of the temple is a gorgeous garden and a view of the 5 bridges.

This is my beautiful, metropolitan, worldly younger sister. Quite a lady.

It was breezy day on the Golden Gate Bridge! Ally was quite unkind to take this picture of me.

This is the Antique Coin Operated Aracade on Pier 49. It was so adorable! I could've spent hours there! It's true that you can have a good time for a dime!

I had to show this luchidor who's boss!

It's a shame that you can't hear this crudely carved, vintage barbershop quartet sing, but Kait and Ally make up for any lack...

There you have it. I've had my heartbreaks and frustrations, but as you can see, I've had many grand adventures and great people in my life. This Christmas season, I can truly focus on my blessings and look forward to another exciting year.

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